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.