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.