tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81033652937529476842024-03-13T12:55:25.649-07:00The Absence of ResponsibilityThoughts without apology.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-80337148970760223502016-07-27T19:22:00.002-07:002016-07-27T19:22:40.605-07:00Exciting NewsPlease check out my newest content and blog at <a href="http://hedgehogfiles.com/">hedgehogfiles.com</a>!<br />
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JordanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-58961433406064442252016-02-08T07:58:00.003-08:002016-02-08T09:53:31.357-08:00Can I Play Too?: Misogyny In Nerd Culture<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Girls shouldn’t like video games, that’s boy stuff! That would just be, I don’t know..</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">weird</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was in my second summer as an outdoor educator at the local Audubon Center. Brock was ten years old and often had more energy than I could handle. He was at our camp every day, and had so far acted out this season by shoving me into a door, and pretending to slit my throat from behind with an imaginary knife, or shoot me with a pretend machine gun. He thought it was hilarious. I had multiple talks with him about how his allusions to violence were inappropriate and actually scared me to some degree.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had found out that the best way to have a calm conversation with Brock was to let him talk about videogames. He was primarily a PC gamer, and had advanced intelligence for his age. I listened to him talk about MineCraft for hours, and how he would purposefully try to kill other players on a PVP (Player vs Player) server because they were least expecting it. He also found joy in rounding up the MineCraft villagers and killing them all at once, in a sort of genocide. When he was feeling less destructive, he loved Club Penguin.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Brock,” I started, “girls can play video games. I like and play video games. Girls can like anything that boys like.” I was trying to be as simple and direct as possible. “Don’t ever think that certain genders can do things that others can’t. Anyone can like or participate in anything that they want. Please remember that for me. It’s important.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He nodded his head and looked confused, but sat in the corner with a book anyway. He had finally calmed down, and I hoped that I had gotten through to him, at least a little bit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few years previous, I was in my senior year of high school. It was Spirit Week before homecoming, and I had gone all out with the themes and my costumes every single day. Spirit Week was like Halloween for five days in a row, and I wanted to take full advantage. The last day of the week was “Superhero Day” or something of the like, and my boyfriend at the time wanted to both wear costumes from the Batman universe, or really just wanted an excuse to dress as The Joker. I figured that I could be Catwoman, because I found her character interesting anyway, and began to assemble my outfit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This boyfriend was obsessed with superheros, and also pretty manipulative and controlling. I knew that if I was going to pull this off, then I had to know everything that there was to know about Catwoman. I spent hours researching and reading everything that I could on her, and decided that I would wear a black, very 1990’s outfit that my mom had worn to see ZZ Top. I also grabbed a black eye mask, and cat ears for the top of my head. I couldn’t find a cheap version of mask that took up half of Catwoman’s head, with the ears and the face covering all in one piece. Besides, it was Spirit Week, and I had already put way too much thought into this.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I came to school that Friday, feeling fierce. I was thrilled with how my outfit had come together. I saw my boyfriend in the hallway, and ran up to him, hoping that he would be as excited about my costume as I was. He turned and looked at me, his face twisting into disgust.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Why don’t you have her correct mask on? That looks so stupid. You might as well take it off or just not be Catwoman.” He said, eyeing the ears on top of my head.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I felt like someone had shocked me in the chest. “Actually,” I began, my voice a little weak, “Catwoman’s style evolved. In the 1960’s and 1970’s, her costume looked more like </span><a href="http://www.bustle.com/articles/79998-catwomans-style-evolution-from-the-1960s-to-2015-and-from-practicality-to-sexuality" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, so I figured that it would be okay.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He continued to give me a dirty look, and I could see that he was irritated that at that moment, I knew more about Catwoman than he did. He never responded, and walked away to talk to some of his friends. I continued to receive compliments on my outfit all day. I left the ears on. At that point, I never wanted to take them off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast-forward to college a couple of years later. I was hanging out with some of my friends between classes in the afternoon, watching </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Attack on Titan</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. The topic of party themes came up, and one of my guy friends stressed that he hated “Nerd” or “Superhero” themes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He began to rant. “All girls do at those parties is wear Superman or Spider-Man shirts, suspenders, and fake glasses. It’s stupid. It’s like when a girl takes a selfie on Facebook with a Batman shirt and her glasses with the caption “I’m so nerdy.” No, you’re not nerdy, you’re just a slut in glasses trying to get guy’s attention. If I see a girl wearing a Marvel t-shirt, I automatically start asking her as many things as I can about the Marvel universe. And you know what? They never know as much as me. If you are going to say that you like something, you should know everything about it and not just try to come off as some “nerdy girl”.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At that point in my life, I didn’t have a voice to tell him that he was saying was completely offensive. Instead, I felt embarrassed. I quietly thought of the two Spider-Man shirts that I had in my closet, and the light-up Spider-Man shoes that I had bought in the little boy’s department (My feet are that small, and it is awesome. I have Toy Story shoes too). I grew up watching the animated Spider-Man series with my dad. We would sing the song together, laughing,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is he strong? Listen bud--he’s got radioactive blood</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was something that we shared. I had seen the films countless times, and spent a week terrified to sleep alone after first seeing Willem Dafoe’s performance as The Green Goblin. I had only read a handful of Spider-Man comic books and certainly didn’t know </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">everything</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> that there was to know about Spider-Man and never claimed to, but I felt ashamed. He was my favorite superhero, but maybe this friend was right. Spider-Man wasn’t for me anymore. I wasn’t allowed to like him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the same group a few weeks later, I was going on and on about Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Sensing that I was boring those around me, I digressed, enthusiastically saying “I’m sorry! I get super nerdy about Buffy.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One of my other guy friends snapped his head up from his computer, where he was playing League, and met my eyes. “I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">hate</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> when girls say that. When girls say they are nerdy. You are not nerdy. Do you know what that means? It means that no one wants to talk to you. That you are greasy from staying up late at night playing on your computer and have acne. It’s not </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">cute</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to be a nerd. You have to know </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">everything</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> about all things in nerd culture. Girls like to pretend to be nerds to get attention but most of the time, they are not.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Again, I was offended, but instead thought that my comment had offended </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">him.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I didn’t mean anything by it. I liked all of the same things that this friend did. I felt fake. Like he thought that I tried hard for attention. It was awful. I began to question all of my interests and if I was “allowed” to talk about them in certain company or if I really was some sort of “pretend nerd”.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During my last semester of my senior year of college, I ended up at a local bar with some of my classmates after our night poetry class. Mondays were long, and we had an awesome time writing in a barn and petting baby goats for inspiration, and wanted to continue the conversation and hang out before going home. We started talking about video games, when one of my classmates and friends told me that men were awful to her when she played her games online. She said they were mean because she was a girl, and we agreed how horrible and unfounded it was. I brought up my childhood best friend who would often play games on her brother’s Xbox under his Gamertag. She would leave the headset on, but wouldn’t talk or reveal that she was a girl because the boys would relentlessly tease her and make her feel uncomfortable. The best part is, she would always beat them. The worst part is, if she did decide to talk, it would be met with comments like “Dude, you so just got beat by a girl!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s messed up.” my classmate responded. I took a drink and cleared my throat. “Yeah. It really is.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Women are sexualized at conventions. We are quizzed and challenged on anything geeky that we may like to prove that we are qualified to be a part of that fandom. Last time I checked, Star Wars is mainstream anyway. Me dressing up with my best friend to watch the movies and trying to memorize everything that is canon but not in the films, maybe not so much. But I enjoy it and that is no one else’s concern.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I introduced one of my girl friends at a party to guy that I was also friends with, knowing that they both loved Zelda. My girl friend knows more about Zelda than any person that I have ever met, but instead of bonding over it, the guy asked her tons of questions, so she could “prove” that she actually had played all of the games. He even asked her about the musical score. She knew every answer, but wasn’t really interested in talking to him ever again after that. Who could blame her?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To a certain extent, I get being protective of things that you like. I am completely guilty of being obnoxious with anything Joss Whedon, especially Buffy. When you like something so much, it becomes a competition. You can see others that share the same interest but hardly know anything about it as being fake, and it is totally evil of me to have this mindset. At one point in time, the things that I love now were new to me too. Fandoms are supposed to be a great place for discussion, shared love, and celebration. Not to prove who knows the most. I am constantly working on this.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But this superior and judgmental attitude should never come into play because a girl likes comic books or videogames, or anything else that men in nerd culture have claimed for themselves. Women in nerd culture should not be talked down to, disrespected, or sexualized. Men cannot police what they wear. If I want to wear my Spider-Man light up shoes, or a sexy costume as cosplay, then it is for me--and my right. I struggled to write this because I was worried that some of the friends that I mentioned would read and be offended. But they didn’t worry when they offended me, we are still friends, and they might have even forgotten about these conversations all together. Men can have the privilege of forgetting. Due to my anxiety and my gender, I hardly can.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Furthermore, a nerdy girl isn’t a novelty. A girl that likes superheros shouldn’t be painted as some wildcard, or objectified. She is a person that simply loves a thing. We can connect over that love and share our common passions. Don’t tear people down, no matter what their gender is, but instead, work together to promote what makes you happy. Then, we can all play together.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-40854355169276935442016-02-04T08:15:00.000-08:002016-02-04T08:15:26.738-08:00The Sadness Game<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The death of a coworker. The evening news covering head on collision fatalities and violence against children. Listening to the Spring Awakening soundtrack on repeat thanks to a new interest in 2008’s <i>90210</i> remake.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spend my days in a small square, looking at the bamboo plant that I am struggling to keep alive and the stale Star Wars themed graham crackers that sit by my office phone. I think about walking by his office, and wonder if anything has been touched. Are his used pens as he left them? Are traces of his fingertips still atop his black keyboard? I think that if I look straight ahead, maybe I will see him standing blurrily in the corner of my eye. If I listen carefully enough, I’ll hear him breathily cackling at the front desk. I can still picture his eyes, wet and shining.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To only know someone for 6 months and to lose them is a reminder that we cannot control who impacts our lives. That a card or a phone call could have been the one thing saving us from inevitable guilt. The words </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I should have visited</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> will forever cling to my shoulders, reminding me of the present and hard truth.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“If you didn’t give me this recipe, I was going to send all of the feral cats in my neighborhood after you.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“We have to stop meeting like this.”</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“For Thanksgiving, I am going to go home, open a bag of chips and a can of coke, make a bologna sandwich, turn off my phone, lock my doors, and watch football. And that is how I like it.”</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And now we’re left. Before having a full time job, we don’t realize just how much working can consume us. I see my coworkers more than my friends and family. I am in close proximity to them, for 40 hours a day. I hear them laugh, clear their throats, sneeze, have heated phone calls with loved ones, staple papers, and roll their office chairs into their desks, shaking desk decorations and computer monitors. I recognize their shoes in the bathroom stalls, and know who is moving by the outside of my cubicle by how heavily they walk.