On Thanksgiving and Lists

November 28, 2013

So here's a fun fact: I just figured out how to work the delay timer on this blog. Let's all geek out with me as I celebrate my successful discovery!

Erhm... Anyways... My point is that I am writing this blog post ahead of time, as my family is journeying into the vast expanse of nothingness for Thanksgiving (a.k.a. Central Montana) and I won't have Internet access again until Friday. Props for family gatherings.

So, for my Thanksgiving day blog, I thought I'd make a couple of lists. First, what I'm thankful for. Second, all the food I'm going to eat. I'll let you decide which is more interesting.

Things For Which To Give Thanks:

1. Access to the Internet, so I can broadcast all of my insignificant thoughts and problems all the way around the world.
2. A large family that always keeps me occupied and on my toes.
3. A group of really awesome friends that call me on my crap and feel that same need I do to analyze our lives in excruciating detail.
4. A motley crew of furry friends that both keep me company and keep me entertained.
5. A society that loves to celebrate special occasions and holidays with an excessive amount of food :)

Things Of Which To Eat Heartily:

1. Mushrooms stuffed with crab meat and shrimp (and I get the honor of making them...)
2. A perfectly golden-brown turkey 
3. The accompanying stuffing to the aforementioned turkey
4. A veggie tray
5. A cheese tray (complete with Triscuits; in my opinion, much more appetizing than the veggie tray)
6. Mashed potatoes
7. Corn on the cob
8. Homemade bread
9. Dessert. Of any kind. Except pumpkin pie, because it's nasty

I'm sure that I could extend both of these lists until they caused your browsers to freeze trying to load them, but I will refrain, dear audience. I hope that you all have a lovely Thanksgiving, and if you are not from the US, than have a perfectly lovely day anyways. 

One of Those Mornings

November 27, 2013

I think I mentioned this in passing in a previous post, but earlier this month there was a huge storm and a branch from the cottonwood tree in my yard fell right on my windshield. Oddly enough, there were no dents on the frame of the truck, but the windshield was cracked so hard that I could feel the broken glass on the inside. Then, of course, it got hella cold, and the crack spread across the entire windshield. 

So, today, along with scheduling routine maintenance, I also went to get my windshield replaced. It was nine in the morning, chilly, snowing, and I went across the street to a local diner because all of my various relatives had commitments and couldn't come pick me up, and let's face it, no one waits for over thirty minutes in a waiting room if they have somewhere else they can be. 

I walked down a street with no sidewalk, crossed at the crosswalk, walked across the front lawn of the diner (because sometimes I am lazy like that) and went inside and got a table for one. 

It's strange; there is such a stereotype about people who get tables for one. They are lonely losers, depressed souls who don't have anyone in their life to accompany them on something as simple as a morning expedition to the diner. But I don't think that's always the case. I think sometimes, it's good for a person to just be present with themselves. 

And as I was sitting there in my corner booth, at a quarter past nine in the morning, watching all the cars race by as the snow drifted by the window, sipping hot tea and nibbling on some sausage links, I thought about how perfectly wonderful the world is. How wonderful my life is. In that moment, all the stresses and worries in my life were inconsequential. In that one moment, I was perfectly content with where and what and who I was. 

I then proceeded to sip quietly at my tea (with cream and sugar, of course) and read my novel, making annotations in the margins and casually listening to all the conversations in the diner as people went about their mornings. I think all of us need to have a morning like this, once in a while. Where it's just you, your thoughts, and the world, all casually bumping together like rubber ducks in a kiddie pool. 

On Time and Distance

November 26, 2013

I spent a lot of time in the car today. A mind-numbing amount of time. With just me and my cat to keep myself occupied (aside from the occasional car full of college kids that managed to make me feel stalked while driving 80 mph on the interstate), this left an excess amount of time to dwell on many things... Mostly all the problems in my life. However, I devoted a good thirty minutes trying to pretend that those problems don't exist, so instead I'm going to touch on some of the other thoughts I had that aren't directly related to all of my personal issues.

Thought #1: The aforementioned stalking incident. A ghetto truck filled to the brim with college students (or college-age young adults, if we want to be technical about it) spent a good half an hour "stalking" me on the interstate. I really can't think of another word for it. First they zoomed up behind me and passed me going at least 10 mph over the speed limit (awkwardly turning in their seats and staring at me as they passed), then they slowed down until they were right next to me (I was doggedly facing forward pretending they didn't exist, so I can't say whether or not they were still staring), and finally they proceeded to slow down and sit on my bumper for the next thirty minutes until I got sick of it and sped up until I lost them. 

Thought #2: Apparently, all ruminants are not always friends. Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to be the lone deer in a herd of over thirty-five antelope. This is a true story. I was driving, looked over into a wheat field, and saw a huge herd of antelope all staring at one mulie buck that was nonchalantly picking his way through the herd and across the field. I thought, Is this the Great Prince of the Wheat Field?

Thought #3: Is it easier to think of your trip in miles or in minutes (or seconds, or hours; whichever unit of time suits your fancy)? I guess I never really thought of this before, but all my life I have thought of travel length in terms of time rather than distance. I wonder what this says about my concept of space? 

Thought #4: In Montana, it is a given that if you're trying to get anywhere that's worth going, you are going to be in a vehicle for at least an hour, minimum. A four to six hour car trip is regarded as a fairly typical drive, and is really nothing to brag about. I don't think it occurred to me until my senior year in high school that this was not how everyone in the world regarded car trips. My aunt had an agricultural exchange student from the UK who was staying with her a couple of years ago, and when he heard that I had a three and a half (almost four) hour drive home, he almost fell out of his chair. While I might think nothing of driving a six to seven hour round-trip in a day, to him it was utterly astonishing. So I guess what I'm saying is that the world isn't always as big as it seems when you're in Montana, which is sad, in a way. 

Thought #5: I could never, ever, ever, EVER, consider trucking as a career option. Aside from the fact that I have a tendency to become extremely carsick if I'm not driving, and have been known on occasion to get carsick WHILE I'm driving, there is also the boredom factor. Let's face it, you can only listen to so much music and books on tape. And unless you have a mega-chair, after about three hours your butt is pretty much permanently cramped. 

Since I have plans to do a lot more driving over my Thanksgiving break, I will have ample time to revisit these thoughts of mine, along with those problems that I'm currently pretending don't exist. Safe travels to all of you out there on the roads or up in the airways this Thanksgiving holiday.

On Housework and Motivation

November 25, 2013

I realize that by the time I post this it might technically be November 26th, but we're just going to ignore that because I'm still operating under the impression that it is the 25th because I haven't gone to bed yet, and that's going to have to be good enough.

You know, my motivation for getting things done kicks in at the strangest time. I just spent the last three hours cleaning my apartment. This isn't because I have been super busy all day or that I've had previous commitments (in fact, I woke up at about three this afternoon, giving me a total of 13 hours of sleep... Oops...), but rather because I wasn't motivated to get anything done until like 9:30 pm. 

Between the two of us, my roommate and I have spent the last three hours or so cleaning out the fridge, taking out the garbage, doing all the dishes (which pretty much includes every dish in our cupboards because we haven't done dishes in a while), and cleaning our rooms. 

