Why NOT World Peace?

***Disclaimer: This post is probably not a good idea for people who are narrow-minded, overly judgmental of 3am blog posts, or who are smarter than me.***

If I may preach a bit:

People always say that life is full of choices.

Why is it that when beauty pageant contestants are asked what their one wish would be, they always seem to say World Peace? Does this seem a little too consistent to anyone else, like maybe they've all visited the same lobotomy doctor? Why not an end to famine, or an end to American obesity? Or heck, if you're going to go that far into the realm of "anything's possible" lobotomized thinking, why not just say "World Happiness" and leave it at that. I'm sure it would lead to World Peace, but the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. For example,
there might technically be peace in America, but that doesn't mean that thousands don't go to sleep hungry. And loads of people commit suicide every day.

As Aldous Huxley suggested in a Brave New World, peace all over the world won't necessarily mean that everything is going to be okay. We could have peace and subjugation, like in Orwell's 1984. Or, we could one day reach peace simply because we've become too compliant to fight with each other. Maybe we're all going to drown ourselves in pleasure until we're either too fat or too stoned to care about anything, much less fighting for things we want or think we need.
Whatever the case, (and I know that this is an unpopular point of view) I don't necessarily feel that peace is the answer to all of our problems. An end to fighting will not end hatred for the small-minded, just as an end to discussion will not end a difference in opinion.

I started thinking along this line of topic earlier tonight when Tara asked me what I would end, if I could end anything in the world. I thought about it for about two seconds. "Dishonesty" was my answer. In this, I meant that not only would people no longer feel the need or be able to lie to one another, but to themselves as well. Just think, about 70% of the world's problems would become that much simpler. No more murders going unpunished, because all we would have to do is ask someone if they did it, and they would respond. No more closet pornography addicts
masquerading as husbands and fathers. Much less gossip, because people would only say what they knew to be true. No more relationship grief, no more cheating. Dating would be a cinch: "Do you like me?" "No." "Okay then, thanks for playing." No more crappy talk shows. Lawyers would be nearly obsolete. No more international terrorism: "Do you have a bomb?" "No." "Okay then, have a nice flight, Mr. Abdul." No more girls pretending to eat. No more wondering whether what a person is saying is genuine.

I think in all the world, the thing that has caused me the most pain over time has been not knowing the truth until it is too late, or being mislead by people I trusted. Which is not to say that I've never lied. I have, and I know the shame that comes from knowingly presenting the
opposite of truth, and the effects it can have on the world. If I could go back in time, I think the ONLY things I would change are things I have said that were either untrue in general, or untrue to myself as a person. There is no despair greater than hindsight, the knowledge that you went down a path without letting yourself truly see what you were doing, or thinking about what your choices meant.

Why not just re-evaluate some things? Maybe we're not all really living the lives we seem to lead. In fact, I'm sure a lot of us aren't. If we all took a second to question our motives, or ask ourselves if we really believe the things that we say, wouldn't things like war and hatred just kind of die out on their own? And if they didn't, at least we wouldn't have to walk around in so many circles before we came up with a solution to each of the world's problems.

Stress = School + Time x Apathy. Solution = Comic

Avatars

Hey, it's me if I were made by a crazy Japanese animation person!

Abnormal Malady

My heart is pounding, my breath comes in shorts gasps. My head feels as if it's about to explode. I can't remember a time when I did not feel this way, as though memories of the light and life that used to be mine have been snuffed out, along with my ability to breathe normally. My hands shake, my voice is a scarred and unrealistic representation of itself- or maybe it's really someone else's. My neck wants to collapse with the burden of holding my pounding head erect, and I never want to leave this bed again to venture out into the cruel world that caused this terrible state.

What is wrong with me, you ask? Is it unrequited love? Anger? Jealousy? Hate?

No. It's a freaking head cold. And I swear on everything both holy and desecrated that if it moves into my chest, there won't be words for the suffering that follows. Call me dramatic, but I hate being sick more than anything else in the entire world. More than being tired, wet, cold, or drowning. Seriously, it sucks. Pity me, cause I don't know if I'm going to make it!

Treatise on School

In this, my friends, I'll be brief.



School is a bore,

And feels like a chore

Instead of before,

When I loved to explore

What was in store.

There was knowledge galore

And now, I implore

Each day is a war,

For class I ignore

I don't go anymore.

My money I pour

Don't check my test score

My head's a dull roar,

And school makes me snore

So let's go to war,

And rebel some more

"It's on!" will we roar

As we even the score,

With our once paramour

And school will be nevermore.

Stolen Philosophies

"The best way to waste your life, ... is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch. Look for the details. Report. Don't participate.” - Chuck Palahniuk

I love this. It's what I'm all about lately. Don't think. Don't study things out overmuch. Don't worry what is going to happen if I choose A, or what could've happened if I chose B. Watch, and learn, and be. Reporting is what I do. I see subtle hints in the world, themes and quirks that make up life- and I express it the way I can. Living is what I have often studied, but not truly done until now. Enjoyment can be found in the simplest things. People have been saying it for centuries, and why disagree? Why not just seek instead to find those things for ourselves? I have never been an advocate of the "Life should be easy" school of thought, but I do not believe that life should be automatic. Or programmed. Like everything that is divine in man's experience, great events in life should be surprising, revolutionary, and profound. I endeavor to live an existence comprised of such moments. To record my profound moments of inspiration as if they are Iliads or Odysseys of epic proportions. Because for me, they are.

What can I say that hasn't already been said?

This pretty much says it all: everything there is to know about me right now.

Pen Holder, Flyleaf

I feel your eyes crawling over me
As though I am something more than me
But I don't have anything good enough to say
I did not make myself this way

I'll show you what he did,
But I won't take the credit
It's not mine anyway
I just held the pen that day

And I don't deserve this
This time right now
It's not something for which I can take the bow
And I don't deserve this
It wasn't me
I can't take glory for something that I can't be
I don't deserve this

I know what perfection is like
And I cannot stand before its might
And I'm so far from what you think that I must be
I just drown myself in mercy

And all the art that I supposedly create
Is simply a faded reflection of something He's already made

Endings and Beginnings

When I someday sit down and write the story of my life, it will be merely the highlights--the parts that I remember, that have stood out in some way because of their importance. Moments like this, they seem so crucial when they happen, until a little time passes and then they pale in comparison with the things that last. These moments I'm referring to are the endings.

No one really knows, when a saga begins, if it will be one that continues forever. Was it a chance meeting between two heavanly beings, destined to collide and form a greater body much later in history? Do two events merely brush for a moment, and then continue on barely worse for the wear? I submit that you'll never really know if you've begun an ending, or a beginning, until it ends. Or, it doesn't.

This happens in every aspect of life. Some seem to have it figured out from the beginning, but really, they just chose right on the first try. Others of us locate our destinies by the trial and error method, finding out what is wrong only when we hit the wall and have to go back again. I seem to do this a lot more often, and in my search for the path that is truly mine to wear, I seem to have covered more territory. In this way, I am an accidental explorer of possible destinies, a traveler on walkabout who often becomes lost but is not really lost at all, because the destination is as yet unknown. Yes, in this way, I tend to earn a bit more than my share of scrapes and scars, but I also end up with more stories to tell at the end of the day.

And today is an ending. One that I will not regret, for I cannot have known. It's true that there will always be second-guessing, on whether I should have turned back much earlier, or brought along less baggage that I will now have to lug all the way home, or perhaps whether the choice to pursue this particular path was even a strong bet. In the end, all I can do is shrug, rub some ointment on it, and shoulder my pack for another beginning. One which will hopefully end differently, or not at all.

Faking It

Whenever a door closes, another one (or a window) opens. Variations of such. It just wasn't meant to be. Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. You're so much better off without him, her, them. Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened.
Fake it till you make it.

A lot of people say a lot of things about love. Some say it is an illusion, or that there are different levels unseen to the human eye, and each has its own different set of rules. Some also say that it is foolish to give love without receiving it in return, instead going about it in increments, until the person to whom you are giving your heart matches your bet and then raises to the next level. That is the logical economical way of going about loving people, like it's a casino game.

But in my life, I've come to realize a curse I seem to have that's maybe not a curse at all. I seem to always be giving my heart to people who either don't really want all of it, want it only some of the time, or change their minds and try to return it later. Or, I'll want to give it but when I go to look for it, it's gone and I can't seem to remeber who I loaned it to that hasn't yet given it back. Life is funny that way. Great minds are always quoting about how you can choose everything. But there are a lot of things that I find myself doing that I didn't choose. Holding onto things that my mind doesn't want anymore, or fighting against feelings that I can't explain, I don't know where they come from.

I like to think of myself as an independant force, completely in control of my own actions. But sometimes I have to wonder who is really pulling the strings. Because I know it's not me. Or is it just a different version? In times like these, I find that I enter a semi-liquid state. No longer a rock, my feelings change drastically and daily, and I often don't know which way is up. But I pretend I do, because showing my fear and asking for help would be totally unacceptable. So I freeze or I boil, depending on the day. But on the outside, I'm jello. I bounce back from everything that happens to me (or it looks like I do) and wiggle in a cheery way so that no one gets down by being around me. (I actually really do this, in case you've never seen it.) I smile and laugh and sometimes I think am actually a more likeable person when I'm secretly miserable.

Sometimes, I'm proud of my ability to so convincingly fake it until I make it. But I have to wonder, what happens when I do make it, but can't stop faking?

