Fancy That.

love

Mon, 01 Oct 2007 23:04:51 GMT

When I think of all the couples in my family, I can think of close to none who seem as though they really, truly love each other. My grandparents dated each other for no less than EIGHT YEARS before finally getting married. Apparently my grandfather was a major commitment-phobe. How can you love someone and not be sure whether you want to spend the rest of you life with them until eight years and several ultimatums later? You can't.

It's like my sister and I are making up for all the past lack of true love in our gene pool by both simultaneously falling into intense, magical, too-good-to-be-true love...or something. I don't know. I shouldn't even TRY to say what people do and do not do when they're in love with someone. It's very complicated.

I Think I'm Bipolar

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 01:57:33 GMT

My emotions go from blissfully happy to completely dissatisfied.

Right now, I'm happy. About 3 days ago: hell. I'm getting sick of it. I can't wait to go on The Pill.

P.S. I think I must be the luckiest girl in the world. It scares me that I found such intense love so soon in my life. I'm beginning to fully realize how unusual it is.

Subject

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 01:45:52 GMT

Update:

1. I got an 89% in Algebra II.
2. NC Legislation can suck it.
3. I'm still in love. We've been going strong for 11.5 months now.
4. I'm still *technically* a virgin.
5. I'm so fed up with school. I want A's this semester, dammit!

Elaboration on #2:

I'm too tired to talk about it.

Elaboration on #3:

Richard is my best friend and my boyfriend, and it's wonderful. Sometimes we argue, and sometimes we're a little mean to each other, but most of the time we're so happy is scares me. I didn't think I would ever want to spend my entire life with one person, but alas, it is the case.

Elaboration on #4:

Virgins seem scarce these days, don't they? For anyone interested in the roots of human sexuality, read up on Bonobos (sp?). Truly fascinating little chimps that screw like rabbits (and GUESS WHAT? they even have GAY SEX. take that, homophobes!).

Mmmm

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 12:16:38 GMT

Yesterday I was lying on the floor while my freshly showered boyfriend stood over me and told me that he had missed me so much the night before, it had felt like he’d been cut in half. He then snuggled down next to me and rested his mouth against the side of my neck, and we drifted between watching a movie, sleeping, and doing other, less-innocent things that I don’t feel like mentioning here. I love being in love. Everything feels so comfortable.

Congrats: you're a spoiled brat.

Sun, 27 May 2007 14:26:44 GMT

I abandoned dedication to updating this LiveJournal due to the fact that all of a sudden it felt pretentious. Why the hell was I so pompous as to think that people actually gave a damn what I thought? It makes me cringe to read all of the entries from my Awkward Years, or even the entries from just a few months ago. But it seems that I just can’t help but make a fool of myself, so here I am again.

I was wrong about love, by the way. It isn’t little. It’s enormous. And it’s very consistent. It’s like even when I’m ed off, I’m still happy. Which doesn’t make any sense at all, I know. But there you have it.

School is done for the semester. Thank goodness. I hate school. I mean: I genuinely HATE school. Just writing about it makes me feel a tad sick.

I got two A+’s, four B+’s, and an unknown grade in Algebra II. Acceptable. I’m kind of proud, I guess.

Nope. I take that back. I’m not proud. Anyone could have done that.

I can’t stand Academics (as in the people, not the schoolwork). It’s like they feel their somehow more intelligent than everyone else simply because they’ve mastered the incredibly complex concepts of Memorization and Rule Following.

And what’s more: a scarily (but not coincidentally) large portion of Good Students (I’ve been playing with capitalization lately, have you noticed?) have moderately wealthy, college-educated parents. Huh.

NO YOU GOT A 2150 ON YOUR SAT, YOU HAVE A STACK OF EXSPENSIVE SAT PREP BOOKS AND A $150 PREP COURSE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

I mean, should you really feel proud of yourself for making an A in Italian when you’ve had a private tutor for the past four years? Should you really pat yourself on the back for getting into college when your parents have been tailoring your education since middle school and holding your hand throughout the entire application process?

For god’s sake: HOW COULD YOU NOT DO WELL IN SCHOOL?

And yes: some incredibly well-off students do not do so hot it school. Those aren’t the kids I’m talking about. Obviously.

The kids I’m talking about think that it is completely necessary to say that they are taking “HONORS Chemistry,” rather than just “Chemistry,” and “AP U.S. History,” rather than just, “U.S. History.” And believe me: there’s really not that big a difference.

I’m just so fed up with snobs. The southern expression, “she thinks her don’t stink” comes to mind when I think about the social circle I’ve been a part of my entire life.

