Reality T.V. Ruined the Internet (AKA Calm Down Kids - Life is a Wonderful Thing).

Sitting here in the dark, legs crossed, Cat Stevens playing in the background on repeat, I'm grinning. My mom's asleep, and the house is quiet, and somewhere in the living room the Christmas tree is glittering, peaceful and stoic. Right about now, I'm wishing I had lights to string across the walls of my bedroom; it's too dark to see much of anything, but here I am. Just sitting and grinning and fumbling with the keyboard, and thinking...

Why is it that so few of the teenagers I know are able to find any meaning in the world around them?

Why do people spend so much of their time wallowing in their petty little dramas? Mulling over things that don't matter?

Why is it that every time I log-in to Twitter, or Tumblr, or BlogSpot, I'm forced to read through a list of "woe is me" posts about how life is just so difficult, and how they're just not over him/her and it's breaking their heart, and oh god, what's the point of even being alive?
"I can't take it anymore.
It hurts too much.
I can't go on without him/her in my life.
I'm broken.
Shattered.
Crying."

A part of me just wants to take a walk down Main Street and plaster a bunch of signs around town that say:
Attention Teenagers Currently Residing on Planet Earth,
If you have a personal problem, broken heart, issue with somebody, low self-esteem, or any other form of angst you may be dealing with, please refrain from broadcasting it on the internet!

Because I don't need to be reading that; I don't want to see any of that. And the fact of the matter is, neither does the rest of the world, no matter how many friends or followers or subscribers you may have.

The fact of the matter is, the internet, which is something anyone at any time can gain access to, should not be the place for people to spill their deepest secrets and troubles onto, but for some reason, it's just become burned into everyone's brain that it's perfectly acceptable. That the world really does care that you broke up with your boyfriend, and yes, it really is necessary to explain in-depth how painful of an ordeal it was and how you're choosing to cope with it by sitting alone all night drinking and waking up trashed and depressed the next morning.

Thank you for sharing, now invest in a diary.

But my biggest question is, when did it become a "trend" to be self-loathing? If somebody were to come up with a list of all of the "teenage fads" that are present in today's society, it would be right up there with black hair dye and long bangs; tight pants and punk bands that all sound exactly the same; bisexuality and dark make-up; complaining and being sad; self-mutilation; cutting. It's all intertwined. And for a long time, I've kind of been sitting around wondering why all of this is, and how it all got started, and I've since come to a conclusion that has probably been staring me in the face since I started analyzing the situation.

Reality T.V.
Or possibly even TV in general.

Our society loves to see damaged people; it's what has shaped television into what it is today. Just a constant parade of psychologically damaged individuals being showcased and exploited in front of a big camera for everyone to watch and compare themselves to. I mean let's face it, nobody wants to watch a show about normal people living normal, everyday lives, because that's just not interesting. We want to see the brilliant, misanthropic doctor who pops Vicodin and routinely berates his patients; we want to see the ultra-skinny model break down and cry after being told she wasn't pretty enough to be on the cover of CoverGirl magazine. The abused housewife being interviewed on Oprah. The drug addict, the drama queen, the teenage mother.

And every minute of every day, people are watching this and thinking well, this must be what life is really like. This must be what I'm supposed to be feeling and thinking and acting like. They don't get that it's scripted; that the fight Snookie and whoever the hell else is on Jersey Shore got into was staged, just like what happens on The Hills, and America's Next Top Model, and any of the other mindless drivel being displayed on television today. Our sense of reality is being blurred and distorted by the fictional images on the screen in front of us.

We see people pour out their personal lives and problems on TV, so we assume we should do the same on the internet. We twist our thoughts and feelings to fit what the media portrays as "normal," and assume that we're more damaged than we really are.
We're drama queens.
Attention addicts.

And I'm just grinning like a Cheshire cat at the absurdity of it all. 

I just want everyone to step out from under this massive illusion and realize that there's more to life than the things that make us unhappy. There's more to life than complaining and hurting and crying over insignificant things that won't matter a month or a week or even ten minutes from now.

It's not even so much the fact that people are using the internet to complain that really bothers me; yes, it's obnoxious and frustrating and completely unnecessary. That's already been established. No, what I can't stand more than anything else is people who take being alive for granted.

It's the kids crying behind their computer screens typing "I just want to die."
It's the depressed, broken-hearted 15-teen-year-old telling all of his Twitter followers, "Give me a reason to live."

You're here, buddy. There's your reason.
For some unforeseen reason, all the cosmic forces of the Universe came together one day and decided to plant you on Earth and give you the ability to breathe air and harmonize and exist. That's justification enough.