Insurrection in Matrimonia

I love creme brulee. It's a delicious french dessert, and it never fills you up, and yet somehow you end up regretting it, but in a good way. But my favorite part is the crispy sugary crust that coats the top of the underlying gooiness... and this is where that tangent ends. However, the tangent did have a point, and it was that sometimes, there is a gooey exterior hidden underneath a sometimes brittle or sugary topping.

In the first case, I would like to point out exibit A. The roomate, I think we're calling her Ohara, who is actually a lot like me. You see, at first, I had her pegged as one of those girls who is, ah... shall we say, kind of a brat. Daddy's girl, different boy every week, yada yada yada... but in short, I was way off. She's actually a super nice, way cool person who is secretly hilarious. And then there's Helga. Exhibit B. I somehow managed to leave this out last time, but ironically enough my second (obviously not the first, which was the "I hate animals" convo) impression of her was pretty good. She seemed nice, actually. And this is where we draw the line between the creamy broads and the rotten fruits.

See, we had a conversation in my house tonight that didn't just scare me, it kinda terrified me. Because somehow, it started out as a free-for-all making fun of engagement pictures time, and before we knew it, most of the cynics present had brought out their prototype wedding rings and were comparing band sizes and carat preferences. Can I just say AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
UUUUGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ?

I appear to be living with a house full of closet matrimoniphiles. Are you SERIOUS!? Here, I thought that moving into an older ward of house dwellers was like anti-engagement insurance. And now I see I've unwittingly joined the secret chapter of Marriage Hopefuls Anonymous.

I mean, don't get me wrong, marriage to the "right one" is great and everything, but I tend to look at is more as a life-changing pact between two people who are really, really into each other. Not so much as an institution that must be adhered to, or a final clause in a contract that one has to complete before graduation, or else.

But although I am a confirmed and dedicated member of the Insurrectionists of Matrimonia guerilla party, I have to stop and wonder when moments of honest insanity like this happen: are we all (and by we, I mean single women in Provo) really just kidding ourselves? Is everyone really just trying to display themselves to their best husband-catching advantages, like in a Jane Austen novel? Meanwhile man-hating facades decorate every other doorway and spiteful literations abound, but all we really seek is an end to our false desire for independance? We advertise ourselves as big game, more impressive and worth a considerable challenge, but we seem to put up a surprisingly pathetic struggle when the hunters actually do come calling.

It's a little like a theme park, actually. (And when I run out of analogies, I'll let you know.) All signs advertise a big scare and lots of adrenaline fueling escapades, but gosh darn if there isn't lots of cotton candy and seatbelts to destroy the illusion of a real adventure. Kid stuff, really. And I'm partially joking about the cotton candy. It's delicious, even if it really is just spun sugar with a little high-fructose corn syrup (which is essentially, sugar) and a little flavoring thrown in.

All I'm really saying is... Girls, honestly. If we really expect people to believe our declarations of stand-alone awesomeness, shouldn't the coating go all the way to the inside? And not just a fake diploma or two (Ahem, MFHD...) to throw off the scent of desperation? Let's just be WHO WE REALLY ARE. (Whether that be sassy know-it-alls, wish-we-could-be-bad girls, or scary German perfectionists...seriously scary ones) Because, we AREN'T catalogue entries or items on a dessert menu.

And inevitably, I think the men we're truly after (but say we aren't) won't be looking just at the surface, anyway.

Who Am I, in 800 Words or less...

This is a paper that I wrote for a class the other day. I was supposed to introduce myself and explain why I am passionate about my major in around 750 words. This is what I came up with at 2 in the morning.

The Talk I Walk

As I sit here writing this cleverly worded, seven hundred and sixty word ode to my existence, I have to wonder if this is a feat outside of my abilities. To explain myself in under eight-hundred words would indeed be impossible, if I was trying for any level of comprehensiveness. But, since I am not, I will simply go where the meandering stream of my consciousness takes me, and hopefully it will afford insight with at least some clarity attached to it.

I will begin by sharing that I once fell in love with a movie called Stranger than Fiction, a story about a man who has the unfortunate fate of being the main character in a story that ends in his death. Throughout his daily routine, he is followed by the voice of the story’s writer as she cunningly narrates his actions and thoughts. What I wouldn’t give for that to happen to me!
...Only instead of a rather funny but also sad story where the hero ends up barely escaping death, I would prefer mine to be a hilarious comedy of disastrous proportions in which the heroine narrowly avoids her fated demise.

You see, my main talent lies in looking at the world through a different sort of scope, and then describing what I see in my own words. If I were allowed to narrate the events around me, I feel we would all find things much more fascinating, really. This is because, in the World According to Veronica, no one would ever walk. Why walk, when you can schlep, jaunt, stroll, saunter, strut, lollygag, or stride with purpose? Why speak, when you can articulate, declare, exclaim, sputter, cry, pronounce, utter, and whine? If you could choose, would you prefer to sit, or park yourself? Would you rather rest, or laze about?

I can’t speak for you, but I can articulate in your favor, if I so deign. Likewise, you can disagree, or else you can flagrantly oppose my point of view.

Some might say that the language I use to explain the things I see, think and feel is unnecessary, or that I overcomplicate things by thesaurus-sizing the naturally small and simple. I, however, believe that the way I have of looking around me is not only surprisingly entertaining, but also educational. There is merit in discovering the most colorful way to paint a sentence, just as there is pleasure in poetry. Aristotle said that our urge to write and perform comes from our natural desire to imitate, and the pleasure it brings us to do so. How we present our views to the world through speech and letter is, to me, a most glorious science.

What you can tell about a person from the way they communicate is not only a fascinating study, but also is essential to finding out who they truly are. If each person is a mystery to be solved, then each word must be a clue. Where are they from? Are they serious, intelligent, daft, silly, profound, or deranged? What propels them? And what do they think of you, or of themselves? I like to think of myself as a successor of Sherlock Holmes in this particular area. I take ridiculous amounts of delight in watching and listening to the exchanges of others, just to see what I can see and hear about them that they don’t even know they’re giving up. Does that person know what their body language suggests, as they incline towards the other in an engrossed manner? Am I the only one who notes the rancorous tone of an instructor who has gone too long without luncheon?

The pursuit of these truths is secondary in my heart only to my desire to share them. The goal of my studies is to increase my ability to understand, so that I can then find a way to benefit others with what I have learned. I want to tell stories that change the lives of those who experience them through my telling. I hope to hone my skills to a point where I can literally evoke specific emotions, just by finding the proper choice of words. The power to move and impress through expression has long been one of the most valued gifts a human can possess, and I would love nothing more than to go down as one of the gifted. A chronicler of epic proportions.

***Also, Robbie, I would like you to know that if you died and I got all of your money, I would use it to write a NYT Bestselling book and I would name one of the characters after you.

The Involuntary Voyeur

I'm stealing the idea for this post from something Janell once said to me about a friend she had. This friend used to complain about those who held personal phone conversations quite loudly and in very populated areas, thus somewhat forcing the innocent bystanders to go from minding their own business to taking a quasi-intimate part in the unfolding drama. Thus becoming rather unwilling eavesdroppers on something they just can't tune out.

Now, I'm not going to say that this point of view doesn't have merit, I'm simply suggesting that perhaps there is a line by which we can distinguish what is involuntary, and what is, in fact barely veiled fascination coupled with righteous indignation that someone "made" you listen, and now you just can't stop. Yes, that person was being incredibly inappropriate by talking about their salicious love affair in your earshot.

But, let's be honest. Don't you just feel a kind of human obligation to find out more, just to make sure you don't judge them preemptively for their weakness? I mean, what if their wife was a cruel, haranguing sort of mistress? Or what if the pool boy was the one who initiated? These are questions that can't be cleared up by a general sort of listening in, and might call for a more dedicated investigation. So do you then follow the indiscreet conversation-haver down the aisles of the store until they unwittingly divulge more? And why stop there, when you can make a note of their license plate and follow them home to further continue your study? I ask you, since they are obviously FORCING you to personally stalk them for more information, what choice did you have in the matter? None!

I submit that THEY are the real reason you are now sitting outside their house with a walkie-talkie, tuning into the frequency of their handheld portable as they check their voicemail. After all, there's no way you could've just tuned out to the intricacies of their personal drama. It was almost as if they were holding you down and shouting it in your ear, right? And heaven forbid they discuss such things within a mile radius of you, because that is youre personal airspace. If they'd honestly wanted you NOT to listen, they would have holed up in a closet somewhere with the door tightly shut, and whispered their secrets. Then again, you still probably would've found a way, and therefore have every right to monitor and judge their every syllable. Am I right?

Yes, talking on a cell phone in a public place is just like taking hostages. Creepy, stalkery hostages. Yesssss.

Musical Dysfunctionality, In the Key of V Sharp

The music I listen to is as eclectic as I am.

The soundtrack that accompanies my life, as set on shuffle, begins with a few classics from Andrea Bocelli, the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack, and then jumps to a lively number by a band called the Plain White T’s. Michael Buble is accompanied by some jams from the eighties, David Bowie and then New Order. Black Eyed Peas make an appearance, also some salsa dance music by a Portuguese artist, I’m not sure what he’s called.