I guess it’s my anti-academic, not-wealthy boyfriend that sort of opened my eyes to all of this. And I am so ashamed of the fact that I am one of Them. I am a snob. And I’m not going to stop being a Good Student. But I am going to try to be less haughty about it.

Academic Excellence My Ass

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 15:48:23 GMT

I’ve been attempting to make a list of potential colleges for about four years now. Am I wrong for thinking that a good reason to reject a university is because it is entirely too university-ish? Am I wrong for being confused as to what an excellent football team and the existence of sororities and fraternities has to do with academic excellence? Am I wrong for being turned off by the notion of a school that molds its students into “the next great leaders of America?”

I don’t want to be a leader. I really don’t. I am perfectly content being a follower. Besides, why should a school endorse power hunger?

I don’t want to go to college. I wish I could paint. I’d move into a ty apartment, call myself a bohemian libertarian, and never have to deal with snobby academics and narrow-minded college admissions officers ever again. Wouldn’t that be grand?

I want to get the hell out of Durham, the hell out of my house, and be able to spend the night at my boyfriend’s place without causing major social controversy. BUT, I also don’t want a grown-up job or final exams that are worth 100% of my grade. So what am I to do?

I know I’m being unreasonable. I really do. But I can’t help it. Lately I’ve been feeling discontent with almost every aspect of my life.

I feel so sorry for Richard and Robin. I really am high-maintenance.

Lightly Row

Thu, 15 Feb 2007 23:32:49 GMT

I have played the violin for close to 11 years. I never really WANTED to play. What I wanted was to be exactly like my big sister, and she just so happened to be a Suzuki student. My parents thought it would be an excellent idea.

I was six.

By the time I was seven, I wanted to quit. I prepared myself for a very serious discussion with my parents, only to be shot down within a matter of seconds. Quitting, they said, was not an option.

Here’s the part where I wish I could say this was an entry about how by being forced to stick with the violin for a decade has taught me the importance of commitment.

I despise the violin with every fiber of my being. And I continually prepare myself for very serious discussions with my parents, only to be told that quitting is STILL not an option—or at least until I turn 18.

But the hatred goes much deeper than just hatred towards the actual instrument. I now officially ALL classical music. It literally makes me feel ill.

Funny how parents forcing their children to do an extra curricular activity simply because it will look good on a college application kills their love for an otherwise good thing; isn’t it?

This semester I made a breakthrough: I managed to convince my parents to let me drop out of the Durham Youth Orchestra and replace it instead with the Young People’s Performance Company.

What still upsets me is that I had to FIGHT for it. I had to FIGHT to do something that I loved, that would look equally good on college applications, and that would make me happy simply because “quitting is not an option.”

What, pray tell, is the logic behind sticking with something you loathe purely because you’ve been loathing it for 10 years?

People Who Think Politcal Correctness is Gay Are Gay

Mon, 05 Feb 2007 22:25:06 GMT

I hate people who think it takes too much energy to be politically correct. For heavens sake, saying things that are offensive and derogatory just because everyone else says them, has said them, and will continue to say them, doesn’t make them any less offensive and derogatory. I only wish I was brassy enough to tell people who say things like “political correctness is gay” just how stupid and ignorant they sound.

I cannot believe that whether or not a person is politically correct has become a characteristic as distinguishable as whether or not a person is pro-life or pro-choice. Honestly, how can you possible disagree with political correctness? That’s like spitting on the Civil Rights Movement, thinking the Women’s Rights Movement was a joke, and supporting gay-bashing all at the same time. Congratulations. You may be cool and socially acceptable among an unfortunately vast majority of people, but you’re still a horrible person!

It’s just so immature. The reasoning behind a lack of political correctness is nothing more than an idiotic laugh and a “’cause it’s dumb.” Brilliant. Glad to see people think things through before forming opinions.

If I have to hear people sneer at me for having a vagina one more time, I swear I will start running as fast as my legs will carry me, straight into a brick wall.

I am very fond of my boyfriend. In fact, I dearly love him. I do not love the “gotta keep your pimp hand strong” comments he gets from his friends every time I tell him to shush in class.

Um, it’s not funny. It’s really, really obnoxious. And no, I do not need to be more laid back. I think keeping my mouth shut and letting remarks like the previously mentioned slide as though I have a sense of humor about it is plenty laid back. I reserve the right to be royally pissed about things that, gee, I actually have a right to be pissed about.

Now I’m not saying words like “bitch” and “whore” do not have a place in today’s society. A bitch is an un-spayed female dog, and a whore is a prostitute.

