tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70764824373758909702024-03-12T16:20:33.872-07:00Spouts, Spiels, and Assorted MiscellaneaAnd you thought you were weirdAlessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-56970009071705291052011-01-01T02:10:00.000-08:002011-01-01T16:58:19.236-08:00FutureFuture is fearless<br />
But I am not<br />
And still it comes.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-60211470132860508432010-12-30T23:22:00.000-08:002011-01-01T16:58:45.156-08:00Lonelinium(<em>Note - I wrote this from the point of view of an imaginary element located somewhere in the 8s orbital on the periodic table.)</em><br />
<br />
I am an unstable isotope<br />
I lose parts of myself for no reason at all. <br />
Sometimes, I lose so much of myself that all of me that has been cast off becomes me again<br />
A smaller me<br />
A hidden me.<br />
<br />
I long for a nuclear fusion<br />
To bond so deeply with another that we are no longer he and me but us<br />
One entity that is bigger and stronger than all of our nucleons combined.<br />
<br />
It is not meant to be, for he is stable and stronger than all of the rest<br />
An iron diamond amongst the bits of broken graphite scattered atop the lab notebook. <br />
I break apart the moment there is pressure. <br />
<br />
We are not meant to be.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-26733018906182220222010-12-28T16:16:00.000-08:002011-01-01T16:58:57.507-08:00In the DarkThe world is scarier in the dark<br />
There could be evil demons lurking in the bushes that surround the school<br />
Eerie and empty after hours but for the possibility of holding a sea of monsters <br />
Streetlights illuminate patches of ground <br />
Waiting quietly for a shadow to steal out of the blackness and into your dreams <br />
And every crackle under your feet could alert the creatures of the night that you are there <br />
Just waiting to be found <br />
Alone <br />
In the dark.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-11083407006701696972010-12-22T22:54:00.001-08:002011-01-01T16:59:08.538-08:00Falling ApartWe humans are unstable<br />
We're all falling apart in one way or another<br />
Because we're only made of flesh and blood<br />
And the likes of tendons and ligaments cannot hold together<br />
A body, mind, soul, hopes, dreams, wishes, fears<br />
And the moment we let go<br />
To try something new<br />
To help someone put themselves back together<br />
We fall apartAlessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-42959650085789858502010-12-19T13:00:00.001-08:002010-12-19T13:00:36.149-08:00I too live for flowsWalking 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Playing Twister, laughing and joking and having fun, innocence, playing for hours, falling over, laughing. Walking in the pouring rain, content, satisfaction and tiredness.<br />
<br />
Pure, simple flows of happiness and sadness and love create memories. Memories and peace.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-47826951031177806662010-12-16T19:59:00.000-08:002010-12-16T19:59:36.744-08:00Happy Holidays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKTQt1qhDr0zeO-cr8h2xKcwbYM4s2jHzatIfDvFqFsMSOGyHlkAlfv6G08ME7xsPtPP0hlX12vbbF7GgC-PC8H1tM750AaVkiZq1Oc3_75eoTU912fRVynA_iY2CkdicB81eL8fhAj4/s1600/DAD2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKTQt1qhDr0zeO-cr8h2xKcwbYM4s2jHzatIfDvFqFsMSOGyHlkAlfv6G08ME7xsPtPP0hlX12vbbF7GgC-PC8H1tM750AaVkiZq1Oc3_75eoTU912fRVynA_iY2CkdicB81eL8fhAj4/s320/DAD2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0WF4yPHo0prx5bOX2BrFIMuMqwzCiy3AS1VhE8b-Nl8ah_ABkyIVp4Oxi7yfyT9HEY2qSutXP8JHIDjl3h2wBwpLergWoqbQmj9Ax1KA-SCt3zg4wLsA74hqJ7yY_uAWu-Mt_1ZTVe0/s1600/DAD1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0WF4yPHo0prx5bOX2BrFIMuMqwzCiy3AS1VhE8b-Nl8ah_ABkyIVp4Oxi7yfyT9HEY2qSutXP8JHIDjl3h2wBwpLergWoqbQmj9Ax1KA-SCt3zg4wLsA74hqJ7yY_uAWu-Mt_1ZTVe0/s320/DAD1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">My dad just got these in the mail. The note reads:</div><br />
<em>Lane [my father],</em><br />
<br />
<em>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.</em><br />
<br />
<em>With love, Mom</em><br />
<br />
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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-58568032097173850772010-12-15T18:06:00.001-08:002010-12-15T18:07:57.847-08:00Growing UpIt'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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
What am I?Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-61779751825140197252010-10-27T19:13:00.000-07:002010-10-27T19:13:47.034-07:00BruschettaUnless 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Can it be?" I ask myself. <br />
<br />
"Dinner!" my mother calls.<br />
<br />
I sprint downstairs and bank a hard left into the kitchen. "Mom, did you make-" <br />
<br />
I see it. <br />
<br />
I swoop in for the kill.<br />
<br />
I enjoy.<br />
<br />
(And by the way, it's pronounced "bru-sket-ta".)Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-78675734125977401732010-10-02T11:34:00.000-07:002010-10-02T11:34:33.160-07:00SilenceI'm sitting there in the car and the voices won't stop and I turn the music up because it drowns them out some<br />
He tells me to turn it down in the way that makes me hate him so much<br />
Of course I can't<br />
But I do<br />
And they won't stop and I turn it up and they won't stop and I turn it up<br />
Ignoring, trying to ignore<br />
Failing like I always do<br />
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<br />
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<br />
(I guess some things never change)<br />
And it just won't stop<br />
And the music stops and I can't take the noise<br />
And it's all noise, good noise and bad noise and god I just want<br />
Silence.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-68417094382087782152010-09-05T00:42:00.000-07:002010-09-05T00:44:24.078-07:00Live From the TrunkI'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."<br />
<br />
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.) <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
<em>Dear blog,</em><br />
<br />
<em>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.</em><br />
<br />
<em>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!</em><br />
<br />
(I apologize for any brain cells lost in the process of reading the above.)<br />
<br />
