Lonelinium

(Note - I wrote this from the point of view of an imaginary element located somewhere in the 8s orbital on the periodic table.)

I am an unstable isotope
I lose parts of myself for no reason at all.
Sometimes, I lose so much of myself that all of me that has been cast off becomes me again
A smaller me
A hidden me.

I long for a nuclear fusion
To bond so deeply with another that we are no longer he and me but us
One entity that is bigger and stronger than all of our nucleons combined.

It is not meant to be, for he is stable and stronger than all of the rest
An iron diamond amongst the bits of broken graphite scattered atop the lab notebook.
I break apart the moment there is pressure.

We are not meant to be.

In the Dark

The world is scarier in the dark
There could be evil demons lurking in the bushes that surround the school
Eerie and empty after hours but for the possibility of holding a sea of monsters
Streetlights illuminate patches of ground
Waiting quietly for a shadow to steal out of the blackness and into your dreams
And every crackle under your feet could alert the creatures of the night that you are there
Just waiting to be found
Alone
In the dark.

Falling Apart

We humans are unstable
We're all falling apart in one way or another
Because we're only made of flesh and blood
And the likes of tendons and ligaments cannot hold together
A body, mind, soul, hopes, dreams, wishes, fears
And the moment we let go
To try something new
To help someone put themselves back together
We fall apart

I too live for flows

Walking around a near-deserted track at 3 am, talking about everything and nothing. In pain and fatigued, but walking on, talking on, actual conversation, darkness and coldness and sweat, occasional lights, walking and talking.

Wrapped in the tightest hug with someone I don't quite know and sobbing. Tight, but not a bear hug, not getting the life squeezed out of me, just someone clinging to me and me clinging back. Being the shorter person in a hug for the first time in a while, but holding on anyway.

Listening to piano music that comes from nowhere while standing in the light summer rain, without a phone or any way of contacting home, no idea exactly how far I am from where I started. Barefoot, no coat, warm water between my toes, gorgeous music that I can't identify weaving between the raindrops.

Playing Twister, laughing and joking and having fun, innocence, playing for hours, falling over, laughing. Walking in the pouring rain, content, satisfaction and tiredness.

Pure, simple flows of happiness and sadness and love create memories. Memories and peace.

Happy Holidays

My dad just got these in the mail. The note reads:

Lane [my father],

Please take good care of this little bear. He’s very special to me. He’s almost 40 years old and he’s been on our tree, front + center, every year. I’ll miss him, but wanted you to enjoy him for another 40 years or more.

With love, Mom

My dad sewed this bear when he was six years old, and now, forty years later, he’s hanging front and center on our tree. Merry Christmas.

Growing Up

It's funny how I used to think glasses and braces made you grown up, how going to parties and talking on the phone and texting and worrying about your hair made you an adult. Then I got glasses, then contacts, then braces. and I went to a party last Friday. I talk on the phone and text and worry about my hair.

And yet, I'm nowhere near being an adult. I'm an awkward, naive 14-year old with nothing to her name except for an obnoxiously formal vocabulary. Adults can take care of logistics and deadlines and responsibilities, whereas I still believe that if I wish hard enough, a magical fairy of joy and wonder will save my ass.

And yet, I've been through enough to not be innocent. I've known pain, I've faced reality, and I've lost the bliss that accompanies childhood at it's finest. So what does that make me? A baby, or an adult?

What am I?

Bruschetta

Unless you are Italian, you cannot possibly understand my love for bruschetta. Toasted bread with oil, topped with tomatoes and parsley and peppers and all sorts of delicious herbs, combine to create something comparable to sex in my mouth.

I've eaten bruschetta in too many restaurants to count, but my favorite by far is the kind my grandmother (and consequently, my mother) makes. I currently have a slight stomachache simply because I could not resist eating just one more of Nonna's bruschettas.

It is a familiar process to me - I sit in my room, oblivious to the deliciousness in my near future. Suddenly, I smell it; first the bread, then the tomatoes, and then the herbs.

"Can it be?" I ask myself.

"Dinner!" my mother calls.

I sprint downstairs and bank a hard left into the kitchen. "Mom, did you make-"

I see it.

I swoop in for the kill.

I enjoy.

(And by the way, it's pronounced "bru-sket-ta".)

Silence

I'm sitting there in the car and the voices won't stop and I turn the music up because it drowns them out some
He tells me to turn it down in the way that makes me hate him so much
Of course I can't
But I do
And they won't stop and I turn it up and they won't stop and I turn it up
Ignoring, trying to ignore
Failing like I always do
Turning it up and turning it up and they won't stop and they won't stop and threats and turn it down and down and down
I'm sitting there with the dark circles under my eyes and in the jeans from years ago, the ones that made me feel fat
(I guess some things never change)
And it just won't stop
And the music stops and I can't take the noise
And it's all noise, good noise and bad noise and god I just want
Silence.

Live From the Trunk

I've always wondered what would be a good gimmick for my writing, what would make people look at this blog or my poetry and think, "Wow. This hasn't been done by every other teenage who has ever had access to a stick and some mud."

My age does not constitute as anything special. I attend a journalism class every other day with people who are, in my opinion, some of the best minds of our generation. I read their articles and blogs, and act generally creepy, and am consistently amazed by the quality of their work. While many may assume, "Ah, but she's a sweet young lass of 14, and she's using words with a bunch of them syllable-things,", the fact that I am a teenager does not make my writing any better than if these same words were currently being written by a 42-year old man. (Besides, of course, the sweet young lass comment - there would be more than a few continuity issues.)

Just because many of my peers RiTe lIeK dIs n CaNT cAptLze PUncTuATE oR sPeLl CoRreCTlY (no, I will never do that again) and like to use words that have only a few of those things that make up a word, what are they called? Let me get my word book. Oh, syllables. Just because many of my peers do not edit their work at a semi-professional level and prefer to use shorter, more general words does not make me anything special.

My subject matter is far from unique - Poems, Poems! Angst, Angst! Ramble, Ramble, General Opinion, Attempt at Comedy! Why you are still reading at this point confounds me to no end. I am 14 years old - what could I possibly have to say?

Dear blog,

Today my Chemistry Honors teacher yelled at us. It was scary. Then we had to play pickleball in PE, and our team was, like, sooooo beast! It was pretty pro. Then I got to go to the Drama Club meeting, and Oh. Em. Gee. They ate, like, all my food in like, ten seconds! It was insane! 'Twas like a swarm of locusts descending upon a field of crops, pillaging it and leaving only death and destruction in their wake.

So, yeah. That was pretty nuts. And then we had journalism, and oh my gosh, I got to set up interviews! Like, Oh My Bieber! BloggyMcBlogger808 out, yo!

(I apologize for any brain cells lost in the process of reading the above.)

I'm at the age where I have too little experience to pass judgements on life, but enough to know that I shouldn't be attempting to pass judgements on life because of lack of said experience. Did that make sense? (It's 12:35 in the morning. Be glad I possess any coherenednksljnfskljnfssjjjjjjjjfa;mv)

And then, tonight, on the way to the Green Day concert with my family, it hit me - my gimmick didn't have to be based on talent, or personality - I could have a witty title and interesting location!

Spouts, Spiels, and Assorted Miscellanea - Live From the Trunk!

Without poking my head out from the trunk, I asked, "Mom, can I use your iPhone?"

From the backseat came a brief, "No."

And so I tried again. "Please?"

"No."

I bided my time. I waited. I fogged up the back windshield with my breath and wrote messages to other drivers.

"Please?"

"No!"

And so died my gimmick.

So... I'm 14 years old and I can use multi-syllabic words, punctuate and capitalize my sentences correctly, use grammar correctly, and spell! Read my blog.

