Filed under: Uncategorized
For some reason, I’m immensely satisfied with the way “To Kill A Mockingbird” turns out. I loved it. The line, “I never saw him again,” depresses me a great deal. It always happens with the great books I read, though. I get depressed when they’re done.
Boo Radley, though, I miss the most, even if he was such a hidden character, even if he only spoke a single line in the whole novel. If I wasn’t at school when I finished it, I would have cried.
By the way, I must have some type of math dyslexia. I actually got an 1860 on my SATs, just like Divya, so I really didn’t suck at them like I thought I did. I’m relieved. For comparison purposes, I’ll leave you with my scores, since I now know there’s nothing to be ashamed of, having my SAT scores 40 points lower than my PSAT scores.
Critical Reading –> 640 (87th percentile)
Math –> 600 (74th percentile)
Writing –> 620 (85th percentile)
On the multiple choice, I got a 63, and on my essay I only got an 8 (and THAT, I am VERY ashamed of).
Filed under: Uncategorized
I blame my parents.
Not really. Except that they gave me lots of stress on the actual test day, right before the test. I was hoping for at least a 1900, like I got on my PSATs, but instead I’m crying over an 1820 (1240 on a 1600 scale, so I beat Dubbya). Some people would kill to be me, but I’m dying to be someone else. I could get into JMU in a snap, if that was my choice school. But no. I have to shoot high, for Oberlin and Kenyon. In Ohio. What the fuck is so special about Ohio, anyway?
Oh, ya, it’s for lovers.
I’m swear I’m totally just kidding.
EDIT:: I realize that by saying, “so I beat Dubbya,” it seemed like I was saying Divya in a slurred manner; I actually meant George W. Bush. Divya scored higher than me. =]
Filed under: Uncategorized
Today, I thought my history teacher called me Conny and I got scared. He actually said, “I got it,” and I couldn’t hear him.
Let’s talk about Diana. She’s a whiny asswipe. Let’s talk about Jenny. She treats me like I’m two years old when I try to make an effort. She actually changes her tone of voice as though she’s talking to someone stupid or significantly younger than herself when she talks to me. I guess some people find me strange, since I normally can’t hear when people are talking to me, but I always overhear things. It’s almost like eavesdropping, but I can’t help it. I want to be in conversations that I’m never in. And I despise helping people with chemistry and with math. I suck at that side of the brain, but I still get good enough grades, and then everyone thinks I’m some fucking brainiac tutor or something–I’m not. I just have a slightly higher IQ and I went to Moody, which gave me life skills. I’m also academically independent, meaning I don’t ask for help and nobody should ask me for help (unless it’s with French or English).
Filed under: School
If I went to Kenyon, I’d be able to see people like Maria Taylor and Headlights play ALL THE TIME at my college. So now, it’s Oberlin and Kenyon and who knows where else.
By the way, I have a friend on MySpace named Michelle, and her hair is as amazing as/more amazing than Erin Fein’s. They both have swooping bangs. I envy that and attempt it every morning, and only accomplish my goal 1/5 or 2/5 of the times I attempt it.
Let me outline this post. First, I’ll write about music, like Maria Taylor and The Blow and Bright Eyes and The Arcade Fire. I’d also like to throw in there that I love Arizona, but that I won’t write about them today. A good portion of this entry is thanks to All Things Go, but some of it isn’t. Once I’m done writing about all this fantastic music, I’m going to write about what’s been happening with me. Mmmkay.
