The Nude

I've done such a crappy job of posting lately, I'm a bit ashamed of myself and so I want to make it up to you. This little tidbit is the piece of flash fiction I did for my fiction final. It was hard to write: I had to cut it and edit the crap out of it to get it down to 300 words and it was sad. But here is that final product, which, hopefully, isn't terrible:

The Nude

The first naked body he saw besides his own was at the age of nineteen. One of boys he lived with, an architect, had his middle-aged sister visit for a weekend in April, an April so hot that the buds emerging from the sleepy dirt had shriveled slightly, rethinking their decision to sprout.

She arrived at their apartment around noon, bringing with her one piece of sturdy luggage and a gust of hot, stale air from the train station. She wore a faded pink cotton dress which didn’t hang quite right on her loose, lumpy form. Robert liked her eyes the best: they tore at him, dark and biting in an otherwise demure face. He longed to touch her, to immerse his fingers in the folds of her flesh and see for himself where her softness lay.

He did not mean to walk in on her naked, he explained later to her brother; He did not hear her when she said she was going to take a bath.

Robert was looking for the bottle of Murphy’s Oil they kept in the cupboard beneath the sink: he was going to polish the piano. He did not expect to see the sister standing there, in their mildewed bathroom, her toes pale and exposed against the peeling yellow linoleum. She was entirely naked and stood unmoving, staring at him with startled black eyes. He gazed, entranced, thinking that she looked exactly like the nudes depicted in those Peter Paul Rubens paintings he studied long ago. Her body was plump and gently rolling, the ankles that supported her thick, and solid. Years later he took women to his bed, women with bodies molded and starved to perfection, yet it was the April-time sister that he pictured as he made love to them in the darkness.

December Playlist

Would you forgive me if I said-

This week has been insane, in some good ways but mostly bad ways, and I've barely had a chance to take a breath, so no I haven't edited the tattoo post yet, and I don't want to rail about all my personal crap on this blog, because let's face it, that's just uncomfortable.

But I made this dumb commitment where I said I'd do a post every week, which kind of ruined blogging for me, because I hate commitment. As soon as I commit to something, I stop wanting to do it. However, I'm trying, for once in my life, to stick with something. So I am going to post this week, even if it isn't about anything terribly significant at all.

You know what that means. December playlist time! Enjoy my dears.

(First, before you read on, go and buy these three albums and listen to them on repeat. Then you can listen to the rest of the playlist.
- Ceremonials: Florence + the Machine
- Metals: Feist
- Nine Types Of Light: TV on the Radio)


1. Lonely Boy: The Black Keys
2. Androgyny: Garbage
3. Sea of Love: Cat Power
4. Video Games: Lana Del Rey
5. Poison & Wine: The Civil Wars
6. Flashing Lights: Chase & Status
7. Life is Long When You're Lonely: Monastir
8. The King and All of His Men: Wolfgang
9. How Come You Never Go There: Feist
10. Nicest Thing: Kate Nash
11. Quicksand: La Roux
12. More Than Life: Whitley
13. Bite Hard: Franz Ferdinand
14. Get On: Dirtmitts
15. Colors: Grouplove
16. Falling Slowly: Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova
17. What You Know: Two Door Cinema Club
18. Lisztomania: Phoenix
19. All I Ever Wanted: The Airborne Toxic Event
20. Let's Sick On The Decks: Grandadbob
21. F*** Was I: Jenny Owens Young
22. One Evening: Feist
23. Set Fire to the Third Bar: Snow Patrol
24. We Are Young: Fun ft. Janelle Monae
25. What Beats Within: Jenny Owens Young
26. Stealing Babies: Our Lady Peace
27. Dissolve: Jenny Owens Young
28. Clean Break: Jenny Owens Young

Simple Joys and Christmastime

Today I went to a second-hand clothing shop in Cambridge called The Garment District. I bought 11.6 pounds of clothing for $11.60. I bought three more shirts for around $9 bucks each (they were deemed too nice to go into the dollar-a-pound pile) and also, a hat. I love a good hat. And I love a good bargain. Some of the clothes are, well- understandably discarded by others. But I can make them into something cool, I think. I think almost anything can look cool. It's all about the confidence of the person wearing it.

It rained today: it should've snowed. But even without the snow, tomorrow is still Christmas Eve, and I'm glad. I've discovered something about being home that I never used to know. Since college is in New York and the only time I'm ever home is during school break, it's become a lot more enjoyable of a place. The only things I associate home with anymore are hanging out with people I love, sleeping late in my old bed, playing with my dog: just relaxing. It's really lovely. I like being home so much more now than I ever did in high school. I like it a lot.

I drank a lot of coffee today, far too much- I can't really have caffeine anymore since it does terrible things to my body, but I'm indulging because it's the holidays. Currently I'm in my favorite pajamas (my favorite pajamas always consist partially of worn, faded, over-sized t-shirts.) They're not sexy pajamas, my friend pointed out to me. She said she could picture me, married someday, writing, wearing my skirts all day and then getting home to my cold apartment and climbing in bed with my laptop and my oversized t-shirts and my glasses next to my husband...She can picture my whole life very well. Apartments and the city in the winter and simple joys, takeout meals and candlelight and cheap living all around. Book-reading and throw rugs and things that are broken and things that are recycled and creative and homemade and a lot of making do. I think it sounds like an okay picture.

I'm sitting in my bed, surrounded my my secondhand clothes, watching Bridget Jones' Diary, which is a fairly terrible movie, except I love Renee Zellweger and I love Hugh Grant and I love Colin Firth, and I love Jane Austen remakes too, even crappy ones. And anyway, BJD is one of those crappy movies that I love to indulge myself in once in a while. I'm watching it and eating homemade fudge: one of the perks of having a mother whose a 2nd grade teacher: at Christmastime she gets lots of presents from the kids, and one of those presents is always, inevitably, fudge.

I'm also listening, while I write this, to my winter playlist. Right now it consists of Feist's new album, "Metals", particularly the songs "Graveyard" and "How Come You Never Go There". It also consists of Greg Hansard and Marketa Irglova's song "Falling Slowly", The Civil Wars' song, "Poison and Wine", Lana Del Rey's song, "Video Games", Kate Nash's song, "Nicest Thing", Snow Patrol's song, "Set Fire to the Third Bar"...and well, a lot of other music I'm not going to list right now. But it's beautiful stuff, and it's perfect for the mood I'm in right now. (It's not all depressing, I only listed the sadder songs, because they're what I'm listening to now. They seemed fitting.)

I wrote a long post about tattoos and things, and I'm sorry I didn't post it last week like I said I would. It needs editing and such, but I'm off to watch the rest of the movie now, and eat more fudge, and enjoy my new clothes, and enjoy the rest of my evening. I'll post it in the near future, but until then, Merry Christmas to you all. Take baths while you're home, listen to "Metals", light candles, gaze at your Christmas tree, go into the city at night, try to ice skate if you get a chance, wear scarves and hats and mittens, see old friends, hold hands, sleep late, and drink coffee. Let your souls be brightened, because it is that time of year. I wish you all peace and happiness, if only for this holiday. Tis the season.

Meanwhile, if you're desperate for some good reading and this blog has once again let you down, maybe this will satisfy you till I get some better stuff posted up: http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/one-sentence-love-story/. I certainly enjoyed it.

With Apologies to the People Who Expect Quality Posts on a Regular Basis

It's early Sunday morning, which means technically I missed updating this week. But you'll have to forgive me, it's been a terribly, terribly busy week. I've been doing lots of things and every possible moment of free time has been spent, well, napping. Deep, all-consuming, really restful kind of naps.

The kind of naps it takes a while to recover from. So that's my excuse, pure and simple. Also this weekend, a friend from Mass actually came and visited me, which is really insane, and cool. She goes to RIT, and she's friends with one of my friend's girlfriends. I think it's pretty crazy that I can go to school eight hours away from home, in the middle of nowhere, and meet up with a friend, who just happened to befriend the girlfriend of a guy I just happened to befriend. I love when life works that way.

Anyway she came and visited, for just about 24 hours, which was nice, just to see her and catch up, so far away from home.

Um um um, that's not what this post was supposed to be about though. I don't have a whole post's worth of thoughts regarding my friend's visit.

