I'm... published?

A long while ago, there was an add on craigslist about submitting poetry for a contest to get it published in an anthology book.
My poem was one of a hundred accepted to be published.
Now the book's out, Names in a Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 Contemporary American Poets, by Hood Press Books.

Obviously, I'm thrilled to be published - I just wish I could remember what poem I submitted.

THe Way it Is

I guess everyone has something horrible in their life they have to deal with... and the thought that at least I have a home to go back to, a family that loves me and that I love, and probably the greatest group of friends in the world should be enough to get me through an 8 hour day of hell.

In fact, it is not.


No job should ever make you feel like you're in high school again - constantly checking behind you to see who's there, afraid to even start a conversation with someone because you're afraid they'll make fun of you, and not wanting to respond to your name because if you do, you're sure to be mocked.

These intimidation tactics cause me to have a nervous breakdown when I was 16. Now I find myself facing a situation fairly similar to this, with it's own unique twist, at work.

This time, instead of my peers (co-workers) causing me to wake up and go through the day full of nerves and dread, it's my boss. So I can't just ignore her when she calls me name, can't NOT talk to her because she's so combative when she speaks it puts me on the defensive.

I thought the days of wanting to sleep all day and ignore life and not wanting to get up in te morning because I have to go somewhere (As opposed to not wanting to get in the morning because I like sleeping) were over in 2002.

But I'm trapped. I need this job, and until I find a new one, I'm stuck. Stuck being afraid that what I'm wearing isn't "good enough" and that I'll have to go out and buy new clothes then and there. Afraid that I did something wrong I didn't even know I did wrong, because nobody told me it was wrong. Afraid that, as is my nature, something slipped my mind and I have no other way to explain it than "I forgot" which will make her call me "stupid" in a very backhanded way. Afraid I'll look at her the wrong way, afraid I'll say the wrong thing when I'm not supposed to be talking, afraid of not saying anything when I should be talking.

And all this boils down to is quitting. Quitting before I'm fired. Because I don't like going to work everyday and having her imply that that day may be my last day. I'll quit first, because no one should have to put up with her, and quitting means that I am in control, not her.

SO even now, looking through ads and applying and hoping to God I get something, I'm just planning the monologue I'll have when I tell her off. It has to have a good pace and make sense - it can't just jump around, it has to flow naturally, and while being a good piece of writing, has to be full of the righteous fury everyone who has ever worked under her, and everyone who does work under her, and everyone who ever will work under her, feels. This isn't going to be just an "I can't take you anymore" quitting, this is going to be a standing up for my own dignity and the dignity of everyone else she ever spat on quitting. This will be a day that isn't celebrated in anyway, except by me, but it will be a day quietly whispered about by those who were there.
Someone will say "Good for you" - though I'm sure this will put her in a sour mood and she'll take it out on the other employees... still - I imagine that everyone who feels that blow will remember that a 23 year old girl put her in her place, if even for a minute.

When did that happen?

I wake up, go to work, come ome, watch a few hours of tv, go to sleep. Sometimes I take a bath before I go to sleep, sometimes it's a shower in the morning. When did I start living someone elses life?
Sometimes I get to write, sometimes I don't, and every day I'm reminded of how important it is that I finish a novel, and get it published.
There's nothing wrong with this life of course. It's just not right for me. I can't imagine doing this day in and day out for a year, let alone 15 or 20.
Still, I have a goal. I want to go back to school. I want to move to Maine. I'm only here as a means to an end. I know that. Yet I have to keep on reminding myself that this is only temporary, this is only a way to get me to my dreams.

Ahh... I'll get there.

Sufficiently Over-thought

work in an office. It is boring and grey. When I come home I am tired, but not annoyed, and have some time fore myself to relax and enjoy the night - watch a TV show, play a game - before going to bed and doing it all over again.
I wear clothes that are conservative and make me uncomfortable in my skin. My shoes have made my feet go all swollen.
My boss is a nice woman, when she's not being my boss. Otherwise she is demanding, towards everyone.
I file papers, re-write files, cover the reception desk.
My co-workers, mostly, are friendly people, who see us all as in the same boat.
But I am still not me while I'm there.
I cannot wear the outfits I like, or comfortable shoes. I frequently watch what I say.
I consider myself, strangely, ahead of the game.
I know that this is not going to become my life, the way people seem to let it become theirs. Sure the money is nice to have. The money makes it possible for me to cross off the epitaph "Dead beat" off my list of "Things Homer Would Identify Me As".  It lets me apply for school and maybe I will be able to move out on my own.
I rub my ring - a pewter piece I bought yesterday at a fair in front of the office. In a diamond shape seems to be a celtic knot-type of design, with a flower in the center and four corners. It's on my pinky, because I like to wear my rings on my pinky. The flowers have a yellow stone in their center. Like pollen. It's a small reminded, at work, our of the cornor of my eye, this piece of metal and glass, of who I am. I bought it because I liked it. It resonated with me.
Now I buy my clothes because they are right for an office.
When I walk home, I listen to music.
Music is my real anchor to who I am. All the songs on my iPod, shuffled continuously, reach out to a different part of my brain, my soul, what have you, that reminds me of who I am, what I've done, who my friends are, and where I want to go.
I am a geek, a child, an artist, and all these other conflicting parts that make up one person who seems to compliment only herself.
That's the way it feels sometimes.
I don't belong in an office. But that's where I am right now.
It's those constant reminders of who I really am... reading a book, singing a song, writing a story, being a hypochondriac... that remind me that life and where I am if only temporary. Where I'll be in 2 years will be temporary.
And, besides, I don't come home saying "I hate work so much"... that counts for something.