Maria Taylor’s debut album, 11:11 was incredible and intimate. I wolfed down all those pulchritudinous lyrics and imbibed her delicate and angelic voice. My ears were pleasantly surprised that Saddle Creek was able to produce something so ambrosial, and that it would be projected from this reservedly ravishing Alabama girl from Azure Ray and Now It’s Overhead. Granted, it wasn’t and still isn’t an album that I could listen to absolutely any time of the day; I had to be in the mood. And my favourite songs from the CD weren’t as solid as those from, say, Lifted by Bright Eyes or any of the Rilo Kiley albums. But it was more than a good start. It was enough to make me buy the album on first sight, which is rare for my financially conservative self (despite the fact that last weekend, I had a vagary to buy almost $10 worth of candy that I didn’t even want a few hours later). It was money well spent (11:11, not the candy). On March 7th, though, her sophomore album, Lynn Teeter Flower, was released to the waiting world. Normally, a sophomore album or a sequel or a second season determines whether or not the band or the book or movie series or the television show will continue, or for how long. Granted, “The Land Before Time” and, much to my dismay, “Shrek” didn’t listen to that rule (I think their sequels are ruining the original for me), but it generally works. I’ll admit that I haven’t bought this album yet, and thus I can’t give a full analysis of it, but her sound is heavier with less of a backing from harmonies, and she’s got more synth, more drums, more passion in her voice. I’m especially obsessed with “A Good Start.” So basically? I think that Maria Taylor’s a veteran who’s going to be around for a long, long time.
I’m going to skip over The Blow for about two seconds and discuss two other bands. First, Bright Eyes. I was originally despondent that Conor Oberst let his short mop of hair grow out into a long mop of hair, although he is now growing up. I guess they you grow up, girls realize that they don’t have to have long hair and guys realize that they don’t have to have short hair. There’s one senior at my school who keeps her hair shorter than most guys’, but it accentuates her heart-shaped face and her glowing, orb-like blue eyes and her ivory skin and radiant blond hair, and it makes her look more feminine, elegant, classy, and alluring than even the longest-haired, tannest, darkest-haired girl at this school. I could consider her my role model, but then, I’ve decided that I can’t have my hair that short unless I lose maybe 30 pounds. I also could not pull off blond hair and (trust me) I’ve tried hard to get my skin to be fair, but it takes to tan too well. Oh, and my eyes are hazel, which isn’t something I could change with peroxide or diet and exercise or sun exposure. So I’ve just settled for buying most of my clothes from Delia’s and H&M, which I would have done regardless, and it’s not like she acquires all her apparel there anyway. Back to Bright Eyes–March 7th, their Four Winds EP was released to the ravenous planet. This is another one that I can’t completely recapitulate, because neither Best Buy nor Barnes & Noble had it in stock (yes, I was even willing to overpay for it), but I’ve heard several songs off of it. I can say with absolute confidence that the song “Four Winds” makes the purchase worth it. Now, yes, it electrocuted the pants off me that Conor Oberst did not have a tremble to his voice, and that there was not even a hint of depression or angst or alcohol abuse in the voice or in the lyrics (so far as I’ve heard). I was a tad resentful at first–why would he sell out? Isn’t this the Conor Oberst who doesn’t WANT to sell out? But he’s growing up (he’s 27 now and he probably doesn’t want to be killed by the Curse), altering his image, and maybe the rest of the world will test him out now. He’s released what–5 LPs and countless EPs with Bright Eyes alone since 1995, and multitudes more with Park Ave and Commander Venus! It’s about time the world started listening instead of just hearing. Maybe he’ll get a few positive reviews this time.
I’m not gonna lie–I loved Funeral. It was an anytime album for any song at all. I discovered something new every time I listened. I was afraid Neon Bible couldn’t match up, but after I heard two singles, “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations” and “Black Mirror,” I was assured that it might even outdo the debut. On March 7th, Neon Bible was unleashed, too (despite the fact that several weeks prior, the whole album had leaked). I bought the album and then kneeled outside of Circuit City on the concrete and tore the plastic wrap off the case to let it breathe. I stayed up late at night listening, searching for hidden meanings. But to be honest, on the first and even second listen, Neon Bible disappointed me. I like hearing things new instead of three years later, but this kind of sucked. The rhymes and lyrics lacked substance and sometimes didn’t even make sense. I became glum. But I pulled my britches up higher and gave it a final opportunity to impress because I knew there had to be something else to this shiny disc. And I was right. Soon, Neon Bible was all I could listen to. There seem to be direct references to America sucking, and certain Americans sucking, and MTV sucking. This made me overjoyed and then doleful in such a rush. I agree with them, but it’s weird seeing this aloof band that dwells in a realm all their own preaching to me about all these affairs they aren’t even supposed to be aware of. I’m such a wannabe Canadian and a wannabe European, but I’m not old enough to quench my yearning. I suppose I’m a lot like Win, who’s Texas-born but married a Haitian goddess and lives in Canada. Win Butler is almost 27 himself (April 14th). It’s odd to find that two men so unrelated–Conor Oberst and Win Butler–are the same age and at such a risk of a Curse, but they’re only ten years older than me, both of them. When I see them and hear them now, I think of someone so much older, someone at least 30. But they’re Herce’s age, maybe a little younger. Like a few centuries younger. Or, well, a year younger.