Rest in Peace

Three days into sophomore year, Social Life, the beloved son of Friends and Fun, died during a home invasion in his High School, California home. Born in Middle School, California, Social Life was naturally happy and carefree. In his youth, he could always be found at the local park or at Starbucks, drinking a vanilla frappachino. As he grew older, Social Life moved to High School, where he met his future fiance, Key Club. Although the two were not close at first, after a few months they found common ground in a love of people and community service, and were wed on a beautiful sunny day in March.

After a long, relaxing vacation in Summer, USA, Social Life returned to High School. However, in the late afternoon of August 23, his house was attacked by his old archrival Grades, as well as his new enemies, Chemistry Honors and Working Out. Knowing that he could not hold out much longer, he heroically gave his life to protect his wife and children.

Social Life is survived by his wife and two children, Journalism and Gay-Straight Alliance. He will be sorely missed.

Death of a Summer

'Tis the eve of sophomore year, and yet my mind remains stoutly in the chilled out mindset that is summer. It never really felt like summer to begin with, I guess, because no matter where I was, I always seemed to be looking a few days ahead, until today, when it finally dawned on me that it was over.

It wasn't a complete dud, though. I went intertubing and rock climbing; I did the Leap of Faith and did an improv session. I tie-dyed shirts and made lanyards and friendship bracelets. I dressed up in silly outfits and I biked to Jamba Juice. I watched Shutter Island in a dark tent in the early hours of the morning. I spent a week running after hyped-up preschoolers, and I spent a week scribbling furious notes while surrounded by a bunch of other journalism geeks. I checked out guys and rode roller coasters, and I learned to juggle.

There is no apprehension, no nerves, no mental-breakdown-utter-denial "I still have all the time in the world!" So bring it on, sophomore year. School starts tomorrow, and I'm unafraid. Hell, I'm more than unafraid - I'm pumped.

Comeuppance

If there is any such thing as comeuppance
One day I'll get my I-told-you-so
You'll have ignored me time and time again
And it will finally catch up to you
They'll have left you
He'll have left you
(Whoever "he" is)
I'll still be right here
Doing what I always do
Taking out the trash
Sweeping up the debris
And cleaning up the devastation in your wake
And I'll stand there
Amongst the burnt out cigarette butts and broken dreams
And I'll let it rip
What's been due to me all these years
I'll say it across the empty junkyard
(Your rats of friends will have long since disappeared.)
And you'll look up at me with tears in your eyes
"Do you need me?"
And you'll come running
And I'll still be right there
And I'll whisper it to myself at night
Rolling it around on my tongue
Letting it ghost past my lips
"I told you so."

The H8 Has Ended

Well, it's finally happened: Prop 8 has been overturned. I found out during my break today. I was sitting in the tunnel on the playground with my fellow Leader-in-Training when she went, "Oh my gosh!"

"What?" I asked.

"Prop 8 has been overturned!"

At which point I let out a hearty "Fuck yeah!" and smacked my head on the top of the tunnel.

I'm not going to go through all the reasons that this was the right decision, because odds are, if you aren't pro-love I would have turned you off long ago. However, I am elated that all of my friends, regardless of sexuality, will be able to marry whomever they choose. Prop 8 was ridiculous to begin with, and it was even more absurd that it passed. This gives me hope for the sanity of America, and for a more tolerant future.

History

There's something undeniably ominous and foreboding about seeing your mother's maiden name on a headstone. Unfeeling, grey slabs crisscross the green field, and American flags punctuate the smooth, engraved headstones. The dreary gray Pennsylvania sky makes the whole scene feel washed out, surreal. Fresh flowers are planted in front of the graves of my great-grandparents, and I wonder who is brave enough to traverse the empty graveyard and tend to them. Is it my grandfather, who sits in the driver's seat and talks about his parents, whose graves are but five feet from our front tires? "He came over here and fought in World War I when he was 18. She was born here. Her two older sisters were born in Italy, but she was born here."

We drive on. We pass the empty lot where his childhood home used to be, and my great-grandmother's old house, now inhabited by others. He talks about working in the coal mines as the lush green forest speeds by, disappearing behind us as we follow the gently winding road. We see where my mother went to high school, and he talks about how she and my aunt would walk through the woods on their way to school.

I dazedly realize that the past and the future were beginning to form an invisible seam, linking and looping two generations as time continues to pass. I am not the uniformed Catholic school girl gossipping contentedly on her way to school, but an average teenager who rides the public bus every morning. And yet, we intertwine: the same dark, heavy hair, the same brownish eyes, and the same silent, trembling, hysterical laughter, faces a deep red and eyes flush with joyous tears.

And here I was thinking history was boring.

Boys vs. Girls

Although I am blessed to live in a country where sexism is no longer rampant, I am still disappointed in the lingering stereotypes and expectations for the two genders. Many are caused by ignorance, but others are caused by beliefs that have been stressed since childhood.

Females are still viewed by many as the weaker sex, as only being good for bearing children, and most disgustingly, as objects. Girls are expected from birth to wear pink clothes and frills, and as they grow older, heels and makeup. This is one stereotype that has declined over the years, but it can still be witnessed frequently. Girls are supposed to play with Barbies and gossip, and are generally discouraged from being noisy or rowdy. I recall goofing around with some of my male friends in the eighth grade, playing tag and shoving each other, when an older female teacher called me over. She did not reprimand me for any particular reason, but rather instructed me not to roughhouse with the boys because it was not ladylike. I often find myself the only girl in a group of boys, generally because I am one of the few females who actually cares to learn how to juggle, or play soccer, or do improv. It makes me feel isolated, but I do so anyway because it seems as if it is the more fun option, despite the lack of participation from other girls.

However, every coin has its flip-side. I cannot speak from experience, but I have borne witness to plenty of stereotypes against the male sex. Males are expected to be tough, and are called "pussies" and "girls" if they cry (yet another insult to females). Boys are supposed to be crude, loud, and insensitive, and are discouraged from showing emotion. The phrase "boys will be boys" dismisses these actions, because being boys, of course they are naturally all of these. Professions in the various fields of art are viewed as off-limits to boys because they are too "girly". Many refuse to believe that males can be victims of domestic abuse. A male friend of mine was surprised to hear about a male rape victim, and many cases of male rape and abuse go unreported because the victim is often derided for being too "weak" to stop it. 

Like all stereotypes, it is our job to disprove them. We have all succumbed to these stereotypes at one time or another, and we will continue to fall victim to them unless we make a conscious effort not to do so. There's nothing wrong with a girl playing football or a boy wearing a pink shirt- and it's high time everyone realized it.

The Joys of Boredom

I'll admit, before this week I had only been in a Walmart once. It was on our family vacation to Mexico, and I spent the majority of it trying to read labels in Spanish and mentally converting pesos to dollars. I always assumed it was like Costco but tackier, and that people went there because they had nothing better to do.

I was completely right.

However, I am a complete cheapskate at heart, and was overjoyed at the fact that I could finally get a new iPod case to replace my dilapidated old one, as well as some other essentials such as licorice and tennis balls. I have gone three times in the past week, and perhaps I'm going stir-crazy from boredom, but it has been the best source of entertainment I have found. In addition, I spent a great deal of yesterday looking around thrift stores with my family. Being a complete and utter nerd, I spent a good twenty minutes drooling over and picking out new school supplies.

Besides shopping, this week I have made no less than four tie-dyed T-shirts, bringing my total number of tie-dyed shirts to six. I roasted marshmellows over a campfire and made s'mores, and I practiced my juggling. I accidentally touched the skull of a small rodent, and consequently freaked out. I swang on a rope swing and had a lightsaber battle with my brother. Unfortunately, I managed to find myself at the bottom of a dogpile of small children. I got in the water fight to end all water fights, and as a result got completely soaked and had to wear my pajamas for a good three hours.

Long story short? I've been having fun.