We're so incredibly lucky to be here, why can't teenagers seem to grasp that? There's so much out there in the world beyond your nasty break-up, or your insecurities, or little internal struggles; there are so many lovely things in reality that can give us hope and make us happy and give us meaning, joy, love. We have birds and music, and other people; art, laughter, Walmart, lunar eclipses. There's oceans and sunshine and Harold and Maude; holidays and celebrations, two-for-one deals at Target, wiener dogs, rain, chocolate milkshakes, and Harry Potter. Lessons to learn and things to think about.

That's why I can just sit here, alone in the middle of the night with an ipod and the lights off, and just laugh. Because I don't want to cheat myself out of life by drowning in negativity and making myself out to be anything less than what I am. I'm just a spec in the middle of this whole big, puzzling, wonderful Universe, so I might as well make the best of it.

There will always be a reason to live, but you won't find it on Twitter, Tumblr, or Facebook. So open your eyes wide, and really look for it.

"Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. . . LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room."

- Maude, Harold and Maude. 

Petticoats and Peppermint Coffee.

I love neighborhoods. They always smell like a mixture of laundry, wood smoke, pine needles, October, and those little red berries that are poisonous if you eat them. At least mine does, anyway. Sometimes when I walk down my street in  the evenings, I can smell people's dinner cooking, or pastries fresh from the oven. It's such a comfortable feeling; you can get a little slice of someone's life just by strolling by their sidewalk.

When I was little, I used to look out the back window of our car on the way home at night and look at the houses we'd pass by, wishing I could go in and explore every single one of them. The orange glow of the lights pouring through from the inside made them all seem so inviting and, I don't know, homey I guess. I was just so interested in people and where they lived and why they lived there; if they had a rocking chair in their living room, or lots of family pictures on the walls, or one of those little island things in the middle of their kitchen and whether it was made of granite or just some cheap plywood. I still wonder, kind of. I think when I get my driver's license, I'm going to spend most of my time just driving through random neighborhoods and examining the houses there. Not in a creepy way, though; just a curious way. I'll probably end up being one of those people that can drive around for hours and never get bored.

I love when I see little kids riding bikes outside my window and playing basketball in the cul-de-sac up the street. I love hearing their childish shrieks and shouts echo through the silence and bounce off the pavement. It makes me remember what it was like to be absent-minded and carefree, and helps me realize that I still can be from time to time. I think everyone should be, even if they're old and grown.

The thing I love most about neighborhoods, though, is just walking through them at night. Not like, late or anything, but y'know, around 7 O'clock or so. Evening time. I like breathing in the crisp, cold air and seeing the ground scattered with leaves. For whatever reason, things like that always make me feel poetic; they make me notice things in a different way than I normally would. Like last night when I took my dog, a pretty little Daschund puppy, for a walk and looking at her made me think of ballpoint pens and old English men with wonderful accents. Okay, maybe that's not necessarily poetic, but I don't know, it's weird. Walking in my neighborhood reminds me of petticoats, gloves, peppermint coffee, literature, jack-o-lanterns, and glasses with black frames. All the things I love I guess, but what I really love more than anything is when the sun is setting and the sky gets so bright that the trees look black against everything. God, that's so pretty.

I Believe In Winnie the Pooh.

I wrote this for an English assignment. . . it's a a few words beyond the limit, but I really couldn't care less. (:

                                              ***
When it comes time for me to spread my wings and flutter off into the world of adulthood and independence, the one life philosophy I will always take with me is this: you're never too old to watch Winnie the Pooh.

They say we're happiest as children. And although I may still fall into the "child" category, I definitely agree with that statement, and I feel it every day.

I go to an early college high school, so for roughly six hours a day, five days a week, I'm expected to leap out of my immature, fifteen-year-old body, pretend that my frontal lobe is actually developed, and behave like a grown-up. For the most part, that means acting mature, respecting my surroundings, not shouting obscenities to my friends across campus, and saying "Please" and "Thank you" to the lady in administration. The proverbial I'm-your-teacher-and-I'm-going-to-walk-you-through-life-and-keep-filling-your-glass-to-make-sure-you're-okay ship has sailed, because to stay on it would be childish. And sophisticated adults do not act childish.

Sometimes it can be overwhelming, and many times I've stopped and wondered if maybe I grew up a little too fast, if I somehow missed all the things I was supposed to see along the way. It's during those times that I take a step back and say "forget the textbooks and the studying and the college professors. Forget who I'm supposed to be. I'm taking out the I-Touch and watching Winnie the Pooh on YouTube!"

I believe that life doesn't always have to mean moving forward. I was raised on Winnie the Pooh; it was my foundation as a child. There are so many lessons about life, love, and strength in those stories that I think we all tend to forget as we grow older; things like "You’re braver than you believe and stronger than you seem," or "you can't stay in your corner of the forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes." When I need advice or reassurance, I don't look to Gandhi or Oprah to give it to me; I look to Winnie the Pooh.

