Falling In Love In A Coffee Shop

**Wrote this some months ago, never posted it, and just now realized that for the first time since starting this blog I haven't posted in not just one but like three months. Not cool. So here, it's Fiction Wednesday! Also, hopefully I'll be posting a lot more in the near future, especially with break coming up. Forgive me- I've been giving tumblr all my attention.**


We're sitting drinking coffee. That's a romantic thing to say but we're not actually drinking coffee because you're in a hurry and I'm on a caffeine fast. But we're in the coffee shop, as if we're drinking coffee, almost as if we're on a date you and me. That sounds romantic too. Like that Landon Pigg song, Falling in Love in a Coffee Shop. I want all of my first loves, my first falls, to take place in this coffee shop, over the strains of The Civil Wars or Elliott Smith. I want your eyes meeting mine with The xx playing, want my heart beating faster in time with PJ Harvey, want Cat Power to stir in your belly and the whispers of Bon Iver or Jason Mraz to make your hand creep toward mine almost unconsciously, almost out of your own control.

But we're not falling in love in a coffee shop, are we, we're not even drinking coffee because you're in a hurry and I'm on a caffeine fast.

This is an interview, by the way. I write for the newspaper, you're a musician, and somehow God planted a seed in the head of my editor and for once she did something brilliant and assigned me to write an article about you.

You tell me you think that you're talking too much and I smile. I don't tell you that I'm asking too many questions, questions I don't need to ask you, questions that aren't relevant to this interview at all. I just can't help myself; the opportunity to explore you has been thrust at me, demanded of me really. I'm only human, you know. What kind of individual would I be if I passed this up?

The interview lasts longer than it should and I stare at your eyes longer than I should and you are so full of passion when you talk that I wonder how the other conversations full of inantities and trivialities, like finding the "one" and frustrations at work can even continue in the wake of your words. Your words are so powerful, you are giving a speech, what do any of these other people have any business doing talking while you're talking. How can they not be swept away just as much as I am? Their caucus laughter, the sound of their obscene ringtones, their overzealous laughter, I find vaguely infuriating.

Shut up. I am trying to fall in love in a coffee shop.

But we're not falling in love in a coffee shop, are we, we're not even drinking coffee because you're in a hurry and I'm on a caffeine fast.

My precious half hour with you is up now and I give you the dismissal to leave. But you pause a few moments, asking me about class, how do I like the book we're reading, what do I think of the professor; his teaching style is really relaxed, we're all slacking off quite a bit, which feels guilty but it doesn't matter much because he doesn't seem to care. He'd really be better off sticking to writing to poetry than teaching, you say, and I smile because you don't even know how many times I have said that before, to people who don't understand, not the way you do.

And then finally, you stand up, you're leaving, you're so tall, you're so lovely, don't leave me. You're in a hurry, I knew that from the start, you have to go to work now. But if you stayed, if you stayed behind and talked with me, maybe we could fall in love in a coffee shop.

You walk out of the door and I take a sip of my tea: chamomile, I don't like the Italian brand but it's all that this coffee shop has and the chamomile was necessary to calm my stomach.

I turn around and see long chestnut hair, ruddy cheeks, a head bent over intensively to text books. I know this girl. I've seen her before. All last year, she was on your arm, and she wore dresses and the two of you smiled and ate fruit together. She was your love and now she has seen us, here, and perhaps she thinks we are falling in love in a coffee shop, and perhaps she feels pain, perhaps she feels jealousy, perhaps she doesn't care but she must, I can't see how she couldn't.

I feel overwhelmed for her. I feel sad.

I wonder what it was like for her, when you sat her down and told her things couldn't keep on this way.

I wonder what it was like for her the first time you held her hand or the first time she knew that she was the only person dancing around in your head.

I wonder if the two of you fell in love in a coffeeshop.

I feel an intruder, and I want to hug her and give her some of my tea but I can't. I can't because I like you and she's a girl and so she can tell by the way that I laughed at your jokes and tried to meet your eyes as often as I could and clung to your words like they were diamond and gold and pearls, jewels dropping from your perfectly-formed lips.

And so, we can never be friends, her and I, and that's sad and I sigh. We can never be friends. Because of the coffee shop and how this is the place where people fall in love.

Captivate Me Captain

You are enchanting. I don't know if you know that. I think that you do, I think that you have to know it to some extent, the effect you have on people. You're confident, and that kind of confidence only comes from someone who is sure in themself. You are very sure in yourself. And why shouldn't you be?

I spend all my time hoping you'll talk to me. Waiting for you to appear. Desperately wishing you'd notice me. It makes me feel pretty pathetic. But I keep doing it anyway.

I think you're so cool. Everything about you. Your haircut, your clothes, the tone of your voice, the vocabulary you use and the things that make you smile.

You're sweet, genuinely kind, and that's strange to me, and nice, and it draws me to you, just like it must draw everyone to you. You're magnetic and you're warm and I want to feel it, want you to light a fire in my toes and make my soul come alive again. I want to be close to you.

You're beautiful too. The first time I saw you, I only stared at you; I couldn't help myself. You stopped me dead in my tracks. How do you manage to look so good, no matter what you wear, no matter when I see you. You always look just lovely.

I like you and I'm not the only one and I get jealous when I hear people say your name, or talk about you, or say that they like you too, because so many of them do. They like you and they're probably more deserving of you and you probably like them too. But you don't understand how long I've been waiting for someone like you to come along. I might be broken and strange but I've been waiting for you. I've been waiting for your smile and the sound of your voice. I've been waiting for the pictures you draw and the plaid shirts that you wear.

I spy on you. I'm not creepy normally, I swear, but sometimes it's like you invite me in. You leave your door open, and with that the door to yourself, who you are, and I can't help but be drawn to the color and the light. There are pictures and animals and fabrics and music and dancing and laughter, so much laughter. Do you blame me for wanting to go inside?

You like coffee, like me, and you use the word "rad" in a way that's not ironic. You look so absolutely heartbreakingly good in just a t-shirt and jeans. Sometimes it seems like you might have a tattoo but now I think that you don't, and honestly, I don't even care. You don't need tattoos. You're an artist, that was obvious the first time I saw you and then again when I ran into that night in the art building. You were at home there. But you seem at home everywhere here.

You float on your back in rivers, you hail from Africa and you talk to God. You seem to like sleeping almost as much as I do and you're looking for adventure and you took your first steps in Paris. You talk about your professors in the sweetest way, about how you like them so much and how much they care and how lovely you think it all is. You're smart too. You sing everywhere you go and it doesn't even annoy me like it normally would, I just find it charming like everything else about you.

And you talk to me. You don't have to talk to me but you do and when you do, I feel so good, I feel like I have found the wild animal, stumbled across it in all of the beauty of its wilderness home and I am, so close, so close to touching it, to leading it home with me. I have been searching for this creature all my life and finally, here it is, I see it and I can barely breathe for fear I will scare it off.

You notice me too, I know that you do. That night on the streets of Buffalo, we locked eyes and I think- am I crazy, but I think- you were there. You were there with me. Maybe you just notice me staring at you but if you took all of our interactions and collaged them into a home video with sad sweet music in the background, it would just be eyes and burning stares. I bore holes into your back, I feel you smoldering the side of my face.

You know what? The music would not be sad and sweet, it would be slow, and haunting, and it would do what your gaze does to me. Lock eyes with me. Stare at me. I will stare back. A song will be playing in your background that starts off soft but builds, it builds so loud and powerful that I am overwhelmed, overtaken, captivated.

Captivate me, I dare you.

Still A Jerk

Hey thur guyz.

I want to post because I'm back at school and I realize it's been way too long since I've written here [or written at all] and I feel very guilty for that.

How are things? Things on my end are pretty alright. I'm back at school like I said and have been since the end of August. Classes are in full swing. Mostly, I just have a lot of reading to do, but I'm a good reader when I actually do it, so that's not so bad.

Money is tight. Old prejudices against certain classmates have not lessened much with time. There are still people I will always wish I was cool enough to talk to, but know I never will. Some of the faces I grew used to seeing, even looked forward to seeing, have disappeared. The coffee is sweeter, the freshmen are intriguing, the classes are less intimidating. I do have more friends than I did before. It's so true what my friend Hannah told me once, that freshmen are at their most vulnerable that they will probably ever be in their lives. I was talking to some friends of mine yesterday and we all agreed- freshmen year was killer. It was difficult and exhausting and scary and just hard. So far this year feels a lot better and I hope to all goodness that it stays that way.

I've been here a bit over a month now, and I'll admit I've had some rough days. I don't know if it's because I have a disorder or if I'm just a lazy scumbag, but sometimes the prospect of a full day ahead of me is just so purely overwhelming. I still sleep a lot, too much. I still do dumb things like don't go to class in favor of napping and drink caffeinated coffee even though I know the effect it's going to have on my mental state, and occasionally allow myself to sleep through church, and spend money on frivolity and do homework in chapel and get by just by the skin of my teeth. I still disagree with a lot of school policies, I still get scared when I work out and I still eat way too much cereal and never enough protein. I still have trouble being honest and even more trouble being terribly friendly. I still think about love too much and sex too much and I still get really confused about all of it.