This Means War

While attempting to update my iPod Touch to the new 4.0 software, I got the technology equivalent of a slap in the face and a knee to the groin. First, after clicking "Update", it hijacked my iTunes with a loading bar for a good five minutes, then left my iPod as it had been before, without any new changes. The second time, it started to restore my iPod. Restoring an iPod returns it to the factory setting, erasing all apps, photos, videos, music, contacts, and all other personal information that was added to the iPod after purchasing it. I quickly unplugged my iPod, hoping to stop the restore, and plugged it back into iTunes. It gave me a message stating that the iPod was in recovery mode, and could not connect to iTunes unless it was restored. Unable to fix it any other way, I gave in and restored it, consequently erasing everything.

In a way, it's my fault for:

a. Attempting to use anything pertaining to technology without my Dad next to me, ready with a fire extinguisher and his laptop.

b. Relying so heavily on technology.

Even so, if Apple were a person, I would be bitch-slapping them until their earbuds fell out.

Unicorns

Depressing blogs suck
So instead I'll write about
Rainbow unicorns.

Rainbow unicorns
Are extremely colorful
And each have a horn.

They can grant wishes
And frolic through green meadows
And tap-dance on stilts.

Well, they can't tap-dance
But they bring light to the world
With their shiny horns.

Their horns are pretty
Pretty freaking sharp, that is
They slice men in two.

Evil unicorns
Murderous and rampaging
Blood and gore and guts

Run away, children!
Before they kill and eat you
Slow, merciless deaths

...

I apologize
For destroying your childhood
Beware unicorns.

Camping for Cancer

Yesterday, at 6:30 in the morning, I woke up, eagerly gathered my bags, and headed out for the camping trip of a lifetime. It was filled with grizzly bears, raging rivers, and the entire time we were in the middle of a giant forest. There were also flying penguins, apocalyptic meteors, and Abraham Lincoln cursing in Spanish. In reality, it was on the track of my old middle school, two minutes away from my home, and shared with countless other "campers" participating in Relay for Life. I haven't mentioned it on this blog, but for the past two months I have been fundraising on my own and as a part of my Key Club in preparation for this event. For those who don't know, Relay for Life is an event in which "teams" play games, share information about cancer, and constantly walk the track for 24 hours, symbolizing how cancer never sleeps.

I arrived slightly before 7 am, and helped set up and decorate our campsite. More of our team began filtering in, and we cheered on the cancer survivors as they took the first lap. After a quick debriefing I began walking the track, adding a bead onto my necklace for every lap I completed. For the rest of the day, I helped run games of bingo and tanned as I walked lap after sweltering lap. After hours of repetitive cover bands, we gathered to watch a couple of our classmates take the stage and perform for us. As the sun began to go down, we lit luminarias, small paper bags filled with sand and a candle and inscribed with messages of love and support. They lined the inside perimeter of the track, and were arranged on the bleachers to make a heart and spell out "hope". As it got darker, the luminarias illuminated the track, glowing and beautiful.

It grew cool quickly, but I kept warm with a light jacket and continuous walking. Every few laps I would stop to rest, and we would talk and play games and relax as the night wore on. My feet began to ache constantly, but I plodded on, intent on walking twenty miles before the night was out. Later, while walking in a group, a man ran past us, and only after a few moments did it dawn on us that he was naked. Fortunately, one of our amazing chaperones was a police officer, and our streaker was quickly apprehended. However, we all remained somewhat nervous, and the situation only grew more eerie as we saw a man on a motorbike, a suspicious man lurking by the entrance, and heard one of our teammates scream (it turned out she was only attempting to wake someone up). Finally, the campsite quieted down, and we walked on. Two extremely sore legs later, I reached my goal, and walked a few more laps for good measure. Exhausted, I retired to bed at about 4 am.

An hour and a half later, I woke up, damp and freezing, put on my glasses, and shuffled out of my tent, still in my sleeping bag. I sat down with my teammates, shivering violently, and was apparently very pale. Since my only other option was to "just stop shivering (and die)", I curled into a ball at the bottom of my sleeping bag and waited for body heat to kick in. Eventually, my teeth stopped chattering and my toes began to thaw, so I arose and helped with cleanup. We walked as a team in the final lap, signed thank-you cards for the chaperones, and settled down to wait to be picked up. My dad finally came, and I said my goodbyes, loaded up the car, went home, and promptly passed out for a good seven hours.

In the end, I personally raised over $200 for cancer research, and as a group we raised over $2700. I walked 89 laps (22.25 miles), the furthest I have ever walked at once, and despite the soreness and pain, I am honored to have walked it because every step I took was a step a victim cancer will never get to. I walked for them. We celebrated, we remembered, and we fought back. Cancer won't sleep, but neither will we, and I am proud.

Blue is the Color of Awesome

So, I walk into a bar, and the bartender says, "You look a little young to be here," and I say, "Well, good sir, if you can believe it, I'm not a day under thirty," and he said, "Well, cheers then!", and we drank firewhisky until the floor fell out from under us.

In other news, I think that has been my worst introduction ever.

I was privileged enough to get to see the Blue Man Group while I was here in Las Vegas. Now, never having bothered to look into what they do, I really had no idea of what their show would be like. As far as I knew, they were creepy guys with wide eyes and blue painted skin. However, right from the beginning I knew I was in for a treat. The announcements warned me to turn off, among other things, my cell phone, skyliner wand, and portable fax machine, and that videotaping of the performance would result in the activation of the eject mechanism in my seat. The music was an amazing display of percussion, with loud, urgent rhythms and a deep bass that shook me in my seat, and a tasteful amount of supplementary electric guitar.

The display itself was amazing, with lights of every size and color, brightly colored paint and instruments. However, the most entertaining was the commentary scattered throughout, broaching subjects ranging from how to be a rock star to how our brains work. The three performers walked down the aisles, jumped over the seats, and ate Cap'n Crunch on stage. They brought a woman up on stage to eat a Twinkie, then painted a man blue, hung him upside down, and swung him into a canvas. Toilet paper fell in buckets from the ceiling, covering the crowd, and at one point, the entire crowd got up and danced. Despite all of this, there was still bits of sophisticated humor thrown in, such as crowd-pleasing acronyms such as ROFLUIPSM, which stands for "Rolling On the Floor Laughing Until I Puke and Soil Myself", and MTEM, which is an abbreviation of "My Tofurkey Exploded in the Microwave". It was an incredible show, and I would recommend it to anybody looking for a good time in Vegas.

And now it is too late and I am too tired to write a conclusion for this blog, so you can just pretend that there is a very conclusive conclusion while I sleep. Good night.

Summer Nights

There's something exhilarating about running at night as my bare feet pad one after the other on the rough cement of the sidewalk. Faint whooshes of wind pierce the night from the main road as cars rush by, their lights briefly illuminating the street corners before disappearing into the dark. My hair flies out behind me as I come one step closer to taking off into the stars. I am weightless. I am faster than the cars, than the planes, than the wind itself, and the shadows cannot catch me.

My feet leap over the curb and picking up speed as they hurry across the road, swerving between a parked car and a petite rose bush as they fly onto the opposite sidewalk, through the cool grass and ascend rapidly up the low, wide brick stairs to the front door. I descend to earth, the lock clicks open, and I bid the night goodbye. I suddenly weigh a thousand pounds, the air that was so trivial moments ago rushing into my lungs, my face reddening, my flight over.

The cool night air is replaced by a smothering house, and I perch by the window, greedily drinking in the last of the refreshing breeze, before finally shutting the window and letting another summer night slip away.

Family

Standing in the light of blazing lamps on the wide stage of the auditorium, I gazed up at the walls painted with more than thirty years of messages and names and artwork and absorbed the theatrical aura that radiated throughout the room. At first, it was impossible to summarize it in a single word; it was energy and intensity and drama and laughter and a hundred little inside jokes that only the thespians could understand. It was the orchestra and the balcony and the control room and backstage, and it was curtains and costumes and a starry night sky right through an open door. Even devoid of its trademark actors and actresses meandering across the well-roamed black stage, it felt of family.

