Never Have I Ever

Forget that. Do you want to know what I have done?
As of a half-hour ago, I officially told a joke that was not in any way funny. A serious joke. One that hurt the feelings of a very dear friend of mine.
What to do?
Well, the right thing, I suppose. I ran after him and apologized.
Now I'm sitting in my dorm room, staring at a computer screen, typing a blog, and wondering why I don't think before I speak more often.

And why a joke that earns a few laughs is somehow worth a friendship to some people.

And how a game of Risk can turn personal more quickly than the dice can be rolled.

And finally how writing these black, stringy words into a blank box can send my thoughts across the world and into someone's living room, where you're sitting in the sunlight of a day I haven't seen yet.

The Silent, 1 A.M. Victory Dance

Truthfully, (warning: I will pointedly ignore my enticing post title for a few minutes. Bear with me.) I have stayed away from this blog for a few days on purpose; I felt like it was getting desperate. When I start posting bits of stories that I wrote when I was sixteen, things are getting desperate.

Like most things in life, blogs are better done when inspiration hits (in my opinion, at least).
If you'd prefer advice from a sage-like, well-seasoned author (and yes, I'm aware of the spice puns (and the double hyphen)), you can always go to Jack London, who said, "You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club."

Unfortunately, club violence is banned in most states. Why oh why didn't I go to school out West???

As for the title:
I'm at home because I'm interviewing for a summer job tomorrow at 4 p.m. (everybody pray)
I decided about 15 minutes ago to check my email before hopping in the shower
There was an email
I clicked 'open'
I read it
I got into the Honors Program at Morris!!!!!!!

Pardon the ecstaticity, but I'm just so happy! I feel like this is another step towards my successful college experience. Getting into a prestigious academic program is a great big check off my list of goals.

As for the title:
Everyone's asleep here, so I had to scream silently, pump my fists in the air silently, run into the kitchen silently, hop the gate silently, smooch the dog on top of her head silently, come back here silently and blog silently.

That's a lot of silence for one piece of big, exciting news.

Now I think I'll take that shower after all. Goodnight sweet world.
Stay gold.

The Things I Used To Like I Don't Like Anymore

Here's a bit of a story I wrote a few years ago. It's not anything really, but it was supposed to be about a teenager trying to cope with her mentally handicapped uncle (whom she's never known about) moving in with her family.


Cheek mashed against my pillow, I watched the lights under my bedroom door move back and forth. Someone was walking around, murmuring quietly. I could barely make out my father’s voice.
“She’s seventeen, Margaret. She can handle it. He’s her uncle, for God’s sake.”
Mom sounded tired when she replied. “I don’t know, Jim. He’s been living with your mother for his whole life. How is he supposed to cope with the real world? With a teenager?”
I was on the carpet now, crouched in front of my door in order to hear their conversation better. What uncle? Uncle Harold I knew. He was married and living in Utah.
Before I could ponder further, I felt something cold under my left foot. Turning around, I saw a penny, the light from under the door glinting off its red surface. Out of habit, I looked at the date etched into the copper. 1955. The year I was born. I slowly straightened up until I was level with my dresser. Groping sightlessly in the dark, I located the jar. I released the penny and heard the small cling as it settled on top of all the other pennies inside. All 1955’s. Lucky pennies.
There was another voice in the kitchen now, a loud, whiny voice begging for a glass of water. Then Mom. “Sshhh, Leo. It’s all right,” she crooned. “Here’s your water. Now you just make yourself comfortable and drift off to sleep. Okay? Goodnight.”
I heard my parents’ bedroom door snap shut.
Very slowly I opened my own door and stepped out into the hallway. Peering around the corner, I could barely make out the couch in the slatted moonlight. A blonde head was poking out from under Great Grandma Blanche’s afghan. As I stepped onto the cold tile of the kitchen, the head stirred, then turned to look at me.

Please Don't Read This

Go outside instead. It's lovely.

A Dog Named Oscar

Do you want to know the thing I miss the most about home while I'm away at college? It's not my family, my dog, or even my books. It's my bed. Or more specifically, my ability to jump unto my bed whilst I'm at home.

Throwing myself on my bed (often after a running start down the hallway) is a long-standing tradition for me. I do it when I'm sad, mad, silly, or just tired.
And though these feelings are present even when I'm in my dorm room, I find that I can't relieve them in the same way. Why not, you ask?

Because of the darn loft bed.