Recently, I've been giving some thought to how this reflects on me as a person. If I could have one wish granted me (under the stipulation that it had to be completely frivolous), I think I would choose to have a motion picture style soundtrack follow me wherever I go. That way, whenever I walked into a room, (depending on the room) everyone would stop and stare in awe as I strutted through the doors to Better Than Ezra’s Juicy, or ACDC Back in Black.
If it was a date, it would be No Sleep Tonight by the Faders. A chance meeting with a hot stranger would be Fever, probably the Beyonce version. Cutting loose and going with your inner urges would call for Ashlee Simpson’s LaLa. And, of course, everyone has to have a seductive “You’re mine, you just don’t know it yet” song. Mine would be Invincible by Ok Go.
Walking away would always be Madly by Cake. And whenever I get really pissed off, someone should blast I’m So Sick by Flyleaf. People would be so terrified of me they would probably cower. I’d love that.
No one can ever tell when I’m so worried I want to scream, but if I had a soundtrack for that mood it would be Restless by Evanescence. Most of my problems in romance are caused when the soundtrack fits You Don’t See Me, from the Josie soundtrack. No girl’s life would be complete without a little Kelly Clarkson, and mine in particular reminds me a lot of Hear Me at the moment. Or Hold On by KT Tunstall. Yeah. If I had a groove, it would be just as confusing and unrelated as each moment of my life seems to be.

But unlike my life at the moment, it would ALWAYS freaking ROCK.

The Comical Tragedy that is My Life

I've decided that my life is becoming a series of inescapable patterns. I sleep in every morning because I stayed up too late the night before. I enroll in school anew each Fall, only to be completely disassociated with the concept come Winter. I work all summer, and yet somehow, I have no money to show for it, just a summer romance that started who knows how. I date the same three people over and over. They all have different names, but wait, oh scratch that sometimes the names repeat. It becomes necessary to explain the difference when I talk about the past, because all the events seem so similar. Recurring.

I am caught in a time warp. Every new thing I try settles into the same old rythm, and I hate it. People with names that rhyme with showy or dreg should be avoided at ALL costs. A brief moment of complete newness becomes special and treasured. Where is the novelty? For someone who thrives on creativity, I am surprisingly unoriginal. I make the same mistakes that everyone else does, only they know better and so do I. I observe, and yet I learn little about what causes bliss. I search for comfort, and when I find it I abhorr it. Safety, protection, routine... all these are things I can't live with or without. When will I reconcile the thirst for adventure with the practicality that is in my nature? How can I stop the harmful patterns from repeating, when they seem to come unnanounced and uninvited, but most often?

And why doesn't perfection repeat itself? Why is it only the faults that keep fissuring over and over, into chasms that we can't escape? Is it our nature to need painful lessons over and over, when the good ones stick after only one try? In Shakespeare, the comedies are defined by an embellishment of characters as worse than they are. More flawed. More prone to making mistakes. And in the beginning, everyone is either broke, in jail, a confirmed bachelor or spinster, terminally ill, insane, scheduled to die, or on the run. Sometimes all of the above. In the end, though, everyone whose lives sucked at the start turns around completely. Their ships come in, aquittal sweeps in from the wings and saves them from follies, and they get married. But only after about two and a half hours of shennanagins, mix-ups, and hamartias.

Tragically, the cycle is the same, only the hero(es), who are painted as idealistic representations of human life (demi-gods), start out on top of the world, and then usually die at the end. This is as a result of something they did that could've been avoided. Hubris (unforgivable pride), hamartia (a tragic mistake), or just a blatant disregard for fate.

So which type of hero am I? On days like today, I'm willing to believe myself the tragic heroine. A slave to fate, and no matter what I try to do to stop it or turn things around, everything still works out exactly as the blind man predicted. Chaos. Loss, horribly short sighted mistakes. And a lack of creativity that leaves them stuck going through the plot without a clue.

I suppose things could be worse. I could, afterall, be the one who dies at the beginning of the play.

Don't Follow My Footsteps, They Go in Circles

Tell me who you walk with,
And I'll tell you who you are.
But don't walk this way with me
My friend, you won't get very far.

Because the steps I take are rather strange
The path unsure and bent.
The words I've carved along the way
Are not the ones I meant.

I never said I knew the way
To where it is we're going.
So don't look to me for assurance
I'm tired of pretended knowing.

Don't look at me to exemplify
The traits you want to learn.
I'm years away from translating
These things through pain I've earned.

Don't walk with me if you are lost
And need someone beside you.
I'm just as lost as you, or more
And will hinder more than guide you.

This is a Hagtatorship.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I've just come to a very stunning realization. First impressions are ALWAYS right. I think back to the first time I met my new roomate, (let's just call her "Helga", a nickname of her own making, might I add) and how I joked with my friends that I thought she was heartless and evil because literally the 12th - 14th words she said to me upon our first meeting were 'I hate animals'--a very brisk sentiment that I completely CANNOT relate to, because first of all I was raised on a farm and pretty much feel comfortable with anything four legged and furry, and secondly because I ah, have a soul?
I mean HONESTLY. WHO hates ALL animals? I was tempted to assault her with a 20 questions style interrogation, something along the lines of a three year old's first conversation having to do with pet mortality, when they find out fluffy, just like all living things, must too die.
"Even kittens? Kittens too?" I would ask. Followed by, "But what about puppies? Not the puppies! ...Or...flying squirrels? With their cute little noses? ...Koala bears? Baby monkeys?..."

Somehow, I was willing to overlook that, though. And I tried to forge a tentative, 'we live in the same house and sometimes chat together' kind of a bond, I really did. But THEN, as the Fates would have it, the owners (who must have a truly sick sense of humor, and I love them) put another girl into the same room with Helga, (we'll call her 'Ohara', for reasons known only to me) and she---wait for it---has her very own dog. After we realized that this was for real, I felt like laughing. Helga, on the other hand, went from a personality like a chocolate covered lemon (extreme bitterness, thinly veiled with sugar and fat) to a pretty much constant state of royally pissed off. And I'm emphasizing the p- in pissed and the ff- in off. (She enunciates a lot, it's actually kindof more terrifying than a German accent would be.) Couple that with a severe case of disdain for all peoples other than herself, and you've pretty much got the gist of Frau Helga von Ballbreaker, the new blight to my existence.

Anyway, after about a week of hatred in Casablancaland, (and us letting the dog in literally whenever she leaves the house) it appears she has finally decided to let the lid off, and stop pretending. Aw hell. This subtle erosion culminated this evening with a very candid display of evil right in front of one of my closest friends, as we were talking about a girl who had recently been missing and was presumed found and deceased. She listened for about five seconds to the conversation, scoffed, and then said "Well, I'm sorry but that's what she gets for going hiking on her own. I mean that's just stupid." Said like /stoo-pihd/. My mouth literally hung open wide enough to land planes in. Then, in another telling moment, she ragged on the obvious stupidity of a perfect stranger who she had called on the phone at approx 1am, questioned about something she may or may not have had ANY knowledge of, and then hung up and proceeded to tell everyone in the room (including my 2 guyfriends who she had just met) what an idiot this girl obviously was. I mean, yikes. That was after a 20 second conversation. I've been living with her for 12 days now, just imagine the conclusions she has drawn on me.

I'm scared. Just when you thought you had every seriously deranged architype of cliche roomate, nope. You were wrong. There's still yet one more opportunity to fear your own home, and it's only a bargain $265 a month! Asprin and cost of evasive dining not included.

Things I Steal...

I'm sorry, but my British friends are SO funny I can't help myself!

COMMENTS PASSED IN THE CAFETERIA TODAY ABOUT AN OVERSIZED PUDDING:


This is a serious undertaking.
A pudding like that, you pay mainly for the mining rights.
See you on the other side.
I think I’m in orbit.
Woohah! Struck fruit!
Dude seriously, that’s fruit now but when it started it was a patosaurus.
Eat quickly. Tectonic drift. Just sayin’.
That was first crossed in 1868. Many died in the attempt.
Pudding like that, you don’t get sugar overload so much as impure sugar AND DIABETES.
Pace yourself. One timezone at a time.
Gosh!
There can be only one. On cosmological grounds.
That’s not so much crumble as decline and fall.
That’s not so much custard as - I stand corrected, that is so much custard.
I think I see plums, and Lesotho.
Nice how they supply it in a bath. For when you feel dirty afterwards, inside.
Self-justifying pudding. If you can carry it to the table, you’ve earned it.
Hey did you like the Bourne Ultimatum last night
Yeah it was OK.
Good.

Uncensored Tribute to Cali

For update blog on trip to Californica, please see other blog: killercheesepuff.blogspot.com

Off-Set

Have yo ever wondered where people go when they're not with you? I mean, not in a creepy obsessed Sleeping With the Enemy sort of way, but more like Everybody loves Raymond or Seinfeld?

Just picture this. Your life is a closed set, and the only time we see the other characters in your story are either when they come into your set, or you take a journey into theirs. You're just standing around, doing some kind of dialogue about toast, until Kramer comes in and makes the scene all crazy. Now, many people probably choose not to theorize about the wherabouts of lesser players in their grand tale of comedic tragedy and woe, or drama or whatever. But sometimes, I catch myself being really bored with my own story. As with now, while I sit playing with my laptop and wondering what crazy capers my friend Robbie has gotten off to?

I wonder if anyone ever thinks of my set, and asks themself what I do all day, when I'm out of sight of the camera of knowledge? Am I one of those characters interchangeable in several stories who are once out of sight, indeed out of mind? Or am I the dynamic Sydney Bristowe type, who's life is so fascinating that watchers can't wait to tune in? A thrilling recurring cameo, perhaps, in a slightly more interesting tale? Mysterious fodder for gossip, or merely a part of the backdrop upon which those off-set rarely comment? This is not about gossip, people. It is about the stage. The lights, the camera, and the action.

Sometimes, I have to ask myself, which part do I play? Am I writing the script, or am I making it up as I go along? Or, more frustrating still, am I merely following the mediocre dialogue set down by some waiting-to-make-it Friends groupie who still has yet to master the art of unaffected wit? If someone ever figures this enigma out, will you please let me know?
I'll be in my trailer.

