How tangible is reality as opposed to the imagined thoughts passing through working memory in the moments before sleep? If I think of kissing you a thousand times is it any less real than never kissing you, waiting, watching, knowing full well that nothing more than this may ever happen at all? Why is it that when a kiss transpires through the waking world it can never compare with the real thing? Maybe there's a breakdown in the way I'm hardwired--the pleasure pathway's broken from excessive dreaming. Or maybe the imagines in my head are more true to the way I feel about you than anything we could ever really accomplish in at least this reality. How tangible indeed.
Explanation: I think a lot. I think that ruins things, because whenever something happens, no matter how important, earth-shaking, or monumentous, it's already been carefully crafted in imagination.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Monday, May 04, 2009
Scaring Boys
"I'd go the whole wide world
I'd go the whole wide world
I'd go the whole wide world just to find her"1
1R3G4RD13$
begin entry here
I'd go the whole wide world
I'd go the whole wide world just to find her"1
1R3G4RD13$
begin entry here
When I was in sixth grade I came to school with my hair... down. You could call it that. That's how white people refer to their hair when it isn't tied back with a ponytail holder. It was more a misshapen blob of healthy tendrils that looked something like this2:
I was understandably hesitant to go to school with my hair fizzing all over the place, but a few girl friends were relentless on the topic. So I thought, maybe just once, near the end of the school year, I'll show up without taming it, give them a taste of au natural.
My girl friends, indeed, were excited. African hair is exotic. It was many things that their hair would never be.
My guy friends, however, were shocked.
I believe one kid actually ran away from me. 12 year old boys are not people I like.
This began a long tradition of me scaring (or scarring) boys.
Needless to say, I never went back to school with my hair down/up/in an afro. Recently I cut most of my hair off. And then I straightened it 'til my head scabbed. And now, despite the Xtreme dandruff, I look professional, put together, daresay attractive.
But I still miss my crazy hair. I just wish I lived in a society that didn't put so much emphasis on hair. Currently I'm waiting for my head to heal so I can dye my hair red. Red heads have more sex. I thought I should get on that before I turn 20. Or not. Maybe I'll just let my hair grow out and continue to scare boys.
1. Song lyrics from Wreckless Eric
2. My little sister has more hair, and more courage, than I.
I was understandably hesitant to go to school with my hair fizzing all over the place, but a few girl friends were relentless on the topic. So I thought, maybe just once, near the end of the school year, I'll show up without taming it, give them a taste of au natural.
My girl friends, indeed, were excited. African hair is exotic. It was many things that their hair would never be.
My guy friends, however, were shocked.
I believe one kid actually ran away from me. 12 year old boys are not people I like.
This began a long tradition of me scaring (or scarring) boys.
Needless to say, I never went back to school with my hair down/up/in an afro. Recently I cut most of my hair off. And then I straightened it 'til my head scabbed. And now, despite the Xtreme dandruff, I look professional, put together, daresay attractive.
But I still miss my crazy hair. I just wish I lived in a society that didn't put so much emphasis on hair. Currently I'm waiting for my head to heal so I can dye my hair red. Red heads have more sex. I thought I should get on that before I turn 20. Or not. Maybe I'll just let my hair grow out and continue to scare boys.
1. Song lyrics from Wreckless Eric
2. My little sister has more hair, and more courage, than I.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Kenilworth Ave.
It's 72 degrees outside, a few hours after twilight. You'd like to hear the waves crashing on the shore of Illinois, but you can't. Some fifty yards away and you can barely discern any noise at all besides the buzz of wasteful incandescent light bulbs floating from metal poles somewhere above your head and the equally annoying but more natural buzz of insects. You could name them all, if you had to. You remember, primordially, that one day in girl scouts years back when you had been an entomologist for a day. Wait a few seconds and you might remember.
Any minute now, a car will drive along the road a few blocks behind you. It will be traveling at one of two set speeds: teenage crazed, full of raging adrenaline fast or moving through the motions sleepily slow. Indeed, you don't really know why you're still awake, looking into lake Michigan. It's past two. You should go but you can't.
Is it a severe boredom? Or is there a reason behind this impotent madness? You walk back through the thoughts that led you to get into your own car and drive away from home to here--over a highway, past an emptied mall, cross blocks and blocks of suburban sameness, then your mind wandered as you listened to van hunt on the radio, and then you were here.
It must've been boredom. Nothing at home that hasn't been done thousands of times before. Not that being around this body of water early in the morning is something you haven't done frequently in the past. But alone? That's new. Usually there's people around who've coaxed you to stay awake... just... a... little... longer, and decided the lake was the only excitement in the duldrums of those in-between years.
