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pompous snowmen and snowless snow days

3 Feb

“I try to avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.”

– Charlotte Bronte

Well, hello hello! Instead of dwelling on the fact that I have not posted a blog in forever and ever and ever, I am just going to dwell on the things that I find fascinating and important that you, uh, probably don’t.

So, I have been up to MULTITUDES of FANTASTICAL and EXOTIC things in the past few months, weeks, days and hours. Well… maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Or a lot. Or a whole lot. But no matter, because I do have a few things worth mentioning. One being my SUPER DUPER not incredibly successful life in the world of Debate. Yes, this lovely specimen whose life you read about and care so dearly about has begun debating competitively with her school’s forensics team. I am involved in the Lincoln- Douglas debate category and am now an Official Member of the National Forensics League, or the NFL for the People in the Know. I’m not great but I’m not horrible and every tournament is a learning experience and I get a sick rush every time I know I have kicked someone’s ass.
Other than debate and debate and more debate, I have been reading quite a bit more. I recently finished Anna and the French Kiss by (nerdfighter!) Stephanie Perkins, where part of the title of this blog post comes from. I though the book was good, due to how the ending turned out and the writing was sweet and clever. The book started out slow and I thought that the character was a bit stupid, but once you get into the book more and start to become engrossed with the romance and the relationships surrounding each character, it is absolutely fantastic. I also just finished Chuck Palahniuk’s Invisible Monsters, which, to be honest, I was disappointed with. I was told by multiple Palahniuk fans that it was his best work, and it was fantastic, but I think I might have liked Snuff more, but I plan on rereading it eventually, so we’ll see if that changes my thoughts on it. I’m going to begin Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro tomorrow, because I’ve heard fantastic things about both the novel and film.
Aside from debate and reading, I have been tumbling obsessively, arguing with people on tumblr, pissing off my close friends and just generally fucking up greatly. I think I’m going to begin blogging more, to let off steam or what have you. I think I’m going to start going out more, whether it’s alone or with others, because I need fresh air. I need to see things other than the four blue walls of my room. I need different noises and sounds and things to experience. I’m going stir crazy and I’m lonely all the time and I’m bored and I’m aggressive and mean and impulsive with people I care about. I need help more than anything, I need someone to talk to and I need to get out more. But right now what I need to do is brush my teeth and go to bed. Goodnight, lovelies. I’ll see you soon.


p.s. I had a snow day today and we didn’t get ANY snow at all. Twas wonderful.


writing and my weakness

29 Aug

This blog will be rambly and will probably make no sense whatsoever.

“I get nervous when I fly, I’m used to walking with my feet.”
– “Go On”  Jack Johnson

All I’ve been wanting to do lately is write. Poetry or prose, I have no preference and my fingers seem to itch for the quiet comfort of both. But every time I take a pen out and press it to the fresh cream page of my little poetry book with it’s precious few pages that are stained with ink, I seem to freeze up. Nothing will come out, and if something does it’s terrible, awful and must be ripped out at once. Or my pen will have a bent tip, or be the wrong color ink or will smear all over the page and ruin the poem. Whenever I attempt prose, I fumble with the keys that are so sure beneath my fingers when tweeting or going on facebook. But it seems when my heart is on the line, my sanity is in slight jeopardy and my self-esteem is out there, low and vulnerable, I can’t quite grasp the “typing” thing and it seems as if every word is wrong. Phrases are wrongly put, sentences aren’t structured well, there is no story in it at all, the entire paragraph reads like one long boring cliche and so on.
My blogs are even troublesome. I can’t put my visit to Kenyon College in more than bite-sized words. I keep worrying that I will screw up that amazing trip and that amazing day if I write one crappy blog post about it. My blog about Oberlin was simple, and I think it was even semi-good, but I wasn’t so genuinely attached to that college, that trip, that day. I wasn’t concerned on screwing it up too severely.
Another thing I hate to admit is that I have this tendency. This awful, heart wrenching tendency to not be able to stay motivated or believe in myself. Other people keeping tabs on what I do keeps me motivated. Those six or seven of you that read this regularly are the ones that keep me going because it just shows that yeah, maybe someone somewhere out there cares what I have to say or whine about. The reason I love genuine compliments on my poetry is because I feel like if someone else likes it, then I have a reason to keep going. It’s one of my worst weaknesses, and therefore one the most powerful ones, but I need others to believe in me in order to believe in myself. I’ve never quit anything, even the times where I would have absolutely no attention to anything I poured my heart and soul into. When I posted things on fictionpress, I would get one review in a blue moon. My best friend at the time started and she got 2+ reviews a day. It took me weeks to get that much attention on stories. When I started blogging, I had maybe one – three hits a month. Things like twitter and tumblr don’t effect me as strongly, because I’m not putting things out there that I want feedback on, I’m not putting effort into those things, I’m not putting the most important parts of me in those things.