It kind of looks like a bunny... or maybe a ducky

...if you squint and turn your head sideways

I was on the ferry yesterday, going to Ars Nova to bartend. This isn't about how I got into the city and ended up being 45 minutes late (though I was still there before the audience was seated... thanks a lot train full of people who wouldn't let me off at my stop,, and retarded downtown service).
...
Memory is a funny thing - it creeps up on you when you think you've forgotten everythng, and hides in strange places, maybe it's a taste - the ghost of a flavor - that has stayed in the back of your mouth that you can't explain but long for, a smell that you can't identify, but tickles your nose and makes you close your eyes with a wsistful sigh, or a song you had forgotten about, but once it plays on the radio (you do listen to the radio right?) a hundred feelings all swell up into one feeling of "summer".
As I'm on the ferry, with children running around, and tourists hanging off the side of the railings, trying to get a good picture, I noticed the land across the way. The only reasoin I noticed it was because I remembered how the day before the fog had been so thick you couldn't even see Lady Liberty's Torch.
I don't know where the land was a part of - Jersey, Manhatten. It wasn't Staten Island, that's all I knew.
The houses on the side of the hill, close to the water, a white building, a hotel as far as I was concerned, resting a little ways off from the shore line.
It wasn't hard to imagine that hidden behind that hotel, connecting the houses, were small streets, lines with Orange trees.
A small detail I had forgotten about my trip to France several years ago.
I get lost - it's shouldn't be a surprise that someone who frequently needs someone to pull on the back of her shirt to stop her fros crossing a street because she didn't notice a car was coming - gets lost. On my trip to France, I had gotten lost three times.
One of those times had me touring the streets of the village I was in, with amazement. I had never seen orange trees. They lined the smal streets there, in a few places, and many hung ripe, begging to be eaten. I live in New York City - Staten Island, in fact, as I've mentioned. Orange trees can grow here. It's just a matter of pride that they don't. Also, I wouldn't eat an orange off a tree in New York City. They probably know that. So, I, in fact, have never seen a real orange tree, and only knew them to grow on trees as a matter of scientfice fact - the way that I know that the human head weighs 8 - 12 pounds, or that there is no oxygen in space. I've never checked these facts personally, but I'm secure in the knowlede that many grad students have.
With a minimum of fuss, I remembered the paths I used to walk every day while I was there, remembering the rooster in the morning, how weird my ham and cheese sandwich tasted because they put butter on the bread, and that in order to get my rented bike to stop properly, I had to steer it towards a wall.
I remembered that I wrote everything that I learned down into a little book, but I can't remember where that book is, nor half the things I wrote down.
So many things about France came back to me, just because if you squint and turn your head, it's not hard to imagine orange tree-lined streets in July.

Summer's Last Hurrah!

It was a really sudden final blast of summer, apparently, a few days ago. Yesterday was absolutely perfect. Today too.  There's something I love so much about waking up and feeling chilly - not cold from the air-conditioning, that's a different feeling. Chilly, and needing to wrap yourself in your quilt, and you can almost smell the dry leaves and warm dinners coming up. It's time to wear sweaters and slippers around the house.

I love this weather.

 

I printed out some applications for colleges. I'm going to apply to City Colleges and the University of Maine at Farmington. I expect to get accepted to CSI, maybe the second one I chose. Not Hunter or Farmington. But I'm working on the amdissions essay for Farmington now, and if I don't get accepted, no big deal. I'll apply again for fall 2008. I'll keep applying until I get in.

 

The truth is that I love New York City. I really do. I feel it in my blood, I hear it in my voice. I know the sidewalk dance we all do, twirling and passing each other.

But I did was up one day a year ago and said to myself that I wanted to live in Maine.

That feeling has never left. I do want to move there. At least for a little while. I want to experience a small town way of living. Where things aren't so hectic, and the air is clean, and the trees are full and bright and green and are actual forests that go on forever, not city mandated plots of land with trees that are dying and sickly.

Warm springs, hot summers, cool autumns, and cold winters.

I want real snow.

I want to be somewhere different.

 

So, I do need to finish school - so why not go to Maine for school. I searched for universities in Maine, and found Farmington - it has both a creative writing and theater program. No other UoM schools seemed to offer both of those courses.

And I'll figure out how to pay for it. Somehow. The thought of possibly moving far away, where I can't visit my family and friends everyday if I really wanted to, frightens me. It does. But it's time to shake things up. Wake up my life. Do something different, expand my horizons, and give a big finger to routine.

 

Yes, it's a scary notion. It's a notion I have time to get excited about. It's a thing I have to do. I can't just not do something because I'm afraid or unsure.

 

 

Also, I'm wearing my slippers, and that makes me happy. 

Varying Degrees of Awesome

Sometimes things suck - but then small things happen - I see something online, and I'm cheered up. I watch watching Sweeney Todd and a dog was barking in the background to the beat of the Ballad of Sweeney Todd. The I was looking for some Sweeney Todd videos on YouTube and came across these:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=yKA1xmew05I

and

http://youtube.com/watch?v=ujdlUNM_QqI

 

Working on a college admissions essay for the University of Maine at Farmingdale.

I REMEMBERED!

If I became the famous author I wish to be (like... Neil Gaiman famous about 5 years ago... known by a devoted crowd of people in a niche genre. I'm ok with that) and I travel around, I'm going to make sure my arrangements are efficient. If I start out in California, then I'll work my way east. Because I'd hate to do Cali one day, London the next, then go back west to Minnesota. I don't like planes. I like the places they take me. I hate planes. Maybe I'd feel differently in first class... I guess we'll see.

Sometimes I don't care about the money...

...actually, most of the times. If, as a nation, there was ever a Red Scare again, I'm certain my name would be brought up as a socialist or communist, and I'd be totally blacklisted... which is fine, since, as a socialite, I'm a failure, and the type of fame I hope to gain would involve people who used their minds and made their own decisions and didn't listen to the government regarding who they should and should not like.

So, I'm a survey rep, and I have to call people and ask them to take a survey. It's a shitty job, somewhere above telemarketer and below waitress. There's a political survey we have to do. I, however, don't want to do it anymore. It's all I can do to not shout at these Republicans I'm forced to listen to tell me that the most important problem facing America today is making anti-abortion legislation and deporting all the illegal immigrants... and drugs. Seriously. I'm not kidding. The War in Iraq? Education? Health Care? Poverty? The Environment? Nothing. Instead, they all like to go off about the illegal immigrants ruining the moral fabric of America, and blasting Mike Johannes for proposing amnesty for the illegals.

If I have to do that survey again, I will tell them to take me off it, because I really do have a hard time keeping my mouth shut, and it will get me into trouble. I mean, I'm a member of MoveOn.org and take part in all their letter writing campaigns (had I the money or the time, I'd donate to them and join their vigils, but I don't.. but I intend to). I have a Save Darfur sticker on my kitchen window. I cannot keep my mouth shut about politics, and am so not a republican that it isn't funny.  I don't say things here, but the amount of criticism I have for George W Bush (I'm not too keen, as an American, to have a President who "hears God", or someone who can't fucking use the English language correctly, or say monosyllabic words properly, never mind those huge words with two syllables)

So how can I continually conduct an unbiased interview, with a Republican, who says that George W Bush is "One of the best" presidents we've ever had!? Do they not notice we're waging a real war in a place where we're making no headway, that has nothing to do with the reason we're in the mid-east, and while we're waging actual war, we're waging a PR war, and failing miserably at trying to show the world that we're not really assholes? Our credibility as a nation has fallen sooooooo low that if an American goes overseas, one of us is suddenly responsible for the whole country. Seriously, we're asked to explain America's actions. And that was 3 years ago. I hate to know how much lower we've sunk... now what if we really do need to go to a legitimate war? How are we going to gain any support for that? All thanks to your George W.

 

...I'm hoping my refusal to do any political surveys will make them fire me. I will also refuse to do any surveys regarding medical insurance. I hate insurance companies, and don't want to help them either.

 

I'd rather not have the money thanks.

 

 

I was actually going to post something else here, but I can't remember what.... oh well. Going to Legends tongiht foto get our drink on, and karaoke. Should be massive fun.

