How To Make Yourself Appear Graceful

With the holidays coming up, and (hopefully) holiday parties, t'is the season of pretty dresses and fancy parties.

Now, of course a fancy dress makes a girl feel fancy, but fancy is usually seen as synonymous with graceful, and a fancy dress does not make a girl graceful.

I wear fancy dresses all the time and I still trip over my own toes.

(Okay, that's a lie. I don't wear fancy dresses. But I could, and... I'm sure you get my point.)

So, in the spirit of giving, I come to you, the Ghost of Christmas Clumsy, to tell you how to make yourself appear graceful in order to fool anyone who doesn't know you better, because honesty is what the holidays are all about.

(And I do acknowledge in advance that most of these strategies are geared toward girls. What can I say? You write what you know. So if you are a man reading this, just, um... add "in a manly way" to the end of whatever I'm saying. That should work.)

Strategy Number 1:

Only one bite at at a time.

I know that holiday parties are really on the hors d'oeuvres that are only about the size of your finger and are not nearly large enough to serve as an acceptable counterpart to the abundant number of holiday drinks that will surely be consumed, but please. Pace yourself.

Holiday parties will not be impressed that you can fit your fist (or a fistful of tiny crackers topped with some kind of pretentious cheese) into your mouth.

(It's okay, though. I'm impressed. You go.)

So take it slow, okay? Eat as much as your little heart desires, just don't let anybody catch on.

Remember: You are graceful. You are hungry. You are stealth.


Strategy Number 2:

Alcohol and heels don't mix.

Unless you're actually good at walking in heels (and therefore among the elite, congratulations) you're going to look like a lurchy little dolt.

Just wear shorter heels, or a nice pair of flats. If your dress isn't too fancy, nobody will object to the tall leather boots look.

(Although that look gets tricky. Try and avoid looking like the party ho-ho-hoe.)

Or, if you are going to wear heels (because I know how hard it is to resist this particular temptation), just find any excuse you can to not walk around. Make the men come to you.

Or, you know, just anybody.

What I'm saying is tape some mistletoe above your head and you're good. Capiche?


Strategy Number 3:

You know those little cookie sandwiches stuck together with frosting that always look so delicious?

Don't.


Strategy Number 4:

I know that in movies people always walk really slowly and it makes them look mysterious and relaxed and cool, but... I don't know if you've ever tried walking slow, because shit's hard.

Unless you have good balance to begin with (which I don't) then you'll have a very hard time walking in a straight line (I do) and you will end up teetering on the edges of your feet (even in flats) and looking really dumb (I did).

Don't walk like you're on a mission either, because who can talk to you when you're practically bowling them over.

Just pick a pace. A good one. Similar to the pace with which you're shoving your face with food. That's a good pace. Keep it up.


Strategy Number 5:

If somebody tries to talk to you while you're in stealth hunger mode, just remember what your momma taught you and chew and swallow before you reply.

There is a time and a place for looking like a neanderthal.

That is basically every other time and place.

A holiday party is the only exception to that rule.

Remember: holiday parties = grace. You are grace. Grace doesn't talk with her mouth full.


I'm actually not all that well versed in being graceful (surprise surprise, I called myself the Ghost of Christmas Clumsy for a reason) so this is the last strategy I'm able to offer you:

Strategy Number 6:

Lip gloss is never a good idea.

Sure, it looks great when you first put it on, and it's scented like candy canes and damn don't you just feel festive, but you will regret your decision as soon as your hair starts sticking to it and your cup starts sticking to it and everything you put in your mouth that touches your lips on the way in carries a faint overtone of wax-flavored candy canes.

Plus, you don't want everybody at the party knowing who you kissed under that mistletoe you taped above your head, do you?

(Hahahaha oh, I crack myself up. I don't even know what mistletoe is for.)

Anyway, long story short, lip gloss is bad. It is the evil elf of the makeup world. Just use tinted chapstick like me instead. I'm clearly a fashion and beauty icon. Watch me toss my hair.


Now go forth to your own holiday parties, my children, and exude grace.

Failing that, just try not to embarrass yourself too much.

(But if you do, be sure to send pictures.)

My Fake Apology

I should really learn never to make promises. Especially not promises about my writing.

Remember that short story I said I was writing?

Yeah, still not done.

Remember that blog post I said was imminent?

Well, it's written.

...in my head.

That counts, right?

See, in my defense, I have been doing a lot of writing for school. You know, being a journalism major and all that.

I just finished two really great articles today about the experiences of some intercultural students, and I realize that I shouldn't say they're great because it's my own writing, but I feel like I can say they're great because it's my own writing... anyway, I want you all to be able to read them!

And then you'll know that I actually am still writing!

I'm writing this post last so that the two articles will be listed directly below it (look at me, besting technology) and I sincerely hope that you all read them! They're about some very interesting people that I feel very lucky to have had the privilege to meet and talk to, even if the articles skimmed more of a general surface than a personality piece.

Now, I would like to make a promise.

I promise you that I will be posting two articles soon.

Very soon.

I bet if you scroll down they're already there.

(Best promise ever.)

A Place of Her Own

                Some people find a new hobby to break up the monotony of their work. Andrea Guevara decided to find a new country.  At the age of 31, after years of working as a corporate lawyer in Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, she needed a change of pace: something that didn’t involve her company, her government, or the crime rate of Caracas.

                When Andrea got on a plane for Colorado last spring, the President of Venezuela was still Hugo Chavéz. Having risen to power democratically in 1998, he was doing everything he could to alter Venezuelan laws and allow himself to stay in power forever, according to Simon Rimero of the New York Times. In his obituary of Chavéz, Rimero wrote about the former President’s dreams of becoming a caudillo. Chavéz even penned a new constitution after his inauguration in 1999 that stated the presidency would be decided by election for six-year terms, and presidents could be re-elected for successive terms – with no end date in mind.¹  The effects of this desire did not go unfelt by the Venezuelan people. “I’m not glad about all the things that he suffered, because he suffered from cancer. But I feel a relief at some point when I find out that this terrible man was dying,” Andrea said. Elections held following Chavéz’s death in March, 2013 appointed a new President within two weeks. Already out of the country at this point, Andrea did not have a chance to participate in the vote. “I was angry about it, because that was not the right procedure to follow… it was my first election that I couldn’t vote since I turned 18, and I vote every single time,” Andrea said.