He brings out the ridiculousness of life; that's the greatest thing about it. Through Pooh Bear's wisdom, I've learned that life doesn't have to be taken seriously all the time. Sometimes I look at adults and I notice the lines on their faces, the worn-out expressions they carry. They're tired, unhappy; they've lost sight of the child within. I believe that just because you wear a suit and tie doesn't mean you can't play legos or wear a crazy costume on Halloween; that just because you're a lawyer or a doctor or the headmaster of a prestigious school doesn't mean you should hide your inner Pooh Bear.

 I may be ready to embark on the journey to adulthood, but Winnie the Pooh is a piece of my childhood that I will always hold on to; because there is something beautiful in remembering that, "wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

We're Only as Small as the World Will Make Us Seem.

If there's anything I've learned in my fifteen years of being alive, it's that knowing the answer to everything isn't always as rewarding as genuine curiosity.

Tonight was one of those rare nights where the fog had drifted off and the sky was so clear that you could see the twinkle of every individual star within eye distance, like fine, bright points painted upon a blank black canvas. It was a night that made me realize, as much as I may hate this town, how lucky I am to be away from the big cities, where the flashing lights and glamorous buildings, and all the meaningless fabrications block out the things we're really supposed to see; the little bits of perfect that give us meaning within a series of worlds whose combined efforts make us seem too small to mean anything at all.

And as I drove home in the back seat of the car, enveloped by this brilliant array of stars, I thought about all the things I already know, the answers I already have; I know that the "twinkle" of each star is caused by the constant moving and shifting of the Earth's atmosphere. I know that the closest star to our planet is 4.3 light years away. I know that when small stars die, their remnants become dwarf stars and planetary nebulae, and that big stars will supernova and leave behind neutron stars or, if dense enough, black holes; I know that some of the very stars I saw tonight could have already burned out some hundred years ago. At one point, I looked ahead and saw an especially large, bright star and could determine, based on it's color, that it was red shifting, moving away from us.

But as informed as I may be about the basic concepts of Astronomy, there's something strangely comforting about realizing that there are still things out there that can't be explained. Nobody knows how we got here, or why we're here, or how everything that exists works or why it works that way, but that's how it's supposed to be.

We are because we are, because that's just how it happened.

People are intrigued by mystery; it's what gives things significance. If we held the key that unlocked all of life's mysteries and let us leap into the unknown, we would lose the profound sense of curiosity that makes us interested in everything we have. I don't want to lose that; I mean something because, even though I haven't the faintest idea how or why it happened, I'm here. I still exist.

And that is absolutely amazing.

Apparently Wasting Time is All the Rage in High School.

I'd really like to know what filling out the "Free and Reduced Lunch" form has to do with getting my college textbooks.

Because, just for the record, it's against federal law to withhold college textbooks from a student because they didn't turn in a form which came with a paper specifically stating that it can be turned in at any time throughout the year.

This is exactly why I am just ready to be done with high school.

I come to school on Monday morning ready to work and get settled into all my classes, and I'm told that we're not actually going to be in class until Thursday. What? So for three days, my job is to aimlessly wander around campus for five hours twiddling my thumbs? Are you kidding me?

"We just want to make sure that everyone has time to get all of their papers in and get their textooks before we officially get into the school year," claims the Principal.

But isn't the real reason us upper-classmen have nothing to do because, despite the two-and-a-half month long summer vacation, you still don't have everything figured out? That's why everyone has to wait 'till Wednesday to get our schedules, and why the counselor won't be available all week.

I'm also slightly annoyed at this new method everyone has to follow for getting our college textbooks. I honestly don't understand how printing out our schedules and getting them stamped and walking back and forth from one side of campus to the next and waiting in line for twenty minutes is "preparing us for when we actually get to college and have to pay for our own textbooks." As far as I know, all you have to do in college to accomplish this task is walk to the bookstore, locate the books you need, show the people at the counter your I.D., and pay for them (or buy them off Amazon for a slightly cheaper price). It does not have to be this difficult.

It should take one day to get everyone's papers straightened out, not three. It should take one day to get our schedules taken care of. It should take one day to retrieve the books you need, unless of course you're me and have to stretch it out to two days because this happens...

Me: (Finally gets to the front desk after waiting in line for fifteen minutes). "Hello, I'm here to get my books." (Standing ready with schedule and list of needed books).

Lady at the Desk: "Okay, let's make sure you've got all your papers in." (Pulls out stack of papers with checklist stapled to front). "Well, it seems you haven't turned in your Free and Reduced Lunch form, do you have that?"

Me: "Well, I don't have it at the moment, it's at home." (Confused).