And I have to admit to liking the idea of an oppressed group claiming a word originally designated to degrade them and turning it into a term of endearment (i.e. what the gay community has done to the word “queer”). BUT, it is NOT okay for someone (ANYONE, not just a white person!) to use the N-word just because they add a half-hearted “haha” into their tone of voice.

I mean, if “haha” cancels out the offensiveness and hatred in a sentence, then I fully plan on walking around saying “people who believe in God are stupid, haha.”

Oh, does that seem harsh? WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?

And while I’m happily prattling on about oppression and hate, what the HELL is up with the whole white-guys-can’t-date-white-girls-who-date-black-guys thing? Why the fuck not? Am I missing something here?

True story: last year I told Bri that I thought a boy named (lets just call him) Bartholomew was cute. Bartholomew was black. I didn’t see any problem whatsoever. Then, thanks to mutual friendships and opportunity, Bri managed to weasel my name into a few conversations with him, and somehow I found myself “talking to him.” When I mentioned this to my mother, she told me that she had no problem with me dating a black guy, but white guys would. In fact, she told me that, quote, “white guys won’t touch you if you date a black guy.” I was outraged. I didn’t believe her. I thought she was trapped in the days of her rural Kentucky teenage years.

(Side note: Bartholomew and I never dated. He was childish and desperate and I was a commitmentphobe. He’s still adorable—in a kid brother kind of way. But that’s beside the point.)

When I started public school this year I was horrified to discover what she said is STILL true. Lots of white guys won’t date white girls who have dated black guys, and some black guys won’t date black girls who have dated white guys. If that statement made you dizzy, it’s because it made race relevant. Now, if people want to be lazy about what comes out of their mouths, maybe they should forgo ethnicity rather than political correctness.

I fear I am teetering on the edge of rambling. So I’m going to stop.

I Hate Standardized Tests and Dirty Dishes

Sun, 17 Dec 2006 13:47:07 GMT

Sometimes I feel as though my life consists of perpetually unloading and re-loading dishwashers. It is one of the few things about my weekly routine that has not changed at all since I was about seven-years-old.

When I was in the first grade, we were all assigned a day of the week to bring something in for Show-and-Tell. I got Thursday. I used to look forward to Thursdays.

Now I dread them. Thursdays mean a full day of school, a three hour orchestra rehearsal, returning home at 9:30 p.m., shoving down dinner, stressing myself out over uncompleted homework that’s due the next day, and finally making it to bed by midnight.

And I don’t even have a job. Can you imagine?

I like working. I like being employed and I like making money. But I also like the idea of going to Grad School. And my parents, though generous enough to pay for the first four years, won’t give me a penny should I decide to go for my Master’s. I will have to be a full-time college student, with a job.

I hate college horror stories. I freak myself out about that particular subject quite enough without someone putting terrifying notions about all-nighters and social isolation in my head. My Civics/Economics teacher made a consistent 4.0 throughout all four years at UNC. He did so by possessing a truly grotesque work ethic and sitting outside in 20 degree weather at four o’clock in the morning with a big blanket to keep him from freezing to death. The idea was that the cold air would keep him awake long enough to study a sufficient amount of time every night when he got home from work.

“Otherwise,” he said casually, “I’d have just fallen asleep.” As though sleeping is something only lazy people do in college.

I’m a pretty good student. But I am not willing to kill myself via academics.

I don’t understand the concept of frat boys and sorority girls. They’re supposed to be stupid, sex-driven, bar-hopping, youths who fail English 111 because they were in a constant state of hangover the entire school semester. But…they got into college? They had to have had god grades and a decent SAT score. Which means they had to have cared about their futures during high school? So why throw it all away in college?

Speaking of the SAT. Earlier this week I heard someone refer to it as a money-making scam. It had always struck me as odd that you had to PAY to take the SAT, and I love any reason to deepen my loathing for its existence, so I decided to Google it.

I couldn’t find out exactly where the money goes. Thus, I have decided to dub the SAT as yet another cover-up.

I got my PSAT results back this month, and while they didn’t SUCK, they certainly didn’t blow anyone away. Plus I bombed the math section. Again.

However, I am not ashamed. My score, translated into SATish, would have been a 1710. I have an ‘A’ average. A kid I know who has a ‘C-’ average got a higher score than I did. He is a great deal more intelligent than me. But I will undoubtedly do better than him in college.

I hate standardized tests.

25 Minutes

Sat, 28 Oct 2006 16:26:13 GMT

The air is different in October. It is cold, clean, earthy, and crisp. Inhaling October air is like inhaling the thirst-quenching property out of a glass of water. But perhaps I’m being melodramatic.

