Of course my last decision of 2009 would be to bail on New Years Eve party plans with one of my best friends. Of course I wouldn't even have a real excuse. Of course I wouldn't have the decency to even think of one.
I went on a walk to try and think, starting out with the "I am a horrible person" outlook. A car whizzing by seemed to agree, as sped past me and splattered most of my left side with slush. I was a little taken back (the audacity!), but kept walking (I'm a trooper - what else could I have done? Curl up on the side of the road and wait for someone to find me and carry me home?). At the end of my walk, I came to a conclusion: "I am a horrible person".
What kind of teenager wakes up on New Years Eve and decides she'd rather play Bananagrams and drink spumate and set off Farmville fireworks at midnight instead of following through with normal fun plans with someone her age, with food and a sleepover? Plans that she'd been looking forward to a mere 8 hours before. What kind of person wants to hang out with the family that drives them crazy when they could be hanging around their friends? What kind of person can't even think to blame their parents for the change of plans when they bail?
Friend: So what do you what to have for dinner?
Me: I don't know if I can come.
Friend: What?
Me: I might be hanging out with my family.
How would a person respond to that? You invite someone over, offer them fun and food, and they accept, then they decide they would rather spend New Years Eve like they did when you were 6 and leave them in the dust. Why can't I go back? Where's my universal remote? Why couldn't I say:
Friend: So what do you want to have for dinner.
Me: Dangit! I can't come - my parents want me to be with the family. Which I understand, but I have to bail.
Friend: Oh ok. Well that's too bad. But that's okay. At least you have a valid excuse.
Me: Yep.
Or even better - I could have been normal and gone along with it:
Friend: So what do you want to have for dinner?
Me: Whatever you want. We had pizza last time though, so maybe we can change it up a little.
Friend: Chinese?
Me: Great.
What the heck is wrong with me? Why go out of a year like this? I can't call back and change why I can't come. I can't go back and say I actually can come. It's just an awkward uncomfortable I'm-stuck-and-it's-my-fault situation. And it sucks. Or sticks. Whatever.
Oh and leave it up to me to dedicate a blog entry to my horrible friend ways, proving myself right by not dedicating a journal entry to the fabulously elegant Amelia Diehl, who is turning a whole year older. I suck. Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Counselors and Sopranos and Conflict, Oh My!
I am finally out of choir and in acting. It's been a crazy ridiculous class switch, so crazy ridiculous I couldn't even narrow it down to one incredulous adjective crazy ridiculous, a good story if you want to hear it. I love acting. I hate choir. Problem solved.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Yesterday
What a day.
In chronological order:
- Discovered this gem of a website
- Discovered it was National Talk Like a Pirate Day
- Talked like a pirate
- Went to Subway to place an order that took thirty minutes to fufill (Nine five dollar foot longs take time)
- Took off band-aid
- Went to emergency room
- Returned from emergency room
- Brushed corn starch through hair
- Went to lame western themed church dance
In chronological order:
- Discovered this gem of a website
- Discovered it was National Talk Like a Pirate Day
- Talked like a pirate
- Went to Subway to place an order that took thirty minutes to fufill (Nine five dollar foot longs take time)
- Took off band-aid
- Went to emergency room
- Returned from emergency room
- Brushed corn starch through hair
- Went to lame western themed church dance
Sunday, August 9, 2009
If it kills me...if it kills me
I'd like to dance. I'd like to study abroad. No. I'd like to be abroad. I'd like to not have a plan, and just go. I'd like to go wherever I feel like, and work in cafes to make ends meet. I'd like to go to New Zealand and Hawaii and maybe even Arkansas. I'd like to be in Europe. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. But I have pictures in my head.