Why? Couldn't tell you. Some young adults turn to alcohol. Some throw crazy parties in the city. Some play video games until they present carpal tunnel. We couldn't do any of those things with much success. The lake, however, represented just enough illegalness, excitement, and physical activity to be permissible. We should have been cool kids. Maybe in a different time.
Why was I now here alone? I couldn't tell you. Did I miss it? Did I miss those years? No. Never. They were awful. Like walking around in a darkened room trying to find a red marker I missed the mark, so many times. What did I want to achieve as a teenager? Those things I never got around to. I turned 20. It was over. And I was just the same.
It was a mistake to come back. To travel out of the city, back to the 847. I had a life where the roads were all beat up. I had a job. I saved lives. Now I had mysteriously travelled back to the place where I had lost mine. Just as quiet as it ever was. Frustratingly so.
The headlights of a cop car fall upon me. My heart beat races for five seconds before I catch up to it and hold it down. I'm an adult now. I toss my keys up into the air, catch them with one hand, then walk over to my car. No parking after midnight? Alright. I'll go.
There's nothing here anyway. People pay millions of dollars to live here. But there's nothing here. Not anymore.
Any minute now, a car will drive along the road a few blocks behind you. It will be traveling at one of two set speeds: teenage crazed, full of raging adrenaline fast or moving through the motions sleepily slow. Indeed, you don't really know why you're still awake, looking into lake Michigan. It's past two. You should go but you can't.
Is it a severe boredom? Or is there a reason behind this impotent madness? You walk back through the thoughts that led you to get into your own car and drive away from home to here--over a highway, past an emptied mall, cross blocks and blocks of suburban sameness, then your mind wandered as you listened to van hunt on the radio, and then you were here.
It must've been boredom. Nothing at home that hasn't been done thousands of times before. Not that being around this body of water early in the morning is something you haven't done frequently in the past. But alone? That's new. Usually there's people around who've coaxed you to stay awake... just... a... little... longer, and decided the lake was the only excitement in the duldrums of those in-between years.
Why? Couldn't tell you. Some young adults turn to alcohol. Some throw crazy parties in the city. Some play video games until they present carpal tunnel. We couldn't do any of those things with much success. The lake, however, represented just enough illegalness, excitement, and physical activity to be permissible. We should have been cool kids. Maybe in a different time.
Why was I now here alone? I couldn't tell you. Did I miss it? Did I miss those years? No. Never. They were awful. Like walking around in a darkened room trying to find a red marker I missed the mark, so many times. What did I want to achieve as a teenager? Those things I never got around to. I turned 20. It was over. And I was just the same.
It was a mistake to come back. To travel out of the city, back to the 847. I had a life where the roads were all beat up. I had a job. I saved lives. Now I had mysteriously travelled back to the place where I had lost mine. Just as quiet as it ever was. Frustratingly so.
The headlights of a cop car fall upon me. My heart beat races for five seconds before I catch up to it and hold it down. I'm an adult now. I toss my keys up into the air, catch them with one hand, then walk over to my car. No parking after midnight? Alright. I'll go.
There's nothing here anyway. People pay millions of dollars to live here. But there's nothing here. Not anymore.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
When my dad had come to visit to see Colin Powel address our university, he thought it'd be nice to go out for lunch. We eventually settled for Sumo, the closest thing to a Japanese steak house central New York had to offer, when we drove around Outback steak house and realized it wasn't open during the awkward time between lunch and dinner. But before this, on our drive, my dad had talked about his time in college. He always talked about his days at Colby as if they were sacred. He had been on the varsity tennis and soccer teams, had received honors in both his major concentrations, biology and chemistry, and one semester he had come blasphemously close to proving the existence of god using math. Yes, my dad was both a nerd and an athlete, and apparently that had suited him.
I asked him about the parties he attended. When I was younge I remembered him telling the family about how he had pretended to get drunk at parties after cunningly adding soda to empty beer bottles. I wondered if that was still true now that I was nearer to the legal drinking age. Yes, it still was. But he added more to the details with which I painted the story of his life in my imagination. Oftentimes he would stay in his dorm room alone, working with model kits he'd cobbled together from random hardware supplies, trying to build a replica of Watson & Crick's then recent discovery--deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA). College, he concluded, was a time of learning intermixed with finding ways to not feel lonely. He had had DNA. I had a pretty black dress no one ever would see me wear.