                The political turmoil was not the only reason that Andrea wanted to leave Venezuela behind. Her job as a lawyer for Pepsi-Cola was becoming dull, and she felt the need to make a change. “I felt tired, I was sick about everything. I was sick about traffic, I was sick about my work, I was sick about everything. The whole environment. And I felt like I needed to do something more for me and for my career, because I love what I do. So I decided to come here and improve my English because I know that it will be a big issue, an obstacle, to get admission into any program,” she said. Though in the process of earning the equivalent of a master’s degree in her home country, Andrea packed up for Colorado in the hopes that, once here, she could find a master’s program that would help her perfect her legal English and better her chances of finding a job with an American company. “I’m just looking for quality of life, and I don’t have that in my country, unfortunately,” she said. While perfectly qualified to be a lawyer in Venezuela, Andrea is hoping to learn legal English so that she can continue to do what she loves while also enjoying that quality of life offered by the States. “I’m afraid I’ll send someone an opinion or answer some email and my English is not good enough and they will say ‘Oh, this person is helping me with this issue but she doesn’t understand English, how can I trust [her]. I think that English is a tool that is really helpful and today in the corporate world you have to learn another language,” she said.

                By moving to Colorado, not only did Andrea better her chances of getting into an English-speaking master’s program, but she also found a different pace of life that suited her much better than the high-strung paranoia of Caracas. “Colorado is so friendly. It’s peaceful, and for me, that’s the way it makes me feel. Safe and peaceful. I don’t get frustrated about things that used to make me [angry], and I really appreciate it,” she said. Many people who know the name of Venezuela’s capital may not know its nickname: “The world’s murder capital.”² In 2012, OSAC reported 100 homicides per 100,000 inhabitants in the Miranda state, an area that includes much of metropolitan Caracas. “I like to go to the movies, and [not] pay attention to if I’m smoking a cigarette and I have my window down. I couldn’t do that in my home country,” Andrea said. Colorado’s slower pace and safer environment are the flip side of Venezuela’s coin. “[I can] walk in the street, and take out my dog, and do silly things that aren’t silly: they’re important things,” she said.

                The transition to living in the States wasn’t too tough for Andrea to handle. When her parents got divorced, her father moved to New York and her mother moved to Mexico with her new husband. She got her fair share of traveling visiting the two of them, as well as her brother and sister who both moved to Spain. No stranger to new places, the choice to move to Colorado was one based on personal need. “The program that I wanted to apply [to] is here, is at DU. So I came here for that reason. Second, because my [family] is all around the world and I just want to find a place for me, in the middle,” she said.

¹ Information on the 1999 Constitution found at www.venezuela-us.org/politics (Website for the Embassy of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela).

² Reported by Caitlin Dewey for The Washington Post, article titled State Dept. report for Caracas personnel: Crime level ‘critical’.

The Quiet Side of the Sea

When Vanilo Antonio walks out the door in the morning, it’s only what he hears that reminds him of where he is: in America. A native of Luanda, Angola, he has spoken English for years, but still finds himself doing a mental double-take when the people going to and from class with him aren’t speaking in Portuguese. “You keep expecting people to actually speak your native language, [so] from time to time you stop from the middle of the street and go ‘Where am I? What happened?’” Vanilo said.

                The 18 year-old learned to speak English when he was only six, listening to his older brother when he came back to Angola for visits from his new home in Texas. Though he has spoken the language for longer than Alvaro Tendula, a 20 year-old Angolan who began learning English in primary school around eight years ago, he still finds it strange to be completely surrounded by it. “[We have] about 18 languages… People don’t just speak in Portuguese, even on the street,” Vanilo said. A.T. reported a similar experience of not always knowing where he was when he walked out the door, and being thrown off by only hearing one language around him; especially when that language isn’t Portuguese. After becoming a Portuguese colony in 1575¹, the language of Angola was switched from the varieties of tribal languages that separated the country to one introduced language that unified it. That did not eliminate the use of these tribal languages, though, and overheard speech is much more diverse on the streets of Luanda than in Colorado. “While you’re walking around you might hear, I don’t know, maybe two to three different languages depending on where you’re at,” Vanilo said.

                Not only are none of the people on the streets of Colorado speaking Portuguese, there are also a significantly smaller number of them than on the streets of Luanda. “It’s always loud there. I keep expecting to get out of the house and hear a lot of noise; so traffic, people talking really loudly, the ladies selling on the street,” Vanilo said. He got used to always listening to his music at full volume just so he could hear it over the sounds of Luanda. “I still do it, even… before I go out the house I put my earphones on and I put the music on the highest volume I’ve got. [Here] when I leave I only hear music, but back home it was like, I leave my house, I put my foot out the door, [and] I can still hear what’s happening outside. [The quiet is] my reminder that I’m not back home,” he said.  The crowds that stay on the sidewalks in the States take to the streets in Angola and biking and walking is common, as cars are less than practical during Luanda’s rush hour. The morning work traffic often gets so bad that people even leave their cars and walk to work in order to be on time, according to A.T. “You see people just leave their cars right there in the middle of the road, and they call somebody from their house to go and pick up the car later after they leave. You just see an army of people in suits going out on the streets,” Vanilo said. Even the idle hours in Luanda are loud compared Colorado, and unless one is listening between the hours of 3 and 5 in the morning, there is no quiet to be heard.

                Other than the sound shock, the culture in America didn’t take much getting used to for either A.T. or Vanilo. Instead, they found issue with a non-human element of the state: the climate. The air in Angola is much wetter, and the temperature never drops below a comfortable warmth except during the rainy season. When they first got to Colorado, A.T. and Vanilo would play basketball outside, but found the game much more difficult than it was back home. “It was hard to breathe. You would really feel like your throat was completely dried out because of the altitude, and we still weren’t pretty used to drinking water all the time. We would only be able to play for tops twenty minutes,” Vanilo said. Besides being a much drier climate, Colorado also has a fair amount of altitude that is foreign to those from Angola. The capital is on the coast, putting the boys’ home roughly a mile below their current location. The altitude adjustment is one that is common for almost all newcomers to Colorado, whether from Angola, Africa, or Virginia, USA.

                Another struggle that Vanilo and A.T. share with many other college students is the distance from their family. Unlike American students, though, they are separated from their loved ones by an ocean, not just a long drive. Family life in Angola is also much more tightly knit than in America, with weekends commonly being spent with visits to or from extended family. “We would always get together... [spend] the day together, if possible spend the whole weekend, if not just one day, maybe Saturday or Sunday. We would be pretty close, always together if possible,” Vanilo said.

                Despite the distance, they still find a way to stay connected with their families. “You miss them all the time. You’re always trying to call them, whenever possible of course. You’re always trying to keep in touch, to know if something’s happening, if everything’s good. I actually talked to my father this morning,” Vanilo said. International cell phone plans, Skype calls, and internet communication make it easier to keep in touch across the Atlantic.