Speaking of which, I miss Herce. David Herce, Dave Herce, dentist, percussionist, precussion instructor at Deep Run, Thomas Dale, whatever, I’m trying to make it easy for him to Google himself in the event that he decides to be a little/quite narcissistic (ab or rib?), WE MISS YOU. Or I do. But really, we do.
Now I have to, have to, haaaave to talk about The Blow at the risk of…death. I heard then on a few people’s MySpace profiles and fell in love on the spot each time. They’ve got this simple sound that’s too good to pass up. Like…”True Affection” has this elastic “Laffy Taffy” beat but this white girl, Khaela Maricich comes in with this cute song about love, and her voice has this pure affection that can’t be matched by anyone. It’s not like Amy Millan’s affection, though–it’s a rough and raw affection. And “when you’re holding me, we make a pair of parentheses” proves that they have cute lyrics, too. But the adjective “cute” doesn’t just bubble to the surface automatically when one ponders on the band. In theory, they’re not cute. But there’s not really a word for The Blow’s sound. They just are. Actually, I’m not even sure that they are. That they exist, I mean. The Blow is simply too fantastic.
Now to real life. Tuesday, I experienced utter relief at a confessional. For some reason, writing my story doesn’t always help the most. I never realized how much moving would affect me or the people I love who live here until I had to narrate my feelings. I just thought of the positives–that I’d be the smartest kid in my grade, that I’d be new and fresh and people might like me. I’d get a new start. And I’d still be able to see Derek every weekend. I’ll be able to drive by the time we move. But that’s not really the whole story; you have to look at both sides, something that I’m always capable of, but for some reason, this time, I was blocking out the cons in favour of the pros. I want to travel the world, so moving would be good, and I didn’t tell anyone that because I knew they’d think I didn’t love them anymore. The only visible negatives before Tuesday were that I wouldn’t live near my friends and that I have social phobia. And it would put a definite strain on me and Derek and what with Prachi and Drew and everyone else whispering in my ear, “It’s not going to work,” or, “Long-distance relationships are stupid,” I didn’t feel any better about it. I mean, I always thought they were dumb, too, but then, at that point, I never thought I’d have one, much less that I’d have a boyfriend, period, to make me have to worry about things like that. But otherwise, not much to worry about.
My house is almost done now, though; my parents are getting a new shower door today, the driveway’s sealed, the new lightswitch covers are in place, the photographs are off my doors and off my walls, things are gradually and stealthily coming out of the attic, being sold or kept in new places. When I said, “Maybe I should leave,” it was in sarcasm. When I was asked, “Where?” I figured that was also in sarcasm. And so I answered, “To Piñata Island, so you can go to rehab.” But I didn’t realize that it was real until an awkward silence hit and I couldn’t find a face; it shifted out of view every time I tried to locate it. I had my suspicions, since I’ve found myself sheltering my eyes from the cruel world time and time again; nobody could make fun of me if they didn’t see my emotions. But this was something else entirely. This was maybe fear and agony; I doubt I’ll ever know. But it changed my views.
Maybe I want to travel the world because nobody in these new places will know me. They’ll think I’m snazzy and new and they’ll be deceived. I think I could get over my social phobia that way. And my family won’t be around to remind me of who I was and who I’m supposed to be.
But moving isn’t the best thing because I’ve been reminded and it’s been certified that there are some people here who I care about more than I do about the world or about travelling or about French. And there may be people like that all over the world, but I don’t want replacements for the originals.
By the way, Erika is wearing a shirt today with Prince naked on it, and I am making Mock Apple Pie on Sunday to bring in for my band class on Monday.