I asked him about the parties he attended. When I was younge I remembered him telling the family about how he had pretended to get drunk at parties after cunningly adding soda to empty beer bottles. I wondered if that was still true now that I was nearer to the legal drinking age. Yes, it still was. But he added more to the details with which I painted the story of his life in my imagination. Oftentimes he would stay in his dorm room alone, working with model kits he'd cobbled together from random hardware supplies, trying to build a replica of Watson & Crick's then recent discovery--deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA). College, he concluded, was a time of learning intermixed with finding ways to not feel lonely. He had had DNA. I had a pretty black dress no one ever would see me wear.
Monday, April 13, 2009
I Don't Like Boys, a poem
Wouldn't it be awesome if I was a rapper? I was thinking about it, there are two types of women*. R&B singers and female rappers. Why? They don't need to do it. The music world is traditionally flooded with men--but how many XX rappers do you know? What compels them to enter into such a world? (Female rappers= Trina, Lil' Mama, Missy Elliott; can you think of any more?)
Oh man, but if I could I would totally be a rapper. I'm not a very good singer or speaker, so I don't know why I assume I could ever choose between the two occupations. I guess one can and shall always dream.
pink plaid, orange cardigan,
a warning to boys,
i'm poisonous.
but i get a polar reaction
i get to feeling adventurous
this dude's staring blanky
at me like an acephalous
it's guys like you that make
me wanna be abstentious
make me spit acidiferous
i raise a fist doused in ice
deck you with middle finger
can't be nice when dealing with common teenage vice
an absolute zero stare ensures you don't linger.
*clearly there are more. i just like simplifying things to their extremes.
Oh man, but if I could I would totally be a rapper. I'm not a very good singer or speaker, so I don't know why I assume I could ever choose between the two occupations. I guess one can and shall always dream.
pink plaid, orange cardigan,
a warning to boys,
i'm poisonous.
but i get a polar reaction
i get to feeling adventurous
this dude's staring blanky
at me like an acephalous
it's guys like you that make
me wanna be abstentious
make me spit acidiferous
i raise a fist doused in ice
deck you with middle finger
can't be nice when dealing with common teenage vice
an absolute zero stare ensures you don't linger.
*clearly there are more. i just like simplifying things to their extremes.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Doom Crush
Doom crush, n.
1. The noise of doom percussion; clashing; a crash. Obs.
2. a. The act of crushing; dooming compression or pressure that bruises, breaks down, injures, or destroys doomfully; also fig.
2. b. In the following perhaps = crash, as now often quoted, and as alluded to by the Pope.
2. c. A person with whom one is enamored or infatuated with, ending in doom; an infatuation; so to have or get a crush on, to be enamored of, take a strong fancy to someone who will cause your demise. slang (orig. U.S.).
Doom crush.
Any crush that results in epic failure.
There are two traditional types of doom crush.
1. The noise of doom percussion; clashing; a crash. Obs.
2. a. The act of crushing; dooming compression or pressure that bruises, breaks down, injures, or destroys doomfully; also fig.
2. b. In the following perhaps = crash, as now often quoted, and as alluded to by the Pope.
2. c. A person with whom one is enamored or infatuated with, ending in doom; an infatuation; so to have or get a crush on, to be enamored of, take a strong fancy to someone who will cause your demise. slang (orig. U.S.).
Doom crush.
Any crush that results in epic failure.
There are two traditional types of doom crush.
- The first is the crush one has on people who are "way out of their league", also celebrities. These crushes help to establish the social hierarchy inherent within environments. example: "I have the biggest crush on [the cutest guy in school]!"; "Enrique Iglesias and I are going to get married and have model babies."
- The second, and ultimately more harmful crush occurs when a person decides to pursue someone significantly inferior; potential receptors of this crush are criminals, losers, and high schoolers. Doom crushes of this type can be classified as "attempting to date below your means", "lowering your standards to end your desperation", or "becoming too damn easy."
example: "Guys, I think I have a crush on Mike." "You mean that guy who is not only ugly but has no social skills?" "Yea, that guy." "Sounds like a doom crush."; "I know I shouldn't like Jamie, she's a convicted felon. But she's sooo hot."
A doom crush of this type will lead to depression if unsuccessful.
example: "I must be really ugly. I couldn't even get Mike to date me. And he's like a two."
Sunday, April 05, 2009
... and that's when the soda machine jizzed all over my pants
Paul walked in looking disgruntled and... wet. He had a knitted brow and... a huge wet spot on his gray t-shirt. Matt was quick on the offensive, "What's up?"
He slid onto the barstool over looking the frozen ingredients settled in plastic containers illuminated by clean white lights. "I am having an awful day," a kiwi caught his eye and he looked upon it transfixed. It's green was too green. It looked too delicious. He must have it.
