Somebody Push the Rollercoaster, Quick

There are some times in life when everybody is starting on the same journey at the same time, some times when you feel like you're the only one. And there are times like now, where I should be starting on the same journey, but for some reason I look around to find myself sitting in the back row, the end car, still stagnant at the top of the climb but watching everyone in front of me plunge headfirst, screaming out with a scared joy.

My bed smells like coffee. Just a little, not enough to taste, but enough to smell like sunshine. My face is puffy from the holes in my gums where, up until this Monday, three little wisdom teeth sat. My best friend (at least, one of them) is gone to another state, and even though I felt like crying when I gave her one last hug for the moment I've realized nothing is really different. My guitar sits next to my bed, neglected for weeks, but the callouses on my fingers are still hanging in there because they know I'll pick it up again soon. My little stuffed ewok is in my lap, staring up at me through the lopsided hole in its cape, a soft reassurance of the things that I will always love, even when I'm not sure if I really do.

And my glasses that at first seemed too big have grown onto my countenance like a vine wrapping itself around a bench that has been established, shielding it with an oldness that cannot be left unaccepted.

My world starts in 17 days.

This Should Be My Job

I was hanging out with one of my old teachers a few weeks ago (try to curb your jealousy, she's really awesome) and somehow, while talking about literature and film and other classy things, we got to the fact that I've seen Magic Mike twice.


What.


Anyway, for those of you who haven't seen it (guys) it was actually a potentially decent movie that just ended up being about strippers. Who knew.


I told her all about that, and she told me that I should write a literary analysis of it on my other teacher's wall.


So I did.


And here it is:


So, I've been keeping up with the media and literature scene this summer, as I'm sure you're glad to hear. There have been so many great movies and wonderful books that I've just read though they're really not new, in fact many of them are actually very old, but they're new to me. Anyway, I do appreciate all types of media, which is exactly why I've seen Magic Mike twice. Channing Tatum was just a

 bonus, I swear. And that is why, as a voracious learner and critic or all things intellectual (or whatever you want to call it, I mean, it was about strippers), I have decided to do you the wonderful courtesy of describing the movie to you in all of its virtues and flaws (I'll try to keep it PG). So here it is... my literary analysis of the stripper movie, Magic Mike.
May I just start by saying that it actually could have been a good movie. For the most part, movies like that put about as much thought into the plot as the strippers in them put into picking out their names ("Bubbles. Because I like bubbles. Perfect!"), but this one contradicted that almost immediately. Within the first two minutes of the film, the subplot of Mike's custom furniture business had already been introduced, complete with the conflict of the banks not being willing to give him the competitive loans he wanted because he dealt mostly in cash. It was so promising that I almost believed it would actually be a movie equally balanced in plot and visual attraction. Alas, I was proved horribly wrong when they proceeded to ignore that subplot for the next hour, replacing it instead with (mostly) naked men and Matthew McConaughey's obnoxious voice and overall existence. Sorry, not a fan. Only near the end did they decide to return to real substance and give the quick and dirty version of "conflict-climax-resolution" by cramming it all into roughly twenty minutes of film and replacing "resolution" with "magical lack of conflict." And though the final product was somewhat disappointing, I was still impressed by the existence of a more complex plot at all, eliminating all guilt that I may have felt at going back to see it again. After all, responsible journalism does require extensive research, does it not?
I bet you want to go see it now, don't you. Yeah, you're welcome.

I got a double-like from both of them. And he said he needs "time to compose a proper response."

When that happens, it will be on here. Guaranteed.

I bet everybody wishes they taught me lit.

Get Them Creative Juices Flowing

The past week disappeared into a vortex, I swear. I didn't do anything of importance, and yet it's Saturday already.

On the bright side, I got my muse back while at a friend's gig tonight (which was awesome, by the way. Her name is Lindsey Saunders, check her out).

And since it has been a while since I subjected any of you to my poetry, I may as well do it again now. Unedited, freshly inked. Enjoy.

Oh, and since this title did not come easily to me as many of them do, I actually had to think. Which is hard for me. So, after much pondering, it has been tentatively named

Brainwaves in Diapers


(Awesome, right).

Growth versus scissors

Fine versus fat

To make it more jagged

or shield with a hat.

The pinballs they bounce

like shotguns in jell-o,

the splinter too old

for the skin to be mellow.

The top layer chips

and reveals a bare bone

pretending it’s weak,

but it’s never alone.

And when it grows stronger

there’s always a string

Broken down wishes

still posing as flings.

Roommate Queries

Okay, so I wasn't going to blog again until tomorrow to make up for the fact that yesterday's post was longer than most of your attention spans. But...

I got my rooming assignment!

Allow me to digress for a moment... AHHHBKASNFIWEIUAWCKLSDF!!!!!!!!!