Let's compromise okay? This isn't a cop out, I promise, but it is the Christmas season, and it's also finals week, so you've got to cut me some slack and let me just post a list of my top ten Christmas movies ever. That way you can go out and watch them while I study my butt off (who am I kidding, I think I've studied my butt off maybe once in my whole life) and then we can reunite next week, when I've flown back home to good old Massachusetts, and I catch my breath, and I have something interesting and worthwhile to write about again.

...

Who am I kidding? I am the most indecisive person ever and as a result of that I don't that I've ever been able to successfully make a top ten list. So just go, go on, put in A Muppet Christmas Carol and drink egg nog while you set up your tree and think of me being hungry and wanting to put my head through a wall for the next five days.

Until we meet again my friends.

The Top Ten Ways To Turn Off Your Man (Are BS)

I came up with a post topic! (Stave off the tears, I'll keep it brief.)

I want to address, just shortly, the problem I have with certain kinds of articles and/or ads that I have been seeing a lot of on the internet lately.

I'm sure you've been exposed to it too: you go to your Yahoo! home page and the first article that catches your eye is something with a headline akin to, "Top Ten Ways Women Turn Off Guys" or "Ten Things You Want to Avoid Doing In a Relationship". I could give you endless variations, but the gist is the same. There are a million different articles out there trying to tell women what we're doing wrong in relationships, why guys dump us, or don't want to be with us, all the ways we're turning them off and scaring them off and basically just screwing ourselves over.

I find it a little bit offensive, and more than a little bit sad, especially considering the fact that I know there are women out there who read these articles, and more than that, believe the things they tell them.

I know when I was young and desperate, I used to fall prey to that sort of thing. I'd click some article, certain it was going to give me all the secrets to why that relationship didn't work out the way I wanted, why that guy dumped me, what I was doing wrong. Each article gives different, often contradictory advice: you're coming on too strong, you're not coming on strong enough, you don't pay enough attention to him, you give him too much of your attention, you need to be less needy, you need to act like you need him more...the list goes on and on and on. I've read some that have said women are too family-oriented, they are not good enough "home-makers", they spend too much time with their friends, they nag, they don't communicate, they're possessive, they don't attempt (enough) to be attractive, and they are even too religious. All these things and more seem to be the reason that us girls are getting the shaft left and right these days.

Honestly, I think it's all a load of crap. Almost every one of these articles I've read, whether coming straight out and saying it or doing so in a more roundabout manner, encourages "mind games". They don't want you to be yourself or let the guy you're interested in know what you're really thinking. They want you to play "hard to get" but not too hard to get: they want you to hide all your quirks and craziness and shave your legs every single day. Act like you want kids and a family someday, because if you don't he's going to think you're a cold, heartless vixen with whom he could never settle down, but don't talk about the family or a future too soon or he'll go running for the hills.

Basically, suppress everything about yourself, and you should be fine.

It's disturbing to me, it really is, that women feel they have to play these games to lure a man in and finally get him to marry her. I'm not down with that guys. I don't believe in playing games like I did when I was younger. Those games, they always left me just as alone and empty as before.

Basically, I think 18-year-old comedian Shelby Fero* might have said it best in a brilliant little blog post entitled: Go ahead and look desperate.

Obviously this is not me trying to tell you to run up to the guy you have a crush on and tell him you want to marry him. I don't think that'd really be very advisable.

But stop playing games, Girls. And stop wondering what's wrong with you, when guys don't call you back, or ask you for a second date, or break up with you when you thought it was going splendidly. It's not you. It just didn't work out this time, and that's okay. Let's face it: the majority of your relationships won't. You only really need one that will. So please, stop reading these articles and basing your behavior off the things these idiots have to tell you. If you have to win your guy through games and mindplay, is he really the man you want to be married to for the rest of your life?

Maybe I don't really know what I'm talking about, maybe I'll be single forever, never married, never even engaged, but you know what? That's okay with me. I think I'm secure enough in myself to know that it's okay to just be myself with a guy and if he's worth my time, if he actually matters, he'll stick around anyway.

That's just what I think about it.

*If you haven't checked out Shelby Fero yet, do it. Now. Go. Do it. Look through her tumblr archives, look her up on Twitter, read her articles on Cracked.com...(I'm pretty sure she's written for other places too, but I'll let her do her own further promoting...) Just check her out. You won't regret it.

**I realize at the top I said I'd keep it brief. Well I didn't really. But if you're reading this, then I guess you plowed on through anyway. Thanks for that.

The Deal

It seems that, unintentionally, I've begun doing weekly blog posts. I just want you to know now, how sorry I am. I really never meant to do this to you, I never meant to subject you to the inner workings of my mind on a regular, weekly basis. It was so much nicer for everyone, I know, back during the summer when I only posted once, maybe twice a month. Or how about the past year, when I didn't even have a blog at all, after I deleted my first one (I DID have a blog before this, believe it or not, but thank God, nobody has access to it anymore, not even me.) So anyhow, I'm sorry, but I just can't help myself. I've come to the conclusion, this week in particular, that it's just too exhausting to be me, to have to hear the incessant thoughts going on in my own head all the time. I honestly can't stand it. So I need somewhere to unleash it all, and I think that my friends, as much as they love and adore me, kind of want to punch me in the face...

So here I am, blogging my thoughts instead.

I have nothing further to say here, maybe I'll come up with something in the near future (your screams of protest are noted). I just wanted to let you know what the deal was gonna be from now on.

Once again, my deepest, sincerest apologies.

Mainers

My relatives from Maine are a strange assembly of people. I could do a really long, detailed post about it and analyze exactly how growing up with this bunch of characters affected my father and how that, in turn, affected me. Not gonna do it though. I just want to give you a brief rundown of my family right now:

Conrad: My father. Average-sized man. Full head of hair. White goatee. Tells bad jokes. Drinks coffee with three creams and three sugars. Quotes a lot of Bible verses. Doesn't understand almost any pop culture references, even a little bit.

Tammy: My father's sister. Redneck Ellen DeGeneres.

Roland: Second son. Construction worker. Kills deer, and moose, sometimes. He fell off a roof last February and his left eye still looks smaller to me, like the swelling never went down. Gruff.

Rick: Born Ricky. Legally changed to Jonah. Hairdresser turned banker. Loves his iPhone more than any person should. Flamboyant. Lives in two bedroom apartment with one ex-boyfriend, one fat chihuaha and...well I don't really know what else.

Steve: Unemployed. Divorcing. Beet-red face, from being outside all the time. Beer and cigarettes. Misses his kids. Loves my little white dog. Lives with my Nanna now. Crier.

These are my father and his siblings. They all grew up with an alcoholic lobsterman father and a mother who was probably too young. Now, they are all so very very different from each other. They all live in Maine, except my father, who got religion and went to Gordon College in Massachusetts, became a youth pastor and married the assistant youth leader.

Seeing them all in the same room together is very odd. They get along well enough. My dad is just talkative; he will talk to anybody. Uncle Rick is that gay man we all know: hysterical, probably should use a filter more often. Aunt Tammy makes everyone laugh. Uncle Roland never cracks a smile: he's got that deadpan sense of humor that's kind of scary till you're used to it. Uncle Steve teases everyone, like a child, maybe because he doesn't know how to be a grown up, maybe because it's easier not to take anything seriously. My Nanna bustles around trying to feed everyone and treats them as if they were still little kids, saying things in her backwoods Maine grammar, like, "You gettin' into trouble Connie?" to my father, or "If you wasn't so busy watching that foolish television, maybe your food would still be hot, Steven." They all laugh and joke and fool. To mask the pain, to mask how hard it is, for them all to get together and put aside their issues and their memories and their huge, gaping differences and get along.

I wish I had a conclusion to draw, or even one measly thought to offer up on all I've just written. I don't really. It's just, interesting that's all.

I Didn't Wash My Hair

I want to write tonight about home. Home is such an abstract concept and I don't even really think I understand it, or have the words to describe what I think it is.

I actually feel very conflicted about the concept of home right now. I've just returned to my little town in Massachusetts for the first time after leaving for New York three months ago. We drove in around nine o'clock last night. Everything was dark and sparkly, the lights were on and there were cars were on the road, lots of them actually. It felt nice to feel, I don't know, like I was in the world again. I love my college, but it's easy to feel like you're lost there sometimes. Or like the world is rushing on and leaving you behind. Maybe that's because I'm young. I think when I am old, I will like the feeling of being tucked away somewhere, untouched by the world as it goes faster and faster and faster, like the Tucks in Tuck Everlasting (a movie which, let me tell you, absolutely broke my thirteen-year-old heart the first time I saw it).