After all the unfocusedness at Festival yesterday, and all the feeling sick of playing “When Angels Weep,” “Havendance,” and “The Invincible Eagle” (the third of which we’ve been playing literally all year), we swept the judges away with straight Superiors. That’s right, we’re still a Virginia Honour Band. Had the chorus stepped it up and gotten Superiors instead of Excellents, we would have earned the title of Blue Ribbon School of Music. At least we keep our end of the bargain high, along with strings/orchestra and symphonic band. I feel bad for saying all that, but we did it and they didn’t and it’s as simple as that.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I want a job. I need a job. I know I need a job. I need money. Derek tells me I need a job. So I need a job.
Where does one such as myself work? I think I want to work at Borders, very much. I cannot work at Borders. Why not? I couldn’t bring myself to ask for a job application. why not? I have an ingrained fear that the workers will laugh at me because I’m so shy. “She thinks she has a chance getting a job here?! HA!” They’ll laugh in my face. They’ll refuse my request. And even if I get the courage to turn in the application, they’ll know how phobic and incompetent I am, even if I’m the hardest worker alive. And they’ll refuse me, and I’ll be humiliated.
I’ll be stuck at Food Lion (if I get the courage), I suppose, stocking shelves, scanning items, perpetually cold, and everyone will think I’m alright with minimum wage, that I’m too lazy to get a better job, maybe that I’m not smart, but I’ll be the only one who knows my PSAT (and eventually SAT) scores and my full potential. How will I survive college and where would I be without Derek?
Probably not here.
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Let me just say that emo kids bug me as much as they bug the next person, and scene kids bug me more than they bug next person.
Emo kids. Let me say this to you. I know. Okay? You’re defensive and insecure, and you have the right to self-expression. I know. You listen to the likes of MCR and at least at one point listened to and liked Hawthorne Heights. They “got” it. You cry when you hear Chris Carraba’s voice, or at least want to (your brain gets a little teary, maybe). You’ve tried to listen to the likes of Sunny Day Real Estate and the Rights of Spring and the Promise Ring because other kids told you that they are real emo. There’s a 98% chance you didn’t like them because they’re so raw. If you shun MCR and Hawthorne Heights and prefer the likes of Bright Eyes and Elliott Smith, I can promise you that you’ve got quite a future (and that it’s okay to secretly listen to Dashboard sometimes and like one song each of MCR and HH). There’s a good chance that you don’t cut yourself, because emo kids aren’t typically cutters, despite the stereotypes. You like eyeliner and play Emo Game, because both make you seem cool. And Emo Game does actually teach you a good deal about politics and about musical history (I still play it). You’re probably dying for EG3, but it also depresses you that it’s unlikely that it’s going to come out, ever. Some of you wish you could dye your hair black, but your mom won’t let you. And you secretly want a scene haircut, but again, your mom won’t let you. Life sucks, you’re always unhappy, and you just want to grow up. But you want to be a skinny grown-up, and you like painfully skinny boys or damn skinny girls, but it doesn’t really matter how skinny you are. You’re pretty sure you’ll be emo your whole life. Maybe once in a while you do something crazy or incredibly stupid, and you’re quite naive, but you know your boundaries, mostly. Leave the really crazy stuff to the scene kids. You might drink occasionally. You like Pokemon a lot. You have a colourful/dark MySpace layout that you designed youself, and you’re in denial that it’s tacky. You might be using this as an evaluation of how emo you are, and I’d advise you to stop–you already get enough of that from all those Quizilla quizzes you take when you’re bored (don’t wanna OD). You claim to hate attention, but you secretly want people to look at you. And you want to be different more than anything else, and you think you are different, particularly if you go to my school. You see “preps,” and you hate them and think they’re narrow-minded and just stupid and that you must have nothing in common.
Look, I understand. That’s who I used to be. And I used to get so pissed off whenever someone said they hated emo kids. My personal stance on things has always been “live and let live.” If an emo kid hasn’t done anything to me, why, then, am I ragging on emo kids? Well, you’re not presenting your full self when you’re emo. You’re displaying one half of your emotions–all the anger, sadness, and maybe an evil sense of humour. You’re one half of a person, and humans were designed to be whole. Or to find themselves. And I’m not talking about people who are clinically depressed or, you know…who recently had a tragedy occur about their life. And I’m certainly not talking about the social phobes. I’m talking about the people who are afraid to be themselves, but who point that finger of accusation at other people.