Where to go from here...

Lately, I've been giving a lot of thought to my future. Not in the way that most college-aged people do, where you bat around ideas about whether to live in this state or that one, and how to pay off your student loans. It's actually more like a five year old who says one day "I want to be an astonaut" and the next day decides they want to be a world-class jockey instead.

When I was about 9 years old, I wanted to be Chase Meridion from Batman Forever. Maybe I was closer to 11 at that point, but it doesn't really matter. She was just so unbelievably hot. And cool, and collected. I don't think I really had any idea what a criminal psychologist was at that point, but it was badass, and that was enough for me. A few years later, I think I graduated into wanting to be some kind of business woman, and my friend Jenn and I would play Realtors; instead of playing house, we would sell them for millions.

This, I think, is what led me into business in high school. My Junior year, I joined a club called DECA, and straight up without knowing a thing about entrepreneurship and finance, I made top three in the state and went to nationals. Two years in a row I was a top competitor in the FMDM (Financial Managment Decision Making) category, which basically consisted of role-play meetings where I would tell the CEO of WhateverCorp how to manage his marketing and advertising funds. It was a total crock, I'll never know if I won because I secretly have an aptitude for money managment, or if it was that I had way too much confidence and a whole lot of BS skills that was pro-requisite for a 17 year old. And have I mentioned that I hate both mathematics and money?

Throughout this entire study of my life, it is important to note that all this time I was writing. More so when I was in grade school, but I loved to make up stories. Once or twice, when I was in middle school, I actually won statewide writing competitions at a high school level. Still, I never really thought anything about it. After my first year of college, I soon realized that pre-managment core and it's stupid Calc 119 wasn't going to work with me, and so I turned back to my neverending, deeply respectful relationships with Lois Lane and April 'Neal. I was going to major in Print Journalism, and become a reporter.

Now that I'm so close to graduating, and have worked in the Television Journalism world for almost a year, I'm beginning to think that maybe I should just go back to what I've always been effortlessly good at. And that is writing stories that I completely make up. As my favorite roomate once put it (actually, I think it was earlier today), I don't like dancing to anyone's beat but mine. I not only beat my own drum, but I built it, too.

And so I think I shall be of a profession that is as open and enigmatic as the English language, and twice as old. I will be a writer.

New Friends, Old Friends, Red Fish, Blue Fish

Make new friends, but keep the old.
One is silver, and the other, gold.

It's a song that many of you know, and my mom used to sing all the time to me whenever I would come home from elementary school and explain to her that I'd lost or gained a friend. This happened with an alarming frequency, and usually with very little notice. Luckily, this has somewhat ceased to happen, as we are all quite mature now, but somehow the song still continues to creep me out. In fact, if you chant it softly to yourself while rocking back and forth, it sounds exactly like something straight out of A Clockwork Orange. Yeuch.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, friends.
Having had the distinct blessing this night to reune with two of my older compatriots, and do a little more bonding with a fellow dweller (who shall remain unnamed because she reads this blog, and I just like to be sneaky) I was faced with the opportunity --some might say for disaster, as it often is-- of uniting the two sides of the bridge if you will, in an attempt to hold on to all that is good in life.
Introducing your old friends to your new ones is always a tricksy business. For one thing, your new friends will undoubtedly find some of your behavior a little strange, as you revert back to your comfortable oddities in the presence of those who have seen it all before. Then, there are the inside jokes that you simply haven't had much time to cultivate and therefore aren't as plentiful with the amgos nuevos. This can cause a lot of awkward tension, if you're not careful to explain where needed and gloss over gracefully when more information on the subject would inevitably be TOO much information. Although, sometimes you just can't help yourself, and things spill out that are either regrettable or shocking, make you want to take back your past when viewed through the eyes of an objective observer, or maybe a little of all three.
One good thing about new friends is that they tend to have a much better opinion of you than the old ones do. Of course, new friends weren't there that time when you took off most of your clothes at a 7-11 gas station and posed for photos, nor will they ever see those photos because you've long since destroyed them. They also weren't there the time you fed toothpaste cookies to a mortal enemy. They share none of your guilt (or, in some cases triumph) for the crazy shennanagins you've had.
Old friends sometimes forget to call you for long periods of time, but for some reason the history seems to make up for it. In a way it's almost like meeting someone new, but then three minutes later someone brings up a story and it's like you never left. Or they never did.

Basically, all I'm trying to say is that the creepy song is as true today as it was in the yoreness of peanut butter sandwiches and noon naptimes. New friends and old friends are both like unto precious metals. They should be harvested from their natural habitat, burned until they are unrecognizable and then hammered into something shiny and used as pretty accessories. And even though mixing silver and gold is SO 1980s and currently fashion feaux pas, you should do it anyway, because it's fun.

Love is a Cheap Trick.

There was a pretty cheesy movie line that I heard once that said something like this. "I wish relationships could be simple, like a retro pop song. I want you to want me. That's it. But things are often much more complicated." Actually, that was Cheap Trick. But, I really do agree with the blonde teen-something who said that. Sometimes, I really do wish it was that simple.
Instead, we find ourselves swinging more easily to the tunes of Pat Benatar, "Love is a battlefield". But why, why must it be so strenuous, and so hard?
And why must I find it SO difficult to explain it to someone, why I play games to find out what someone is really thinking, throw out tests to see how much he cares, and give off fake signals to disguise the depth of my affection. Why can't I just say it? I want you to want me. I need you to need me. I'd love you to LOVE me. The lyrics are so easy, so complete. That really just says it all. If my life right now were a retro pop song, I think it'd sound a little more like this:

I secretly want you to want me, even though I pretend everyone wants me, and I'm used to it. I need you to need me. I want to need you, but I refuse to let you know that because I need no one. I'd love you to love me, but I refuse to be the first one to say it. The word always freezes at the tip of my tongue, though with fear of you or just the word itself I'm really not sure. I'm not that complicated, really. I just want you to look beneath everything I say and do to protect myself and realize that all I really want, all I really need is for you to want me.

Not very catchy, is it? Definitely not marketable to the general public in a musical sense. So why are we so afraid to just SAY what we WANT? Are we afraid that if we speak it aloud it might break? Or maybe then it makes it more real to us, and then we are forced to look at our deepest desires... and see that maybe they really are too good to be true? Or maybe we keep them in because they just don't rhyme.

Idiot Motorists: a Rant

Okay, so in the past three days, I have witnessed even more reason to fear driving my vehicle. Not just Utah drivers, which I already knew were a threat based on the fact that the test here most likely consists of "how to use your vehicle as a secondary dressing room, day care, conference room, marriage counseling center, and lavaratory" 101, and such questions as:

26. If you are driving down a 45 mph major roadway in 5pm traffic, and the Hoagie Yogie that you would LIKE to reach is a block away and three lanes over, do you:
a) turn right, double back with an illegal U-turn and run a yellow light to get there using the least amount of force
b) change the three lanes in quick succession in front of the nearest cars, without signaling, and expect them to get out of your way because the 12 kid minivan driver is OBVIOUSLY on the ball enough to react
c) speed up to 80 mph so that your car can hairline turn through even the smallest gaps in traffic, causing other motorists only mild cardiac arrest when their lives flash before their eyes
d) Simply pretend NOT to see anyone in your rear-view or side mirrors, muttering blithely to yourself "I have no blind spot" and rely on faith to move the terrified and traffic locked left laners out of your way so that you can satisfy your deep and pressing need for a RuityFruity smoothie
***All answers are permissable.

I mean, seriously. You've got to be freaking kidding me. I live in a land where people not only use their cars as portable little worlds suspended from reality, but also as weapons in some cases, and slightly less expensive substitutes for theme park rides in others.
One recent episode began with me trying to get into the left lane so that I could turn. I signaled far ahead of time, only to notice that the driver 3 carlengths back on my left had decided to accelerate WAY above the speed limit to pass me, first. So I stopped my pilgramage to the left lane prematurely and moved back into the safety of the right, only to have the psychopath swerve into the right also, directly behind me, without signaling. When I tried to escape him (because I was sure he would hit me if I didn't) he moved to cut me off, using his car as automotive body language, trying to bully me into ...I'm not even sure what. Then, when I refused to move away, he pulled up beside me and started shouting incoherant obsenities at my open window. Classic road rage. In a land where people are supposed to all be the chosen saints in latter days, you'd think I wouldn't have to fear that some soccer dad would try to kill me on my way to work.

Another more recent and slightly more satisfying incident arose when I witnessed a testosterone filled young buck launch his brand new (I can only assume it was his, and new) Dodge Viper over a bump in the road, sailing directly into the turf on the curb of some overpriced condominiums up the street from my house. I passed him just in time to see his stunningly reckless progress through a 20mph residential area, thinking it was a good thing that I knew the bump was there because it's almost impossible to see in the dark. The impact shattered the entire front of the car and the bumper was left about 4 feet away. The driver was presumably unhurt, though I imagine the emotional strain of needlessly wasting a prize possession was intense. What can I say, dude? Shouldn't have been an idiot.

And so ends my latest rant on the incompetency and danger of Utah drivers.

