Archive | adventures RSS feed for this section


31 Dec

“The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting.”

– Andy Warhol

So the year ends soon. It seems as I get older, years go by faster, but weeks and days go by slower, if that makes any sense. It feels as if time moves at weird paces; as if days move slower when you see what they contain or what they lack, and that years go by faster when you press play on all of the things that were recorded as time passed. We all know my fascination and obsession with the concept of time, so there is no need to dwell on that. I’ve looked back on the two posts I made on this blog about the new year, and I feel as if posting about it is a tradition for myself and for this blog.
In 2008, when I made this blog, I was naive (more naive than I am now) and I hadn’t lived as much. I had written a short entry about how my best friend and I became best friends after she lost her mom. I wrote about discovering Nerdfighters. In 2009, I posted the things I had become obsessed with, and when I remember writing that, I remember that I didn’t want to write about what was actually going on in my head and my life at that point in time. I was slowly but surely losing my best friend to her boyfriend, I didn’t have any other friends, and my dad was sick.
And now, here I am, writing a blog post about 2010. This year was one to remember, I guess, as are all my years. This year I became more invested in my online life; I realized that my friends online are closer to me than the ones I have in real life, and in some instances they are much better than my real life friends. I met a girl I often call my best friend, who I love and I never want out of my life. I found tumblr, which is one of the most intelligent and amazing communities I’ve ever been a part of. Even when tumblr has it’s bad times, which tend to be often, the community is still wonderful and the people I’ve met there are still incredible.
This year I was diagnosed with depression and GAD, and I was getting stress sick a lot. I still spend all of my weekends, for the most part, on the computer. This year I discovered the world of forensics and debate, something that I wish I had become involved in much earlier because I love it so much. I turned 16, and was spoiled by my parents, who I know love me more than anything. My mother got a job and my dad recovered, for the most part, from his illness, and things started to get better at home. I walked around for most of this year with the sinking feeling of emptiness or the heavy burden of guilt for putting people through the hell that is dealing with me.
This year I fell into like or love or lust or whatever the fuck it could possibly I called. I learned what it’s like to be wanted by someone and then have them pull away and then push back. I learned what it’s like to give yourself to someone for them to pull away and never push their way back in. I learned what a broken heart feels like. I learned that a broken heart is nothing I want, and nothing I ever want again.
This year I learned how to defend my opinions. I learned how to accept other people’s opinions even if I don’t agree with them. I learned how to listen to other people’s opinions and try to see their sides of things. I learned that something I want to be and something I am is accepting; of everyone, no matter what.
This year was rough in some places. There were times I wanted it to be the last year I ever lived through, but there were more times I wanted the exact opposite. The times that I succeeded, like when I placed second in debate, that made me want to keep going. The times I failed kept me going; the times I fell down made me realize I hated sitting on the ground because it was a pain in the ass. I learned a lot about myself this year, I learned a lot about how much I need to grow up and I learned that I have a lot more to learn and I need to stick around to learn it all.

Happy New Year, welcome 2011.


photo credit: (creative commons license) New Year’s Eve, 1956



random musings

5 Dec

I’ve always been the kind of person that hated people. Well, at least since I was about 13, I had a strong dislike for people and being around them. I didn’t like being in big groups, or even having anyone over or going to a friend’s house. I hated it. But now… now I’ve discovered that I don’t hate people. I want to be around people almost all the time. I want to be around the guy I am in serious like with, have him wrapped around me in more than just the physical sense. I want to be around my wonderful friends that write beautiful prose, or the ones that make beautiful films. I want to be around my friends who argue with me about silly things, or have long interesting discussions about what’s going on in the world. I want to be around the people who listen to music and get up to dance and sing. I love being around people who can carry on an intelligent or interesting or thought-provoking conversation. I love being able to walk around a college campus with some of my best friends, dressed well, and belting out A Very Potter Musical, while it snows. I love being able to hug someone or hold someone’s hand, whether they are a casual friend or a close friend or a boyfriend. I just… well…to quote Jenny Mellor;

“… I’m going to talk to people who know lots about lots.”