Back. Sorry about that. My excitement got the better of me. It's like college is real or something.

And, I know who my roommate is!

Well, I don't know. I saw her name on the page, but I didn't know which one she was on facebook, and I'm not quite proactive enough to email her, so I'm just going to wait until tomorrow and see if she contacts me first. Yeah, social skills!

I got to talking with a friend, and I realized that there are multiple things a roommate should potentially know about me:

A) I play guitar. Aka, I will be the soundtrack to their world.

B) I play too much Xbox. Deal with it.

C) I'm not good at sharing. Touch my sandwich, and I will cut you. Also, I poisoned something in the fridge. Watch out for that.

D) And, last but not least, all roommates should know my tagline:

Feeling down? Need a hug? Got a frown? Flip that mug!
Because Emma Dell loves to cuddle, and she'll be there for you day or night, rain or shine. She has an embrace softer than the Egyptian cotton used for Jesus's diaper, and a caress more heartwarming than a cancer survivor watching a John Hughes movie.
So don't delay and be sure to get a squeeze from Emma whenever you damn well please.

Courtesy of Lauren. www.trulyincrediblecraziness.blogspot.com. She knows me so well.

Check It Out Guys, I'm a Robot

People are boring. And I constantly find myself in situations in which there is a pressing need for me to compose myself like a mature adult, but the mixture of boredom and the fact that I'm uncomfortable around 80% of people makes it difficult to do so.


In these situations, I, like a mature adult, like to invent little games to play that nobody knows I'm playing but make it so that I don't have to listen to what the people around me are saying. Or so I don't have to look at them. Either way.


The most awkward circumstance, fortunately, is also the most easily remedied. I've found that it occurs most often at graduation parties, weddings, shows, or really any situation where lots of people that you don't necessarily know are milling about in the same general area and making small talk until the time comes when they can either take a seat and watch somebody else be social or they can make a run for it. And that circumstance is this: 


You're walking with a friend, or a date, or your mom, or whatever; you come across a person that you either don't know at all or, worse, you are only vaguely acquainted with; the individual you're walking with starts a conversation with the person / people that you don't know; you're forced to stand there awkwardly, not being able to partake in the conversation because you don't bloody know the people involved, and not able to leave because then you become that strange loser walking through a crowded room by themselves.


So you're standing there. You can't talk. You can't leave. So you try and count the number of people in the room wearing hats without conspicuously moving your eyes. And then, because that's not actually a thing that normal people can do, you pick the person in the room who is most likely to be a spy and then picture them shooting the hell out of everything there because that sketchy guy who's been lurking in the corner finally blew his cover and actually turns out to be a mobster sent there on an assassination mission. And then you choose the target; usually the oldest guy there who's not yet knocking on death's door and seems to be dressed like a fully functioning adult. 


And then the people you can't talk to because you don't know them will make a comment that is aimed at you in at attempt to draw you into the conversation that you've heretofore ignored, forcing you to make the generic "laugh and agree" type response and just hope to god that what they said was actually funny.


Yeah, that one happens to me a lot. If you couldn't tell.


Then, of course, is the classic conversation between you and a person who likes you way more than you like them (which, in my case, is generally not at all). Especially if they're of your opposite persuasion, and just a little too much interest from you pushes the giant "crush" snowball down the hill on its path of destruction and broken hearts. And because it would just be too easy for them to act cool and allow you to ignore them, these are always the people who insist on staring at your face while they're talking to you as if looking hard enough will ignite a fire in your soul that will forever reciprocate their feelings.


Which it won't. It will just make me vastly uncomfortable.


My first inclination is to not look at them at all, not look at them ever, act like there's something really interesting to look at on the other side of the room that draws my eyes toward it for the entirety of our conversation.


But that's rude. I would never do that.


Instead, I look at them once every twenty or thirty seconds, and spend the rest of the time pretending that there's something across the room that's interesting and I can't stop looking at it. Because that's how mature adults handle uncomfortable situations.


I usually end up leaving that conversation by pretending that the situation I've been so enthralled by involved a dear friend who desperately wants to talk to me, like, now. And I leave. Even though I don't have any friends. You know, normal stuff.


I bet at this point you're wondering why in the hell I would title this "I'm a Robot" and then just talk about being rude to other people. Don't worry. That one's next. I saved the best for last.


Being onstage when there's nothing to do is quite possibly the most awkward part of the performance. Sometimes it's that you're a chorus member and you have to pretend to make small talk for a prolonged period of time without actually saying anything to the people around you, so that you can make up stories about unicorns hiding in your closet with a bloody knife and a child's foot in their mouth that the people you're talking to will never understand unless they can lip read frightfully well. Which, in my experience, they can't.