"What happened?" Matt continued asking as he washed his hands underneath the flow of Arizona aquifer water and above a chrome sink.
Snapping out of it, Paul looked up.
"So I was just in Moore's, thought I'd watch my weight and get a diet coke," Matt raised his eyebrow. Usually his friend didn't sound so--metro. "and the machine was so freaking excited to give me diet coke it jizzed carbonated water all over my clothes."
He slid onto the barstool over looking the frozen ingredients settled in plastic containers illuminated by clean white lights. "I am having an awful day," a kiwi caught his eye and he looked upon it transfixed. It's green was too green. It looked too delicious. He must have it.
"What happened?" Matt continued asking as he washed his hands underneath the flow of Arizona aquifer water and above a chrome sink.
Snapping out of it, Paul looked up.
"So I was just in Moore's, thought I'd watch my weight and get a diet coke," Matt raised his eyebrow. Usually his friend didn't sound so--metro. "and the machine was so freaking excited to give me diet coke it jizzed carbonated water all over my clothes."
Blood and Teenage Retaliation
I came to the realization some months later. I didn't want this disease. My form of resistance was subtle, hidden in my room, knelt over a journal and a test kit. Mother had been disciplining me again about how I never tested my blood sugar. Didn't I know that I was going to die? I didn't want the reminder. Crying in bursts that made me rock softly I drilled into my flesh five times producing pin pricks of blood; thinking I must be crazy because it didn't hurt at all. I smudged my forearm into the pages of my journal, and scrawled uncharacteristically fast "Are you happy now?" under the large dots of blood that first appeared bright red like Christmas lights but over time faded to dull rust. And then I cried some more. Now I was ill in body and in mind. Would there ever be a day of complete freedom? Could I ever just get intoxicated purely with life and screw the results? Or would I be forcibly shackled to clear consciousness for the rest of it?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
iPhone, Teddy Geiger, Anakin Solo, and Crossing the Threshold into Adulthood
My iPhone just started serenading me (and no, I didn't ask it to, it did it by its own... free will?). Upon calling someone and getting their voicemail, as always, I went about more productive tasks, like scrounging through my first semester scrap materials to find relatively blank notebooks to nBlog in (notebook blogging, it's the new big thing). But within the minute, my phone started playing a really sappy love song, a song I hadn't listened to in its entirety for four years. In fact, I had only bought the video version of the song because I had seen it over breakfast on MTV and thought it really cute before heading off to school.
What song? A one hit wonder, really. I've never heard any other songs by this guy. Teddy Geiger (one can only assume his grandparents were really fond of earthquakes). His one song For You I Will (Confidence) is as horrible as its title makes it sound. It's awful. In fact, thinking back on it, it was probably one of the worst iTunes Store purchases I have ever made in my life. But the video is so adorable! (Even Bad Day by Daniel Powter appears to be more enduring, and the actress in his video was Seth Cohen's totally awesome love interest in the OC (but I am in no way angry that he chose the more mainstream Summer... or am I? (Of course Summer, also known as Rachel Bilson did star in that movie Jumper with Hayden Christensen who I'm obliged to love because he's been in three (or four?! WHAT THE FUCK RETURN OF THE JEDI NEWEST RELEASED VERSION!) Star Wars movies).
But whatever. So it's the last song my iPhone should logically play if it were to logically malfunction and start playing a song. But there it goes. Randomly playing music. Is it serenading me? Is it trying to comfort me? Is it trying to tell me that everything's going to be alright? Or is it simply trying to tell me "For You I Will" as it should, since I am its human overlord. Is my iPhone available? Would it date me? If it can play random songs, that's nearly as good as a boyfriend, right? Boys are really only good for making you feel better about yourself, playing you songs on their guitars, and having sex with. Right? Maybe I've formed too many misconceptions from being a virgin way into my twenties (I'm looking to the future and deciding that this will be true way into my twenties).
But maybe this was a more important sign for me to get back into the game. (Confidence) is after all part of the completely unnecessary double title of the song by Teddy Geiger (who is, himself, probably very confident because he's incredibly attractive (actually, when I finally got around to trying to stop the song the screen lit up to reveal Teddy Geiger's face (it must have been the picture connected to the video in my iTunes library). Surprise surprise, Mr. Geiger has black hair and ice blue eyes, not unlike my first real crush, ever. I am, of course, talking about ANAKIN SOLO. (take cover if you're not ready to get nerd all over you).