An apartment with worn glossy chestnut colored wood floor. The kind of house that is light and bright and has an sea salty fresh smell and a great view. The window open wide, a breeze winding gently through the house. A total paradise. White washed walls with rich splashes and shocks of color. Deep turquoise blue, burgundy. A yard of sand outside, and pretty glass bottles that glitter when the sun shines through them on the window sill. A soft tinkle of wind chimes from outside. Seashells and heavy thick ceramic dishes that are navy blue. A luxurious bed with fluffy white blankets and duvets and comforters and pillows galore. Walls that are in and of themselves collages or artistically crammed with photos.
I'd like to always have a book around to read, cheap fifty cent or less paper backs, a jumbled and beloved collection. I'd like to be fearlessly spontaneous and make bigger leaps than my quest to wear 12 hair clips in my hair to church today. I'd like to have furniture that has stories behind it, tall tales of lucky finds and garage sales. I'd like to have stories to tell bigger than throwing the frisbee up on the roof when a friend was over. I'd like to do a lot of things.
I'm torn between these vague desires and the Practical Becca. Focus on school. Good friends. Go to church. College. Family. Kids. Die.
Practical Becca kinda sucks right now.
There has to be a more upbeat way to end this.
An apartment with worn glossy chestnut colored wood floor. The kind of house that is light and bright and has an sea salty fresh smell and a great view. The window open wide, a breeze winding gently through the house. A total paradise. White washed walls with rich splashes and shocks of color. Deep turquoise blue, burgundy. A yard of sand outside, and pretty glass bottles that glitter when the sun shines through them on the window sill. A soft tinkle of wind chimes from outside. Seashells and heavy thick ceramic dishes that are navy blue. A luxurious bed with fluffy white blankets and duvets and comforters and pillows galore. Walls that are in and of themselves collages or artistically crammed with photos.
I'd like to always have a book around to read, cheap fifty cent or less paper backs, a jumbled and beloved collection. I'd like to be fearlessly spontaneous and make bigger leaps than my quest to wear 12 hair clips in my hair to church today. I'd like to have furniture that has stories behind it, tall tales of lucky finds and garage sales. I'd like to have stories to tell bigger than throwing the frisbee up on the roof when a friend was over. I'd like to do a lot of things.
I'm torn between these vague desires and the Practical Becca. Focus on school. Good friends. Go to church. College. Family. Kids. Die.
Practical Becca kinda sucks right now.
There has to be a more upbeat way to end this.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
iSpy a Musical Genius
regina spektor
I love her. She is my female Ben Folds equivalent.
And I know you love my song lists. This one is long.
Dance Anthem in the 80's
Two Birds
Raindrops
Better
Folding Chair
Eet
Love Affair
I love her. She is my female Ben Folds equivalent.
And I know you love my song lists. This one is long.
Dance Anthem in the 80's
Two Birds
Raindrops
Better
Folding Chair
Eet
Love Affair
Thursday, June 18, 2009
You have to stay on the tar lines, I tell myself. I unsteadily put one floor in front of the other. I don't usually walk Indian style. My feet drag on the ground a little and my steps are wide and short. But adjustments must be made.
My feet are bare, and my mind is nervously twittering because reading mysteries makes me feel like I'm in one. The book is clutched in my hand, the arm attached to the hand dangling idly at my side. I think of the start of another book, one of those ones where a girl is secretly a mermaid or something, and it says the asphalt is bubbling on a hot summer day. I had a mental image of the black lines simmering like some green goo a witch would stir in a cauldron. But as I look at the spider webs stretching across the road, I see small air bubbles rising and I see that things don't have to be intense or as you thought they would be to be there.
I wish I could say the patterns the tar made was intricate, but what I saw was black slabs slapped on the road, which honestly was in dire need of replacing (I don't have a background in this realm of work, but walking barefoot is a fair way of judging the condition of what you're walking on). Even though the tar was more of a poor concealer than a solution, I took advantage of walking on it when the patches appeared. It was hotter than the cement, but it was smooth and I swear it was squishy.
The ground under my feet feels borderline burning at some points, but everyone of my bad experiences added up could probably be less excruciating some people's best days in the world, so I welcome shade and every once in a while wonder at how lame it would be if I got lost in my own neighborhood.
