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.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
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.”
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
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:
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.
Yep, looks awesome, I know, andplease 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 ofwine 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.
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
- Midnight in Paris
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
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
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.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
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 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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
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.
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.
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.
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