I measure my life in Octobers. The events that unfold in this month are more distinct and easy to recall than the memories tied with any of the other eleven. Not that each of the other eleven doesn’t bring back its own fond recollections—October’s are simply different.

Like most people, winter makes me sad and spring makes me happy. Fall evokes the perfect balance between the two. I have difficulty finding balance all on my own, so it’s always nice when the weather does it for me.

Last October I think my hair was short. I lived in my brown suede hat trimmed with fake fleece, and went dressed as a MasterCard commercial for Halloween. I was single and had no idea that in November I would go on my first date, and from that first date would stem a whole bundle of experiences with the opposite sex.

Seven months from that first date, I received my first kiss. Four moths from that first kiss, my first boyfriend. In between both extended periods of time there were several innocent crushes and more than several instances where I was pursued. Okay, not more than several. But a few.

The things I disliked about boys, I have accepted. The things I liked about boys, I now adore. The things I thought to be true about boys, are still true.

I have been, thus far, disappointed, enraged, upset, and thrilled by the male species. Sometimes I wish I was braver, bolder, and less of a prude—but I have found that boys seem to like my just the way I am, and that is satisfying.

I am a horrific flirt. As in, I suck at it. I have learned to simply talk and carry myself in a way that projects confidence—and it works wonders. Another small accomplishment.

Right now, I am working on SLOWING DOWN. For some reason the prospect of not having enough time has always frightened me. Even when I was as young as seven-years-old I used to start to cry when my mom would set the timer for the end-of-year test.

But 25 minutes to complete 20 questions really isn’t that bad.

Sloucher's

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 02:58:34 GMT

His compliments prompted skepticism. I was flattered, don’t get me wrong, but I was also trained. I was trained to think that all boys have villainous, manipulative attentions, and will stop at nothing to deflower a virgin. I was trained to snip all teenage girl longings at the bud so as not to succumb to phony temptation. Dating him was a bad idea. Having a crush was perfectly acceptable, as crushes are harmless, vigorously innocent, little nothings. Actually considering DATING him was quite another matter. Yet the line between a crush and a realistic crush is smeared and often entirely undistinguishable.

The difference between a crush and a realistic crush is obvious. One has a crush on a Craig Ferguson; one has a realistic crush on a boy in their math class. Or, more specifically, one has a realistic crush on a boy in their English III class.

The first time I saw him, I thought he looked like a complete and total asshole. He was slumped down in the seat of his desk in typical slacker form, and looking around at the people in the room with what looked like lack of interest. I should have known I was wrong about that one. If one is taking the time to look at the people in a room, it is never with lack of interest. But I am human, therefore I assume things. I assumed that he was a pothead, a drinker, a smoker, a redneck, and probably stupid. Naturally, I assumed wrong.

And not only that, but I once I realized that I had assumed wrong, I convinced myself that the only reason I was willing to accept the fact that he was a good person was because I was naïve. I was doubly prejudice. Even now I believe that I was in the right when I thought of him as bad news. Nothing wrong with having your guard up so long as you are capable of taking it down.

In many ways, it was all very predictable. The events leading up to his arm around my shoulders were typical and well-rehearsed. There were plenty of “I think he likes you”s and “Well, do you like him?”s and enough denial and self-discouragement to fill the deep end of a swimming pool. After both parties finally admitted to having a mild attraction to the other, the reasons-why-not tried desperately to push ahead of the reasons-why. There was flirting and frustration and confusion and monarch butterflies. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what kind of butterflies I have in my stomach.

Finally, maybe out of pure exhaustion, we reached our breaking point. Or, as I like to call it, the “fuck this” point. The point that you reach when you realize that there’s no sense in over-analyzing a good thing. The “it just is” revelation.

We’re entirely contrasting and freakishly congruent. I have given up. I know why I like him, but I don’t know why I was willing to suck up my pride and come to terms with that fact. It probably has something to do with maturity, but I’m too tired to go into depth.

Know this: there’s more to sloucher’s than meets the eye.

Geek?

Sat, 19 Aug 2006 16:12:36 GMT

Well, it’s official: I’m smart. Or rather, I feel smart. Ever since Middle College my intelligence self-esteem has sky rocketed, almost to the point where I’ve begun downplaying my brains. I’ll sort of try to sound a little less articulate, or sort of stop being so on top of my homework, or not study quite so hard for a quiz, or sort of stop being so uptight when it comes to following rules, just to feel like less of a prude amongst the public schoolers. I need to stop doing that. Except for when it comes to being uptight about rules, I really need to take a chill pill in that regard.

I’ve made up my mind. Journalism it is. I just can’t picture myself doing anything else and being happy. Writing makes me happy, and therefore I should write. We’re dropping Geni off at college today. I’m going to cry.