                Moving always presents obstacles that require adjustment, no matter where a person is coming from or what their final destination is. The similarities of culture between Angola and Colorado certainly made it easier on both A.T. and Vanilo, and the amenities of modern technology are helping to ease the distance of the move.  Like many other college students, they are experiencing the degrees of separation that come from being apart from family and friends, with two additional hefty obstacles: the English language and the Atlantic Ocean.

¹ Historical information from www.angola.org

Drink Your Way Through The Classics

Some stories everyone just knows. They've been around for so long that it's just assumed that everybody has read them.

Which most people haven't.

But if someone mentions, for example, Homer's The Iliad, everyone will at least know what they're talking about.

And that's where literature nerds come in.

We're the ones who have actually read the classics, who tell the stories of the classics to the ignorants who haven't, and who keep the myth that everyone has read the classics going.

But if you've ever tried to read a classic, you will know that the going can be really. fucking. slow.

Sure, some just whiz by.

The Great Gatsby? Read it in three days. To Kill a Mockingbird? Loved it.

The Iliad?

Ugh.

There's a reason that the classics are classic. They're old. In fact, that particular one was written so long ago that nobody actually knows who the author was.

(And before you get all wise with me, yes, I am aware the author is said to be Homer. The question is who Homer was. There's speculation that he was not a man but actually a girl, or even a group of men who got together and wrote the story like some weird self-imposed group project.)

((Which is clearly not true. Even in ancient Greece nobody liked group projects.))

Anyway, writing has a come a long way since then. We're used to reading books that don't make us want to cry out of boredom for the two hundred pages in the middle.

Our modern standards of entertainment can make even the most dedicated of literature nerds want to throw in the proverbial towel and stop trying to read some predictable drivel written by a person long dead.

So what do I do instead?

I drink my way through it.

I got the idea from a friend, who runs a blog dedicated to literature-related drinking games. They're quite entertaining, to say the least, and let me just tell you:

The last 100 pages of this book went so much faster when there was wine involved.

(Also, let's be real. If you're going to inebriate yourself while reading vintage literature, at least be classy about it. Drink wine.)

I do encourage you all to try it sometime.

But before you do, some ground rules:

• Don't keep reading if you're sloshed. This is literature, for fuck's sake. Show some respect.
• Drink classy liquor. (Like I said, wine is encouraged).
• Remember the whole book. It's like saying "pics or it didn't happen." If you don't remember it, you're going to have to read it again. And sober this time. Sorry.

Now, for inquisitive minds, here was how I read The Iliad tonight:

(Side note: These rules work best if you apply them during the slow bit in the middle. Homer actually gets creative or some weird shit like that and makes it so the ending isn't nearly as predictable.)

Drink every time: 

• The phrase "with might and main" is used.
• Someone is compared to a wild animal.
• Hera's an interfering bitch.
• The phrase "in the belly" or "above the nipple" is used.
• Someone is referred to by both their name and who they're the son of (seriously Homer, so unnecessary).
• There's a superfluous dialogue paragraph in the middle of a battle (yes, drink for each one).
• Apollo speaks to someone in the form of someone else.
• Briseis is mentioned.
• There's a list of names you can't even pronounce.
• Paris is a pussy.
• "Armor rang rattling" is used when someone falls/dies.
• Someone is stripped of their armor.

Finish your drink every time:

• A main hero is killed.

And the best part about this game? You can alter it to like rules and use it for any book on your shelf.

Trying to work your way through a book for class? Easy. Drink your way through it instead.

Got a book that's taking up time, because it goes so slowly but you can't move on to your other ones until you finish it? Drink.

Bored for a night and have no friends to hang out with? Drink drink drink.

(Wait, scratch that last one. There are no books involved. (And it's slightly pathetic. (Which I wouldn't know from experience. (You know what, you can do it, just don't tell anyone.))))

It's not our fault that books get repetitive. In fact, it may not even be the author's fault.

We understand, Homer. You were limited in your language. You had to write about a giant war and you were quickly running out of ways to say "fight hard" and "die" without resorting to ridiculous phrases like "go fight win" and "suck an egg, you worthless trojan."

And so we commiserate. With alcohol.

And it works beautifully.

P.S. Holy fucking jesus I'm finally done with that book QUICK SOMEBODY THROW ME A PARTY. I'LL BRING THE GLITTER.

I'm Back?

I'm actually starting to feel creative again.

You guys.

I feel creative.

CREATIVE!

Miraculous, really. I thought the muses had abandoned me forever.

Maybe they were just mad about my excessive gaming.

Or the fact that I watch shows on netflix that I hate just because I can't stop without finishing every available episode.

Or the depressing reality that I am still reading The Iliad.

(Seriously. It is so slow. Get to the good stuff, Homer.)

((On the bright side, I have fewer than a hundred pages left and I think I'm going to make it into a wine-fueled drinking game tomorrow just to get me through it.))

(((There are just so many unnecessary details. I don't really need to remember them all.)))

Anyway, because I like to pretend that there are some people who actually enjoy reading the things that I write, and because in that grand delusion I also tell myself that those people are probably sad when I don't write at all, I would like to promise you imaginary people that there are good things coming.

I have a great idea for a post that will (hopefully) happen soon, (might) be funny, and (with any luck) might actually contain the same number of points that I say it will.

I'm also writing a short story that somebody might like to read. You know, wishful thinking.

And I'm going to try and keep this shit up in the future.

Like, not forget that I have a blog all the time and stuff like that.

And maybe write some things on a semi-regular basis.

Because I'm a fucking writer.

And that's what writers do.

Wish me luck with the Iliad.

(Please. Seriously. Wish me luck.)

Maybe the next time we chat I'll have actually finished it.

Google Is For Kittens

Being born in 1994, I always considered myself a kid of the nineties.

Until of course the "you're not a true 90s kid if" posts came out. Trying to jog memories about a television show or a hairstyle that was so hip when you were four is a little hard to do.

Apparently those six years of my life don't really count.

So, according to the internet, not a true nineties kid. Whatever. Not the point.

The point is that I'm enough of a nineties kid to be able to say that I was born into the generation with technology.

I'm down.

I've got the 4-1-1.

I grew up with all of this tech-y shit and, like most of my generation, I fucking love it.

No denial that dictionary.com has turned me off of ever using a real dictionary again, and if I like you enough I may even admit that thesaurus.com is on my chrome homepage as one of my eight most visited sites.

We can all agree, why use paper and time when instead you can just type in what you want and find it in a matter of seconds?

But I have bad news.