Being a Bit Dada

I was mulling it over in the tub before, and I realized that the internet is a very Dada thing. It's really interesting how some websites and blogs that owners can put years of their blood, sweat, and tears into can suddenly one day, just vanish off the face of the web. I was imagining my future children, and what if the man I marry's last name is Web. One of my favorite names for a girl is Penelope, and my favorite livejournal account  I ever had was PenelopeWeb. Would she, one day, search whatever the current version of the internet is and find it, just by accident, looking for her name, or would it be gone? Would Livejournal even exist at that point, and what will the internet be in 15 years? 15 years ago I was 7 and the internet wasn't this huge imaginary ever wideneing place, that somehow seems to get smaller and smaller each day. The internet was Prodigy, and the mixed up make your own stories game.

I don't even think that exists now.

So in 15 years will we even have computers? What will they be like? And will Livejournal exist? Will Penelopeweb exist, and g33ksquared? Will PenelopeWeb stand strong as a chronicle of my early 20s? Or will it fade away into nothingness, forever making my past a matter of interpretation?

 

When will this all happen anyway? Gradually, I figure... but when will we start to notice the Red vs Blues, milkandcoookies, weebl-stuffs, et al., disappearing from the face of the internet?

And does that then make all that hard work and effort put into these projects that entertain people worldwide the creators may never know a Dadaist statement?

 

Fucking Dada.

Maybe...

I finally found myself a day job, I hope. Sure, it's sucky - being a survey rep, calling people and asking for their opinions. But it's a lot less scummy than telemarketing. It's also not shouting at people all day long to come see what I do. Luckily that job fell through. So, now, with a steady day job, and steady income, not the random bursts of cash from the theater job (which I love and won't give up without a fight), I think I can finally, guilt free, continue writing. Doing what I have to do until I can live off my writing. Which will happen.

I lost 5.2 pounds from Weight Watchers last week, and this week, if my scale is right, I've lost 3 already. Excited! I know it will take, like, 2 years to loose all the weight I want to lose, but slow and steady wins the race right?

geekSquared gets about 5 hits per day, which may not seem like a lot, but to me it is. It proves that, even if it's only 5 people (and when we post a new blog it's more like 20 views), people want to read what we have to say, so I'm trying to get Adj to agree that it's time to advertise and pimp ourselves out to places we like to visit. I think we can get pretty well known, Internet wise. And that would be cool. Though really, just an an exercise in writing and communication between us, it's already a success - it's a fun thing to do for us, and so, regardless of how many people see it, it's still fun and cool.

Woo-hooo

So, I joined Weight Watchers last week, since I desperately need to loose a lot of weight, and sincerely suck at doing it myself, and I lost 5.2 pounds.

Also, I have an application on my computer to update this blog, so why do I keep signing on to this site to do that?

Seriously Kvelling

I know that I am a geek extraordinaire! But sometimes the full meaning of that isn't accurately depicted.

I want tattoos. I have a design my friend drew for me that I am definitely going to get, and I want to get one from Far Side (that brilliant comic from years ago) of a baby porcupine playing with a balloon. Besides those relatively normal tattoos I want several video game and comic book related ones, such as Evil Purple Tentacle, A Rubber Chicken with a Pulley in the Middle, a smiley face with some blood on it, A Guy Fawke's Mask, and some Amano artwork, probably from The Dream Hunters, or else from his Final Fantasy collection.

Yet, there is another equally sinister side of me that works almost with my geeky side, yet also against it.  It's the side that tells me to not get tattoos because you can't pull them off in any dress that you'd have to wear at a fancy type award ceremony. Yet it also tells me to get a tattoo that completely expresses who I am, so you have the one that your friend made, why not get your friends to design a bunch for you?

This is the side that finds museums fun, Shakespeare enthralling, and the notion of people randomly breaking out into song and well-choreographed dance completely acceptable, and often wonders why that doesn't happen more in real life.

 

It is this side of me that says "Go see the Sweeney Todd movie"

It's also this side of me that smiles and squeals and squees in delight at the notion of Alan Rickman and Johnny Depp in  a duet - and trying to imagine both of them singing "Pretty Women" in harmony, and how that will sound, and gets even more excited because they are both tremendous actors and, like, my favorite.

 

It's my geeky side that says "Dude! Snape and Jack Sparrow are going to sing! Sing! SING! OOOooooohhhhhh I'm a lumber jack and I'm ok...."

Then again my brain often finds itself sidetracked.

A Meandering sort-of pondering

These past two days have been seriously annoying - the internet decided it didn't want to work, and so I spent two days out of my comfort zone. See, I'm obsessive about checking my email. I know that, on any given day, I probably won't get any important emails, but on those rare occasions that I do, I want to be there when it first arrives, so that I don't miss an important opportunity, or the person doesn't think I'm avoiding them. I reply asap.
Being away from the internet also meant I couldn't read any of my comics or catch up on the latest celebrity gossip.
My status being Sans Interwebs is the reason I watched the same episode of Brett Michaels' Rock of Love for a 4th time. That Lacey is a serious bitch, and I hope Heather has her big boobies explode. I'm rooting for Jess and Sam, but it seems like Sam wants to leave and may do so next week, which is a shame because Brett seems like someone who needs a non-partier in his life, to counter-act all the partying he does do.
What can I say? Reality TV is my dirty little secret.
Oh, and if I were in that house, Brett'd totally pick me. I'd win.
Likewise if I were in America's Next Top Model. I'd be the next Cover Girl, and America would love me.
But I don't kid myself - I'd never win Idol. I mean, I don't really watch the show, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't get past the first part where Simon's the meanest person ever.
I'd also never win Hell's Kitchen - I don't know how to par broil, and freak out when someone's yelling in my face all the time.
Though I like Hell's Kitchen a lot.
I totally knew Rock was going to win - though I was rooting for Bonnie, because she was the underdog, and a girl. I always root for the girl. Then the underdog. If it were down to Bonnie and Julia, I would have rooted for Bonnie, because Julia was such a fan favorite. I like rooting against fan favorites - except in Baseball, where I am a Yankees' fan.
I have hand written 29 pages of my fantasy story... I guess it's "urban fantasy" but I'm not sure - I think what I like about writing today is that fantasy and sci-fi have evolved so much in their own genres, and continually push the boundaries of was can be considered sci-fi and fantasy that calling a piece "fantasy" no longer means "sword and sorcery" - it can be anything out of the norm that takes a character on an adventure in a place that is not this world. While sci-fi no longer just means "distant future" or "space" it encompasses alternate realities of this world, as long as science has some major function in it. I like that. I like it when things evolve, not only in my mind, but in the minds of the people in charge - since I'll never be a "person in charge" (because I don't want to be) it's good to have them on the same page as I am.