English III

Fri, 18 Aug 2006 00:09:34 GMT

My neighbors are undeniably American. Directly behind me lives a man named John. John is a divorced, middle-aged alcoholic with two sons and a gas-guzzling SUV. He has an apartment-basement which he rents out to a life-sized Barbie doll named Jeannine. Jeannine is raising two young girls with southern accents who will inevitably develop eating disorders in high school. Across from John lives the Ball family. Mr. Ball is also probably an alcoholic. He is often heard screaming at his wife and daughters, and frequently hires illegal immigrants to do his yard work. Behind the Ball residence, slightly to the left and perched atop a hill, is the Procter Residence. John’s ex brother-in-law, Brad Proctor, his wife Vicky, and their two children are active members of the local Southern Baptist church. This I can only assume is Vicky’s influence. Vicky is a schoolteacher, a proud mother, a Republican, and a fan of blonde highlights and pink lipstick.
Sometimes I look at these people and think to myself: is this what Americans look like?

Sixteen Candles

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 14:14:18 GMT

One day my purse fell off my bed. Inside of the purse there was a poptart, which had been opened and half-eaten and unceremoniously wrapped back in its package. It was now a pile of crumbs on my bedroom floor. There it sat for months.

There was a piece of dust hanging from the ceiling just above my desk. It was maddening. I wanted to pull out the vacuum and rid myself of its presence, but vacuuming up one measly piece of dust when my entire room needed to be vacuumed seemed pointless. There it hung for months.

And then, suddenly, I became a neat freak. I began tearing apart my bedroom like a mad-woman. I pulled everything out of my closet and my dresser drawers, poured out the contents of my desk, and created an enormous pile of STUFF in the middle of my floor. I then proceeded to throw away 75% of that STUFF. It was refreshing, to say the least. There, in the form of old notebooks, toys, and winter coats, were ages 9-15.

It was nostalgic and empowering and depressing and hilarious to sort through my old attempts at writing an epic romance novel. Mainly hilarious. Nothing’s funnier than laughing out loud when there’s nobody else in the room. Except an eleven-year-old girl trying to describe sexual tension.

I have four shoe boxes filled with the pathetic stories and outlines and snippets, and they are hidden in the very back of the very top shelf in my closet. All of my old A-Teen and Brittany Spears CD’s, paper dolls, jewelry boxes, stuffed animals, snow globes, and books are either in the attic or in the trashcan.

And I was more than ready to be free of them. Now, all that’s left is my furniture and all of the items that I still use on a daily basis. Everything is vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed, rubbed, wiped, and dried. There is very little evidence that my nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen-year-old self ever occupied that space, and that makes me happy.

It may not be noticeable at all to anyone other than me, but I have grown up a lot these past two years. My personality has become practically effortless, which may not seem like an accomplishment, but considering the fact that for years I had to TRY to be the way that I am, it is ridiculously satisfying to know that I don’t have to TRY anymore.

Today I start school. Real school. Public school. Well, ok, not quite. Middle College. But the fact that last year I was an insecure, sloppy homeschooler who didn’t know how to dress, and this year I’m a fairly confident, organized public schooler who is somewhat of a shopaholic feels like something to be proud of.

But my conclusions still suck.

i wrote this a week ago and never posted it-- i'm no longer in a bad mood but what the hell?

Tue, 01 Aug 2006 19:04:02 GMT

Thus far, I have found dating to be ominously disappointing. I suppose this was inevitable. I always expect too much of reality. I always assume that things are going to be complex and riveting when in actuality they are simple and predictable.

If I had known that relationships would be so…dry…I’d have sworn to join a convent years ago. But now it’s too late. I’ve had a nibble of the forbidden fruit and the whole virginity thing is looking less and less appealing by the nanosecond.

So now what? I hate being in a relationship but I hope to one day have a sex life. This does not sound like a promising future.

Did you know that strippers can make up to $80,000 a year? Not that I’m thinking about becoming a stripper.

But still.

$80,000! If I were to get an M.A. in journalism I’d be making only half of that salary!

But that is entirely irrelevant.

I have a problem with boyfriends. They’re possessive, and moody, and jealous, and corny, and needy, and just can’t keep their hands off of you.

Really, do they have to be ALL over you ALL the time? Breathing room, please.

(Disclaimer: I’m absolutely generalizing and intend to be at least mildly hypocritical. I also fully expect to make at least three confusing and/or offensive statements. Please refrain from pointing this out to me. I’m in a bad mood.)

I’ve always considered myself to be an affectionate person. Turns out I’m not.