Lady at the Desk: "Well, you can't get your books without it."

Me: "I can bring it tomorrow-"

Lady at the Desk: "Well then you'll have to wait 'till then, I'm sorry."

Excuse me, but what does that form have to do with getting my books? I'm registered for school, I'm signed up for classes, and you won't let me take care of my books because I didn't confirm whether or not I wanted to get a free lunch? It is against the law to make me wait. And of course, the next day someone asks if it's mandatory in order to get their textbooks, and the principal says "no, of course not."

So tomorrow, I finally get my schedule and then do...nothing for the rest of the day.

When I was a freshman, our orientation lasted two days, and we got our schedules on the first day. Why is everything so unorganized this year? The most efficient way to handle everything is to schedule the freshman orientation the week before school starts, so the upperclassmen aren't forced to waste three days doing nothing and being told things we don't need to be told.

Just once, I'd like to start school when it's scheduled to start, is that so much to ask?

I'd Like to Keep My Ears Please (:

Okay, I have a complaint to make. Well, a couple, actually.

Number one, there's a giant house fly buzzing around in my room right now, and it's terribly distracting. Too bad my Astronomy professor isn't here to corner it and smack it against the wall; he had an eye for that sort of thing.

But that's not what I want to talk about today.
ANYWAY.

I went shopping for school clothes with my mom the other day, and because the mall in our town is garbage, we spent nearly three hours switching back and forth between two different stores trying to find a pair of jeans that would fit my "petite" body structure.

Which was difficult because 1) apparently every clothing store in my town expects its customers to be a six-foot-tall tree trunk, and thus only carries sizes to accommodate that, or 2) for some ridiculous reason, teenagers have decided that wearing those ultra-skinny jeans that glue themselves to your legs and cut your circulation off are "hip" and "trendy", and therefore should be the only style of jeans worth selling.

So, my mom and I are strolling through the mall, perusing the lovely merchandise at Anchor Blue and Rue 21, when we pass by Zumiez and my mom goes...

"Hey Kendra, want to look in there and see if there's anything you like?" (If you're imagining this being asked in an excited tone, you've got it completely wrong).

"But the only jeans they have there are skinny jeans, mom," I replied, shifting my weight to one leg and leaning my head back like a whiny ten-year-old. I really, really loathe shopping.

"Well, there might be some nice shoes or shirts you might want."

"... *eye roll*..."

Regardless of my resistance, we head over to Zumiez anyway, and the second we walk through the entrance, we're hit with this giant wave of unbearably loud death metal music, enough to make any sane person cover their ears and rush out of the store five seconds later.

And this is my problem. Why do all of the popular clothing stores have to play their music so excruciatingly loud. I realize that they're supposed to be "youth-oriented" and deafening headbanger music and shattered eardrums are evidently all the rage amongst teenagers today, but come on. You can't even hear yourself, let alone think straight because the music is just blasting away, pulsing through every freaking vein in your body.

I don't know about you, but I'd rather not have to listen to some disturbed musician screaming "DROWNING IN THE LAKE!!" while I'm trying to pick out some shoes or a decent pair of pants. Or an auto-tuned bimbo with an unhealthy glitter obsession (Ke$ha) singing "WAKE UP IN THE MORNIN' FEELIN' LIKE P-DIDDY!" when I'm deciding on whether or not to take advantage of the buy one get one half off sale on graphic t-shirts.

That does not make for a pleasant shopping experience.

I mean, I'm sure I could tolerate it if they played the music at, say, a few notches above the halfway mark rather than full blast!

It's probably a tactic the managers use to get people to buy more of their products. Like when annoyed parents are forced to shop with their kids, and they can't take the loudness of the music (I don't see how anyone could), and it puts them in such a frenzy that they just go "yeah, yeah, just get whatever, I don't care."

"But mom, it's 75 dollars! Are you sure?"

"Whatever, whatever, just get what you want so we can get the hell out of here!" (flicks hands dismissively while frantically wiping sweat from forehead.)

It's asinine, and really just makes me hate shopping even more than I already do. If you've never experienced this and would like to have a little sample of the ridiculousness of it, here is a wonderful interpretation.

"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."

This is why I love Boston Legal.

Stick it!
- Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

I rarely ever get chills when I listen to people talk. For whatever reason, the spoken word fails to trigger an emotional response from me, with the possible exception of Barack Obama's inauguration speech. But when Alan Shore stands up to deliver his closing arguments, I am captivated. It's all there; the shivers, the wonder, the admiration, and the profound appreciation for his ability to passionately declare what everyone else is afraid to say.

I am moved by the truth in his words.