23 Aug

“I feel I’m stranded in the wrong time, where love is just a lyric in a children’s rhyme.”

-“Is It Any Wonder?” by Keane

What? What is this? Caitlyn, did you really blog TWO DAYS IN A ROW? Yes, curious high-pitched voice dwelling in my head, I am writing a blog and posting it after doing the same thing the night before.

Moving on, today was day two of the Ohio trip, and day one of college visits. We went to visit Oberlin College in, wait for it… Oberlin! We went through the town first, which was honestly a tad sparse, and sort of like the college town near where I live. But this is not the problem I though it to be. Apparently the college kids make things happen all the time, so there is rarely ever a dull moment. We went into admissions and I filled out a slip for something, they gave me a bit of information that I already had, but took so my parents could be informed/ content.

The part that made me weary about the whole “let’s apply to Oberlin” was the deal about being a creative writing major. To major in creative writing you need to take the 201 writing course. The catch? It’s by application only. When you’re a second semester freshman, you can apply for the course and if you get in and get a B+ or higher in the course, you can take the 300 level classes. But the creative writing major is a competitive field, and about 1/3 of applicants get in. Hearing this, my heart sank and I cried a little inside, but I tried my best to remain composed. I made a few jokes, asked some boring questions, argued like an idiot with the program coordinator (yeah, Caitlyn is SMART) but… then something weird happened.

The program coordinator said that most students have the problem about writing something other than the one or two genres they’re used to, which is what hurts most and causes many to fail out of or not get into the program. I, being the dumb ass I am, just said: “I will write ANYTHING. I mean, I’m not afraid to write badly; that’s all I know how to do.” Which she laughed at, said that she thought I was a smart, driven and funny kid, and that I should contact her if I have any questions, and then she handed me her card. This may not seem big, but it felt that way. I almost died.

Granted, I probably have no chance of getting into the writing program because I’m so SHIT at writing, but still. It was nice. Night!


the arctic hotel

22 Aug

“static silhouette somehow.”

– “Rome”- Phoenix

I am currently sitting in a room with textured white walls, boring paintings of roses in vases and outdated 90’s light fixtures. You guessed it; I’m in a hotel room. My mother has blasted the air conditioning to the “Alaska” setting, because Ohio weather does this weird thing where it stays hot at night. As this rather scatterbrained and unclear intro may have indicated, I am not home in my bedroom with the slight slant, surrounded by a wall of mountains in cold Upstate New York. I have traveled down to the flat (yes, the rumors are true. It’s flat, but then again, I live in a mountainous state) and warm, if a little stuffy, state of Ohio.

My parents and I hopped in the car and drove the seven hours to visit family and look at colleges for me. We just got back from having dinner at my father’s cousin’s house, and it was one of the most relaxing and laid back evenings I’ve ever had at a distant relative’s house. They spoiled us with yummy appetizers and sandwiches, and there were kids running around and everyone was just interesting and lively and down-to-earth. Once sufficiently full, we caught up about our respective crazy family members, i.e, my favorite uncle and favorite uncle’s crazy ex-wife. I was thrilled to see these people, and even more thrilled to hear that when they last saw me, at age 10 (blonde and blue-eyed), I was writing. I thought my writing phase began much later, and when I was told that I had been writing since then, even if it was just rhymes and stories about haunted houses… I don’t know. I feel like it renewed my faith in myself and my writing. I’m not going to keep exhausting myself with the “I’m a WRITER, I need to WRITE all the time” mantra.

Whoops, little rambly again, but you must be used to that by now. I lied on twitter, saying there was no blog today, I am working DILIGENTLY on a blog that will be well-written (in my opinion, and hopefully others’) and read through by several other people, considering the piece is rather… delicate. I am expressing an opinion I don’t think many will agree with, nor support, and I really hope that the negativity in the entry doesn’t cost me any friends. And if you would like to read it and give constructive criticism, or even your straight up opinion, say so in the comments or reply to me on twitter. I’m off to read The Hunger Games because it’s positively brilliant.



Here’s a short cheesy story.