I think a part of me thought that after last year there would be no one left at this college I would be interested in. Unfortunately that's not quite the case, surprisingly so really, but it doesn't actually honestly matter.

I still have a bad haircut and generally shaky self-esteem and I still would rather invest more time in crap TV shows and the perfecting of my Sims 3 family than on an actual, terrifying relationship. I still have bad days and good days and I still don't know where I'd be without medication and a fairly lax schedule. I still don't write enough and I still think about leaving too much and I still almost never do my laundry. I still just stare at enchanting people instead of talking to them and I still cheat on my pathetic promise to get to the gym at least three times a week. I still write papers just hours before they're due and I still care more about completing my iTunes library than maintaining some sort of stellar GPA.

Basically, I'm still a jerk in all senses of the word.

But I'm trying, truly I am, and overall, I'd like to say I look down a little less when I walk to class and I make a little more effort to get the assigned reading done before class and I'm a little less self-conscious and internalized and a little more smiley and goofy.

And that is progress enough.

Lena Dunham and Dream Realization

It was hot here today and I wanted to go to the beach, which is something I haven't really done this summer but my mother didn't want to go and all of my friends were busy or working so after I got up this morning and drank my coffee, I went back to bed until probably two o'clock. While I was sleeping I had several dreams, the most notable one being that my phone caught on fire. It was smoking and I was scared so I screamed for my mother who was quite unhelpful throughout the whole ordeal. I put it in water (or she might have, I can't remember) but the water boiled over and was dominated by the fire. My mother seemed thoroughly unperturbed by everything but when the water boiled over, I yelled for her again and finally she saw how dire the situation was and she urged me and my sister to get out of the house. It was then that I realized that in my life, I honestly had no care for what burnt up, all of my worldly goods, the music and books I have amassed, my laptop, my iPod, I couldn't be bothered with losing any of it; I only worried for my dog. We got outside and my house burned, burned all away before the fire department finally came and when the fire was put out, I wanted to go back inside and see what had become of my room but everyone kept telling me no, that I was too hysterical, that I needed to wait a week before I would be emotionally stable enough to see what had become of things, but I told them that if I didn't go and see it now I never would.

I don't believe that dreams are half as significant as we give them credit for but I looked up the meaning of it anyway in this little cyclopedia of dream meanings that I stole from the book room at my high school while doing inventory one summer. It says, "If a particular object is on fire (house, car, etc.), this may symbolize over-commitment to it or fear of a world without it. Freud found fire to be a symbol of male power. In this case, fire may indicate control over a circumstance or a struggle to feel that way, depending on whether the fire is controlled or not. Do you question your own morality at times? Are you seeking cleansing from a bad experience? Do you perceive your own life is about to go through a significant transition that requires spiritual preparation?)

I don't really think any of this means anything at all. I honestly think I had the dream because I found a lit cigarette on the ground outside while walking my dog last night and I stamped it out and put it in my purse but then I kept getting paranoid that it was still going to be lit and my purse would catch on fire and ignite my house while I was sleeping, but no, the cigarette was out, so those fears were unfounded.

I was in town last night for dinner with friends and we drove through some apartments in Boston which were so beautiful that it hurt, it ached really, because I felt in myself that they were where I was supposed to be, that city is where I am supposed to be, every night and every day, all of the time. But I don't think I ever will be.

Just like Houghton is not where I'm supposed to be, I'm supposed to be somewhere else, but already I'm planning out my spring semester schedule and I can see the time slipping away from me and me never ending up transferring like I want to and just staying at Houghton, all four years, miserable but complacent, because I never had the gumption to pull myself together and do it.

Just like I'll never become a writer, because I'll want it, I'll think about it, but I'll never just do it, something will always hold me back, I'll always tell myself tomorrow or later and I'll never sit down and write and try because I'm lazy and afraid of rejection and so all my life will be a disappointment every day.

I wonder if Lena Dunham ever felt this way or if she was a go-getter and a doer and be-er from the start.

Where Is He

I wrote this some time ago, and I just read it again today. I don't know how I feel about it anymore. It makes me happy, and sad, both at the same time. I don't know if this is what I want anymore. But it was a lovely dream all the same.

Where is he, I ask you?

Eighteen years have gone and he should've come by now.

Perhaps if I describe him to you, you will know who I mean. Perhaps you will have seen him wandering the street, eating a bagel on the subway, strolling through Boston Commons, undoubtedly looking lost.

Well, first of all, he looks inexplicably like Darren Criss. He likes to wear sweaters and fitted jeans and yes, scarves in the winter. Sometimes, when he's reading, he wears glasses.

He takes me to Feist concerts and likes it when I wear lace and he sings Jack Johnson to me while I try to fall asleep.

Sometimes I wake up to see him sleeping in my chair and I touch the stubble on his chin; he grabs my hand and holds it there. He reads to me too, poetry, the fruit of love, out of the large volumes I keep mostly unopened in my makeshift crate bookshelves.

He is soft and strong simultaneously, which seems like an impossibility, but it's not. Not for him.

He knows when I'm lying and he calls me out.

But he's gentle.

He reaches into my hurting parts and draws them out.

He has discernment

But he never judges me

Because he loves me.

I don't think he exists. But I'll love him all the same, and I won't settle for anything other than him.

If you find him, tell him I'm still here. Waiting. Waiting for him to complete me.

Summer Playlist

Guess what lovely feature is being resurrected today! That's right- your favorite one!
SEASON PLAYLIST!
Drum roll please for summatime and music!
[Prepare yourself; since the creation of Spotify, it's gotten easier than ever before to find new music as well as find old music that I loved and forgot about. Hence, this summer's playlist is a doozy! One that I happen to be very proud of.]

1. Bad Girls: Asia Bryant
2. Back In Time: Pitbull
3. Bubblegum Bitch: Marina and the Diamonds
4. Synthetica: Metric
5. Scream: Michael Jackson
6. Movin Out': Billy Joel
7. Can Anyone Who Has Heard This Music Really Be A Bad Person?: Kaki King
8. Where Have You Been: Rihanna
9. Shelter: Birdy
10. From Finner: Of Monsters and Men
11. Standing Outside A Southern Riot: River City Extension
12. Wild One: FloRida ft. Sia
13. Carry Out: Timbaland ft. Justin Timberlake
14. Boyfriend: Justin Bieber
15. Hazy: Love Darling
16. Speak Up: Infantree
17. Club Music: Tatiana Owens
18. White Lies: Stacy Clark
19: Just Like You: Phantods
20. Little Talks: Of Monsters and Men
21. I Get Down: All Wrong and the Plans Change
22. No Moon: Iron & Wine
23. Finding It Harder To Be A Gentleman: The White Stripes
24. Into Dust: Mazzy Star
25. F*** The Pain Away: Peaches
26. Boys Boys Boys: Lady Gaga
27. It's Raining Men: Weather Girls
28. Somebody That I Used To Know: Gotye ft. Kimbra*
29. I Think I Like You: Donora
30. I Am You: Kim Taylor
31. Calabria 2008: Enur
32. Rain Over Me: Pitbull
33. Prank Calls: Kelley Stoltz
34. Cheated Hearts: Yeah Yeah Yeahs
35. Victim: Win Win
36. The Way We Get By: Spoon
37. La Ritournelle: Sebastien Tellier
38. The Chemicals Between Us: Bush, Gavin Rossdale
39. Whipped: Erika Fatale
40. Feel So Close: Calvin Harris*
41. Settle Down: Kimbra
42. Birthday Sex: Jeremih
43. Chicago: Sufjan Stevens
44. Hella Good: No Doubt
45. The Greatest: Cat Power
46. Artificial Nocturne: Metric
47. Closer: Stacy Clark
48. Everybody Talks: Neon Trees
49. Young Folks: Peter Bjorn and John
50. Toes: LIGHTS
51. Paper Bag: Fiona Apple
52. (I've Just Begun) Having My Fun: Britney Spears
53. Lakehouse: Of Monsters and Men
54. Answering Bell: Ryan Adams
55. Neptune City: Nicole Atkins
56. One Moment Is All It Takes: The Ultrasonics
57. Good Girl: Dawn Jackson
58. Fibber: Infantree
59. Smooth Criminal: Michael Jackson
60. The Void: Metric
61. I Need A Dollar: Aloe Blacc
62. Never Close Our Eyes: Adam Lambert
63. Soon, My Friend: M83
64. Junkie Love: Nycole Valentina
65. Lost You There: Sub Rosa
66. Femme Fatale: Erika Fatale
67. Not The Same: Drew Davis
68. I U She: Peaches
69. Cockiness [Love It]: Rihanna
70. Hanging On: Ellie Goulding ft. Tinie Tempah

*Honorable Mention* Birthday Cake: Rihanna

*The stars are to indicate songs that are huge radio hits now, but are by bands that have been around for years. I just want you all to know that I've been listening to Calvin Harris for 4 years now and Gotye for 3, so I'm not a follower, I'm actually a super cool hipster or whatever, and yes, it's pathetic, but I needed you to know this.

Candidness

I feel guilty because it's been so long since I've posted and I'm getting worse and worse about posting as the months go by.

I think I know why.