I now have all my dirty clothes, blankets, and towels packed into three black trash bags in preparation for being taken home over Thanksgiving so I can use my mother's washer and dryer. I know. Typical college student. In my defense, I think that the laundry machines in our apartment building are either going to spontaneously combust or eat all of my clothing soon, because there is just something not right with them. Also, I think that more hair is actually added to my clothing after I've washed it compared to how it was before it went in, which is gross on a number of levels. So I'm hauling all my laundry back home, to a set of laundry machines that I know and love, and which I can personally vouch do not add hair to my clothing when I use them. 

I am beyond stoked that I get to start Thanksgiving break tomorrow. Hopefully it won't be too stressful and there will be no major family drama. Of course if there is, that's just more entertainment for you, dear audience. I will keep you posted. 

And When You're Cruising Around On Facebook...

November 24, 2013

Okay, so today's post is going to be relatively short. I was cruising around on Facebook and I saw this video that someone posted of this guy leaving a voice mail for his friend and witnessing a car accident between a guy and four old ladies. Not to sound cliche, but this literally (and yes, I mean literally, not figuratively) MADE. MY. DAY. 

I want to be this awesome when I'm an old lady... Enjoy!

P.S. I am aware that this might not be completely true, and it is possible that the guy made the whole thing up... Do I care? Hells no. It's still freaking hilarious. 

Contemplations on the Nature of Curse Words

November 23, 2013

As I was walking the dogs in the dog park at work today I got to thinking about the nature and application of curse words. It mostly came about because one of the labs was trying to eat something it really shouldn't be eating (I know, I know, it's a lab, what should I expect?) and I was calling the lab some improper names. It should be no surprise that the lab failed to respond to these monikers, which of course made me that much more frustrated.

Now, before you get on my case, I would like you to know that these words that I was calling the lab were "dork," "dumb butt," and other variations on that particular theme. So, on a scale of "big doo-doo head" to "mother-effer," the name wasn't actually that atrocious. And yet, one look at those sad, brown eyes and I was feeling all sorts of guilty for calling a lab that was shoveling another dog's feces into it's mouth a "stupid dork." Why was this, I wondered...

Then I thought way back, back to the dark days of daycare and when I first learned about curse words. Now, I'm not sure about all you people out there with stay-at-home moms (or dads, I suppose), but I learned a lot of my most important childhood lessons at daycare. For example, keying junk cars and proceeding to smash out their windshields with large rocks is a big-time no-no. (For the record, I wasn't the one who did the keying and/or windshield smashing. That was our local grade school delinquent. He was also responsible to the felling of several of the neighbor's aspen trees. He was quite a character.) Another one of the staples that you learn at daycare is a variety of curse words.

The funny thing is, back then, curse words had a completely different weight than they seem to nowadays. If you called one of the boys a doofus, some feelings were going to be seriously hurt. Same goes for "dork," "stupid," "weirdo," and, heaven forbid, "idiot." To tell someone to shut up was asking for a confrontation. There were numerous lovely euphemisms for shut up... "Shut your trap," "stuff it," "shut your pie hole." Now that I think about it, I still use a lot of these expressions.  

It wasn't just that the curse words were a lot milder (I still remember my mother telling me that I could say "this stinks," but never "this sucks"); it was that the words held a lot more power back then. If someone called you stupid on the playground, this was a BIG DEAL. Yes, the capital letters matter. Even if it was in passing, rather than directly accusing, such as "don't be stupid" versus "you're such a stupid girl," it still really hurt. And yes, I will admit that my feelings got hurt once or twice on the playground, although you never would have caught me dead admitting it then. 

And then I thought of myself nowadays. I will be the first to admit, mine is not the cleanest of mouths. If I stub my toe or have a huge cottonwood branch land right on my windshield (true story), I am chanting a litany of, "Eff, eff, eff... Effing effer, effity eff!" (On a related tangent, I have decided that the "eff" word is the most versatile curse word in the English language. Think about how many parts of speech that verb can be transformed into... If it wasn't so vulgar, it would be almost admirable.) One of my favorite expressions? "No shit Sherlock." Or, even better, "And then shit hit the fan." 

It's funny, because as soon as you think that you have encountered all the curse words that there are to be had, you find another variation, combination, or new word in general that makes you sit back and go, "Huh." Example? When I was in high school, I was a part of the concert choir. I usually stuck with people either in cross country or the honors program, so there were many people in choir who I only met in choir class. And let me tell you, choir people can be crazy. 

We were at a workshop/festival and I was sitting in the audience because the director was working with another section of the choir. One of the senior girls was sitting in front of me, and I'm fairly sure she was on something that day. Don't get me wrong, sweetest girl ever, fantastic singer, funny as hell, but she must have been on crack or pot or sloshed or at the very least on a coffee high, because she had an inordinate amount of energy and absolutely no mind-to-mouth filter. The weirdest thing about this whole experience is that typically she never talked to me. But that day, she turned around and began chatting me up. She asked how my day was, if I had any plans that weekend. Then she leaned over and stated, "Asshat." 

That was it. Asshat. I was so dumbfounded I forgot to even be offended. I was too busy trying to figure what kind of insult "asshat" was. Seriously. If any of you out there can tell me exactly what the crap that is supposed to mean, I would appreciate it. So I ended up being more amused than anything. I think she called me an asshat at least three or four more times before we had to break for lunch. And I couldn't for the life of me explain to you exactly what prompted her to call me that. I didn't even talk to her enough to merit being called a retard, much less an asshat. So I chose to be vaguely amused and treated the rest of the conversation as a social experiment. How many times will the slightly-insane senior call me a ridiculous curse word before she either gets bored or comes up with a new variation?

So when I was sitting there looking into the brown eyes of the penitent black lab who was trying to consume a disturbing amount of dog shit, I couldn't just sit there and call her a dork. It was too much like that time I made a boy cry on the playground when I called him a stupid doofus. Or something of that nature. In my defense, he was a little crybaby anyways... Moving on... My point is, isn't it strange how the spectrum of curse words can apply to different times and situations in our lives? I call my roommate a dork because she can't walk in a pair of high heels, and it's an endearment. I call a lab with soulful brown eyes a dork, and I feel like the worst kind of bully. Sometimes I am amazed by all the intricacies that are contained in a genre of words that are, by nature, quite vulgar. That's English for you folks.

On The Perfect Bonfire

November 22, 2013

Tonight I had the pleasure of going to a bonfire with some of my fellow Animal Science students. 

I have been to a few bonfires in my time. When I was little, these were all mostly family camping related. However, I have discovered that in college nothing is more popular than a bonfire. The bigger the better. In fact, the colder the better. Apparently in college the best time for a bonfire is right after a big snow storm. I think this is because it is that much harder for the smashed college students to light the forest on fire when the surroundings are buried under a foot of fresh, wet snow. Of course this also means that it is that much harder to get the bonfire lit in the first place, but hey, who doesn't love burning copious amounts of gasoline? Although it does make your marshmallows taste a little questionable...

Tonight I found that the most uncomfortable part of a bonfire (besides the gasoline-flavored s'mores) is keeping various parts of your anatomy relatively warm at all times. When you face the fire, your face is warm, your hands are warm, but your backside gradually begins to resemble a popsicle. Turn around, and your backside is toasty warm and your nose begins to ache with cold. There's just no way to win. If I was in charge of the bonfire, I would actually have two bonfires lit, with enough space in between for people to stand and simultaneously warm both sides of themselves. 