I looked at all the familiar road signs. The stretch of highway I'd seen before, my father's white beard and the driving glasses he's so proud of, the fast food restaurants in exactly the same location I'd left them. That ugly mustard-colored house that sits across the road from the complex we live in. The sight of my little dog in the headlights, because my mom was walking her to the mailboxes when we pulled up.

And then we got into my house and it was exactly the same but exactly different. The living room, so comfortably messy, as its been as long as I can remember. I went to my bedroom, and it was...empty. My nightstand was gone from my bed, and there were new fancy pillows on the sheets. I set down my laundry bag and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at my sister unhappily. "This feels wrong," I said to her. "This feels all wrong."

"It's the same old room," she said and settled right into her bed like she'd never left it for a second.

Today I saw friends. I went to my old high school, and saw how it had changed. I visited my old band teacher: this man was like a second father to me, I don't know that I would've survived high school without him. He sat at his desk and I told him not to judge me because I'd slept through my alarm and hadn't had the time to wash my hair that morning: he showed me pictures of his daughter, who is one now, and has teeth in her head and blue eyes like him. I hugged people, people I never used to hug. We were too familiar to hug, if that makes sense. But today, I hugged them all.

I watched my best friend step off a bus and walk toward a car, where his girlfriend and his best friends were waiting for him. His girlfriend couldn't contain herself, she flung the door open and climbed out of the backseat and toppled into his arms. It was really like those reunifications you think only happen in the movies. They were so happy to see each other. They stopped hugging and kissing finally and he gave me a big long hug. We never used to hug much, only one or two notable times in high school. It felt good, but strange.

"What's wrong?" he asked me when he pulled away.

"I didn't have time to wash my hair this morning," was all I could say.

We talked a bit, but it was freezing in the wind and every time he'd catch sight of Lindsey again, he'd grab her, pull her back to him, like he couldn't stand to be away from her another second.

We went to school then, and I saw my old best friend from forever. I don't really know what to call her now. Our relationship used to be too close and then too far, and then just confusing. We've had a lot of hurt and misunderstanding and that sort of thing between us: we've been through everything together, and I don't really know where that leaves us now. I don't know what to do with it now. It was good to see her, she didn't care that I hadn't showered. She hugged me and told me to save time for her before I left. I mean to.

I walked through the hallways of my old high school and remembered what it used to be like to go there. All the things that happened to me there. All the things that changed me there. I thanked God that I didn't have to go there anymore. It had changed, and I felt an intruder, but I didn't mind that. I don't want to be familiar there anymore.

Anyway. This is just a lot of recounting and I don't know exactly what the point is. I don't have much to say about it. I just, wanted to write it down I guess, maybe to figure out how I feel. I'm not sure. It's just all surreal. It's strange.

It's strange not to know where your home is anymore. I've lived in this little town in Massachusetts for my entire life. My family's never even moved houses, not once. Suddenly, I left, for three months, and moved to New York. And now I come back here and everything has changed. I miss being home. And by saying that I don't mean in Massachusetts and I don't mean in New York.

I guess, I mean, I miss that comfort. I miss being certain of my life, certain at all, of anything. I miss feeling like I knew where I was going. I miss feeling like I wasn't scared of where I'd end up. Growing up has many lovely aspects to it, that's for sure.

But I'm frightened too, I won't pretend.

The Quin Sisters and the Lesbian Culture

I have long been a fan of the Canadian twin sister musical duo Tegan & Sara. In fact, our history is more long and convoluted, more passionate and committed than that of most relationships I've had. It makes it so that writing a blog post about them is an overwhelming task, to say the least.

But I'm going to attempt it, mainly because I want to address a problem I have. A problem with the lesbians, actually. A problem with the lesbians stealing Tegan & Sara all for themselves.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe I should give you a little background history about my relationship with the Quin sisters. I was first introduced to the girls my sophomore year of high school. Fifteen years old. It was love, instantly. At the time, the name "Sarah" was a sort of inside joke among my close friends (we thought dumb things were funny then; we still kind of do), and so when my best friend stumbled across a youtube movie about a lesbian named Sara, he sent me a link:

The song, called "Creeping Out Sara" by NOFX, details, through the use of lewd lyrics and the employment of several derogatory lesbian stereotypes, lead singer Fat Mike's (fictionalized?) encounter backstage at a German music festival with Sara Quin. The situation proves an embarassing one for Fat Mike who (in my opinion) crudely attempts to hit on Sara before realizing just who he is speaking to and her lesbian identity.

While I could go on about the inanity of that particular satirical song, I won't (afterellen.com covered it pretty well for me, I think*), I can't hate entirely on what NOFX did, simply because, were it not for their idiocy, I may never have heard of Tegan & Sara myself. I find that an unlikely assertion, because I've been around the music world enough to feel like it's safe to say I would've found out about T&S eventually some other way. But I do think it's interesting to note that this right here is a real-life example of the mantra "any publicity is good publicity". Watching that stupid movie my sophomore year of high school ushered me into the world of Tegan & Sara, a world that would welcome me with open, alluring arms and never let me go. Seriously, T&S is like a drug to me, and no matter where I've been in my life, I haven't been able to get away from my intense love for these gay Candian girls.

But now I finally get to my point. Yes, we're talking about The L-Word (no, not love, and not the TV show either,) but the actual word. Lesbians. The lesbians have taken Tegan & Sara for themselves. And it's a problem.

This blog post is not and I repeat not meant to assert any sort of opinions or judgments on lesbians one way or the other. Gay culture is a hugely loaded topic and not one that I want to tackle at this time, for various personal reasons. The point at hand is the stigmas associated with listening to (and loving) T&S.

Now I'm someone who listens to a lot of different music, and a good deal of it is music more commonly associated with gay culture. What can I say? Lesbians have some good taste in music. So does it make me a lady-lover, because I love to listen to lady-lovers?

Absolutely not. But that doesn't mean it hasn't been challenging. Listening to Tegan & Sara, admitting they're my favorite band, has been something that has changed in meaning for me over the years. I have a problem with two of the reactions I've seen.

If you're a heterosexual and you love Tegan & Sara, the assumption is you must be closeted.

If you're a lesbian and you love Tegan & Sara, the assumption is that you're just fullfilling the lesbian stereotype and why don't you go find a new band, get a little bit original for a change, and not be just exactly like every other lesbian this side of the Atlantic.

Either way, you can't win.

It's frustrating to me, because Tegan & Sara's sexuality influences so much of their fan base. It either draws people in or pushes people away, and if you listen to them, that sends out a pretty definitive message about your sexuality in our culture's eyes.

What I want to know is why can't I just listen to Tegan & Sara because they make lovely music, because their lyrics speak to me in a profound way, and because I just like them? Why does it have to say something about me? Why does it have to mean that I'm either keeping a secret or subscribing to a cliche? Why can't it just be about what it is: music.

This may always be a losing battle. Tegan & Sara are pretty open about their sexuality and politically, they're very involved. I don't reprimand them for this; on the contrary, I appreciate their honesty. But it has made it so that they've developed a sort of cult-lesbian following, an ever-growing group of frighteningly obsessive she-stalkers. And it's a little unfortunate, that one can't listen to Tegan & Sara anymore (I've found) without incurring a million different judgments from different people, no matter whether you're gay or not.

I think it needs to be said that some of us just like T&S. We just think they're great, plain and simple, all sexual preferences aside. We may even just blow out the remaining $62 of our old bank account on a pre-order of their new tour DVD and included signed posters. Cause we may just really appreciate some good tunes and talented artists.

Can't we just leave it at that?

*http://www.afterellen.com/blog/stubbs/pop-punk-band-nofx-writes-a-song-about-creeping-out-tegan-and-sara

**On a side note, if you've never listened to Tegan & Sara before, look them up. They're one of those bands that's so very diverse, it's hard not to find something you can like about them. Or many things you can fall in love with about them.

My Sex-Drive's Impending Doom

Talking with my roommate about the fact that I'm going to lose all my sex-drive pretty soon. I'm not joking people, (and yes, I know, this is a little bit personal to be posting online, but I'm DRUGGED UP I DON'T CARE), my sex-drive's days are numbered. See, I got these new pills today...a lot of new pills, for lots of fun, different things. One of the pills, according to the doctor, is going to wipe out my sex-drive like a freight train over a pancake. Gone. Just done. Wonderful. I will be eighteen-years-old and have absolutely no desire in me for sex whatsoever.