It was not my family. I have my immediate family and my extended family, subdivided into my dad families and my mom family. I have my family of friends, and I have my Key Club family, my GSA family, and my babysitting family. To me, a family is made of people you wouldn't give up for the world, no matter if they were not always nice, and a family is people you love. Shielding my eyes against the bright lights in that slightly intimidating auditorium, I felt the generations of the drama family forming a collective conviction: this is the unbeatable, untamable drama family. I am not a part of this family, and though I may join Drama Club, or take the drama class to fulfill my fine arts requirement, I have the unshakable feeling that I will never be a part of this family.

I'm OK with that. I love the stage and all that is associated with it, but I'm never going to be an actress. I can only envy the one family that will never be mine, but I am fortunate enough to have many others that will guide me, and I will have to be content with that for now.

Forever a Freshman

I don't think it's hit me yet that the year is over. With a busy weekend ahead, it feels exactly like it will be any other weekend, chaotic and rushed, and I'll return to school on Monday with an enormous backpack and prepare for another week of school. It hasn't sunk in yet that the seniors are no longer seniors, but college freshmen, and that they will not be returning, not on Monday, not in August, not ever. But, despite how much I'm going to miss seeing our seniors, I think the biggest mindfuck is that I'm going to be a sophomore.

Freshman year has been the closest to a religious experience I've ever gotten. The volatile mixture of hormones, pressure and enthusiasm has pushed every experience to the extreme end of the spectrum. The bonds of friendship morph from rope to steel, the fire of lust turns from a sweat-inducing red glow to a burning blue flame, and the naive demeanor of the preteen years bows to the sheer awkwardness of teenagerdom. I have realized what it means to truly have "best friends", and I have found role models in the upperclassmen. I have been humiliated and honored, rejected and sought after, and not only have I fought depression, but I've kicked its sorry ass into a pit full of rabid Dobermans. I have finally felt like I truly belonged somewhere, and that I was part of something bigger than a single freshmen class.

In the years to come, I will become an upperclassman, and watch as my friends gradually filter out to various colleges and jobs, until the day comes that it will be me in that green cap and gown, walking across that stage and beginning the journey that will take me through the rest of my life. However, part of me will always be the naive, overly enthusiastic, awkward little freshman girl, and I can only hope that the memories will remain as well. Class of 2010, I will miss you. May you find success in your endeavors that matter, and may you find happiness in whatever way suits your whims. I love each and every one of you, and I want you to know that this is not the end.

In fact, it's only the beginning.

Backwards

Splatter on the ground
Hurl yourself out the window
And live life backwards

Euphoria

I will be completely and 100% blunt. After much haranguing, debating and pursuing... I got into Journalism!

I got called into the guidance office at the end of fifth period, after the fairly easy second section of my Spanish final, and was told that I could be put into the class. My heart soared, little fireworks went off, and every other cliche about happiness came true. Of course, it didn't come without a price; I had to give up drama in lieu of being on the paper, which may mess with my schedule slightly over the next few years, but I know that it will be worth it in the end. I never really held out much hope for becoming an actress anyway, but there is just the slightest tinge of sadness that comes with cutting ties with another possible career, with leaving an untouched path untouched, unexplored, and forever mysterious.

But, I do know that sophomore year will be the year of discovery. This will be the year of deciding whether or not I wish to pursue writing as a career. It has never been something I have challenged before, my love of writing, but I need to experience it firsthand before I can determine if it is what I want to do for the rest of my life. However, I hold no doubt as to the fact that this is going to be an awesome year, and despite the temporary insanity that has gripped me as of late, I now can look forward to the year ahead knowing that it is going to be nothing short of amazing.

I can't wait.

Can I Get Another Amen?

Clasp your hands together and revel in your glory
Your steepled temple, clean and warm, remains forever holy
Send up prayers to angels whom are imprisoned as pained ghosts
With blessed wine and bread stride forward and make a faithless toast
Listen to your leader pure, for it is your cross to bear
Or else surrender virtue and follow devils to despair
Speak with the men in robes whom they say are heaven-sent
And justify your faith which you have never believed in.

Remembering Summer

I am taking long bike rides over giant hills with wet hair and golden sun. I am rhyming a la The Princess Bride and sipping smoothies and playing on playgrounds. I am taking goofy cell phone pictures and wearing sunscreen and wearing T-shirts and shorts with beaten-up flip flops. I am lying in bed and searching the house top to bottom for things to do, and I am exploring the neighborhood. I am taking tennis lessons and pottery classes and swimming lessons and cooking classes and babysitting courses and soccer lessons. I am going shopping and swimming and swinging in the park and accumulating more freckles on my face and arms.

I am swimming across the lake, and balancing on a wooden beam, and making a spastic, yet still enthusiastic attempt to shoot a target with a bow and arrow. I am making hemp bracelets and friendship bracelets and lanyards and dream catchers. I am eating mostly edible mess hall food and playing ping pong and dressing up. I am crammed onto a bus going up into the mountains, and I am sitting at a campfire and singing and laughing. I am having the rag tied around my neck, and promising myself to make things better.

I am sitting in the sun and getting my feet cut up in the pool, and I am walking the dog and going for frozen yogurt. I am fighting with my cousin and reading in the closet under the stairs and sprawling out on the long, narrow couch. I am walking through smoky hotels and watching the flashing lights, and I am watching movies and playing tennis and solving puzzles. I am waking up early and laying with my grandparents, and I am seeing the sights and living the dream and watching it all with my mouth agape at its sheer splendiferousness.

These are my summers, at home and at camp and with my family. These are the endless summers that make up my childhood, and when all else fades to years and stages and decades, these are what will remain.

Poetry - Apology of a Heartbreaker

His heart was in my hands
It looked shiny and pretty and sweet
I was a toddling child, young and innocent
I didn't want to break it, to hurt him
But I did
I couldn't see what he saw
And now he's left in the dust
I'm sorry.

You Wonder Why We're Friends

It all began with two preteen girls, both convinced that the other was stupid and not worth her time. One was happily grouped with her older sister and best friend; the other, all on her lonesome, forced to interact with others because of her mother's penchant for sending her to summer camps. And thus, the two were shoved together, albeit unwillingly. The friends isolated the newcomer from their exclusive circle for two long weeks, at which point she had fulfilled her stint as a "happy camper" and departed, ecstatic in the separation from her peers.

The summer passed, and it was back to the school that had chewed her up and spit her out in the sixth grade. Despite everything, she remained optimistic for a better, brighter seventh grade. The first days went by in a blur of new classes and poorly concealed excitement. And then, sitting alone in the cafeteria, eating a burrito and reading, a muted thump alerted her to the unthinkable: someone sitting with her. She raised her gaze, unsure of what to expect, and her heart immediately sank; it was her old tormentor, back to haunt her when things had finally taken a turn for the better.

But, she noticed, the other girl looked tired, and perhaps even a bit lonely. Like I was, she thought viciously. "Can I sit here?"

"I can't stop you," she replied, more than a little bitter. They sat there in awkward silence for a moment.

"I apologize for not believing you when you said you were going to be in Algebra," she said earnestly, "you just didn't seem all that smart." The other girl glared. So much for the apology. Content with her voiced confession, she began to make idle chat, with her rather displeased companion shooting her down at every opportunity. Despite her usual inability to hold grudges, this girl had done too much to fall into her good graces so quickly. And so the weeks went, a tireless "friend" following her, sitting with her during lunch, and beginning, however slowly, to wear down the girl's dislike for her.

They began to go on a walk together every night, lingering at the stop sign at the corner between their two unnervingly close houses and talking about everything from food to politics to boys. They learned near everything about each other, and agreed that they were indeed "best friends". They fought on occasion, as friends are wont to do, but always made up. They followed each other through the sordid details of their miniscule love lives, one learning how to break a heart and the other getting her heart broken. They talked about religion, life, and the future, wondering what it would hold for them.