For those of you who do not know, Anakin Solo has never been played by Hayden Christensen (Anakin SKYWALKER) or by any actor that I know of. He is a completely fictional character, only represented in books. But not just any books. The books I grew up with. I have read every single Junior Jedi Knights book in publication. AND I LOVED THEM ALL. But mostly I loved Anakin Solo. He was the coolest person/jedi/fictional book character ever. I didn't even mind when in his mid-teens he decided to start dating Tahiri (she was pretty cool... raised by sand people in the deserts of Tatooine... they grew up together, okay?! I can't compete with that. Also she had blonde hair... what a bitch). I still loved him. I did mind, however, when he DIED. At age seventeen, he was stabbed in the spleen (which resonated with me having lost the function in my pancreas, a related organ) and then exploded by the Yuuzhan Vong (evil doers from another Galaxy). I stopped reading Star Wars novels after that. If they were going to kill the man/young adult I loved then I wasn't going to be a part of them any longer. (But maybe I should have kept reading because he was apparently resurrected as some kind of robot? Who runs into Luke Skywalker's son Ben?! Who's apparently a GINGER?! WHAT?!?!))
Yes Confidence. Maybe I should get some of that. And why not? Well I'll tell you why not indeed.
Basically, being single is like being caught in a giant loop of repeating failure. You get rejected once. You feel bad. You act slightly insane. People notice that you're insane. They make you feel worse. You try to hook up with someone, but you remember how people thought you were crazy, and you become xenophobic instead. You don't like the way you look because no one ever compliments you because you don't interact with people. On and on and on. And before you know it you're in your late twenties. A virgin. With no people skills and a shrine to some dead fictional star wars character in your studio apartment on the 52nd floor of a skyscraper in Chicago which no one is invited to ever. I guess.
What's worse, is that being a young adult is a pivotal time in people's lives. It's the time we take to determine who we really are or if we should get exploded by a thermal detonator set off by Yuuzhan Vong. And while some people mess up this stage by interacting with too many people and losing themselves, I feel as if I'm going to have the exact opposite problem. I know who I am. I've pretty much narrowed it down to awesome, hot, funny and intelligent or awesome, hot, funny and a total nerd. What I need now is people to challenge my self view so I can see what I like and what could use some more changing. I would appreciate it if this person came in the form of (rated in order of acceptableness): Anakin Solo, a boyfriend, or a robot capable of love.
Without this, I might become more of a pompous asshole than I already am... I think. I don't know, because nobody confronts me about it... or anything at all. I believe scientifically this is the period in my life when I'm supposed to form intimate relationships, which sounds scary, but is a hell lot better than staying at the maturity level of a high school freshmen for the rest of my life (or well into my late twenties).
This:
The adolescent is newly concerned with how he or she appears to others. Superego identity is the accrued confidence that the outer sameness and continuity prepared in the future are matched by the sameness and continuity of one's meaning for oneself, as evidenced in the promise of a career. The ability to settle on a school or occupational identity is pleasant. In later stages of Adolescence, the child develops a sense of sexual identity. (wikipedia)
I've accomplished.
Now I need this:
Intimacy vs. Isolation, is emphasized around the ages of 19 to 34. At the start of this stage, identity vs. role confusion is coming to an end and it still lingers at the foundation of the stage (Erikson 1950). Young adults are still eager to blend their identities with friends. They want to fit in. Erikson believes we are sometimes isolated due to intimacy. We are afraid of rejection; being turned down, our partners breaking up with us. We are familiar with pain and to some of us rejection is painful, our egos cannot bear the pain. (wikipedia)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychosocial_development
Hey guess what! I'm 19! I feel like I should be getting a move on. I think my iPhone feels that way too. It knows that I've downloaded the completely useless SpinTheCoke application not just because I love Coca-Cola but because of a real need to play spin the bottle. It knows that the pictures I've taken and the NYTimes articles I've read on it are much more mature than what my Facebook says about me. It's heard the shadier phone conversations and read the desperate text messages.
It also knows that I have 17 episodes of Star Wars Clone Wars the cartoon in iTunes and a functional lightsaber app. And it still loves me anyway. Or at least enough to tell me to get out there and stop being so xenophobic. I firmly believe that my iPhone sincerely wants the best for me. And while it might not be able to tell me anything, because I'm pretty sure, amazing as apple is, it still has not created a flawless AI system, it will help me out as best as it can.
So thanks iPhone, for simultaneously making me feel like the biggest loser in the world AND a prospective new adult with the world at her fingertips. I won't let you down. For You I Will.