I think the people who create all of these super easy, convenient websites and apps are onto us, folks.

They are probably aware that even though I downloaded the quick Google search app onto my iPhone, its primary use has become to look up pictures of cats.

Using Google for facts? What? Fuck that.

I much prefer to lay in bed for two hours in the morning running my phone battery down on the "kittens" tag.

And they totally know it.

I saw a movie today and one of the previews tried to sell smartphones by saying that they are a constant learning tool.

They actually expected parents to believe that if they bought their kids a smartphone, the majority of their time on it would be spent looking up history facts or teaching themselves how to better solve an algebra equation.

How dumb can they be. I mean really.

Of course their kid isn't going to use their smartphone to actually make themselves smarter.

They're going to do what any normal person would do and use the super accurate touchscreen technology to text their friends a lot instead of going outside, and then melt their brain to mush playing candy crush.

But the best part about it was that the people who thought up the ad probably did it because they were fucking bored and appalled by how little people actually care about what they're using the internet for.

Come on, you guys.

We're actually boring the internet.

We're all sitting on our asses in the middle of the day looking at gifs of people hitting their faces on various objects, and the internet is just sitting there like "Guys, come on. I was meant for more than this."

Even the new twitter update is bored by us.

Twitter, the most boring and pointless social media out there, and even it is bored.

Don't get me wrong, I fucking love twitter. And I will not hate on you for using any form of social media because honestly, after spending as many hours looking at my Tumblr dash and mindlessly refreshing my Facebook feed as I have, there is absolutely no room for me to judge.

But seriously, if the new update has to add a highlights tab and change the background color on some "important" tweets to try and get you to stop swinging your thumb like a monkey and actually fucking read for once, something's wrong.

If somebody had told the internet when it was first born and still in its swaddling clothes with a colored bow on its forehead so that everyone would know what gender it was that when it grew up it would be no better than television, it would have cried.

And not just because it's a baby.

(And before you ask, no, I don't know what gender the internet is. I'm going to go with a girl. Because it's always right.)

At least TV has the excuse that it's supposed to be at least a little bit mind-numbing. A few channels excepted, it's meant for entertainment, not education.

With all of the commercials and shit that you have to sit through to make it through a single program anyway, television is the ultimate multitasker. There's almost no way you can watch it without at least periodically doing something else.

The internet wasn't supposed to be like that.

It's a tool.

Not like one of those guys who backs their car into the parking spot. Like a mouse-ka-tool.

You guys. The internet is the mystery mouse-ka-tool.

(If you don't get that reference, you're too old. Go home.)

((Or maybe I should just stop watching kids shows.))

(((Hey. I'm not judging you for your social media, so don't judge me.)))

And right now the internet's crying because it has seen too many pictures of cats and not nearly enough intelligent usage.

It is full of words, and information, and things other than memes that stopped being funny six months ago.

I dare you to get off your ass and scrounge up at least a shred of a fuck to pretend to give about the real importance of the internet.

I double dare you.

I triple dog dare you.

Because when we're so boring that we make the internet think we're too apathetic, we have to start admitting that there's a problem.

This Flavor Not Tested On Animals

I was unwrapping a bag of caramels in my pajamas-and-glasses bakery this morning when I noticed a note on the bottom of the bag: artificially flavored.

Vanilla caramels.

Artificially flavored.

Why?

Does it not seem easy enough to just flavor them with actual vanilla? I've made caramel before, and it's not like there are that many ingredients.

I may not be well versed in the chemical market, but it seems like much more work to come up with an artificial flavoring that tastes like vanilla than to just buy a bottle of real vanilla.

There would have to be multiple tries, of course, multiple rounds of tests and alterations, and it probably took weeks (if not months) for the company to come up with just the right artificial semblance of the flavor that they could have had from the beginning if they just used the real stuff.

I mean, this judgment may be a little harsh, because it is coming from a person who won't even be happy using the store brand vanilla; I would much rather buy Penzeys vanilla made from Madagascan beans because, to me, the flavor is worth the cost.

But still.

Harsh or not, you can't deny that the concept of creating a flavor that already exists is more than a little ridiculous.

Beside the fact that it takes much more time to artificially manufacture something instead of just using the real product, I also can't imagine that it really costs that much less.

But you know, these are corporations. They're all about saving the pennies and dimes so they can give their CEOs million dollar bonuses at the end of the year.

And, with the growing amount of things that aren't flavored with anything meant to be edible, they can now feel super special when they actually sell a naturally flavored product!

Just walking through the grocery store, it's hard not to notice how fucking proud they are of that.

Check out this breakfast sandwich, made with REAL CHEESE!!

"Seriously? Real cheese? OH MY GOD, I DIDN'T KNOW THAT EXISTED ANY MORE! THANK YOU, FROZEN FOOD GODS, FOR PROVIDING ME WITH REAL FOOD THAT IS MEANT TO BE INGESTED! YOU'RE LIKE JESUS, ONLY BETTER!"

...is definitely not what I say.

Because if real cheese was such a revelation, I wouldn't be able to walk over to the deli and buy myself a pound of it for five fucking dollars.

Yet people continue buying things that are made with nothing real, and paying more for things that act special and hike up their price because of their "REAL!" ingredients.

And we wonder why America's fat.

Keep Those Expectations Low

The day is young, the hour is not yet 10:00, yet already I have learned an important lesson today:

Don't be nice to people.

Be an asshole instead, and your life will be so much easier.

Because if you go out of your way to be nice to people, those people will end up fucking with your plans (which were basically selfish asshole plans anyway), and then you will have to end up being an asshole just so you can stick to plans that were already going to make you an asshole.

See? It's totally circular.

So I figure, if you just plan on being an asshole to begin with, then nobody will expect you to be nice at any point in the process, meaning that you can just be an asshole all of the time and nobody will really mind!

I'm telling you, it's genius.

Plus, I don't really like being nice to people solely because of that stupid "internal struggle" motif, so I figure that if I'm just always an asshole, then people won't bother to expect me not to be an asshole, which means that I win extra brownie points when I'm nice, but at the same time I have fewer people that actually hang around me and expect me to be nice. It's a win-win-win.

Or maybe just a win... I don't know. I think I'm really the only one coming out on top in this situation.

But that's okay with me.

Because remember? I'm an asshole. So I don't care.

Also, it can't be that bad of a philosophy, because I swear the universe taught it to me. Every time I'm nice because I'm aware that it makes me a good person, I end up having to be a bad person at some point anyway. And my brother agrees with me, so that says something, right?

You bet it does.

It says that now there are TWO assholes to look out for. Told you it was brilliant.