I think it's a little unfortunate, seeing as how my sex-drive influences somewhere around 82% of my behavior. My sex-drive is the only reason I have the will to get out of bed in the morning and go through the exhausting process of showering and attempting to look half-way-maybe-in-an-alternate-universe-some-semblance-of-the-word-appealing.

I haven't started the drugs yet though, so there's still time. Only like twenty-four hours left where I'm going to have any libido at all! What to do, what to do...

Probably gonna go finish my homework and call it a night.

Autumn Playlist

Autumn will soon be coming to a close, and, in the spirit of continuity, I thought I'd post an Autumn playlist.

Enjoy.

My Autumn Playlist:

1. Shame: PJ Harvey
2. Embrace: Chase & Status ft. White Lies

3. The Rockefeller Skank: Fatboy Slim

4. Summersun: Miami Horror

5. Another Case: Uh Huh Her

6. Godless Brother In Love: Iron & Wine

7. White Blank Page: Mumford & Sons

8. Body 21: Morningwood

9. Kiss Cam: Arkells

10. Where Eagles Have Been: Wolfmother

11. You Know You're Right: Nirvana

12. Day Old Hate: City & Colour

13. Barbra Streisand: Duck Sauce

14. Feel Good Inc.: Gorillaz

15. Fool: Cat Power

16. Back Stabbin' Betty: Cage the Elephant

17. Hurt: Johnny Cash

18. Fly Away: Lenny Kravitz

19. Adelaide: Old 97's

20. Body Work: Tegan & Sara (not the collaboration with Morgan Page, look up on Youtube their own version they did live over the summer)

21. Cupid's Trick: Elliott Smith

22. Broken Jaw: Foster the People

23. Space + Time: The Pierces

24. Heart of Stone: The Raveonettes

25. Forever: MEME

26. Destroy Me: Lilofee

27. Is This It: The Strokes

28. MMMNN: Grandadbob

29. Mongrel Heart: Broken Bells

30. Next Girl: The Black Keys

31. Only Girl: Ricky Eat Acid

32. Glad Man Singing: Iron & Wine

33. Heart's A Mess: Gotye

34. Judas: Cage the Elephant

35. A Million Miles An Hour: Eastern Conference Champions

36. The Only One: The Black Keys

37. Don't Stop (Color on the Walls): Foster the People

38. Sleep the Winter: eagleowl

39. His Love: Tegan Quin

40. Love Me Tender: Norah Jones

(This is just what I have been listening to this Autumn, or listening to the most rather. This is not my comprehensive, pervasive, all-time epic Autumn Playlist. Maybe someday I'll post that one. Probably not though.)

*Recent Honorable Mention: Cheers (Drink to That): Rihanna

Swearing and Christianity

I have always been under the impression that Christians aren't allowed to swear. It's just not something we do. It is universally understood among us that there are naughty words that we absolutely cannot say. How scandalous would it be if the pastor's wife walked up to a member of the congregation one day and said "What an ass that man is." Or "This damn heat is killing me."

I can answer that for you: It'd be pretty scandalous.

In fact, I'm not even sure if the pastor's wife is allowed to say the word "sucks" or "screwed". I know growing up I wasn't even supposed to say "shut up".

In high school, of course, I was exposed to a variety of bad language. From the graphic to the crude to the racially insensitive to the very, very explicit, I've heard it all. And to be honest, I've probably used most of it too.

It's fair to say that my level of profanity usually fluctuates with my spirituality on any given day. If I'm feeling really close to God, going to church a lot, praying, being all convicted, then I'm going to be trying to keep my language pretty clean. If I'm in a slump and I've decided I just can't even try anymore, those days of deep discouragement...you're apt to hear an f-bomb or two escape my lips.

The odd thing is though, that sometimes, even when I'm feeling really close to God, even when I've been reading my Bible and really consciously trying to live the right way, swear words still abound in my life. Now I'm a writer so obviously I have a pretty varied vocabulary (or at least, I ought to). There are so many words in this world I could use, and no one is more aware of that fact than me. So why do I resort to vulgarity?

Because sometimes, it's just necessary.

I have experienced great inner turmoil regarding this subject for years, and it's something I'm still debating now. Should we, as Christians, use swear words? I just don't know. See, I've met Christians, great Christian people, and even moreso since coming to college, who use some pretty colorful language. Maybe not even colorful. Maybe they don't run around saying "fuck this shit" all the time, but their language isn't necessarily all sweet and mild-mannered either. They'll say ass or damnit or what a bitch! Often the people I respect the most, both as humans and as God-fearing Christians, use some questionable language. And it's confusing. What's the deal?

Here's the conclusion I've reached right now. I'm eighteen years old, living in America. I grew up in Massachusetts; I now live in New York. I went to a public school all my life and I'm a writer. Though I attend a Christian college, I'm very much in the secular world.

I hear swear words. I listen to music with swear words (and for this, I don't feel that guilty. Perhaps I should, perhaps the Lord will convict me. But for now, I don't really have an issue with it, unless it crosses a line), I watch movies with swear words. I have friends at home who swear and as a writer, my characters often need to swear, because they're real people and that's how real people talk. Some of the people I think are funny, some of the people I talk to and respect, they swear. I read a lot of literature, not even for pleasure, just as a part of my major, that uses swear words.

I know a lot of Christians, some that are very very close to me, that won't let a word even mildly profane cross their lips. And I guess that's their personal feeling about it. But my feeling is, I live in the world. I may be attempting, as the Bible says, to live in it and not be of it, but the fact remains that I am in it. Very much so. And it's real and it's here. And I don't want to be one of those prissy little holier-than-thou types who frowns down at those who use language that's a bit more, spicy, shall we say.* I think there's a line, of course. I don't think Christians need to go out and string a bunch of bad words together and scream them at the world. I don't think that's how Christ should be represented and I don't think that's mature, or necessary. But a little mild language once in a while, in the appropriate setting? I think there are worse things to worry about, greater issues that we need to battle, bigger fights we need to fight. I think that sometimes, bad language is just honest. Just as graphic, sometimes vulgar, not-nice descriptions are honest. That's real life people. It's not all sunshine and rainbows. Yes I'm a Christian, I go to church and Sunday School when I'm home and chapel three times a week. I went to youth group all through my adolescence, I do VBS every year, nursery one Sunday a month and I volunteered for Awana my whole senior year.** And I love it all, just like I love God. But I also know what a penis is and I'm not afraid to say that word. So that's how I feel about it.

Also. Sex.

*Wow I sound really judgmental. I know it's just furthering the cycle when people judge the judgers. But I don't feel like censoring myself right now.

**I mention those things, not because they make me a Christian. Obviously they don't. But they do make me a "church" person I guess, and those "church" people are the ones (and here you'll have to allow me to generalize) that are most easily scandelized by inappropriate language.

Things To Do Instead of Write a Story About a Gay Boy Named Alan

These are all the things that I have been filling my night with, rather than writing a story about a gay boy named Alan (which is the homework I actually need to complete for my fiction class).

1. dye hair with red kool-aid

2. look up organic soap online

3. take a typing test, to yet again discover that I type averagely somewhere between 87 and 93 wpm (my version of a pick-me-up)

4. think about how much I like doing laundry

5. change clothes

6. wonder if I should've closed the blinds before I changed clothes

7. look up tlc's "don't go chasing waterfalls" on youtube and sing along

8. eat a handful of flavor-blasted goldfish and then vow that will be the last handful

9. go on facebook

10. go on twitter

11. go on whydoihaveablog.net, which is probably one of the funniest blogs I have ever read in my life (which is saying something, because I've read a lot of blogs), probably because it is so frighteningly relatable...

12. in a fit of productivity, ex out of EVERY website open on my browser and go back to typing asdfghjkl over and over again on a blank document

13. turn on my iTunes

14. browse the iTunes library of every other Houghton student who has their homeshare turned on, especially the libraries named "An Organist Does Listen to Some Normal Music", "KFURMZ", and "Charlie Sheen"

15. Charlie Sheen's library was a let down

16. but he had a whole bunch of 3OH!3 on there so...

17. listen to the entire 3OH!3 Want album, and realize I still know all the lyrics to every song

18. finish the album and feel really guilty because I just wasted like an hour of writing time jamming out to, of all bands, 3OH!3...