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We tell each other about our successes and grievances, because we are just close enough. When someone hurts, we all feel it, like a hand pushing in the center of our chest. But when someone is gone, the denial and essence of their body wandering through the building is stronger than the realization and grief that follows. We move as one entity, swelling and spreading, but coming back together to nod our heads at one another as we walk to our cars at 4:30pm, Monday through Friday. This is our ever moving, symbiotic relationship. The turning of a hourglass at the beginning of each week. A crack in the glass and a loss of sand doesn’t make the time and pattern run as smoothly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In realizing all of this, I feel sadness and fear, soft on my skin like a familiar blanket. My anxieties warm my face like the sun coming through the front windows of my childhood home and painting the stairs, running down to the hardwood floor. I want to lay in it. To close my eyes and accept what I know best. I remember the comfort of hopelessness and worry, and feel safer when I am mentally treading water, sitting on my couch in the dark from 2:00am-4:00am during the week, unable to sleep.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With optimism comes heartbreak. Happiness leads to vulnerability. Pessimism can go hand-in-hand with reality, and the furrow of our brows as we whisper </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I told you so.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And thus, we play The Sadness Game. It is easier to slip into tears and the feeling of your core physically sinking. This is what we know, this is what we turn back to. But is isn’t right, and it isn’t what we deserve.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We try to be positive. We Google advice and reach out to friends, look at pictures of baby animals and do yoga in the small amount of clean carpet space that we have for the week. It’s a fleeting struggle, grasping at the breeze that moves tree branches and backyard windchimes, only for it to stop and leave us in the still. It’s hard, and it’s walking uphill, when it’s simpler just to fall to our knees and roll backwards, staining our jeans and palms with green grass and crashing at the bottom.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But easier doesn’t mean better.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is no winning with The Sadness Game. In the face of hurt, there is the perspective that we will one day, be okay. This ideal may seem like a picture book, an unattainable dream. But imagining it means that it exists, and is out there somewhere, floating. And when that breeze comes by again, we can catch it, put it in our pockets, and hold on to it for a little bit longer.</span></span><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-91419316348248828642016-01-21T06:18:00.002-08:002016-01-21T06:18:25.112-08:00Stories From France<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">During my senior year of high school, I had the opportunity to travel to Paris, Provence, Monaco, and Nice. I had taken French all four years of high school, was hesitant about speaking with ease with any native French speaker, and nervously elated to travel abroad with a group of my classmates and chaperones. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As much as I would love to be like David Sedaris, who has written hilarious and insightful essays on his time spent in France, I was 18, and only there for 11 days. The whole time I carried around a hot-pink satchel with a picture of the EIFFEL TOWER on it that my mom bought me from JC Penney’s.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, I remember important moments of this adventure, how I was able to briefly experience another place, and how I really believe (at the risk of sounding dramatic) that it helped influence and change my life. So, here are some short stories.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Note: I tried an embarrassingly long time to put in all of the proper accents for the French words, and could seriously not figure out how to add them. So, hopefully this doesn’t offend anyone, or make anybody flench who speaks French. I am truly sorry and yes, it bugs me too.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2 Days Before Departure</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My dad, like other dads before him, loves action films. You know, the ones where a white collar business man goes rogue and sets out to avenge the random, violent deaths of his wife and children? Add some explosions, car chases, and a banana in a tailpipe, and you have his dream movie. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A couple of nights before I left for France, he asked me if I wanted to watch </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taken</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I shrugged, always down to hang out with my dad and watch a movie on his prized big-screen TV, and hobbled down to the basement in pajama pants and a too-big t-shirt to sit cross legged on the same green leather couch we’ve had for 18 years and watch it with him. I knew nothing about the movie.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For those of us who missed 2009, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taken</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, starring Liam Neeson, is about a retired CIA agent who travels across Europe to rescue his daughter, who was kidnapped in Paris and became a victim of human trafficking. Neeson uses his “special skills” to retrieve her in a horrifying and traumatic movie that basically scared young women into never wanting to travel to Europe.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As the ending credits rolled, I sat wide-eyed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Now you know that you have to be careful” my dad nodded to me. “Don’t talk to anyone. Even if it is a cute boy. Don’t go out anywhere with your friends at night. Stay with the group. Don’t trust anybody.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I slid off of the couch until my bare feet touched the carpet, and went upstairs to finish packing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Flashmob</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had an awesome French teacher that really focused on French pop culture. We watched classic French movies, musicals, and listened to current French musicians. I learned that French people love Aretha Franklin, and became obsessed with Edith Piaf after watching </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">La Vie en rose</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During class while listening to popular French music, our teacher played a timeless French song called Cette Annee La, by Claude Francois. Claude Francois was a vocalist who took popular American melodies and changed the words to create French hits. Cette Annee La, translated to “That Year”, used the song “Oh What A Night” by The Four Seasons. The 1976 video was iconic, featuring Claude and a group of women doing a boppy little dance while they sang. According to our teacher, the dance was super popular in France, like Americans moving their arms to Y-M-C-A.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“For those of us going to France,” my teacher began, “We will be doing a flashmob to Cette Annee La.” The class purred with excitement.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“They will LOVE it,” he continued. “They will appreciate that we took the time to learn their culture. This will be really fun.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, for months, we had lunchtime and afternoon practices to learn the dance moves to Cette Annee La. We were a group of 30, very white and happy high schoolers grape-vining in the choir room with the door closed and Claude Francois’ voice echoing off the padded walls. We were going to rock it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joe’s Shoulder</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There weren’t any direct flights from Columbus to Europe, so on the day that we left, we took a four hour bus ride to Detroit. From Detroit, we could fly to Frankfurt, Germany. From Frankfurt, it would be another shorter flight to Paris.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The flight from Detroit to Germany was long, with a fair amount of turbulence. I was impressed because the seats in front of us had little televisions on them, so that each seat could watch whatever they wanted. My friends luckily sat together on another part of the plane, while I was placed next to my classmate, Joe. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joe had always been genial, but we never really hung out. Throughout the flight, we exchanged small talk when we weren’t watching movies on the small screens or listening to music, but mostly just sat in silence. We didn’t have much to say.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we flew across the Atlantic and the sun was beginning to set, the flight staff decided that it was time for us to go to sleep. They turned off the lights, instructed us to shut our windows, and a calm voice came over the PA system to gently tell us “Goodnight and sleep well”. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was honestly really weird.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Others surrounding us put on eye masks and pulled out small pillows for sleep. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well this is strange</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I thought, feeling like I was in the television show </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Dollhouse</i>,<i> </i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">but snuggled up with a blanket that I packed anyway.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few hours later, I stirred awake, realizing that we were still on the plane. I also noticed that I had been accidentally sleeping on Joe’s shoulder. I shot up, embarrassed and my neck cramping (although probably not as bad as it could have been, thanks to my impromptu pillow).</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, wow, I am really sorry!” I started.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” Joe smiled. “I was asleep anyway.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joe and I didn’t really speak for the rest of the trip or in years since, but I will always remember how cool he was to let me sleep on him. Thanks, Joe. What a guy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Rue de la Place Man</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I cannot even accurately describe the beauty of Paris at night time. Some things are so lovely, and so breathtaking, that they should only be detailed through poetry.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our group had migrated back to the Eiffel Tower, after having seen it earlier in the daylight for ample photo opportunities. This time, we had the chance to go all the way to the top of the tower if we wished. After having an actual panic attack from riding The Tower of Terror about a year earlier (It ended with my mom pulling me into the nearest restroom and dunking my head under a sink to calm me down..I was 17 years old) I didn’t think that I would be too keen on experiencing Paris from up above.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friends wanted to climb to the top, and I said that I would wait for them to be finished. However, a familiar little voice in my brain told me </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But what if you regret it?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and the adrenaline convinced me to give it a shot. (A friend later described this as a symptom of FOMO-Fear Of Missing Out. I have really strong FOMO. I am not sure who coined this but whoever you are, thank you).</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, we waited in line and purchased our tickets. Then, we began to climb the tower (This sounds like we tackled it King Kong style, which actually would have been hilarious and really awesome. We also would have a cool “Hey, I got arrested in Paris” story.) with a combination of stairs and elevators as my extremities began to feel like they were weightless and being pricked by small needles.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At The Eiffel Tower, there are technically <i>two</i> tops. You can go to the top of the tower, and then you can also take a small stairway to the VERY top, where you truly cannot go much higher, unless you like, climb the pointy thing that sticks out the top. (Again, King Konging it).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were waiting to get to the first top, which</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> required an elevator. I was standing in the line to board, trying not to think about The Tower of Terror, when I heard a loud, booming voice coming from an American man in front of us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Okay, okay listen. We are staying on this street,” he held up a map for his wife and two daughters to see. The man was wearing a pale blue button up shirt, khaki shorts, and a fishing hat. His family was dressed similarly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“So we just gotta get out of here, and walk this way, and look for Roo day law Playce and our hotel” he continued to speak way too loud. It was obvious at this point that he wanted to sound like he knew what he was talking about to impress Parisians, fellow tourists, and his eager family.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I shuddered at his gross mispronunciation. My French accent was far from perfect, but he was so confident and obnoxious in his want for everyone to think that he was important, intelligent, and in charge, that I couldn’t help but be embarrassed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh great</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I thought, trying to make myself smaller and blend in with my friends. I pulled my hot pink satchel close, hiding the obvious Francophile imagery. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No wonder Europeans aren’t fans of Americans. People like him, who feel the need to establish themselves and be big in a culture that isn’t their own, made us look ignorant and obnoxious. You don’t have to command attention and take up space to be important.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The elevator finally arrived as we all started ushering in close. And what do you know, we ended up on the same trip as Roo day law Playce man and his family.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Girls! Look at that!” he pointed an exaggerated hand at the metal gears that turned the elevator, allowing it to be pulled upward. “Here we go!” he bellowed, like a man on a rickety state fair roller coaster. His family was eating it up. I was clenching my teeth and hoping that I could pass as being a Parisian who liked to go to the top of The Eiffel Tower for kicks on the weekend.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thankfully, once the elevator arrived, we filed out and lost Rue day law Playce in the crowd. I didn’t see him again for the remainder of my time in The Eiffel Tower, but I always knew that one day I would write about him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, and the view from the top? Gorgeous. You could feel your insides all rising to your throat, and the wind was cold and dangerous, but the dancing of lights and toy cars below made it worth it. To become a piece of the structure withstanding time and breathing in the art and music from hundreds of years from the highest place that you have ever stood. I would do it all again, many times.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The First Flashmob</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was our second day in Paris, and we were ready to spring our well rehearsed flashmob on anyone who was lucky enough to be around. Our tour guide coincidentally directed and taped documentaries, so he was on board to film us any time we did the flashmob.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We all stood around a popular open area that was a prime place for taking pictures of the surrounding infrastructure. We talked amongst ourselves, acting like it was any normal day hanging out by the Eiffel Tower.