And then came high school. The two went in with little knowledge of what to expect, with only the vague memories of older friends already long integrated into the melting pot that was high school. They met a person who they began to refer to as their best friend as well, and countless others whose antics provided many hours of entertainment. They cried together at Challenge Day, and talked for hours about college and expectations and dreams.

Over the course of two years, one became more toned down, and the other became more bold. They both learned to open up to others, and to take things as they come, but, most importantly, that there was always someone that they trusted more than anything.

This is why we're best friends.

Service With a Smile

Plaster on your pretty grin
No one knows about your sin
Or all the trouble that you're in
Hide it away and smile

Joke and laugh and play and run
No one knows the things you've done
But for the sake of everyone
You just shut up and smile

Never show that you are shy
No one knows how much you lie
And time's started to pass you by
Yet all you do is smile

Leave your heart and lock the door
No one knows you anymore
But it's not you that this is for
It's service with a smile

The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie

Lately, I have taken to sitting in the window seat in the corner of the library, gazing out the window at the people walking by, unaware, or reading a good book. Having come across the name of the author Jaclyn Moriarty, I only remembered one word: reverie. I immediately sought out the book The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie, and immediately got lost in reverie among the pages. This whimsical novel about high school, musings, and murder, set in Australia, tells the story of Belinda "Bindy" Mackenzie, a proactive, intelligent, and inadvertently pretentious Year 11 girl and her issues with her Friendship and Development, or FAD, group. As the pages turn, the story delves into Bindy's past, conspiracies, and the struggles of high school.

Now, let me give you my brief history with this book: In the sixth grade, I faced many of the same social issues as Bindy, despite being several years younger. I was socially crippled due to five years in a small private school, and often took refuge in the school library. Even when forced to be in the company of others, my nose was always buried in a book. Eventually, one of the books I came upon was The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie, and I instantly related to this quirky character. Looking back on it now, I still see the similarities: social awkwardness (although not to such an extreme), an overwhelming desire to succeed, and perhaps even a bit of the pretention. However, I can also laugh at the sheer comedy of such unoblivious social faux pas.

To sum it up, this book is a great read, and I highly recommend it.

(Warning: The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie gives the reader a tendency to think in short, clipped sentences and get lost in reverie)

Poetry - Chaotica

Observation 
Consternation
Trepidation
Pure elation
Apprehension
Nervous tension
Condescencion
New deception
Peace and trinity 
No serenity
To infinity
Pure acidity
Loose denial
Fire by trial
Poison vial 
Final mile
And
I
Just
Smile.

Wild Night

We're all in the burger joint, crowded around two tables, smiling and laughing and sipping our milkshakes. It's the epitome of teenage wasteland, complete with awkwardly trying to talk to the "cool" kids and little groups of people all caught up in their euphoric little worlds. It's picturesque, like a lot of things seem to be these days. I can see an identical scene sixty years in the past, with an abundance of poodle skirts and leather jackets and hair gel, with a jukebox blasting Buddy Holly in the corner and the Fonz teaching boys to unhook a girl's bra in the restroom. It's what I always pictured the stereotypical high school weekend to be, staying out late with friends and not caring about homework or expectations or consequences.

Except that there's still that nagging little voice inside my head. You're too young. Go home to Mommy and let the cool people, the normal people, have their fun. Stop pretending. And I can't ignore it, because somewhere in the self-loathing the truth is hidden. I am too young. But it doesn't matter.

Maybe this teenager thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.

You Can't Be Sad When You're Smiling

Why is it that I have dozens of people who I call my friends, yet when I need a friend most I'm all alone? I know I'm not an easy person to be friends with; then again, neither are they. I pick up charity cases and lost souls, and do my best to make them right. Yet somehow, I'm the one sitting alone, looking perfectly content in my solitude yet secretly, desperately hoping for someone to come by. It's a fairly depressing existence, only managing to grasp onto hope by a thread of pure ambition, and the dire need to get out. My definition of "getting out" has changed over the years, but the desire has never wavered. I want to gather my things and take the first plane out of here, and watch through a little camera in my brain how my "friends" react. Some will probably be relieved, airing their opinions of me that have lain dormant for too long; others will truly miss me, and I may regret causing them sadness, but they will forget me eventually; it is what we are wired to do.

And suddenly, I am stirred out of my reverie by another person, infringing on my pity party. She takes interest in my band T-shirt, and a conversation is born, though whether out of pity or true interest I'll never know. We talked a long while about journalism, friends, and school, and finally parted ways, a genuine smile eviscerating the painted-on shadow of it I normally possess.

And though the happiness faded quickly, hours later I have not forgotten the kind gesture of an upperclassman who likely had better things to be doing than fraternizing with a lonely freshman. I sit, lost in reverie, absently fiddling with a loose thread on my shorts, and I reflect.

Perhaps there are honestly good people.

A Wonderfultastic Day in Suburbia

I began today at around 10 am, when I was woken up by my mother, not to get ready to go to church, but to eat chocolate chip pancakes and read the Sunday comics in my pajamas. Then, I practiced piano, read, and meandered around the Internet until about 1 pm, when I ate lunch, then biked 3 miles with my best friend to Jamba Juice. We took our smoothies across the street with us to a gorgeous park with an abundance of ponds full of ducks and Canadian geese. Sitting on the platform of the play structure, we had a perfect view. Between the bars of the ladder was the fountain; ladies with strollers strolled contentedly while children ran gleefully by. Couples sat idly by on picnic blankets on the grass, and the smell of barbecue filled the park. It was so picturesque it almost hurt.

The only thing out of place was us, the two dorky teenagers perched on the play structure, children glancing at us out of the corners of their eyes and shying away. We sipped our smoothies amusedly, taking vain cell phone pictures and attempting to relive our childhoods on the swingsets. We walked around the park, soaking up the sun and watching the ducklings swim. Finally, we grew tired, and biked the 3 miles home, the highlight of which was going on the steep hill coming off of a pedestrian bridge, the wind rushing past us as we sped downhill.

Upon returning to my house, we changed into swimsuits and biked a mile over to the local swim club and frolicked merrily, giving piggyback rides, nearly engaging a bunch of children in a chicken fight, and practicing lifeguard rescues. I realized, giggling, that our relationship was like that of Brittany and Santana from Glee, although without the cheerleader sex. We agreed that although looks-wise, I would be Santana, personality-wise it would definitely switch. We engorged ourself on even more sunscreen, then made the mile trek back home.

However, what was different about this ride was that I had thrown away my contacts at the pool so I could go underwater without burning my eyes and cursing up a storm in front of small children. In short, I was half-blind and on a bicycle; I couldn't read the street signs, and had to depend completely on following my friend to know where I was going. Safe? Definitely not. Interesting? In a fashion... yes.

Finally, we parted ways, only to meet again at 10 pm for our regular nighttime walk. We talked about upcoming summer camp and math class and cooking fish, then said goodnight at our usual street corner. I turned around... and stopped dead.

The action was frighteningly familiar, as was the view. What just happened? I was just here a minute ago, after saying goodnight yesterday! What the hell happened? Where did that time go? Where is my time going? I was just here a minute ago, thinking that time was passing too fast, and that I was here only a minute ago, and now I'm here again! What's going on?

At which point I took a mental shotgun, blew the panic to bits, and continued on my way.

So, other than my impending insanity and my apparant penchant for shooting my emotions execution-style, today was a wonderfultastic day.

Mockery Amuses Me

It's been a tough week, but fortunately, the world provides plenty of things to mock.

1) Fox called Mr. Rogers an evil man who screwed up an entire generation of Americans.

Oh, Fox. If not for Glee and Family Guy, I would probably be scheming an extremely convoluted plan for your demise right now. Even so, I bite my thumb at you.

2) My body wash is "Ocean Breeze" scented.