writer’s block

15 Aug

Spiteful words can hurt your feelings, but silence breaks your heart.”
– C.S Lewis

This blog is going to suck, as the title may have tipped you off. I’m feeling uninspired, a bit annoyed and just incredibly frustrated with myself. I haven’t written a poem in almost 3 months, at least not a decent one, every time I start to write any sort of prose it’s stupid and cliche, and just plain bad. Blogs are the only thing I’ve been writing, other than an all too personal letter that I just sent off without thinking twice (the letter is the cause of the frustration with myself). But writers, since some of you reading this must be writers, you know that awful feeling that is writer’s block.
To me, it’s like being sick. Due to the fact that I have a terrible immune system, I’m sick an awful lot, and it’s hell. I get chills, then I’m sweaty and hot and clammy and nasty. I have headaches, throat aches that make me want to cry and awful chest coughs that last far too long and disrupt any class I’m in at the time. Oh, and I get a runny nose. Writer’s block for me is quite similar. I start out at nice temperature, then things slowly get frostier and then things get warmer too fast and then I start tossing and turning, or in the writing sense, pressing the delete button, typing, delete, type. Symptoms of writer’s block also include headaches, but the sore throat comes in the form of wrist cramps, the chest cough a pinky that always locks up after being used for typing for too long. And the runny, gooey snot nose comes in the form of self-hatred and constant bullying from the voices in my head. (Some of them yell at me in German.)
Now, if that poorly executed metaphor didn’t tip you off to the fact that I’m creatively stifled, I don’t know what will. Photography hasn’t grasped my interest enough lately, not to mention my camera sucks/ is broken. Prose really isn’t working out too well, and I can’t organize my feelings to write a poem. But apparently my writer’s block could be put on hold to write a stupid letter. Stupid letter. gr. grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


feeling uninspired and other needless rambling

5 Aug

“I am giving up on half empty glasses, and I am giving up on greener grasses”
-“Giving Up” Ingrid Michaelson

Now, I have had a creative block for a very very long time. I don’t count NaNoWriMo as a creative activity, I count that as an obligation. I don’t count the poems I write, however good people may tell me they are, as creative periods either. All I get is random spurts of creativity, or on occasion I can force something good out of me, but lately this has not happened. Lately (and by lately, I mean once a month to once every few months), I open a word document, type up a page of a story, love it, go back to it the next day and hate it and stop writing. If I try to write a poem, I can’t force anything out, which is usually how my poetry writing goes, by Force. But I can’t force myself to write anything good.
Maybe I need to change my form of creativity. Maybe I need a change of scenery, a change of people, but it is obvious I need a change. What I’m getting at here is that I’m up for change. (I am in no way trying to rip off Obama’s Change campaign. I just like to EMPHASIZE)  I am not someone who avoids change, on the contrary, I thrive on it. I like new things, like my new room, new clothing, my new ipod, things that stick with me and are involved in my life daily, but seem small. Something simple like the my room changing color has changed a lot of things; like one, I don’t feel like I’m living in a cave anymore. Or the fact that my love sex life, is changing as time passes and new people come into my life. But the little changes aren’t doing it for me. I need big change. Monumental change. Good or bad, pretty or ugly. As awful and selfish as it is to say, I wouldn’t mind bad change because it might strike something creative in me.
The only thing I feel these days is this dense depression that seems to weigh me down and screw me up more than anything. I feel like I’m back to this time last year, except this time I don’t have my best friend. To be completely honest, I don’t know what is going on with me. The only thing I seem to want to do all the time is either cry or scream,or both,  and the last time that happened, it didn’t help me in any way. So I guess I’ll just sit here, and wait patiently for a shift in the ground beneath me.