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The music started from a small boombox that our teacher brought with us, and Ezra, our classmate and leader of the flashmob, walked around mouthing the beginning words of Cette Annee La in an animated way. Onlookers stared in confusion, and gave him some space.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Row by row, we filled in, also mouthing the words and dancing along. The crowd laughed and cheered, taking pictures and videos of our efforts. My heart was heavily beating, but it was exhilarating. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thinking back on it now, as silly and entertaining as it was, I laugh at the humor of it all. That I can be one of those people who sits back in a conversation, crosses their arms, draws in their breath and says “Eh, I was in a flashmob once”.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And the lights dim as the curtain closes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Mona Lisa?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I absolutely loved the Louvre. We learned that it could take 75 days to get through the whole museum if you look at each piece of art for 60 seconds, during 8 hour periods. I sincerely wish that we had 75 days.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After wandering through the galleries and halls, my friends and I finally approached the room that housed the Mona Lisa. I could think back to elementary school, when we first learned about Leonardo da Vinci and tried to replicate the Mona Lisa’s likeness for a grade while watching Sesame Street’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don’t Eat The Pictures</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. (Elementary school art class totally shaped me as a person.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My palms were sweating as I ran my fingers through my bag for my camera. As we finally got through the hordes of tourists who were walking inch by inch on tiptoe, I saw her. Or did I? It was sort of hard to tell.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Mona Lisa was small. Very small. There is ample space surrounding her, and ropes in front so that people couldn’t get too close. I could only manage to see her from about 20 feet away. My pictures came out blurry, but at least I have the mental image..and know that I am probably three times bigger than the famous Mona Lisa.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ca va Jordan? Ca va?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While taking a lunch break in between our sight-seeing, our chaperones granted us permission to walk around the area without supervision. My friends and I took off down a side street, and soon saw a cafe that offered pizza.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn’t going to eat, so after the three others ordered their food and went to grab a seat, I stood alone at the counter, eyeing the hot chocolate on the menu.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The man taking the orders was probably close to 40, and had dark features. Tan skin that had seen a lot of sunlight, black hair, a prominent nose and knitted eyebrows that made small x’s across his forehead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I requested a hot chocolate while fishing for my money, and he continued to speak to me in French and English.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“What is your name?” he asked. “Comment t’appelles-tu?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I smiled, figuring he was being friendly. “Je m’appelle Jordan,” I answered confidently, looking forward to the opportunity to practice my French.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You are very beautiful,” he began, “Tu es tres belle. I wish I had a camera right now, you know why?” he asked playfully.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was slightly flattered at the nice compliment, for Europeans do tend to be more affectionate, and I thought that he was going to make a joke, like a sweet uncle that tried really hard to be your friend. “Pourqoui?” I lifted my eyebrows. “Why?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“So that I could take your picture. And then when I wake up every day, I could look at it and be reminded of how beautiful you are.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My smile dropped. I became nervous. Certainly that wasn’t a normal thing to say to someone. Was he hitting on me, or was I being paranoid?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Where are you staying?” he asked again, sensing my hesitation. I told him that I didn’t remember, even though I definitely did. “How long are you here?” he asked again. I lied and said we were leaving that day, when we were really staying another two days. I thought of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taken</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I thought of Liam Neeson’s character’s daughter, and I began to shake.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“What’s wrong Jordan, do you not like me?” he chuckled as he got my hot chocolate and set it down in front of me. I could see his smirk through the steam. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I gave him a small smile and walked to the table with my friends, spilling hot liquid over the side of the cup and onto my hands as I hurried. I sat down next to them, and they instantly asked what was wrong with me. My face was white and trembling. I began to cry.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My friends hugged me as I whispered what happened. They assured me that I wasn’t overreacting, and quickly ate their pizza so that we could leave.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we attempted to finish, the man came back, sweeping around our small table, watching me cry and shake. He laughed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Ca va, Jordan?” he sang while I avoided his eyes. Are you okay, Jordan? How is it going? He walked behind me, paused, and went away again. “Ca va?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A Picnic In Provence</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we moved to Provence (the most beautiful and wonderful place that I have ever been in my life), we stopped at a supermarche to pick out lunch items for a roadside picnic.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We had limited time, and were busy trying to navigate through the store and collect our items, so our spoils ended up being some crackers, fruit, and a giant jar of Nutella.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our bus pulled up to a countryside, overlooking a more attractive stretch of grass and hills down below. It was the most green that I had ever seen all in one place. We all sat on the ground in our groups, and ate with our hands. We dipped our fingers into the nutella and looked toward the sun, smiling at the thousands of swaying blades of grass below.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That moment will forever be one of my favorite memories, and the first picnic that I didn’t totally hate (because bugs ruin everything).</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">N(ice) Cream</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I want to warn you ladies to stay in groups, and try not to talk to anyone at night when you walk around” my French teacher warned us on the bus intercom. “Men here are more aggressive, and I don’t want anything to happen to any of you, or for anyone to get pickpocketed.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought back to the man at the cafe in Paris and shuddered. We all silently agreed to be careful, and when night came, most of us headed out in a large group. Our tour guide had told us of a wonderful gelato place (Nice is comprised of French and Italian influences) and we were curious.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We walked up to the gelato stand in a small courtyard, surrounded by colorful buildings, the moon and streetlights glinting off the top of the icy treats. From what I can remember, there were about 60 different flavors. I excitedly ordered dark chocolate and nutella, and it was amazing. Another friend of mine got lavendar, and it surprisingly tasted like lace and afternoon naps with candles. It truly was the best gelato I had ever, and probably will ever, have.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We were in Nice for three nights. And we went to the gelato stand three times. I would honestly go every day for the rest of my life if I could. Each night, we would sit on the ground laughing and taking pictures. We even met a stray dog that joined in our inevitable flashmob.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Skinny Dipping In The Mediterranean</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During our last night in Nice, a group of seniors planned to sneak out of the hotel and go skinny dipping in the Mediterranean Sea. We had a strict curfew, but they figured that they could sneak out and in without anyone ever knowing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They told me and my other friend about it in case we wanted to join. I was embarrassingly good in</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">high school and absolutely refused, assuming that they would get caught.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The night came and gone, and we asked them about their adventure the next morning. They told us that they went down to the beach (which was actually full of rocks, and not sand..it was cruel and horrible) and jumped into the water, but it was so cold that they ran out and went back to the hotel. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Years later, I brought it up to my mom. “And you didn’t go?” she asked. I was taken aback. “You only get to be young and crazy once” she told me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And honestly, I have regretted it ever since. It would have made a much cooler story than me telling you about a group of cool kids that took off their clothes in the middle of the night and jumped in the sea.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Monaco</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Monaco was a soothing palette of pastel paints. I am convinced that it is a real-life combination of any tropical themed postcard that has ever existed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon arrival, we went to the cathedral to see where Grace Kelly was buried. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And well, they had moved her. She definitely wasn’t there. But a sign was, apologizing for Grace temporarily being removed for renovations. So, we are still not sure </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">where</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> they were keeping her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We tried to do the flashmob in front of the cathedral, but the police stopped us and told our whole group that we had to leave.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Orange</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Almost all of our meals were prearranged. The restaraunts knew beforehand that we were coming, and had prepared three course dinners for us to eat together.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For a confusing 6 years of my life, I thought that I had Celiac Disease. Yes, I know that it is rare, and yes, I am very educated on it because I was told that I HAD it from a doctor, but it turns out after a later blood test that I am Celiac Free. So, during this trip, I didn’t eat gluten, and all of the restaraunts knew that previously. They were aware of all of the group’s dietary needs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When it came time for dessert, a delicious looking piece of chocolate cake was set before me. I sighed, wanting it so badly, but told the server that I could not eat the cake.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He apologized, and told me that they made a mistake and that they had something for me. I patiently waited, hoping for ice cream or a creme brulee.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My server came back, and set in front of me a small plate with an orange in the middle. He smiled, and swiftly walked away, leaving me with my produce surprise.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Evidence</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For anyone who wants to see the spectacle of our brilliant flashmob, please see the video below.</span></span></div>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/hVZh7QcepUE/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hVZh7QcepUE?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVZh7QcepUE" style="text-decoration: none;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVZh7QcepUE</a></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Can you spot me? Bonus if you notice the cute stray dog that we made friends with in Nice by the gelato stand.</span></span></div>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-52589970339059152532016-01-11T12:39:00.001-08:002016-01-11T12:39:22.637-08:00The Sensitivity Stigma<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the past week, I may have cried about three times. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the past month, oh jeez, perhaps 20? It depends on how dark I am feeling. The number changes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I don’t want to portray the image of me strewn across my bed, coloring the comforter with my tears while the small of my back rises and falls with heavy sobbing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Things that make me emote are hardly ever predictable, and often are not sad at all.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For example, things that have made me cry recently:</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Driving by myself on a Saturday afternoon, knowing that I had the weekend off and seeing a single, crumpled leaf tumble in the air and go across the road. It was calming, and bright, and lovely.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The beginning instrumentation to Star Wars Episode 7. It began, and so did the sweet tears.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A picture of a baby hippo I saw on Facebook that was wet and very small. I wanted to hug it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hearing </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One Week</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by the Barenaked Ladies come on the radio while I was driving home from work. I love this song, and whenever it plays on the radio, my mood skyrockets out of my chest.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seeing my dog when I recently visited my parents. I was able to kiss her little nose and sniff her ears and touch her tiny little feet paws.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And of course, miscellaneous cases where I felt hurt, irritated, left out, anxious, or existential.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Essentially, crying definitely isn’t exclusively reserved for when one is sad or angry. We know this. People sometimes cry when they are happy, and well, I am a happy-crier. I am an excited-crier. I am just an overall, general leaky bathroom faucet that starts unpredictably dripping.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From as far back as I can remember, I have easily gotten my feelings hurt. I have always been sensitive, to feelings, to senses, to loud noises. Stepping out into a bright, sunny day without sunglasses or a hat will cause me to act like a Mogwai that has just gotten its picture taken (by the way, I love that Mogwai wasn’t marked with a red, squiggly line. It wasn’t spell checked. That is awesome.) If someone turns on a vacuum cleaner or blasts music in a car, I feel like pencils have been shoved deep into my ears or that I am being attacked by the air around me. Loud clapping? Forget it. Ear phones? I have them turned down real low. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As far as being sensitive emotionally, I have memories of children being mean to me when I was younger, and I am sure that they were because children can be super evil, and realistically I may have twisted the actual situations around in my head to be a little worse than what they actually were (I realized that I said “children being mean to me” which seems like hordes of like, 25 little kids scowling on a playground, and that seems exaggerated. I dealt with about 5 mean little girls throughout elementary school, probably). A certain instance that stands out in my mind is when I went camping with girl scouts in second grade and a member of my troop, in front of many other girls, said “Jordan looks like a opossom!” and started meanly, manically laughing. And okay, reflecting on this now, I realize that it sounds silly. But I promise that it was definitely traumatic, and the first time as a person that I really questioned what I looked like, and as a gap toothed, four-eyed young human, I felt super ugly. The same girl told my whole Vacation Bible School group one summer that “my tank top was inappropriate for church”. I was so embarrassed (and also like, ten years old!!!) and thought that God was upset with me for showing my little baby shoulders on a 95 degree day. (Ugh, remember when I said that I wasn’t going to hold grudges for a New Year’s resolution? See how well that is turning out for me? You also know that I was involved with girl scouts and went to VBS, so uh yeah, little Jordan was big on the group activities.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like I said initially, one thing that I can be sure of, is that I have always been a sensitive person, and have hardly ever hid it well.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Times where I have cried in public:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Seeing </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because of Winn Dixie</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in the movie theater. Really seeing almost any film in a movie theater.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In choir my sophomore year of high school because my choir teacher wouldn’t excuse my 5 minute tardy to 0 period (which started at 7:10 am) and I had never gotten a tardy before.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In hallways in high school, more than once, over a boy or two. Which is a whole lot of “yikes!” right there. Ugh, the things you wish you knew when you were 15 years old.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In my drivers ed class, when I cried at these horrible scare tactic videos. In one of them, a girl spoke about her sister that died in a car accident and well, I have a little sister! It got to me! My instructor pointed me out and laughed saying, “Wow, that must’ve really hit her!” and everyone turned around and looked at my red, shiny face, which made me cry more because it was embarrassing as hell. (He was an asshole that named the rat that lived in the class building after an infamous pedophile. Real story. I wish it wasn't.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But it shouldn’t be. Emotions are things. They are part of the experience of being alive.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Being a woman, I have easily been written off as “overly emotional” or “crazy”. And I am not alone. How many women have been pigeonholed as the “Crazy Girlfriend” or how many guys have been written off as being “Emotionally Unstable” or pathetic because they cry? It’s gross and stupid. No one should be shamed for being emotional, because we are not all stone-faced like Chuck Norris. (Are Chuck Norris jokes even funny anymore? Am I behind here?)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a stigma behind emotions. But emotions do not make people weak. If I start to cry, I absolutely cannot hold it back. I have been told that my energy is almost tangible. I cannot hide what I feel, whether thrilled or furious, and if I walk into a room then it radiates off of me. You might be thinking, “Well, she sounds like she needs to control herself” but I am confident enough to admit when something makes me feel a certain way. And it’s not like I am rolling all over the floor crying or screaming at people (I really hardly ever get angry. It takes a lot to actually make me mad).</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Writing off emotions as being “crazy” or “overly sensitive” only further stigmatizes mental illnesses and psychological stress in general. It is one thing if someone is upset over a bad person or force in their life, but how dare they be criticized for battling their own mind? It is such hell, that if everyone were more educated on it, they wouldn’t shrug off a young woman crying at work as “Just being hormonal”, or a dude as “Being a _____” insert whatever offensive word you’d like!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What I have found is that it is easier for people to write someone off as being emotional instead of admitting when they messed up. We hear this all of the time, with things such as:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am sorry </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> upset you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am sorry </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you feel that way</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t help that </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you feel like that</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instead, we should probably be saying things like:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am sorry that </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">upset you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am sorry that </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">made you feel that way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> shouldn’t have made you feel like that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is harder to take accountability than just make someone feel like they are an emotional mess, but it isn’t cool. We don’t like to admit when we messed up. But this type of thinking makes emotional people feel like they are </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">always </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wrong, and that emotions, in general, are intrinsically wrong or bad.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Being emotional isn’t an incorrect response. It is normal. So normal! We are allowed to feel and connect, to shed a tear or laugh maniacally when you feel truly happy. For some of us, a moment of pure happiness is so rare that the experience is ethereal. That we rise up out of ourselves and bask in light and warm watercolor, and none of that should be down played. We live for the highs that make all of the lows so very worth it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">By the end of the day, I will probably see a cute video of a puppy and kitten sleeping together, and inevitably, get a little overwhelmed.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">By existing, we have permission to feel things, and say when we feel them. And if anyone tries to tell you that you are crazy for feeling A THING, then let me know. Once they meet me, you’ll seem normal by comparison. I am willing to do that for you.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-80136812339536316512015-12-29T07:16:00.002-08:002015-12-29T07:16:50.203-08:00The Not-So-Hot Pursuit: When No Means No<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was on my way back from lunch with a coworker, reminiscing about our teenage interests. We talked about television shows, movies, and books (she always assumes that because I am a huge Buffy fan, that I therefore like everything vampire--which is a gross overstatement).</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-4d7b1292-ee4f-3ac1-1e28-15ba6c3a386a" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While telling her that no, I hadn’t seen The Vampire Diaries and that I didn’t know the first thing about True Blood, I admitted that I did used to like Twilight. I remember being 16 and proudly carrying around the poorly written saga, as visible as the embroidered "Hollister" across my chest. I held the books high while reading during study hall, like a man in a tan trench coat running his eyes over a newspaper on a park bench. I placed it on the corner of my desk in each class. “Oh Jordan, what book are you on? I haven’t gotten that far yet!” I’d smile, feeling smug, desperate to finish the series but not wanting it to end. I wanted everyone to know that I was definitely in on the hype and totally eating up the sexiest book series that any of us had probably ever read up to that point. I knew what was cool.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My coworker responded with how she always found Edward super hot, but I told her that he never really did it for me. I thought he was weird as hell, to be honest (although I would love to know what kind of vampire-hair product he uses). I went on to say that if I had to choose, then I would have to say that I liked Jacob better. "I was kind of rooting for the underdog, and he just seemed more likable," I reasoned.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And here is where this 2009 conversation finally gained some validity. My coworker surprised me when she said: "Yeah, but Jacob always pissed me off. Bella wasn't interested in him, and it didn't matter how many times she kept telling him no, he just kept trying to get with her. Even when I was younger I was like, "Dude. Get over it. Leave her alone. Move on.""</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A cartoon light bulb went on over my head. “I never really thought of it that way,” I started, “And I am embarrassed that I thought his aggressiveness was endearing. I kind of wanted them to end up together, mostly because he was trying so hard and obviously cared about her enough to not give up.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But is pursuing a person when they clearly have said that they weren’t interested an attractive quality? Of course not! Gross! Then why is it that men characters can relentlessly go after women characters and we see it as romantic? Women are taught that they should be worth the chase, and well, men are taught that they should chase. If a guy stays casual and distant, then he isn’t interested. If a woman is as straightforward and is always the one starting the conversation or making the moves, then she is seen as overbearing. Fictional men that tirelessly and inappropriately pine over women are seen as sweet. If a woman were to make many of the same advances, or try to kiss a guy while he was in a committed relationship, then she would not be seen as romantic, but as crazy.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But okay, let’s not base all of this societal commentary off of Twilight. I have already given it enough attention. We can move on to something that many of us have seen and love: The Office. I feel like an angry mob might chase me down after I make my next case, but please know that The Office is one of my favorite television shows and I am heavily emotionally invested in every character. I love them all, but no one is perfect.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have seen the Buzzfeed articles, memes, and gifs showing how seemingly flawless Jim is. Jim is sweetly devoted and loyal to Pam, making most of us swoon and think of how we wanted an office romance half as thrilling and adorable. While in middle school, high school, and the beginning of college, I eagerly watched each episode of The Office as it aired on TV. After getting over the initial heartbreak of it ending, I rewatched the show in its entirety on Netflix, like most of us have done once, twice, or ten times. However, while I watched it again, I found myself being a little weirded out by Jim’s persistence. Yes, of course I wanted him to be with Pam. It was also clear that Pam did have feelings for Jim, and flirted with Jim while she was engaged to someone else, but these actions do not make a person obligated to be with someone. I know that Pam quickly kissed Jim while drunk once (don’t throw that in my face), but Jim was very sober, and very aware through the entirety of their friendship when he claimed that he “knew” that he was “waiting for his wife”.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay, I am sure that a lot of you think that I am dissecting one of the greatest television romances of all time, but I am just being honest. In real life, Jim’s actions would have been pretty inappropriate (as were Pam’s to some extent, to be fair). But if a woman says no, then she means no. If the roles were switched, then Pam would have looked desperate, or would have been pitied like a wounded, fragile bird. Instead, we rallied for Jim, and got angry at Pam when it took her so long to agree to be with him. Do you see what I’m getting at here? We commended Jim for his determination to win Pam over, when in reality, Pam was engaged to someone else. You can’t help if you have feelings for someone, and it can be important to be honest, but we can’t let a character’s charm cover up the fact that what he did was a little creepy.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There, I said it. In the off chance that Mindy Kaling, who I love and adore, ever reads this, she may or may not decide not to offer me the chance to write for her show, which I have been waiting for. Sorry Mindy. Please forgive me.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While I am destroying classics, I guess that I can bring up The Notebook as another example. I first saw The Notebook my freshman year of college, so I missed the initial waves of tears and beating adolescent hearts with Ryan Gosling’s picture in the middle. I decided that I would watch it, thinking that it would make me cry, but I annoyingly predicted most of the movie within the first ten minutes. I am one of those horrible people, rolling my eyes with “Oh they are totally gonna get together,” or “He’s not really dead. Just wait, he’ll come back.” I’m gross, and sometimes I hate myself.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, it was obvious that Noah and Allie were going to end up together, whatever. But in the beginning, when Noah was trying to ask Allie out, I was totally annoyed. I didn’t think that his multiple childish attempts at winning her affection were cute, but psychotic and off-putting. Like, she said no! Maybe she was being coy, or hard to get, but Rachel McAdams is super hot and can pick whoever she wants. (Oh, so I think that being really attractive gives you the right to be shallow and not give a nice person a chance? No, of course not. Shut up.)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The scene that I am thinking of in particular is when Noah HANGS from a ferris wheel, threatening to kill himself if Allie doesn’t say yes to him. Um, hello? That is insane, and if a woman had done the same thing (especially in that time period), then she would have been put away, deemed unfit to take care of herself or be around others. Yet, we giggled and gasped at his persistence, wondering why Allie was being such a bitch. No, Allie just wasn’t feeling it. And that’s fine.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So let’s flip the situation a little. If any of you haven’t seen Twin Peaks, then sorry that I am about to drop a couple of spoilers. So you can skip this part, or read on knowing that enough weird stuff happens in that show that will cover up or make you forget what I’m about to talk about. But, if you’re not interested, then know that I am about to talk about a persistent woman character. (To skip, go down to the next *)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I love Twin Peaks. I would date Agent Cooper and Audrey Horne in two seconds. In the series, Audrey Horne was seen as clever and sexy (did you know that she was only 18 when they filmed?). Agent Cooper was equally smart and attractive, therefore they were inevitably a little into each other. However, Cooper knew that he was older, and because of a previous experience, was not interested in Audrey. Audrey romanticized Cooper, and continued to pursue him after he told her over and over that he wasn’t interested. The audience saw Cooper as being responsible and reasonable (although naturally we wanted them to be together), and Audrey as being a little embarrassing and needing to listen to him and move on. When Cooper walks into his bedroom and finds Audrey naked in his bed, I remember covering my face like “Oh my gaawwdd why is she doing this?!”