Toe Tag on a Shoe

I want to write a real post soon so that the million and a half people who read my last really depressing one (seriously, what the hell guys) don't just think that I'm a total buzz-kill who sucks a lot.

Because I'm not. Usually.

But, alas, I didn't.

So instead, here's a poem that I wrote a bit ago but haven't shared yet.


Toe Tag on a Shoe

One of these days

I’m going to write a calling card

And tattoo it on the bottom

of my foot:

If found please return

To another time

(Maybe another place

if you can find one

better)

So when I’m found

With my head in my arms

Warm blood turning thick

in my sluggish veins

Some kind soul

can revive me

with my own instructions.

Only the Nice Stuff

So, thought I would give you a little clarification about yesterday's post.

Because it was a little formal for me.

And coherent.

And not swear-y.

I'm in a newswriting and reporting class, and we write articles every week, and one of the people who let me interview them wanted to read that one. So I put it on here.

I thought it was pretty good, but I'm glad none of you guys said anything about it.

Because I think that all of the articles I've turned in were pretty good.

But them sometimes I get them back and I want to curl up under a little blanket and stay there for the rest of forever.

And the one that I liked the least was the one that got the best grade. What the hell.

They're not bad grades... I've never gotten lower than a B+, but I mean come on, you're talking to a girl who's disappointed by a 3.98 GPA.

I know that writing is all about editing, and feedback is great, and the only way to learn to be a better writer is to critique and correct yourself constantly.

And if a professor corrects things but still writes "nice job" at the top of your paper, it means you didn't fail.

And as long as your writing doesn't sound like a four year-old wrote it and then sent it through a wood chopper, you're doing just fine.

But I am now officially depressed over a B+, because yes, that is how pathetic I am.

Somebody bring me a blanket and some hot chocolate. Please.

Thinking about it, no wonder so many authors become alcoholics or are chronically depressed or stick their heads in the oven. In writing, you either think that you're brilliant or a fucking idiot. There is no in between.

And it's possible to think both about the same piece of writing. Best case scenario, you write something thinking it's abominable and it receives surprisingly good feedback, at which point you re-read it and realize it's quite good.

More common case?

You write something you think is awesome, and it comes back to you with so much red pen that the paper is basically bleeding out any semblance of life it once held, and you have to try and edit this limp piece of nothing into something you're proud of again which, let me tell you, will never happen. It's impossible. 

You hate it now, and you will hate it forever, and you are doomed to hate hate hate because you now think that this is an idiotic piece of writing done by an idiotic writer and that idiotic writer is you. Congratulations.

So to get to the point of this incredibly self-deprecating post, thank you all for just reading my writing and not saying anything about it, because sometimes I just need to stay in my happy little bubble of thinking that I'm talented and if you fucking burst it I will kill you.

...did I mention I'm a little depressed?

Anyone who wants to pat me on the head and tell me I'm a pretty little princess is welcome. I'll be under my blanket.

Boston: One Giant Unknown

               The 19 year-old college student who seemed like a gentleman clearly was not, a fact that became terrifyingly apparent after he and his 26 year-old brother set off two bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon last Monday, killing at least 3 and wounding over 150 others. The men acted alone, attacking civilians at a non-partisan event, and leaving many to ask the simple but as yet unanswerable question: Why?

                From two men who lived in the United States for the past five years and raised no red flags during their time, the city of Boston has suffered a tremendous amount of terror this week. And the fear didn’t stay confined within the city’s walls, either; people all across the country with ties to Boston spent the week anxiously waiting to hear that their friends and loved ones were finally safe. “The one thing I wanted all week was just to be home, to be with my parents and to be able to see my friends if I wanted to,” said PJ Fallon, a student at the University of Denver who spent most of his childhood in Boston, and still has many friends that live and attend school in the area. “[I wanted to] not have to watch from 2,000 miles away, watching them going through the most traumatic experience probably of their life right now,” he said.

                When the bombs went off on Monday, the general reaction was one of shock and an immediate need to reconnect with friends and loved ones in or around the race. Spectators and runners scrambled to find each other in the confusion, and loved ones from outside the city were frantically trying to get in touch with those inside of it. “I basically contacted everyone I knew in Boston just being like ‘Are you alive? Really, are you alive, are you safe, what’s going on?’” said Fallon. He was lucky enough to be able to answer ‘yes’ to all of those questions for his friends, but many were not so fortunate. “All I can say is that I love you, and that I’m sorry that everything is going on,” he told a friend in the area who was having difficulty locating the people he knew at the race.

Another Boston native living outside of the city, Melissa Wesenberg also felt the terrors of Monday from her home in North Carolina. “Monday was a very scary day,” Wesenberg said. “I had a lot of friends and family that were running in the marathon. I had one friend whose family was waiting at the finish line for him. Ten minutes prior to the bombs going off, his youngest son had to go to the bathroom. His mom was very mad at him, but now looking back his son might have saved all their lives by having to go to the bathroom.”

                As the events picked back up again with gun exchanges between the suspects and police on both the MIT campus and in Watertown Thursday night, Boston residents reached out for one another once more. Fallon recalled being out with friends when the dramatic events began, and “[going] from total happiness to scared, again, scared out of my mind” in an instant as he heard from friends that were on lockdown five minutes away from the shooting area.

                One thing can be said for Boston residents, though: no matter how little they knew or how scared they were, they never failed to pull together. “I have always been proud of being from Boston, and this past week just made that feeling stronger,” Wesenberg said. “Watching the way the people of Boston responded to this was amazing.” A notoriously strong city, Boston showed the world this week what love in the face of a crisis truly is. “I’m not a religious man,” said Fallon. “But I prayed more this week than I think I have in a year.”

                Memorials for the victims have been held all week, with mourners placing flowers and tokens at the site and churches in the area holding special services. The London Marathon held on Sunday hosted a record number of spectators, many with signs and banners showing their support for the victims Boston. A heartwarming national anthem was sung by players and fans at a Bruins hockey game, and fans of Boston’s opposing teams have brought signs showing their support for their rival city. And Boston residents themselves have shown that despite this attack, they will remain their new slogan – Boston Strong. “I have fond memories of going to the marathon with my family,” Wesenberg said. “I have no doubt that Boston will recover from this and come back stronger.”

Writing Makes Me Pretentious

The other day I read a paper about an interesting topic: Can creative writing really be taught?

I read it for my creative writing class, so of course the answer was yes, yes it can.

And I agree, in part.

But when it comes to poetry... I beg to differ.

It can be logistically taught. You can be taught to read it, and to critique it, and if you're like some of the people in my class you can simply be taught to understand it (seriously, my professor fields some of the dumbest questions in that class. Please read the poem at a higher than elementary school level).