Interestingly enough, throughout this entire ordeal the one part of your anatomy that remains cold constantly is your toes. It doesn't matter how good your snow boots are or how many pairs of socks you wear. Eventually it is your toes that are going to prompt you to abandon your attempt to enjoy the outdoors and retreat into the warm safety of the house (or truck, or sleeping bag, or whatever is handy).  

Here's to my still-frozen toes. Happy Friday :) 

When You Feel Like Getting Dressed Up...

November 21, 2013

Today was one of my incredibly lazy days... I literally didn't wake up until after one in the afternoon. It's at times like these I am simultaneously frustrated and oddly proud of myself for acting like a normal college student. I don't know about you, oh audience of mine, but when I wake up that late in the day, it pretty much guarantees that I won't be getting anything productive done. And sure enough...

The funny thing about unproductive days is that as soon as you give yourself permission to get absolutely nothing done all day, you don't know what to do with yourself. I woke up after one, and by four I was laying in the middle of my living room staring at the ceiling saying to my roommate, "I don't even know how to begin..." The thing is, there are a hundred and one things I probably should be doing, and absolutely nothing that I want to be doing. Does this mean that I get the things done that I should be doing? Psshhh... Come on, do you even know me at all?

So what ended up happening was I watched a lot of The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother, all while still in my pajamas, laying around the house, occasionally torturing my cat. And yet, I still wasn't quite happy. 

See the thing is, I have been craving Top Ramen all week long; I've been legitimately dreaming about it. So I decided that it was about time that I went to the store. But every girl knows that you can't just throw on a pair of pants and drive to the store. Oh no. If you're going to be out in public, you've got to put your face on. And for some strange reason, I was overcome with the irrational whimsy to go above and beyond simply putting my face on. This really didn't make much sense. I was only going to be in Safeway for a total of 15 minutes, tops. There was an almost 100% probability that I would see absolutely no one that I knew. And yet...

So this is me, going to Safeway at seven at night. Just picture it. I had my face on (mascara included, not just foundation and cover-up), a button-up dress, my nice down coat, my fancy boots and white tights. Yes. Tights. I don't think I've worn tights like these since Easter when I was like ten years old. I've been branching out in terms of clothing. I'll probably regret it looking back in ten years, but for the moment it makes me feel "oh-so-pretty." The crazy part of this entire thing? I still wasn't quite satisfied.

I have a theory, oh audience of mine. See, this entire lazy day, I wasn't quite happy when I was dressed down and still in my pajamas, yet I also wasn't quite happy when I was all dressed up. The time that I was happy? After going to the store and changing back into sweats after getting out of my cute button-up dress. I think it was the act of going from dressed-up to comfortable couch potato that let me truly relax. Isn't it strange how the process and transition of dressing up and down is more fulfilling than the actual outcome itself? 

Oh who are we kidding here? It was totally the Top Ramen. Best. Food. Ever.

The First Snow of the Season

November 20, 2013

I've noticed a gradual shifting of the posting time of my blog during the past few days. I apologize for this, dear audience. Maybe some small part of my mind is rebelling against this daily habit and pushing the posting back further and further until I am right on the border of breaking my resolution. 

This isn't something new, I fear. It might be possible that it stems from my fear of commitment, whether in relationships or resolutions. Or it might be a reflection of my fear of failure. I have to admit, I am quite pleased with some of my posts from this past week, and it is hard to press publish on a blog post that I feel is inferior to my prior efforts. And yet, I don't think I can handle the pressure to write progressively better blog posts.

So, if you would be so kind, oh audience of mine, I would like your permission to fail. Not continually, I assure you; just every once in a while. Once in a while let me write a post that you can look at and think, "Wow, this is a load of crap. And you graduated high school English?" Let me have a crappy post that won't drive you away from this blog forever, dear audience, just every once in a while. I admit, these crappy posts might possibly be concentrated into a period of successively crappy posts, but just bear with me on it, because I swear that I will eventually come back with something that is worth reading. 

Now on to bigger, better, and wetter things. Like the fact that the first snow of the year has finally come. Okay, maybe that's not precisely true. It has indeed already snowed this season. However, being from Montana, I refuse to count a snowfall that doesn't bring out the snowplows. If I counted all of those snows, Montana's winter would last from September to June. Which is just too depressing for me to contemplate. 

Let me tell you a little bit about a true "first snow."

• For one, it has to be snowing hard enough that the entire front of your jacket is white by the time you manage to walk to class. It also has to be sticky and wet enough to keep your jacket vaguely damp for the next 4-5 hours. 
• It is a given that the snowplows will be out on the roads, along with a plethora of ice (because seriously, when does road maintenance ever truly get rid of ice?) and an abundance of sand that does little to nothing for the traction on your tires. 
• If you don't have to shift into 4-wheel drive or commandeer the help of your roommate to push your vehicle out of the driveway, it is not a true "first snow."  
• If you can still see the dead grass and dog poop in your front yard, it hasn't snowed hard enough yet.
• After a true "first snow," you will have resigned yourself to having ice coating some part of your vehicle until approximately mid-April. (You are exempt from this qualification if you park your vehicle in an actual garage. Lucky bastard.)
• During the snowfall, you will have seen no less than 3 minor car accidents on your way to class/work/home/the grocery store. This number is doubled if you live in a college town where you have a whole bunch of Californians and Floridians pretending like they know how to drive in winter conditions. (It's strange how many Floridians Montana actually attracts... I'm pretty sure if I grew up in Florida, I would only be vaguely aware that Montana even existed.)
• Most importantly, the true "first snow" of the season will mark the end or significant reduction of both bicyclist and pedestrian traffic on the roads. This is negated if you live in a college town. Apparently kids in college get a kick out of sending motorists into cardiac arrest by choosing to ride their flimsy bicycles down the middle of a recently-snowed-on-and-unplowed road. At dusk no less. One of these days, my cat-like reflexes won't be enough to save you, you crazy hippie, and I will have gained an elaborate and unwanted new hood ornament. 

On Bedrooms As Mood Rings

November 19, 2013

I was just thinking today, as I was striving assiduously to accomplish nothing at all, that one's room can reflect a number of things about one's state of mind. Maybe this isn't true for all people, but it seems to hold true for myself. When I am feeling outgoing and productive, my room is orderly, my bed is made, my floors are vacuumed and my room generally feels lighter and more presentable. When I'm feeling lazy, unmotivated, or depressed, my room becomes a walking landmine, with clothes thrown every-which-way, a bed that resembles nothing so much as a bird's nest, and stacks of books and schoolwork strewn across the floor. When it reaches this state, my room resembles some kind of primitive (if quite comfortable) cave. I sometimes feel like my bedroom is some kind of convoluted mood ring, without the color chart but with all of the aesthetic value. 

The strange thing is, I find some kind of perverse pleasure in this constant flux of my room. I think that one of the most prevalent reasons that I wouldn't enjoy having a personal maid is that I would lose this connection between my room and my mood swings. And I really don't have a very high tolerance for people sifting through my stuff... And I'm also too broke to hire a maid... On to other things.

My point is, I have always been fascinated by what people's spaces reflect about their personalities and moods. When people look into my room, I like to think that they see more than just a slob (although, I wouldn't blame them if they did, because my room can get quite messy, dear audience) and rather looked past it to see someone who values comfort and familiarity, who can't quite handle constant perfection, who sometimes feels the need to hide from the pressures of the world. 