I fail and other observations

3 Aug

“I’m just a curbside prophet with my hand in my pocket waiting for my rocket to come.”
– Jason Mraz “Curbside Prophet”

You, um, four people that read this, know that I fail at lots of things. For example, I failed EPICALLY at NaNoWriMo last year, I failed at finishing the 30 day letter challenge in 30 days and I failed at BEDA (April) last year, and now, where I fail at BEDA again. Part of it is laziness, part of it is that I have family here for a little while, then I have a wedding to go to… and enough excuses, but I just don’t have the drive, energy or time to write blogs every day. Not to mention that, as of late, I have been going back to being depressed and this blog would end up becoming my soapbox to whine about everything that is wrong with my life. This would a. reveal way too much about my life and b. just make my depression worse, something that I really do not need and something I do not want.
But moving on from my life as a colossal failure, I have a few things to update you on. I recently finished painting my room an absolutely gorgeous teal, which is the most ditzy sounding sentence this blog will contain, I promise. But the cleaning out, taping, priming, painting, painting again, painting again, ripping up of ugly orange carpet, and moving stuff back has beat the crap out of me. Staying awake is almost impossible, the only thing keeping me up is the fact that I am consuming a pornographic amount of sugar. I am also staying up because my cousins from California are in Bumfuck, Upstate New York visiting me for the first time in two years. This may surprise you, but there are attractive people in my family. My father, mother and I are not some of these people, but my cousins however are. My cousin Rachel is 14-years-old going on 17, tall, leggy, skinny, blonde and drop dead gorgeous with brown eyes and long lashes, along with a bubbly personality that actually fits the word “bubbly”. Alex, who is tall and skinny like his sister, has skater/emo hair, dresses like a beatnik/hippy without the beatnik but with lots of the hippy, and a simple, laid-back personality that I myself pretend I have. Admittedly, I was not thrilled about them coming here, thinking they were still the people they were two years ago, i.e, goody goodies.
I, clearly, am not the world’s most well-behaved child, and thankfully they are not the people they were two years ago. Rachel and I watch the same television shows and read the a lot of the same books, Alex and I watch the same types of movies and like a lot of the same music. I usually forget this, but every year we have a weird bond and we always get along. I guess that’s family at it’s best, something I don’t see nearly enough of.
Full of fail and dorkiness (along with being unnecessarily scatterbrained), this blog is done. You can go pee now. Or something.


BEDA- day 1

1 Aug

So, I am currently sitting in my room, writing this quick (most likely going to be unedited) first blog entry for the entire month of August. I have a lovely 30 days of writing ahead of me. Great. This month will include me finishing up the letter challenge (finally), blogging from college campuses that may be my possible future school, and writing annoyingly short and uninteresting posts to fill space and not fail at BEDA like I did last year. For the past few days I have been in the process of redoing my room; painting, getting rid of ugly bookshelves, cleaning and such, and it is lovely, other than the rushing that I have to do because company is coming tomorrow and the fact that i am exhausted. Small spurts of sleep over the past few days and large amounts of work for someone who is used to little work and lots of sleep does not work out too well. I must go and get my room done ASAP. Better and longer blog post tomorrow. Promise.

A shamefully late and almost nonexistent day 15- the person you miss the most

14 Jul

Dear John,

As strange as it is that I’m writing this letter to you, I feel it is necessary. I don’t miss you per-say, but who you were last summer. I know we were never really friends, we didn’t run in the same “clique” on the kitchen staff last year. We still aren’t really friends, and I haven’t seen you in a week or so. No one else seems to notice your absence, but for some reason I do. Last summer, you were always laughing or joking or hitting on Deb, who I also miss. But this year you’ve changed and everyone is speculating different things. All ranging from drugs, to family problems to school problems, and so on. It’s obvious you’re depressed, and you isolate yourself so much it’s hard to tell what’s wrong, which is clearly what you want. I seem to be the only one (but maybe I’m just self-centered and recognize only myself in this situation) to be making an effort to talk to you. Obviously, my approach is to annoy you and attempt to bitch-slap you out of your depression, at least for the 8 hours a day we see each other, but still. But now I’m nervous… maybe it’s just my incredible paranoia or maybe it’s just psycho-girl theories, but I hope you haven’t done anything. Because, even though all we are is co-workers, not even friends, I would miss you terribly.

Take care,