As for people who nag emo kids without having been there–you have no right. I hate people who throw around the word “emo” whenever someone’s absorbed in something or unwilling to communicate. Emo kids, you’ll find yourselves soon.
As for those I mentioned who listen to Elliott Smith and Bright Eyes…you’re a little uncertain, not too inclined towards red and black–more towards a tinted red and a grey…maybe a little less Hot Topic and a little more…anywhere else. You’re on the path I chose. Congratulations, you’re a budding indie kid, and I’d take you under my wing any day. Back to the days of lacking a MySpace layout, accepting your body no matter how fat you are or how crooked your eyebrows are or how dead you look today, feeling compassion, realizing life is alright, finding music that makes you happy as opposed to sad (confession: the first time I listened to Bright Eyes, it was “Lifted,” and I bawled, but from there on out, it made me happy), and gaining a variety of friends from different social groups who love you. Your mind will open, and you’ll be ashamed of what you once were, and you’ll regret how wrong you were when you fought out against AlexKill (even if you did gain a high level of respect for him and find someone who respected you back a great deal), but then you’ll realize that if you can change the mind of and/or appeal to one misinformed soul…all that will have been worth it. I’m not sure why I wrote this, and I know a lot of people will lose respect for me for stooping down to that “bashing emo kids” blog that everyone (probably including Maddox) has, but I felt like I had to.
Andrew Bird is nostalgia.
Derek introduced me to a song in a JC Penney commercial yesterday, somewhat indirectly. It turned out to be by what we thought was a band called “Forever Thursday.” (Turns out Forever Thursday is a music ad company for JC Penney, and that song was first.) The song sounded like something the likes of Regina Spektor, Fiona Apple, and maybe even Cat Power would concoct. Instead, we found that it was a little Australian songbird named Melanie Horsnell. She’s a whimsical redhead with an old-fashioned sound, and I can’t help but think of Jenny Lewis a little bit. Generally, I don’t–she doesn’t look or sound a thing like Jenny–but there’s something about her virtual presence that makes me feel happy and warm and loved. I went to her actual Myspace, and I found pop songs reminiscent of the 60s, which may be where nostalgia came from. Her voice floats easily off the words, and her cute little accent shows through the universal language of music just a little. Did you ever notice that it’s hard to distinguish an English-speaking person’s place of origin when they’re singing? I find that fascinating.
I’ve also recently re-fallen for Regina Spektor. As crappy and mainstream as this sounds, her video for “Fidelity” touches me. Perhaps it’s just the overall sound of the song, and the string orchestra but the upbeat sound all in one, and the lyrics of “what if?” And maybe it’s the video added to that, with metaphors and supposed loneliness, until she breaks her heart and her lips turn red and her man becomes human. Well, I love it and the way it makes me feel.
EDIT:: A commenter, Radiosfx, added this actual tidbit about Forever Thursday:
What a nice comment about Melanie. Just for the record “Forever Thursday” is actually Melanie Horsnell (voice) and Elliot Wheeler (songwriter and producer). They wrote and recorded the song “How can it be” and J C Penney picked it up for their Spring Campaign. You can hear the full song and leave comments at
http://www.myspace.com/foreverthursdaymusic
So Forever Thursday isn’t an ad company for JC Penney as I’d picked up. It’s a band, an actual real live band. And with such a promising first song, I can’t imagine the magical tales they’ll weave in the future. Sorry for any confusion.
Filed under: Music
Neon Bible is tomorrow. I want to read the novel that the title is based on. I can’t concentrate. I don’t have money to buy it, and I won’t be able to buy it tomorrow, but I want to. I know it’s already leaked. And I don’t care. I’m going to buy it.
I feel the way about the Arcade Fire as Ashleigh from “Miss Misery” does about Brand New.
“But when Brand New came on I stopped worrying about what anyone else was thinking and just felt the music. It started in my ears but, like, MELTED into my sternum, into my waist, until I could feel every chorus in the bottom of my feet. …I’ve listened to their albums approximately 1000 times in the last few months alone, but I felt like I was hearing every lyric, every note like it was – oh god bad pun – brand new.”