But who knows, they might just see an unorganized hodgepodge. I figure that I won't worry too much about it. At least, until I manage to snag a boyfriend who would feel the need to hang out in my room; that might be enough to motivate a makeover. But I guess we won't know until it happens, will we?  

Contemplations of "Sinners in the Hands of An Angry God" (1741) by Jonathan Edwards

November 18, 2013

Dear audience, I'm going to give you some advance warning right now: occasionally I am going to geek out on you and analyze particular texts and give you my spin on them. As a disclaimer right from the start, I am not passing judgement on anyone's beliefs or viewpoints. How can I when I can't even decide what my own are? When I discuss things as sensitive as religion and God, just know that this isn't targeted towards anyone, but is more of a tool for self-introspection on my part. 

Today I want to introduce you, oh audience of mine, to some writings by an early American Puritan preacher named Jonathan Edwards. I don't particularly agree with all of his "fire and brimstone" ideas (in fact, I have a hard time accepting a lot of his ideas, but more on that later), but I find his writing to be extremely thought-provoking and intriguing. Here are some selected quotes from the paper written by Edwards that I encountered in one of my college history classes, followed by my personal thoughts on the entire deal. (Also, realize that these religious ideas come from a Puritan time period, when Christianity was feeling both very confident and very aggressive. Think Salem witch trials...)

"He that believeth not is condemned already." - John iii. 18

"There is nothing that keeps wicked men at any one moment out of hell, but the mere pleasure of God. [...] There are in the souls of wicked men those hellish principles reigning, that would presently kindle and flame out into hell fire, if it were not for God's restraints. There is laid in the very nature of carnal men, a foundation for the torments of hell.

[...]

Your wickedness makes you heavy as lead, and to tend downward with great weight and pressure towards hell [...] Were it not for the sovereign pleasure of God, the earth would not bear you one moment; for you are a burden to it; the creation groans within you; the creature is made subject to the bondage of your corruption, not willingly; the sun does not willingly shine upon you to give you light to serve sin and Satan." - Jonathan Edwards

When reading Jonathan Edwards' selections, especially his first one, "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," I felt sort of lost. Maybe it has something to do with my own personal struggle with religion and faith at this time in my life, but there were definitely a few times during the reading that I felt something he said really hit home for me. I have heard of the "fire and brimstone" speeches given by pastors in certain churches, and have had an intellectual understanding of those kinds of sermons; but I guess I never really had an emotional understanding of what those sermons were, and what they were truly meant to say. 

I think that I have a tendency while reading to emotionally detach myself from the text, so that I am cognizant of what the passage is saying, but I'm not feeling what it is saying. It's so easy to nonchalantly say, "Oh yes, it's a horrible thing to be damned to Hell. I'm sure that would be awful." But there's no emotional understanding of what that truly means. It is HELL. It's not a bad place; it's the bad place. Torture and damnation for eternity.

I have to consciously make myself realize the magnitude of what that is, and sadly, that's how it has always been for me. I'm not sure if it's an outcome of my childhood or indicative of my character, but when I am being confronted with a situation or an idea that upsets me or touches me on a deep, personal level, I retreat inside myself. I automatically become an emotional void, and any feelings of anger or embarrassment or fear or sadness are pressed down deep inside, and eventually they engender a massive depression that leads to a massive, concentrated burst of emotion. 

And the scary part about all of this is it happens unconsciously. Sometimes I'm not even aware that something has upset me until an external sensation or action triggers it. However, I  don't want to externally express all of these reactions and emotions all the time, because I am an intensely private person (or I was until I came up with the idea for this blog... Huh. Go figure.) How do I reconcile these dangerous habits with my underlying personality? And what is it that has resulted in me reacting to these emotions in this way?

I think one of the hardest things to admit to myself is my own fear, and my inability to deal with that fear. And this fear isn't restricted to one subject: my fear of organized religion, my fear of relationships, my fear of loneliness, my fear of inadequacy. My fear of indifference. These are all pushed down deep inside of me day after day, coming out in random spurts at random times that shock and confuse the people around me (although, I really can't blame them, oh audience of mine).

Like when I was reading this selection by Jonathan Edwards. It almost felt like the entire reading was directly targeting my fears about religion, and trying to scare me into belief, which I also had a visceral reaction to. I resent and turn immediately defensive at the first hint of manipulation and intimidation, almost on an instinctual level, and Edwards' selection smacked strongly of intimidation. His use of direct Biblical quotes and references only strengthened the feeling.

It really began with John iii. 18, "He that believeth not is condemned already." For a person who can't even decide if God really exists, this statement threw me into a panic mode. I like to think that I am a fairly good person; maybe not perfect, but I certainly feel that I try to be the best person I can be, and to be told that even with all I am and all I'm doing I'm still damned to Hell not only deters me because of the intimidation factor, but also strikes strongly at my fear of inadequacy. I hate the feeling that I have tried my hardest to do something, to be the best person or daughter or friend I can be, and to be told that it just isn't good enough. That not only that, but I am going to be punished for my inadequacy. I guess that this also contributes to another one of my fears, my fear of the loss of control.

It's strange, because although I realize the Edwards' was considered an extremist even in his own time, much less by today's standards, and that there are many Christians out there who would disagree with his ideas, something in his words still affected me in such a way that I was unable to shake it off. It affected me so deeply that I had to write an entire blog post trying to work through it all. I guess that's the power of language, huh? 

It's strange the way our minds make connections. In the end, although his writing initially had me responding directly to his views about God and sinning and comparing it to my own life actions, what is really being uncovered here is all my underlying fears in my life. All those fears and how I deal with them on a day to day basis. I can't decide if this realization of what these fears are necessitates immediate action. As rational and logical as it would be to immediately try to confront these fears and how they affect my life and my psyche, I have a feeling that it is not going to be so easy... Funny how illogical things become when emotions are thrown into the mix, huh?

So for now, I'll just stick with the fact that I have realized what some of these fears are, and find some small irony in the fact that an 18th century "fire and brimstone" Puritan preacher is partially responsible for uncovering these fears. Besides, you can only process so much in one blog post, am I right?

Thoughts for the Day

November 17, 2013

Whew. This whole "daily blogging" thing is way harder than I thought it was going to be. Almost missed Sunday right there. As before, it's probably evident that I am fresh out of ideas for today. So I'll just leave you with a couple of thoughts...

Thought #1: Why is it that we never have the emotional responses that we think we should? We have all these expectations of how we see ourselves reacting in certain situations, or how other people think we should react to certain emotional stimulants. But when these expectations do not become a reality, we have a couple of different options. First, to think that there might be something wrong with ourselves because we are not reacting the way other people think we should (Example: Wow, am I a horrible person because I'm not more upset that [insert emotionally distressing problem here]?) Second, we try to force the response that we think should be happening, or that we expect we should be having. One example? Forced crying. Yep. I said it. It's not that I'm not already sad or anything, but my first reaction is not to bawl my eyes out. But then, for some reason, I get this idea that I'm not as sad/hurt/angry/emotional as someone who is crying. So I, not so much force, but more actively allow myself to cry. I'm not sure that makes sense to any of you out there in my dear audience. I'm not sure I even completely get it. And I'm sure there are other possible emotional responses to pick from besides these two. But right now, these seem to be all I can focus on. Another response, perhaps?