. Cooper turns her down, and we think of how respectful he is, and physically hurt for a now mortified and rejected Audrey.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This relationship is an example of the woman being pitied, or encouraged to stop, because we respect Agent Cooper’s opinion and wants more than Audrey’s, as a man. If it were the other way around, then Agent Cooper would be desirable and handsome, and Audrey would be irritating because she wouldn’t give into him. There is totally something wrong with this.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">*The biggest thing that I can reiterate is to please, to any person of any gender, do not be woo-ed by someone who is inappropriately persistent. When you say no, please know that it is valid. You do not owe anyone anything. I personally have made two mistakes in my life where I gave into guys that I thought were being romantic, “like a movie”, that I wish I could take back. Things I am still not over. Someone pushing you into a wall and kissing you after you’ve said no and tried to walk away isn’t charming and breathtaking. Movies, television shows, and books can create unhealthy expectations and tolerance when it comes to dating or staying in a committed relationship.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Never be afraid to ask for help if you need it.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know that these things are for entertainment value, but realizing why they are problematic is an early step to fixing societal expectations and stereotypes. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I will still watch these things (well, some of them), falling in love with the characters all over again. There is value in talking about double standards when it comes to sex and personal space, or any type of relationship between people. We can learn from it. </span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wish that at 16, I would’ve realized that Jacob just needed to take a hint. That he was not what a potential significant other should be. It could’ve saved me some trouble later.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-17486465927091069092015-12-21T08:19:00.001-08:002015-12-28T12:06:22.427-08:00Things To Think About For 2016<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A little over two years ago, I began this silly, little blog. I started it with the hopes of being the next Carrie Bradshaw, and well, sometimes I wear overalls like she does I guess. One time, I was even subtweeted for wearing overalls. And in that moment, I became immortal.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-04721c3c-c552-7fbe-2459-eccd2ad8158e" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now I am mentally celebrating my ~*Blog-iversary*~ as my insides buzz under my skin, feeling alive and luminescent, existing in this world. This week is Christmas and I get to see the new Star Wars and a lot of people that I really care about. I’m glowing. You could see me from space.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think about all that I have learned as a writer over the past couple of years. In the spring, I wrote my senior writing project/thesis about my trip to Ireland and how it related to me as a tourist and a third generation Irish-American. I grew as an artist through that process, and continue to expand post grad. I currently write for my job. The fact that I get paid to be creative is a privilege and a dream, and makes me want to bully everyone that told me I would be working in a coffee shop. *(see number 3 on my resolutions list)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think about my space as an artist, and how a new year is just on the outskirts. To be honest, I never have really cared for New Year’s. I am always jazzed about eating good food and hanging with cool people, but New Year's is often disappointing. We plan for awesome parties and envision our hair sprinkled with snowflakes as we kiss the one person that we have always wanted to, but probably never will.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">New Year’s also symbolizes another year of my life that has flown by, and I wonder what have I really done, and how much time I have left? (You know, cute, fun things)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But this year seems to be different. Perhaps it is the slight bit of wisdom that I have cultivated from my few months past graduating college, but I am actually kind of excited for the New Year. I even have resolutions, which I have previously thought were silly, since most people forget about them once February rolls around. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I mean, think about it, have you ever been talking to someone in like, October, and they say “Well, my News Year resolution was X, so here I am!”</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe it’s because I have nothing else to look forward to. Classes aren’t starting up again, I am in week infinity of the work-world, and when you are on your own and in charge of making your own goals and fun without anyone else pushing you along and petting your head, you have to do something.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And here are mine:</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">GET MY WEBSITE UP. I NEED TO STOP DRAGGING MY FEET AND COMMIT ALREADY! (Elf reference, because it</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i> is</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> almost Christmas)</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Be published in a literary magazine (and not beat myself up that this hasn’t happened already)</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stop trying to be right all of the time. I am horrible with this. If I am right about something, I want to make sure that everyone knows it, even subtly, and I need to quit being so obnoxious, even if it isn’t in an obvious way. This is totally a way that I totally suck.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Um..I would like to stop holding grudges! If someone wronged me in kindergarten, like Michael who tore my Arthur backpack and Nick who called me a “fat pig”, I remember it. I have gotten better at being less sensitive and letting go of things, but I really need to remove some gross unpleasantries that have lodged themselves in my brain and stop new ones from developing. Unfortunately, as for Michael and Nick, well, you’re pretty deep in there so you probably won’t come out. At least I didn’t add your last names, you little monsters.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">*insert eat healthy and be fit ~goals~* I played competitive travel softball for 15 years. I went from strong and in shape to a hot potato in .2 seconds. A potato with lipstick, and lots of bacon and sour creme.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Find some way to get music back into my life because I really miss the choirs I was involved in during college. Yeah, I definitely jam out in my car but I need the challenge of some sort of musical collaboration.</span></div>
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</ol>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>I also want to put down a few things that I have learned about being an artist:</b></span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Do not compare yourself to others.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> You can look at other work to learn, or think, “I kind of like how they do this” but putting another person on a pedestal will only make you feel lesser and discouraged. In the writing community specifically, there are so many ways to share your ideas. It isn’t fair to look at someone else’s piece and make yourself feel bad. Creating art comes from passion, not wanting to prove something or be better than someone else.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Establish an audience. </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not everyone is going to be well liked. So don’t curve your work in a way that is appealing to the masses. Know who you want to focus on, and don’t be afraid/change your ideas because you are scared that it won’t appeal to “everyone”. This is impossible. There is not one, single thing that every single person is on board with except for like, breathing. Even then, there is probably someone that is like “Ugh I really hate this having to breathe thing. Can we just, not?”</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Look back at old work.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It can be cringe-worthy. I have poems from my first creative writing class in college and wow, are they awful! But they can be adapted. You can learn from yourself, and feel good about how far you’ve come. I never get rid of anything. Yes, I am a complete packrat but I have writing from high school that I still look at for inspiration. You brought your thoughts to life once, and they deserve to keep on existing.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Form a community.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I miss being able to switch work with other creative people in school. It is harder now, but make it happen. I give my coworker friends some of my writing, I communicate with classmates that live elsewhere and are still willing to swap work, and I reach out to friends that I have made from other interests and ask if they would be willing to see a bit of what I like to do. Think outside the box, but never stop the conversation.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Be inspired by other forms. </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Visit an art museum with a journal or a sketchpad. Bring a notebook to a concert. Attend theater productions. Walk down the street and notice torn posters and bits of chalk or graffiti and realize how lucky we are to exist not only in this physical world, but the universes of infinite possibilities inside of our heads.</span></div>
</li>
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Compliment one another. </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It feels so awesome to receive a message or text saying “Hey, you really made my day with this. It spoke to me when I needed it. It made me feel something.” Because isn’t that why we make anything? To feel. To help others feel. To find those that are like “HEY YEAH I THINK THIS TOO” and feel less alone. It’s essential. There is nothing wrong with being too nice and making someone’s day.</span></div>
</li>
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Be brave.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It’s easy to say “Who cares what other people think?” because we all do, at least a little bit. But you don’t need validation to create. If you want to do something, you better do it because a month will go past, and then a year, and you think “I really should have done that..is it too late now?” No, it isn’t. But the sooner the better, you know?</span></div>
</li>
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Finally, pursue what you love.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Right now I am not balancing my interest. I have been working on my writing and my career, but singing has taken a back seat. You shouldn’t have to pick and choose between two passions. Make it work. We only have one chance to do what we love. And it’s hard to really love something. If you do, then it needs your attention.</span></div>
</li>
</ol>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So there is my incredible, earth-shattering advice. And if anyone ever wants to send me anything that they are working on, I would be completely elated to view at it. We need to support each other. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2016 is coming, and for once, I think I’m ready for it.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-21847445733024561472015-11-23T14:48:00.001-08:002015-11-23T14:51:55.534-08:00The Messy-Roomed Mantra<i>I will clean this up. I will be motivated and won't put it off any longer. I will have a spotless room.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It doesn't matter how many times I repeat encouraging lies to myself, I know that I will never pick up my shit.<br />
<br />
I have always thrived in mess, surrounding myself by papers and sticky notes clinging to multiple books cracked like an open-faced sandwich. Where is my draft of this poem? In the pile of stuff to my right, near the bottom because I haven't looked at it in a while. Where is this text book? <i>Under</i> my bed because I needed somewhere specific to place it so I wouldn't forget where it was! I have a system.<br />
<br />
There is a distinct difference between messiness and filth. I am in no way dirty, just unorganized. I attempt to sound deep and say that it reflects how my brain works, but in all reality it is probably some combination of comfort and laziness. <b>Filth</b> is when there is trash, dirty dishes, crusty tissues, food crumbs, and moldy smelling towels piled on top of a brush that badly needs to be cleaned of broken hairs. <b>Messy</b> is the innocence of being ignorant of organization. Things, although clean, exist in piles and cracks. You constantly surprise yourself by finding a knick knack that has been tucked away under your mattress or in a shoe. Every day is a treasure hunt, finding notes from a middle school friend that you haven't talked to in eight years, or being frustrated because you can't find the new hair accessory that you JUST bought the day before and would look awesome with your work outfit--but you are five minutes late and five minutes can mean fifteen minutes late with traffic. Life becomes a live-action I-Spy book that you never quite finish.<br />
<br />
Besides the normal stuff that one usually keeps in a room, my mess is mostly comprised of small "collections" of things that I find interesting. For example, I have specific places where I store tags from clothes. If a tag is super cool, or happens to have an awesome sticker of a sassy looking girl with pink pigtails and bell-bottom jeans surrounded by flames, then I want to save it. I might use it someday, or an archaeologist could be searching my room 200 years from now and learn about how clothes were priced before society all magically got dressed like in <i>The Jetsons</i> or Cher in <i>Clueless.</i> Early 2000s "junior's" departments from JC Penney and Kohls shouldn't be forgotten. And so they live strongly, in my jewelry box.<br />
<br />
I also have a rock collection, coin collection, a quarter-specific collection (which totally differs from my coin collection because it has a portfolio where I can collect a quarter from each state), a glass doll collection (that I actually tucked away because they were actually scary as hell), a pez dispenser collection (I didn't even mean to start collecting these, like, I am not <i>that</i> kind of collector. I think that people just assumed that I would be the type of person to have pez dispensers and began giving me Disney Princess and Star Wars themed ones), a Wizard-Of-Oz novelty item collection complete with the Madame Alexander dolls that McDonalds gave out in happy meals, all of my Pokemon cards, puppets (hand, marionette, and finger), well over one hundred Beanie Babies, and a playbill collection--which seems pretty normal overall. I have also been recently acquiring pictures of scenes with anthropomorphic dogs and tacky holiday decorations. I'm still open to expanding with whatever else piques my interest. I have the room.<br />
<br />