Though I'd like to end on that resounding note, I think I should probably explain the post title. My family has been planning for a while now to get a puppy in the spring. Our current dog, Annie, is 8 years old (which is pretty old for a large dog), and we want to get another dog while Annie's still around so that the puppy can learn from her (though it kills me (no pun intended) to even think of Annie dying...).

Anyway, earlier today, while watching my sister's volleyball tournament, I started to think of possible dog names. My all-time favorite is Atticus. Isn't that just the greatest name for a dog, or for a German Shepherd, more specifically? (All of our dogs have been that breed; they're the best.)

My family unfortunately doesn't like the name Atticus (apparently they don't love To Kill A Mockingbird like I do), so I kept brainstorming. I know I want the dog to be named after something, preferably a book character or a Beatles song. I'm currently reading The Brief Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao. "Oscar!" I thought, "What a cool name for a puppy!" Everyone loved it until my parents decided that we would be getting a female dog because they're less aggressive than males.

Darn it.

Well, here's the female name list so far (though I'm still a tad bent out of shape about the loss of Oscar):
Juno or Juneau (May fly with Mom and Dad-they haven't seen the movie, but they love Alaska)
Jude (Hey Jude-think about it)
Mina (From Dracula-read it!)
Saoirse (An actress I like. Pronounced Seer-sha. No offense to the person, but her name is also great for a dog.)
Farrah (I'm kidding. Mostly.)
Lucy (Though I think this name is already fairly popular for dogs, and I want something original.)
Yoko (Hahahaha)
Liesl (Very German. Appropriate?)
Rosie (Yes, I had to sneak in some Neil Diamond.)

Okay, that's all I've got. Maybe you have some suggestions? Props for allusive names.

Cheer Up, Sleepy Jean

Daydream Believer is my ballad of the day. Actually, I suppose it's the ballad of my life, in a way. The only thing that could possibly make that song better would be if Paul McCartney did a rendition of it...

Anyway, what have I been doing all day? Oh, reading mostly. Still engrossed in Dracula. How wonderful it is to really be able to submerge in a book without the constant nudge of schoolwork against my brain. Well, scratch that. I actually have a paper for Anthropology that I should be working on right now, but I've proven once again that I'm rather a successful procrastinator. Cape and tights always, always optional (depends on the weather).

Despite the vampire scare last night (see previous post), I think I fell asleep the minute I turned out my lamp; I didn't even wake up when the dog started barking madly at 6 a.m. because the smoke alarm was chirping. And I'm a light sleeper.

The point of this post, I've decided, besides updating you about the goings-on in my life, is to cheer you up a bit. The glorious few weeks of spring we had seem to have been eclipsed by today's cold, gloomy weather, and I'm afraid that everyone around here has been down about it. Don't worry, dear readers. Now that spring has tainted the air and reduced the ice to dirty slush, it cannot be surpressed for long.

Keep your chin up.

The Nineteen-Year-Old Scared Witless By A Book

I just started reading Dracula. About an hour ago, honestly.
It's early evening. The sun is not even down yet.
And I'm scared! Page 42, and I'm scared!
Dracula was a random choice for me, as well; I just plucked it off my bookshelf from among dozens of other options. I finished a rather fluffy Judy Blume earlier today, and thought that I would alternate with something darker.
For those of you who know the story, I'm at the part where Jonathan Harker has just woken up after falling asleep in the room with the lady vampires.
I know the story myself, at least a little bit. I know that Dracula's a vampire. But as to the rest of it, the important, creepy details, I am at the mercy of this slight paperback from Half Price Books.
We'll see if Jonathan and I make it out alive.

Things That Make Me Smile Part 1

Earlier today, I watched Susan Boyle's "I Dreamed A Dream" performance for Britain's Got Talent.
I have to tell you, I was grinning hugely through the entire video. To see this dowdy, middle-aged woman come out and just blow everyone away with her gorgeous voice was simply amazing.
Things like that get me. I don't know, I suppose you could laugh at my sentimentality, but it's just the way I am. I love stories like that; stories that mean something, even if they don't happen to you or to anyone you know. It gives me faith in humanity.
Wow this is getting to be quite the cheese ball post. I'm not sure how to redeem myself at this point.
I don't suppose it would help to mention my current Peter, Paul and Mary phase? No? Okay then.

Well in that case, I think I'll just call it a night.

P.S. If you're really reading my blog carefully, you may have noticed that I edited this post from the original. Though I do love sarcasm, and employ it freely in real life, I thought it was too heavy for the blog world, or at least for this particular post. Cheers!