Alan Shore's monologue here is a frighteningly accurate synopsis of what is wrong with our country today. Now, I'm not going to make a list or write an in-depth analysis of the flaws in America's policies, because let's face it; I'm 15. I don't understand everything. But what I do understand is that the problems that exist now are not going to get any better unless people start to rise up and get angry about it.

Why does nobody care? That's my question. Why does nobody care? I am appalled by the amount of apathy young people seem to showcase today. Clearly, people are more concerned about how Lindsay Lohan is doing in jail than the war in Iraq; or whether lady gaga is really a hermaphrodite than whether it's right for the government to strategically strip us of our Constitutional freedoms. It sickens me, and I'm tired of it.

I can only hope that one day I will find the courage to be like Alan Shore, and voice my opinions and argue for what is right. Thank you, David Kelley, for creating such an exceptional and intelligent character. I am moved and inspired.

yes my friend, this toast i made is positively glorious.

hum dee dum dum dum.

the book i want to read is in my mom's room at the moment, but she happens to be asleep. go figure. it's been sitting on top of the t.v. in the living room for the past week, and TODAY she decides to move it, and replace it with some absurd flower hair clip my grandmother found at a thrift store. i suppose i could just barge into her room, flick on the light, and start rudely rummaging around for it, but that would likely upset the wiener dog, and irritate my mother to the point where she would sit up and angrily mumble something like, "do you HAVE to have it NOW?" and i'd say something like "YES i need it now, it was in the living room, and you MOVED it when you knew i was reading it."

and then she'd say, in a considerably more irritated fashion "i did NOT move it, i have no idea where it is, so get lost."

then i'd reply with a sensationally witty remark, like "you're FACE can get lost," and i wouldn't get the book back. then on the short journey back to my room, i'd notice it sitting on the couch, in perfectly clear view. that's always how it happens.

like this morning, when i was making hot chocolate and i tried to put the thing that holds the hot water in the fridge. or two minutes later, after i made toast and accidentally put the peanut butter in the fridge when it really belongs in the cabinet above the counter. i make the most fantastic toast in the world. you'd have to be in my head to know why that had anything to do with what i was talking about, but trust me, it's connected.

so needless to say, i'm going to skip breaking into my mother's room, because in the end, it would essentially be useless, regardless of whether or not the book was actually there. which i'm almost certain it is, but i'm probably wrong.

it's The Know-It-All by A.J. Jacobs, by the way, perhaps you've read it. but then again, you probably haven't because, i mean, who actually reads books anymore when there are so many intriguing things to read on the internet, like F My Life and Shit My Dad Says?

oh yeah, and the toilet overflowed this evening, which was somehow my fault even though i had nothing to do with it. all i did was push the handle like i've done a thousand times before, and somehow it decided to explode. just a freak accident, but of course, it was my fault. i just love how that always happens.

alright, i'm done.

was there a point to this blog? ehhhhhhhhh, not really. but hey, who knows, maybe you'll find some sort of secret, profoundly touching, epiphany-evoking message hidden beneath this babbling nonsense. perhaps it even holds the meaning of life. get creative.

Every Day is a Room For Squares Day.

One of the things about being me is that I can never get into anything half-way; if I like something, I have to know everything about it. For example, once I started watching House M.D., within days I could name every character, their roles in the show, and an unhealthy amount of random facts about Hugh Laurie and Jesse Spencer.

Me: OMG! Did you know that Hugh Laurie's a Gemini?! His Birthday is two days before mine!

Random Stranger: Gee, that's terrific...

Me: I know, right? Jesse Spencer's isn't though, his birthday's in February. He's from Melbourne, isn't his accent swell? I wish I had an Australian accent. Did you know he actually dated Jennifer Morisson in real life? But they broke up like, last year or something...

Random Stranger: (Gives small courtesy chuckle and walks away).

But you get the idea.

First it was Panic! At The Disco, then Marilyn Manson, then House, and Boston Legal. Pretty much every stage of my life can be marked by some sort of obsession.

I also always seem to jump on the bandwagon way after all the hype has gone away; P!ATD split up, Marilyn Manson's old, "disgusting", and past his prime; House is already in its 7th season, and Boston Legal got cancelled. Either that, or everyone I attach myself to is now hated for being a douchebag.

Which brings me to the actual point of this little diatribe.

So, I'm big into John Mayer now (actually, I've always been, but more so as of late). Anyways, I'm pretty sure this happened four weeks ago when I was shopping for trashcans at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and happened to stumble upon his framed Rolling Stone cover art that was on display for $39.99 (which I do plan on purchasing, by the way).

But that's not the point.

The point is, he's a colossal douchebag. Allegedly. Because he made a racist comment in an interview with Playboy, and shared a bit too much when asked about his past relationships with women.

I spent roughly $20 of Itunes money on a douchebag.

Well, an alleged douchebag.