My favoritest band ever (ok - they're not my most favorite band, but I really do love them, and are definitely up there) the Fireflies have won Emergenza - a worldwide Battle of the Bands. They WON it. This small group from SUNY Purchase (where I also attended, and also discovered them like 4 years ago) is, at this moment, the best new band in the world.
That's just awesome.

Good Days

I started my job at the theater on Thursday Night. Uneventful as it was, I can't help but say to myself "I love my job" even if the only thing I'll ever do there is usher. I can't explain it, but I guess in everythingyou do there's an intangible thing that makes you happy or miserable. It's not even the people that work there, neccessarily. Sure, I love the people that work at the theater (so far). They've all been friendly and get my sarcasm. And when I tell them that the revival of Sweeney Todd sucked horribly, they agree... of course I can't tell them "I think the Final Fantasy series has gone seriously downhill since Final Fantasy VII, though 6... or 3... whatever... was probably their best made game" - but I know the life I lead, I have a few really close friends that will understand one point, and listen - with interest, adding their own opinions if they can - to the other, but what I do, and the larger groups of people will either be one or the other.

Back to the intangibles...

...See, it's not just people. At Toys R Us I absolutely abhorred the job, which is basically the same as ushering - you deal with the public, asking them what they need, helping them whenever they want. The people there were great though - if I could work with a majority of those people again, in a different place, I totally would. They were probably one of the best group of people I've ever been around.

But there was something beyond the great co-workers and relatively easy job that made me miserable to be there.

Last night I had the opportunity to bartend a party at the theater - a private affair on the top floor. There were about 50 people there, and 3 of us working. Carrieann, Greg, and myself. And, magically, we all got along. There's just something in the air when you fall into the right place with the right people.
..

So, why am I wearing a red hoodie when it is obviosuly not hoodie weather?
Good question.

Friday I went to see Shakespeare in the Park.
It was worth all the misery the rainy day brang... like my once white pants now have a hideous water stain on them.
And it didn't warm up. It was August and I wanted my winter coat.
So, I bought myself a 40 dollar hoodie at the Delacourte, and it says Shakespeare in the Park, and it's a million times better than the blue Neet Sheet I wrapped around myself to stay warm.

A Dream Retrospective

I do think dreams are important. I think they all have a purpose and meaning. Not just simple analytical meanings - but meanings that go beyond what we know.
Dream interpretation is interesting in the way that all types of symbology (symbology should be a word if it isn't already) is interesting.
Loosing teeth - a dream one of my friends often has - apparently means a fear of being financially insecure. Though, through a psychological perspective, we can say that loosing teeth in a dream is a manifestation of hoe frustrated we feel at not being able to communicate something properly.
Strange as it may seem, for the past 3 or so years, Jesus and God have somehow managed to wheedle their way into my dreams on occasion... in as far as dream continuity goes for me, that's pretty serious.
My dreams - the ones I remember least ways - are always kind of remarkable and noteworthy. I'll write them down and say to myself "Hey, what a great thing to make a story out of". Sometimes the ream is, itself, a full story with a beginning middle and end. Though none of these featured any of the same people, and only a few of the same places (a high cliff, and a beach, surrounded by sheer cliff sides with only a way in that, if a person is stranded their at high tide, is deadly).
So, when I have a dream where some element other than location has repeated itself, I have to take notice of that dream over the one where I'm a rebel breaking into a castle to save the captive prince, only to be stabbed by a guard and barely live to tell about it.
For the past 3 years that element has been God... or Jesus.
It first started with a simple dream, where I had to protect Jesus from hell-spawn demons. He turned himself into a rabbit and, rabbit-like instincts taking over, ran away from me. I had to catch him.
3 dreams last year in rapid success included me walking with Jesus with some of the Apostles and one of them strays behind while we go to cross a bridge. The bridge is like this gateway between this really cold Siberia-esque snowy place and this golden field of like, eternal spring (or something... it was very... Elysian-y.) . Jesus goes back to the slow apostle and says "No one gets left back" or something very Jesus-like.
In another there was something about a cross.
One featured me trying to kill the false Christ.
And another featured Jesus, riding into town on his donkey, with all of the citizens (myself included) waving palm fronds like it was "Hosannah Heysannah" from Jesus Christ Super Star... except we were singing "What's the word, tell me what's a-happening"
My latest dream didn't feature either God or Jesus in a direct sense, but rather an indirect one.
It was the end of the world, and only I was saved, and I had to recreate creation.
So, I was God.
What was neat about this dream was that I went through all the things that needed to be created, but then I got to humans, and didn't know if I should make them or not - because I knew what would happen if I did. On the other hand I was really very lonely and wanted my friends with me.
---
I've thought of different ways to interpret those dreams, all having to do with my religious views and what I believe, but I wonder what else they can mean you know?
--
On the other hand, type in "A Neil-Gaiman looking Death chops off my hand" when looking for interpretations, and I get nothing. How is that even remotely fair?! In this world there are people who have regular "teeth-falling-out-of-my-mouth" dreams, and "I'm-falling" dreams, and "I'm-naked-in-school" dreams, and "I'm-taking-a-test-for-a-class-I-didn't-go-to-all-semester" dreams. I've had them too, I'm sure. These are the dreams that have websites devoted to them.
Dreams like "My-house-is-full-of-troll-dolls" and "I-talked-with-Death-who-was-actually-very-nice-and-looked-an-awful-lot-
like-Neil-Gaiman-and-he-chopped-my-hand-off" dreams, and "I-was-riding-a-dinosaur-into-Macy*s" dreams, and the "I-was-a-woman-who-lost-my-family-but-my-evil-sister-who-worships-an-
evil-sea-god-stole-my-family-and-is-teaching-them-to-serve-the-god-and-
is-making-them-live-under-sea-in-a-sunken-ship-under-a-spell-and-I-have-
to-destroy-the-god"dreams, and "Nazi-Penguin" dreams seemed to be, at best, glossed over. "You have to break down the individual elements" they'll say.
Which is utter bull-hockey, because I'm sure everyone else's mundane "I-Keep-waking-up-in-my-dream-only-to-find-myself-in-another-dream" has much more context than just "waking up", yet people feel confidant enough to interpret just the one aspect of waking up.
It's not fair I tell you.

Bleck

Spent the past couple of days sleeping because I haven't felt so good - I blame August 3rd - I ate unfamiliar sushi.
However, it was a really fun day - went to the Tibetan Buddhist Museum (which is amazing that it's on Staten Island) with Adj and Jev, had sushi (where I wanted to try something new. Dumb move), and then, after coming home around 6, later went out, down the block, at 8, to Milos' house with Jev, Natalie, Adj, and James. We played Apples to Apples and Pictionary, while listening to drunken high school students outside shout obscenities at each other.
Much fun was had.
It makes me glad to have the friends I do - we drank coffee and ate popcorn and played Pictionary and had a fantastic time without the aid of drugs or alcohol. Not that we've ever needed drugs or alcohol to get along, but there have been groups of friends in the past that, truth be told, it was boon.