Blogging From Bed (Sleep Musings)

Here's a bit of a poem for you, because I'm in that kind of mood:

Sleep (this one's original, folks)
It's just hush,
and the world has relented for a minute
while I lay down and look about,
craning my head above bits
of tall grass
and books
that smell of dust and leather.
It is like when you stay in one place for so long
that you cannot feel yourself anymore.
I can't feel myself
but I know I'm
Drifting.

It Might As Well Be Spring

To be completely honest, I've been opposing Spring ever since it dared to show its green head at the end of February. It's not that I'm against the idea of new life, or blooming flowers, or warm weather. It's just that for me, spring has always meant the end of something. The end of school, to be specific.

Yes, you have me. I'm the kid who just about cries on the last day of school, who dreads May beginning in September, and who feels like an era has come and gone with the closing of each school year.

And folks, I'm not ready for my freshman year to be over. It's been really wonderful; perhaps one of the best years of my life. I've been exposed to so many things, I've met so many people, and I've learned so much about myself that I'm loathe to let this beautiful time end.

I realize that I'm still young, and that I still have most of college in front of me, but I have a gut feeling that things won't be the same next year, and that there will be a different quality in the air. You can never, ever go back to the way things were, I suppose.

Anyway, my original point was not to slather on a layer of melancholy, but to inform you that I've warmed up to (if you'll excuse the pun) spring. When it's 60 degrees and you're outside shooting baskets with your dad and the dog is muddy running this way and that way, orange ball rolling against red tongue, you know that spring cannot be all bad.

Here's a bit of an E.E. Cummings poem to make up for it all:

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman


whistles far and wee


and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring


when the world is puddle-wonderful

Just a Saturday Evening

"And though they did live happily ever after, the point, gentlemen, is that they lived."

I'll let you figure out where the quote is from.
As for me, I'm going to read more Oscar Wao and fall asleep.
Goodnight, sweet world.

Allow Me To Share

The amount of stress I'm experiencing right now is unbelievable. As such, I've decided to relieve myself of a bit of it by passing it on to you.
Here's how:
I write out a list of everything in my life that is stressing me out currently.
You read the list.
You clap your hands 8 times, kiss each knee once, and exhale deeply.
Don't worry; the cranial pressure is natural.

THINGS I'M STRESSED ABOUT:
1. CMR test on Thursday
2. Physical Anthropology test on Friday
3. Crusades Historiography project due Friday
4. U.R. article due tomorrow at noon
5. OGL application due April 2nd
6. Honors program application due March 26th
7. Taxes due in April
8. Brit. Lit. reading assignment due Thursday
9. I need to get my laundry done before going home for Spring Break
10. I haven't been getting enough sleep
11. I need a job
12. Two of my best friends (who had been dating for about 6 months) broke up last night. One of them happens to be my roommate. I don't think that this exactly falls into the stress department, but I'm so worried about her, and she's so sad that she's bringing me down as well.

So there you are. Midterm week and all is not well in Hollyworld. I know that I can do everything individually, but I don't know if I can do all of it at once.
Oh, well. I just have to get through 3 more days alive and I'm out of the woods for a week.

A Broken Fellowship

I'm going to nerd out on you for a few minutes. Forgive me, but I find that whenever a part in my life parallels that of a great work, I have to acknowledge the fact proudly. Or maybe it's more appropriate to say that the work parallels my life?

Anyway, here it is:
"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep... that have taken hold."

A bit morbid for a blog entry, I suppose, though just morbid enough for a rainy Monday afternoon.
You see, certain things in my life are changing. They are definitely, steadily shifting, and they're beyond the point where I can do anything to stop them.
Friendships, alliances, people have changed. What I cared nothing for a week ago, I find I care a great deal for now.
I'm the one leaning over the precipice grasping for something that's long since fallen out of reach. I can see it down below; I can look back whenever I want to. But I'll never hold it again.
It makes me incredibly sad.
I don't think I'm brave enough to start over, dear bloggers. I don't think I'm inclined to, either.

Again, I apologize for being so cryptic in this entry. I don't like to write things that you can't understand easily, but I do like to write things that mean a great deal to me. I'm sorry that you got the worse end.

I Love You More Than Rainbows

Was a line uttered at the Academy Awards this evening. The utterer had just won an Oscar, and was breathless at the microphone. First, he thanked a lot of people involved with the film, and then with a large sweep of the arm not clasping the heavy award, he looked out over the crowd and thanked his wife: "I love you more than rainbows."