You see I've been posting a lot on my tumblr lately (yes, I know, spare me your disgust and revulsion), and it's because- I have less respect for tumblr. I don't feel like it demands high quality, long, well-thought out posts, like blogspot does. It's just tumblr. I can be silly there, casual and candid and low-key. I reblog stupid sayings and sexy pictures and act every bit like the idiotic nineteen-year-old I am. I feel like I'm not being judged on tumblr, and I've got no one to impress. In fact, I've been getting more and more lax about what I put up there. I'm usually pretty uptight about what I post on the internet. Not big on a whole ton of personal details or pictures of myself or just- I don't know. I don't get into detail about the stuff in my life that is super personal. And with good reason. You never know who's reading what. Thinking about it now, I really just oughta go and delete a whole bunch of stuff from my tumblr right now. Not even because it's necessarily all that bad, it just might give people the wrong impression. Or the right impression that I don't want them to have...

But honestly, it feels good to be candid. I don't like hiding stuff. I like to be open. Not in-your-face, but not uptight. I'm a laid-back person in general, except for one tiny medical condition we won't get into here. I don't like having to get all crazy and intense about what I put up online. But I have good reason to be paranoid.

I don't even know why I'm posting this, like I'm trying to justify myself to you. I don't need to justify anything.

I'm bored. My new piercing hurts like a mother- this is the first time it's really hurt since I got it nearly two weeks ago- today it's just been really irritated for some unfathomable reason. My jaw is awful too and now I've just realized I almost forgot to take my meds, which would be all kinds of bad. I reek of cigarettes too, because I had a cigar on the back deck, because I was avoiding writing my paper, and that's about as BA as it gets over here in Pembroke.

Sometimes I get scared because I'm nineteen and life is too short not to live it the way you want to- I heard that in a movie once, and it hit hard, and I think it's so true but I'm way too much of a pansy to actually go out and do what I want.

I told my friends that- one night on the playground- told them how scared I was and what a coward I can be and my friend P told me I'm one of the bravest people he knows. It meant a lot, though I don't believe him. I don't think of myself as brave, at all. I think I'm learning things, constantly having new experiences and it is teaching me a bit of wisdom here and there. That's what I strive for, really, is wisdom through experience. I hate ignorance more than anything else and 75% of the things I do are so that I can avoid being ignorant.

But brave? Not on your life. So I let strangers stick needles into me, so I go out sometimes, so I stay out late or take a chance here and there. All of my chances don't really count because they're always physical. I risk my body, my health, my well-being.

But I never take emotional risks. I never tell people what I really think. I never put my personal, spiritual, inner well-being into any danger. I have never in my life really taken a chance on someone else or on myself.

I'm already way too emotionally screwed up without even putting myself in any risk, and honestly, my emotional fear is what I'd consider to be one of my greatest weaknesses. So, yeah, brave isn't exactly the word I'd choose to describe myself.

But what if I die before I ever work up the courage?

How's that for candid?

Listening: Shelter by Birdy

Glad to be Home

I'm glad to be home. Don't get me wrong- London was amazing. So much more amazing than I ever could have imagined it would be. It wasn't even really the city so much, but more the people who were with me, that made it so amazing. But that's beside the point. London was incredible, yes. And Houghton was great too. I have enjoyed my months out and about in the world. But finally, ten long months later, I am glad to be home.

I am glad to be back at home, sharing my tiny bedroom in our tiny condominium with my nagging older sister. I'm glad to be home picking her hair snarls out of the drain in the shower. I'm glad to be home doing my laundry in a room that's only two yards from my bedroom, with my favorite laundry detergent, and getting to pick it up whenever I want. I'm glad to be home eating food with salt in it again, drinking Poland Spring Lime flavored seltzer water and Nantucket Nectar Lemonades and eating Greek Salads from the town pizza house with Cape Cod Potato Chips. I'm glad to be back eating dried pasta out of the bag. I'm glad to be able to give myself a pedicure: nail file, nail polish, remover, and Bath and Body Works walnut foot scrub included. I'm glad to be back home catching up on episodes of Glee and watching my roommate's Netflix and listening to Kimbra and Michael Jackson and Kaki King.

I'm glad to be home where we put cream in our coffee and I can go buy cosmetic products at Lush. I'm glad to be home spending nights in my friend's hot tub or around a campfire doing absolutely nothing. I'm glad to be home smelling the smell of wet dog- invading my bed, my blankets, my pillows. I'm glad to be home, following asleep with her curled up under my arm every night. I'm glad to be home doing book inventory for my old high school English teacher, squashing bugs, sleeping without air conditioning, trying to watch So You Think You Can Dance on a TV that doesn't get cable, listening to crap local radio. I'm glad to be home where there's internet access in my bedroom and the sun in Boston beats down on your shoulders and the people are obnoxious and the people are fast and the coffee is plentiful.

I'm glad to be home, where there are always peanut M&M's, but you can never find the hand held phone, and where I can tell you the name of someone who works in every building down the main street. I'm glad to be home where the smell of the salt sea fills the air when it rains and we never run out of coffee mugs and I can hug my best friend and spend all day with him and his freckles and still miss him when I get home. I'm glad to be home where the only thing you can do when you're eighteen is vote and everything closes by 9 and my parents try to impose curfews on me and I'm absolutely dead broke.

I'm just glad to be home.

Reasons to Love London

This morning finds me nearing the end of a three-hour lecture in the most amazing city in the world, London. I know, my last post didn't find me all that excited about my trip to London, but believe me, have I ever changed my tune. If you've never been to London, you might not understand what's so great about it, so conveniently, I've made you a list of the reasons why it's so wonderful and why you should be jealous of me right now.

Reasons to Love London:

1. Fashion: The fashion here is remarkable. Well, to be honest, it's rather more toned-down that a lot of the wild stuff I've witnessed in Boston, but perhaps that's a good thing. Either way, it's very trendy. I've bought a lot of clothes. Too many clothes. But that's alright because it's London. Colors that are in right now are pastels and also striped patterns, like the sailor look, reds and navies and golds. It's absolutely fabulous. I can dress like I think my name is Blaine Anderson and nobody looks at me twice.

2. History: History is everywhere but it's not that entirely dull kind of history, it's very classic and interesting. There are incredible museums with some of the most famous art and artifacts in the world and there are ancient buildings and cathedrals that are simply glorious and even if you don't care who lived there or what they did, it's still very nice to look at and fun to take pictures of.

3. Pubs: Pubs are like bars but classier and with better food. The best food in London is at the pubs. Everyone in pubs speaks with a British accent and the waiters are friendly and say "cheers" when they leave the table and you don't have to tip. Best of all, you can go to pubs even though you're only eighteen. There is a whole new maturity in London that you don't get as a nineteen year old palling around Boston. It's great.

4. Weather: Most days it's rainy, which a lot of people might not like, but I love. Rain means it's always perfect writing weather and people get to wear cute raincoats and it's never overly-hot and there's always an excuse to drink hot coffee. (Or tea!) But it does get warm here too, and the sun actually doesn't set until ten at night, so the days are endless and it's lovely.

5. Getting hit on: British men can be quite randy and when you are walking the streets with friends, especially when it gets later and the people are out drinking, you get whistled and hit on constantly. If ever you needed a self-esteem boost, London is the place to be.

6. Transport Ease: There are so many places to go and it is so easy to go to those places. You don't need a car or a driver's license. All you need is a tube pass and you hold magic in your hands. The tube can take you anywhere and everywhere and in this way you can see just about everything you could possibly dream of seeing. It's fantastic.

7. Accents: British accents are sophisticated and sexy and sometimes, if you're very good at it, you can pretend to have one too and blend right in.

8. Classiness: Everything in London is very classy. Even the sluts seem classier here. The city is classier than American cities and safer too. There is a whole ton of night life that just floods the streets on the weekends. Everyone is just out having a good time and it's really lovely to see.

9. A certain "laissez-faire" approach to life: British people are more chill than Americans. That's not to say they're lazy or slow, quite the opposite, they're on top of things. But they're relaxed about things. The rules aren't so strict or uptight. You can drink on the street, you can drink at age 18, you can smoke almost anywhere, people don't bother you, and there is a lot more nudity on TV. Call me a filthy lib but there's something very appealing about all that. I blame it on the fact that I'm a writer. The British way of life is fascinating for me as a writer, there is a certain candidness and honesty that you don't get in America and I appreciate it.

10. Smart: The reason that people in London can be so candid and laid back is because they're smart enough not to be stupid. They have self-control. They know how to enjoy life but be successful at life at the same time. They aren't bums. They've figured it out.

11. Shopping: There's tons of stuff to buy. (Too much stuff to buy.)

12. Literature: All the best writers, like C.S. Lewis and Tolkien and Jane Austen lived here (or at least around here).

13. Celebrities: A lot of celebrities live here and come here and I saw Romy from the xx at an outdoor shopping festival and that is a beautiful thing.

14. Time: It feels like time has stopped in this little place, or maybe it's the other way around: time has stopped everywhere else and we're just moving in our circle of time here. Either way, it feels like we could live here forever and not get any older, and the rest of the world would fly by but we would stay here, happy, and the rest of the world doesn't even exist or matter.

London, Sleeping, Edward Sharpe and Glee

Blah Blah Blah this post is going to contain absolutely nothing of substance, I just feel like I should write because it's May 14th and that means I'm going to London today but I'll be there tomorrow, which is still really confusing but whatever, I'm not gonna try and figure out exactly how many hours I'm losing or anything like that, I just really don't care.