In my attempt to lose weight, I've gained 5 pounds. Way to go me. *lesigh* I want to blame people, but I can only blame myself for this. I was doing really well until my father became unemployed and was home everyday - so I couldn't do the exercises I was doing daily because I'd be downstairs and would move the furniture around so there was space. I don't like going outside to exercise, because I'm insanely insecure and don't want people watching me jog or use complicated exercise machines. I prefer the sanctity that is my house, where people can't see me dance around like an ass.

My room, being on the second floor, is not a good option for exercises which involve you jumping up and down and, generally, making a raucous.

Though I did a fairly good job of maintaining my weight these past 4 months, I think that with the engagement party, wedding, and bridal shower all together in a short span of time (less than a month), whatever maintaining I was doing got shot to hell.

Still pouring

Good things continue.
On a high happy skipping-down-the-block-and-walking-in-beat-to-the-music-you're-listening-to note, that very awesome opportunity has come through.
On another cool note, a book thing I had tried to be apart of, and did a few callings and meetings about last month, which I assumed didn't happen because it has been a little over a month since I last heard from them (people looking to put together a book, and me wanting to be one of the contributing authors, so I figured they chose to skip me), seems to maybe have happened, as there is now an email in my inbox from them asking me for some things they need. I mean, in theory, they wouldn't be asking me for them if they chose not to use me. In theory.
And on a very good, very high-yet-somber note, the bridge collapse in Minnesota was a horrible, terrible, tragic thing that happened. My father right now is sitting downstairs watching any and all news about it - not that there's been any "news" about it for about 4 hours now (which is what is so infuriating about news and why I choose to not watch anything that says "breaking news" because the "Breaking news" goes on for hours after all the information possible at the moment is collected and has been reported. It's true about this bridge collapse. It was true when the steam pip exploded in the city. It was true on 9-11. It's tedious and makes me so angry and frustrated).
The good news is that my brother, who was making his move to Seattle during these past two days, was not on it, like he would have been if he had driven, as was his original intention.
Due to something about credit cards (or whatever) he couldn't get a car to drive from Muskegon, Michigan to Seattle, Washington. So he flew. If he had driven, he would have been on the bridge around the same time as the collapse.
It's things like that which make you stop and think that everything does happen for a reason, and maybe there is something, someone, out there looking out for you and yours.
Maybe it's luck, but I'd hate the idea of my family and friend's futures being decided by something as random as luck.
If psychology has taught me anything, it's that all things in the past influence all things in the future. At least, that's the strange sort of motto I've taken away from my semesters spent as a psych major.
I just refuse to believe that the events in our past are happenstance. I don't know if there is a "plan" but maybe there is - some great scheme that we are just too young a species to understand. Maybe it's a giant pattern we can't see.
I don't know.
But today I am certainly thankful.

Oh, wish me luck

So today's the day I'm meeting with David Henry Sterry to be his intern. This may very well be the most important meeting of my life, and I'm only 22. Imagine if it goes like shit?
The fact is, I am in desperate need of mentorship, writing-wise. I'm a good writer - I know I am (despite the fact that I can't read my own writing and get embarrassed when other people are reading it) - I just don't know how to say to the publishing world: "Knock Knock! Pay attention to me!" This could be my break. And I cross my fingers that it is - I need to be a writer. Nothing else I could possibly do in life would make me feel more me than being a writer.
*sigh* Yet, I'm reminding myself to be nervous. I know I am a little, but I'm not very nervous, like maybe I should be. Maybe the fact that this could be the biggest and best thing to ever happen to me should make me a bit more anxious than I am.
I've been more nervous before going on job interviews in corporate America. Of course I didn't get those jobs, but I was more nervous. I'm nervous, of course, but there's no little voice in my head telling me all the bad things that will happen if I don't get this. I don't know if that voice has just disappeared, because lately it hasn't shown up, or if I just can't conceive not getting this.

... Mayybe, Jill, you should stop over analyzing this thing before you drive yourself insane.
Good idea Jill.
I know.

Eventful Day

This is pretty abbreviated and full of me not trying to be literary at all. It's been a long day, and I mostly don't want to forget anything.
Anyway.
Today started with waking up to my alarm clock and hitting the snooze button for an hour and a half. After a shower, I checked my phone. I had a voice mail from David Henry Sterry. He is, apparently, an author of some renown. Since I rarely take a chance on new authors, I haven't heard of him until I read a craigslist add advertising a position as an intern - someone to do computer type stuff and organize. In return, he helps that person get a foot in the door in the publishing world. I immediately jumped at that opportunity - needing a foot in the door, and maybe some mentor ship with my writing, since I'm basically just winging it all.
So I wrote up a cover letter and posted my comic of 4 reasons why I'm better than the competition (see previous post).
He said in his message that that was "one of the funniest things [he has] seen in a while". Luckily he had only called 10 minutes earlier, so I called him right back, and we decided on a time and place to meet. So, I'm am very excited because even if this leads to not getting the internship, there is a chance that he could still point me in a better direction than where I'm going right now (which is, let's face it, nowhere).
He said on the phone that he wants to discuss goals with me - where I see myself in 1 year or 5 years. I don't even have to think about it. I don't know where I "See" myself, but I want to be a published author in 1 year, and hopefully, by 5 years, living by my writing. Deep down, that's all I've ever wanted.
We /could have/ met today, but I had to go to my cousin Michelle's bridal shower.
We picked up my aunt, and went to the Staaten.
The Staaten is not a cheap place. It is one of the fancy party places on Staten Island. Michelle and Nicole both had their 16th birthday's there. I got a guitar and a sushi dinner for my 16th birthday.
The food was excellent. Manicotti, then salad, then the main (I had Salmon, and it was roughly the size of a whole salmon. Neither my mother, nor myself could finish ours. I don't think anyone finished their dinner).
The gift ceremony was long and boring - but it always is, because who wants to watch someone else get gifts? I don't. I only want to see them open mine so I know I done good.
Back at my Aunt's House, the boys were playing cards, "The Old Farts and the Young Tarts" as my dad put it. All the older gentlemen did what they were used to - dealer chooses the game. They played typical, boring poker - 5 card stud, draw, 7 card, 3 card poker, and the one's my father taught them - 739, Acey-Deucy, and Follow the Queen.
The Old Farts howled. Some of them literally. When they weren't making elephant noises.
The Young Tarts played a very serious, and quiet, game of Texas Hold 'Em, a poker game I quite enjoy, but worry about when people are silent. I took to watching the old men play their games. They were loud, obnoxious, and just fun.
Before the fun though, there was a bit of a sad sad thing that happened. Carrying boxes and baskets into the house, my mother (not me) my mother dropped our leftover salmon. As much as I want to weep for that - the salmon that could have been my dinner tomorrow instead of the chicken my dad will probaably make (or the salad I'll have to make if he cooks anything other than fish or chicken) now lies in the bottom of a garbage pail. *sigh*
The room where we put the bridal gifts filled up so fast - Michelle got so many nice things that my mother and aunt's said they all wanted a shower - that there was barely room to walk in it. Thankfully half of the presents went to Scott (her fiancee)'s house.
We did laugh a lot during the poker game, but not so hard as the last 45 minutes of the night when all the ear scratching, howling, and barking had a reason.
Apparenlty it was funny to take a box from Micheal's (a bakery... a really nice bakery) and fill it with cookies bought at a local convenience store. The convenience store, however, was PetCo.
It wouldn't have been so funny if so many people hadn't eaten the cookies.
Trust me, it was funny. Maybe you had to be there. Maybe I should just stop typing and put up some quotes tomorrow when I'm not sleepy.