19. wonder who i even am anymore

20. contemplate existence

21. go back onto facebook

22. still no notifications, nobody loves me

23. try to estimate the number of people i can pretty safely bet on attending my funeral if i died

24. ex out of facebook, listen to Any Color Black

25. spray my imitation Toms with that Pumpkin Linen Spray I got from my friend Hannah who has 6 sisters

26. wonder what it would've been like to have 6 sisters...

27. eat another handful of goldfish. THIS IS THE LAST HANDFUL TONIGHT SERIOUSLY.

28. realize it's really super cold in my room and crawl under the covers

29. go back on Twitter to post about how good I am at wasting time

30. decide making a whole blog post out of it would be much cuter

31. make a blog post

32. post it

33. tweet about it

34. make a facebook status about the tweet

35. email everyone in the UNIVERSE about the facebook status

36. text my whole address book to check their emails

37. is there any other way I can communicate with half the planet in about .5 seconds?

38. bite my nails

39. i should probably start writing that newspaper article i have due tuesday

40. i should probably start writing that TEN PAGE STORY i have due for my fiction class tomorrow, which is a really important assignment, not only because it's a major grade for the class, but because it incidentally also happens to be the thing i kind of want to do with my life

41. listen to anya marina's version of t.i.'s "whatever you like", #gawshiloveagoodremake

42. ok, ok, im gonna write now

43. write the story about a gay boy named alan, hand it in, its brilliant, get it published, pulitzer prize, lots of money, drop out of college, rich life in vienna

44. why vienna, we'll never know, it just sounded really good...

(the blogger has left to now commence working on #43, be back never)

Why Ayn Rand Was A Hipster

I am a music snob. Which is the nice way of saying I judge people (sometimes, I'm trying to get better) based on the music they listen to. It's also a nice way of saying that I have really high standards for the music I listen to. And nothing gets under my skin so much as when I discover some underground hidden gem of a band and then suddenly, a few weeks later, every little radio-feeder and her brother is jamming out to it in their car saying OMG OMG I love this song, it's just like sooo good.

That pisses me off.

That, to me, is like if you went down into a mine and you spent hours of your time just chipping away at the stone with your little pick. And you kept coming up with rock after rock after dusty, dirty rock. But then finally. Finally, you found a diamond. And you were so excited, you raced all the way back up into the daylight with your treasure, barely able to contain yourself, only to walk into the local jewlery store, the sweat and dirt of your labors still streaking your face, and find that they're just giving away diamonds. Just like yours. To every single person who walks in the door. Not cool.

Apparently, this makes me a hipster.

Which is cool. I mean, I honestly didn't even really fully understand what a hipster was until I came to college and all of a sudden all these people were telling me that that's what I was, just another hipster. Here I was my whole life thinking I was all original and individualistic, only to discover that there's actually a cliche for people who hate cliches. And that's all I am.

Awesome.

But in all seriousness, despite the fact that there seem to be many negative associations with hipsterism, I truly don't mind being categorized that way. Because it's kinda true. I kind of agree with a lot of what these hipster people seem to subscribe to. And they have cool style. And they listen to awesome music. They are fellow music snobs.

The funny thing is is that I didn't become hipster just to be hipster. I didn't even know what that was. I used to be the only other person I knew who thought this way, who went on these insane, annoying rants about creativity and individuality. So that's really just how I think, I'm not trying to subscribe to some trend or culture. Although it is kind of cool to finally feel like maybe there is a place I belong, even if it's a place that's really weird and the rest of the world seems to hate on.
Not that I'm labelling myself guys. Hipsters don't do that...

So anyway, I got to thinking about all this again yesterday, actually all due to the song "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. That has been one of my favorite songs for probably about a year now. I found out about Edward Sharpe from my friend and the first song I looked up was 40 Day Dream. And now I love them. Desert Song blows my mind every time I hear it. And Home is just lovely. It's just a lovely, happy song.

But it's also a song that, suddenly, mainstream culture seems to be aware of. People whose taste in music I don't respect, people who don't get a lot of exposure to different bands and who certainly don't go out and search for music themselves: these people know about Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

And I hate to admit it but it makes me crazy. I have a totally irrational reaction to that fact. I freak out. Like these people don't deserve to listen to Edward Sharpe, because they only know one song. and their medium of discovery was the radio.

So, let's evaluate. I found out about them through a friend's recommendation and then looked them up on Youtube. I don't have their whole album, and I have about three songs on my iPod. Does this mean I am more worthy of listening to and enjoying them?

No. When I think about it honestly, I don't think it does. In fact, I think all it makes me, is a hypocrite. There are plenty of bands I only own one song from; there are bands I own a handful of songs by but still claim them as a favorite on my facebook page. Is that any more authentic than the radio-feeders (my self-coined term) who just happened to catch a song on a popular radio station?

What is this selfish tendency inside myself to want to hide away my favorite things in life? This even extends beyond music. It still gets me worked up that it's "cool" to like The Office. If Parks and Recreation becomes trendy, I'm probably going to have a breakdown. Just today a friend and I were talking about Jane Austen and how the fact that I love her makes me just another cliche, girly, hormonal, chocolate-consuming English major. It makes me so mad, when other people love the things I love. When I discover something beautiful, real art, I want to keep it for myself and I don't want anyone else to be let in on the secret.

Remind you of someone? I know. When we read The Fountainhead in high school, it might not be a surprise that the character who resonated with me most was Dominique Francon.
And so it makes me wonder: Could Ayn Rand have been a hipster?

I'm not trying to make a literary analysis piece out of this. I don't intend to give you quotes from Rand's novels or support from her personal diaries to try and prove Ayn's identity as the original hipster. (Her clothes might pose a problem with the validity of that thesis...) I just think it's funny, when you think about it, to realize that this idea of superiority in orginality and creativity and all that snobbishness that accompanies that...it's nothing new.

Roark and Dominique did it first. And they probably did it better.

Enamored of the Cage

I would like to know why I am so enamored of my cage?

I knew it was there, for years I knew. I saw it every morning when I woke up, I played and pranced in it all day long till I fell asleep, cradled by its metal walls. It was always such a pretty cage and I felt quite at home. I knew that I was locked up, but I didn't even try to escape. I didn't want to get out.

Oh the walls were guilded, gold and sparkly, so appealing to me. I knew they were just cheap metal, only a shadow of the authentic thing. But the flashy, fake stuff- I wanted it. I admired it. I felt pretty in my enclosure. It was comfortable in there, and it got so that I thought I'd stay there forever. I knew others might consider me foolish. I knew they might tell me that I was locked up, that I needed to break free. But really, I thought, they were the ones imprisoned and not me. They couldn't see that it was I who had achieved a new level of freedom. I had emancipated myself, I had reached a higher place of thinking and it felt so good. It felt so right. My cage was glorious, oh how I loved my cage.

But I soon found that it was lacking in there. I soon discovered that I was locked up. I truly was a prisoner, and I didn't even know how to get out anymore. I didn't want to get out; that was the most twisted part. I was isolating myself from all those who loved me. Most of all, I was isolating myself from my Jesus. He watched me in the cage, fluttering about, basking in all my affected glory, and He wept. He wept for His little bird that did not want the freedom He had sacrificed so much to give. He had opened the door and I had looked the other way.

Now that I know that I am bound, I have decided that I want to get out. But it hasn't been easy. I am timid, I am weak. My wings are broken, my beak not strong. I hop tentatively out into the air, and it smells so good; the breeze ruffles my wings and I want to let myself be carried away. But before long, I run back. I run back to my cage. I turn around and throw myself back in and shut the door behind me.

I am enamored of my cage.

I see it, I know it exists and I can escape. But I want the cage. I liked it there.

Oh God I will never get out on my own. I need You to carry me and smash the cage with Your fist. Forgive this little bird and heal her once again. Don't let her go.

Don't let me go.

Hey, You're Playing With My Delirium

I haven't written in a while, which is funny, because I thought college was going to be the place where I finally began writing. Since, you know, that's my major and all. But no, ever since I got here, I've been like a dried-up well. The words don't come to me anymore. I have a fiction class, where I'm assigned writing, where I'm graded on the material I produce.

And I find myself, for the first time ever, with nothing to say. The little tidbits I produce are stilted and forced and dry and even I, their author, can't bear to read them without getting bored. What happened to the bright-eyed poet whose high school English teacher thought she had so much potential- real, genuine potential?