I got home on Wednesday- now it's Monday, so I've had very little time to rest and recuperate from my first year of college, which was, purely, exhausting. Not even because the work was all that hard (it wasn't. Or maybe it was but I just didn't do any of it. That sounds about right.) I'm such a lazy drip and all I want to do is sleep all the time and usually my bed has no problem lulling me back into the oblivion of napping and even when I wake up, all I can think about is going back to sleep. It's a fantasy really, it's all I daydream about. Napping, napping, napping, sleeping, sleep. I understand now what Dooce was talking about in her blog, one of the earlier posts from back when she started it in 2001...holy mother at the time I was eight I think- yeah I was eight, and I had no idea how much what she was writing at the time would resonate with me someday, eleven years later:
http://dooce.com/archives/daily/10_04_2001.html

The first time I read that, I was like woah Dooce I feel ya, but I had no idea really at the time what she was talking about. The desire for sleep that I used to feel, back in high school, was just the normal sleepiness of a teenager. Teenagers like sleeping,we need a lot of it, we've got major hormone action and we've got a crap load of course work and man we are just under a whole lot of stress all of the time. Now college students, famously, we're not supposed to sleep, and I don't get as much as I would like- that certainly is true- but the problem is I can't function on that little sleep like other kids can. Because of the drugs. Drugs make the sleep deprivation I used to feel now seem like just a yawn, a mild, vague feeling of tiredness. The sleepiness I feel now can only be described by the post I linked to above. It is all-consuming, incapacitating, entirely demanding. I cannot help but give into its demands, no matter my location- be it the subway, church, or in the middle of class. The sleep monster must be satiated.

So that has me a little worried for London, just because me and the sleep monster are still really grappling, we aren't getting along too well, I don't know how to resist him, and that could pose a real problem in London, where I'm expected to do all this vigorous course work and crap. But I'm not gonna worry about it anymore cause where's the point in that?

Meanwhile I went to an Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros concert Saturday. It would've been rad except our seats were super far away, which made it hard to get into the full feel of things, and the guy next to us was high as a kite and smelled it. He asked me what I liked most about Edward Sharpe- I fumbled a bit for an answer but told him they didn't have a song I didn't like, I liked the energy I'd seen on their youtube videos and they were just fun. In return, he told me they changed the way he thought about things. I said like what. He said...movement...like movement through space. I wanted to suggest that perhaps it was the pot that was changing the way he thought about movement through space but then he got engaged in a conversation with his Asian girlfriend, who was also high. Krista and I spent the rest of the concert imitating their dance movies- high hipster, as seems a fitting name for him- was doing a very energetic, weird jerky thing, kind of like he was a marionette and the puppeteer was off his meds- and Asian girlfriend was doing a swaying, dreamy, eyes-closed sort of thing, like she was having a spiritual experience. All in all, they made for a very entertaining night, until high hipster got a mysterious text and had to go, failing to return for the rest of the show. After that the only entertainment (besides the band obviously) was a bunch of drunk friends, maybe in their late twenties or early thirties, all behaving in a thoroughly obnoxious manner not at all appropriate for their age which reminded me why drinking alcohol in public is a bad idea if you want to maintain any semblance of dignity of your person at all. There were several females in the party, none of them overly-attractive, all shouting at each other and hugging at regular intervals and talking through the majority of the performances. Krista aptly described them as a group that would have been much better suited to a Kenny Chesney concert- it was true. They were trying to be cool and indie but everything about them screamed the opposite. Major secondhand embarrassment. They watched a video of a cat chasing a fish on an iPad nine times. Nine. Times. People. I mean I guess it's kinda funny but oh wait IT'S NOT THAT FUNNY. I could give them the benefit of the doubt and say alcohol played a role but to be fair they had barely started drinking at that point, so I'm pretty sure they were just idiots even while sober. The Asian chick left after a while (she needed wider, more open space in which to sway in) but her and high hipster's backpack was still in the seat and one of the two guys in the drunk group, Douchebag McGee as I fondly refer to him, stole a joint from her backpack and smoked it. If Douchebag McGee was an obnoxious drunk, he was even worse while stoned. He proceeded to dance provocatively, (lots of pelvic thrusting), feel up his girlfriend, and shout. Just general shouting. He also stole a poster from me in a manner which I expect he thought was sly, but much to his chagrin, I stole it back when he wasn't looking. He was not happy.
Overall very fun night. It was topped off by a drunk girl, slender with a cheetah-patterned bra which was entirely visible through the gaps in her slashed and tattered t-shirt that was falling off her skinny shoulders (Fashion statement people) stumbling and clutching onto a hot boyfriend who yelled gleefully "my girlfriend's drunk!" The next I saw of them, the girl was lying down on the sidewalk outside of the Orpheum theater with her boyfriend on top of her, engaged in some passionate kissing/slobbering. I might've been disgusted, but the couple was attractive and the girl had lots of badass tattoos so I was alright with it. Also, I've never seen anyone literally lay down in the streets of Boston and get it on before, so that was kind of cool. A new high of debauchery/patheticness.
So yup. Good times in the city. Boston, you're my home!

Other than that, what have I been doing with myself in the brief time that I've been home? Television. Catching up on New Girl, and, I confess, Glee. I love Glee and I'm not ashamed people. Not only is it funny, sexy, lovably stupid, entertaining, and musical in a good way- but it has Darren Criss. And I really like Darren Criss. Really really really a lot. I am actually completely smitten with Darren Criss but that's another story.

I've been listening to a lot of Rihanna, Kaki King, Justin Timberlake, Glee covers, Santigold, The Beatles, Audioslave and Justin Bieber. Don't judge, his new CD is catchy.

I've also been catching up with friends, and home-brewed coffee, and sleep, and my dog, and ice cream from Dairy Twist, and stuff like that.

But all that pleasantness is over because I have to go to London and yes I say have to and yes I'm not exactly excited but hopefully it'll be kind of fun and not totally miserable...
I'll let you know.

Catch ya on the flipside my blogging friends.

Breaking Point (A Lesson In Fiction)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Two Minutes

Hello:
Taking two minutes here to say,
I miss you all terribly
And I know I am a dreadful slovenly individual who doesn't update her blog or make good on her promises. Look forward to some delightful high-quality posts to make up for it in the very near future, and hopefully some forgiveness-inspiring explanations.
Until then mes amis.

[AND Happy Easter. I hope yours was as pleasantly awkward and filled with uncomfortable moments as mine.]

Fiction Friday Vol. II

Blogging from Wheaton College in Mass right now folks. That's right, I'm at Wheaton, partying it up college kid style, and I still had the love and consideration to write you a post. Actually I've had this particular Fiction Friday waiting around for a few days to post until Friday came around but shh don't tell anyone that. Right now I just look like a really awesome blogger. (To be fair, it was a struggle and a half to get the stupid internet here to work and finally I just resorted to posting from my best friend's computer.) So here it is! Enjoy! Sorry that not nearly a generous enough amount of editing was done.






 Disillusionment and Sofia Vergara


He. His name is Jonas and he sits across from me in a cafeteria booth- the same cafeteria booth, but I don't tell him that. His eyes are ice blue shards that glint in the sunlight streaming across his crooked face. His face that is always half-shadowed, as if some mysterious, dark presence has settled and made its home there.

His long fingers tease at the burnt edges of a sesame-seed bagel: toasted, but dry, as he tells me how he lost his faith. He speaks of it as though it is a tangible thing, like a locket, something he held in his hand and felt the cool smooth weight of, until one day, he just lost it.

He was in high school at the time. He is not looking at me when he says this, rather looking out the window, and the unflinching sunlight bathing his figure feels garish at a time like this. This is serious. This is somber. The shadows on Jonas' face are darker than usual. And the stupid dumbass sun keeps shining in, intruding on this moment. Such a romantic moment, I think shallowly. Bon Iver ought to be playing in the background.

He took some classes at the local college. Most of the kids in his high school did; it was encouraged. This is when he lost the locket- his faith I mean.

It just didn't make sense anymore, he is saying to me, and his skinny fingers move to circling the rim of his half-empty orange juice glass. My faith- I realized that my faith was a sham. It was just ignorance.

And it was frightening. He has not said that part, not so explicitly, but I can see it on the shadows on his face, in the flickering of his eyes. It was frightening the first time he realized it might not all be true. I know this without him actually verbalizing it. I have been there before.

It was when I told my parents I was bisexual, and in doing that, renounced everything they had ever taught me, everything I had ever known. In their eyes, you couldn't be bisexual and still have a piece of their faith. It wasn't possible. I knew that being bisexual meant that I couldn't hold onto my faith anymore. I still believed in God. That was a knowledge that had been inescapably ingrained in my brain since infancy. But faith- faith was something I couldn't cling to anymore. I ran away. I had to run away.

Jonas is talking now, about how glad he is. I'm glad I know though. He makes sure that my eyes are hitched with his eyes while he says this. As sad as it is, to realize everything you believed was a lie, it's better to know. I'd rather know. And I still believe in God, you know. Maybe someday, I'll come back to it all. But for now, I'm glad I know.

He drains the cup of orange juice.