Even more uncomfortable than that, though, is when there are few people on the stage (think preshow (if you don't know what that is, I don't care (no, I'm kidding, I love you, it's when there are only around six people on the stage (jokes, I don't love you (mad props if you're still following this))))) and you are forced to stand perfectly still, not singing, while somebody near you sings and the light from them spills onto you. Thus all eyes are near you, so you must remain still, but the simple pressure of being still makes you notice every single twitch of your finger or shift of your weight or swallow until you go insane.


My solution? Make shadow puppets on the curtain.


Not birds or chipmunks or bunnies though, don't be stupid. Everybody will see that and that would be even more awkward than them just noticing that you're incapable of keeping your eyes open for more than 0.5 seconds. Little stuff.


My personal favorite is the Lego hand. You smush your fingers real close together, and widen the curve between your fingers and your thumb until it's well on its way to becoming a circle. Angle it just right, and your shadow will look just like a tiny plastic figurine. Well, at least your hands will.


Then take your other hand and smush its fingers real close, but make the gap between them and your thumb thin and long, like a pipe could rest between them. Ta-da! Barbie.


Then hold your Lego hand up like you're holding a pizza to throw at the Brickster, and your Barbie hand slightly tilted like you're trying to hold one of those stupid plastic props with a little handle on the side that they always gave you in order to make it stay in their hand, but that always fell out as soon as you weren't looking.


Magic. Your awkward standing time will be over before you know it.


And yes, I guess that wasn't exactly about robots. Though technically you are impersonating an animated piece of plastic, so it counts, right?


If anyone starts heckling you about it, just pick out the spy in the room and that conversation will be as good as done.


You are welcome.

Time to Suit Up

Last night, I spent the hours of 7 to 2 watching Ryan Gosling films. What does that mean? Does it mean that I now have an irrepressible crush on Ryan Gosling? Does it mean that I finally went to sleep in the mere hopes that my dreams would be filled with his face? Yes and yes. But does it also mean that I now hold a secret to the universe? Double yes.


At this point I would like to advise you to sit down if you are a man, because this news may cause you to embark on deep processes of thought, and not all of you are necessarily capable of doing so without focusing all of your energies on your brain. And if you're a woman, well, here:

Now stare at that and try not to drool on yourself.

Allow me to start with an undeniable statement:

Ryan Gosling is always classy.

How does he do it? It's not like the characters he chooses are always the nice guys. Proof: a corrupt politician in The Ides of March, an arrogant lawyer in Fracture, a psychotic man who beats his wife and kills his dog in All Good Things. Yet despite all this, the only time I find myself not cheering for him is when he has a bad '70s haircut and glasses half the size of his face.

Three movies in a row, three different personae, three different attitudes. One high degree of classy.

And I think I've figured out his secret. Or, you know, the secret of the people who dress him for his movies.

Step one to being classy: Always suit up. Neil Patrick Harris could tell you that. It says not only that you have money and therefore are good at something, even if it is just convincing people to pay you for things you didn't really do, but it also says that you have good style. And style, my friends, is classy.

Step two to being classy: Even when you don't suit up, still dress stylishly. He can wear a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt and still look just as classy as he did when he was suited up. Jeans that fit but not too tight, a nice but inconspicuous belt, and a shirt that shows off your arms. That's the way to go, guys.

Step three isn't really a part of being classy as much as just generally being attractive, but sexiness always works to the advantage of classiness: Work out. Look nice. It's worth it.

And step four to being classy: You can be as arrogant, corrupt, conceited, egotistical, and cocky as you want, but when there comes a time to make a true decision between right and wrong, stand with your convictions and go for what's right. It turns a walking mannequin into a real person, amping up the class to such levels that you can actually ask a girl if she's from Tennessee and still manage to go home with her.

These are his secrets. I know, because I asked him. In my dreams.

Sorry to say, though, I don't think the Tennessee line will actually work, no matter how classy you are.

Why don't you try it out and get back to me on that.

Credit for the photo to www.feministryangosling.com Did you like it? Of course you did. Check out the site for more fantastic shit.

Was I Not Supposed To Touch That?

Among theatre people, normal societal rules tend to dissolve and make room for interactions that are generally not spoken of in polite company.

But first, the term "theatre people" should be clarified. There are many who may call themselves theatre people because they enjoy watching shows, and make a five-star audience member. But this generalization does not include those ninnies, who more often than not watch so that they can make broad statements and seemingly acute judgments about people based on a talent that they have never truly experienced, and therefore know nothing about.

No offense, ninnies. Keep coming to our shows. Without ninnies, we have no audiences.

However, for the purpose of this generalization, we shall say that "theatre people" are only those who actively participate in the art of theatre, and therefore are subject to all of the habitual antics of the backstage and sidestage and onstage areas.

We don't have boundaries.

Putting on your bloomers in a room of crowded people, trying to fit as many small children as you can under your hoop skirt, and undressing each other in the hallway because you're bored and it sounds like fun are all perfectly acceptable, and by and large entertaining things to do.