Hire Me

I Continue to Feel Numb

I think it's a bit strange that, while I love my story, an am immensely proud of it, that the two rejections I've had do far haven't stung me nearly as much as people say it should.
I get the rejection letter, read it, and sigh, delete it, and just find another market, so extremely sure that someone's going to accept it.
Should I feel more down than I do. Sure, it's a bummer, but it's nothing that's going to stop me from sending the story out, because, while I can't read my own words and it embarrasses me, I'm still so proud and sure of this short story that someone rejecting it is more their loss than mine.


Maybe I'll feel differently 20 rejections down that line.

The Hanson Affair

Yesterday was a good day.

Though it's funny to think that yesterday actually started out as a misery since I couldn't get to sleep. Not out of excitement for the possibility of seeing the band I've held a torch for, and defended adamantly these past 10 years, but because the Harry Potter Event of '07 kept me up until 5am when I read it, and my sleeping pattern got really screwed up.

Since it was 6 am, I decided it was better if I didn't fall asleep. Going to sleep now would have been suicide for my first real chance in 10 years to get an autograph that I so desired.

Now, I know it's entirely possible to send a letter to the proper places to get an autograph, but getting an autograph by mail is, in my opinion, just sheer laziness. I always liked hearing autograph stories, and being able to see them write their names and to, dare I dream, shake their hands in person, is a much more worthy experience. It also means I get to get out of my house all day, which I don't always do since I can't always find an excuse.

At 9am I watched my favorite 9am morning show. It was really just luck that they happened to be on. My luck in seeing Hanson on TV or just randomly checking their website on the even of a new album release or something else exciting, is nothing sort of miraculous. In fact luck was how I even got into them at first.

In a sad chapter in my life (the chapter would probably be titled "Empy Bus Stop" if I even wrote book about my life) my grandmother had a stroke. When it happened I was in utter shock. The after school, I waited at the bus stop which was sincerely lacking my grandmother, whom, after a misstep on my part, always made sure I got on the right bus to get home. It had been months since that incident, and I knew what bus to get on (and know that bus's route better than any other bus), but she still insisted on coming, buying me lunch (since Wednesday's were half days), and making sure I got on the right bus. At that moment when she wasn't there, I suddenly realized how this small little routine was something I deeply cherished, and tried not to cry all the way home.
Depressed I went up to my room and changed clothes. It was too silent, and so I did the only seinsible thing and turned on my stereo. I couldn't find a CD I wanted to listen to, and Classic Rock wasn't doing it for me, so I fiddled with the stations, something I never did, and found z100 - which was, at the time, the best source for pop music for a pre-teen who needed to be in the know. I'm sure it still is the premiere source for all things popular, but since the music scene has changed from some good music, mostly homogeneous music, and rap songs that were, while not my taste, unique, dance worthy, mostly fun to pretty god awful music, scenester "rock" groups that really aren't all that talented, and homogeneous rap songs that are only entertaining to people like my friend and I are who listen to things for their lyrics. The lyrics of these aren't good, only funny in how bad they are. But, back then I listened to it for the first time in my life, and a song had just ended. I could tell because something was fading out into that .03 seconds of dead air before a new song. The song that came on was "I Will Come to You".
It was even greater luck that I saw the music video for "I Will Come to You" - it was Thanksgiving, and my grandma was still in the hospital. It wasn't that we usually spent Thanksgiving with her, it was that she was still in the hospital, and we couldn't call her. And this had all happened a few days, maybe even a week after my birthday. That's when I turned MTV on, just a few minuted before we had to leave for my Aunt's house for dinner (which is a whole other point to write about). It was involuntary. I was probably hoping to see the video, but it was nothing conscious in my mind. I did see the video, and it did make me cry - not a long, loud drawn out cry, but that soft, wiping tears from you face cry - because the whole premise was a girl going to her grandmother's.
So my friends, it was not "MMMBop" that made me tune into Hanson, but rather, by accident, hearing a slow, melancholy song, that acted like a reassuring friend in my time of need, that made me into a teeny-bopper. And yes, I was a teeny-bopper.

I watched their performance on the show, and went to take a shower and get changed. I found out the night before that they would be performing in the city to promote their new CD, released that day, as long as I bought the CD.

I called my best friend to see if she wanted to come to the city with me. I knew she wouldn't want to see Hanson. She hates them. I don't know why, and often I try to sneak in here and there a few of their later songs, which have matured in sound and nature and are much better - they remind me so much more of the classic rock I grew up on.
Somehow she always catches me.

It was with a bit of disdain that I snapped on a purple wristband, marking me, basically, as "late" and, maybe even "unworthy". I could only get the CD signed, I wouldn't be able to get to see them perform, which I was only able to see once in my life - At the Continental Airlines Arena, 9 years ago.

It was a good night of course, and getting to hear them live was a treat, and my present for graduating from 8th grade. I went with my other Hanson-fan friend (Hanson being the only thing that our friendship was really about), and practically freaked out when, at the end of the show, they took out water guns, and I was lucky enough to get a few drops on my Hanson shirt. It was funny, but all through that night I felt a pair of eyes on me. It was the first time I knew what it meant to feel that. My inclinations on feeling that I'm being watched have always been spot on, so I wonder still, to this day, who was it that gave me a weird paranoid feeling when I wasn't paying attention. The little fangirl in me says that it was Isaac - who had the unfortunate distinction of being the only person to turn their head away as I looked up. I know it wasn't. I stopped dreaming and wishing it was a long time ago. But until the day I die, I will always remember the concert.

But, the purple wristband did mean I could get my CD signed. I have wanted an autograph for 10 years. Paying, and leaving, my friend and I walked around Chinatown, and got a nice lunch and bubble tea, until I went back up town. We discussed such things as Role playing, whether love is merely biological, or if there's something more to it, our opinions on our friends' selected significant others, what we should do for Halloween, and, of course, Harry Potter.