I agree with what he has said. It is sad. He feels that he has won something with his knowledge, but really, I think that he has lost. I think this for a brief moment, before I am distracted by the sesame seed that has found its way to his outer lip. I want to lean forward and lick it off, or perhaps remove it with my teeth, so carefully, barely grazing their hard shellacked edges with the softness of his skin.

He sees my gaze then and smiles, softly. Perhaps he knows, knows how much his disillusionment has enchanted me. I am a writer; I can't help but be drawn to his woundedness, his brokenness. His brooding, dark, mysteriously veiled face. I want to help him. But I can't because I don't have the answers myself.

                                                                  --------------

Jonas told me once that he thought Sofia Vergara was beautiful. He said it in a mild way, offhandedly. He was not graphic, did not go into the details about what he would like to do to her, if he could get with her. He just said she was beautiful. He liked the way she looked.

It made my heart ache in that way it always does when someone I think is beautiful talks about how beautiful someone else is. In that moment, the only thing I wanted in the whole entire world was to be Sofia Vergara. And wasn't that a stupid thought. If I was Sofia Vergara, I would not be here. I would not even know Jonas. The type of men that I could have- well that's just it, they would be men, not disillusioned boys, not like Jonas. I would be far and away from this place. I would not be scared. I would have a grip on my life. I would not be so desperately enamored of this sad little boy with his deep voice and daring dispassion. And I would have that idiotic accent. That woman has some body, but man I hate her accent.

I told him that, when he said how much he liked Sofia. I told him her accent was dumb. He smiled at that, and my heart warmed, though I had ordered it not to. But I can't help it when it comes to Jonas. Little pieces of my heart warm at all the things he does. At the way his voice is so much deeper than you would expect it to be and at the way he seems all apathetic about everything in the world but he's still really smart and he works hard and gets good grades in school, and most especially- it warms at the way he smiles at something I've said, even if his smile is making fun of me, like it is now.

You're just jealous he says, and he's completely right and I hate him for that. You shouldn't worry about it. You look just fine. Tabitha.

                                                                  ----------------

My good friend Sarah, who is older and wiser than I am, once told me that I was a lovely girl. You're beautiful, Tabby. Beautiful Tabitha. He had told it to me too, when we were in the booth, touching each other quietly, brokenly. The same booth where Jonas and I had talked about the missing faith. I had touched another boy there, a lonely boy, and he had told me I was beautiful.

But beautiful is a subjective thing. I didn't tell that to him, not in the booth. It wasn't the time for arguments. But I told it to Sarah, because it was true and she knew it and she smiled at me and dropped into my hands a piece of her wisdom.

You are beautiful, and I don't think anyone could miss it. But it's a special kind of beauty. You're beautiful to those who are young. The young, the broken and the disillusioned. They can see the beauty in you, in your rebellion, in the way that you run.

I just wanted Jonas to see the beauty in me, and I told Sarah that.

He does, I think. Jonas knows you're beautiful. He sees that. But you're not- and don't take offense to this Tabitha- you're not the right kind of beautiful. You're the kind of beautiful that he wants to touch, that he wants to feel pressed up against him. You have the beauty whose hips he wants to encircle, whose legs he wants to graze, whose breasts he wants to bury his heartbroken face in. Your lips, your soft hair: this is the beauty that is a balm to his disillusioned soul. You could heal him right now. Your beauty could be what he needs, to find the beauty in everything else again, to find the beauty in the whole, not just the part, to find the beauty in the world. You are a beauty for now, and a beauty for here, and a beauty for this.  But you aren't the type of beautiful that he's going to remain enchanted by forever. You aren't- you aren't the type of beautiful he's going to want to take home to mother.


That's fine. I don't want to meet Jonas' mother. Sarah's words don't hurt me, no, they make a lot of sense, really they do. I'm not the girl he brings home to mother. And by he I mean any he. Not just Jonas but all of them, all of the hes in the world he might be enchanted by my beauty. My beauty that exists in my uncertainty, in my rebellion, in my running away.

Jonas is running from God, and that is why my beauty enchants him. That is why my beauty is not something his mother would see, is not something he could share with her, or share for a lifetime. Once he finds God again, and I hope that he will, my beauty will fade into the background of a pure, golden-haired virgin. Home-schooled probably. Never said the f-word in her whole damn life.

But, but, but,

Can't they see this? Can't they see it here, on my face, in my eyes, in my voice that is no longer so afraid?

I am not running anymore.

Rebel Rebel (On Being a Pierced and Tattooed Christian)

Hey there-
I don't know what you're doing as you begin to read this but you might as well stop whatever it is and grab yourself a mug of coffee, or maybe tea if that's your cup, and settle in. Because this is going to be a bit long-winded. That's right people. Finally. Here it is. My take on TATTOOS.

Tattoos. I guess we can begin with an explanation of the tattoos that I have. I can now officially say I have two of them. Both are relatively small, and relatively tasteful, at least in my opinion anyway. They are both done in completely black ink (at this point I have an aversion to colored tattoos; we'll see if that changes in the future). I have a bird flying out of a birdcage on my right foot, which I got done by a really scary looking but awesome guy named Mike at The Underground in Olean, NY. Broadly, it symbolizes freedom. What kind of freedom is up to interpretation. People always ask me if it's "a  real tattoo" because it kind of looks like it's a drawing I did with pen or something, and that can be annoying. Sometimes I tell people it's freedom in Christ. Basically, I've kind of self-imprisoned myself in a lot of things, which I won't get into here. And I guess that tattoo is a reminder that I'm free: God has made me free. If you want to go that far into things. I got that tattoo in September my first semester of college. I was nervous. It hurt. But I love it.

My second tattoo I just got this Saturday, in Raynham, MA. The parlor was called Mandrake Tattoo and the work was done by a BA chick named Annie whom I am now a big fan of. It's also small. The tattoo is located on the uppermost part of my left arm, the very tip of the shoulder. I have the Greek letters for "Ixthus", which means fish in Greek, more specifically the Christian "Jesus fish". If you want a little more back story, during Nero's time when Christians were under heavy persecution and had to meet in secret etc., one Christian would draw half of the fish in the sand with their foot and the other person would finish it off if they too were a Christian. That's where the symbolism of the fish originates. But each of the Greek letters in Ixthus actually stand for something: Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior. I don't take Greek or anything like that, but I like the look of the Greek characters and the constant reminder that the tattoo is to me. I need that reminder.

I actually got the tattoo also because of its significance to my dad, one of the most amazing, godly people I have ever met in my entire life. My dad and I don't agree on everything; that is for sure (not like that's unusual) but we have always had what I would call a special bond. I love my mom, but I would say she and my sister are closer whereas my dad and I are closer. My dad gets me, usually. He has the same sense of humor as I do, he likes my style, he was pretty cool about my last tattoo and my piercings (my mom's the one that hates them), we both love music. Those are just a few things. We have very similar personalities actually. So when I was thinking about my next tattoo, I wanted to get something that would be obviously meaningful, but would also mean a lot to my dad. I felt like he deserved that much. Now there's this old Baseball uniform t-shirt that my dad has from his days as part of the church baseball team in Pownal, Maine. On the back it says Conrad in big block letters. On the front is the name of the church and its location, but in the center is a big Ixthus fish with the Koine Greek characters written inside. Ever since I was a little girl I thought that shirt was so cool, and my dad used to always explain the meaning of the fish and the Ixthus to my sister and I. The shirt is ratty and didn't fit him anymore: I stole it as a pajama t-shirt years and years ago. When I was thinking about my tattoo and decided I wanted something in Greek, it only made sense to get the Ixthus characters, for my dad. I actually brought the shirt to the parlor and the design is directly copied from the t-shirt. So there's the story behind that one.

So what's the point of all this? Well, I like tattoos. I'm eighteen years old, I was raised in a Baptist church with incredibly conservative parents and, let's face it, people are still trying to get over the fact that our forty-something-year-old married-with-kids worship-team drummer has a piercing. That's the way my church is. Conservative. I mean, conservative.

But I am anything but that word.

For years and years I talked about getting tattoos and my mom prayed that I never would. She was raised by a Presbyterian minister as one of five children during the sixties: I don't know if that has anything to do with the way she is now, but let's just say, sometimes, I think she wonders how on earth she could possibly have spawned me. Now that sounds just mean. It's not meant to be. It's just that, while I love my mom and we do get along for the most part, we are so incredibly different. I have been trying to explain myself to her for years and she still just doesn't get it. She doesn't get my sense of self-expression, the way I dress, the music I listen to, the stuff I do to my hair, the type of things I write about, or why on earth I would want to do something to my body like pierce or tattoo it. She hates it.

I feel bad for the poor woman, honestly. I mean I've reached the point in my life where I've accepted that my mom and I aren't going to see eye-to-eye on everything, and it's okay. I'm okay with it. I've gotten to the point where I can laugh, actually. At Christmastime I showed her my newest piercing, an industrial, which I had gotten without telling anybody, and which she of course hated, and I got a good chuckle out of it. I joke about how she'd better keep the house decorated for future Christmases, because someday I'll have an apartment in Boston with roommates who are pierced and tattooed, and probably pregnant to boot, (because obviously those things go hand in hand), and we'll be living a life of debauchery and squalor, so I won't be able to host Christmas there. Stupid things really. I tease her. She's fairly good-natured, but I think it really does make her sad. She was looking at a photo of my sister and me at Christmastime, in little red coats: I think I must've been about four years old, and she said, Look at how cute that little girl is, she doesn't look like someone who would grow up and get tattooed and pierced. I don't think my mother ever imagined having a daughter who would do things like that, as conservative as she and my father, and my older sister all are.

