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.