Before we went our separate ways, she asked me about what I wanted them to write on my CD. I gave it a few moments thought and realized that, while it was highly unlikely I'd be able to get my CD personalized, since there were going to be a lot of people there, I'd want them to personalize it with either "Jillers" "Keep on Keepin' on" various references to me being awesome, or else have them write something like "U R liek TTLY G8" or something else stupid like that.

I took my position at the end of the line - around the corner and by a small restaurant called "Le Marais Rotisserie" which reminded me of some of the small cafe's I'd seen in France. I went over to look at the menu, noted the prices as being something I'd expect from a Midtown "Trying to French" restaurant.

I waited online for about 5 hours, writing 19 pages worth of story, and found myself thinking "I should tell than 'thank you' since this has been like my most prolific day in writing history."
There was an odd dream-like feel about the whole thing. I tried to get a picture of the band, though I was less interested in that than a random water bottle I found, and subsequently kept. It was empty, which meant, as someone who is cheap and hasn't gotten to start their new job yet, I could stop at a water fountain and have free water (which actually tastes better than pricey bottled water). Soon, I became disinterested in getting a picture of Hanson, and more intent on getting cool pictures of the crowd there. The huge crowd interested me because, even though I'm a Hanson fan, I assume that there's only about 20 of us in any given area. I didn't realize, cynically so, that they still drew a huge crowd.

I kept my iPod on through the whole line process, the girls behind me were crying and shaking and screaming. The people in front of me were a rather lovely-dovey couple that I preferred to not here, and I just, generally, don't deal well in spaces occupied by thousands of people. Had I been there to see the show, I'd have coped better, but I know my limitations, which involve me not taking very well to people surrounding me, and me not being able to escape. It's some sort of phobia. I'm pretty sure it falls somewhere under the heading of Agoraphobia. Thankfully I don't get panic attacks. If I'm not in a crowded public setting where I'm in the midst of a crow with someone I know, I tend to space out. All logical thought goes from my head, and I notice things that aren't the people around me. My breathing also changes. Not in a big hyperventilating type way, just a small, subtle "I'm breathing faster" type way. I also tend to start to sweat. I don't know if that's due to the fear, or because with so many people jammed into one space, air conditioning or not, it's going to get really hot.

Besides my very slight phobia, I also hadn't slept in over 24 hours, nor had I eaten in about 10 hours. I was grumpy. I noticed a lot of people had their CDs out, or he booklets in the case out to a certain page. I had wanted each one to sign one place each - one on the back of the CD front case - so that I'd see it, all backwards, and through the cover, one on a page in the booklet, randomly opened, and one on the CD itself. I had a really good reason for that, but it seemed like I wouldn't be able to get that. And the body guard was saying how they'd only sign one thing, and wouldn't personalize anything. I fumbled through the booklet for the spot that was best for three autographs that I had seen other people open up to - the center picture of all three of them spread across two pages. I stowed my writing book in my pants - the way that I do, with one cover, literally, down the front of my pants, and the other one hanging outside. I fumbled with the book until I was up there, and, of course, didn't say anything.

First was Taylor, who smiled and asked how I was. A witter, calmer, almost home and far removed from the excitement of the day, would have said something like "I don't know - a bit blase about the whole thing" or said something about needing to wash off the layer of grime I always seem to build up when I come to the City. But no, I did that "Fine, how are you?", with this huge, dumb ass smile on my face. Separated from the crowd I could breath. Faced with these people - my age - who are a million times more talented than I could ever hope to be, whose music helped me through a really hard time in my life, I could only smile and think in the back of my head that "They're really here, and really shaking my hand".

They smiled the way I'm sure they smiled at all their fans, but it wasn't a "Smile for the cameras" smile. Their smiles, their hand shakes, all of it was genuine. It seems stupid to think that I could be able to tell people apart from their handshakes, but, no, I can.

On Easter when my cousin brought over her boyfriend for the family to meet, and I shook his hand, my instinct was 'Con artist'. He may not have been a con artist, but he was a dick in the end. Handshakes are a way to tell people apart. And I know the handshakes I don't like.

My words were all "thankyous" and smiles, smiles I couldn't control and have rarely experienced, and I shook their hands, and it was a moment that was electric. Shaking hands with someone famous is a connection to that person. I don't know how other people feel at that moment, but at that moment I realized how very real these men were, and how they are very real people. They'll go to wherever they're staying, and probably tuck their children into bed, and kiss their wives goodnight. Being as religious as it seems that are, they'll probably take a few moments out of the night to thank God and offer up a prayer which, at their ages now, and having had the opportunity to explore the world and cultures I've only ever read about, will be genuine. Maybe they'll read a book, maybe they'll just fall asleep, holding their loves close to them.

I walked out then, I felt happy and relieved, and, while I walked the same, I felt like I was skipping. I didn't want to hold up the line and have one of their guards move me along. I got what I came for, and was thankful for it. The autographs I waited 10 years for.

But, I'll wait for another opportunity. My obsession with famous people has nothing to do with lust, or greed, but a sincere interest in being their friends. Not so I can say "I'm friends with so and so" but because their public lives are so public that people forget they have a private life. That life is so special to famous people, and autographs and pictures make us think that, for a brief moment, we were part of it. I take out my picture of me and Hugh Jackman and say "I met him" as if really saying "I know him". I look at my autographs from the Hansons, and say "I got their autograph" which really means "I looked them in the eye and spoke to them, and they, for a minute saw me and nobody else".

While I didn't get any pictures of the brothers, I'm ok with that. I figured out long ago that pictures are so we can tell other people where we've been, and who we've seen. Given the opportunity, I'll take a picture, but the real memento, for me, is the memory. The memory stays long after I'd lose the photo, and it's not the photo that makes me smile, it's that one, small moment, the one where they look you in the eye and offer out their hand.

When it Rains....

So, what are the four words my parents so desperately wanted to hear come out of my mouth that I can now say with some degree of certainty? I found a job.

Sure, there are downsides to this job. It's very, extremely, part time. Pay is about 30 bucks a night (I'd only be there 3 hours anyway). And the job is at nights.

Of course there are some good things about the job. I'd be working in a theater - sure, it may only be ushering, but it's still in a theater. I'd be seeing new, interesting, non-homogenus shows. I'll probably see guys in dresses - which, since leaving Purchase, I've sorely missed. The job's at night, so my tendency to sleep until 2pm isn't such a bad thing.

I'm just excited about this - because I know it's not a lot of money, but I'd be working in a theater. And while I love video games and all things geeky, I view them as more of my hobby, whereas the theater, and the arts are much more of my passion. So, this will be a great experience for me.

Of course I'll have to get another part time job to supplement this income, but now I won't feel so completely trapped by that job, which I did feel while I was at TRU, because that job insinuated itself so much into my life, that there was barely time for anything else. Good for the wallet, bad for my sanity. You get into a retail job, that becomes your only job, and you say to yourself "It's just temporary" temporary until when, you don't know - but 7 months later you know you didn't mean to be there that long, and you don't have any time to pursue anything else you want.