I think about whether my parents would freak out at me being gone, probably shocked that I was somewhere other than on the computer or watching TV. It hadn't been a very eventful summer. Then I wondered which would be sadder; the previously listed, or no one noticing I had been gone.
I didn't decide.
Sometimes just thinking is enough.
My feet are bare, and my mind is nervously twittering because reading mysteries makes me feel like I'm in one. The book is clutched in my hand, the arm attached to the hand dangling idly at my side. I think of the start of another book, one of those ones where a girl is secretly a mermaid or something, and it says the asphalt is bubbling on a hot summer day. I had a mental image of the black lines simmering like some green goo a witch would stir in a cauldron. But as I look at the spider webs stretching across the road, I see small air bubbles rising and I see that things don't have to be intense or as you thought they would be to be there.
I wish I could say the patterns the tar made was intricate, but what I saw was black slabs slapped on the road, which honestly was in dire need of replacing (I don't have a background in this realm of work, but walking barefoot is a fair way of judging the condition of what you're walking on). Even though the tar was more of a poor concealer than a solution, I took advantage of walking on it when the patches appeared. It was hotter than the cement, but it was smooth and I swear it was squishy.
The ground under my feet feels borderline burning at some points, but everyone of my bad experiences added up could probably be less excruciating some people's best days in the world, so I welcome shade and every once in a while wonder at how lame it would be if I got lost in my own neighborhood.
I think about whether my parents would freak out at me being gone, probably shocked that I was somewhere other than on the computer or watching TV. It hadn't been a very eventful summer. Then I wondered which would be sadder; the previously listed, or no one noticing I had been gone.
I didn't decide.
Sometimes just thinking is enough.
I took the ginger ale in my hands.
Even though inanimate objects are, well, inanimate, they become so special, not because they're "carrying memories" per say, but seeing or interacting in any way with that object makes your mind race to link one and one and a memory can make a can of ginger ale a physical manifestation of the memory. And the sentimental side of you blooms.
I remembered, I had had the cough for a while. But everyone did, and as long as I didn't have swine flu I was going to count my blessings. A mild cough isn't a reason to miss school, at least the final weeks of school. The teachers play movies and hand out sheets with questions about the movies, but they never get glanced at or handed in. I dismissed the cough.
The morning before the trip. I get sick. Dad gives me the ginger ale. I take it and forget about and five days later, I come back, my mind flushed and ranting while my body begs me for a nap.
A week later, I am craving gingerale. It sits in a bag on a shelf in my room, the bag being the attempt for a shield in case my soda decides to explode. Kind of like when one person thinks they can match something everyone else sees is clearly not going to be an even match.
I took the ginger ale can in my hands.
I can almost feel the pressure, as if the bubbles are in sync and have a system set up like a determined group of worker bees. I go to pop open the can, and in the fraction of a second where the pressure builds under the little metal tab, I imagine a majestic sticky fountain of carbonation and sugar showering over me in a comic show of my own beverage splattering me with rejection.
The bubbles fizz and I gulp down a few sips.
Gosh...I need to get a hobby or something. I just wrote out an entirely too long report of a meaningless encounter that took about three seconds tops. With precision and intent. Not to mention I changed "personages" like three times. You are...I am...She did...geez.
She took another couple sips, the bubbles leaving a mild prickly feeling where they slid down her throat. She wiped her mouth, and rolling her eyes at herself and wondering whether it was worth doing, pressed the orange button labeled "PUBLISH POST."
Even though inanimate objects are, well, inanimate, they become so special, not because they're "carrying memories" per say, but seeing or interacting in any way with that object makes your mind race to link one and one and a memory can make a can of ginger ale a physical manifestation of the memory. And the sentimental side of you blooms.
I remembered, I had had the cough for a while. But everyone did, and as long as I didn't have swine flu I was going to count my blessings. A mild cough isn't a reason to miss school, at least the final weeks of school. The teachers play movies and hand out sheets with questions about the movies, but they never get glanced at or handed in. I dismissed the cough.