What song? A one hit wonder, really. I've never heard any other songs by this guy. Teddy Geiger (one can only assume his grandparents were really fond of earthquakes). His one song For You I Will (Confidence) is as horrible as its title makes it sound. It's awful. In fact, thinking back on it, it was probably one of the worst iTunes Store purchases I have ever made in my life. But the video is so adorable! (Even Bad Day by Daniel Powter appears to be more enduring, and the actress in his video was Seth Cohen's totally awesome love interest in the OC (but I am in no way angry that he chose the more mainstream Summer... or am I? (Of course Summer, also known as Rachel Bilson did star in that movie Jumper with Hayden Christensen who I'm obliged to love because he's been in three (or four?! WHAT THE FUCK RETURN OF THE JEDI NEWEST RELEASED VERSION!) Star Wars movies).
But whatever. So it's the last song my iPhone should logically play if it were to logically malfunction and start playing a song. But there it goes. Randomly playing music. Is it serenading me? Is it trying to comfort me? Is it trying to tell me that everything's going to be alright? Or is it simply trying to tell me "For You I Will" as it should, since I am its human overlord. Is my iPhone available? Would it date me? If it can play random songs, that's nearly as good as a boyfriend, right? Boys are really only good for making you feel better about yourself, playing you songs on their guitars, and having sex with. Right? Maybe I've formed too many misconceptions from being a virgin way into my twenties (I'm looking to the future and deciding that this will be true way into my twenties).
But maybe this was a more important sign for me to get back into the game. (Confidence) is after all part of the completely unnecessary double title of the song by Teddy Geiger (who is, himself, probably very confident because he's incredibly attractive (actually, when I finally got around to trying to stop the song the screen lit up to reveal Teddy Geiger's face (it must have been the picture connected to the video in my iTunes library). Surprise surprise, Mr. Geiger has black hair and ice blue eyes, not unlike my first real crush, ever. I am, of course, talking about ANAKIN SOLO. (take cover if you're not ready to get nerd all over you).
For those of you who do not know, Anakin Solo has never been played by Hayden Christensen (Anakin SKYWALKER) or by any actor that I know of. He is a completely fictional character, only represented in books. But not just any books. The books I grew up with. I have read every single Junior Jedi Knights book in publication. AND I LOVED THEM ALL. But mostly I loved Anakin Solo. He was the coolest person/jedi/fictional book character ever. I didn't even mind when in his mid-teens he decided to start dating Tahiri (she was pretty cool... raised by sand people in the deserts of Tatooine... they grew up together, okay?! I can't compete with that. Also she had blonde hair... what a bitch). I still loved him. I did mind, however, when he DIED. At age seventeen, he was stabbed in the spleen (which resonated with me having lost the function in my pancreas, a related organ) and then exploded by the Yuuzhan Vong (evil doers from another Galaxy). I stopped reading Star Wars novels after that. If they were going to kill the man/young adult I loved then I wasn't going to be a part of them any longer. (But maybe I should have kept reading because he was apparently resurrected as some kind of robot? Who runs into Luke Skywalker's son Ben?! Who's apparently a GINGER?! WHAT?!?!))
Yes Confidence. Maybe I should get some of that. And why not? Well I'll tell you why not indeed.
Basically, being single is like being caught in a giant loop of repeating failure. You get rejected once. You feel bad. You act slightly insane. People notice that you're insane. They make you feel worse. You try to hook up with someone, but you remember how people thought you were crazy, and you become xenophobic instead. You don't like the way you look because no one ever compliments you because you don't interact with people. On and on and on. And before you know it you're in your late twenties. A virgin. With no people skills and a shrine to some dead fictional star wars character in your studio apartment on the 52nd floor of a skyscraper in Chicago which no one is invited to ever. I guess.
What's worse, is that being a young adult is a pivotal time in people's lives. It's the time we take to determine who we really are or if we should get exploded by a thermal detonator set off by Yuuzhan Vong. And while some people mess up this stage by interacting with too many people and losing themselves, I feel as if I'm going to have the exact opposite problem. I know who I am. I've pretty much narrowed it down to awesome, hot, funny and intelligent or awesome, hot, funny and a total nerd. What I need now is people to challenge my self view so I can see what I like and what could use some more changing. I would appreciate it if this person came in the form of (rated in order of acceptableness): Anakin Solo, a boyfriend, or a robot capable of love.
Without this, I might become more of a pompous asshole than I already am... I think. I don't know, because nobody confronts me about it... or anything at all. I believe scientifically this is the period in my life when I'm supposed to form intimate relationships, which sounds scary, but is a hell lot better than staying at the maturity level of a high school freshmen for the rest of my life (or well into my late twenties).