He was escorted offstage after that by two ladies in evening gowns. I can't remember what his name was, or what category he won for, but I do remember the slightly cheesy, hasty sentence he threw out towards the audience for his wife.

The Icing on the Cake

To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about writing this blog entry for a few days now. Furthermore, each time I thought about it, I came up with a different title for this post. In the end, however, I decided that this story (the one I'm about to write) was the one that needed to be told.
For your enjoyment (and because I thought they were both rather good,) here are the two rejected titles:
1. The Awkwardness of an Intercepted Wink
2. How Not to Get a Job at a Ski Place

You can wonder about them now if you wish, or if you don't care, you can just move on. I can assure you that The Icing on the Cake will be worth it.
So here we go:

I like my plans to work out. That's one thing you should know about me.
The following plan most definitely did not work out.
But you know what?
Sometimes that's okay.

It's my friend Tim's birthday today. My friend Maddie and I thought it would be a good idea to make him a cake for his 19th, and since he really likes 3 Musketeers bars, we decided to make him a cake shaped like one. Cool, right?
We went shopping yesterday for ingredients:
2 boxes yellow cake mix
1 carton of eggs
3 cans of frosting (2 white, 1 chocolate)
3 tubes decorator's icing (1 red, 1 white, 1 blue)
1 tube yellow decorator's gel
1 3 Musketeers bar
The cake took us about two hours to make, with King guarding the door to the kitchen with a Nerf gun to keep Tim out.
After it was done (and it looked amazing-you can take my word for it), we stashed it away and waited for it to be midnight so we could have a little party.

Midnight finally came around, and we managed to get Tim into the TV lounge. We lit the candles on the cake, shushed the gathering crowd behind us, and walked in singing happy birthday.

What did Tim do?
He ran of course.
Took his socks off first (so they wouldn't get dirty)
And then sprinted out the door of our dorm, down the stairs, and along the sidewalk.
Four or so boys chased him down. Apparently he struggled, so they picked him up and carried him back on their shoulders.
Meanwhile, Maddie was standing there holding the lit cake in her arms. She quickly blew out the candles and we headed downstairs. We set the cake on the floor in front of Tim's door, and climbed to the top of the stairwell to hide out.

Now, it's not that we were mad at Tim. It's just that when you put that amount of time and effort into something, you hope for a better reaction. I suppose we should have known the big surprise format would make Tim uncomfortable, but honestly we didn't plan for it to happen like that; people merely saw us making the cake and wanted to be involved. In short, they all wanted to celebrate with him, just as we did.

Well, Mad and I sat at the top of the stairs for a long time, listening to people look for us and sing happy birthday again (I assume there was no running the second time). Eventually Evan and King found us up there, and Tim shortly discovered us also. He wanted to know if we had forks and plates, because he had nothing to serve the cake on.

We didn't have any.

Anyway, a lot of drama ensued after that, but the main thing is that after awhile Tim texted us asking us to please come down and have some cake. So we did.

And can I tell you something?
It tasted awful.
I'd imagine that the darn candy bar-shaped cake tasted something like bitterness, and like not letting go of the little things that don't matter much in the long run.
The frosting was good, though.
The frosting tasted like King patrolling with the Nerf gun for hours, and like laughing over me icing Tim's birthday as 3/7/09 instead of 3/7/10.
But it mostly tasted like having good friends who love you even when you run, and even when you hide in a stairwell.
The icing on the cake was the best part.

All It Takes Is A Nerf Gun To The Head

Act One:
We find our protagonist in Crusades class. Her pencil is scratching roughly at her paper as she attempts to think of something to say. There is a sharp snap when the end of her lead breaks off and flies towards her neighbor's head (our fair protagonist doesn't mind this at all; the neighbor is annoying anyway).
The assignment? Listen to each of the six speakers as they present their argument as to why the 2nd Crusade failed, and think of a question to ask one of the speakers about his/her views on the topic. Participation is mandatory.
The problem? Our protagonist, though reasonably intelligent, is no good at thinking on her feet. Without more time and less pressure, we fear she is lost forever to the cycle of 'um I don't know.'

As the clock ticks down to the hour of her demise, our protagonist's blue eyes begin to reflect the desperation within. The professor is looking at her expectantly; she is the last one to answer. Our protagonist opens her mouth to speak and....