I have found, though, that there are very few people who I actually am okay with them teaching me how to write poetry.

And as of yet, I've only found one person who I will trust to edit my poetry.

My current professor is not that one person.

One of our assignments last week was to write a poem in the shape of a poem that we had read, and (not to brag or anything) mine was pretty great. I prefer writing poetry that hasn't been assigned to me so that the idea is all my own, but I still was pleased with the result.

And while she liked it as well, her comments were some of the stupidest things I've ever read.

Yes, I am aware that poets choose each word specifically. Which is why if you switch a couple of my words around, you don't make it better, you actually make it worse, because I picked those words, and they mean something, and you just totally fucked that meaning up. Congratulations.

Anyway, to avoid sounding like too much of an asshole (oops, too late) I will simply stop here and say that I wrote another poem for her class and since I'm not really planning on making any edits due to her comments anyway, I may as well share it here because I like to pretend that there are people out there who actually like reading my poetry (lol, good one Emma).

Oh, and I haven't thought of a title for it. So, um, if you think of one... you should probably just keep it to yourself.

Jokes you can tell me.

Hell, I might even use it.

If I like you.

And it's not dumb.

Okay seriously though here's my poem.

A soft light paled

by its own shadow

lying across an unknown eye

(as if whispering

a secret

straight into her soul)

While the flickering flame

yellow, then orange,

then golden again,

dances a pattern into her

hair, infinite and fictional,

(a message struck mute

by the passing of time)

as the whispers and words

get lost in the strands

and shuffle toward the split,

fraying ends

until they slip into the shadow

and become infinite once

again.

Poem (For You)

Flames on a candle

speak without words

their reflections dancing

in my irises

Unsatisfied by sounds

By vowels and

consonants and

feelings

So instead

I write you a poem

with a candle stuck in the paper

burning the same flame

wide irises hoping

that you're drawn to the

luminous

light inside the fire

Because don't you know

that watching souls

through holes in their boxes

never got anybody

as far as

reaching out

and taking off

the lid.

A Guide To Not Getting Tan

Last week went way too fucking fast.

Always nice how break does that. It knows that you want it to last, so it pulls a fast one and doesn't. I'm onto you, break. Next time I'm gonna make you last for three months. So take that.

And even though I didn't do anything but sit at home, it was an absolutely glorious week.

Glorious, yet I still feel lazy.

And I also spent the whole time in my basement, hence the whole "not getting tan" thing. Because if pop culture has taught me anything, the way to keep oneself pale is to stay in the basement all day.

So I'm going to rectify the fact that I feel unaccomplished and list the things that I did that make me feel as if my time was not wasted, but enjoyed instead.

I watched some fabulous movies and I will tell you how they were so that you can maybe watch them too, and I did some other stuff that's only neat in my little worldview but I think it's cool so if you don't you can just sod off.

Here are the movies and shows that I watched:

• My Blueberry Nights

What a wonderful movie. It's the kind of movie that I would even venture to call a film. It was short, and sweet, and real. The narrative was so honest and beautiful, I highly recommend it. It wasn't cheesy, though. You know me. I don't watch none of that cheesy shit.

• Midnight in Paris

I had been looking forward to watching this one for a really long time, but unfortunately I think it is one that I will never watch again (and if you know me, you know that not only do I avoid the cheesy shit, but I also watch movies that I like over and over and over), and for one reason alone: Owen Wilson.

I can't stand that dude. He inflects every single line the same way, with an upward trail and an unsure tone, so that even though the character he played was so sincere and genuine I still felt like he was a sleaze. And because 90% of the movie was Owen Wilson talking, I was not a fan.

Marion Cotillard, though, was phenomenal, as was Tom Hiddleston as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Allison Pill as his wife, and the array of actors that played all of the other historical characters and literary geniuses were all amazing. I wanted to punch Rachel McAdams in the face the whole time, but that was her character's fault, not hers.

Overall, I guess I would still recommend it. Woody Allen creates some beautiful things, and this is still one of them, despite what I consider a drastic casting mistake. So watch it once, at least.

• Winter's Bone

If you ever feel like your life sucks, just go ahead and watch this so then you can slap yourself for even thinking it. Jennifer Lawrence's performance is absolutely great (um, duh) and the whole storyline is so tragic that it makes the tiny elements of beauty that do exist just shine that much brighter. It's not a light movie, and it made both my brother and my dad uncomfortable to watch (ninnies), but it's still just so good.

• Freaks and Geeks

This is an old (and by old I mean 90s old) television show, starring James Franco and Jason Segel and that chick that played the murdering stepdaughter in Legally Blonde and kind of looks like Ellen Page. There are only 18 episodes (I say only because that makes me feel better about watching the whole series in three days) and it's on Netflix, and since we all know that nobody gets anything done anymore because Netflix is too addicting you may as well just watch it.

They do a lot of drugs.

• Howl

Welcome back, James Franco! This one was on Netflix too, and is about Allen Ginsberg's life and his most famous poem, Howl, as well as the controversy that surrounded it and its alleged obscenity. 

It had a really interesting style, and felt sort of like a documentary even though everyone in it was an actor and it was all written and scripted. It went between an interview with Ginsberg, played by Franco, and the courthouse proceedings about Howl, with occasional excerpts of the poem read by Franco and accompanied by these funky illustrations.

I learned a lot about Ginsberg, came to respect him even more (was that even possible?) and would definitely recommend it to other literary nerds out there (I know there are some of you reading this, I mean, you're friends with me after all).

And hey, I read a book too! I read the Lord of the Flies, mostly because I had five other books that I hadn't read yet and then I left them all in my dorm room. I was so angry. But Lord of the Flies was good. It made me depressed at the state of human nature. I wanted Jack to fall off a cliff and die, or get left behind when they got rescued. Or he could have gotten crushed by a rock. I would have been okay with that.

I also spent the majority of two days sewing a shirt, and if you say that's lame then I will repeat my previous instruction: sod off. I think it's neat and you're probably just jealous that you can't do it too.

Unless you're a guy. If you're a guy and you say that you should sew a shirt too, I will tell you a very firm no way and try to send you on home with your manhood still intact.

It turned out pretty well, though, for the first time. Wanna see? Of course you do.

This is my snarky camera face because I have a hard

time smiling when I take pictures of myself

wearing clothes. I know, leave me alone.

Yep, looks awesome, I know, and please don't tell me any differently because it made my hands cramp and I need to feel like it was worth it that's all.