“Something is wrong with me,” she said softly, her voice calculating and her eyes dull. Blonde hair swinging in her face as the fire crackled and cast a warm glow over her tanned skin.

“What?” I asked, trying for the life of me to figure out what could possibly be wrong with her.

“I’m hurting. It feels like my entire body hurts like it’s burning, as if fire is pulsing through my veins. I feel like I’m being electrocuted over and over, like sparks are flying everywhere. It’s as if I’m alive and the only reason I feel it is because I’m in pain.” Her shoulders were lit a hazy brown-orange, the yellow lace strap of her tank top tangled in the mess of her long locks, turned golden and shimmery in the light of the fire.

“It’s the drugs, Sara,” I said, taking a long drag from my cigarette. “You’ll feel normal once you sleep it off.”

“But I don’t want to sleep it off,” she said, standing up. Her legs were dirty from sitting on the grass and there were goosebumps scattered across her skin. “I want to feel this pain forever… because it makes me think that if I hurt this much, nothing can ever hurt me like it again.”

“Things will always hurt you, Sara. No matter how much pain you’ve felt, things will always end up hurting you.” She came over to me and sat down close, and we were almost touching.

“You see, it’s not painful, really. It’s just a nagging ache that feels good. Like… like I’m stretching in the morning after the perfect sleep. You know?” She said, her eyelids were dropping down, the high was obviously setting in. I laughed.

“You’re so baked.”

“Mhm. But… this is the best feeling ever! Michael, I… I want to feel this way forever.”

“You’re going to go broke buying that much weed, babe.”

“Michael!” she said, but she whined my name in that way of hers.

“What?! I’m just saying, this is nothing but a high. No good feeling is free my dear. A fact of life, a fact I want you to learn.”
She looked at me, I knew because I saw her hair fall off her shoulder and I could smell her perfume and shampoo hit me with the faint smell of smoke from the fire and cigarettes. I looked at her, her brown eyes were glossy and had spider-web like crimson lines, the faint freckles across her nose were a little more obvious and her small, young face looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. She was serious, in her own Sara-way, but she looked older, and I realized now she’d caught up to me. We were on the same page, and staring down the same road. The fire popped and smoke came at us. I put my cigarette out, any excuse to look away, and I felt her hand rest on my leg. 
Her hand crept up to my own, and she slowly and gently laced her fingers through mine. Her hand was lightly there, not pressing into me, not squeezing my hand. I squeezed her hand tighter, letting my warmth flow through her and then she leaned her head on my shoulder. She shifted over closer to me, pressing into me, our body heat flowing through each other and I felt the pain, the ache, the burning fire that she felt. It seemed as if hours, days, weeks had passed since I spoke, but it was only seconds. Sara sighed and looked at me, then she smiled slightly. Her dark pink lips parted slightly, as flames dancing around, their silhouettes shimmying across her cheeks.

“Michael,” she whispered, and my name had never sounded so good. “you’ve taught me a lot, but this feeling is freer than anything.”

“How so?”

“This ache… I love it. My heart seems like it beats a hundred times faster, my mind won’t stop turning… you know what that feeling is? I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“It’s love.” I said, without even thinking, and I knew I couldn’t take it back. I squeezed her hand tighter, hoping she wouldn’t let go. She smiled again, and turned to look at me.

“Why are you always right?”

“Because I am.” And then she kissed me.

the irony of me loving weddings

8 Aug

~ By Margery Williams ~

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but Really loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get all loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