While sitting wrapped in my bed comforter and staring at my kingdom of junk, I am reassured by what I have. It shows that there is <i>life</i> here, that there is life in me. During my senior year of college, there was a period of three nights where I slept with a McDonald's bag full of empty trash. Okay, I know that sounds like it is spilling over onto the <b>filthy</b> side, but I was elated that I had driven to the fast-food restaurant by myself and gotten food when I had been scared to drive anywhere alone or even leave my bed just a few days before. It was a reminder that I could do things, and plus it became so hilarious to me that I felt that I couldn't part with my McDouble cheeseburger wrapper that had become my new teddy bear.<br />
<br />
I have tried to clean my room. To label boxes and shelves, to neatly fold and color coordinate, to throw away things that I no longer need. Every time that I try, I am surged with panic, or sadness, like I am throwing away parts of my life. Parts that I will never live again, and the only things left over are in the backs of nightstand drawers and mason jars on closet floors. I regularly donate my clothes, but when it comes to the tiny bits of the mosaic that has become my life, I am hesitant. As I packed up my stuff to move out of my childhood home into my first apartment, I cried. I saw things that I had, things that should not have been transported, organized, or thrown away, because they have their space in my old room. They co-exist, breathing and insulating any fear or wisp of hope that I had ever had by nightlight. If a human body can be so compact with guts and muscle and bone, then why can't a space that is just as alive?<br />
<br />
I am slowly starting to become "cleaner". My work desk functions well, and my apartment is coming together hesitantly but surely. I have gotten rid of many items and also have learned to let things go. But I want you to understand that it has never been a matter of having physical things, for I am not a materialistic person, but rather holding onto them and having control over the nest that I have built. An actual sculpture and interactive scrapbook of a life that can be hard to live, but a smile that will be brought on by a craft that you made in the first grade that still hangs over your bedroom mirror.<br />
<br />
<i>I will clean this up. I will be motivated and won't put it off any longer. I will have a spotless room.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Maybe tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-69973493022636643962015-11-10T16:06:00.003-08:002016-02-06T16:12:02.502-08:00The Call Of The VoidSee this on Stigma Fighters at <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> </span><a href="http://stigmafighters.com/stigma-fighters-jordan-abbruzzese/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" target="_blank">http://stigmafighters.<wbr></wbr>com/stigma-fighters-jordan-<wbr></wbr>abbruzzese/</a><br />
<br />
"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?" my coworker asked me while leaning against the beige wall of my cubicle. Her big eyes were swimming with possibilities, while I was thinking about how to get through the rest of my day without feeling sad.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean." I smiled back.<br />
<br />
This same coworker spent time teaching English in Latin America and Malaysia. At 18, she ran away to Canada for a weekend. Somewhat recently, she dated a boy from Australia. A boy that she still video chats. A couple of weeks ago she convinced me to play pool in the middle of a semi-crowded bar. That was my equivalent. My Malaysia.<br />
<br />
It's not that I am not spontaneous. I like to do things, I have done cool things--I don't even need to justify my small yearning for adventure that is sometimes poked here and there. But I live inside of my head and the worlds there. I see my imagination, while she has seen the actual world.<br />
<br />
I laugh when I think of how she looks at me and my interests. We have little in common, and my twitter followers like to see when/how she hilariously and accidentally insults me next. She sees me as someone that sits around in cosplay licking Star Wars VHS tapes that I hold in one hand and playing a RPG with the other while Sailor Moon plays in the background. I like this visual. At least it's interesting.<br />
<br />
Talking to her allows me to reflect. What have I done? More importantly, what am I going to do? It is easy to entertain the idea of traveling, or "at least trying something once". When I was a freshman in college I convinced myself that by my senior year I was going to have interned in Disney World, living out my childhood dream. I graduated 6 months ago, and haven't been to Disney World in five years. I ask myself if I regret not trying, and I am not sure if I do. By staying at my school I was able to go to Ireland, and have a memorable senior year with friends that I love. It could be a fair trade.<br />
<br />
I always have thought that I don't want to be on my death bed asking, "What if?" (although honestly, I contemplate three different ways daily that I could end up in this position sooner than expected, and I have a few things that I would like to do if it were to happen, well, now). I have sent out a few pieces to be published since I graduated college, and they were rejected, which is expected. I want to be published by May of next year (one year out of school), so I need to keep trying. I also have a website in the works that I haven't officially launched or paid for. There are small goals. Stepping stones to my new dreams.<br />
<br />
"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?"<br />
<br />
I think about it every day.<br />
<br />
In the spring, I went hiking with my boyfriend. We had tried to go to a different park every weekend, and successfully did this for a little over a month before the rain started, or we became too tired to think of new places to go. While in Hocking Hills, we paused at a cliff. We were alone on the trail, with the type of silence that you can hear if you listen closely, and I was feeling an ocean in my stomach while looking at the ground below.<br />
<br />
"What happens if I jump?" I asked him. "You couldn't stop me. Part of me even wants to, though I know that sounds completely crazy."<br />
<br />
He laughed, knowing that I wouldn't do it. "I was thinking the same thing," he said. "It's called "The Call of the Void". I read about it recently on reddit."<br />
<br />
He went on to explain that it is an unexplained psychological phenomena that almost everyone experiences. When we are driving, we could briefly think "What if I ran my car into oncoming traffic?" or while holding a knife "I could hurt myself or someone else right now if I really wanted to". These thoughts are fleeting, and as long as you don't dwell on them or contemplate seriously acting them out, then they are not a problem. The weird impulses are merely a fun little part of the weirdness that is being a human.<br />
<br />
I often think about the conversation, about how it felt to look into the open air, and wonder if maybe I could've flown if I really jumped. Maybe people really can fly and I could've been the first one. My boyfriend would have been scared at first, but then would have seen me soaring upward, and smiled, thinking <i>Wow, she looks really happy</i>, and eventually the other hikers would have seen me and been glad for me too. I could have looped through the trees, and took off to see elsewhere, creating ripples in the ocean with my fingertips and then zooming back toward the sun because unlike Icarius, I wouldn't have had melted wings. I would have flown around the world, and yelled below to my coworker's ex-boyfriend, telling him that she asks me questions in my cubicle and makes me play pool in bars. I could have if I tried.<br />
<br />
But here I am, on the ground, thinking of the opportunity that this void has given me to speculate metaphorically. What if I send things off to be published? What if I just finish my stupid website so that people can see the work that I love to do? What if I plan a trip somewhere, or run off to Canada too? I can't let the amount of exciting things that I want to accomplish paralyze me. I need to try flying, We all need to take a deep breath, and try flying.<br />
<br />
So we can start now. We can form plans, set goals, or at least talk about dreams. We can speak of fake dreams, ones that will never come true, but realizing them will be just enough. We can get through the day without being sad, because for each chance that we lose out on, we have an infinite selection of more.<br />
<br />
Basically, The Void is calling.<br />
And you might as well jump.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-74782072435068128252015-09-23T19:24:00.001-07:002015-09-23T19:24:16.949-07:00Words By The Wise, For the Wiser (Basically I Wrote Some Proverbs)You can take the hedgehog out of the girl,<br />
but you can't take the girl out of the hedgehog.<br />
Especially if he is a mutant and hungry.<br />
<br />
If you give a mouse a cookie,<br />
and it accidentally bites your finger,<br />
then it now knows the taste of human<br />
flesh--and you should relocate.<br />
<br />
Don't make a mountain out of a mole hill,<br />
for some mole worked really hard on that hill<br />
and its feelings will be hurt.<br />
<br />
You can lead a hedgehog to water,<br />
but all he will do is swim around in it.<br />
<br />
Look left and right before you cross the street.<br />
Or up and down, if you happen to be hovering<br />
horizontally, facing the west.<br />
<br />
Don't look a gift hedgehog in the mouth.<br />
<br />
You can't teach an old dog new tricks,<br />
because he probably already knows them all.<br />
Dogs are smarter than us, and only grow<br />
more ominous with age.<br />
<br />
Don't spoil your dinner with dessert,<br />
because next thing you know, your dinner<br />
will want a later bed time, and more<br />
television privileges.<br />
<br />
Reach for the stars,<br />
if you feel like looking like an imbecile,<br />
because the closest star is 93 million miles away<br />
and you are not that tall.<br />
<br />
Don't hold your breath,<br />
because if you do for too long,<br />
you will probably pass out.<br />
<br />
Always say your p's and q's,<br />
or else you will only recite 24<br />
letters of the alphabet.<br />
<br />
The grass is always greener on the other side<br />
if the other side waters it and uses proper fertilizer.<br />
<br />
Sometimes less is more,<br />
on opposite day.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-66608112979014011992015-09-12T09:48:00.000-07:002015-09-12T09:48:05.860-07:00(My) Absolute Truth About AnxietyI rarely talk about any struggles that I have with anxiety and mild depression, and only recently began to write about it. I usually keep any thoughts about psychological stress in my head (they kind of fly around, similar to the spirits at the ending of Raiders of the Lost Ark if you would like a visual). I had an essay discussing my anxiety and fears published in my college's literary magazine during my senior year, and thought "Wow, okay..people are reading this. People might think differently of me, or be scared of how <i>I</i> think--but that is fine." I needed an audience outside of a few close, select friends to know, for at least one person to identify and know that perhaps they aren't alone.<br />
<br />
I feel that mental disorders are often glamorized, especially in the art fields. There is a strange allure to the whole "tortured artist" thing, so writers/artists/musicians often try to emulate that, trivializing anyone that actually struggles with anxiety, depression, etc. There is nothing "cool" about the way that we feel, or knowing that you sometimes have trouble going to the grocery store or filling your car up with gas. These people will relish in their pretend darkness, or continuously say "I'm crazy! I'm so insane!", to which we ask "Oh really? Are you?" because most people that deal with this weight do not realize that they are in fact, "crazy", or would not broadcast it for attention.<br />
<br />
A second example comes from those that are very organized and particular about their cleanliness or the way their work is arranged. You can often hear these people claiming "Haha, oh, I am SO OCD!", while I think of anyone that actually has OCD being embarrassed, ashamed, or brought down by society thinking that OCD is something as simple as being overly particular about your room or notebook. OCD isn't cute, or funny, and I feel sorry for anyone that has to go through life hearing these things said over and over.<br />
<br />
As I step off my pedestal (careful not to fall because I have tiny appendages), I am about to take my reflections in a completely different direction. I do this not to make fun of anyone in the same little rowboat as me, but mostly as an actual, relatable to a response to the articles that I constantly see being shared via social media:<br />
<br />
"What It Is Like To Love Someone With Anxiety", "Things No One Ever Told You About Dating Someone With Anxiety", "An Open Letter To Everyone About What Anxiety Is Like" *throws up*<br />
<br />
I am sure some of these articles floating around are brave confessions from those that have an anxiety disorder, but I personally have not been able to identify with even one of these pieces. It is as if they were written by someone who is merely imagining what anxiety feels like, and then exploiting these peoples to get shares and likes online. Furthermore, although sometimes I may be frustrating with my irrational fears, times when I can't get out of bed, or crying without knowing why, something that I have never felt is apologetic. Or like I couldn't be loved. We can educate others so that the stigma against mental illness in America is erased, but we should never feel like we have to be sorry or justify anything that we feel to our families or loved ones. It is not heroic to love or "deal" with us.<br />
<br />
So finally, 10 Things That Anxiety ACTUALLY Feels Like:<br />
<br />
1. Like every embarrassing moment or small conflict you have had from the time you were in kindergarten until your present life are ingredients in a soup that is constantly cooking in your brain that you are also being forced to eat nonstop, every day.<br />
<br />
2. Like the scared or bad thoughts are a song that you can't get out of your head no matter how hard you try, or want to think of a better song. One time when I was younger, I went to my mom crying in the middle of the night because I couldn't get the <i>Winnie the Pooh</i> theme song out of my head. She rolled over, sleepily, and said "Just think of something else". I eventually fell asleep, only to wake up two hours later with "Here in the hundred acre wood.." being the first thought I had. Irrational feelings can be like that.<br />
<br />
3. Like there is a super intense game of "Would You Rather?" going on in the back of your mind all the time. The players are too loud, and won't be quiet no matter how many times you ask them to. Some of the best questions are, "Would you rather die in a car accident or get a phone call in the middle of the night that your family all died in a car accident?" and "Would you rather someone break into your house and kill you while you sleep or be in a mass shooting in public?"<br />
<br />
4. Like the episode of Spongebob when he has the ability to walk into other people's dreams. You think of five alternative, horrible situations, and feel out of your body as you are able to vividly experience each one.<br />
<br />
5. Like you are in a game of "Telephone", with everyone whispering and the phrase changing, but you have to sit in the middle of the circle and aren't allowed to play or hear what is being said. You see people laughing and participating together in a functional way, but you are upset and confused by what they are saying, and frustrated because you are left out. You assume that it is about you.<br />
<br />
6. Like your ENTIRE Twitter feed is full of subtweets, that all vaguely describe or relate to you, even from people that you haven't met, or celebrities. You think "What could I have done to make everyone dislike me so much?"<br />
<br />
7. Like you are trying to listen to your favorite childhood CD in your car but it keeps skipping and stopping when you are just trying to move forward with "Oops I Did It Again". You are frustrated and stuck and want to just break the CD in half since it is junk but know that you would regret that and are disappointed because you just wanted to hear the damn song and then overwhelmed with how fast your life is passing you by that this CD even appears as being "old" to you.<br />