This:
The adolescent is newly concerned with how he or she appears to others. Superego identity is the accrued confidence that the outer sameness and continuity prepared in the future are matched by the sameness and continuity of one's meaning for oneself, as evidenced in the promise of a career. The ability to settle on a school or occupational identity is pleasant. In later stages of Adolescence, the child develops a sense of sexual identity. (wikipedia)
I've accomplished.
Now I need this:
Intimacy vs. Isolation, is emphasized around the ages of 19 to 34. At the start of this stage, identity vs. role confusion is coming to an end and it still lingers at the foundation of the stage (Erikson 1950). Young adults are still eager to blend their identities with friends. They want to fit in. Erikson believes we are sometimes isolated due to intimacy. We are afraid of rejection; being turned down, our partners breaking up with us. We are familiar with pain and to some of us rejection is painful, our egos cannot bear the pain. (wikipedia)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychosocial_development
Hey guess what! I'm 19! I feel like I should be getting a move on. I think my iPhone feels that way too. It knows that I've downloaded the completely useless SpinTheCoke application not just because I love Coca-Cola but because of a real need to play spin the bottle. It knows that the pictures I've taken and the NYTimes articles I've read on it are much more mature than what my Facebook says about me. It's heard the shadier phone conversations and read the desperate text messages.
It also knows that I have 17 episodes of Star Wars Clone Wars the cartoon in iTunes and a functional lightsaber app. And it still loves me anyway. Or at least enough to tell me to get out there and stop being so xenophobic. I firmly believe that my iPhone sincerely wants the best for me. And while it might not be able to tell me anything, because I'm pretty sure, amazing as apple is, it still has not created a flawless AI system, it will help me out as best as it can.
So thanks iPhone, for simultaneously making me feel like the biggest loser in the world AND a prospective new adult with the world at her fingertips. I won't let you down. For You I Will.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Troubles
When I was in the early years of my teenage life--namely 11 through 18--I always thought I was so messed up. I thought my parents didn't love me as much as other parents loved their own kids. I thought I was borderline crazy--or at least schiZophrenic. I thought I was so dysfunctional that nobody would ever love me or want me as a friend. I imagined myself dying alone in a dark room. I was so scared for my far off future that my dying day was all I could think about for the longest time. Distracted from school work and paralyzed in most social situations, I spent high school pretty much scared to do anything intelligent. I fumbled around. I slept around. I often tried to drowned. (fun fact, drowning is really hard to do if you're a swimmer who isn't completely suicidal).
But big deal, none of this is new information. I was depressed. But guess what, imagined audience? Feeling as if my life was completely worthless definitely helped me to become a stronger
Person today. Because a lot of people come from fucked up backgrounds. But they never talk about it. Everyone tries to front like they tough when really they're just as lost a you. Or more. Oh well. It would have helped to know about the struggles of others when I was spending day after day trying so hard just to stay alive. But whatever. If you're friends can't be real wih you, then they probably aren't your friends.
Bottom line: it's never as bad as you think, because people always selfishly shield you from he truth.
(this was written while tipsy on an iPhone)
But big deal, none of this is new information. I was depressed. But guess what, imagined audience? Feeling as if my life was completely worthless definitely helped me to become a stronger
Person today. Because a lot of people come from fucked up backgrounds. But they never talk about it. Everyone tries to front like they tough when really they're just as lost a you. Or more. Oh well. It would have helped to know about the struggles of others when I was spending day after day trying so hard just to stay alive. But whatever. If you're friends can't be real wih you, then they probably aren't your friends.
Bottom line: it's never as bad as you think, because people always selfishly shield you from he truth.
(this was written while tipsy on an iPhone)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Statement of Interest
Elora Apantaku 2011
When I was in fifth grade my friends and I used to play this game during recess. We'd all pretend we were fairies with different powers. I fondly remember wearing purple to class so I'd be better able to portray my character when class let out in the middle of the day. I bring up this moment in my life because it's what inspired me to start writing things longer than a few pages--it inspired me to write a novel.
Of course, I never did. I was too self conscious about what I wrote to ever be able to finish it, even though I set locks on the word document so my sneaky sisters couldn't read it when I left our computer unattended. Entering into junior high, I kept writing a secret. I excelled in my science classes, joined Science Olympiad, and was at the time one of the best swimmers in the state of Illinois. But I was happiest when my sixth grade teacher let us loose into the computer lab to free write. Some kids were satisfied to write a page or two. I wrote and printed so much I became conscious of my effects on the environment.