But now I have this ushering job, at a small kind of off-off-off Broadway Theater (off). It's not much, but it seems like it'll be more of an injection of inspiration for me - while I work a horrible retail job, I'll still have this other theater job to go to, that will remind me of who I really am, and what it is I want to do in life.

I didn't ave that last time in TRU, and when it became too claustrophobic (among many other reasons), I quit.

Anyway, so, good thing 1 - I gots me a job bitches.
good thing 2 - The new Harry Potter movie is great. Even better than the book.
Number C - The Last Harry Potter book comes out this Saturday, and I've had my pre-order since March

It seems almost supernatural that 3 good things should occur all at once for me, but, hey, maybe my fortune is changing?

Though it does seem mean of me to gloat about this, and be happy and mirthful, when I know Adj has had a hard week. I'd call her, but when I called her yesterday to see if we were still on for Harry Potter, she said sure, but when Jev called me later, he said she wasn't feeling up to it - so, if something's wrong, or she's sick, and she wanted to tell me about it, I'm sure she'd call - I don't want to pressure her into telling me something she doesn't want to. When she feels better, and more up to socializing, she'll let me know, and I can't push that.

But, I'm still gonna' squeal about all this goodness around here, and do the little jigs I've been doing when no one's looking.

Because when it rains, it pours, and I've always been one of those people who like to run around and dance in the rain.

Industrious

Being unemployed, with a less than stellar resume, and next to no calls for interviews, having an industrious day in which things are accomplished needs to be measured in a different way.
For instance, on a day when I would have work, if asked "did you accomplish anything today?" I could at least answer "I went to work and didn't get fired." It's not much, but it is something.
On any given day when I am unemployed, when asked if I've accomplished anything, I usually answer "No".
After all, I don't think most people see "Day dreaming and staring into space for a couple of hours" as an industrious day.
So, instead of that, I usually say something like "I started outlining a few new story ideas I had".
Equally "Staring at my email's inbox hoping, and waiting by the phone for some employer to email/call me back" becomes "Sent in a bunch of applications for jobs".
"Sleeping all day" becomes "I wasn't feeling good at all this afternoon, so I rested".

So, on a day where I slept till noon, watched The Transformers (cartoon), and looked for places to submit my writing, I've ended up describing it as "Researching a market for my stories and poems, and submitting a couple, while editing a few other pieces I'm working on".

Of course, some people may come from a family where they don't ask you "Did you accomplish anything today?" in a sarcastic way that means "So, you just lay around the house all day again didn't you?", and are, therefore, not forced to find a way to defend yourself; but that's not my house.

Something I've Noticed

Since my brother moved to Muskegon, Michigan, my mother has spent much of her time reading facts about Michigan, watching the weather, and taking notice of any even that happens in Michigan.
I learned that in Michigan, the blind can legally own a gun, and hunt with it without any supervision.
I felt compelled to tell my mother.
We were in Arizona when I found this fact out, from reading a book. I don't know if it's a actual fact or not, but I trusted the author enough to not lie about something that important, and so, put the book down and hollered at my mother, who was swimming in the lukewarm pool. I had just gotten out, and was waiting to get my body temperature up enough to go back in and have the water feel cool.
"Hey mom, did you know that blind people can hunt in Michigan?"
"Yeah."
She swam to the side of the pool and held herself steady above water on the ledge, alternating the bottom arm because the cement around the pool was hot.
"Well... isn't that weird?"
I asked this, rather unsure of myself because her frank response caught me off guard.
I was expecting this to devolve into jokes and sarcasm, or at least one slightly of color joke, before she went back to swimming.
The fact that she took this as a common thing, not worth noticing, worried me. I don't know if it worried me for my mother, or for myself.
If blind people being allowed to hunt freely, without an aide, was just another everyday occurrence, worth a barely audible "Yeah" which was more of a "So what? Let me get back to swimming" then maybe there was something wrong with the way my brain worked.
She went back to swimming, and I continued reading my book, until the glare of the sun got too hot, and I felt myself cooking from the inside out. I jumped in and the blind man shooting randomly wherever he wanted, calling it "hunting", and getting away with it, was quickly forgotten.

Until today, when I thought of something that bothered me. My mother was watching a TV show about beach homes, and I was thinking about how just a week ago we were all in Arizona, in a 4-star hotel, sitting poolside, drinking cold beers, and looking forward to my cousin's wedding. I noticed that there was a girl on the television who acted shy and demure about her two piece suit.
This interested me, which I told m mom about:
"You know what else I don't understand?" I asked her, having just realized something that I didn't "Get". I forget what it is now because my mother agreed with me.
"What?" she asked absently, looking at her crossword puzzle book while the show went to commercial.
"Why do these girls act so shy and demure about showing their bodies off, and yet still wear a two piece bathing suit?"
She shrugged and mumbled an "I don't know" answer which really meant "It's not something I think about because it makes sense to me" and went back to her book, and then the program, stopping any further conversation in its tracks.

I guess it's how my mind works. I guess I'm just a weird person. I think about these things when they cross my mind. They don't seem to be on anyone else's minds . So, I worry about my own state of mental health, because if everyone else seems to think it's perfectly normal for shy, demure people, insecure about their bodies, to wear a two piece bathing suit, or for blind people to be allowed, legally, to hunt without a guide, then why don't I?

"My LItte Guinea Pig"

I can't imagine how often those words are spoken in other people's homes, but in mine, it's probably twice as much.
My father is in the wrong line of work - we all agree he should have been a chef. I imagine he'd be like a Gordon Ramsey, without the assault charge. He also probably wouldn't yell as much, but he'd say the same things... without the accent.
When you hear the words "Guinea Pig" in my house, my family is usually taste testing something my father concocted. 9 out of 10 times it's really good. In my 22 years of life I have only tasted one bad thing he's made, and that's only because I don't like raspberries.
Many times, when I'm being called a guinea pig by my father, I'm usually taken by surprise. Like now, I just went downstairs to get a glass of water, when my father enters the kitchen says "Ah, my little guinea pig" and makes a bowl of food for me - inside the bowl he put a little basket of baked Parmesan cheese, flaky and golden brown. Inside he put a lettuce mixture - you know, the green and red lettuces that come in a bag? and then he topped it off with two spoonfuls of a shrimp salad - the shrimp are tiny and covered in a mayonnaise sauce, with red onions and little tomato bits. I don't know what else he added to it. I imagine some horseradish, since there's a bit of a kick at the end. Then a little lemon was squirted onto it. It /is/ a little mayonnaisey, like my mother said. But it's still really good. The textures play on your tongue, and the taste just fills your mouth.
It's really good.
If this were served on a square plate, with a fancy fork, on a candlelit bale, it'd be worth like 10 bucks.

First Post

It's just ridiculous really. I need a blog. I don't know why. I mean I kind of have one, but, you know, it's kind of meh. I like the feel of this place better.