The morning before the trip. I get sick. Dad gives me the ginger ale. I take it and forget about and five days later, I come back, my mind flushed and ranting while my body begs me for a nap.
A week later, I am craving gingerale. It sits in a bag on a shelf in my room, the bag being the attempt for a shield in case my soda decides to explode. Kind of like when one person thinks they can match something everyone else sees is clearly not going to be an even match.
I took the ginger ale can in my hands.
I can almost feel the pressure, as if the bubbles are in sync and have a system set up like a determined group of worker bees. I go to pop open the can, and in the fraction of a second where the pressure builds under the little metal tab, I imagine a majestic sticky fountain of carbonation and sugar showering over me in a comic show of my own beverage splattering me with rejection.
The bubbles fizz and I gulp down a few sips.
Gosh...I need to get a hobby or something. I just wrote out an entirely too long report of a meaningless encounter that took about three seconds tops. With precision and intent. Not to mention I changed "personages" like three times. You are...I am...She did...geez.
She took another couple sips, the bubbles leaving a mild prickly feeling where they slid down her throat. She wiped her mouth, and rolling her eyes at herself and wondering whether it was worth doing, pressed the orange button labeled "PUBLISH POST."
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Blak
I wonder what I'm living for.
In Paper Towns Margo says how people are always doing things for the future. So when my history teacher asked me why I went to school and I said, "I went to elementary school to prepare for middle school to prepare for high school to prepare for college to get a job so my kids, if I have kids can go to a good school and do the same thing" and he said it was "way out there" I felt a little like a salt shaker must feel when a tablecloth is whipped out from under him (basic similies taking place here).
I don't know what, who, where I want to be when I grow up. Will I live in a condo? Will I work for Wall Street? Will I be a social service worker? A cop? A receptional? A waitress? Your guess is as good as mine.
Sometimes it's nice to have certainties. Change is good, but everyone changing all at once is decapitating.
Like, for instance, it would be nice if I had an opinion in this blog post. But some things just never happen.
edit: decapitating was not the right word. disabling? disconcerting? disacating (is not a word)? dessapating...nope...
edit: It is November 31 2009. The word was disorienting.
In Paper Towns Margo says how people are always doing things for the future. So when my history teacher asked me why I went to school and I said, "I went to elementary school to prepare for middle school to prepare for high school to prepare for college to get a job so my kids, if I have kids can go to a good school and do the same thing" and he said it was "way out there" I felt a little like a salt shaker must feel when a tablecloth is whipped out from under him (basic similies taking place here).
I don't know what, who, where I want to be when I grow up. Will I live in a condo? Will I work for Wall Street? Will I be a social service worker? A cop? A receptional? A waitress? Your guess is as good as mine.
Sometimes it's nice to have certainties. Change is good, but everyone changing all at once is decapitating.
Like, for instance, it would be nice if I had an opinion in this blog post. But some things just never happen.
edit: decapitating was not the right word. disabling? disconcerting? disacating (is not a word)? dessapating...nope...
edit: It is November 31 2009. The word was disorienting.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
What's Going Down
~`~ My new favorite song is Mad World (originally by Tears For Fears but I bought the version) by Michael Andrews and Gary Jules.
~`~ Gmail is boring now. Once in a while I'll throw in a FMOTD in an attempt to get the chain back up and running again. Sometimes reply to some emails, maybe. That's all, really.
~`~ Instead, reading has consumed my life. It's nice. It...feels a lot nicer to..read about other people's trouble. That sounds bad. It's just - I know the book will come to an "end". And most of the time it's happy. Sometimes, like when I was reading the H-P books, I would worry about Harry dying, then realize there were X amounts of books left about him. It's...not predictable exactly, 'cause that would be boring. But a "rest assured" kind of deal. In life you don't know how something will turn in. Sometimes things don't work out. Or even boil down. Sometimes they get worse and more complicated. And backing up isn't an adequate solution anymore. Hypothetically speaking. Reading is good.