<br />
8. Like you are casually walking through the shallow end of an unfamiliar swimming pool and suddenly it slopes to the deep end. Everything was fine and relaxed while you enjoyed the water kissing your shoulders and the sun warming your head, but you are now accidentally under water, scraping your toes across the floor to find the shallow end again, while swallowing water and trying to tread so that you don't drown.<br />
<br />
9. Like your boss, professor, or any other authority figure is speaking to you in code as if they want to trick you. "We really appreciate your efforts here" seems like it has to have a double meaning, and absolutely anything they say to you is a test so that you should work harder.<br />
<br />
10. Like you are standing by the window of a huge skyscraper. You feel the vertigo and your pulse quickens as you look at the cars below, scared of the height but then also wondering what it is like to fall, with only the clear glass separating you from a vast world and space that goes on for longer than you can comprehend. Except you experience this while on the couch, in the shower, or in bed, realizing that you aren't in a tall building at all.<br />
<br />
I smile subtly as I finish this, for it feels like I have taken a chunk of words out of my chest and spread them in front of me for other people to sniff and poke. It feels good, and I kind of feel good. I hope that, like my essay I was so scared to put in the open before, someone can read this and think "Yes, I get this! Do you get this? It's going to be okay." And it is.<br />
<br />
I hope that we all avoid the deep end of the pool as much as possible today,<br />
Jordan<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-15433154021394736682015-08-09T07:46:00.001-07:002015-08-09T07:46:19.046-07:00(Better) Questions To Ask Your Significant OtherA few weeks ago, I noticed a somewhat viral "copy and paste" questionnaire that women were putting in their Facebook status updates. The rules were simple, you had to ask your significant other questions about yourself, and put their answers. The list was long, awkward, and honestly unintentionally hysterical. You had to type exactly what your S.O. said, answering questions like "What is my wife/girlfriend's biggest fear" or "favorite thing to do?" The only thing weirder than this strange ~relationship test~ was the fact that I willingly and creepily read the bizarre results of each participator that I could find.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was mostly blown away by some of the conceited responses from the boyfriends' end. For example, to the "favorite thing to do" question that I previously mentioned, one boyfriend stated "Spending time with me". I laughed out loud, wondering if the girl blushed and batted her eyelashes as she typed those words into the little white box at the top of her Facebook feed, thinking <i>Oh, he knows me so well.</i> I highly doubt that ANY person's favorite hobby is spending time with another person. It does not matter if they are the love of your life, or make you extremely happy-- but jeez, no one is that great. My favorite thing to do? Eating cookie dough in my bed while watching multiple episodes of "Sex And The City". (I mean, someone else could be there if they <i>wanted</i>, but the situation is far more religious if I am by myself)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I took all of these questions into consideration and decided to come up with a more effective list. I have even asked my poor boyfriend some of these questions, to his dismay, because he is often caught off guard by my abstract thought balloons that pop in his face while he is just trying to eat mini donuts and watch Jeopardy. However, no matter who you are currently dating, I think that these questions will give you the results that you were hoping for.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Questions To Ask Your Significant Other</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
1. If you found out that I was missing, how exactly would you describe my physical appearance to the police?</div>
<div>
(To this one, my boyfriend said "Short and curvy with long wavy hair and blue eyes". I was hoping for more of an answer like "A sprite-like face with a sprinkling of freckles, beachy waves of dark brown hair that cascade down her hour-glass figure, small feet and hands that appear childlike, reflecting her wondrous spirit and demeanor, and two slightly crooked teeth that add to her character and make her seem easy to relate to")</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2. If I randomly and magically turned into a puppy, would you keep me as a pet?</div>
<div>
(He said "No, because that would never happen". I, however, am still not ruling it out.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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3. How about a fish? Would you buy me all of those tank decorations, like the small castles and mermaids and stuff because it would probably make me happier since I have to be a fish now?</div>
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4. If I was a mythical creature, what would I be and why?</div>
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5. Does my singing voice sound like a famous person's singing voice?</div>
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(He said no and I was not happy because the right answer is obviously "A Christina Aguilera/Idina Menzel hybrid")</div>
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<br /></div>
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6. If I died would you try to contact with my ghost by any means possible and forever mourn my death and probably never date anyone again?<br />
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7. If you could see me existing and thriving in any television series universe, what would it be?<br />
<br />
8. Do you think that I would survive during a zombie apocalypse? Would you kill me if I was a zombie or put me in a cage and keep me as your zombie girlfriend/boyfriend/partner?<br />
(He said "No. And no, I would kill you." UH I WOULD TOTALLY SURVIVE because I am already paranoid/cautious as hell and great at hiding. And I would make a cute zombie girlfriend with like a skull bow or something.)<br />
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9. If you could be a cartoon and marry any other cartoon, which one would you pick?<br />
(Mine would totally be Dean McCoppin from The Iron Giant.)<br />
<br />
~And finally~<br />
<br />
10. In a Neverending Story situation, if I was your horse Artax would you actually let me die in the Swamp of Sadness or would you risk your life to save me instead of just staring and crying about it like Atreyu did?<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
Don't raise your expectations too high,<br />
Jordan</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-63908032434353511722015-07-19T08:25:00.001-07:002015-07-19T08:25:17.321-07:003 Reasons That My Childhood Basement Is Haunted (Or That Toy Story Is Real)My eighteen-year-old sister has an averagely nice boyfriend, who takes her on averagely nice dates and buys her averagely nice gifts for her birthday and just-because. My family decidedly likes him, and I have therefore recently made more of an effort to hang out with them both. We chat, and they tell stories of their technological woes, instagram drama, snapchat stories, etc, while I continously sound like I am 80 with remarks like "Just think, when I was just a little younger than you I had to go to the public library to print off my school work!" or "I used to have a flip phone with limited texting, and it only texted in capital letters so I looked like I was angry all the time!"<br />
<br />
<i>Why do I say these things? It makes my sister and averagely nice boyfriend feel slightly uncomfortable (because they don't know why I am saying them either), and somehow makes me feel ~more than~ slightly wise, or like I have a chiseled character because I didn't have a printer in my house or internet until middle school. Perhaps this is why the generations before me have said similar things to people my age, about party-line phones or playing jacks down by the soda fountain--to feel better about themselves that things used to be a little more inconvenient. (Knowing that I had to beg my parents to take me to the library and then pay ten cents to print off a book-report made me the person that I am today, probably). However, the type of satisfaction that we really get is saying in an underlying way, "You don't know how easy you have it, you little shits." </i><br />
<i>And I know, I know, I really had it easy too. But it's still fun.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
These conversations eventually lead to me talking about the dinosaur of AIM instant messaging, and how I would spend hours in the basement talking to up to seven different friends. My heart would leap when the creaking, opening door sound was made, and I saw that my crush was now online. I would spend hours trying to make my profile super cool with ambiguous and angsty alternative rock lyrics, or a sprinkle of inside jokes to make anyone else reading it think "She is so interesting and random, wow!" And then the away message--that was another ball game entirely.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I still think that instant messenger should exist as a primary form of communication. It was <i>awesome.</i><br />
<br />
With the instant messenger, I inevitably also start talking about our creepy basement, mostly at my sister's request. Our childhood computer was located downstairs in the "play room". Outside of the playroom was a saloon style restroom (thanks to my mother and her interior design creativity) that goes against a full stocked bar. The bar proceeds a foosball table and pinball machine, which leads to a Speed Racer slot machine, big screen T.V. (<i>with</i> surround sound, ~ooooh~), and a "music room" that has a keyboard, drum set, and boxes of records and cassette tapes mixed with a plethora of holiday decorations and an old work-out stationary bike. So basically, our basement is in fact <i>not</i> creepy at all. It was finished with a blue-grey carpet, there are leather couches and a red velvet love-seat, and enough Ohio-State novelty items to make Woody Hayes blush.<br />
<br />
However, a basement is a basement, no matter how nice, and when seventh grade me sat downstairs feverishly typing in chat rooms and listening to Panic! At The Disco, it could be <i>terrifying.</i> To conserve electricity, I would often only have the playroom light on, and leave the door to that room open so that our internet could stay connected to my father's work computer upstairs. I'd make an effort to stare straight ahead at the screen, and not turn to the right to look out into the black abyss, or think about a scaly hand reaching from the wall beside my head and grabbing my face (like I saw in a horrible movie that I rented from Blockbuster years prior, RIP Blockbuster).<br />
<br />
So here I would be, at ages 13 and 14 (the reign of the AOL instant messenger), scared out of my wits while "typin lyk dis" to all of my friends--which is honestly scarier than anything that I am about to tell you. But, my little sister delights in hearing the following tales, dealing with children's toys, that indeed confirm that my childhood basement is haunted (or that Toy Story is real).<br />
<br />
<b>Reason One: Mommy, please!</b><br />
To the left of the computer desk was a large, Fisher-Price toy chest that contained beanie babies, McDonald's happy meal plush toys, and multiple baby dolls. While taking a break from the screen, I decided to open up the chest one evening, while in the basement alone, and view toys that I had not played with in years. On top, was who used to be my favorite doll, Sally. Sally once wore cute patterned overalls and had pigtails in ringlet curls, but now was naked, only wearing the weird white leotard looking things that naked dolls often do, and had matted hair that had apparently fallen out in parts. I noticed also, to my dismay, that part of her mouth and nose had been chewed off by a mouse. Essentially, she looked horrifying, which stirred my pity and nostalgia even more. "Oh, Sally," I whispered, "What happened to you?"<br />
Another fun thing about Sally is that if you squeezed her abdomen hard enough, she would say in an adorable voice: "Mommy, please! Let's play house!" with a surprising amount of colorful intonation. I smiled at remembering this, feeling like there was a spotlight on me and my childhood friend, as I gave her rough-body a squeeze.<br />
"Mommy please," she began, with half a face and less than a full head of hair, "LETS PLAY HOUSE" her voice contorted, in a rumbling, statically, deep way that made me throw her and run upstairs screaming. I realized later that her motor simply had gone bad, and she sounded so from a lack of use, but I am also not ruling out the possibility that it was a demon speaking to me from my doll. You know, just maybe.<br />
<br />
<b>Reason Two: Go Buckeyes!</b><br />
I previously mentioned the bar and Ohio-State decor, and included in that was a little Brutus The Buckeye that cutely yelled "Go Buckeyes!" or played the OSU fight song when thrown on the ground. He sat at the bar, next to a series of bobbleheads, and was exclusively used during games. During a dark night of messaging and working on my Myspace top friends list, I was interrupted by an abrupt "Go Buckeyes!"<br />
My heart felt like it had been electrocuted, and my fingers began to sweat against the keys. I figured it was a fluke, or that I imagined Brutus cheering after hearing him so many times before. About a minute later, I could hear, loud and proud, the OSU fight song piercing the dark air of the basement. I slowly got up, switched on the lights leading to the bar, and walked over to see if my sister was playing a trick on me. But there was Brutus, smiling, looking straight into my soul with his embroidered eyes. Again, I ran upstairs screaming.<br />
Like the doll, it is certainly possible that his motor was glitching and went off without being pounded on the ground. OR, Brutus was evil and should be burned in the fire place. I haven't touched him since.<br />
<br />
<b>Reason Three: Yuuuum!</b><br />
Behind the computer desk is a wall divider that has a built-in puppet window (for shows and the like). On top of the divider sits simple art projects, and two old Furbies. Both Furtbies had the batteries removed, because we once ago decided that there was no other way to keep them quiet. They had laid dormant for years, staring at the back of my head as I typed away.<br />
Until one evening, when I head a mechanical creak, like a tiny machine was moving. I turned in my chair slowly to notice that one of the Furby's ears were moving up and down. I thought I imagined it, but they kept going, until the Furby let out a ferocious "Yuuuuummm!!!" LIKE IT WANTED TO BE FED.<br />
And, like the times before, I ran upstairs screaming. I later checked, and there were still no batteries inside the toy. I have no explanation for this one.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Now, I can finally go into our basement without feeling as scared (10 years later), but still avoid looking at the Furbies, or opening my toy chest. In fact, I usually stay away from the play room all together, and my sister tends to do the same after my stories.<br />
<br />
And everything that I have said is true. I can play the moments in my head over and over, sometimes laughing and other times getting seriously freaked out.<br />
<br />
And well, that's my story.<br />
Believe it, or not.<br />
<br />
JordanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-65404143537637862052015-07-09T11:51:00.002-07:002015-07-09T11:51:50.112-07:00Geography Lesson One: Ohio and Pennsylvania Are Neighboring StatesThe Thursday before Independence Day weekend, my boyfriend and myself drove the seven and a half hours to Philadelphia to visit a close friend. I had been to Pennsylvania a handful of times in the past, and even to Pittsburgh (which <i>I</i> consider a larger city), but had never been to Philadelphia. Our friend, Orey, had lived in the city for a little over a year, working as a supervisor for a tourism company and taking graduate classes, working toward his Masters in Creative Writing.<br />