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)<br />
<br />
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! <br />
<br />
<strong>Spouts, Spiels, and Assorted Miscellanea - Live From the Trunk!</strong><br />
<br />
Without poking my head out from the trunk, I asked, "Mom, can I use your iPhone?" <br />
<br />
From the backseat came a brief, "No."<br />
<br />
And so I tried again. "Please?"<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
I bided my time. I waited. I fogged up the back windshield with my breath and wrote messages to other drivers.<br />
<br />
"Please?"<br />
<br />
"No!"<br />
<br />
And so died my gimmick.<br />
<br />
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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-80962514029345817872010-08-25T16:28:00.000-07:002010-08-25T16:31:01.611-07:00Rest in PeaceThree 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Social Life is survived by his wife and two children, Journalism and Gay-Straight Alliance. He will be sorely missed.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-1941155261453688322010-08-22T16:03:00.000-07:002010-08-22T16:03:17.823-07:00Death 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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-31931397853012798692010-08-20T01:44:00.001-07:002011-01-01T16:59:41.430-08:00ComeuppanceIf there is any such thing as comeuppance<br />
One day I'll get my I-told-you-so<br />
You'll have ignored me time and time again<br />
And it will finally catch up to you<br />
They'll have left you<br />
He'll have left you<br />
(Whoever "he" is)<br />
I'll still be right here<br />
Doing what I always do<br />
Taking out the trash<br />
Sweeping up the debris<br />
And cleaning up the devastation in your wake<br />
And I'll stand there<br />
Amongst the burnt out cigarette butts and broken dreams<br />
And I'll let it rip<br />
What's been due to me all these years<br />
I'll say it across the empty junkyard<br />
(Your rats of friends will have long since disappeared.)<br />
And you'll look up at me with tears in your eyes<br />
"Do you need me?"<br />
And you'll come running<br />
And I'll still be right there<br />
And I'll whisper it to myself at night<br />
Rolling it around on my tongue<br />
Letting it ghost past my lips<br />
"I told you so."Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-76992329540379168822010-08-04T16:56:00.000-07:002010-08-04T16:56:33.616-07:00The H8 Has EndedWell, 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!" <br />
<br />
"What?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Prop 8 has been overturned!"<br />
<br />
At which point I let out a hearty "Fuck yeah!" and smacked my head on the top of the tunnel.<br />
<br />
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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-29782423365570224192010-07-30T17:46:00.003-07:002010-07-30T19:57:49.234-07:00HistoryThere'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."<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And here I was thinking history was boring.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-13789010933739127402010-07-29T16:02:00.000-07:002010-07-29T16:02:37.614-07:00Boys vs. GirlsAlthough 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-72031326405769265342010-07-21T07:46:00.000-07:002010-07-21T07:48:12.809-07:00The Joys of BoredomI'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.<br />
<br />
I was completely right.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Long story short? I've been having fun.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-50857545936253232692010-07-18T14:00:00.000-07:002010-07-23T19:45:45.760-07:00This Means WarWhile 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. <br />
<br />
In a way, it's my fault for:<br />
<br />
a. Attempting to use anything pertaining to technology without my Dad next to me, ready with a fire extinguisher and his laptop.<br />
<br />
b. Relying so heavily on technology.<br />
<br />
Even so, if Apple were a person, I would be bitch-slapping them until their earbuds fell out.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-42527111061160444622010-07-01T20:07:00.000-07:002011-01-01T16:59:57.620-08:00UnicornsDepressing blogs suck<br />
So instead I'll write about<br />
Rainbow unicorns.<br />
<br />
Rainbow unicorns<br />
Are extremely colorful<br />
And each have a horn.<br />
<br />
They can grant wishes<br />
And frolic through green meadows<br />
And tap-dance on stilts.<br />
<br />
Well, they can't tap-dance<br />
But they bring light to the world<br />
With their shiny horns.<br />
<br />
Their horns are pretty<br />
Pretty freaking sharp, that is<br />
They slice men in two.<br />
<br />
Evil unicorns<br />
Murderous and rampaging<br />
Blood and gore and guts<br />
<br />
Run away, children!<br />
Before they kill and eat you<br />
Slow, merciless deaths<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
I apologize<br />
For destroying your childhood<br />
Beware unicorns.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-36130609314093943222010-06-27T19:21:00.000-07:002010-06-28T02:13:00.632-07:00Camping for CancerYesterday, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-17995114665261777922010-06-23T23:55:00.000-07:002010-06-24T00:21:14.867-07:00Blue is the Color of AwesomeSo, 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.<br /><br />In other news, I think that has been my worst introduction ever.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-70410887743399161852010-06-13T22:44:00.000-07:002010-06-13T23:02:19.180-07:00Summer NightsThere'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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-39086584683137224512010-06-12T23:20:00.000-07:002010-06-12T23:36:11.209-07:00FamilyStanding 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-29376307592613338202010-06-10T23:26:00.000-07:002010-06-11T00:00:08.884-07:00Forever a FreshmanI 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />In fact, it's only the beginning.Alessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7076482437375890970.post-63641821116987781572010-06-06T14:04:00.001-07:002011-01-01T17:00:14.396-08:00BackwardsSplatter on the ground<br />
Hurl yourself out the window<br />
And live life backwardsAlessandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17079801371900623629noreply@blogger.com1