Has anyone ever played footsie? It’s a truly grotesque little game. I used to be unable to comprehend why some people are repulsed by the human foot. Now I understand.

Holding hands can be nice. But just because you’re sitting next to each other doesn’t mean that you HAVE to. Isn’t sitting side by side enough physical contact? Must there always be some sort of touching?

And I officially hate PDA. Don’t interpret that incorrectly. I could care less if some teenage couple is making out in plain view of a group of startled stay at home moms. Really, PDA is a lot like breastfeeding. If it disturbs you, than LOOK AWAY.

While I have nothing against other people necking in public, and while I have no reservations when it comes to my breasts, I never want to be an active participant in PDA ever again. Quite frankly, it has nothing to do with being modest—modesty is stupid and unflattering. It’s because I don’t want to justify petty gossiping. Things like French kissing are personal and I prefer to do them in private.

Or maybe I just haven’t found the right guy. Yeah. Okay. Sappy hope. I’m 16. I still have the energy to be sourly disappointed a few more times.

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 20:25:22 GMT

I am officially bored with life. Something tragic, dramatic, or significant needs to happen to me within the next few days, otherwise I'm running away to...somewhere. Ugh. UGH. UGH. Ugh. I'm at violin camp.

Hm?

Sun, 02 Jul 2006 21:22:37 GMT

I tried writing about Europe. I tried writing about Vogue. I tried writing about gardening. I tried writing about writing. I have to stop trying so hard.

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 21:17:55 GMT

Well. The Anti-Christ didn't show.

Grandma Eve

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 14:54:40 GMT

It seems that all they ever do is clean. For some reason keeping up with the dishes and the laundry is of the utmost importance…possibly purely because that was what they were told by their mothers. It seems that the coveted motherly advice can be traced all the way back to Eve herself. Eve, who, according to the bible, is responsible for cursing all women with birthing pains and menstrual cycles. What did Eve know?

Mamaw comes to visit and spends the entire time glued to the handle of the vacuum cleaner. She squirts and scrubs and dusts and then complains about how much her “durn” back hurts. And she’s miserable. And that’s because she was born into a poor family with lots of kids and a great love of booze. But it seems to me that at some point in your life you are faced with the option of either being happy, or being unhappy. Yes, you have that much control over your feelings. You can wake up in the morning and simply DECIDE that it is going to be a good day. It’s a state of mind, not a coin toss.

And for the sake of simplicity, let me take the time to say that we do not have control over EVERYTHING. My point is that we have control over MORE things than we think that we do.

I do not believe that when we are born, “God” has some sort of master plan laid out for us. I do not believe in fate. I believe that the only person that has any control over how we are and what we do, is ourselves. Believe it or not, we actually have a say in how our life turns out. I hate the phrase, “Sometimes things just happen for a reason.” Things don’t happen for a reason, things just happen.

I am concerned about how well I will do at Middle College High School (yes, I got in!). But I have promptly decided that sitting back and worrying about how well I’ll do is absolutely stupid, because I have complete and total control over how well I’ll do, and I will do just fine.

I listen to people cry about how they keep begging and praying and hoping that they will “find strength” and “find courage” and other such whimsical…things…and I want to shake them and say, “Stop hoping and praying and shit, and actually TRY!” As Oprah so eloquently put it, “You can’t sit back and wait for a burning bush. You can’t just wait for God to fix everything, because He won’t. You have to fix it yourself.” Oprah also believes that God works through people. I don’t really believe in God, so I disagree. I don’t think its God that “helps us find strength”, I think we find it all on our own. I may not believe in a higher power, but I most defiantly believe in people.

Literally EVERYONE us capable of getting good grades, or pushing through particularly murky situations, or learning to be comfortable and content, or beating an eating disorder. And let me, once again, acknowledge the fact that I do not think that EVERYTHING is a choice. People don’t choose to be alcoholics, people don’t choose to be gay or straight or bi, and people don’t choose who their parents are.

But people can choose to be stupid, or they can choose to be smart. People can choose to be mean, or can choose to be kind. People can choose to be good at something, or choose to be bad at something (“Dr. Suzuki says never be lazy, just practice, and practice, and practice like crazy…”).

This is one of those revelations that makes me feel like and unoriginal sap, but I felt like sharing anyway.

No Subject

Sat, 03 Jun 2006 23:49:49 GMT

My gut is depressed. Probably because it feels ignored. I don’t trust it, and so it’s stopped trusting itself. You know there’s a problem when your GUT doesn’t trust its gut.