And then there’s the way she describes Jimmy Eat World, and David Gould’s realization about the song Ashleigh had him listen to.
“They’re a lot better than OK.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they, like, get it. You know? There aren’t that many bands that do.”
I thought about that for a while, about the bands I loved and whether I would ever give “getting it” as a reason for allowing their songs to jam themselves in my head as the soundtrack for my increasingly convoluted life. I didn’t think that I would. I tended to let my life dictate my music, not the other way around. And ever since I had started writing about records professionally, I tended to listen exclusively to new releases. Despite the giant bookshelves of CDs in my apartment, the only ones that had gotten play in the last few desperate months had been recent discoveries, advance copies, and pirated downloads. I craved the freshness more than the message. The songs I had on my iPod kept me company, but they didn’t keep me going.
“Here.” Ashleigh lifted her headphones over my head like she was knighting me. “See what you think.”
…Then the chorus hit me like a brass-knuckled punch to the heart, and my throat went dry and I closed my eyes. It was technicolor and it was big and it was shameless. …I had to get outside of myself to really hear it, really hear it.
…”Did you like it?”
“I liked it,” I said. “You were right. They get it.”
Ashleigh grinned. “I told you.”
“Yeah, I just didn’t listen.”
Really, I’m telling you to read that book. Not only does it have mounds of indie and emo references, but it’s a lesson well learned, not overdone, captivating, young…And it wrenched your heart at the end when David has to choose between, well, Cath, Miss Misery, and Amy. I wish there was more. I wish I could know more about Amy. Andy Greenwald did good, though, in literary ways, anyway, in leaving so much mystery and ending the book in such a manner.
But that wasn’t my point. When someone asks me about the music I listen to, the first thing that pours out of my mouth is something to do with the Arcade Fire. And when it does come out, a look of unfamiliarity crawls slowly over most people’s faces, and it’s a bittersweet feeling. I have the secret all to myself, and if they start listening, then I changed their lives. I feel satisfaction at not blending in with my school’s mainstream. And I feel pride in loving such an indisputably excellent band. What’s not fair is that they’re inaccessible, and some people’s eyes haven’t been opened. It frustrates me when people don’t see the brilliance put into making their music. The painstaking. The variety. The lyrics. For me, the Arcade Fire is an experience. And maybe you have to adapt a little, because they’re new (or at least a little New Wave). But if you adjust enough, you will know, and you’ll feel that pride when you can sing along with the mourning that is “Funeral” (even though it’s relatively cheery). (BASS PLAYER LOOKS MORE LIKE NAPOLEON DYNAMITE EVERY DAY)
And so, like Ashleigh does at the Brand New show, every time I hear an Arcade Fire chanson building up, my own adrenaline builds, and new tears form in my eyes, and I don’t know if it’s of Win’s frustration, or joy at the hopeful tone of the song, or just a feeling of impending doom, but these tears won’t pour out. And I can’t stop tapping and it takes a lot to restrain myself from humming along. They’re brilliant masterpieces, and I can’t convey it, and I want everyone to hear, because I’m so proud for them.
This kind of leads me to talk about the bones of Jesus and of his family. I’m going to be honest. Maybe this whole situation has made me more open-minded than I would have supposed I am, to the point of being on the verge of agnosticism. This means that I’m all ears. I’m not going to argue whether or not they really are his bones. Statistics show that there’s only one chance in many that they aren’t his family’s bones. I do not think that Christians should be involved in uncovering this mystery, because they’re so damn biased, and they don’t want the roots of their religion to be dug up because it’s such a lucrative and widespread religion. If they come down to be his bones, then we’re all fucked. And my religious equilibrium will be seriously fucked. It’s starting to get fucked now, actually.
See, if this is the truth, if they can prove it, then to me, that means that all religion is folklore. Someone once brought up the point to me that suppose the Bible is one great story that someone actually took seriously, created a fanbase around, and then started a great religious following around it? Suppose it wasn’t meant to be like this. Well, supposing this is true, that’s what all religions are to me. And maybe other Catholics and Christians will accuse me of being one of those “doubters,” such a scornful word, but at least then I won’t be tied down by lies created by a fanatical fanbase.