I don't tell people what she said about me. It was the best compliment I have ever received in my entire life, it is the best compliment I will ever receive in my entire life, but I can't tell anybody that because I'll sound like I'm full of myself. And maybe I am. I try not to be, I try. I have never been a person with a great deal of confidence or a high self-esteem. I have been chastised for my low sense of self-worth. So finally, it felt good, to be proud, to have a superlative attached to my name. It felt good to walk around with that knowledge sitting on my shoulders. So maybe that's why I feel so inadequate now. Maybe I got too big of a head. Maybe I let the compliment get to me.

Is God taking this away from me? I feel that He has taken so much. He has put me through so much. I don't want to pity myself, but. I have been humbled over and over again and yet, still, there is more pride in me, and God wants to tear away the foundation of it that I have built my life on. Everything I love, I want, I am good at, is stripped away. I have struggled with health problems, anxiety, issues of lust and sexuality. My relationships and my personal well-being have all been rocked to the core. And now, my mind. Is he going to take that from me too?

I find myself tired.

I don't want to write. I don't want to try. I find that I am constantly going, going, running, running, and I am tired. I need time to myself, time to rest and recharge and revitalize. I need to be alone, to write, and to think, and to pray. But I have no sense of priority. I give give give and run run run and talk talk talk till I am sick to death of the sound of my own voice. I no longer live in my head, I live in the world. I remember watching a television show where they talked about this woman, who was a writer, and how people thought she was weird because she was always in her own head and it made her a hard person to have a relationship with, and at the time I thought, I'm not like that, I never want to be like that. But I am like that. I don't think it's possible to be a writer and not be like that. People demand my attention and I give it to them and in that giving, I sacrifice my art. I am giving of myself to people instead of writing, which sounds healthy, maybe it is, but it is destroying my craft and I feel useless and annoyed.

I just want to write again. I need to be dark and alone and full of want again, in order to write again.

But I am distracted. Distractions abound and I cannot escape them.

I am at the doctors, at the bank, at the gym. I am cleaning, I am at the boys' dorm, I am doing laundry, I am listening to my roommate, I am skyping, I am texting, I am doing my homework, I am sitting in class, I am eating a meal, I am getting coffee, playing ping pong, keeping up correspondence, I am talking to my counselor, I am everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Even now, I am being begged, being watched and pulled to come away, come away from yourself and be with me.

It is nice to be wanted but I want myself back. I don't want to be distracted anymore. I don't want to be pulled apart at the limbs.

And most of all, I don't want to spend all my days staring at you, thinking about you, and yet never, not once, even speaking to you.

Freshman Woes

Sitting here on the bed in my new home. My "home" is a college dormitory and it has been my home for two days. Two mornings. Two nights. I am fairly certain I am the only one in her dorm room right now and I don't know why that is the case, nor do I like that it is the case, but it is. I am sitting in my dorm room, entirely alone.

My mother keeps texting me panickedly, reminding me how "special" I am and verifying to make sure that I haven't committed suicide yet.

I spent the greater part of three hours in uncrontrollable, though muffled, tears.

You see for some reason, even though I come from a public high school in Massachusetts, where I have always, without fail, had a best friend, it seems that I no longer possess the social skills required to make friends. No- although everyone else around me seems to have settled into it quite nicely, I am unable to make a single friend worth mentioning.

It has been the most miserable weekend of my life. (Even further humiliating because I'm being such a baby about it. Who have I become? A girl who cries! Because she has no friends! I don't even want to look at myself in the mirror right now...)

Am I socially awkward? I don't think so. There are plenty of socially awkward people here, and they've all seemed to make friends. They run around in socially awkward groups. There are cliques of socially awkward people; the socially awkward people are the ones leaving me out right now. I, who spent the day in my room, under a heap of tissues, wondering if I would ever escape this terrible mess that is currently my life.

I don't know how everyone else managed to make friends so quickly or moreso why I somehow didn't. My sister is a sophomore here, she loves it and has wonderful friends.

I just want to make friends myself.

I want Christian friends, for once in my life. Sweet, funny girls who are firmly rooted in their faith and have high standards for themselves and those close to them. I unfortunately am not skilled at making friends with people who I've never talked to before. I'm not exactly shy, but I'm not open. It takes me a while to feel comfortable with somebody, comfortable enough to be myself. And after today, I don't think I blame these people for not wanting to be my friend. I wouldn't really want to be friends with me either.

I start to question whether I am really this dull? How did I never notice it before? There have been times in my life where I have been convinced that I am charming, funny, totally unique and who wouldn't want to be my friend?

This is not one of those times.

I truly don't remember how I made friends before this.

I truly wonder if I will ever have friends again?

Listening

Son of Sam- Elliott Smith

Did you know that Elliot Smith is dead? He is. I did not know this until a few weeks ago when I happened upon Jon Foreman's blog or something and he wrote about going to an Elliott Smith concert where the power went out and Elliott came on stage with candles and played acoustic till the power came on and then he finished the night with a bang and a light show and it was beautiful. And then Jon Foreman talked about hearing of Elliott's death and the profound impact it had on him.

To be honest, I read that blog post and I thought, huh, the name Elliott Smith sounds awful familiar, and I checked my iTunes and there it was, a hidden gem of a song, Elliott Smith's "Son of Sam". I've always loved that song. It is the only song by Elliott Smith I have ever heard but it's one of the most lovely.

Elliott was depressed. He died at the age of 34, and, considering that at the time he was working on his 6th studio album and was world-renowned with a dedicated fan following, I'd say he did pretty well for himself. Success-wise anyway.

But when he died, who was there? His girlfriend? Who else? Anyone? Was he glad? Or surprised. You know like in action films when a character gets stabbed, they fall back almost instantly and die with an expression of shock still frozen on their faces.

I wonder why. Why people who make things so beautiful are always so sad. I hope that isn't a non-negotiable. Like how art and angst go hand in hand, you can't have one without the other. I hope you can be happy and still create things that will speak to people's souls.

It feels odd to be listening to Elliott Smith now, to hear his voice so close to me singing lyrics so, potent, and know that he is no longer alive. That this piece of him I hear is just a fragment left behind, something he couldn't even take with him. That the thing that made these sounds that croon me to sleep at night- that body is decomposing in the dirt somewhere.

Summer Playlist!

Thought I'd post up my summer playlist, simply because I'm bored and it's a nice distraction from school packing. This isn't an official playlist or anything, nor is it a complete one (that would be way too long!) But basically, here's a sampling of some of the lovely artists whose musical creations have been making their way to the coveted status of "repeat" on my iPod all summer.

Summer Playlist!

1. L-L-Love: Blondfire

2. Can't Get You Out of My Mind: Kylie Minogue

3. I'm a Mess: Mumurs

4. Helena Beat: Foster the People

5. My Delirium: Ladyhawke

6. Two Left Feet: Anya Marina

7. Midnight City: M83

8. I Won't Be Left: Tegan & Sara

9. Amazing Glow: Pernice Brothers

10. It's Alright Baby: Komeda

11. Angst in My Pants: Sparks

12. Take Me to the Riot: Stars

13. Kool Thing: Sonic Youth

14. Pumped Up Kicks: Foster the People

15. Sunrise: Yeasayer

16. We Are Stars: The Pierces

17. Love Burns: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

18. Lights: Ellie Goulding

19. Get Away: Yuck

20. One Week of Danger: The Virgins

21. Reflecting Light: Sam Phillips

22. Here, Here And Here: Meg & Dia

23. This Is Our Sound: Ladytron

24. Whether You Fall: Tracy Bonham

25. Blood Like Lemonade: Morcheeba

26. Where I Stood: Missy Higgins

27. On the Verge: Le Tigre

28. What is Love: Haddaway

29. Glory Box: Portishead

30. Walking on the Sun: Smash Mouth

31. Changing: The Airborne Toxic Event

32. Praise You: Fatboy Slim

33. Relax, Take It Easy: Mika

34. Blinding: Florence + the Machine

35. Mockingbirds: Grant Lee Buffalo

**Honorable Mentions- Pelican Rapids: Holly Miranda; Drifting Away: Tal & Acacia**

Wherein I Successfully Bake a Batch of Cookies...

The world has been depressing me lately- if you know me well, you know that this is why I risk becoming an ignoramus by avoiding watching the news. So anyway, tonight, I thought I'd give you all some good news. Or at the very least, some happily uneventful news.