Thought #2: I've heard of the play, "All I Ever Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten." I've never actually seen this play, so I'm not 100% positive what exactly the content is, but as I've gotten further and further into college I've begun to hypothesize on what some of the points might be. The most prevalent point, and my personal favorite? Nap time. Nothing ever beats a good cat nap. Hence the short length of this blog. I hate to say it, but today a fully developed and complete blog was sacrificed on the altar of the cat nap. Or the extra-super-ultra-long cat nap. I think there's probably a word for that kind of nap... I shall get back to you on this. At the moment, all I can think about is the other thing that is sacrificed on the altar of cat naps (besides my homework, of course): dinnner. Now, what to eat...

Perseus vs. Atlas: Who's Holding the Weight of Your Conversation?

November 16, 2013

Last night I went out dancing with my friends. This isn't that unusual. I do this most Friday nights. No, what was different on this particular dancing night was that I decided to stop by my favorite coffee shop and grab a 12 oz. mocha with whip cream before I went. (The whip cream part is important; it makes every beverage infinitely better). Since you, dear audience, are not privy to my dietary proclivities, I'm going to share a little secret. I don't handle caffeine well.

In fact, if we are going to be sharing secrets, I actually don't like coffee all that much in the first place. This coffee shop which I found in college, called Cold Smoke, has produced the first coffee beverage that I actually find delicious. It should also be noted that I am also not a big fan of pop, and never have been. What this all adds up to is that I have an incredibly low tolerance for caffeine. One cup of single-shot coffee has me so wired you would think I was wasted. Since I don't drink and really don't have the inclination to ever pick up the habit, I've decided that this is going to become my new form of drunk. I shall dub it... "Coffee Drunk"!

Let me describe to you the symptoms of my state of "coffee drunk." For starters, I have a ridiculous amount of excess energy, to the point where I am physically incapable of sitting still (this comes in handy when you go dancing straight afterwards; this is less helpful when trying to stay awake and study for an exam). Second, I can't focus on anything. (Again, no help with the studying. Are we beginning to see why I am an abysmally atypical college student?) Third, I am able to talk just as fast as I can think. And that's pretty darn fast. Surprisingly enough, if you can keep up with the pace my conversation is fairly coherent. I feel a little like Hammy the Squirrel off of Over the Hedge. Except I like to think that I'm a little less scraggly. And finally, all my usual censors are lost. Well, not all of them. But a majority of the things that I would normally screen in my mind before deciding if they are a suitable topic for conversation... Well, they're fair game. 

All of these symptoms add up to a me that is significantly different than my normal, suave self. Typically, I'm a fairly reserved, sarcastic individual. The sarcasm stays with the caffeine; it just becomes a little more blunt and a lot more giggly. Which I'm not proud of. I despise giggles.  

So last night, coffee in hand, I went to campus to do some swing dancing. Oh boy. Turns out that you actually need to be able to focus in order to follow well in swing dancing. Don't even get me started on leading. So, the end result is that all of the extra energy I gained from the coffee was negated by the inability to apply it in a structured format, a.k.a. dancing. This translates to an excess of swivels, rock steps, and bruised toes. Luckily all of the leads were perfect gentlemen about it and chose to be amused at my chipmunk-like demeanor. If I were to hazard a guess, I think that I was called either "cute," "adorable," or "amusing" over twenty different times. I was of course mortally offended. I'm not cute. I'm ferocious. Get it right.

But that isn't the point of this whole conversation. The point is that the coffee got me talkative enough that I lost all my inhibitions and talked up this guy who I always have a hard time talking to. This isn't because I'm desperately in love with him or anything (come on, I don't read that many romance novels...) or even that I find him to be uncomfortable or uninteresting. It just seems like every time we have a conversation, I end up being Atlas and he gets to be Perseus. What I mean is, I get to be the person who holds the weight of our conversation on my shoulders. On days when I have an abundance of energy (like when I'm all jacked up on coffee and can't keep my mouth shut) this isn't a problem. But on the days when I'm feeling like a normal, sane person, this can be occasionally frustrating. Okay, more than occasionally.  

I don't know if any of you out there in my audience have ever had this experience. I find that it happened to me quite frequently in high school, especially with boys. Always with boys. They say "Hey, what's up?" and then the remainder of their side of the conversation is constituted of "cool," "sweet," "awesome," "yes," no," and "yeah, me too." 

Oh. My. Goodness.

I can't handle it. I just can't handle it. The inane inevitability of it all. The feeling that the only way this person is going to continue wanting to associate with me is if I'm being the Atlas of the conversation makes me feel both infuriated and inadequate. What, am I not interesting enough to talk to for you to give me an answer that's longer than one sentence? One word? Thank you for that ego boost. 

And that's how it always was with this guy. Don't get me wrong, he's a pretty cool guy and a really good friend. But talking to him, especially while at dancing, makes me want to extract all of my toenails with a pair of pliers. And the most frustrating part is that the awkward silences and the stilted conversation is constantly juxtaposed against the intimacy and partnership of dancing. Maybe I'm one of the only people in my age group who analyzes social interaction like an English paper, but it still bugs the crap out of me. And that is a legitimate emotion that no one has the right to minimize. Don't rain on my weird parade. 

You want to know what the crazy thing was though? He was aware of it too! He actually said to me, after our first dance of the night, "I think you just said more to me in one dance than you've said to me in the whole last year!" NO SHIT SHERLOCK! It's because every time I try to have a conversation with you, you never respond to anything! I'm not a person to go beating a dead horse. I'd much rather go talk with someone who participates in the conversation, thank you very much!

So I guess my question for the day is... Is this a normal guy-girl thing? Because I have the sneaking suspicion that this is not the case. But apparently it is for me, because every guy I talk to seems to be afflicted with this particular conversational quirk. Maybe I'm just boring... Ouch. 

Well, whatever the problem is, apparently it can be solved by being coffee drunk. Because although I'm still Atlas, at least I'm pretty darn psyched about carrying the conversation around on my shoulders. 

When You Just Can't Write Anything Right

November 15, 2013

There are going to be days when everything that you come up with or try to write down sounds like all kinds of butterscotch (otherwise known as B.S.). Today is one of those days.

My previous self would have immediately given up on trying to write at all and counted today as a day when I am incapable of writing anything intelligent. But, dang it, I've made a commitment to writing on this blog every day. So, get ready for one awkward, probably uninteresting, and quite disjointed post.  

Here are some of the random and unconnected thoughts that I've had in the past couple of weeks:

Thought #1: I saw a huge Ford F350 in one of the parking lots at school this week while walking back to my truck after organic chemistry (which is kicking my butt at the moment). In the box of this ginormous (and ugly, because I am of the opinion that all Fords are ugly) truck was a huge square bale. And not one of those small squares that you stack by hand and feed to your horses. No, one of the humongous, trying-to-be-a-round-bale-yet-still-a-square-bale bales that you need  a forklift to feed. And it was just chilling in the back of this truck, in the middle of a college campus. I realize that I go to a land-grant college that has a major focus on agriculture, but seriously. And the craziest thing? I was overcome with this irrational urge to steal that hay bale right out of the back of that truck and take it home with me. If it had been a small square, I might have just taken it. Do I have any place to put it? No. Do I even have any uses for/animals to feed the hay bale to? No. But I wanted it anyways. You know your an agriculture nut when...