I went to a wedding yesterday. My second mother and my dad’s best friend since high school were hosting their son’s wedding. Now, I’m going to just throw out there that these people have a pig roast and Christmas party every year and they know how to throw a party, but this wedding blew my mind. The only other weddings I’ve been to were my brothers’, and those I was either too young or too easily forgotten to enjoy, so I have grown up with a bitter hatred for weddings (my hatred for matrimony and “endless love “[not just the song] also added to that, but I digress). The ceremony was short (thank goodness), not religious (phew) and it contained this lovely reading from one of my favorite books as a child, The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams (the reading is the block quote at the beginning of the blog). Then, in a field behind their house which used to be overgrown and filled with all sorts of clutter, was now a clean and well kept grassy field surrounded by trees and smelling faintly of pine, empty, save for a shed and a large tent. This tent was (thankfully) not like the tent I suffer work under, but  instead of covering tacky plastic tables and screaming pre-pubescent boys, it sheltered pretty tables draped with tablecloths and topped with glasses and pretty centerpieces, all while protecting the well-dressed guests from the bugs and wind outside.
Because the groom’s mother is my second mommy, and a genius, she put me at a table away from my parents with people who had graduated with degrees in graphic arts, history, or people majoring in Japanese. I only talked to the latter of the group at length, considering she was sitting right next to me. The Japanese major, who’s name is Sarah (or Sara. I’ll just alternate spellings). She was AWESOME. We talked a lot about random things, then moved onto the basics, i.e, movies, television and books. So, while on the subject of television, she asked me what kind of shows I watch and I immediately admitted “I cannot tell you what shows I watch, considering they are highly embarrassing.”, so she asked, “Like, childish embarrassing?” to which I answered, “No. Teeny shows. Like the ones on the CW.”
This carried onto her connecting the CW to The Vampire Diaries, which she apparently wanted to see, and then carried over to her watching True Blood, and then back to how The Vampire Diaries was almost exactly like Twilight, but it doesn’t suck (my opinion). So then I went onto putting forth a neutralish view on Twilight, in case she was a fan, and then she just flat out said that they sucked. I then laughed and said, that yes, they are indeed awful, but it reassures me that if I ever do decide I want to publish a book, I know that I might have a chance, provided that piece of crap was published. She laughed and then reached for her phone while saying “Have you seen ‘Alex reads Twilight’?” To which I burst out laughing, and then explained, in bits and pieces, parts of Nerdfighteria.
Anyways, the food (lobster and drawn butter and delicious cupcakes. yum) was fabulous and I do not just say this because I was across the tent from my parents and at a table with people who thought I was legal, and therefore they constantly kept filling my glass with yummy champagne. The 80s cover band was absolutely fantastic and kept everyone dancing and singing, not to mention these people there were just plain fun. There were no fights, no drunken messes, no problems and it was perfect. I know I don’t want to get married, and maybe this will change, but I highly doubt it. I can’t picture myself being with someone forever, but I love weddings. I love the idea that two people can be happy and in love enough to take such a monumental step. I love the idea that maybe my friends in the next five or so years will all be getting married. And I hope I can be there for it, because it’s one of those carefree and happy experiences that I savor. Also, free champagne is a real plus.


photo credit: Andrew Morrell

Day 17- Someone from your childhood

17 Jul

Dear Jacob,

Due to the power of the beautiful Facebook, I do know little snippets of what you are up to. First, since I moved, you have become the biggest man-whore EVER. I thought you should know, and I feel the need to address this because me, you know, Ms. Goody Two Shoes, is incredibly uncomfortable with it. Just kidding. But seriously, EVERY new profile picture of yours is with another beautiful girl, which, of course, does not surprise me by any means, but it’s funny how quickly things change. We went from breaking into the church playground (and the church itself, might I add) to you being a slutface and me being a, uh, not-so goody goody. I do remember, when we were much younger, swimming in the pool with Jesse, prior to his attempt at kissing me (yeah, uh, about that… you know now… after about 7 years. lolz). Also, our constant little schemes or attempts at being little badasses, like the aforementioned church breaking-in. Or when we would sit up on the red steel staircase, hidden from my house and yours, right above the road below, where you, Jesse and I would talk, or eat ice cream during the summer, or, after Jesse ran away (tail between his legs, might I add), you and I shouting “DON’T MOAN, CALL JOAN!” at cars.
Or one day, walking home from the bus stop, when you threw a CD at a passing car, and it hit a van, where we immediately broke into a run, like bandits, even though nothing was going to happen. Christ, you were around for EVERYTHING. You were more present in my life than my own brother. Hell, you are my brother, or at least you used to be. It sucks that after growing up together our entire lives, we lose contact because of three measly hours between us. I’m not saying this bother me like hell, but it does. I do indeed miss you, and maybe when I come to Connecticut this summer, we’ll go to Lake Compounce and cause some trouble… because isn’t that what we do now? 😉