So now, when it comes to John Mayer, you either love him, or you hate him. Not because of his music or his talent, but because of his image. Yeah, that's stupid in and of itself, but what I love the most about this whole situation is the fact that people are getting so worked up about it. Click on any video devoted to him on YouTube, and you will undoubtedly find a comment section jammed full of heated debates about whether or not he's an arrogant, racist, sex-starved, piece of worthless garbage.

Ex: Bieberfever451: Ehhhmmagaawwwdd, did you hear that jennifer anniston broke up with him because he tweeted too much?

Hauntedtoaster35: ikr? he liek said the n word in playboy too. what a racist douchenozzle.

JM4life: come on guys, he didn't meeaaann it! stop being mayer haterzz, u guyz r just jealous cuz you can't sing liek him.

It's been five months and people are still arguing about it. IT'S MADNESS, I TELL YOU!

But the most amusing part about it is, he's just a dude. Yeah, he can sing and play guitar with the best of them, but aside from that, he's just a dude. Do human beings never share too much about their personal lives? Do human beings never make the occasional inappropriate comment?

Perish the thought!

The fact that hundreds of people are warring over the Internet because of a thirty-two-year-old guy with a guitar strapped to his back that they've never even met and probably know nothing about kind of makes me want to just laugh at how ridiculous people can be.

Baby sea turtles are being lit on fire because of the oil spill, but y'know, it's no big deal.

But god forbid, John Mayer says the "N" word, and everyone races to their computers to type their useless opinions into all the stupid, 140-300 character limit text boxes they can find as if the rest of the world actually gives a crap about anything they have to say.

It makes me chuckle.
And regardless of whether or not he really is what people make him out to be, I'm still going to waste an absurd amount of money and ipod capacity on John Mayer. Because he makes good music. And is a ridiculous guitar player. And to disregard such an immense talent because of his epic douche status would be silly. (:

Alive.

i want someone to kidnap me and take me somewhere, anywhere; crazy, scary, random, peculiar, breathtaking. i don't care, just somewhere to pull me away from the flat, vacant wall that currently resembles my life.

i need inspiration, i need an adventure. for god's sake, i need a life. something other than hiding under covers and watching fictional people's fictional lives unfold hour after hour after hour, while mine just kind of, y'know, hangs out, untouched, suffocating.

there's an entire world out there, to experience, to see, to explore; a whole planet staring me in the face, begging me to crawl through that bedroom window and run.

please let me out, because i need to know that this chapter of my life was spent doing something that matters.

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."

-Oscar Wilde

Thank You For Not Sharing.

I think it's interesting how the people bagging groceries at SafeWay, or working the cash register at JC Penny, or behind the drive-through window at Burger King, always ask you how your day was.

Because really, what are you supposed to say? Everyone expects each other to say "Great!" or "pretty good," or "I'm doing fine, how about yourself?" But we're not always fine and dandy, and the person who asked you certainly isn't either, because they're stuck behind a window flipping burgers, or shoving produce into plastic bags, or putting hideous clothing on hangers and handing out receipts for a living, and for all they know, your day could have been terrible. You could have been late for work, or gotten yelled at by your boss. You could have gotten rear-ended by some idiot in a grungy Toyota and subsequently spilled your latte all over your brand new $100 tweed blazer. You could have found out that your dog died, or worse yet, a family member; you could have stumbled out of bed and broken three of your toes.

But of course, you're not going to say that to the person at SafeWay, or JC Penny, or Burger King. I mean, does anyone ever actually say "Oh, my day's been absolute GARBAGE, how about yours?"

No one cares, is the thing. No one wants to hear your life story, or listen to you rant about how much you HATE Family Guy and the fact that your husband watches it every evening when you would much rather watch the Home & Garden Channel. We're all just trained to act a certain way around everyone else; like our lives are perfect and wonderful and no I don't need your help but thanks for asking and yes, it's true, I do walk around constantly grinning like this and I AM ALWAYS THIS CHIPPER IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED.

Thank you for not sharing.

Big Stone Towers.

maybe i don't know what it means but
somehow it was there
that big stone tower, like the kind from
cinderella
or
sleeping beauty
or
romeo and juliet
or any of those nonsensical fairy tales
that trick you into believing
that dreams
can actually be
real.
and there you were, next to me
with that look in your eyes
as if to say
"this isn't worth trying to win
anymore."
so you quit, swung away
as i kept climbing, smiling
like i always knew would happen
SHOULD happen.
and as i take that last step,
the one i beat you to,
the one i was strong enough to take,
the one game i could finally win,
the rope snaps
i fall to the pavement
crushed
in every sense of the word
and you're still there
on the tower
staring down at me
like i always knew
would happen.

you couldn't lose.

maybe
now
i understand.