Other, than that, I slept a lot, because you never know how much you love your nice bed at home until you sleep on a rock in the dorms and then being at home is like a 24/7 sleep fest.

I drank a bit of wine water (thanks Mom (or Jesus)) and ate Chinese food and went to my favorite chocolate shop in Boulder and didn't get on Tumblr for the whole week and caught up with some old friends and played a lot of xbox.

Now I'm nice and rejuvenated so that spring quarter can hit me in the face with homework. Yay! Thanks, DU!

On a side note to that, my suitemate and I have decided that we go to a school of special little snowflakes, because every time I meet a new person they're always nice and at the same time very odd.

I enjoy it.

Happy spring, everybody.

Step Back For A Week

Spring break is coming up in a week and a half.

A week and a half.

And I'm actually excited to go home. Tie up the strings of this quarter at school and just leave for a week.

Because though my dorm room is already pretty clean, I think it may be time for some emotional spring cleaning, too.

I'm in one of those places right now where things are necessarily going right, and I don't really have anything to be super happy about, but I'm content. I don't mind when the things go wrong because I can shrug them all off, and sometimes it's the little things like a chocolate chip muffin and caramel latte at noon that can make a day.

A snack... or my lunch? WHO KNOWS.

Sure, my emotional state will appreciate being at home and by myself... playing with my dog, spending time with my xbox parents (hi mom and dad), and maybe teaching myself how to sew, but I guess I don't really need it. 

Yet I am watching so many people around me in my life who do need it, and I hope for their sake that they take the chances to hang out at home, the chances to isolate themselves and be selfish for once, the chances to figure out what in their lives is and isn't making them happy and get rid of the things that are keeping them from being content.

So often, social media does nothing but indulge unhappiness. Something frustrating you? Blog passively about it. Tweet your rants. Look for other people with the same unhappiness, and commiserate with them. You will feel better.

That feeling doesn't last; it's like a drug. Hitting the send button feels so good, but once it's sent the feelings behind it are still there, and actually stronger than before. 

If you learn to let things go, you won't have anything to tweet about or any topic on which to blog. You will be content, and happy with the way things that are going, and you won't feel the need to constantly poison yourself with the knowledge that both you and the internet are aware of your acute unhappiness.

Does that really seem so bad?

If you prefer to love too much rather than not at all, go for it. Love. But actually love. And if something doesn't qualify as love, let it go.

Too many knuckles are turning white from holding on to dust bunnies.

It's spring cleaning; let them go.

10 Things That Suck But You Really Can't Avoid Them

So tonight I had a really great idea for a story, and I got all super motivated and was like hey I'm gonna write a story! and then I realized that the reason I write all of my super great ideas down is because none of them are really a story, and one of these days I'll get enough super great ideas that I can weave them all into one giant story and it will be the weirdest story anyone has ever read! and you all will love it not read it.

Now that I have your attention (and have probably confused you) I will take this chance to say that I was going to blog about the Oscars, but I'm not, so you're welcome.

Instead I will blog about things that suck.

Like that intro.

And particularly those things that happen all the time and are completely unavoidable, because they really happen through no fault of your own, but they are awfully awkward nonetheless and must be endured on a daily (or at least biweekly) basis.

Number one:

Sniffling.

It's winter, you just had to walk across campus at an alarming rate to make it to your next class, and the cold air has made it so that your nose is not only numb, but also running. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

You get to class, sit in the middle of a bunch of quiet people, and ineffectively sniffle for the next ten to fifteen minutes, depending on how much your body hates you that day. Because no matter how much you sniffle, it doesn't help. The sniffles have decided that they want to stay, and until your body magically makes them poof disappear when you stop paying attention, you will forever be that annoying kid sitting in a quiet lecture hall, sniffling every thirty seconds.

You feel bad, but you can't stop it. The tiny gnomes who live in your nose (I know, worst job ever) are intentionally leaving the faucet on in there (probably as payback for having the shittiest job ever) and no matter how valiantly you sniffle, it's ultimately up to them as to when things will dry up in there.

Now that I've left you with that charming mental image, we'll move on to number two:

"What's up?"

The question that everyone asks when they walk past somebody that they know on campus, because what else are you supposed to do? You could just say "hey," but that is a cursed greeting. Never have I heard someone casually greet another with no others words than "hey" and sound anything but insincere. Voice pitch changes and gets higher and sweeter, the look on your face turns to that of a kicked puppy, and the "hey" comes out as more of a "We never talk anymore what's happened to us we used to talk I wish this wasn't the only thing I had to say to you hey."

It's sickeningly sweet. And no, I'm not over-generalizing. I never do that.

If you follow the "hey" with a "what's up," your voice will become your own again. But there's a minor problem.

Nobody actually cares what's up.

Same with "how are you?" Ask either of these questions and prepare to hear a pre-programmed response that just comes out like a reflex: "Not much. I'm good."

Because who wants to hear "I'm doing all right, but I twisted my knee twerking in my room and I got so distracted that I couldn't eat a proper dinner, so now I'm kind of hungry and really wish that I could just order a quesadilla for delivery because I don't know how to make one and we're out of ramen."

Okay, I would like to hear that. I could make fun of that person forever.

Point is, you have to ask it to avoid awkwardness, but the fact that nobody really gives a fuck what your answer is makes it even more awkward. Unavoidable, I'm telling you.

That's why I'm starting a movement to make "'sup" an acceptable thing for white girls to say. It's both a greeting and a question, but nobody expects an answer. Bam. problem solved.

This is getting too long already. I have eight more things. I'll hurry up, I promise.

Number three:

When somebody you know is walking the same direction as you and ends up walking even with you, so you have no choice but to talk to them until one of you reaches your destination even if you don't like them at all and have nothing to say to them but can't really just ignore them.

Enough said. Moving on. Number four:

Elevator rides.

There is literally no way to make an elevator ride with strangers not awkward.

You're in a tiny, enclosed box with shiny walls. If you look at the wall, it looks like you're trying to stare at their reflection. If you look at the floor, you look like you probably need some therapy to deal with that crippling shyness you suffer from. If you look at them or try to talk to them... well that's just weird, and you should probably stop.

I've noticed that almost everybody takes out their cell phones within seconds of the doors closing. And I don't blame them. Because even if you have nothing to do on it, you can always check the weather or look at the instagram pictures that you've already seen the other two times you were in the elevator today.

Or you could make small talk about the weather, like the boy in the rangers hat, and then forget to press the button for my floor so I awkwardly end up two floors higher with my laundry basket in my hands and a lounge full of people staring at me.

Soooo yep. Number five:

The abominable noise that your jaw makes when chewing chips.