In eighth grade, when I was the sole student in our grade to get an A+ on a descriptive piece about candy bars from the sour lipped Dr. Carpenter (the fact that he was the only doctor teaching at our school made the class much more intimidating) I thought I must've been the best writer in the world. I made my class listen to me read over the details of my dream house essay for two class periods. My parents wanted to publish one of my short stories.
I was only humbled when high school teachers started assigning actual essays. I had never before thought for extended periods of time about what to write--I had always just written. I had never relied on brainstorming before, figuring the answers would somehow find themselves on the page. And I struggled with this new concept of claim, evidence, and warrant. I felt the frustration of not knowing how to start, to continue, or to finish. But practice makes perfect. Once I discovered how to successfully write papers, my thoughts on writing anything and everything turned from dread to excitement. I want to be able to give that feeling to my peers. In times of crisis and fear people turn to the writing center, and I would like to be part of the solution.
My love for science hasn't dissipated over the years either; I have a wide range of writing and analytical skills from a biology concentration that requires lab reports on an almost weekly basis. What I've learned from my writing courses I have injected into my science courses and vice versa, and I believe this hybridization of interdisciplinary skills has allowed me to produce A papers all around.
I have heard from current and past writing consultants that working at the writing center has greatly improved their own writing abilities. I believe this is true having a similar experience this past summer instructing small children how to swim. Although I have swam for fourteen years, and although I have been an All-American swimmer, I still found that going through the basics with children, and discovering where they faced the greatest difficulties in their strokes, gave me insight into how I approached my own swimming.
I can only hope that working in the writing center will give me a similar insight into my own writing, which I am constantly trying to improve, because I still love writing. Filled with cautious optimism and humility, I finally wrote my first novel, 105 single spaced pages in a word document, at the age of eighteen. And although it has nothing to do with fairies, I think my eleven year old self would be happy with the final product.
When I was in fifth grade my friends and I used to play this game during recess. We'd all pretend we were fairies with different powers. I fondly remember wearing purple to class so I'd be better able to portray my character when class let out in the middle of the day. I bring up this moment in my life because it's what inspired me to start writing things longer than a few pages--it inspired me to write a novel.
Of course, I never did. I was too self conscious about what I wrote to ever be able to finish it, even though I set locks on the word document so my sneaky sisters couldn't read it when I left our computer unattended. Entering into junior high, I kept writing a secret. I excelled in my science classes, joined Science Olympiad, and was at the time one of the best swimmers in the state of Illinois. But I was happiest when my sixth grade teacher let us loose into the computer lab to free write. Some kids were satisfied to write a page or two. I wrote and printed so much I became conscious of my effects on the environment.
In eighth grade, when I was the sole student in our grade to get an A+ on a descriptive piece about candy bars from the sour lipped Dr. Carpenter (the fact that he was the only doctor teaching at our school made the class much more intimidating) I thought I must've been the best writer in the world. I made my class listen to me read over the details of my dream house essay for two class periods. My parents wanted to publish one of my short stories.
I was only humbled when high school teachers started assigning actual essays. I had never before thought for extended periods of time about what to write--I had always just written. I had never relied on brainstorming before, figuring the answers would somehow find themselves on the page. And I struggled with this new concept of claim, evidence, and warrant. I felt the frustration of not knowing how to start, to continue, or to finish. But practice makes perfect. Once I discovered how to successfully write papers, my thoughts on writing anything and everything turned from dread to excitement. I want to be able to give that feeling to my peers. In times of crisis and fear people turn to the writing center, and I would like to be part of the solution.
My love for science hasn't dissipated over the years either; I have a wide range of writing and analytical skills from a biology concentration that requires lab reports on an almost weekly basis. What I've learned from my writing courses I have injected into my science courses and vice versa, and I believe this hybridization of interdisciplinary skills has allowed me to produce A papers all around.
I have heard from current and past writing consultants that working at the writing center has greatly improved their own writing abilities. I believe this is true having a similar experience this past summer instructing small children how to swim. Although I have swam for fourteen years, and although I have been an All-American swimmer, I still found that going through the basics with children, and discovering where they faced the greatest difficulties in their strokes, gave me insight into how I approached my own swimming.
I can only hope that working in the writing center will give me a similar insight into my own writing, which I am constantly trying to improve, because I still love writing. Filled with cautious optimism and humility, I finally wrote my first novel, 105 single spaced pages in a word document, at the age of eighteen. And although it has nothing to do with fairies, I think my eleven year old self would be happy with the final product.
Monday, March 02, 2009
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