I was talking to a few friends about tattoos and piercings around that time, also. One of my best friends wanted to get a belly button piercing but had been very hesitant because her boyfriend isn't a fan. The other friend wanted a tattoo, but made the decision not to do it until she gets married and gets her husband's opinion on them.


I didn't really know what to think of that. I think the scenarios are a little bit different and can't be evaluated using the same measuring stick. I do respect my friends, for caring what their significant others have to say: I think that's a good thing, and a nice thing. But you know what? I'm glad that I don't have a boyfriend or a fiance or whatever hanging around right now giving me all his opinions on piercings and tattoos and the lot of it. Because for me, it's about what I want, and the convictions that I personally have. I have to hope that the man that would fall in love with me and want to marry me would love me for just that- for having convictions, for being the type of person who thinks a tattoo is okay, even attractive, and for just being honest and true to my feelings, as cheesy as that sounds. I think a man I could love would love me back, not despite my tattoos, but with my tattoos, because they're part of me, and part of who I am.

I think that's something that's hard for people* to understand, or accept, that my piercings and tattoos are a part of me, that they could be a part of someone. I was talking to those same friends about the possibility of me getting another tattoo on my shoulder (the one that I just got Saturday). The second friend was very opposed to the idea, warning me that a shoulder tattoo would probably be visible with my wedding dress whenever I get married. Oddly enough, that's an argument I've been given more than once, and one I've even succumbed to a few times in the past.

But after she said that, I realized, that's not a valid point with me anymore. For one thing, I don't even believe I will necessarily get married ever. It'd be nice, sure, but it's not something I'm planning on or building my future around. I plan to be single. I'm not making huge life decisions based on the possibility that maybe someday in the distant far future I might have a husband. Just not my style. If I get a tattoo, I'm getting it so people can see it, not to hide it away in some naughty, intimate location under layers of clothing. The fact is, my tattoos (and piercings) are something I'm proud of, and no matter what day of my life it is: I'll always have them. I'm not going to not get one just so I can look pretty and pure and not scare the elderly for one day of my life. I'm the kind of girl who likes tattoos- if you want to be my friend, love me, get married to me, attend my wedding- you're going to have to be okay with the fact that that's who I am. I'm not hiding it, it's there. It doesn't change who I am, but it does add to it.


I'm proud of that, to be honest. I'm proud, most of all, that I'm actually not trying to consider what any guy in my life might have to say on the matter. I have a history of trying to change myself to appeal to the guy I like or the guy I'm with. Believe it or not I told one boyfriend I was into drinking, because he was, and two years later told another guy that I was completely anti-drinking, because he was.


I know, it's messed up, and it's one of the things I least respect about myself, which is why I'm admitting it here and trying to work on it a lot. It's also one of many reasons I'm glad I'm single now, because I'm figuring out who I am on my own, not according to anyone else. But anyway, in a sense, I'm proud of myself for getting my tattoos, because it's what I wanted and I didn't do it or not do it to impress any guy or something like that. It was me.


(Not to say you shouldn't sometimes compromise with your significant other, or even bow to their standards/expectations in certain circumstances. But that's a whole different issue, not going into it here.)

Basically, my point is that, I like the way my tattoo and piercings make me look, I like the way they make me feel. My parents hate them: my sister hates them: the people at my church would be scandalized: my parents aren't even telling my grandmother...my friends are fairly supportive usually, but they don't always love them either. They razz me a lot about them actually; they make fun of me because I always try to be so "edgy." But although they're just teasing and they know my tattoos are meaningful to me, I know that if I get more tattoos, they probably won't like it. And it's not that I don't care, but in the end, that's not going to change anything. Because this is who I am, and it's not an area in my life where I'm willing to compromise to please others.

I'm still a Christian. That hasn't changed. I've had more than one person insinuate or allude to the possibility that my chances of getting into Heaven have diminished too, because I "abused my body" that way or whatever.


Honestly, I don't know about you, but I think that if people with tattoos can't get into Heaven, well then, a lot of Jesus' best servants are going to be left out in the cold. I just don't see that as something that makes sense at all, even a little bit. It's ridiculous.

I'm a Christian girl and I have tattoos and that doesn't make me rebellious or, I don't know, dangerous or even stupid or impulsive or naive. I think it makes me someone who makes decisions and sticks to them, who likes what they like, who appreciates art, and who believes that Christianity is about bigger things than the way we express ourselves through our clothes and bodies and decorations.

God is about more than that.

So, what is my long-winded point?

Just that, if you want a tattoo, get one, because you like it, and you think God is okay with it. Not for any other reason than those. It might make people perceive you differently, but it shouldn't change the way you view yourself.

*When I say people here, I'm talking about Christian people, namely.

I Am Not Dead

Hello, hello, hello-

I am not dead. I am not even really close to dead. I just have so many things vying to pull my time away from schoolwork that blogging, sad to say, often gets pushed to the end of the list. That's right. You're a distraction from my other distractions. How does that make you feel?

February break starts Friday though THANK THE LORD. I am flying back to Massachusetts where, upon arriving, I will promptly take a bubble bath. I'm also getting my next tattoo and spending a few nights at Wheaton College where one of my very best friends goes. She'll be doing schoolwork. I, will not. The only thing I will be doing is living it up, wild college girl style. It, will be awesome. (Honestly, I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm just excited to see what a college that isn't Christian, in the middle of a cow field, and covered in ice and snow like our very own pre-Aslan version of Narnia is like. Also, a place where there is something to do past eleven o'clock. Maybe even somewhere to go that isn't on campus. In other words, a place that is not Houghton.)

I'm really freaking excited for break, which actually completely sucks, because whenever you're really excited for something and you've built it up a lot in your mind, it always always lets you down. I really don't want break to let me down.

I don't think it will though: I don't know how it could. My best friend is easy to be with and even when we haven't seen each other in ages, we've known each other so long that we can fill in the gaps in moments and it's like we saw each other yesterday again. Also, I'm psyched that she's coming with me to get my tattoo, and getting her belly button pierced. I love it when friends go with me to get bodily mutilations. It just makes them that much more meaningful.

I am also psyched to see my parents; I should probably mention that. Or, just to be in my house really. And most especially, to see my dog, aka Holly, aka the coolest animal on this entire planet. I miss that dog, so very much. I plan to get my fill of her over this break.

I also plan to eat steak. Hopefully. If I can convince my parents to take me out to a steakhouse because, as always, I am next to broke right now.

And you know what else I plan to do? Blog. I know. You should be super grateful that I am willing to spend my precious free time blogging for people like you. It's because I love you, Dear Readers. I love you lots for putting up with me and my laziness and mood-swings and weird obsessions every week.

It's very possible one of these blog posts will be about tattoos (FINALLY). Since I'm getting my new one, it seems appropriate to finally address the topic and my personal (obviously positive) feelings on the matter. It's also possible that one of these blog posts will be the short story that I promised (if you read it) on my twitter account last week or so. You know what I just did there? I just promised you two blog posts next week. What the frigidaire was I thinking?

So, there you go. I just have to make it through the next five days alive and then I will be living it up and telling you all about it. Save some free time next week to read my lovely ramblings.

Until then.

P.S.
This week, I did four things I have never done before. I watched Shutter Island, which freaked me out, in the best way, and I liked it a lot. (Even though the people I was watching it with TALKED THROUGH THE WHOLE THING NOT TO POINT FINGERS OR ACT LIKE I'M STILL ANGRY ABOUT IT OR ANYTHING JED. MAYBE YOU WOULD'VE UNDERSTOOD IT BETTER IF YOU'D BEEN ABLE TO SHUT UP FOR FIVE SECONDS.) (It's ok, he doesn't read this blog. He has no idea I even have a blog. No worries.) Uhm, where was I? Oh. I played pool for the first time, and I immediately realized there is a reason I have been avoiding the pasttime all these years, and I stopped playing pool. I finished a 38 oz. bag of peanut butter m&m's. Not by myself. Don't worry. AND I made pottery at a real live pottery wheel, and it was awesome, and I plan to do it again, maybe more than once. It's really awesome when your future roommate is an art major and you've just always had all these deep, hidden, unfullfilled dreams of being artistic buried inside of you. It's really very awesome.

P.P.S. That was a really long P.S. Sorry. That's all. See you very soon. I hope. Wish me luck this week!

A Depressing (But Non-Valentine's Day Related!) Post

Oh Blogosphere-

There is so much that I want to say to you, yet so much holds me back. I know that underneath it all, though you seem really friendly and welcoming, you really are an interweb portal to all sorts of unknown people and absolutely anybody in the world could access you at any time. Knowing that keeps me from spilling my guts to you, though I want to. You aren't my diary: I have to remind myself of that often. In fact, I have a diary, or a journal, if you will. I have several of them. I don't need to spill my guts here.