Last night I baked a batch of cookies. "Last night" makes it sound like I did it, you know, around maybe 6 or 7... the normal, early hours of the evening which are often utilized by the good, decent folks of the world for making cookies.

This however was not the case for me.

No- the craving for chocolate chip cookies began (as it always does) around 11:20 PM. And when the craving for cookies arises it must be satisfied. Every person who is halfway decent knows this. So, be it 11:20 at night or 7:15 in the morning...cookies must be had.

However, for people in possession of a palate as delicate and refined as mine, a cookie craving is a tough thing to quell. I am not what you would term a "cookie lover". My desire for cookies manifests itself rarely but powerfully. And when it does manifest, the craving is not just for any old cookies. One of those little blue package of oreos will not suffice; nor will a day old tub from Stop & Shop.

No, these cookies have to be fresh. Made from scratch with nothing other than Tollhouse chocolate chips. And most importantly of all, they must be in the oven for the exact right amount of time: long enough so that they develop some shape and lose all their potential to poison the consumer with Salmonella- but short enough so that they are not crunchy or brown, but still slightly raw creating a melt-in-your-mouth sensation when you bite into them.

It's a delicate, refined science.

Which means I am the only who can be trusted to create this delicacy.

But there is a tragic side to my tale of cookie love. (I know, I promised a happy story- stick with me.)

Generally, the desire for cookies arises during a time when my hunger is at its peak. This means that when I bake them I am ravenous. And the cookie dough is so luscious and tempting- all pale- brown like it is, glistening with little turds of chocolate...

The long and the short of it is that I inevitably consume copious amounts of raw cookie dough.

You can see why this is disturbing. Not only I am eating entirely RAW cookie dough (bacteria!!) but I am satisfying my hunger with the only option available to me. The cookie dough.

This impedes the entire goal of the process- to get delicious, tailor-made to my specifications, fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. Because when I eat the cookie dough, I am both reducing the amount of cookies I will eventually get AND I am satiating my hunger. By the time my delicious fresh cookies are actually done and out of the oven, I am far too stuffed with the cookie dough to enjoy them.

Truly a devastating tale.

Your little hearts will be warmed, however, to hear that last night's baking adventure did not have the sad ending it normally does.

Yes, dear readers, take heart, for last night- last night I exercised my little-used self-control in order to save the cookie experience.

I. Resisted. The Cookie Dough.

Well, I mostly resisted. I had to eat a little, you know, the bits that got stuck on the metal beaters. I mean that's practically a rule. A rule of good dish-care. You have to lick the dough off the beaters. Can't let that stuff go through the dishwasher. You might as well just throw your dishwasher in the ocean and then stuff it inside a volcano for all the use you'd get out of it after letting cookie dough-covered BEATERS go through it...

Anyway. Beater cookie-dough consumption having been moderate and completely justified, I was still satisfactorily hungry by the time my delectable, under-baked morsels came out of the oven. At which time I proceeded to eat four, with a glass of milk.

It was a happy night.

And that, my friends, is what all news stories should be like!

Dream Storage

Stop me if I start getting nauseating...

I have two sets of dreams, and due to this fact alone, you can consider me very accomplished. For some people- many people- never have a dream at all, or if they do, it's only a half dream. You know, one of those dreams that was really more just a happy thought or a pleasant supposition, but lacked any of the true passion, the obsession, that must accompany a dream. In fact some people throw the term about with disturbing casualty; i.e. "It has always been my dream to re-paint this kitchen," or "I dream of one day living in a world where we all live in chocolate houses and take chocolate baths and daily chocolate consumption is mandated by the government." You see, neither of these so-called "dreams" fit into the category of true dreams. The first, because it is far too insignificant to be considered a real, tried and true, heart-wrenching, mind-consuming dream. The second because it's just ridiculous and impossible.

Not like my dreams.

Not only are my dreams passionate, they are also significant and feasible. (I don't say feasible to be a snob, just to explain that they aren't totally ludicrous, you know, like a chocolate world. They are actually possibilities, whether likely or not.)

Anyway, I've got these two sets of dreams, real dreams like I said. They each even keep physical residence in my bedroom, if you can believe it. One set of dreams resides in a box- a beautiful box. Just the right size, about the size of a shoe box. It's embroidered with rose-colored flowers and tied up with sage-green ribbon and I must say, in all it's floral elegance and loveliness, it makes a very fitting abode for the first set of dreams.

The second set of dreams has a very different home. You would find the second set of dreams shoved in a manila folder, amidst a hodgepodge of various other things- paintings I did as a child, a torn-out page of a coloring-book-Cowboy and a stack of miscellaneous poetry and essays. Don't let this reckless treatment make you think the second set of dreams is any less dear to me than the first. Somehow, it just makes sense, for the dreams to be packed away in such different ways.

But you know what the truth is? I don't want all these dreams. Maybe you thought I was lucky, maybe you envied me at first. Maybe you're sitting around at home, just wishing you had so much as one dream to follow and then here comes little old me, with what sometimes feels like a thousand different dreams, too many, so many that they're suffocating me!

So here's the deal.

You can have my dreams. Take them for yourself. For I have a very nagging fear that when you've got as many different dreams as me, rather than go out and grab any of them, it's far more likely that you'll just fail them all.

The Gravity of Life (A Letter)

Dear Blogosphere,

To be honest, Life has been taking some serious swings at me lately and I have been having trouble remaining standing.

It's hard to write about it without getting too explicit, and details are a thing I'm going to have to avoid using.

The gist is that I'm at that crossroads again. You know, the lovely metaphorical Fork in the Road of Life. Oh my friends, it is such a long, winding road and it's getting dark outside now, night is falling and I just can't see my way. I know both stretches have their ups and downs, their trials and tribulations as well as their joys and rewards. They both contain rocky stretches, mountains to climb, forests to fend through and rivers to wade, as well as meadows to lie in, sunsets to watch and fields to frolic through...

Are you feeling nauseous yet? (I am.)

I guess I thought I had chosen a path. I was pretty sure this time. This time I wasn't backing down. This time I wasn't changing my mind.

But life had other plans in store for me. Or maybe it was God who did.

Basically there's nothing like feeling completely physically weakened and incapable to make you question everything. There's nothing like feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the gravity of life and death, by the inescapable tragedy and horror that befalls us, the living, every single day.

Suddenly, life became so frightening, so bleak and desolate. It's happened to me once or twice before, the fear, the emptiness, the feeling like I don't want to do anything or go anywhere ever again, I just want to lie in my bed, because what's the point. The feeling that nothing matters. It's terrible. I think it's something like depression.

The good thing about this, whatever it is, is that it rarely lasts more than a week or two. I'm not constantly plagued by it, to the point where I need to be medicated, not yet or anything. But when it does happen, nothing matters. People don't matter. I stop communicating. I stop wanting to do anything at all. I don't want to get out of bed. I don't feel that I have any reason. There is nothing so bad as this. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Here I am again though, feeling relatively ok, although still a hint of medical stuff going on, but hopefully it will all be okay.

But I didn't come out of this episode unscathed folks. It taught me something, it ingrained something into my brain.

Life sucks. Life has no guarantees. Life, whether you make it to the age of ten or the age of seventy-five, is terribly, terribly brief. And you could get to live it out to the full with a family who loves you, friends who stick by your side. Or you could lose it as a young teenager, in a car accident that began and ended in the blink of eye. Just like your life.

But no matter what happens, your life is going to end. You are going to have to face the end, the unavoidable truth of death.

We are all going to die and well, that's scary. What that says to me, what all the pain and fear and uncertainty of life says to me, is that there has to be something more. Specifically, it tells me that there has to be a God, and there has to be a purpose. Otherwise, what would be the point of any of it?

No, there has to be more. There has to be hope. There has to be Someone who cares, Someone who looks out for us and makes it all worth living.

That answer is easy for me to find. I've believed in God as long as I can remember. And I know He is truth.

But that doesn't mean it's not complicated.