Thought #2: Is there any man more perfect than Welsey off The Princess Bride? I was reminded of this when I was walking across campus and came across a guy that had perfect Wesley hair. Pre-pirate, not post. You know what I'm talking about. That golden hair with the slight wave? The one that makes you want to say, "Farmboy, fetch me that water!" If any of you out there in my audience don't know what I'm talking about and haven't seen The Princess Bride, shame. Shame on you. And your parents. And your childhood. Because The Princess Bride is an undisputed classic that everyone should watch at least once, even if just to hear Vizzini yell, "Inconceivable!" and have Inigo reply, "I do not think that means what you think it means..."

Thought #3: Sometime I wish that they would invent a hair magnet. Anyone who has ever had an indoor pet knows exactly what I'm talking about. I have one indoor cat, and yet I swear that there is no where that I can go in my apartment without encountering cat hair. Not even the shower. This might have something to do with my penchant for giving my cat monthly baths, but still... It's all over your clothes, your bedding, your shoes, your stove, your dishes, your floors. Everything. And no amount of vacuuming or lint rollers is going to get rid of it. Some days I just want to crawl out of my skin with the nastiness of it all. But the truth is, I can't blame it all on the cat. Because my roommate and I shed just as much hair as the cat does. That's what you get when you live in a space with two long-haired girls and one long-haired cat. But sometimes, I just want to be able to turn on some kind of machine that would magically suck all the hair out of my apartment. And don't you dare say, "That's what vacuum cleaners are for!" I will hunt you down and make you eat hair if you do. Just try me.

Hopefully I will be struck with inspiration overnight and come back to you with something more interesting on the morrow. Until then... 

On The Elegance of the Hedgehog

November 14, 2013

So a couple weeks ago I was poking around in my employers' library trying to find a book to read because I was in active avoidance mode, as far as my homework was concerned. Realize that typically when I am in this mood, I usually am looking for the cliche, easy-to-read, smutty romance novels that are both sickly sweet and strangely addicting. Maybe some time in the future I'll tell you a little bit about my horrible addiction to romance novels... 

Anyways, I was in the library trying valiantly to forget that I was in college and had homework that was supposed to be done, when I came across this novel by Muriel Barbery called The Elegance of the Hedgehog. I'm not going to lie, the hedgehog part was what initially caught my eye. (Spoiler alert: There's not an actual hedgehog in the entire story.) But, as I read the front flap of the book trying to figure out if this was a Brian Jacques knock-off, I was faintly intrigued by the plot line of the story.  

This story is told from the viewpoint of two narrators. The first, and primary, narrator is a older French woman in her fifties who works as a concierge at a hôtel in the center of Paris. Apparently in France, a hôtel is another word for an apartment building or a type of townhouse; it's not actually available for travelers or guests and functions as more of a permanent residence. Renee is not particularly attractive, or charismatic, and is generally overlooked by most of the people who live in the building. She's also an autodidact, or a self-taught person. While the rest of the building thinks she's spending her entire day watching cheesy soaps on television, she's in the back room reading Voltaire and listening to Mahler. And she's wickedly funny. She spends most of her time observing the rich people who live in the building, making caustic comments on their attitude and lifestyle. 

The second narrator is a twelve-year-old girl named Paloma. She lives with her family, the Josses, who live on the fifth floor. As with Renee, she is also quite hilarious, in a horribly dark way. You see, although she's quite intelligent for her age (or at least she thinks so, since she's narrating about herself), she's disgusted by the bourgeoisie lifestyle of her family and their friends, and she's completely against becoming an adult like them. So, to avoid this fate and ending up in the "goldfish bowl," as she puts it, she plans to commit suicide on her thirteenth birthday. Yes. I know. Dark, right? But the thing is, as you read her entries and get a feeling for why exactly she has decided on this path and her impressions of the world, you, as the audience, get it, just a little bit. 

A series of events happen that leads to a new resident coming to the building, one Kakero Ozu. It's never clear what exactly his profession is, although I think it had something to do with a technological corporation. However, the arrival of Ozu sets some new things in motion that cause both Renee and Paloma to transform beyond their current selves.

Now, this isn't some book review where I pass judgement on an author's work like I'm some kind of authority. And I don't want to spoil the end of the novel for you, just in case any of you in my dear audience feel the need to go out and read it for yourselves (which I totally recommend, as this is now one of my top ten favorite books, ever). What I actually wanted to focus on in this post was some of  the ideas that came up in the novel, and why I thought they were so thought-provoking. 

I might bring up this novel again in some later posts, because it is simply so rich and fantastic that I don't think I will be able to resist the temptation. However, to begin with, I think I'm going to start with explaining Paloma's concept of the "goldfish bowl." This is for two reasons. 

Reason #1: I already mentioned the goldfish bowl, and there's has got to be at least one of you out there that is wondering what the heck I am talking about. 

Reason #2: I also used to fear the goldfish bowl, feeling like I would be forever stuck in it. In my case, it was more of a geological phenomenon, where the location I moved to was surrounded closely by mountains and made me feel at times like I was suffocating. I still think it should count as a plausible reason though.

To understand some of the context of this passage, you should know that the book is set up like short journal entries or academic papers. Renee's entries are generally uniform and have titles such as "The Miracles of Art" or "On Wars and Colonies." Paloma, however, chooses to organize her entries under two categories: "Profound Thoughts" and "Journal of the Movement of the World." Each entry is also accompanied by a piece of original poetry, structured in the Japanese style of haiku (three lines) or tanka (five lines). Both of the main characters seem to have a fascination for Japanese literature and culture (another plus for me, as I am afflicted with the same malaise). This excerpt comes from her first entry, labeled Profound Thought No. 1, and accompanied by the following haiku:

Follow the stars

In the goldfish bowl

An end

I have never been very proficient at deciphering poetry, so I derived more meaning from the following passage, where Paloma introduces the concept of the goldfish bowl.

"Apparently, now and again adults take the time to sit down and contemplate what a disaster their life is. They complain without understanding, and, like flies constantly banging against the same old windowpane, they buzz around, suffer, waste away, get depressed then wonder how they got caught up in this spiral that is taking them where they don't want to go. The most intelligent among them turn it into a religion: oh, the despicable vacuousness of bourgeois existence! Cynics of this kind frequently dine at Papa's table: "What has become of the dreams of our youth?" they ask, with their smug, disillusioned air. "Those years are long gone, and life's a bitch." I despise this false lucidity that comes with age. The truth is that they are just like everyone else: kids who don't understand what has happened to them and who act big and tough when in fact all they want is to burst into tears.

[...]

All our family acquaintances have followed the same path: their youth spent trying to make the most of their intelligence, squeezing their studies like a lemon to make sure they'd secure a spot among the elite, then their entire lives wondering with a flabbergasted look on their faces why all that hopefulness has led to such a vain existence. People aim for the stars and they end up like goldfish in a bowl. I wonder if it wouldn't be simpler just to teach children right from the start that life is absurd. That might deprive you of a few good moments in your childhood but it would save you a considerable amount of time as an adult — not to mention the fact that you'd be spared at least one traumatic experience, i.e. the goldfish bowl." - pages 22-23, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

I apologize for giving you such a blocky quotation. If my English teacher could see this now, I would be in a world of trouble. I apologize, Mrs. Brown. This is why I'm majoring in Animal Science and not English. 