But what can I say, when my life has been spiralling completely out of control, when these past 5 or 6 weeks have been so terribly difficult, when I have spent every day treading water, simply trying to keep my head above the current, and getting splashed over and hit square in the face with another wave of salty sea water every time that I think I've started to make some progress.

Am I drowning?

Is God trying to tell me something?

I feel that usual frustration return to me, the frustration directed at everyone in my life, most especially God, and none of it toward myself, the person that really deserves the brunt of it.

Why are they doing this to me? I ask. Do they mean to be mean? Do they care that they are hurting my feelings? And- why did I do that? It was their fault. They made me do it, by making me feel this way. It's not supposed to feel this way. Why doesn't he like me? I need him to like me, but he'll never like me now, not after what I did. I just want her to be my friend again, my best friend, but the more I hold onto her, the more she starts to slip away. I can't even look at myself in the mirror. I feel sick. If I pass this semester, it will be a miracle. I just want to go home, to get out of here. I need something, something to make me feel okay. I thought I was doing better, I thought I was feeling better. Why, God, when I just walked out of that desert, would you lead me back into yet another one? Will I ever be out of the desert?

It's all falling apart, but when is it not? I feel ashamed, about almost everything about me, everything that I have done, everything that I am. I told a friend Sunday night, "I thought I had more self-respect for myself than this." I really did. But it turns out, I don't.

Why do I feel exactly like I'm fifteen years old again? I'm nearly nineteen; life wasn't supposed to feel this way anymore.

What do I even have? I look down at my hands: they are empty. What do I even have anymore? "It really hits me now/ If this is all I got/ Then I'm alone with nothing."

Monastir said it right. "Life Is Long When You're Lonely."

*I just finished writing this and then realized it was Valentine's Day. I truly didn't mean to be so depressing on V-Day. That's honestly just really hugely coincidental.

*One very good thing about my life recently: one of my most favorite friends came to visit for the weekend, from Buffalo, and I got to see her lots and it was absolutely wonderful.

The Gay Thing

Not necessarily the most eloquent thing I've ever penned [typed] but definitely full of passion:

All I want to say

Is that, I love God. I love people.

I hate it when Christians hate on gays.

I don't get how they think that the Bible backs that up. That being their hatred and homophobia and sickening, close-minded, evil bigotry.

Are you that ignorant of everything going on around you? Are you that ignorant of the God you claim you love?

I know that the Bible condemns homosexuality and people have debated for decades just what is the Biblical viewpoint regarding this hot button issue.

I honestly don't have the answer to that. It is one of the biggest questions I've ever faced and I have to admit I just don't know.

But the thing I do know is that you're supposed to love gay people, no matter who you are. God loves the gay people. God loves everybody. Homosexuality is something many people struggle with and it's ignorant and insipid and infuriating to hear you spout on hatefully about something you clearly have no experience with, at all.

As somebody who has, over the years, known, been related to, loved and lived with several homosexuals, I would have to say,

Shut up. Shut up about the thing that you don't understand. God doesn't need you to hate on the gays for Him. God doesn't need you to pass His judgment.

I hope your besetting sin never becomes fodder for college-aged neaanderthals to spew verbal diarrhea about in the fast-food restaurants of their campuses.

It hurts me to hear people talking like this.

Things I Have Been Doing Lately (Rather than Blogging)

1. Listening to Lana Del Rey's new album over and over again.
2. Reading "Crazy Love"
3. Reading "The Book Thief"
4. Reading Boethius' philosophy...
5. Reading "The Hunger Games"
6. Listening to Sneaker Pimps
7. Trekking through woods and fields
8. Watching the LOTR trilogy
9. Spending hours in Java, drinking coffee, procrastinating on homework
10. Working out (shocking I know!)
11. Sleeping. Always. Sleeping.
12. Writing an inordinate amount of papers.
13. Star tipping.
14. Planning out the new tattoo I'm getting this month!
15. Working working working.
16. Making new friends!
17. Going to concerts.
18. Going to church.
19. Eating peanut butter-related items. (Even more shocking than me working out, I know).
20. Doing my homework (WHO HAVE I BECOME?)
21. Watching TV.
22. Ordering a diva cup. (I KNOW. I KNOW.)
23. Planning trips to exciting places.
24. Not blogging.

*Painting! I forgot about painting. My friend is teaching me to paint; it's awesome.

Sorry about that. I'm a let down. But a whole crap load of stuff has been going in my life. That above is just the highlights/ blogger-appropriate stuff. I'll have a better, more substantial and interesting post later in the week. Until then, Happy February. Do interesting things :)

Virginity (Isn't So Bad)

This post won't be long, because I am watching a movie, and I am enjoying the movie, and to be honest I don't really want to write you a post right now; I just want to focus on the movie.
In Virgil's The Aeneid, Turnus' sister Juturna receives the gift of immortality from the gods, but for a price; that price being her virginity. Basically, what that says to me is that virginity, is, or at least used to be, majorly, hugely valued. It was a big deal. Juturna's purity was worth immortality.

I've managed to hold onto my virginity for coming on nineteen years now. I say managed because- well I won't get into why I say that- but suffice it to say, it's stuck around, and I'm glad for that.

Two girls in my literary non-fiction class were discussing their virginity the other day. Both of them had lost it, to men they had intended to marry, but had later broken up with. Both claimed they didn't regret it. "It wasn't my choice to end that relationship," said one of them. "If it had been up to me, we would still be together. So I think that justifies what I did."

Yeah maybe but it's definitely BS if you say you don't regret it. I know you do, I know you do so painfully with every fiber in your being. There are a million little things I regret doing with different people, even though none of them are on the level of having sex. Even saying things, giving away emotional pieces and intimacies of myself- I regret things as little as that. So don't try to tell me your virginity was worth nothing, that it didn't matter that you gave it away.

I know other people still, who are saving their first kiss, even, for their wedding day, or at least their fiance. I don't fall into that category. This is a choice I've made, not because I've already given away my first kiss (though to be honest, I have) but because for whatever reason, I don't believe that it's something that needs to be saved. I believe it's affectionate, and if I'm in a relationship with someone, the level of affection I have for them certainly merits a kiss.

But not more.

In that way, I don't have to fight a losing battle by trying to stifle all sexual desire entirely, but I don't make compromises either.

The problem is a lot of people disagree. And ultimately you need your partner to agree with you, or it's all just for nought.

I don't really know what the point is. That I'm a virgin and I'm okay with it, I guess. I haven't always been (okay with it). Some days I'm still not. Some days I wish I could say I was a virgin and feel like I was a virgin, mentally too and everything. Most days, I'm excited that I get to get married, hopefully to someone awesome, and sleep with only that person, ever, for the rest of my life.

Because it really is kind of awesome.



Next week maybe I'll post this essay I wrote for my non-fiction writing class. It's kind of an essay, kind of a book review. It's basically supposed to mimic The New Yorker and I wrote it on The Book Thief, and I'm still editing it, but I think it's fairly decent. So perhaps we can look forward to that.

Also, here is an awesome comic my english/writing major friend sent me: http://forlackofabettercomic.com/?id=35

So true.

Until we meet again.

Second Semester Blues

Ah, here I am back again. It's been a fairly typical Friday night here at Houghton. Spent most of my evening with some friends, watching The Fellowship of the Ring, which was a pleasant change of scene/company.

In other news, I rang in my second week back here in New York with a gut-wrenching, completely debilitating, all-out miserable stomach bug. It only lasted around 24 hours but then I pushed it by eating "normal food" (and by normal food I mean some goldfish and a bowl of Lucky Charms) too soon and so was out of class Tuesday and Wednesday both. Not the most promising way to start off a semester. But it seems to have passed now and I spent my down time in bed watching heaps of movies of a certain genre which I won't embarrass myself by relating here, and all in all, if that was the only time I got sick this school year, I'd be pretty alright with that.

I've had a few post ideas marinating in my brain over the past week or so (still haven't forgotten about the much-awaited tattoo post) but I'm afraid this particular one will only be a bit of rambling about my week, the semester, my life...as usual. In the future though, we can look forward (I hope) to some more interesting, varied topics. I have ideas! I promise I have them.

Starting off this semester has been confusing, exhausting and, well, lonely. I talked to a friend about it for a long time last night, why I was lonely, how I could get past it, what was the deal with me and all that- and while I didn't come to an immediate solution, the talking helped. Talking always helps guys. You might want to revert into your shell and just let it stew in your own head, keep it to yourself all stoic and tough guy-like- I know that's my personal tendency- but when friends are available to talk, take advantage of it. And be as honest as you can, even if it's tough. It helps.

I've been sad, lately. I know that's ironic considering I posted so adamantly recently about having a happy New Year. (Note that I also bragged, in that post, about how awesome my immune system was...) I can't explain exactly why I'm sad. At this point I think it's just a part of being me: inherent to the individual that is Lizzie Spaulding is a certain tendency to melancholy. Just how I am. I suppose if I were to really try to pinpoint my sadness it would be, as I said, loneliness. A feeling that something is missing. This could be attributed to a few different things: lack of a best friend here at college (something I have not gone without since the sixth grade really), the absence this semester of a few of my closer friends from this school, and not the non-existence of any sort of romantic relationship in my life, but really the non-existence of any desire or plausibility for such a relationship to come to pass. A realization that to live harmoniously, co-dependently, vulnerably, lovingly, and most of all interminably, with another human being- for me- is just...not. Not me. I don't think. But anyway.