~`~ I'm trying to figure some stuff out. Like, I have been trying to do this "Why do we exist?" type analysis, but I think that was the wrong place to start. Ironic that tackling a huge question would bring little or no answers. Where as a question dealing with fish for boyfriends stimulates a huge brainstorm. Maybe baby steps is what it'll take. I can't just wonder about who I am. Maybe the big picture is something you have to work your way toward. Maybe I'm a puzzle for myself to put together. Maybe I'm waiting to be found. Maybe I've been found and didn't see what was right in front of my eyes.
Or maybe...maybe I found it and I wasn't sure I liked what I saw.
Maybe self creation is easier than this. But I have no idea even where to start doing that.
~`~ Gmail is boring now. Once in a while I'll throw in a FMOTD in an attempt to get the chain back up and running again. Sometimes reply to some emails, maybe. That's all, really.
~`~ Instead, reading has consumed my life. It's nice. It...feels a lot nicer to..read about other people's trouble. That sounds bad. It's just - I know the book will come to an "end". And most of the time it's happy. Sometimes, like when I was reading the H-P books, I would worry about Harry dying, then realize there were X amounts of books left about him. It's...not predictable exactly, 'cause that would be boring. But a "rest assured" kind of deal. In life you don't know how something will turn in. Sometimes things don't work out. Or even boil down. Sometimes they get worse and more complicated. And backing up isn't an adequate solution anymore. Hypothetically speaking. Reading is good.
~`~ I'm trying to figure some stuff out. Like, I have been trying to do this "Why do we exist?" type analysis, but I think that was the wrong place to start. Ironic that tackling a huge question would bring little or no answers. Where as a question dealing with fish for boyfriends stimulates a huge brainstorm. Maybe baby steps is what it'll take. I can't just wonder about who I am. Maybe the big picture is something you have to work your way toward. Maybe I'm a puzzle for myself to put together. Maybe I'm waiting to be found. Maybe I've been found and didn't see what was right in front of my eyes.
Or maybe...maybe I found it and I wasn't sure I liked what I saw.
Maybe self creation is easier than this. But I have no idea even where to start doing that.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
My favorite part of going to restaurants is the bread baskets. I just really like bread.
I think when I grow up I'm going to buy mini travel toothpastes and stuff. and I won't do big once a week shopping trips. I'll just pick up stuff on my way home. and I kind of want to be a brunette. In college. With a scarf. A scarf/sweater wearing brunette witty college student who walks everywhere and picks up groceries on her way home and buys travel toothpastes because buy the time she's bought the toothpaste who's ad she saw was cool, another cool toothpaste ad has come around. so there won't be much toothpaste left to deal with.
But being a Bronde teen with a large amount of toothpaste waiting to be used up who has always had buying in large quantities and in once a week outings a part of her life is okay too.
I think when I grow up I'm going to buy mini travel toothpastes and stuff. and I won't do big once a week shopping trips. I'll just pick up stuff on my way home. and I kind of want to be a brunette. In college. With a scarf. A scarf/sweater wearing brunette witty college student who walks everywhere and picks up groceries on her way home and buys travel toothpastes because buy the time she's bought the toothpaste who's ad she saw was cool, another cool toothpaste ad has come around. so there won't be much toothpaste left to deal with.
But being a Bronde teen with a large amount of toothpaste waiting to be used up who has always had buying in large quantities and in once a week outings a part of her life is okay too.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Honestly...
A few opinions. Mine.
I don't think using the word epic is very epic. I think it sounds kind of lame. Sure, say it. I won't.
Gmail is becoming lamer as the days go by (sorry for using two lames in such close proximity - I know it must be hard from you).
I don't think using the word epic is very epic. I think it sounds kind of lame. Sure, say it. I won't.
Gmail is becoming lamer as the days go by (sorry for using two lames in such close proximity - I know it must be hard from you).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
