This may seem a bit corny, but I really don't care. This is a fresh page. You know that delicious scent that a new leather journal has as soon as you open to the middle and thrust your nose in so you can fully drink in the opportunity to make some wrinkly pages? Well, this may not be encased in all five senses, but I hope I can fully relate the nakedness of my sentiments as I can on paper that hides beneath my bed. As of now, there is no point, no telos to this blog other than to rid my soul of the worries that cling to it so parasitically. I must admit that I am a bit selfish to want to toss my nuisances into the outer reaches of interblag! But I hope that I will not destroy too many lives or desires.
Let me rid this page of some white space by being self-deprecating and egotistical at the same time. I deserve nothing. I have been spoon fed everything from the very moment of my birth. I never even talked until I was three when I was given speech therapy because my family could read my thoughts and got me everything I had a vague inclination of wanting. I have never had a real job or any moment when I truly had to worry about where my next meal would come from. I have never had to overexert myself in any classes or teams. Other than some horrible disability at obeying social norms, everything is relatively easy as long as I have had enough sleep.
As a college freshman, however, I do not get enough sleep. Who can say no to a tea party until three o'clock in the morning to write papers and take the occasional break watching the censored count from sesame street? Or procrastinating the writing of said paper in order to investigate who is trying to kill you in the Assassins game by interrogating the entire boys dormitory next door.
So, time management is not one of my strengths.
Nor is tact.
I managed to make numerous bad puns at a visitation service for my best friends' grandmother (the friends are triplets).
"Let's get out of here, it's too hot with so many bodies."
"Where should I put my purse?"
"Anywhere! As long as you don't put it in the casket. Granny might run away with it."
"Why did they put so much make-up on her?"
"At least they didn't load on the fake eyelashes and bimbo lipstick. It would be a pity to be called a slut among such a crowd."
And these are not funny! It is just my horrible way with dealing with death. I can't cry at serious things. I just laugh and belittle the sincere mourning and grief of others. I only cry when I haven't had enough sleep or I make some silly error like forgetting to turn on the grill.
I like to diagnose myself with silly psychoses. I have always wanted to get psychotherapy. Lying down on a couch and telling some old man with a funny beard all of my problems sounds like heaven. Perhaps I just like to rant and talk. There's probably nothing wrong with me, but I have always hoped that I am special in a special way.
I even wanted braces. But my teeth were too perfect. I know I would have hated them if I ever had to wear them, but there was always a slight twinge of jealousy of my friends that got to change the color of their teeth from green to a beautiful iridescent pink. It was a whole new way to change your look!
I also wanted glasses. Then, I read Harry Potter in the dark with a flashlight every night in fourth grade until two in the morning. I got my glasses eventually. Then I lost them every day in seventh grade from total embarrassment. I would carry them in a case on top of all my books and only put them on when I had to for class. I could never recognize anyone's face, so I kept my head down to save any embarrassment of snubbing the few friends I had. I always managed to drop them amongst the sea of scary faceless tweenagers, so every day, I would go the office and ask for my glasses which had always managed to be found. Dang it. I could never lose those things. They're still in my bathroom drawer.
Middle school was one of those places that make hell seem like a pleasant visit.
Our cafeteria had three levels. The top level was for the popular kids, the middle for the cliquish kids who had managed to find a close group of friends, and the bottom level was for the nerds, geeks, emos, and the kids that just didn't care about the social pyramid. I spent most of my time on the bottom level. We had a close group we called the Triangle. I would go to the library (which conveniently was also a shortcut that bypassed the lunch crowd) on the way to lunch each day and pick up a new book. I won't pretend to be awesome. It was mainly Redwall, Tamora Pierce, and some The Cat Who . . . sniffed glue or something like that. We would read our books while we ate. We donated our leftover dimes towards a community pot where we could collect our change and buy something exciting like a honey bun and share it. The Triangle was a sophisticated politea. In 8th grade when Jessica Simpson's cousin moved away and I occupied her vacant chair on the middle level for a month. Man, that was true power hunger.
Enough about middle school.
If you have managed to read thus far in the post, I am quite impressed and slightly confused by your disturbing persistence. I am making no coherent argument, nor am I typing with any form in mind.
Hmm, I guess everything has a form, even if it is free form. I am following most rules of grammar and sentence structure. Okay, so it is not the greatest, but at least it is not Stephanie Meyers. Sorry Twilight fans. She has no concept of the subjunctive tense. Tell me if I forgot to use it, but I am not a published writer! Please, woman, have some standards for the tweenager to live up to!
Ooh, this is fun. We can have a stereotypical rant about Twilight. Somehow, this does fit into my autobiographical narrative.
I have a confession. I went through a Twilight phase. My cousin had a friend who made thousands of dollars off of her Twilight fan site. Thus, he became a fan. And he lent me the first two books which I devoured in two nights. As a sixteen year old thirsty for emotional fulfillment, it is easy to fall into the ploy of the madlib that the characterless Bella was. Or perhaps as a stupid sixteen year old that had never been kissed. I heard someone describe Twilight as emotional porn. And that's exactly what it is. Middle aged men who have never gotten any watch real porn, while sappy tweenage/teenage girls who have never had a real boyfriend read Twilight. It's a filler that replaces something missing in their life. Later that year, I got a boyfriend who turned out to be nothing like Edward Cullen and I broke up with him after three months. I still nursed a soft spot for Twilight and idealistic vampires until I reread the books in a different light. Freed from the constraints of immature emotional needs, I saw how silly I was to fall under the spell of such a shoddily constructed novel preaching abstinence and meaninglessness without boys. Argh. That's a really low blow, Stephanie Meyer. Teaching young girls to need emotionally messed up boys and yet never to have sex with them. Nasty. Low. Blow.
Then I saw the movie, laughed my head off, and put it all in the past. Through my stupidity I have grown stronger.
Where does this put us in the autobiographical narrative? Oh yeah, senioritis in high school. I finally did not care about societal norms, boys, or fashion sense anymore. I began to rock the summer dresses, argyle socks, and poofy hair while all the girls around me wore jeans, school shirts, and blonde, straightened hair. I even began to eat lunch outside and do a bit of lightsaber fighting and hackey sacking. I ruled the UIL Academic tournaments and thoroughly enjoyed my AP classes. Senior year was not too bad.
My strange nerd persona has done fairly well in college so far. At least, as long as I stay in the honors college and music school circles. More honors. I think I freak out the music school kids every so often with my really bad jokes and sorely lacking knowledge of classical musicians.
But hey, images aren't supposed to matter that much, are they?
But they do. We watched High Fidelity last night. John Cusak's character Rob Gourdon expounded upon how it doesn't matter what you're like, but what you like. I came into college liking xkcd, the ocarina of time, and Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-Long Blog. I can make conversation fairly easily in the guys' honors dorm. I'm practically male in my taste in nerdiness with my two brothers' upbringing. Thank you, brothers. You may not have prepared me for middle school, but college I can handle.
I guess you're fairly brought up to speed on my life thus far. In late entries, I'll try to stick to more form and deeper ideas. But that's my life (social and intellectual) in a nutshell...er...blog entry...
Peace out!
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