(See what I mean about not talking about these interactions in polite company?) 

But while we are perfectly comfortable making pillows out of the people around us, it is a generally unspoken  rule that if what your hand comes in contact with is not something that you would ever see or ever want to see unclothed, the flimsy boundaries that have been heretofore so transparently constructed will snap like a cheap piece of knock-off Scotch tape and it will not be pleasant.

That being said, when an actress changes outfits in the hallway on more than one occasion and has a helper each time, she should not, under any circumstances, wear a thong.

You need to put on a wedding dress? Great. My hands are trained to touch the fabric and the zipper of that dress, nothing else. My knuckle brushes your back? Whatever. Shit happens. I can't get the zipper to close and I accidentally zip up your skin? Who cares, it will stop bleeding eventually, and unless you're a hemophiliac you'll be fine. My finger touches your bare ass? THE FUCK. NOT OKAY.

I mean, come on. A hallway is a public place, with the potential for just about anyone to see you there. Could be a girl, could be a guy, could be a customer, could be a creepy homeless man who came from the halfway house down the street so he could "use the phone." Who knows? And unless you really want the hobo from the corner of 1st Street seeing your butt, I suggest you cover those sweet cheeks up pronto.

There is a long list of things that theatre people will do that probably should be unnerving but come as naturally to us as dropping a baby. Touching your ass cheeks? 

Not one of them.

I'm Such a Delinquent

Sometimes people get the wrong impression about me.

Okay, lots of times. 

Like this one chick during Scrooge who actually told my friend and I that she never wanted her daughter to be a teenager, because she was afraid she would end up like us.

OH, RIGHT. Because we're horrible people. I forgot.

We don't drink, smoke, or party. We don't hook up with random guys, and we dress classy. Oh yeah, and we're awesome.


But yeah, I would be afraid of having a daughter like me too...?

Oh, and did I mention that I spent today coloring pictures of My Little Ponies with crayons, taking my dog for an extra walk so I could soak up some sunshine, and cleaning my garage... just because I could.

I dont think I'm the kind of teenager she needs to be worried about.

Sorry, Darwin. No Dice

Some people are bestowed with the gift of sparkling wit and intelligent conversation.

Alex and I aren't.

But our facebook chats still kick some serious ass, so I figured I would share one such chat with you.

Me: The embarrassing moment when you're scrolling through your tumblr dash and accidentally drool on your keyboard...

Me: I mean what I didn't do that.

Alex: You're such an intriguing specimen.

Me: I should let scientists study my habits to determine if evolution actually happened.

I'm guessing not...

Peer Acquaintances Forever

There comes a point in every peer relationship where I feel the need to point out that, though it may sometimes seem like it, we're not actually friends.

Usually such times occur when the person checks on my well-being, or asks how my weekend was, or some other unnecessarily personal comment that reeks of a lingering hint of concern.

It's adorable.

In a strictly "aww, you're so naive" kind of way.

I have to strongly fight the urge to pat them on their cute, presumably fluffy little head like you would a puppy who just tried to eat a hair tie.

For instance, a couple days ago in choir. A guy who for all intensive purposes we will heretofore refer to as Moob-Man broke one of those "peer acquaintance only" boundaries.

But first, let me preface the situation.

A few nights before, I played Halo with a bunch of guys at one of my friend's houses. I didn't want to go because I thought I would suck, he took the bullet and played on my team because we were already acquainted with each other through theatre and choir, and then I ended up kicking everybody's asses.

Well, not everybody. But not the point. The point is at the end of the night, I definitely fought the head-patting urge.

Back to choir.

I sit down with my drum, he sits down with his drum, I'm planning on sitting in social silence until the director stops arguing with the loud, talkative girl. He decides this would be the opportune moment to ask "So hey, how was the rest of your weekend?"

...

Dawww.

I'm sorry, this is the time for an etiquette intervention. We're not actually friends. Thanks for playing, though!

This is me we're talking about. If I want to be your friend, I'll be your friend. If I haven't talked to you except when trying to avoid an awkward situation by striking up conversation with the person nearest me, that most likely means you will be stuck as a peer acquaintance forever.

Sorry, bud.

That was a mere head-patting example, but there are, however, those who I actually do want to take by the shoulders and speak those exact words to them in my most patient, pitiful voice so that maybe, one day, they can understand.

We're not friends. We... are not friends. Nope. Not us. Me and you, we're just... well, we're not friends. Get it? We're not friends.

My most awkward tutoring student ever decided to tell me as I left into the gale force winds yesterday to "be careful out there, you might blow away."

Umm...what.


Buddy, buddy, buddy... not friends. I tutor you. That's it.


And you're bad at it to boot.

Trop mal, mon petit ami.

Please don't name your stuffed animals after me.