I guess this quotation hit something in me because it reminds me so much of what we see out in the media nowadays. A bunch of scared, dissatisfied adults (or even teenagers) looking back on their life and trying to generalize all of their experiences with phrases such as, "Life's a bitch!" Not that I'm not occasionally guilty of this myself. And not that it doesn't momentarily feel as if I have come up with something witty and clever and deep and damn profound. And yet, then there are times when I look at all the memes on Facebook and the endless inspirational quotes, and I sit there and think, Okay, really... Who are we kidding here? Because there are times when I snap out of my self-absorption and think like Paloma,  that this is all just some transparent cage that we swim around and around in, without even realizing that we are doing it. 

Is Paloma absolutely correct in all that she accuses adults of? Is she (or rather, the author) the ultimate authority on how to make life decisions and judge the value of your existence? Of course not. But something about the way that she phrases this always makes me sit back and think... Am I in a goldfish bowl?  

On Nutella And Being An Adult

November 13, 2013

I was rereading my first-ever blog post from yesterday, and I had a thought. When in the world did I become such an angst-ridden teenager? Then I had a second, and even more perturbing thought. I'm not actually a teenager anymore. Crap. There goes that excuse. 

For your enlightenment, dear audience, you should know that I had my twentieth birthday a couple weeks ago, and I am now inhabiting that nebulous space between teenage life and adulthood. Because let's be honest. Even though I'm legally an adult, no one's going to treat me like one until I can legally walk up to a counter and declare, "Bartender, your finest scotch please!" Not that I have any inclination to go out and get smashed. And not that I couldn't find some alcohol anyways, if I really wanted to. No, it's the principle of the matter. And the matter is, no one is going to think of me as an adult until I can buy the gang a round of drinks. Or a pack of disgustingly cheap beer. Depends on your gang, I suppose. And yet, I have forever lost the ability to hide behind the convenient (though still not legitimate) excuse of being a teenager. Oh dear. 

In my mind, there are three levels of adulthood. Apparently, in our society, it's too stressful to spring it on you all at once. So it's broken down into three easy steps.

Step #1: You've just turned 18! You are now legally allowed to shrivel up your lungs with excessive amounts of smoke and nicotine, gamble away all your money in an Indian casino, and get your butt landed in a state penitentiary when you decide to act like a stupid idiot. On the plus side, you are also allowed to sign your life away whenever you please without the consent of a parent and/or guardian. Tell me more!

Step #2: You've just turned 21! Feel free to go get yourself rip-roaring drunk and to illegally supply all your younger siblings and acquaintances with alcoholic beverages. You also have now received the honor of getting your brand-new driver's license. (At one point, I knew what the difference was between the a teenage license and an adult one. Now, I really couldn't tell you.)

Step #3: You've just turned 25! (Or 24, or 26. I think it varies depending on your provider...) You have now earned the privilege of going out and obtaining your own health/dental/car insurance. No more leaching off your parents' plan. And at this point in your life, you've managed to become a fully-fledged adult. Good luck, sucker. 

Okay, rereading this last part, it occurred to me that you, oh audience of mine, might be getting the wrong impression here. I would like to state here and now that I am in no way against becoming an adult. In fact, during high school I was one of the teenagers that was ready to skip the whole immature, adolescent stage and skip right to the adult stage. Being immature just takes so much energy. And as for the teenager excuse, I have as much respect for that line of thinking as the whole "boys will be boys" shtick. Which, in short, is no respect at all. 

So, in most respects, I was one of those rare teenagers that was actually looking forward to the whole adult thing. You know, buying groceries, paying bills, setting your own hours, getting a job, decorating your own place. And yes, I think that this is probably atypical. I've made my peace with that. But still, even though I never felt particularly inclined to cower behind the whole teenager excuse to distance myself from taking responsibility for my actions, there is still something slightly sad about realizing that I am now an adult. That from now on I shall always be an adult. Never again a teenager. 

I occasionally have these little epiphanies. During my last big one, during my junior year of high school, I coined the term "Peter Pan Syndrome." For any medical/psychological buffs out there in my dear audience, I would like to make a disclaimer right now that I am 95% certain that this is not actually a thing. And I am not going to ever claim that it is. But it made me feel slightly better, and that little linguistic demon in my soul was tickled pink by the cleverness of it all. Peter Pan Syndrome. For those of you who don't watch Disney as much as I do (which is a shame and should be rectified immediately), Peter Pan is a Disney character who is perpetually a little boy who never wants to grow up. When I am overcome with Peter Pan Syndrome (PPS), I have this irrational need to go back to when I was younger, with less responsibilities and worries in my life, when everything seemed simpler. 

I was originally hit with this when I had to start applying for colleges. Every time the guidance counselor came into the room and started telling us all about all the tests that we needed to take and applications that we needed to fill out and qualifications we needed to meet, I wanted to slip out the door and run until I couldn't run anymore. I don't know if any of you have ever experienced that particular feeling. It might be due to the fact that I ran long distance all through high school, and I often spent a lot of time talking about all the problems in my life while on runs with the team. When faced with a particular stressful situation, I still feel the irrational need to sprint it out of my system. 

The stupidest part of the whole thing was the fact that I really didn't have anything to worry about. I was a 4.0 student who was on the varsity cross country and track teams, with decent extra-curriculars and volunteer hours. To top it all off, standardized tests and I have always been simpatico, so I really had nothing to stress about. And yet. And yet.

This is when I first realized a serious onset of PPS. I wanted to be back in middle school. No, even better, elementary school. When all you had to worry about was which team to be on at recess and finishing your one page homework for math class. And even though I rationally knew that life and college were going to continue to move forward with or without my cooperation, I still continued to pretend to not see it. Then proceeded to stress about the fact that I was pretending not to see it. Because I am one of those horrible perfectionists that can't relax if I know that something that is supposed to be completed is not being worked on, even if I am the one who chose not to work on it. The curse of the procrastinating perfectionist. 

I continued on that particular track until I had driven myself into a cynical, stressed, nervous wreck. And yes, the cynical part is important. Not only because it seems to be one of my prominent personality traits, but also because it seemed to indicate the doomed nature of the whole endeavor. Because no matter how I struggled against it, part of me was quite aware that I was still going to end up caving in and taking those tests. Filling out those applications. Meeting those qualifications. Because even though some romantic, philosophic, and yes, cowardly part of my soul didn't want to move beyond the expectations and experiences of my elementary school self, and was sad at the idea that I would never be able to touch that existence in that way ever again, my practical and rational self was both expectant and excited when considering being an adult. 

And I suppose that's what I again thought of when I was rereading my previous post and realizing that I could never again be a teenager. It's not even that I was particularly enamored of being a teenager. Because I wasn't. Not at all. The whole "during high school was the best years of my life" idea was something that I never ascribed to, even while in high school. There are bigger and better things than being a teenager. But looking at myself now, and realizing that I can never go back, that I am going to be pushed forward through life whether I agree with it or not, well, it was a paradigm shift for me. It was one of those moments when I felt what I already knew. It became so much more real for me. This is it, I thought. I can't ever go back. At that moment in time, it became an entirely tangible possibility for me that I was going to grow older and eventually die. And well, we all know how cheery that particular thought is. 