Ode to Obesity

All you can eat buffets. The most beloved throwback of the American priviledged unto the Vomitorium of Roman glory days. The setup is basically the same. Piles and piles of delicious food, all you desire to take. There is so much to choose from, and you can have it all. Yes, stuff your little blubbery faces full like there's no tomorrow. Or, maybe if you come back tomorrow there will be no more food left. Heavens forbid. So take some more and then more, don't worry about wasting anything you mound of humanity...it's not like food is a finite resource or anything.
You come here twice a week, and one wonders whether or not you store it all up like a bulbous python...sunning yourself somewhere and lounging in wait until Tucanos opens again.
Your puffy offspring, already showing signs of premature cardio respiratory problems as a result of unfair baggage that you have allowed them to consume without remorse, jiggle with delight and ADHD as they hungrily (figure of speech, because they never will be) eye the next course and the next. Their eager little mouths squelch out commands to the humble servant who brings them their livelihood in neverending droves.
When will it stop? When will you realize that you've taken something of cultural enjoyment and turned it into a mockery of our way of life, a circus show celebrating the excesses of our economy and society? Brazilian the idea may be, but the abuse is American. They come and watch and their eyes scorn and laugh at the fat gringos who cease to enjoy...but keep eating anyway. Why doesn't it stop?
When looks of eager anticipation turn to regretful acceptance, and then finally grimaces of pain? But you keep eating. Like cattle with no thought toward what they will become tomorrow, or what a body is for. To live, to raise children and find all the enjoyment life can bring? The outdoors, the water, the wind, and the feel of running through a field of grass? No, you only eat. You have shackled yourself to that chair by your continual greed and self-loathing, limiting yourself to the one activity that you can still perform with distinction.
More food! Shouts the 400 lb Patrician with unlimited resources and extremely limited mobility. The once human being that has become an eating machine, a human no more.

The Fortress

Imagine a formidable city.
With walls so high and thick,
That no one could ever beseige it,
Or get inside with any trick.
This city had numerous defenses:
A moat two miles wide,
Three drawbridges and turrets,
With countless soldiers inside.
This fortress would be safe forever,
From any outside influences.
Temptation to fall would never
Breach this city's defenses.

Now, imagine inside the protections
The citizens used no laws to govern,
For trouble from outside was one thing,
But they felt no such care for their brethren.
In short, they were cruel to each other
With mistrust they looked on their neighbors.
And they criticised one another,
With contempt for each brother's labors.
No trouble was taken to teach them,
That a person inside was a partner
In the purpose they all were achieving.
Because each man believed HE was smarter.
And so many who lived in the city,
Chose instead, to live outside in danger
They preferred instead, to live in a land
Where everyone else was a stranger.
Preferable, it seemed to them
To brave the troubling world of sin,
Instead of being safe from the outside,
And having their brothers hurt them within.

Imagine a land of peace,
Where all you need is provided.
And imagine your faith is safe,
And your lifestyle already decided.
Then imagine you find it is harder,
To find acceptance and peace,
In the place where you thought you'd be safest,
The place you should've feared the least.

Oh, Remember, my friends, to be careful
Of the caution you throw aside,
When you think no one needs your example
Because they're already inside.


***I wrote this poem for those who need it, for myself also. It's a problem that I wish didn't exist, especially here. But it does exist. Especially here.
For my friends who have been victims of what this poem is about. For myself, some days, too.

The Blasphemous Hyperbole

I f-cking HATE Tow Truck companies. And Booters. And...the church?

Saturday morning, while I was unsuspectingly parking my car in a nearby LDS church lot, I remember thinking "I wish my shoot was in this building, then I wouldn't have to walk three blocks from here --the safest parking in the vicinity--to get to my shoot." Little did I know, that at that very moment I was being diabolically betrayed by my own religion, through the spawns of Satan themselves that were contracted by the church itself. Yes, I was about to be preyed upon by the most malicious evil that prowls or has ever prowled the streets of Provo, Utah: the Tow Truck people. Approximately forty minutes later, I came back to find my beloved 1993 Mazda Protoge...gone.

For a moment, I thought that it had been stolen. But then, upon further thinking I realized that no one in their right mind would steal my POS Mazda with the randomly placed bumper stickers that have long ago faded into unintelligibility and the numerous scratches from unclaimed parking lot travesties. Then who...? It was at that moment I realized that I had to be dealing with people who WEREN'T in their right minds. People who would steal a $350 car and attempt to hold it for a $150 ransom. People without souls. Tow Truck people.

Yes, indeed, my friends. My car was in fact stolen blatantly and (apparently, as I found from grueling hours of research and several elevated conversations) legally from a religious sanctuary. Or, at least I had thought of it that way. But don't be fooled. Here in Provo Utah, even the churches have fallen victim to the honeyed words and promises of vast fortune that these scavengars peddle to every lot in the community. Sad...tragic...faith shaking as it seems.

Just like Quasimodo, I found out the hard way that sometimes, no one can protect you. While swinging from the bell and crying, "Sanctuary...SANC-tu-A-RYYYY!!!" the priest himself walks up and cuts it loose. That's just the breaks, kid. That'll teach you not to mess with the REAL PTB (Powers That Be) in this town. That's right. It's not, as we previously assumed, the Mormon church. It is the friggin Towtruck Mafia.

The best part was when I told the guy on the phone that I couldn't believe I wasn't safe parking in my own church, even on a Saturday afternoon when the parking lot is empty and who does that bother, for friggin crying out loud!? And he goes, "Well ma'am, that building is just as much a business to us as any other building that we contract with in the community. And we enforce it just as strictly." What the HELL are you talking about, Towtruck Villain!? A church is NOT a business! Or, at least I didn't think mine was one. It's more like a non-profit, or a charity. In fact, I'm pretty sure it qualifies for tax exemption under code 1099. Suck on that! says I. Instead, the TTC Sumbich refused to even negotiate, stating his right to completely extort me out of half the price of my car. Just to test his soullessness, I offered to apostatize myself from the church completely based on this incident, as this particular church was clearly in league with the Devil. Instead of apologising, he just laughed and said "Whatever". I swear, sometimes I wonder why God doesn't just smite them all.

I'm probably going to get struck by lightening...or at least go to Hell for this. But it felt a little good to get it out.

You-fumisms.

You know, lately I've been giving a lot of thought to the way people in certain pockets of society view different things, and I've come to a few conclusions that I really don't want to recognize. The most recent of theses is that my life here in Provo has become one big euphemism. In case you're unfamiliar with the word, a euphemism is something that takes a blatantly true fact (usually one that would be considered socially unacceptable if uttered honestly and aloud) and tweaks it, just a scoche, so that it is ameliorated into something that is cuter, fuzzier, and less extreme. Usually, something that makes people feel more comfortable.

Who made this rule up? It's like someone said, let's take the thing that is the most upsetting in the room, complicate and ameliorate it, and then use an acronym to describe it! That'll change the world and make it a better place. Some of the most fun times we use these types of alterations are in the job industry, where sometimes just saying what you really do all day isn't going to socially cut it.

Here are a few examples: (How YOU TOO can change your undesirable into a comfy!)
I work at a gas station = I am a Professional Petroleum Technician. (PPT)
I am a Ho = I work as a male entertainment customer service provider.
a Pimp = Marketing and Technical Support for Male Entertainment Customer Service Provider
Poop shoveler = Excess Product Reduction Technician
Stripper = Reverse Apparel Auctioneer (RAA)
Drug dealer = Pharmaceutical Representative (PR)
Britney Spears = Working Class Teenager Role model, Fashion Icon
Telemarketer = Dinner Interruption Specialist (DIS)
Doctor = Placebo Recommendation Spec and Hypochondriac Enabling Services, MD - Nuff said.
Janitor = Restroom Sanitation and Excess Bodily Fluid Removal Technician
Nose Picker = Interior Nasal Excavation Person (INEP)
Butt Wiper = Posterior Fecal Sanitation Worker (PFSW)
Garbage Man = Recycling and Non-environmental Refuse Supervisor

You see? Euphemisms can be quite fun! And if we're using them for the sake of Humor, they can be even MORE fun backwards! (Euphemism = Basically, the real thing)

Server = If you walk into this restaurant, I am your bitch.
Meat server = I sell beef on a stick
College Student = I have no money, no skills, and refuse to study, but please commit to hire me in four years pending receipt of piece of paper called "Degree"
Reporter = Public Tattletale
Director = Professional Yeller and Crusher of Self-esteem
Extra = Self-esteem Inflation Model
Assistant Director = Self-esteem Repair Technician
Manager = I've worked here a really long time; Competency not necessarily included
Sales Associate = If you walk into this store, I am your bitch.
Girlfriend = Socially obligated to be seen with you in public, and kiss you pretty much whenever you feel like
Boyfriend = Socially obligated to do nothing
RM = I don't have a job, know what my major is, or have a clue. But I can speak Italian!
R(Sis)M = I have a six figure salary job, can speak another language, bake, disarm nuclear bombs, grow my own vegetables, and I hate you. And myself.
Bartender = I can make drinks. And sleep with lots of people. I'll sleep with YOU. And make you drinks.
Pilot = I can fly a plane. Sleep with me.
Doctor = I heal sick people. And I have a wife. Sleep with me.
Security Sales = I make $30,000 a month by exploiting the gullibility of peoples in US protectorate countries. Don't you want to sleep with me?
Denny's Server = I work here to support my drug habit. Go ahead, stiff me I don't care.
Producer = I do pretty much all the same stuff as a secretary, only I don't get paid as much.
Law Student = In fifteen years, I will have paid off my student loans, and will then be making more money than God. In the meantime, I'm just gonna talk about it.
DL, AP, EQP = I've never even kissed a girl. And that makes me holier than YOU are.
RSPres = I've never even kissed a guy. And that's because I'm too holy to even think about it.