And it’s really horrible that I’m afraid of freaking out people because of my hunger for answers because I think they will think I’m the Catholic Avenger ready to swoop down on them and bat them with the New Testament. I’m not the Catholic Avenger. I’m not fanatical, and I should probably be ashamed rather than relieved.
Anyhow, this sounds like I’m on the verge of atheism. Au contraire, I am one of those people who lives in fear. Fear of death. Fear of letting go. Fear of life after death. I want there to be something for me after life, where I can see everyone I loved. I want that…so badly. It’s a painful yearning that constricts me. It’s depressing to think that maybe this existence is heaven. That maybe living under the authority of others, being anxious, maybe it’s all just the gift of life, and maybe there is no reward for getting through to the end of the maze. Maybe there isn’t anything after this. And that idea is awfully depressing.
I’ll never know. While you’re alive, you’ll never know. But suicides (I’m speaking rather pointedly to Elliott Smith, unless it was murder as is speculated by some hardcore followers) would be in vain, and all my pre-established possible beliefs in reincarnation would crumble. And existence would be pointless. But the meaning in my life, I suppose, is to get over anxiety and fear.
By the way, Win Butler got a haircut and, thanks to Erika, I now know that Conor Oberst didn’t, which gives him an eerie resemblance to Win Butler. It’s a look that I guess works on Win but doesn’t on Conor.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I got humongous sunglasses at H&M yesterday for $6.90, $7.25 with tax. They are for driving. They make my face look retro-queer. I love them. You probably don’t because they’re obnoxious and HUGE and they are in–or at least they were in yesteryear, or the summer of 2006.
I know this is completely illegal (well, by school rules) and could get me in a good deal of trouble, but I managed to get Pokemon Emerald on my school laptop. Pokemon is one of those games that, no matter what version, I love it. And I’m addicted to it.
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I am not a morning person. I am an afternoon/evening person. I hate talking on the bus, because car rides have always made me tired, because driving was always such a prominent part of my life as a child. It was soothing. But at the same time, I grew into this paranoia that some other car was going to hit ours and kill me or my family. And I don’t want to die talking about how awful my day was, or having any juvenile conversations on the bus with juvenile people, most of whom I’ll forget in about in two years. I’d prefer to die listening to music, or with someone I love, or by myself. That’s all probably why I’m a bad driver. I’m such a hopeless romantic sometimes.
I’m actually not as terrible at driving as I say I am, but I am a teenager, and my mother gets aggravated at teen drivers, and I hate it when teenagers say they’re good drivers, because they don’t have the experience that more mature drivers have. Madame Chassagne says, “I’ve been learning to drive my whole life.” This is true for me, from the back seat. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve saved my mom from many an accident by telling her about a vehicle whose blind spot we were in that was moving in on our lane. But learning to drive my whole life doesn’t mean I’m a good driver. I have lots of anxiety when I’m driving.
The more I go to school and the closer I come to graduating, the less I want to be there. I always think that my aversion can’t get any more intense, and then another day comes along, and I’m dying. I want to get out in the world, and meet new people, but I’m afraid of people. And I look forward to moving, but for the fact that I know there are some people I could never find a replacement for, and I know that these people could easily find a replacement for me.
I’m so sick of white lies and expected compliments and just the predictability of almost everyone in my life. There are only about four people who I don’t get sick of. I hate people taking me too seriously, I hate people not taking me for the young adult that I am, I hate the wrong people trying to comfort me, I hate my classes, all of them. I see people who I could be friends with, and then when it comes down to it, there are some individuals who bar my way from getting to them. I look forward to ten spread-out minutes on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the possibility of two minutes at lunch or unexpected run-ins on Wednesdays and Fridays. I hate the walk from 4th to 5th especially because it’s lonely, slow, and awkward. I hate the walk to 6th. I hate the walk from 6th to the bus ramp. I hate students who are stuck in the 90s, as rude as that sounds, because really…80s flashbacks are okay, 70s and earlier are amazing, but the 90s were the most disgusting, cultureless times of our lives, with an abundance of mom pants, fanny packs, socks above the ankle, fuzzballs for hair (I always had sleek hair, tyvm), boy bands…I could go on, but I will not. I sometimes feel like giving people culture makeovers.
Bleh.