Okay, that's enough of that. If  I continue to contemplate my eventual death, I might convince myself that I really don't need to finish that lab report that I need to work on, because, you know, I'll die in the end anyways, so what's the point? Which is not productive at all. So instead, I'll give you one more little tidbit to chew on, because I bet at least one of you in my dear audience is burning to ask the question, What the heck is with the Nutella?

Truthfully, the Nutella has nothing to do with the rest of this. I was just eating some this afternoon and realized that Nutella might possibly be the nectar of the gods. But only possibly. Because as much as I hate to sound like some kind of PMSing chick, chocolate also has this kind of irresistible magnetism that I can never overcome, no matter how many times I tell myself to just eat an apple instead. Then I proceed to slice the apple and dip it in the chocolate and delude myself into thinking that I'm eating a healthy snack. However, at this moment in time, I think that Nutella has eked out a slim lead in my heart as far as comfort foods go, and I just felt the need to share it with all of you.  

And So It Begins...

November 12, 2013

If someone had asked me in high school, or even a year ago, if I was the kind of person who would have started, of my own volition, a blog that has no academic purpose (or even a purpose in general), I would have bequeathed them with... The Look.

You know. The Look. In glorious capital letters. We all have one. Some are more fantastic than others. They tend to be an expression of our general outlook on the world, on life. As I don't often have the pleasure of giving myself The Look, I am going to be shooting from the hip here on the exact impression people derive from my Look. My goal is to generally say, "Pfffft." Or, on a particularly sassy day, "Piffle." 

I digress.

The point of that was that I have never imagined myself to be a person who posts all their quibbles and trials on the World Wide Web. I am generally a very reserved person. My Facebook post frequency is about one post per three to four months. This may be a reflection on how boring my life is, but I like to console myself with the idea that I am just a rather private person who doesn't need to post every little detail of my life in order to get attention. I suspect that this whole undertaking might shoot that particular fantasy to Hell. 

I'm not sure if you are really out there, oh nebulous audience. For the sake of my rather fragile ego, I am going to pretend that you are out there. If I don't receive any comments otherwise, I am also going to take the liberty to imagine that you, my spellbound audience, think that everything I say is both riotously funny and touchingly profound. Please allow me my little vanities.

I speculate on all this because I am a novice in the blogging world, and as I am unable to navigate the blogging world and discover new and interesting blogs without the aid of friendly Facebook posts by intellectually-minded acquaintances, I am going to assume that no one will stumble upon my own little blog either. Because what this truly is, or so I am adamantly telling myself, is a last-ditch attempt to impose some kind of reverse-entropy on my life. Or maybe allow a safe structure with which to release all of... Whatever it seems needs to be released. 

I cannot even completely explain it to myself. Which is quite perturbing. I have a great fondness for language and the power that it holds. Nothing makes me giddier than phrasing something just so. The idea that I have this huge dilemma, this monstrous presence that is wreaking havoc on my life and I cannot even pin a name to it makes me want to tear out all my hair (which I have a prodigious amount of, by the by). And so begins this blog. This rather public, yet anonymous, diary-journal-something that I am going to commit to posting to. Religiously. Every day. 

The thing is, at this moment, I can believe that this is the truth. That's part of my problem, you see, oh dear audience of mine. On days like today I encounter something in my life that fills me with drive, with purpose and direction, with motivation. On days like today I can look ahead into my life and see all that's waiting to be done and experienced and accomplished. And I can see myself doing it too. I have this wondrous vision of who and what I want to be, and I see the path of exactly how to get there. And I'm filled with this fantastic, light, frothy feeling. Like someone decided to bake the perfect crème brûlée in my chest cavity.  I think it might possibly be what some would call "enlightenment." My ego hasn't expanded to quite that size yet, oh audience of mine, but I have the general inkling that it might be a small step on the journey there. 

The problem, dear audience, is when tomorrow comes. And that might not actually be tomorrow. It might be in the next three hours, when I have to go to class and listen to some professor drone on about a subject which I have no interest for. Or it might be in the next thirty minutes when I convince myself that yes, the dishes do need to be done, and no, it's really not the best idea to put it off until tomorrow, and yes, I can do them all by myself, and no, it's really not that freaking hard. Or it might be this weekend, when I let myself sleep in for a morning and end up lazing about all day, sufficiently killing every productive bone in my body. Or it might be two weeks from now, when I travel 5 hours home for Thanksgiving alone, save for my cat, in a vehicle, slowly succumbing to the motion sickness that always plagues me when I travel. 

My point is, tomorrow always comes. And when it arrives, the light, frothy, crème brûlée feeling has vanished, leaving in its place one of many less fantastic, less delightful feelings that generally characterize day-to-day life. And this is not bad, dear audience. This is life. Life cannot be one continuous, frothy crème brûlée. Vegetables can be just as delightful as a sugary dessert (although, don't let my mother catch wind of that particular admission, or I'll be bombarded with more winter squash than I know what to do with). My problem comes when, for some reason, the absence of the sugary dessert and the transition to the nutritious and (sometimes) delicious vegetable experiences some kind of disconnect. And when this happens, no food is consumed at all, whether it be sugary or not. When this happens, I sink into some kind of pit that I cannot crawl back out of. I don't care anymore. I just don't. Some part of me knows that, well, I really should. It's more logical and beneficial and frankly enjoyable to care, to accomplish, to complete, to maintain. I know all of this. I just don't feel it. 

I think that is an important distinction. I know a great many things. I should, I've been in school for almost 15 years. I can write a paper, perform equations, write a lab report (under extreme duress, because lab reports and I are bitter enemies till the end), give a speech, analyze a text, apply a principle. And yet. And yet. These are all the things I know. How much do I actually feel? I know that if I don't apply myself I'll lose my scholarship and my chance for my ideal future. But can I feel it? Can anyone? Can I feel that utter distress, that horrible, irrevocable loss of a chance that may never come my way again? Even as I write this, describing with words the wrenching, devastating agony that comes from lost opportunities and wrecked hopes and dreams, I still doubt my ability to feel that consequence in my soul, to truly understand that reality. And so, I push myself. I procrastinate, I half-ass, I squeak by, trying to stimulate some kind of panic as a way to get myself in gear. Is this the smartest way to handle my life and my education? Probably not. In fact, most definitely not. And yet. And yet. 

And so begins this blog. My attempt at creating some kind of framework in my life with which to pull myself out of the dark pit of my mind. To foster some kind of commitment. To halt the eternal slide into the schlump of laziness. To develop some sort of constancy that I can fall back on when tempted to say, "Oh fuck all this shit." And that, oh non-existent audience of mine, is what you're here for. You are the silent witness to my struggle. If a stray happens to wander to this blog through the intricate and dark pathways of the web, and actually feels interested enough to read this mammoth monologue, feel free to comment. Who am I to complain at extra incentive to stick with my goal? But that really isn't what I am expecting from this endeavor. In truth, I simply need some kind of framework with which to let out all this... something. Everything. Nothing. And it needs to be out here, in the open, not buried in a journal on my bookshelf or in the archives of my computer. It needs to be laid out in the open for me to see. For the world to see.