"Find a person who loves you for exactly who you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what-have-you. The right person is still going to think the sun shines out your ass.” -Juno.

Egyptian Pyramids.

Somehow, the world came together in a way where everything was absolute and meaningful and right the way it was.

And we say we don't believe in perfect.

Some days I have to stop and wonder if it's all just some big, crazy, beautiful accident that we're here.

It seems Mr. Antichrist Superstar is brushing off on me...

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason why my family and I never go out to eat.

So there's this great new deal at Marie Calenders; it's like, if you order a cheeseburger you get a piece of pie for some sort of ridiculously low price. Exciting, right?

RIGHT. So, throughout dinner, other than examining the various creepy couples snuggling up to each other in the surrounding booths, I'm pondering which pie I'm going to order; rhubarb. Chocolate Satin. Rhubarb......Chocolate Satin. Kind of a back and forth thing, you know?

I don't like crust, so I decide on Chocolate Satin. The most important decision of my life, I'm sure.

And here comes the waitress, who looks to be a few months pregnant, to collect our empty plates and ask about our pie preference, pen poised above her pad of paper.

"What kind of pie would you like?" she asks, shifting her gaze in my direction. Why do I always have to go first?

"Oh, I'll have the Chocolate Satan," I reply.

Satan.
As in the biblical character. Not satin, like the fabric.

Umm. Oops.

Oh yeah, and can you arrange the whip cream in the shape of a pentagram? Thanks!

At some point, between awkward chortles and her pseudo-sympathetic "Oh, don't worry, you're not the first to do that," the waitress nonchalantly turns away a few centimeters, no doubt trying to shield her unborn child from me.

Yeah, Chocolate Satan Pie. Delicious.
Good lord. Because reading a menu is so challenging.

If this isn't the story of my life, I don't know what is.

The red crayon always catches your attention.

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."
~Dr. Seuss

Conformity is Insanity.

Make the lie big enough and
People will listen.

If I were to tiptoe to the corner of your mind
Would I see the person I know?
Or the shadow of another?

Every day
We are
Not.

Give me desperation--Flash.
Give me want--Flash.
Give me fabricated disbelief
That we could accept anything less.

Flash.

I will
Not.
Fall forward into the depths of falsified reality.

Because the person behind the mask
May very well be
Just like
You.

"It's a good reminder in a world that only celebrates normal that just because something isn't normal doesn't mean that it's bad or scary."
~John Green

To understand the misunderstood is to lose sight of the beauty that captures our deepest curiosity. Oh the wonders, the wonders.

If I could be any color in the world, I would probably be black. It's the color I identify with the most; not because I'm necessarily a "dark" person, or because I'm depressed or "goth" or "emo." God, I hate those stereotypes. I don't like funerals, and I'm not transfixed with death, although I think a small part of everyone is. No, I would be black because it's not just one color, it's a mixture of all colors, every color imaginable. It's influenced by every aspect of life, and holds on to tiny fragments of everything it touches. Black doesn't discriminate, but rather embraces each color for their individual personality and incredible uniqueness.

Isn't that what society likes to believe it is? So accepting of diversity and individuality; land of the free, right? We all know the truth. Maybe if we painted the world black, it would cover up all the lies and we could finally stop pretending.

Black doesn't change for anyone. There's no light black or dark black. Just black.
It's misunderstood; degrade it with your criticism and shower it with judgment, but at the end of the day, it is what it is. A color. An emotion. A concept. A piece of mind.
Black is a curious color. =) We don't know what lies beneath it...we can only imagine and interpret.
It represents everything we are afraid of.
On the outside, it appears solid and impenetrable. But drop some water on it, break it's outer-layer, and it's colors bleed out.
Black is fragile, and so am I.

The color black is everything I am, and everything I wish I could be.

Whisper Wars

"Nobody wants to admit this, but bad things will keep on happening. Maybe that's because it's all a chain, and a long time ago someone did the first bad thing, and that led someone else to do another bad thing, and so on. You know, like that game where you whisper a sentence into someone's ear, and that person whispers it to someone else, and it all comes out wrong in the end.

But then again, maybe bad things happen because it's the only way we can keep remembering what good is supposed to look like."
~Jodi Picoult Nineteen Minutes

Sword Fighting in the Aisles of Wallgreens

As of today, I love my life.