Okay, so some of these are a tad hyperbolic, and freaking sacreligious, but I'm giggling. Why aren't you?

Portugese, Pork, and Making Television

I'm moving on.

No more volcanoes, tears, knickers or guilt. No more ambiguous text messages and trips to Salt Lake where I'm not sure what I am, or who I am with. No more feelings of insecurity brought on by thinking I am not worthy of something I don't even know if I want, or know what I would do with if I had it. No more wondering, and no more overthinking things.

Today, I am starting anew. I am putting behind me all of those things that make me doubt myself. All of those things that have been making me lose sleep or lose focus. I'm throwing myself into a new occupation, and not because I am trying to get something else out of my head, but because I want something new in it. A whole lot of somethings.

I've realized a few things about myself and my head over the last couple of weeks, and one of the most important of these realizations is about housekeeping. It's all very well and good to say you're going to start fresh and start doing everything a different way, but more often we find ourselves instead looking for excuses to explain why we ended up doing the same things all over again. "It's not my fault." "I can't help it. Obviously something else needs to change before I can start over." But really, it's just because in your mind, and in your life you just haven't cleared a space yet. First you have to pull the weeds before you can plant flowers. Or, you have to pull the flowers that aren't growing to make way for other flowers that will. In any case, change comes after you jump into the unknown, with a plan of course.

For me, that plan is going to include another new job. A new house. And probably, hopefully, a new social life with people who will love me for who I am and realize that even though I'm one of the busiest people they know, I still want them to call me. I still want love and I still want to be cuddled, even though I might not seem to stand in one place long enough to do so. It's time to make a change in the places I look, rather than looking for new things to come out of the same people and places I've known.

And so I'm moving on, leaving those behind me who won't or can't follow, to find what it is I'm looking for. It's time.

The Volcano.

It's building up, I almost can't keep it in anymore. Some days, it gets so strong I actually have to leave the room before any of it escapes. It's like I spend all my time either denying it or wrestling with myself to hold it in, to keep it from spilling out and making a mess of everything. Because it IS a messy thing. The truth, that is.

Why do I sit there every day and look across the table at you and pretend everything is the same? Why do I joke and dance all over the things I really want to say? Why am I so confused and why does my stomache hurt so much and why, oh why, can't I be stronger? Why do I ruin every moment with frightened babble, whenever we get so close to saying something that would change everything? Why is it so hard to jump, when we know it can't really hurt more than a few seconds. Or a few years.

Maybe it can just last forever this way, but then the truth whispers from the dark corner where you've shoved it and covered it up with laudry...no it can't. Things are bound to change. You can't be happy with the way things are... and then you're not again. Everything is perfect the way it is, but then why does the fire explode in your chest when you see them together? Is it because you wish it was you and someone else? Or do you wish it was you instead of her? The flames simmer below the surface, but it's just so much easier to temporarily blot it out than face it. The problem there is it always comes back, until you deal with it.

But what if you let it go, and it rages out of control and people flee for their lives? Or what if you stay hidden and years later steam rises... but it's too late. The fire is gone. The fuel is spent somewhere else and you find that all you have is stone. What do you do then, when there are no more feelings to make sense of, to agonize over, to confuse yourself with in a flurry of smoke? You sit on the pile of stones and logic.

Please Don't Make Me Cry

I need a friend. This thought has struck me like the cattle part on the front of a train that I ignored right up until the point of impact, even though it was looming in my periphral vision for quite some time. I guess I didn't want to believe that my best friend (let's face it, my only friend come to that these days, or at least the only one who's still in my zip code) would walk away from me over something as simple as a bad night. Or nights. But I guess I should have stepped out of the way BEFORE the train hit me.

You see, when I love someone I choose to love them. There's none of this idiocy of "falling" in love, or "accidently in love" ala Counting Crows. I see, I think, I deliberate and then I feel. You might see it as sad, but I've learned to guard my emotional triggers from just anyone, and for very good reason. Then again, maybe there is no reason good enough. Even when it's just a friend, I choose to care but most dangerous is when I start to believe in them, to rely on them. It's then that it hurts to lose them. It hurt to see my best friend shunned out of Utah for her beliefs. It hurt to leave Racherella to move by myself and live alone. It hurt more than anything when the person I loved decided to take back our future together, and give it to someone else instead. But most of all, it hurts that I have chosen to allow it.

And so again, I find myself unconsciously, but somehow deliberately giving someone else the power to hurt me, the ability to make me cry. In one moment, everything I have built crashes to the ground like a pile of broken plastic; not quite as strong as I had thought. And suddenly I am no longer a strong and confident version of myself, but someone who feels ...not enough. If this is how caring feels, please make it stop. I don't want to care that much for someone else's opinion of me, I don't want to give a person the power to break me. From the inside.

If I hide my trigger, then no one can accidently set it off, and then no one can ever hurt me.
This way, you'll never make me cry.

Knickers and Guilt

Underwear is not a crime. Underwear is NOT a crime.

This is the mantra that I have recently begun repeating to myself, ever since I started working (fourth job) at a popular women's undergarment boutique. I think you know the one I mean. Anyway, two days later (or was it one?) I decided I was going to break the news to the one person that I somehow KNEW was going to make the biggest hubbub about this, thing. No, not my bishop. My Mother. (With a capital M, because in the world of my Mom, NOTHING is ever downplayed) Anyway, so the Mom was the first to go, I figured I might as well say something because she was probably going to figure it out eventually anyway and wouldn't it just be best if I casually mentioned it first, like it's no big deal, etc...

In short, ...it no worky. I mean, she pretended that it was only a mild shock until she hung up the phone, had about 15 hours to think it over, and THEN all of the sudden I was rudely awakened at 8am to a self-righteous (and child righteous) diatribe on the choices I make that are going to absent me from integrity, righteousness, the gospel, and basically heaven. (Okay, I went a little far on that one, but you get the basic idea.) Words like "provocative" and "disrespectful" were thrown around quite liberally, as well as much blame content. In short, I think I might be in danger of disownment by association to unspeakables. It really is quite bizarre.

Which brings me unto the actual subject of this rant. (We'll call it a rant for the sake of drama, when it's really a quite hilarious social commentary) Digression... Anyway, the subject this brings me to is why this event struck me as bizarre:

In a world where things are constantly changing, where every ten years things that are "cool", "normal", "right", and acceptable completely change--why the hell do we have such a hard time looking at things with an open mind? Thirty years ago, yes, it might have been considered quasi-pornography to show a woman on the cover of a magazine wearing only her bra and underwear. (Actually, no that was more like 50...80 years ago?) But at that point, it was also okay to say hell, damn, ass, and possibly shite in a rated PG movie. It was also "cool" and acceptable for women to wear shoulder pads the size of a Honda and get knocked up when they were 16, provided that they did it after scoring the hottest Senior guy in school. (For references: see Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Breakfast Club, Labrynth, Ninja Turtles, and the Goonies, etc) hehehe he. But my point is this: We couldn't even make up our minds THEN about what was skanky/scandalous/conservative, etc Let ALONE fashionable/cool/manly/classy/good music

In some aboriginal cultures, women walk around topless. Top. Less. Would some people's mothers be completely offended and refuse to allow them to do foreign service or humanitarian work in said countries? Mine wouldn't. But PARADOX of paradoxes, it's not okay to even admit to shopping in a place where they sell (gasp!) lace? I really don't get it. Especially because I happen to KNOW that she's not the only one who feels this way. It's disgruntling how many women/men/young adults in America (and let's face it more commonly Utah) who judge something they know almost nothing about for reasons they can't even really explain.

Homosexual tendencies. "Well, I don't know anyone who's like that, and I can't tell you why it happens, but dangit that's just WRONG." Well geez, I really feel like you're the smarter party of this discussion, and I'm going to choose to believe your side.
Politics. "If Hilary Clinton gets elected, I'm leaving the country." Okay, I'd understand if you felt like that and you had researched her political platform, or hell, even if you knew ANYTHING about her politics. But just because you hate her and forget why? You know what, I really won't miss you when you move. Good luck in Mexico by the way, moron.
Office Gossip. "That girl is such a b*tch, and I totally hate her. I heard she totally stole so-n-so's boyfriend at the last Christmas party." Alright, well that's uncalled for. First of all, hate is a very strong word, it wasn't your boyfriend, in fact you don't even like so-n-so, so WHY do you even CARE in the first place? And PS-have you even verified that information? I think not.

The point I'm trying to make here is that judging based on unexplained and unproven principles is W-R-O-N-G. And I'm not just standing up for a job that I believe in because I really feel that I am the only one who is right. In fact, I might just be staying at this stupid job because I have something to prove. BUT, in a way, for me it has something to do with keeping an open mind, and living that way so that when I encounter close-mindedness and false-relativity, I can be immune. I can say "no, I think I'm gonna figure that one out myself, thanks."

And if undies are wrong, then I don't wanna be right.

(Besides, I'm pretty sure that NO underwear is way more wrong than the alternative, in the very first place. But it's cool if you disagree with me, I guess.)

Today's Thoughts on Love...

***My problem? I think too much. "His" problem? Seems to be, not thinking enough. So here we are. I've arrived at a conclusion, which is as yet untried but I truly believe that with a little thoughtful experimentation on my part and the parts of others, this rule WILL stick.