I've always found the names of these scents amusing, but this one takes the cake. Because who walks up to someone, inhales, and goes, "Mmm, you smell like an ocean breeze!"? You really shouldn't be walking up to random strangers and smelling them anyway, but hey, whatever floats your boat. But honestly, all the ocean breezes I've ever smelled smell like sea salt, barbecue smoke and seagull poop. Not that those things are without their own charm when one is viewing the horizon off of Santa Cruz Beach, but they're not so appealing as perfumes.

3) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9ohsvJHkbY&feature=player_embedded

While there is a valid point lurking somewhere in that Southern accent and Republican drivel, one cannot help but be amused at, "We live in Alabama. We speak English. If you want to live here, learn it." Well, the Native Americans lived here, and we're not speaking Cherokee. Just sayin'.

In other news, my left arm hurts something fierce thanks to wonderful Mr. Syringe giving me a hepatitis shot yesterday. Also, being insanely popular as I am, I spent my Friday night partying with a bunch of 8-year olds. Yes, I am such a rebel, no need to applaud.

Ciao.

The Voice Says to Burn Things

Sigh.

I know it's been a long day when my insane other half is reprimanding me in a patronizing, second grade teacher-voice. I'm not sure if it's healthy to have an insane other half who likes to burn things, but it's a moot point. It's been a long day of tolerating irritating people and not lighting them on fire.

A few people who I want to light on fire today destroyed any hope I may have had for the male race. My female friends and I have always wondered, "What do boys talk about when they're not around girls?" We imagined it might have actually been girls, or at least some interesting gossip.

Nope.

They talked about their balls.

In other news, I learned way more about the male reproductive system today than I did in three years of Sex Ed.

Also, I think I'll be needing therapy.

Remember This

The sunny suburban street becomes silent and mysterious as night falls. Trees stand tall against the sky, their black silhouette stark against the deep navy of the night. The roses fade into the bushes, and the cars are motionless and dead. The streetlamp come to life, casting a golden glow on the yellow leaves surrounding them, a halo of rippling color. We pause at the base of one concrete giant, turning our faces upward to the illuminated scene.

"It's like something out of a children's book."

"Yeah."

A sliver of moon peeks out from behind a cloud, a hint at the rain that is sure to come. We bask in the light for a little longer, saying nothing. A wave of urgency rolls through us, and something we've only ever alluded to but never dared to voice is voiced in the midst of our silent awe.

We're running out of time.

We part ways at our corner, and I walk a few steps, then stop. Breathe it all in. Remember this. The sound of my heels thudding softly against the sidewalk echoes, the only noise in a sleeping town. Commit this to memory. I slow my gait, drinking in the darkness, the light, and the shadows that hover in between. Don't forget this.

I open the front door, and the light penetrates me in an instant, the darkness and beauty abandoned in favor of warmth and safety. I turn, giving one last longing glance to the night, and then pull the door shut, retreating to a prison built of expectations and algebra homework.

Remember this.

It's An Italian Thing

I approach the Smart n Final, messenger bag on my hip, the automatic door sliding open with a swoosh that I take a moment to admire. I walk in purposefully, walking briskly past the cookery and condiment aisles, and take a sharp right through the cereal aisle, narrowly avoiding a man on a motorized scooter. I stop in front of the snacks aisle, more accurately referred to as the junk food aisle.

"Hmm..." I think. "What to get...?" I don't linger, and start rifling through the chips. I am a girl on a mission. Operation: Feed Hungry Teenagers. The phrase is enough to make any parent wince and clutch their wallets for dear life, but I've got a stomach of steel, the brains of a mother and eighteen bucks in my pocket. I emerge victorious with a bag of salt and vinegar chips, and make my way down to the candy shelves. I scan the price tags, grimacing inwardly at the overpriced sweets, but I put on a brave face and reach for a bag of Reeses Pieces that isn't too offensive.

I pay for my purchases, a small flush of pleasure going through me as I hand over my hard-earned babysitting money, the sheer maturity of it bringing me no small joy. I tote the foodstuffs down the road, holding my breath as I pass the middle school and hoping that they don't notice what I'm carrying. I breathe a sigh of relief as I make it past unharmed, and chuckle to myself as I imagine what a confrontation that would have been. "I mean," I think, "one middle schooler, I could have taken, two middle schoolers, probably, but four... that would have been slaughter!"

People often ask me why I bring food to school so often, and I just shrug and say, "I like to feed people. Want a cookie?" In reality, I think it's a genetic; my mom likes to feed people, as does my grandmother; it's an Italian thing. So is talking with our hands; as my friend said, "If an Italian is missing an arm, he has a speech impediment."

And a-no, we don't all-a talk-a like a-this.

... but I wish we did.

Credit Where Credit Is Due

In a competitive society where excellence is not enough to excel, it is driven into students' heads that they will not get into a good college, get a good job, or be financially secure unless they are the very best. Students are constantly searching for new "hooks" that will make them stand out to potential colleges and employers, and attempt to sharpen a single skill in hopes of getting a scholarship, though it was once more recommendable to try and be well-rounded.

Somehow, as this mindset took over, students began to minimize their accomplishments to the point where even their greatest achievements were lost to the statement, "Well, someone else did better." However, while successes lost their meaning, failures became more shameful than ever, and every less-than-perfect grade was met with fruitless attempts to make up those last few points with extra credit. And then, students began to lose sight of their greatest talents, once again because "someone else can do it better", and began putting themselves down because the overwhelming opinion of society was that they weren't good enough, or so they thought.

When did it become acceptable to tell yourself that your talent is meaningless? Take pride in yourself; we are students in a changing world, yet we have adapted to the rise of technology and competition flawlessly, while still honoring artists and authors and athletes. Stop putting yourself down, and give yourself a little bit of credit- you deserve it.

Viva Las Vegas?

Today, I walked down the Strip in Las Vegas, a huge area with all of the main tourist traps concentrated, along with gems such as Excalibur, MGM, GameWorks, etc. My family took an after-dinner excursion to M&M World, a tradition for us, and left with out bright yellow bags full of chocolate. My parents wanted to go see the new City Center, and I agreed out of curiosity. It was, to put it bluntly, the most marvelous monstrosity I've ever seen. It was like a small city, with multiple skyscraper-esque buildings towering 50 floors in the air, with glimmering glass and shiny metal. A sleek tram zoomed by on an elevated rail, and a gigantic waterfall cascaded down an outside wall. The inside was beautiful, an architect's fantasy: untainted mosaic tile floors and simple, classy carpeting, antiquated slot machines, arches and treehouse-plant sculptures dotted throughout, high-end stores littered amongst five-star restaurants, and a faint, sweet perfume smell wafting throughout.

Yet all I could think of was, "And there are children in Africa starving, and budget cuts back home for my education, and hell, there's plenty of homeless people just outside the parkway." Impressed as I was by the sheer beauty of it, I couldn't help but be disgusted at the billions of dollars laid to waste so the people with money to burn have yet another place to immolate.

And that's when I realized: I'm tired of Vegas. Viva Las Vegas! to me is just another cliched, ignorant phrase used by those who haven't seen it as well as I have. Maybe I can rediscover it when I'm 21, when there'll be gambling and strippers and alcohol and going to see shows, but right now, I'm 14 and tired. Maybe I'm tired of life, as the saying goes; maybe I'm just hormonal. As someone who lives so close to Vegas, with the opportunity to visit at a moment's notice, I'm no longer entranced by the glittering lights of Sin City. I walk around with a dry throat from inhaling all of the cigarette smoke; I involuntarily shift behind my dad when we pass the pimps and their clients; I look past the sharply dressed men and gorgeous women to their tired faces, hidden behind a facade of foolhardiness; I see the pictures of topless women scatter on the ground (which, I admit, my observing did not help my parents' opinion that I am a lesbian), and all I can think is that I want to go home and lie down and drown my sorrows in Glee.