car troubles, sketchy places are sketchy, and stinky buses

26 Jun

Yesterday, my dears, was a fun-filled sack of fun drops. First, a back story. My uncle makes stretchers for artists (and they look a little different than that picture, because they are Special. If you want an explanation on how so, comment and I will tell you), so I went to help him deliver them in New York City. Well, we finished our deliveries SUPER DUPER early, picked up his sand (yes. sand. Also, we picked it up across the street from Cedar Lake, which was in an episode of Gossip Girl. my uncle’s truck was in the background of said episode. legit, yo) and then went to another artist to help her with something for her paintings. This artist lives in SoHo in a GORGEOUS apartment, but SoHo also has a lovely amount of no parking, other than this little parking lot.
Well, we get to SoHo, go over to the parking lot and the guy there said that we couldn’t park there, that the lot was full, even though there were about three visible parking spots, so my uncle argued a little and the guy agreed. We grabbed our stuff, an $8,000 painting (that I later used to fan myself with. I’m so slick.), and left the car and the key with the guy to park. We go into the artist’s apartment for about an hour, then leave, and as we’re turning the corner, we see my uncle’s blue truck with it’s wooden rack on the top. But, the truck is not in a parking spot. It is parked half on the sidewalk, half in the street, next to a graffiti-covered wall, and there are two guys sitting in it. We go over to the truck, obviously and understandably confused and suspicious as to why there are two strange men inside. The guy in the driver’s seat said they were just starting it for us, suspicious already because they had not idea when we were coming back, and it was also not the case considering they were just sitting there talking with the doors open.
So my uncle pays the guy (a remarkably higher price than he usually pays, considering he’s parked there before), and comes back to the car, turns the key and… nothing. No starting. No sound, no… nothing. Now, the battery was not dead, which was our first thought, but the windows worked, the lights came on, the radio worked… but the car wouldn’t start. So, after my uncle attempted to get under the car, which was difficult considering we were weirdly parked, we called his friend on what little battery power my uncle had left on his phone (mine was already dead. Thanks, shitty ENV2) and he had to walk from Chelsea (specifically, because I like to show off my uncle’s famous-artist friends, the Hotel Chelsea, where Sid Vicious supposedly stabbed Nancy. I later learned that she was killed by drug dealers, Sid was asleep. But I digress,) to SoHo where we were. We called triple A, they sent a tow truck over and the truck was then towed. The tow truck also got stuck in traffic, due to the fact that New York City police officers are opposed to letting street lights doing their jobs, so we were stuck for a little while, and then we got to the auto shop.
My first thought when we got there was: sketchy shop place is sketchy, and oh boy was it. Not only was the guy a major Creeper (I’ll elaborate upon request), but there was a woman there, fairly disgruntled, who said to us, “Don’t leave your car here. If you want it fixed, don’t leave it here.” We had no other options, considering my uncle needed to get his truck fixed ASAP, but this was not exactly a thrilling thing to hear. So, we find out there was a simple connector problem, which could not be fixed that day, so my uncle’s friend would have to pick it up and drive it Upstate when he comes back up, so my uncle and I proceeded to board a bus from The Port Authority to Kingston, then to Kingston to home.
So, naturally, I got home tired, hungry (considering the last time I ate was 7 that morning), smelly, sticky and sweaty at about 11, only to constantly be reminded that I had to get up AGAIN at six to work today. So, I was no happy camper, but a shower, large bottle of water and bowl of Ramen noodles later, I was feeling better and happy to get to sleep. In other news, today was my first day back at work. The noobs working there this year are stupider than they were last year. But, oh well, at least it finally feels like summer again. Enough of my whining.

Hope you all are well! Letter 12 to come tomorrow!


note: The picture at the beginning of this post is one of Richard Hambleton’s shadow men that he painted all over the East Village, a gallery of which you can see here. His painting is the one I rudely fanned myself with. I give him permission to use any future publication of mine as a tissue. Or toilet paper.)