True love doesn't just happen one day out of friendship. At least not to me. Any relationship I have ever had that even came CLOSE to love has started out of pure lust. Simply put, the physical attraction was there and nothing more. Eventually, it builds until you just can't help but come together, and it is AFTER that point where you get to see if there is anything else there. A few months go by, making out becomes only 95% of a relationship instead of the whole thing, and somehow you actually start getting to know each other instead of just getting down. (In the most chaste sense, obviously) When you do, you find out bit by bit whether that person is someone you could spend your whole life with, or if it really was just a fling. (In which case, you quickly move on to the next, no broken hearts necessary) That is how love (in EVERY SINGLE Disney movie, Shakespearean Comedy, and most romantic comedies) works.

The other school (ie the Old School) says that relationships begin slowly, trust develops, mutual affection happens one day and then you get married and live a life of quiet mutuality for the rest of ever. The only problem with that one, in my mind, is what happens when you're 3/4 of the way down the road to twin souls and you realize, "Ew. I really can't see myself sleeping with this person every night for the rest of my life. Do we really have to do that, or can we just skip to the growing old together part?" Therein, my friends, lies MY problem. You see, I'm not one of those girls who goes through life thinking lah dee dah, one day soon I shall be married and then I can begin my lovely wonderful life. No, unfortunately for my demographic minority, marriage is more like an end clause in a contract, something that you HAVE to do if you want all of the rest of those things that makes you complete. For me, I always pictured getting married as a side effect to falling in love. Someone will seriously have to hit me over the head with a shovel and drag me away Caveman style, I promised myself. Of course, I'm speaking figuratively here. It's not like I'm saying that the only way I'll be stupid enough to walk down the aisle is if I have severe brain trauma. And yet... perhaps.

Or, I could be stupidly in love. Which has yet to happen. And honestly, I really think it's going to take a strong dose of Ruhypnol or for me to be totally not paying attention. And even then, you'll need a freaking huge shovel. Either way, I've realized something. I don't think I'm one of those people who can get on the Friend Train and halfway there realize you're accidentaly heading to Marriageville. No, for me I think it's going to end up being one of those "NCMO...who knew we would both accidently fall for eachother!" trips.

And isn't that just so picturesqe. Happily Ever Freaking After.

***Disclaimer: I'm actually really pissed off as I write this. Not like you couldn't tell, but I sometimes have these manhater moments; a few scattered specs of anger and occasional thoughts of gendercide thrown into an otherwise uniform and pleasant fabric. Like Tweed.
So please don't judge me based on the fact that right now all I really want to do is make war on an entire generation of factory fault miscreants that we in this day and age call "Men". Idiots.

When Do You Know?

So, recently (actually since about last Sunday) I've been facing a precipice that I'm really not sure if I want to go over. I have this friend, and we've been really close for what seems like forever. Really it's been a little less than a year, but you know how you meet those people and all of the sudden it's like they're just another part of your life, and it goes without saying? But lately, I've started to see this person in a new light, in a way that I never had before. Maybe I wasn't looking correctly, or there was a blind spot there. I'm not sure. All I know is that now I'm anxious, edgy, and confused a lot of the time, ironically when I'm NOT with this person. Is it suggestive of deeper feelings that I have yet to face? I'm not sure. Am I in denial, or just bored and reading more into everyday normalities than I should? The problem is I just don't trust myself enough to make a decision and go with it, because I've been burned in the past.

So here is my question: In crucial matters of life (and especially matters of the heart), is it okay to simply wait it out and see? Should I ask myself where this is going, and then sit around and do literally nothing about it until someone makes me decide? In my experience, I usually have to be actively pursuing some kind of conclusion before the answer is made clear, but in this case I'm not sure if that will help. I can try to keep it simple, yes, but short of extracting this someone from my daily life, I can't escape the feeling that there is something that needs to be said. Or done. But should I be the one to do it? Can I really trust my fate or the fate of a relationship to circumstance? Or, in my mind worse yet, can I trust my own magnetism enough to continue on normally and expect him to be the one to bring this up? Will it simply go away if I let it? I can't decide, I can't speak up, and I can't be honest with myself unless I have some kind of evidence!

Is it possible to know whether or not you love someone without dating them at all? I've heard people say that "we were best friends, and then we became more" but I'm pretty sure it wasn't overnight and there had to be a middle ground, right? So when, WHEN do you decide that it's worth the risk to throw yourself onto that middle ground and see what happens: either it's true, and you kiss and realize you were meant to be together forever, or it's not and you end up awkwardly stepping back onto firm ground and apologising...or parting ways forever because you can't ever go back. WHEN is it too late to try? Is it before or after you realize that you'll be friends forever? Is it after you've seen them be sick and nasty looking in the morning, or heard their deepest secret? Is that when it really does become too late for love to grow? Many prolific speakers have shared the thought that it's never too late, but I'm not so sure. Just ask yourself if you could have romantic feelings for a roomate, who you've actually seen pick their nose. Or a friend of your sibling who you have it on good authority that they play Nintendo six hours a day? The choice is still yours, but I have to wonder if there is a point where that choice is gone, and it is impossible to turn back. True love might not have an expiration date, but I think the onset of love definitely has a window. So is it true, or false?

And When do you Know?

Spring Fever

One of my favorite jazz songs of all time (as sung by Sarah Vaughn) perfectly describes my mood this week: I'm as restless as a willow in a wind storm, I'm as jumpy as a puppet on a string, I'd say that I had Spring Fever; but I know it isn't Spring. I am starry eyed and vaguely discontented, like a nightengale without a song to sing. Oh, why should I have Spring Fever, when it isn't even Spring?
It is most unfair when other people take my feelings from me and put them to music. Even...before I was born. Yeah. I know. So okay, it's not an original idea. However, I do feel that poetry and lyrics are some of the perfectest (I love making up words!) forms of expression for those otherwise unexplainable emotions or humours that would go unexplained without the help of people like George and Ira Gershwin, or Alfred Tennyson, or Emily Dickinson. And so, in the absence of further logical explanation, I'm just going to conclude my thoughts with a few of my favorites.

It's not the pale moon that delights me, that thrills and delights me,
Oh no. It's just the nearness of you.
It isn't your sweet conversation that brings this sensation,
Oh no, it's just the nearness of you.
-Hoagland Carmichael

However, my heart and head rule my emotions jointly,
And they are not to be trifled with,
So I suggest my friend that you tread lightly,
Because fury of woman scorned is not a myth.

'O miracle of women,' said the book,
O noble heart who, being strait-besieged
By this wild king to force her to his wish,
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunned a soldier's death,
But now when all was lost or seemed as lost--
Her stature more than mortal in the burst
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire--
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate,
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt,
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels,
And some were whelmed with missiles of the wall,
And some were pushed with lances from the rock,
And part were drowned within the whirling brook:
O miracle of noble womanhood!'
-Lord Tennyson's the Princess
(This is what I do to men who mess with me)

But someday, one will come who will brave the thorns and thunder,
Taking only that which is most prized; my heart.
Unlike others, mistaking beauty wealth and conquest for true plunder,
He, being worthy, will receive the better part.

Don't ever try to change me,
I've broken hearts for less
And please don't rearrange me,
I'm the me that I like best
I'll alter if you want me to,
Those things that don't define me
All you really need to do
My love, is ask me kindly.
(Or, as Emily would say...)

ALTER? When the hills do.
Falter? When the sun
Question if his glory
Be the perfect one.
Surfeit? When the daffodil
Doth of the dew:
Even as herself, O friend!
I will of you!
-Emily Dickinson

What's So Funny

You know what's funny? Everything.

It's funny how you think you know your best friends, and then in one day they can completely shock and awe you. How you can fight with your Mom and then realize five minutes later that you'd die without her. How jelly beans never seem to make you full. How the second you start to feel sorry for yourself, a friend calls you. How dancing can cure even the most severe illnesses. How laughter can actually be narcotic. How one day can change your entire life, and journal entries from just a year ago seem so completely stupid. How journal entries from a month ago can actually teach you something new.

It's funny that no matter how many times you see babies, they're always cute. And sometimes the person you thought was grumpy and mean turns out to be hilarious. It's funny how you can laugh at someone for being dumb, and then ten minutes later you do the same thing. It's funny how you can love someone and not even realize it until you hate them. How legos are always diverting, even when you're way too old. How you can discover money in your pockets that you're almost positive you didn't put there. How the stupidest movies can make you happy. How the smartest people can do something idiotic. It's funny how drivers license pictures never actually look like the person in them. How first impressions are almost always totally wrong. How turning over a new leaf is harder than turning over a car's engine (ha ha). It's funny how a lot of juice doesn't actually have juice in it. How a chance meeting can change your destiny. Or your density. It's funny how people think that words don't matter, and money does. It's funny how a nerd can become a millionare, and a beautiful girl who is perfect in every way can be unhappy. How the world never changes, but our view of it always does. How you can dream of what you want, but pray for something else. It's funny how people change lanes in the middle of an intersection, but always walk on the same side of the stairs.

It's funny, sometimes. Life is funny.

First Dates.

Yeah. These are two words that hold infinite potential, and for many people a generous helping of nerves, potential for disaster, awkward silences, and fear of rejection.
OR, if you're me, first dates are also a perfect opportunity to get to know myself a whole lot better. This is because for some reason being on a first date is like sitting in the back seat of a car that someone else is driving. Only, that someone else is me. Date-version me. This person, who I have only ever seen once or twice, emerges at the oddest times and seems to have problems behaving herself in a normal and socially desirable fashion. Usually, Dateme has two distinct sides:

a) The "Mutual Attraction"/Potential hot boyfriend date persona: This one is alternately reserved and brash, coquettish AND sassy. She says things that the normal me would never think to say under first meeting circumstances, somehow managing to actually appear cool and collected, but also disinterested. This girl often sends mixed messages to men, confusing them so they think I'm apathetic and occasionally causing them to give up chase.
b) The "I'm too comfortable for my own good"/"Let's be Friends" date persona: For one reason or another, this persona has obviously decided that she has no interest in said boy, other than as a friend/hangout buddy, and so she completely removes the filter on her words, especially random thoughts and opinions that no one should probably hear unless they are a fellow female...or gay. This is probably done to remove potential for relationshiphood even before that potential is realized. Though extremely entertaining and good for thrilling conversation, the word vomit that comes out to disguise awkward silences is often quite shocking. Streaming discussion pieces have been known to include: past boyfriends, sexual tension, bikini waxing, thoughts on stupid men, and PMS. (All subjects normally placed in the strictly DATE TABOO category.)