No Subject

Sat, 03 Jun 2006 23:42:29 GMT

I’ve been watching MTV for the past hour and a half, and I already feel significantly dumber. Dumber, it turns out, is actually a word. I didn’t know that. I thought the title “Dumb and Dumber” was just supposed to be ironic.

I Sat, And I Wrote

Sun, 28 May 2006 03:18:16 GMT

I wonder if it’s possible to have a truly healthy self-esteem. Here I was thinking that I was just oh-so happy and content with how and who I am. Boy was I delusional. And boy was I wrong. Yet another Alyssa Theory has been disproved.

And I was insistent. Insistent that if you continue to tell yourself “I love me”, eventually you will believe it to be true.

I was so stupid I overlooked a key word in my own theory.

BELIEVE.

Eventually you will BELIEVE it to be true.

But it isn’t true. I really don’t love me.

I mean, in regards to loving my physical self, I’ve made immense progress. But I’m really not all that fond of the rest of me. There are qualities here and there that I’m proud to possess…but all and all, I don’t find myself to be all that likable.

Today Rebecca and I spent the afternoon watching old and recent home videos of the two of us. I was an articulate little girl. I was cute and uninhibited and bold and honest (for the most part). I acted entirely my age, but was still wise beyond my years. And I was myself. And I knew myself. And then two years later, along came zits. And it was all lost. And now I’m trying to build it all back up again.

But I can’t get over my valley girl tinge (Though I know you all must really, really want me to. Because I’m sick of hearing myself talk about it. Therefore you MUST be sick of HEARING me talk about it).

Where did it come from? Where? I may have been a girly little girl, but I was not in the least bit materialistic, typical, predictable, or stupid. In fact, I took pride in my messy hair and lack of makeup skills. I didn’t know how to dress, I didn’t care about all of the cuts and bruises on my legs, and I didn’t care what other people thought of me.

Fast forward to the recent home videos. I give you, a quote:

“I know, right? We, like, totally don’t look like college students. We’re so obviously in high school. We’re going to enter that bar, and, like, gasp. Alcoholic beverages!”

Yeah.

When did this happen? When? Why did this happen? Why? I refuse to accept that this is my character. I just utterly refuse to accept it. Because it is utterly unacceptable behavior for a girl who read and understood “Little Women” when she was just six-years-old (Or is that not saying much? I don’t even know. I do know other girls who have accomplished this feat. Maybe I’ve always been ridiculously average.)

I don’t want to project an image that does not belong to me. I don’t want to project an image at all. I just want to be realistic. I want to be, as corny as it sounds, “true to myself” (dies at the sound of her own cliché).

And I know that you can’t sit and say “want to be” all day long and expect something to come of it.

And I don’t know why I’m still struggling with this. Goodness! I’m sixteen-years-old! I’ve been battling the valley girl for years now! She is relentless! I’m beginning to feel exhausted.

Never has the thought, “But maybe the valley girl IS the real me” crossed my mind. I know she isn’t. I have the home videos to prove it.

Maybe I do it because I don’t want to be a drag. I don’t want to be a killjoy, I don’t want to be a bitch…I just want to be one of those “happy” people who is all “optimistic” and creates a “cheery” atmosphere. But I’m not always happy, and I’m not always optimistic, and I don’t create a cheery atmosphere. I guess I wanted to be “warm”. I guess I wanted to be one of those people who puts you in a good mood. I guess I was trying to be “perky”, but overdid it a bit, because it wasn’t part of my natural character?

I’ve always been enthusiastic.

But there’s a difference between enthusiasm and sheer stupidity.

Why does the whole “I’m not stupid” thing take up so much of my time? Do I really care whether or not people think that I’m dumb? Apparently I do.

I don’t always have to pretend to be happy. And I don’t always have to exaggerate how much fun I’m having in order to make sure that everyone else is having fun. And I don’t have to be loud in order to ensure that I am heard. And it’s okay to be the girl crying in the bathroom during the prom every once and a while.

Right?

I’m just tried of all the “image” crap. I’m tired of being so concerned about whether or not people like me. I’m tired of feeling like I’m bland and insignificant. And it’s late. And this is a free write.

And I’m not finished yet.

I haven’t written anything in a very, very long time because I feel as though it’s useless. I’ll never be as good as Sarah Hall or Poe. Obviously. No one is as good as Sarah Hell and Poe. But, as I briefly mentioned above, I hate the fact that I am so average.

Average everything. Not too short, not too tall. Not the smartest, not the dumbest. Not too FILL IN TH BLANK, but not too FILL IN THE BLANK. Average. Average. Average.

My life has become monotonous. Consistent. Routine. Monotony, consistency, and routine are three of my least favorite things.