There's definitely a reason the English call them crisps. They're loud as fuck and yet so delicious.

That doesn't actually explain why they're called crisps... I don't know. Whatever. They're deafening.

Most of the time, chips are eaten in a social setting: at parties, during movies, during meals (duh), doing homework, you name it. And because the setting is one with food, people are usually too busy stuffing their faces to really make much noise talking. So everyone can hear you chew.

I have the same problem with bagels. I blame my dad for the noisy jaw genes. Thanks, Dad. And I'm sorry, everyone else. I can't help it.

Another noise that is entirely too annoying and only makes itself heard when around other people, number six:

Squeaky shoes.

Not many shoes have this problem, and most of the are flip flops which are noisy anyway so nobody really notices when a squeak is added to the FLIP. FLOP. FLIP. FLOP. SCUFF (as you trip yourself) FLIP. FLOP.

But when they do? Oh. Man.

I have one pair of Vans that's just old enough that they feel broken in, but not yet quite old enough, because they sound like I have a pair of mice taped to my feet every time I take a step. It's not really noticeable outside, but I just know that the R.A.'s judge me the whole silent 100 feet from the front door of the lobby to the doors of the elevators.

Although I do act like a 5-year old sometimes, so I guess the squeaky shoes fit the bill.

Because I'm great at transitioning, here's the entirely unrelated number seven:

Facebook birthdays.

I did a big, brave thing today: I wished two people happy birthday on Facebook. Two people!

And this is a big deal for me because terrible as it may be, I am in the habit of never wishing anybody a happy birthday on Facebook, because then everybody knows that I wished that person a happy birthday and wonders what they didn't wrong when I don't post some generic "aaaay happy birthday" on their wall.

(Okay, I know that's a lie. I bet nobody actually cares if I posted on their wall or not. Whatever. Humor me.)

Plus, half of the people that wish their Facebook friends happy birthday don't really give a damn and only do it because their Facebook sidebar tells them to.

"happy birthday" is not a real well-wish, just so you all know.

If you post that on my wall for my birthday we're not friends any more.

And if you don't post anything I'll cry myself to sleep wondering what I did wrong, softly sobbing whyyyy...yyyy...yyyyyyy.....

And then I will unfriend you. Unless number eight:

I can't because you like me more than I like you and I know that you'll notice and just re-add me later.

I'm probably a bad person for writing about cruel things that I do on Facebook and then posting the link to my blog on Facebook, but as you're all Facebook users yourselves you'll know what I'm saying when I say that there are some people who you really don't care about, so much that you've even blocked them from your news feed, but you just. can't. delete them.

I think that's really all I need to say here. If I start providing examples I'll really get myself into trouble.

So here we are, for the three of you still reading at this point: the final unavoidable conundrum that sucks quite a bit and I probably should have put earlier because the people who have stopped reading by now would probably have agreed with me:

Number ten: Not being able to shut the fuck up.

There's word vomit, and there's nervous talking, and then there are times when you know that the people you're talking to don't care and you don't really want to keep talking but for some reason, you do. I just have so much to say.

Except the part that sucks is that none of what you're saying actually matters, and nobody cares, and even you don't care, and yet you just can't bring yourself to stop. Such as this blog post, that probably should have ended a long time ago but for some reason my fingers just keep typing.

One of these days college will teach me how to shut the fuck up.

But for now, it's just teaching me how to make things longer.

And aren't I good at it.

As a nice little update, wanna know what else I'm good at? Counting. There are only nine things on here. I won't tell if you won't.

I Failed At Break

When you're living in the dorm over break, it feels like you are actually the only person in the whole building. Nobody's on the elevator, nobody's in the lounge, nobody's walking around, and there are about 7 cars in the whole parking lot.

It's weird.

So when I got in the elevator tonight and it was actually full, it was like Christmas.

Except with more people. And less presents. And more smelly elevators.

And by less presents I mean no presents.

Why don't people on the elevator give me presents.

They should start doing that.

Anyway, there were a couple guys that actually weren't Asian in there, and I was the only girl.

(Seriously. This school makes me feel so racist. There are just so many Asians.)

They were pretty excited when I got in the elevator. I mean, I would be too. Have you seen me recently? Kidding. So totally kidding. I look like a train wreck at this point in the evening.


Guy 1: Alriiiight

Guy 2: Party in this elevator

Guy 3: Woop woop

Me: Yeah, this is the first time there have actually been other people in the elevator with me in, like, two months

Guy 2: Did you stay here over break?

Me: Yep. Ghost town

Guy 3: Yeah it's so barren

Guy 1: Except for the crazy sex parties

Everyone else: ...

Me: Guess I didn't get invited to any of those

Guy 1: Too bad

Guy 1: They're super great

Guy 1: You missed out

Guy 1: Well have a good night


I love socializing in college. It's like a whole new universe.

Also, I apparently failed at break. I'll do better next time.

Spring break 2013, WATCH OUT.

Non-Resolutions

Every once in a while, everyone needs an existential crisis.

But the notion that everyone have their crisis on the morning that they're most likely still drunk on the last year and forced to wear sunglasses inside for the dawning of a new one is bullheaded and for people with a better memory than I have.

I mean, I'm 18 and I still can't remember to floss every day.

So I don't do resolutions. They're a petty formality and nobody sticks to them.

Plus, the idea of unique resolutions becomes profuse when they all say "go to the gym, lose 10 pounds, and stop eating so much ice cream." Please. Nobody is ever going to stop eating ice cream.

My 2013 started the same way my 2012 ended, and there is nothing to separate it from any year before it but the date I write on my papers.

Yet lately I've had the strongest urge to cleanse it all. Live life to the fullest, sure, take chances, yeah yeah, be healthy and feel good about myself, whatever.

But do it differently than I did before.

I'm going to try some things, I'm going to live selfishly (because it's my life so why the hell shouldn't I,) and I'm going to eat ice cream every fucking day if I want to. I'm going to talk to who I want and not talk to who I want, and I'm going to do the things that I know I love without paying any heed to the love that may not be real, but in fact residual.

I'm going to keep writing crappy poetry and I'm going to hug my teddy bear while watching movies by myself whenever I damn well please.

And if I want to ignore you?

So what.

It's 2013, bitches.

A Spoonful of Wishful Thinking

Some time
at a stop sign
wait a minute
until the dull roar becomes a hum
and then a murmur
(you will be invisible
if only for
a moment)
and when the engine cools
and stops its sputtering
and you wake up
there may be cars
waiting
for you to go go go
or you may find yourself
blissfully alone
at a crossroad
one foot on the gas
all because you listened
to a stop sign.