So, yes, it's been a rough two weeks. Contemplating a lot of things. Friendships, missing people, emotional attachment, the ever-changing concept of home, of belonging, of self, conditionality in relationships, sexuality, psychological well-being, medication, our duty to share the gospel, purpose, responsibility, morality, Biblical teaching...to name a few. Also, there's been a lot of schoolwork and work-work and writing, writing, reading a bit, writing some more, and then a bit thrown off by that virus. But I'll get back on my feet again guys.

It's hard getting back into the routine of things. But I'll find it again. And I don't expect to have all the answers by the end of the semester, far from it, but I hope I'm somewhere farther along the road than the place where I am now, and most of all, I hope I make some friends along the way.

Until next time mes amis.

Fiction Friday V. 1

This is my first official Fiction Friday post, the first of what I hope will be many more to come.

I have to apologize for two things. One, I'm not posting this on Friday. I'm actually posting it on Saturday afternoon. But I am not one to be a legalist, by any means. And in my defense, I did have this written on Thursday night actually, but what can I say, it's been an exhausting week for so many reasons, not the least of which being I am working twice as much as I was last semester and it eats up a lot of my evenings. So I'm getting this to you, belatedly, and I'm sorry about it but not really that sorry. The second thing I'm (half-heartedly, because if I really cared I would fix it) apologizing for is that this is not my best quality. I like the idea but I know it could use a lot of editing and cutting down. But I never promised that Fiction Fridays would be super high-quality final draft kind of work. So here it is, as it is. Sorry sorry and enjoy:

In Love with In Love

I don’t remember when we met: people have told me we were five, naked in somebody’s backyard sandbox at a Sunday School barbecue. I wonder if, even as little kids, you had already started looking at me the way you do now, that way that makes me feel like I might do something scandalous: get up in the middle of Sunday morning service and do cartwheels between the pews, and you would laugh and it would make you love me all the more. You find me whimsical, enchanting, and it isn’t egotistical of me to say this, it’s just that I can tell, from the look that you have in your green-gray-blue eyes. I know that I scare you sometimes, but I think you love me all the more for that.

Then, when we were twelve, around twelve anyway, your parents invited mine down to your Saquish beach house to eat hamburgers and play pickle on the sea grass. Us kids rode tumbled together in your daddy’s truck bed, tucked under a blanket so the police wouldn’t see and get mad. We were comrades then, hiding together from any who might seek to separate us. But then, on the beach, in our adolescent swimsuits, you and your brother threw clumps of seaweed at my sister and me, and I tried to throw some back, but my throw wasn’t very strong and they always fell short of where you stood, so cocky and confident, and you laughed.

When we got older you apologized, real shame-faced and reticent, as if I was really going to hold you responsible for teasing me when we were twelve. I smiled and said it was fine and I saw relief slump into your narrow shoulders and your eyes follow the way my teeth bit at my bottom lip, nervous and flirtatious all at once.

You told me I was demure once, and I gave you a hard time about it, and you shrunk back into your shell immediately, trying to modify the statement, admitting you supposed you couldn’t really say, you didn’t propose to know me that intimately, after all.

After church you’d linger with me in the foyer, the smell of coffee and musty choir robes, dusty Bibles comfortably wrapped around us, pushing us together and sometimes the chatter of the mingling congregation would get so loud, you’d have to lean in real close to hear me and I could see the blonde stubble on your chin.

When we went away to school, you brought those conversations with you: you’d email me and I’d send replies, long and detailed and complicated, because I never could manage to make my writing very succinct.

I don’t know what you ever saw in me. You were always so good, always so content and quiet and thoughtful and happy to do your Bible reading and happy to wear ironed, laundered button ups to church, and happy to clean you room, and happy to wake up earlier than seven o’clock in the morning. I was the girl that got the tattoos and had a Mohawk that one year in high school and wore ostentatious clothing and unabashedly questioned things we really shouldn’t question. I was wild, flyaway, self-conscious, annoying, fickle. I was the color red: sometimes dark and intense and moody, other times bright and cheerful and lovely.

I don’t know, now, if I’m really in love with you. We were engaged last summer under the poplar tree with the swing in your cousin’s backyard and part of me wasn’t surprised, part of me felt like this was expected, maybe almost like I had done it before, like it was a dream and I was only living it out again, in real life. And part of me couldn’t help but wonder, though it felt natural, did it feel right?

You hold my hand now- that’s the farthest you’ll go with me physically- almost nervously you inch your long, cold fingers toward mine and I feel almost repulsed at times, at times it takes everything I have in me not to slap that cold, tentative hand away. But then I remember the way you were when we were kids on the beach, brutally teasing and rough and unapologetic, and it gives me hope, that the twelve-year-old seaweed thrower might still be there somewhere inside, that he might show his face again one day, that someday, if I stick by you, I will coax him out again.

I lie awake at night sometimes and wonder if I am actually in love with you or really just in love with the way that you are in love with me.

(Happy) 2012

In In An Attempt To Discover Happiness In Two-Thousand-Twelve:

We should all just relax man. We should all just be listening to Regina Spektor and hanging out doing nothing with old, comfortable friends, you know the kind of friends who are so familiar and warm, and smell the way you remember, like a worn-out faded red t-shirt that used to be your dad’s, but you stole it, and you’ve been sleeping in it for three years now and it just smells right.

And we should be watching episodes of Parks and Recreation because it is a funny show, and it almost never makes you sad, or feel like crying or anything too intense at all. It’s just funny, and nice.

We should all be taking baths too, long ones. Where did it come from that baths are gross? People always tell me, I don’t get why you like to take baths you weirdo, you’re just marinating in a vat of your own disgusting fluids or whatever. And I’m like, I don’t know about you, but I’m a pretty clean person, I shower A LOT and I am just generally pretty hygienic, so my baths aren’t really gross. And honestly, just embrace it, you only live once, and if you live your whole life too afraid to even take a frigging bath, then it must just be sad to be you. Me, I know, I freak people out because I don’t wear shower shoes at college and I believe you can eat things off the floor, generally, and you should wash your hands for sure, but don’t be whipping out that anti-bacterial crap all the time because germs are good for you, germs give you a frigging awesome immune system, which I happen to have. I know that kind of approach to living isn’t really okay with everyone, and that’s fine, but take a bath for goodness’ sakes, you’ll feel better. Even better use a LUSH bath bomb when you do it, and light some candles too, like maybe one that smells like honeysuckle, or the ocean, and you’ll never be the same again.

I also think we should all just invest in a good memory foam mattress topper, because that will also change your life, and keep your feet clean and manicured, because nothing feels as good as clean, nice-smelling, soft, pretty feet. We should also all be drinking chamomile tea, because it’s good for the body and the mind.

We should try to challenge ourselves, even in simple ways. One of the simpler ways that I’m challenging myself right now is I’m reading The Book Thief which is written much differently than the things I usually read and the things I usually write, and it really is making me think about language in an entirely different way. And so I’m attempting to write things the way this guy writes things and it’s hard but it’s fun and it’s making me better I think, which is good, because you should always try to be better at everything but especially at the thing you’re best at.

We shouldn’t be afraid to spend time wasting time either, as long as it’s wasting time with friends. For example last night I went to Friendly’s with two old friends which isn’t a waste of time, but then one of them showed me for the first time ever how to grow caterpillars out of straw-wrappers and so then we drove around looking for a place that sold individually-wrapped straws and finally we ended up at McDonald’s where I shoved fistfuls, literally, fistfuls, of straws into my purse and then we got out of there and we spent the rest of the night sitting around a kitchen table drinking tea and making straw-wrapper caterpillars. And it was stupid, really, but it was important. And sometimes, even more important, is just to sit, and talk to people. Make time to talk, even if you could be doing something more "exciting" or "productive". In the end, the time invested just talking to other people is more worthwhile, even if it's talking about pointless things or shallow things. It’s important to waste time with friends, sometimes.

Also, don’t spend too much time thinking about pretty boys, or pretty girls, or being sad because that one pretty person you spend all your time thinking about doesn’t think you’re that pretty in return. I know how it is, to feel this silly, yet painful sadness, deep sadness because the person you’ve found this aching, desperate beauty and need in, doesn’t seem to have discovered that same beauty in you. But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, if only because I myself need to hear it once more. You’re you, and being you, becoming you, and finding happiness in that singularity is good, and exciting, and an opportunity that you should take every advantage of. I truly believe that. If you allow yourself the time to become, others will see that, they will be attracted to that, to your individuality, to your strength, to the beauty that is inherent in a steadfast and defined sense of self. It’s beautiful and be grateful for it.

This isn’t supposed to be a list of New Year’s Resolutions, although we are still reigning in the New Year. It’s really just some suggestions from me to you, and if you add spending an extended amount of time patting a dog, riding a Subway though it might not be clean, but is filled with lots of different people from lots of different places, shopping at thrift stores in a (successful) attempt to find treasure in another man’s junk, and maybe, if possible, playing with some children, even if just for a little while, you have my vacation in a nutshell, and not a bad philosophy for living either. Just some suggestions.

Happy Two-Thousand-Twelve everyone. Happy, Happy, Happy.