Maybe this makes me a depressing person, stealing the poetry out of something beautiful because it has a scum-studded underbelly which most others choose to ignore. Maybe I should ignore the sirens, and the flashing-lights police cars I see every day. Maybe I should ignore the homeless men begging for change while scantily-clad women beckon to earn their keep. Or maybe I need to go back down to the pool, put in my iPod headphones, and tan while all hell breaks loose. It's called Sin City for a reason. It's not because you have the opportunity to go out and be sinful; it's because sin throws itself at you and shoves itself down your throat, leaving you wondering where the lost naivete went.

So you know what? Forget Las Vegas. Viva Los Angeles! Viva New York! Viva San Francisco and Memphis and Seattle! Viva la Vida! Anything but another day of watching humanity's inevitable descent in a nutshell, please.

We Be Road Trippin'

A couple of times a year, my brother, parents and I pile into my mom's PathFinder, and we set off on an 8 hour journey from our home in the Bay Area to my grandparent's home in Henderson, just shy of Sin City. In previous years, it's been the bane of my existence, being crammed in the backseat with my hyper younger brother, with my parents singing along to the Mamma Mia! soundtrack (yes, it is genetic) and taking pit stops in run-down little rest areas in the middle of the desert.

But over the years, I've come to appreciate it more. Even though the sounds of I-5 make it too loud to have a decent conversation, I've found that if I lean forward a tad I can hear my parents talking to each other as they do to other adults, with topics that are more interesting than what they normally bring up to me and my brother. I've found that if I lean my head just right, the bumps from the road vibrate my head from the window, and I can make my teeth chatter.

And, of course, as with all trips, there are traditions. Stopping at Wasco, in the same exact store, and eating cheap deli food while beating away the flies. My parents turning on the classic rock station and asking me who the artist is, in a somewhat successful attempt to make me more knowledgable about music. Counting the windmills as we drive by. Inhaling deeply as we pass Gilroy and its abundance of garlic.

But, this year, I made a few new traditions. About three hours in, after our early lunch, I pulled out my laptop and DJed for the next hour or so, merging from rock and pop to showtunes and Glee as time went on, eventually stowing it away for lack of battery power. I made friendship bracelets, practicing my technique. I found a comfortable position to doze off in, with my sweatshirt balled up behind my back, my head resting against the window and the seatbelt strap, one leg curled up on the seat and the other stretched on the floor as far as it will go.

Of course, even my new traditions can't change what makes these trips, well, traditional. As soon as we get in the door, we're attacked by a rabid Shi Tzu, then greeted with hugs from our grandparents. Gramma offers us strawberries and crackers and cheese, then we all sit down for spaghetti and salad and chicken and brisket and all sorts of good things. We all sit contentedly for a while after dinner, chatting, and then we go watch TV, or go on the computer, and relax. In the morning, there are fresh bagels with cream cheese and lox, and Gramma's french toast casserole, and then we all get ready to go swimming.

This is my Las Vegas.

Dihydrogen Monoxide is Going to Kill Us All

Ah, Easter. The holiday on which Jesus' supposed ascension becomes a day about eating chocolate and giant, pedophilic bunnies. The day on which I must get up at 8:50 on a weekend, wear a monkey suit, and go to church, where all of the people too busy to be "Good Christians" every other day of the year show up in hopes of redeeming themselves somewhat. But, despite my somewhat dry view of it, it's not all that bad. My family went out to a brunch buffet, where I had delicious Eggs Benedict and Cheese Blintzes, among other things, and then returned home, where I discarded my dress and heels in favor of pajamas.

But then, after laying in bed near-comatose for a few hours on my laptop, I realized only after seeing it on Facebook(ignore the large window four feet from my back) that it was raining outside. So, I did what any normal teenager would do: I threw on a sweatshirt and jeans, and went for a walk. Yes, I walk barefoot in the rain. No, I'm not trying to get pneumonia and die.

I don't see why people dislike the rain. The sky may become a somewhat dismal white, and dull the other colors, but they're not dulled, you just have to look a little closer. Everything looks fresher, cleaner, and it's quieter out. If one had seen me walking, I might have looked rather sad, trudging in the rain barefoot, but in reality, I was content and lost in thought. Just watching the cars go by brought to mind multiple questions: Who are they? Why are they driving alone, in the rain, on Easter? Do they not celebrate? Do they have nobody to celebrate with? Are they going somewhere? What's their story? People tend to disregard so easily the fact that other cars are not, in fact, mindless entities intent on making their own driving experience worse, but are people with lives and pets and dreams in a vehicle.

Besides my rambling musings, however, I also discovered an interesting new pasttime. If you have not yet observed a snail actually moving, you should. They just inch along, slowly, but they're moving, and it's strange to see such a small creature attempting to cross a gap that would take a human but one stride to traverse. In addition, I managed to rescue three big snails, a baby snail, and a teeny tiny infant snail (or so it appeared) and put them under some leaves, so as not to get pelted with the rain.

I also realized today, as I was walking out the door to church, that in many ways, I have changed since I was a child, some for the better, some for the worse. I still am not fond of going to church, but now instead of throwing tantrums, I go and sit quietly, replaying stories in my head and zoning out for an hour. On Easters past, I would not have hesitated to throw on a parka over my dress if it was windy and cold. Today, I pulled my little sweater tighter around my shoulders and told my mom that it was making the choice between looking nice and being comfortable, a choice she'd told me to choose the former for many, many times.

Now, in not-quite-so-eloquent news, Club n Grub is this week! For you poor, sad souls who don't know what Club n Grub is, it is only the biggest assortment of delicious, inexpensive food that our school gets all year, and I will enjoy it greatly. Porque comida es bien.

Commute

I've come to realize many things over the course of freshman year. One is to look out for Louise, the ninja security guard; another, to avoid Barbecue Days in the quad. However, one of my greatest lessons thus far is perhaps the etiquette of bus commute.

Ah, yes, the public bus. The giant box on wheels that children everywhere dread, and that adults claim "builds character". I sit squarely in the middle, the naive, confused little elementary schooler stuck in a teenager's body, an individual with the need to be places and without the means to get there, stuck purchasing a bus pass on a Tuesday night in order to ensure another month of hassle-free, at least moneywise, bus commuting.

The etiquette of this mammoth public transport vehicle is strange, at best. In the mornings, backpacks sit squarely on the few empty seats available, giving the clear message that companions are unwelcome. A few older people are sprinkled around, grouped together or on their own. Any seats by said older people are also unavailable. Being so blessed as to be on one of the last stops before a clear shot to school, I am often left standing, clutching onto the metal poles for dear life so as to stop myself from shooting through the windshield. Of course, even standing up has its etiquette: if there is room to do so, keep at least a foot between yourself and other standing passengers. Do not, under any circumstances, have any bodily contact whatsoever with anyone. Stepping on shoes is a crime punishable by death.

However, the afternoon commute is a different matter entirely. There is no civility; seniors are crushed amongst freshmen in order to obtain a coveted seat for their ride home. Girls and boys are equal, and elbows tend to come in handy. The unlucky souls who are left seatless are crammed together, and getting to the door is an unfortunate task for those like myself, who get off at one of the earliest stops.

God, I wish I could drive.

But, despite my complaining, the bus does represent more than the irritation that plagues my mornings. It's a safe haven from the rain, cold, and wind. It's abandoning my friends, and being abandoned. It's leaving an upset, vulnerable friend on the bus, because it's my stop. It's a meeting place in the early morning, and a brief resting place on the way home. It's a little battle every day. It's freedom upon escaping, and sadness upon departure. Watching the bus leave me behind is just another symbol for the fleeting days of freshmanhood, of childhood, for my departing comrades, hopes, and notions.

In the end, it just means that things will be different, and things will be the same. Next year, there will be new people on that bus, and many of the veterans will be gone.