Out flies the most horrendous, nonsensical, redundant question anyone has ever heard. The classroom is completely still for a few seconds, and then with a great torrent of wind all heads whip towards the professor, who looks baffled as well. Finally, one of the speakers decides to save at least a little of our protagonist's dignity. He answers her question as best he can without touching on the idiocy of it all (bless him).

The scene closes on an emptying classroom. When the last student has thrust his arms into his coat sleeves and tossed his backpack over his shoulder, we see her. There, in the corner. The one with the bowed head and the warm cheeks (though there is no visible blush). It is our protagonist.

Lights dim as she slowly exits the classroom.

Act 2:
It is late afternoon by the time our protagonist arrives back at her dorm. She immediately walks down to her friend Tim's room, for Tim, she knows, is in possession of the ultimate weapon.
This weapon comes in many forms, but is known to all by one name: The Nerf Gun.
Tim protests at first, but once he sees the determination on our protagonist's face, he solemnly loads the gun and places it in her hands.
Our protagonist shakes as she holds the Nerf against her temple.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much. It will be over quickly."
One squeeze of the trigger.

The Nerf dart that pierces her skull bores a hole straight into her common sense. Suddenly, everything is completely clear; our protagonist must embark on a crusade of her own. A crusade not against Turks, but against blank-headedness and dumb questions. She must wage a war against her own mind.

The play concludes with an orange Nerf Gun being carried into battle by our brave protagonist. She has found her wits at last.

Oh the Humanities!

I would first like to address the name of this blog. I'm incredibly sorry, but I am still unhappy with it despite the fact that it was taken from the title of a Beatles song. I have a feeling that I'm making this titling task harder than it really is, but I just can't seem to come up with a name that fits my entire blog.

Right now I'm staring at the blue banner at the top of the screen where "Eight Days a Week" is sprawled in presumptuous white letters. I hate this title.

Anyway, whilst my internal battle continues, I suspect you're looking for fairer content on this lovely March evening. I could mention that I read my first Dickens today. Don't laugh, but it was A Christmas Carol. It was an assignment for my Brit. Lit. class, and I have to say that I enjoyed it immensely, though I thought it took Scrooge an awfully long time to figure out that the corpse in Christmas Yet to Come was his. Why he dies, I cannot say. Is it possible that Scooginess is enough to kill someone? I guess so.

I was also entertained by a footnote that explained Dickens' obsession with spontaneous combustion. What a strange thing to be obsessed with. It was 19th century England, however. What else was there but rain, thick novels and spontaneous combustion?

On a different note, I rediscovered R.E.M the other day. I was browsing the 'recommended for you' section of itunes when I happened upon an R.E.M. song. I played a snippet to see if it was worth buying, and I recognized it! My Mom has their CD, I think. I remember dancing to it when I was really little.

Conclusions?
1) I may have to call this blog "Hey You"
2) Cool points for Mom
3) Hello, Dickens

Before I Sleep

Right now:

Water is dripping through the radiator, making a distinctively wet sound as it bounces off bits of old pipe.

The window is open, and the lovely March 1st air is peering through the screen.

Ally snores above me. Her hair flutters off her nose with each breath.

"Miles to go before I sleep."

The stack of flash cards grows ever higher.

The minutes tick off into space.

I've put on my taboo Stanford sweatshirt (no one can see it now).

The end is almost in sight.

Failblog

I feel like I am failing with this blog, and I really, really hate failing.
I'm not sure what exactly is giving me this feeling, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I never know what to write anymore. It's not that I don't want to write, it's that I'm sick and tired of repeating myself.
These are the things I typically cover:
1. My daily life (things that happen, people who bug me, college is awesome, etc.)
2. Poems/quotes I like (thought the poetry era has for the most part ended (at least in my blog world))
3. Eloquent bits (aka stories, original poems I write, prose-y descriptions)
4. Lists (often paired with #1)

You see? I should not be able to make a list like this! I don't want this blog to be categorized in any way! I suppose there's nothing I can do about it now, but it's still regrettable.

Here's what's going to happen.
From now on, this blog will have more prose/creative stuff, and less journal-y stuff. I already have a journal. I already have friends to tell things to. I don't need to be repeating all of my complaints in one more medium.

I hope you're okay with this switch. Actually, I don't especially care how you feel about it because:
a) You're not even there
b) This is my blog, and
c) I'm going ahead with the changes with or without your blessing

I'm sorry if that sounded terribly rude, but I'm tired, the people in the room next to me are being incredibly loud, I have a lot of homework, and frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

See you on the other side.