I'm feeling spontaneous; I want to army crawl underneath a rosebush instead of walking around it. I want to climb a tree with Stepney and ask random passer's by if they've ever had to mow the lawn twice in one day because they didn't do it right the first time. I want to sword fight in the aisles of Wallgreens, despite the disapproving glares of fellow shoppers. Nevermind that I have a Geometry test to study for and a Sociology book to read. Screw following through with obligatory nonsense. I'm going through the McDonald's drive through in a shopping cart and ordering baked french fries and a veggie burger instead."Umm, we don't have veggie burgers here," the voice at the window will say. "Oh, so you're just going to slap some dead cow on people's plates?" I'll shout back in a British accent. I'm not a vegetarian, nor am I British. But does it really matter? What's the point of being alive if every single thing we ever do has to make sense? I don't want to be normal, I don't want to follow the rules. I want to steal sticks out of people's hands and chase after birds. I want to play unicycle hockey. I want to stand on the top of a massive cliff and look down into what could be the end of me.

I want to LIVE.

Neighborhood Streets

Two feet planted firmly on the concrete porch steps. A light winter's breeze gently gliding through a wisp of honey-blonde hair. Faintly, the sound of a lawn mower resounds, and the smell of freshly cut grass tickles the noses of familiar strangers that roam the neighborhood streets. The sun shines through the branches of a lonesome tree, exposing just enough light to catch the beauty of its glistening leaves. Has spring already begun?

A pair of blue jeans, vibrant in color but frayed at the seams. Glancing down at them, she realizes how similar they are to each other. She wasn't new anymore; she was worn, used, slightly torn in such a way that could never be sewn back together again. Cautiously, her eyes creep forward until they reach her toes peeking out from the sandals her grandmother had bought two years before. Santa Monica Promenade, she remembers. She gazes curiously at her toenails, naked in the absence of the sparkly pink polish she had carelessly abandoned around the age of ten. It made her feel grown up, she remembers. She had tried so hard to be.

The air lingers with the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. Everything about her life made her sentimental; her house, her street, the stop sign around the corner, her neighbor's tire swing that still hung from the tree in their front yard. For a moment, she wonders what it feels like to be an innocent. Why did I want this? She asks herself. Why did it have to go away?

We search our whole lives to find an experience.
But the journey was the experience.
And now we can never go back.

Boats and Birds.

There's something about this song that makes me want to sit in the darkest corner of my room and play the guitar for hours and hours, just for the sheer peculiarity of it all. It makes me want to run outside in the middle of the night in my polka dot pajamas to look at the stars. I don't look at them nearly as often as I should; I don't think anyone does, really. It triggers a strange sense of curiosity in me towards the simplest things; the grass, the sky, the sea, the color purple. But mostly, I think of life and the world and innocence; these gifts that are so generously handed to us, but that we never stop to appreciate because we, as humans, are selfish. We take things we don't even realize we have for granted. We don't share our toys in the sandbox anymore, even though we know we should. We think we know the answer to everything, and if we don't understand something, then it must not be real or important. But there are a lot of things we don't understand. Like why people jump off of buildings; why our calender says January when it's really March. Why that man in our town always runs through the streets naked and looks in people's windows at night. Who we are as people, and the planet that we live on. How all of this came to be in the first place. But people still jump off of buildings, and do things we can't explain. Still, the world spins on its axis, and still we remain alive. But we don't care about those things. Why waste our time with such nonsense? The world is sick with apathy, and I hate it. So I stop to raise my gaze and look up at the stars, and when I do, it amazes me that something that appears to be so close can be so incredibly far away. It takes us years to travel to the moon and yet, it seems as though we could touch it if we simply cared to extend a hand. Maybe the earth isn't even real; maybe everything we've ever known in life is a lie, just a way to justify everything that life presents to us. I don't know, and I probably never will. Maybe we're not supposed to.

Words and Stuff

Words and Stuff. That was going to be the title of my new little blog here. But it's not, it's A Rig-A-Jig-Jig and a Gravy Boat. Which I personally think is better, don't you? I suppose it's about time I started a blog, since I've been talking about it forever. It was kind of one of those things that you say you definately want to do, but then never actually get to. Like when you're getting ready for bed and you say to yourself "I'm going to get up early tomorrow and run on the treadmill," and then two months later you STILL haven't. That's happened to me before.

So, out of boredom, I decided to make a blog today. I'm not quite sure what I'll be talking about on here...probably a little bit of everything (which was also going to be the title of my blog. That and "I Go to the Beach With My Pencil.") I just think it's cool to have a place to write and rant and ponder and whatnot, because words are kind of my thing. I like em.' I've tried to keep diaries and journals and all that junk, but never kept them going longer than, like, a month. Probably because the things I wrote in them were never going to be read by anyone, and I like to share my writing with people. Either that, or I was just too lazy to actually write by hand, with, you know, an actual writing utensil. I mean, God forbid, right?

Aaaannnyways, I just realized that I'm pretty much talking to myself right now, because technically no one even knows about this thing yet. Sooooooo, I'll just leave it at that. *Runs off to Twitter to tell people* =)