And for some reason I feel like I can’t even begin to think about beginning to put check marks next the things on my list of things to do, before I clean and organize my desk. Go figure.

Rags to Riches

Tue, 16 May 2006 01:45:24 GMT

Rags to riches. A classic story. A story that, oddly enough, practically every movie star, talk show host, and G105 musician seems to share. They were poor. They were flunking school. They had a drug problem. They had a bad childhood. But they were driven. Vh1 and E! Hollywood have entire television series dedicated to these stories.

And they never get old. No matter how similar and predictable these stories are, the public simply devours them. They find these stories and these people who have lived them to be admirable. Is it because they overcame their personal demons, battled their way to the top of the gruesome world of show biz, and can die happy knowing that they have fulfilled a dream? Or is it because they’ve made a lot of money?

Both. But for some reason I have a hard time admiring these people when they’re sipping martinis by their indoor pool and purchasing $5,000 dollar cribs for their new baby. Maybe its not that the public admires celebrities, but that the public idolizes celebrities.

Like, they’re the trendsetters. We’re the conformists. They’re the popular kids. We’re the band nerds. And no matter how we preach about not giving a damn who Katie kisses, we still eat up juicy locker gossip as though we’re starving soldiers in a dessert who happen upon a salad bar. Or something.

How much respect do I have for Ashlee Simpson? None at all. Do I care whether or not she was actually drunk in a McDonalds at three o’clock in the morning? Yeah. I do. Because my life is boring and monotonous. Her life is stupid. And that’s entertaining.

I have a hard time accepting the fact that prostitution is illegal but paparazzi is not. After all, and prostitute is purely (or, not-so-purely, according to our American-Puritan beliefs) having consensual sex for money—but a paparazzi is hurting and exploiting and degrading peoples lives and careers. 40-year-old men are taking pictures of 17-year-old actresses in bikinis and then selling them to mainstream magazines. Isn’t that an obscure form of prostitution? Except, instead of selling their own bodies for money, they’re selling celebrities bodies for money. And there’s not a damn thing celebrities can do about it. Free country, right?

I don’t feel like tying this all together.

I wish I wasn’t such a magazine junkie.
And prostitution should be legal.
There is no such thing as a democratic nation.

Dogs, Pigs, Boys, And Girls

Thu, 04 May 2006 21:16:45 GMT

Around the time that children are blessed with responsibility via daily chores and homework, they begin to wish that they had been born a dog. Dogs, after all, don’t have to go to school. Dogs don’t have to unload the dishwasher, dogs don’t have to pick up their bedrooms, and dogs don’t have to wake up to the absolutely maddening and repetitive sound of an alarm clock. Dogs sleep when they wish, eat when they wish, and spend the majority of the day playing outside. What’s not to envy? Humans only have about six years of life before they begin to feel their youth slipping through their fingers like a fist full of sand. Dogs, however, live in Neverland.

Consequently, around the time that girls are forced to cover their breasts in public, they begin to wish that they had been born a boy. Why life appears to be so much easier for those whom possess the coveted male sex organ is actually quite simple: they’re allowed to act like pigs. And, while pigs do not have nearly as much fun as dogs, they have a great deal more fun than girls.

It took me years to remember to keep my knees together when wearing a skirt. I still occasionally chew with my mouth open, and I most certainly smack my food. But, I would never dream of wearing dirty underwear. That is just disgusting.
Girls are taught from a very young age that certain things are considered “gross” (e.g. farting, burping, spitting, and indiscreet scratching of specific areas which unfortunately itch every now and then). But, “boys will be boys”, so they are rarely scolded over skid-marks.
A mother’s precious daughter lets out a belch and she raises her eyebrows; a mother’s precious son lets out a belch, and she laughs. I seriously doubt that the fact that women tend to have better hygiene than men has anything to do with biology. People unintentionally raise girls to be polite and squeamish, and unintentionally raise boys to be revolting.

Boys run around in the backyard in Spiderman underwear, while girls are told firmly to keep their tops on. Boys are allowed to chuckle at the human body’s less-attractive characteristics, where as girls are often taught to just ignore them. Boys find no reason to be ashamed of themselves because boys were never given any reason to be ashamed of themselves. Girls, on the other hand, are given plenty of reasons to feel ashamed. Why should a girl love her body if she has been told to hide it her entire life? Why should she feel secure in herself when that self is constantly embarrassing her? Why should she feel confident when she is never quite good enough?

Little boys wish they were dogs for the same reason little girls wish they were little boys: life would be a lot less complicated.

Genocide

Sun, 30 Apr 2006 02:06:07 GMT

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