Reasons People Consider My Friendship Valuable (And Why You Should Too)

1. I always have gum.
2. I know how to make friendship bracelets! Not only do they make a lovely wrist or ankle adornment, but friendship bracelets are a physical representation of our love and commitment to each other. I mean, key word here: friendship bracelets.
3. I wear glasses. Everybody likes having a person who wears glasses hanging around, because it automatically makes that person seem dorkier ergo, making the original person seem cooler. Also, everybody who doesn't have glasses likes trying on someone else's glasses.
4. I can spell. Obviously a huge asset to everybody who knows me.
5. I know about one hundred and one ways to use a banana. The best being, in delicious and fluffy banana pancakes. Which you can probably convince me to make for you. If you are my friend.
6. I am incredibly gullible. Like seriously. Very. Very gullible. You know that joke about how gullible is written on the ceiling? Well the first time I heard that joke, I looked. I don't need to explain to you why gullibility is just about the most valuable quality a friend could have.
7. I do good impressions sometimes. Thus invoking the hilarity quotient.
8. I know the difference between affect and effect. If you don't believe me, ask me to use them in a sentence.
9. I am 16% Native American. Which means I can pretend I'm exotic and/or a minority and everybody wants to have a friend who is exotic and/or a minority.
10. I can French braid AND knit. I firmly believe that these two skills will save lives one day. As in, the day when we are all stranded on a Swedish mountainside during a snowstorm. In the event that this situation arises, I will not only be able to knit us a blanket for warmth, I will also be able to french braid our hair so that we blend in with the locals. You know you want to be my friend now.
11. I have tons of music! Most people probably wouldn't say I necessarily have good taste, but at least it's varied. That means I am always available to spice up your music collection when it is need of some spicing. Even though my definition of spicy is often Swedish, depressing, or made up of men who sound like women (Mika) and women who sound like men (Brody Dalle). Or struggling, underground hip hop artists.
12. I shower. Every. Day. No exceptions.
13. I have tons and tons of useless random knowledge. This knowledge is vast, intensive, and pertains to such subjects as Jane Austen novels, Coffee beverages and the world of coffee, names of Lord of the Rings actors, how to build a fire, the Brit Pop and New Wave movement, Woodstock, grammar rules, the Bible, quotes and trivia from NBC comedy, the art of archery, where to watch TV for free online, music theory, secrets to delicious chocolate chip cookies, how to make an awesome mix tape, and 101 ways to use a banana.
15. I carry a purse 95% of the time. This means you can count on me to hold your water bottle, sunglasses, chapstick, car keys, tampons, or basically any other item of a reasonable size and weight that you want carried. Plus, for that 5% of the time when I don't carry a purse, I have superb cleavage with amazing storage capacities.
16. I have superb cleavage.
17. I always have gum. And let's be honest, that's enough to convince most people.

The Librarian

She flutters around the book-stuffed world that she calls her own. She wears ill-fitting clothes in bright, tropical colors, and sometimes she tugs a scarf twice around her beefy neck and calls it fashion. She has gray hair mixed in with wiry strands of white and it ends in a triangle just above her shoulders and three inches out from her head. She is round and flustered; small eyes and an even smaller mouth drowning in the sea of her face. She speaks far more often than she ought to now, she knows that. She cannot control her mouth; she is constantly ordering and questioning and muttering to herself about inconsequential things and puttering about like a little steam engine, always busy and bustling, always something to get done. But if she doesn’t do it, who will? This library is her domain, it is all she has to call her own and she loves it. She loves her job, though she gets tired out quite often and it saps away her energy.

Stephen died last year. All the expected guests attended the funeral, no more, no less. They returned to their houses in droves, carrying cold brownies wrapped up in cellophane and cookies on platters under their arms, the kinder ones remarking what a shame and the more cynical ones remarking with snide laughter what a surprise indeed that the old man hadn’t committed suicide years ago just to escape and were they really sure that wasn’t, in fact, what he had done now?

Since then, things have changed. Lillian keeps cats now, and watches television at night. Things she never did when Stephen was still living. He didn’t like the sound of the laugh track on the comedy shows she used to watch. And cats made him sneeze. He’d never have admitted he was allergic; he believed sickness was a sign of weakness, and the last thing Stephen wanted to be was weak.

Lillian tears up a little bit as she pushes a cart through the grocery store, eyes flitting from shelf to shelf across all the brightly colored packaged goods. The supermarket is a world of possibilities, now that Stephen has died. Lillian can buy potato flakes and frozen Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese and cartons of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in any flavor she likes, even the “ridiculous” ones.

Stephen was raised on Vermont soil and when Lillian had begged him to move to Massachusetts after their son was born, he had hated her for it. But there were jobs in Massachusetts and little suburban communities with nice schools and real, city-educated teachers. Lillian hadn’t been able to sleep at night, plagued with nightmares of Carl as a grown man, spending his days milking cows and fixing fences and never finding a life outside of the one his father and grandfathers continued to cycle through every eighty years. The thought had bothered her so much that she had kept at the subject every night for a month; she had been braver then, more willing to stand up for herself. Stephen didn’t believe in divorce, just as his good dead mother had taught him, and so the only solution had seemed to be to give in to her demands. So he picked up and moved and got a construction job in a clean, bustling little town with a mall the next town over and a school all to itself. And he punished Lillian for it for the rest of his life.

But she didn’t regret it, not for a second. When Carl grew up and went to college in Boston and then to law school in New York, Lillian couldn’t have been prouder. She cried the day he passed his BAR. Stephen only muttered that it was a good waste of a small fortune just to get his son to pass a test so that he could become another one of those dirty cheating snakes that made up the American legal system. Lillian shouldn’t have been surprised; she knew how Stephen had felt about lawyers ever since they had gotten “scammed” by one back during that lawsuit.

The neighbor, whom Stephen had previously been friends with, claimed he had lost business due to the disheveled state of the Fosters’ front yard. Stephen didn’t believe in keeping up appearances like the other inhabitants of the tidy little street insisted on doing. If he didn’t want to keep the grass trimmed down to a perfect 1.5 inches, he wasn’t going to. If he wanted to leave the rusted over bits and pieces of last winter’s broken snow blower strewn haphazardly about the front yard, he was going to do that too. Will and Macy ran a little knickknack shop full of homemade birdhouses and painted glass wind chimes out of their living room. Business had declined significantly the year Stephen and Lillian moved in, which was partly due to the unappealing state of their front yard, but mostly due to the bad economy. Presentation, it’s all about the presentation, Will’s lawyer claimed in court. Stephen got so heated he stood up in the middle of the lawyer’s argument, his chair echoing sharply as it crashed to the ground. The judge didn’t even have to say anything before a policeman stepped out quietly as if from the shadows and restrained her husband like no one had ever dared do before. Lillian could have laughed in that moment, as she saw the giant of a man she had married actually held back by somebody else, dominated by another bigger, stronger person, but she didn’t dare.

They released him from custody when he calmed down and apologized and Lillian had to bite her lip as he trudged out of his jail cell and the policeman gave him the manila envelope full of his things. The case was wrapped up the next day with Stephen getting charged, though less harshly than Will had hoped, and the neighborly friendship they had developed dissipating. After that Lillian and Macy couldn’t talk to each other anymore, no more friendly gossip shared over the fence or recipe swapping or desperate phone calls if one was in a bind and needed the other to babysit. Once, Macy snuck over for a cup of coffee but then the sound of a car in the driveway sent them into a panic. It turned out to be just someone who had gotten lost using the drive for a turnaround but after that, Macy didn’t come back.

If Lillian had a nickel for all the times Stephen had ever made her give something up or throw something away she would’ve been a rich woman. But she forgave him for all those times, though he never asked. And the day that he died, the day that his heart finally couldn’t take him anymore, Lillian knew she should be sad.

Three days after her husband’s funeral the librarian came back to school. The other teachers said it was too quick, they said she needed longer to mourn, but she felt fine. She came back to work and she let her books consume her. They have been her comfort all her life and they continue to comfort her now. And she loves what she does. Sometimes her coworkers are rude to her, pushy and impatient New math teachers, new young English teachers, men who spike their hair and wear designer frames and sweater vests and have ideas about how to change America; women who straighten their hair with flat irons and wear high heeled boots and subtle perfume and believe that armed with a smile and an edge, the whole world will be theirs to conquer. Her students are rude to her, a new generation raised to be self-centered and disrespectful in their own right. A generation raised to question why they should wait, why they should listen to the admonishing or adhere to the rules. The librarian doesn’t hold much store in any of that. She believes she does more work in that library in a single week than any one of them has done in a year. Nobody else is willing to take on the burden of all she does. Much the same as these books she adores, she is stagnant. Nobody wants to read her. She could die here, right at her desk and she wouldn’t mind. Nobody would mind.