Unfortunately, I have had the distinct pleasure of being reacquainted with BOTH of these ladies in the past week, on two different dates with (thankfully) two different people. Our meeting didn't go well.
Let's just say, next time I'm going to have to exorcise them BEFORE a date, either with meditation...or lots of Vodka.

Not Just Waiting...

It’s 1am, and I’ve just put on my mud mask. My linguistics study materials pretty much cover my bed, but I’ve only given them about 20 minutes of collective attention. The midterm for that class is tomorrow, but right now I’m considering dying my hair with this lovely little box sitting on my desk. I’ve had about a quart and a half of Diet Pepsi, and it’s finally starting to kick in, so why study, I tell myself. You have ALL night. Not to mention that presentation for your research class is probably going to be postponed, anyway. Good thinking, self.
For some reason, my imagination buzzes at this time of morning. Thoughts for books; plotlines that have only begun to unfold in my head come alive. Others that have been knocking around in there for a while grow more complex and flesh themselves out. And I wonder why I have trouble sleeping, ha. I KNOW it has absolutely nothing to do with all the diet coke I drink. Occasionally, my thoughts drift to Prince Cocky (Prince Charming would be too grandiose a title for this particular male). At this point, he’s really only a possibility. A supporting character in the tapestry that is my real and imagined life, not without promise, but still a vague inclination. Friday was great, but I’ve been around in the world of romance long enough now to know without question that one good date does NOT a relationship make. Still… I can’t help but picture it. It must be that whole psychoanalysis thing that we did. The cube and the horse…so silly and yet so frighteningly close to, reality? I’m not so sure, but it seemed pretty close.
Anyway, as I sit covered in mint green gelatinous goo, I begin to write a story in my head, where my Prince suddenly comes to the door at 1am, and sweeps me off of my feet, (completely disregarding the fact that I am actually wearing mud, obviously) saying something along the lines of "I can't stop thinking about you." and "I just couldn't wait to see you again." Quite perfect in my head, really.
But... although my imagination can be quite vivid at times, I am reminded of one very spectacular truth. Unlike many princesses who sat in towers and brushed their hair or did needlepoint until their specific hero decided to grace them with his presence, I am NOT just WAITING. I am not content to merely exist until circumstances collide to make me happy, I'm going to make my own. So men, watch out. You might have to break a sweat if you want to catch me.

That is, if you can recognize me through the swamp goo...

A Splendid Day

Some days on the calendar seem to laugh at you with their endlessness. Others, frankly suck. Then there are those that seem innocuous to immediate scrutiny, but after a few (or even 20 or more) hours they become magical. I'm not talking about the "perfect day", mind you, but merely one that is so full of ups and downs and surprises that it reminds you of the whole of your life. When the ups finally come together to make the downs seem worth it.

It could just be a moment. One second during which your eyes are opened and you experience just a little bit of peace, and you can see what your trouble is going to earn you. One day, where at the end you look at what you've got and realize that you still have money in the bank, you've still got hope for tomorrow and even next week, and you still feel like smiling after everything else. Something I've come to learn in my life is that one day can change everything, either for better or worse, but I don't really think it goes that way. Instead, it should be for good or for better...eventually. All things that happen must come full circle, and it is days like these, as precious and few as they may be, which remind us that eventually, everything will be okay.

Not at once. Each thing has a time to be resolved, and that doesn't mean that EVERYTHING will one day be perfect. But some day soon, every thing will come out right. Take one step at a time. Rejoice in each small conclusion, each miniature happy ending. Because life isn't like a fairy tale, where people live happily ever after and that's just it. No more work, no more pain. Instead, we can stop and realize that each day can have a happy ending, no matter how it starts. And when we have one of those, we can say tonight I will live happily... for today was a very splendid day.

I don't think it's that bad, after all.

Suffer On --- By Ronny Park

March 8, 2007

When times are short of mellow

And traffic gets you down,

When you turn to friend or fellow

And instead of smile, they frown,
Remember that I love you

Across all the miles and days,

And find the strength to suffer on

In a million different ways.

Suffer on with gladness

For the lessons you are learning,

Suffer on with dignity

For the self respect you're earning,

Suffer on with charity;

Many can't, but you are stronger,

Suffer on, because I'm watching you

And now I'll suffer on a little longer.

Back in ancient days, before modern usage changed the syntax of the word "to suffer", it was used to mean "endure", "last", and even "triumph".

So when you think of all of the things that you suffer through, don't forget that others like me are watching, thinking that if you can...maybe I can, too. And remember that everything you are suffering...you are enduring.

Thinkings

I am an old soul.

While others my age are out binge drinking, having unprotected premarital sex and exploring the limits of their physical bodies, I am sitting at home listening to Ella Fitzgerald and contemplating my life. Why can't I just go out and live it and forget the consequences?

My friend Pinetree is afraid to fall in love because of what might happen in the future, five or ten years down the road. Whereas I am afraid that I am incapable of falling in love. What happens when a person lives too much pain before their time? When someone is forced to live not only their own mistakes but the mistakes of their parents and theirs, learning from experience far before the experience presents itself? I almost think it is unwise to learn too much from someone else's mishaps. It takes all the fun out of doing it on your own. One day, you will wake up and realize that you haven't ever done anything worth punishing yourself for. Instead, you've been punishing yourself in advance. Instead of learning from love, I now avoid love because I have seen what it can do to people. The pain isn't worth it, I tell myself. I never drink, because I have seen what happens to those who do. I don't make out with strangers. I'm safer that way, I suppose.

However, my friends, it seems as if there is one consequence that I might have overlooked. Yes, I have saved myself the pain of making the wrong decisions. But I have also deprived myself of the fun that can be had in recklessness. I am a spinster at 21, and it is because I haven't drank, haven't felt, haven't been stupid, haven't lived in the moment. My whole life has been like this, a series of prudent saves. But from what? From living? From doing those things which everyone else does, the stupid and rash decisions that make us human? Yes, I am wise beyond my years. But perhaps wisdom can be another word for fear. I am an old soul. And I mourn for the premature loss of my youth.

Stupid Girl's Guide to Ruining Love Day

Okay, so Valentine's Day is just a week away. And what do smart girls do when Valentine's Day is just a week away? If you chose take the relationship to the next level, you're wrong. If you chose get your boyfriend something nice, you are also a loser today. But, if you know me and my horrible luck with relationships, and you chose option c) they break up with their boyfriends, then you would at least be right one times out of a hundred, which works.

Honestly, what kind of an idiot breaks up a relationship right before the national celebration held in their honor, on the year when for the first time EVER they would not have had to celebrate it alone? Obviously, my kind of idiot. Why, might you ask? Well, if I knew the answer to that one, I probably wouldn't feel so stupid right about now. So, in honor of this unprecedented holiday, I give you my latest list:

The Stupid Girl/Guy's Guide to Chilling Alone on Love Day

A List of Helpful Ideas to Start & Finish the Day Off Right - And with a BANG!

1) You should probably begin by sleeping in. A lot. Possibly even miss a class or two, and/or work

2) You should NOT buy yourself or anyone else flowers, because they're just going to die, just like your hopes of ever being un-single again

3) You should not eat ANYTHING that is red, pink, white, or sprinkly. Unless Robbit and I gave it to you, in which case it is a yummy treat and you should indulge with vigor

4) Go see a movie that has a lot of killing and/or crap getting blown up

5) Avoid shopping malls, jewelry stores, fancy restaurants, and all picturesque places. Especially in Provo. Just trust me on this one.

6) Go to Wal-Mart at about 2am, and buy laundry detergent or socks (for yourself)

7) Go to Barnes and Noble. That's where all the other single freaks hang out, and you'll feel better and maybe even find a book about how to make your love life not suck so much

8) Avoid radio stations, and only listen to Albums from groups like All-American Rejects, Dashboard Confessional, and especially Fall Out Boy (all love-hating bands for the most part)

9) Call a single friend and don't mention Valentine's Day ONCE

10) Take your car to the shop

11) Find a gay friend and take them to a romantic spot so they can help you make fun of the couples

12) Find a gay friend and fake a proposal

13) Break someone up (just kidding, don't do that)

14) Go LARPing. (Those kids don't even know what a date is)

15) Watch 10 hours of AskaNinja, followed by Homestar and then what the heck burn out on YouTube

16) Get a tatoo

17) Go get your hair cut, or buy a new outfit (at Wal-mart, because you can't go to the mall)

18) Write a song about your favorite food item

19) Watch almost any movie with Sean Penn. Bound to be totally unromantic.

20) Go to the gym and make a game out of avoiding hitters on

And there's my list. This is foolproof, and if you do these things, I PROMISE you won't spend all your time being depressed about your (recent, in my case) singleness. And, as an added bonus, I'll probably do at least ten of these things, so you might bump into me and we can hang out. Rock on!