But next year, I'll still get off and walk by my old middle school, smiling faintly at the little blue uniforms running the track. I'll crunch the leaves from the expansive hedge, and trace a finger along the calla lillies on the corner. I'll press the button, wait for the walk sign, and walk across, cautious of the traffic. I'll walk down the street, looking up at the sky and remembering when I used to spend my time praying that he would like me back. I'll remember dropping my keys before opening the door to the worst news of my life. I'll remember my childhood. I'll open the door and sleep, or go babysit, or do homework.

I'll laugh at the irony that my parents are suspicious when I eat no dinner, yet I walked around with cuts on my arms and dark circles under my eyes and no one noticed.

And I'll go on living.

Little girl, little girl why are you crying?
Inside your restless soul your heart is dying
Little one, little one your soul is purging
Of love and razor blades your blood is surging

Stargazing

I walk down the suburban street, familiar even in the shadows, with moonlight mixed with streetlight dappled over the sidewalk. It is silent; the nocturnal creatures keep quiet, and the creatures that are so loud and violent during the day hide within their picket-fence burrows.

It is a sudden urge, a whim. I act on it. I look right, I look left, and I step into the street. I sprawl out in the center of the road, the hard concrete soft against my tired back. I look straight up. The sky is a deep navy, sprinkled with bright pinpricks of light, oblivious to the troubles that they are sovereign over.

It is a calming sight in a desperate time. My life is insignificant. I am just another collection of muscles and bones wrapped in skin, and despite the problems that present themselves, the stars will still be blazing, careless and free. They live peacefully, and die without being burdens.

Perhaps, when push comes to shove, the world is in a bad way, we can remedy our hearts' pain by simply laying back and gazing at the stars.

Musical Mayhem

Today, I inadvertently discovered that there are some songs that you literally cannot keep yourself from moving to. Green Day's ¡Viva la Gloria! being one of them (actually, this applies to basically everything in their repertoire, but I digress).This led me to analyze my iPod in search of more dance-worthy songs, but being easily distracted, I found myself musing amusedly (oh boy...) over how people would react to my taste in music. I'll put this out here right now: I was raised on punk, classic, and alternative rock. I was listening to Green Day, U2, and Bruce Springsteen in the car on my way to preschool. It often surprises people that the preppy, babysitter-tutor-good-grades-kid has willingly rocked out at a Green Day concert, to which I reply with nothing, other than humming Good Riddance under my breath.

My obsession with showtunes began to flourish around the 5th grade, after seeing Wicked for the first time. was never aware of how well ensembles could work together, or how so many voices could create such complex pieces, and was instantly taken. Mamma Mia! joined soon after, along with Phantom of the Opera, and, most recently, RENT.

However, what many may not know is that around the seventh grade, on a whim, I decided that I wanted to try something new. Pop was out, as well as techno; I looked upon rap and hip hop with disdain. And so, I entered with apprehension born of public opinion, the world of country music. And, shockingly enough, I enjoyed it. People assume that it's all old men with cowboy hats yodelling about drinking to a fiddle; to some extent, they're right. However, people tend to overlook artists such as Martina McBride and Rascall Flatts, who did Life is a Highway for the Cars movie.

Of course, these are only the three main genres; there is an eclectic dusting of pop, folk, electronica, and even rap residing in my iPod. I wonder endlessly about what other people listen to: Would they like this? Would this be on their iPod? After all, music tells a lot about a person.

It's Been a Long Day

The rain gives everything a cleansed, albeit somewhat dreary look with the huge clouds and the tall trees contrasting against the gray sky. It provides an interesting medium for photography, everything at its freshest and cleanest.

I always walk by my old middle school on the way home, but I've always viewed it as the place that a year ago, was home to my laughter and tears, with fondness and bitterness remaining, but nothing more; perhaps a smile at watching the sixth-graders run around the track, or a laugh as they run from the evil pigeons.

Today, it was empty, lunch hour long gone, and the rain keeping the kids mostly safe and dry inside the gym, damage by basketball not included. It was by no means beautiful; beneath everything, it was still just one more public school education. But, it did have a glamour to it: the frayed basketball nets, the slippery blacktop, the naked tree in the middle of the stark green grass, puddles of water lingering in wavering rivers on the edge of the track.

I managed to get a few good shots, all the while inwardly cursing about my lack of a good camera, and, more importantly, photography know-how. I took a few pictures on my way home, to put in one of my compilations, and upon returning home, promptly fell into bed, fast asleep.

It's been a long day.

Insomnia

Late nights
Insomnia
Dark circles
Empty rooms
Muted silence
Solitary lights
Unhealthy glow
No purpose
Wandering thoughts
Untouched blankets
Tempting bed
Tired eyes
Lonely nights
Good night.

RENT

Alright, I'm just going to start off tonight's blog by saying this: My life is complete.

Today, around 10 am, my best friend came to my house, and about 20 minutes later, we set off for Sacramento. About 2 hours later, we pulled up, went for lunch, and went to the theatre to see RENT, with two of the Original Broadway Cast members, Adam Pascal as Roger Davis and Anthony Rapp as Mark Cohen. It was my first time seeing it, although I've watched the movie many times.

It was nothing short of spectacular.

The costumes, the set, the staging, it was drama heaven... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

First of all, it was considerably different than the movie, but in a great way. Extra songs, less dialogue, more narration, less scenery, it all fit together to build the perfect NYC onstage. The language and such was raunchier than the movie, but again, it all worked.

The cast: fantastic. Having only ever seen the movie cast, with the OBC, Rosario Dawson, and Tracie Thoms, I was pleasantly surprised. Justin Johnston made a fabulous Angel, and Lexi Lawson was a gorgeous Mimi. I was a bit shocked by how Benny was acted, portrayed as more of a bad guy than in the film, but a great singer nonetheless. Maureen was superb, and I thought that the portrayals of the "extras" were hilarious. (Honest living, honest living, honest living) The cast interacted so well together, and had I not known better I would have thought they had been acting together for years.

The extra songs, including "Voicemails #1-5", "Tune-ups #1-3", and "Contact" filled in the story wonderfully. The voicemails were funny and short, and the tune-ups were vital information, while still interesting and to the point. "Christmas Bells" and "New Year" were funny and sad at the same time. "Contact", however, was like a grotesque nightmare scene, terrifying and fascinating at the same time, a collision of the need for touch and contact, and the terror of death.

While my favorite changes every week, I'm going to have to say that for now, it's probably the reprise of "I'll Cover You". The sorrow of a love ballad turned mourning song was overwhelming, and the final, haunting note layered over the final chant of "seasons of love" was beautiful.

Of course, while the show itself was absolutely phenomenal, afterwards, my friend and I raced to the stage door. I got a poster and a t-shirt, and we managed to get autographs from:

Roger(!!!!!!!! He almost never comes out, so I was ecstatic)
Angel
Mimi
Maureen
Joanne
Many of the random Bohemians

And, just as I was losing hope... out came Anthony Rapp. I saw Anthony Rapp. I was less than a foot away from Anthony Rapp. The Anthony Rapp. I nearly hyperventilated when I got his autograph. Understand, I have a thing for him, of fangirl proportions, although I do respect the fact that he has a boyfriend. But still, that man is... wow. *squeal* He is so cute in person, oh my god...

I apologize for that. But, I also saw who I'm 90% sure was Johnathan Larson's dad, which was pretty damn cool.

The point is, I can't say more good things about this show. It's a true shame that today was the last day of this tour, and that the two leads are probably not going to reprise their roles again. Considering this came out a couple of weeks after my birth, I consider today the end of an era. The end of seeing Adam Pascall and Anthony Rapp belting out "What You Own" together, or watching the Mark dance wildly like a dork, or tango with Joanne, or watch the Roger sing his love to Mimi.

But, it couldn't stay the same forever. So, to every other RENThead out there, viva la vie boheme.

Because there's no day but today, right?