<br />
We were thrilled to visit Philadelphia, one of the most populated cities in the United States, and also nervous about how we would fit in. Orey had previously warned us that Philadelphia natives can easily identify people that are tourists, especially midwesterners. He had been outed as an Ohioan on a few occasions, once after saying "Bless you" to a complete stranger after they sneezed, and other times for starting a friendly conversation in public. In Philadelphia, small-talk does not exist, and sneezing is apparently a private matter.<br />
"Where are you from?" they would ask him.<br />
"I live in West Philly." he'd reply.<br />
"Yeah, but you're not <i>from</i> here." they'd insist.<br />
<br />
The week before we left, Orey requested that we each send him a wish-list of things we wanted to do. The first two things on my list were "TACO BELL" and "LIBERTY BELL". (In college, the three of us frequented Taco Bell more times then I care to admit, and I am a sucker for any historical landmarks). Orey excitedly showed his co-workers our wish lists, which warranted a response of skepticism and judgment. "Do all people in Ohio like Taco Bell?" one asked. "They really like to eat, just like you" said another. Orey later reported to me that many of his coworkers had never experienced Taco Bell in their lives. <i>What do they eat? Are they rich or something?</i> were the first two questions that I blurted, to which he responded "I just don't know. People are different here. A lot of them that I met don't even realize that Ohio is right next to Pennsylvania." (I later spoke with a little girl while getting a Philly cheese steak who didn't know what Ohio was, and thought it was a suburb of Philadelphia)<br />
<br />
Not that I use fast-food as a major component my identity, but I was certainly taken aback. When we first got to the city, we drove to pick Orey up at his place of work.<br />
"Here we go..." I said to my boyfriend teasingly. "You are just a country boy and I am a dough-eyed midwestern girl, taking on the big city."<br />
"Uh, I am not a country boy." he replied, scanning his eyes across the narrow roads.<br />
"Living in Columbus for four years doesn't count, you are still from the middle of nowhere" I replied smuggly, attempting to see the tops of the skyscrapers that ran past the car windows.<br />
<br />
Early on in our trip, we met Orey's co-workers and friends. He introduced us as his "Ohio friends", but I decided to ham it up anyway. I was overly friendly, super smiley, and tried to sneak in as many "bless you"s and "excuse me"s as I could. Outside of meeting his coworkers, when I waited in lines at the bathroom, I attempted to start conversations with the women standing next to me. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. At other times, I walked aggressively past others on the city streets, grazing shoulders or bumping handbags without an apology. I didn't smile or nod to children or the elderly that shuffled on by, attempting to blend in.<br />
<br />
When I previously traveled to France and Ireland, I desperately tried to appear European. I wore darker colors, didn't carry a map, and turned my insides while trying to keep my face calm and neutral while walking through an exciting, beautiful new place. I didn't want to stick out. However, in Philly, I found that it was easier to be cheerful than to blend in. Of course, I should clarify that Philadelphians are not rude, horrible, or unfriendly. I met wonderful people who were helpful and enjoyable to be around, but the difference in culture between the midwest and the east coast is notable. Nevertheless, in Philly, in America, I no longer wished to mesh with what was around me. I wanted everyone to know that I was from Columbus, Ohio, where we sell cow novelty items and John Deere hats in our airports. Let Orey's coworkers know that I love imitation Mexican Food, and that I have never seen the Liberty Bell in my life but dreamed of the moment when I would lay my eyes upon its cracked glory.<br />
<br />
So, I wore a hot air balloon patterned dress and ran to the top of the Philadelphia Museum of Art Steps..AKA, THE ROCKY STAIRS!<br />
I repeatedly asked "What is the difference between a Water Ice and Italian Ice? I don't get it?"<br />
I cried during a 3D informational film at Orey's work that was narrated by a Benjamin Franklin impersonator.<br />
And then again at Al Calpone's cell at Eastern State Penitentiary.<br />
And when I saw Independence Hall.<br />
And finally when we found a cute baby bird on a porch in Society Hill.<br />
<br />
By the end of the weekend, I <i>loved</i> it. The history, the architecture, but mostly experiencing how another sect of America lives and functions in the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection. Plus, it was way cool to experience the Fourth of July in the city where the Declaration of Independence was signed. I also got to wait for an Uber by the real Benjamin Franklin's grave.<br />
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We had an awesome time.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N1P0Xl6I_qc/VZ7B9--yZFI/AAAAAAAAA88/qsacSCDLuGw/s1600/phillygoat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N1P0Xl6I_qc/VZ7B9--yZFI/AAAAAAAAA88/qsacSCDLuGw/s320/phillygoat.jpg" width="320" /></a>Bless you, Philadelphia,<br />
JordanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-28187196917306944852015-06-10T12:04:00.000-07:002015-06-10T12:04:22.108-07:0014 Things You Need To Know About Girls Who Primarily Own Animal Sweaters1. Yes, she mostly owns animal sweaters. Take a look in her closet. You will most likely see a variation of three different types of hedgehog sweaters, a nice blue and black terrier print, and maybe a french bulldog or cute elephant face thrown in the mix. If you want her to dress up, be prepared for the sweaters to be paired with overalls or patterned shorts. It is all that she knows.<br />
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<img height="179" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B7CCga6CQAEarN9.jpg:large" width="320" /><br />
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2. She might have a puppet collection. From marionettes to hand-puppets to finger-puppets, she will have them all. Be prepared to patiently watch as she puts on shows for you, or hold her hand when she cries during Jim Henson's Labyrinth or The Dark Crystal. Humor her by stopping to watch Sesame Street while flipping through channels.<br />
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3. She will expect you to get all of her sci-fi references. She has more Star Wars novelty items than she knows what to do with, including Mad Lib books and hand sanitizer. She will want you to watch the annual viewing of Firefly's Serenity on the big screen in her hometown, listen to her repeatedly explain how Dollhouse is Joss Whedon's darkest work, and not mind that she likes to sleep with a two and a half foot tall E.T. plush toy and the book "At The Earth's Core" under her pillow.<br />
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4. She may be gluten intolerant. Don't worry, she isn't pretending. You will eventually defend her to people who question it because they think they are an expert after reading articles on the internet. You have lived it with her, and it isn't pretty.<br />
<br />
5. She makes up songs for everything. If you put bacon and pickles into your shopping cart, prepare for her to sing about how "the bacon and the pickles are friends".<br />
<br />
6. Puppy butts make her world-go-round. You might not get it, but she will have her friends to talk about it with. They will whimper in public over how cute little puppy behinds are, especially when they waddle while walking on their tiny paws.<br />
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<img height="220" src="http://www.emlabradors.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/dogs-scoot-butts.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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7. She could have hoarding tendencies. There might be a box of cool clothes tags in her room that she is convinced that a museum may want one day, or a pile of historical-fiction themed crafts that she got in the mail throughout elementary school. Yes, she still plans on doing all of them.<br />
<br />
8. Antiques pique her interest. Know that she will take you to countless community garage sales, and that you may have to talk her out of buying 90s work-out tapes or duplicate beanie babies because the wiener dog beanie baby that she already has needs an identical friend. Smile and nod as she purchases old furniture that she will paint and distribute as gifts.<br />
<br />
9. She could be a book-smeller. One of her favorite smells is old books. As long as she doesn't start eating them, it should be fine.<br />
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10. She thinks she lives in Animal Crossing. She still plays the original GameCube version, and will sometimes talk about how she wishes she could decorate from Tom Nook's store or how many "bells" a real-life item might be worth. She has friends to converse with, however, that have played on the DS or wii. They will compare similarities and differences, leaving you off the hook for things you might not know. She also most likely still plays neopets and gets emotional over her childhood memories of playing Toon Town.<br />
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11. She loves cartoons, animated films, and Pixar. If you don't, you are a monster.<br />
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12. Her favorite hobby is watching poorly made (preferably scary) movies. You will become very familiar with IMDb's lowest rated films.<br />
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13. She has spooky tendencies. Her idea of a perfect date is going to an old cemetery to do grave rubbings and then looking up creepy urban legends on reddit. She also could end up being irrationally neurotic and has to sleep with a night light or lava lamp at night.<br />
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14. She almost exclusively drinks Yoohoos. Surprising her isn't hard. All you need is a gas station.<br />
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Next: 14 Things You Need To Know About Girls Who Write 14 Things You Need To Know Blogs<br />
<br />
~~BLOGCEPTION~~<br />
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Time for a Yoohoo,<br />
JordanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-45030655464567099822015-06-06T10:55:00.000-07:002016-04-05T15:42:59.796-07:00A List Of Alternative Lives That I Sometimes Wish I HadPost-grad life is in full spin, and I am doing what I tend to do best--winging it; flying through the air on a magic carpet, or actually just tumbling down the stairs while riding a bath towel. I just started an internship at an art gallery, complete with all of the obscure-nature I could hope for. Things are unsure, bizarre, and really quite fitting.<br />
<br />
While formerly applying for jobs, walking my sweet dog, or merely staring at the shapes in my ceiling while trying to fall asleep, I have been doing a lot of imagining. Such and such research says that we continue to develop until we are 25, which is only a couple of years away for me. I am thinking about the person I have become, or the person I may want to be. I also have spent a pretty large amount of time (especially while on the elliptical at the local YMCA) daydreaming of made-up pasts that aren't mine, but could have been in another place and time. These fantastical versions of me are what help get me through the mundane, Feel free to place yourselves in them, for these templates are fun for all ages.<br />
<br />
<b>A List Of Alternative Lives That I Sometimes Wish I Had</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The Connecticut Sweetheart: I grew up in a white, modest house (with columns on either side of the front steps) , accompanied by matching white, modest furniture and carpet. My father worked at a local law firm, while my mother served as the head of the PTA or the school-board or something of the like. I went to an ivy-league school, coming home on the summers to my full-sized bed with a quilted mattress, with the light from my bay-window dancing across the top, warming it for when I lay down after traveling. I primarily wear pastel skirt and sweater combos, sometimes sneaking in a pair of saddle shoes for an eccentricity. My parents own a lakehouse that I spent much of my childhood exploring, making it my "safe, happy place" that I drive to when I am upset. Whenever my boyfriend or best friend and I would get in a fight, they could find me standing on the wooden porch of the lakehouse at sunset, wrapped in the same quilt from my bed, the wind blowing my hair (they would only ever find me this way from behind or from the side, watching my profile against the lowering sun ). My father would also own a boat, I would be part of a tea-party club with my childhood friends, and have a glass doll in Victorian dress cleverly named "Dolly" that I received at birth and feel very sentimental towards.<br />
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The Beach Babe: I had lived in a beachhouse in the Floridian heat my hole life. Even now that I am in college, my dad still recreationally surfs with me (he taught me how as soon as I could walk), and my mom wears loose white tops and bright flowing skirts while making homemade wind chimes to sell to the tourists in town from our local sea-shells and driftwood. I am tanned from the hours I had spent in the sun since birth, and toned from my active life of swimming and surfing. We also own a couple of jet skis, and I have gone parasailing with my friends more times that I can count. I usually walk around in a bikini top and long,loose skirt like my mother's, and always barefooted. Even though it is hot, I wear my messy hair down, damp from the salty ocean and sprinkled with sand (we have an outdoor shower behind our house that I prefer to use). The house is wooden, and seems to be falling apart with the crooked boards nailed across the outside, but it will withstand time. The shutters and porch are painted light blue and salmon, chipping from the wind and occasional storms that shake the foundation. I spend most of my days on the beach, or reading on my porch hammock. I am the kind of person you would see sitting on her board close to the water, the waves licking her toes, as she uses a shell to carve out a fallen coconut and eat the meat, muscular arms rippling in the beating sun. I have also named all of the usual dolphins that play in the shallow water close to sunrise and sunset.<br />
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Everglades/Wilderness Woman: Both of my parents work as biologists in the everglades region, and have done so since before I was born. We live in the heart of the swamp, in between two other houses of biologists and their children close to my age. I grew up playing with these children, with our only rule being "be home by the time we ring the dinner bell". As a young girl, I would wake early and eat my father's homemade pancakes while my mom read the paper at the table. I knew that I wanted to study the everglades some day, just like them, and figured I would get a start as soon as possible. After eating, I would meet my neighbor friends outside, and we would be off catching snakes and small alligators. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I would learn everything about the various everglades ecosystems, and would have seen multiple gators and manatees by the time I became an adult. Everyone at my small town's school would have thought that I was untamed and weird,but one day when I went off to study biology in college, I would be seen as really interesting and unattainable. As a young adult, I only wear work boots, khaki shorts, and earth-tone colored button up sleeveless shirts.<br />
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New Orleans Artist: I live in the heart of the city, groomed to love the bright colors and the wet heat. My parents are both musicians, and taught me jazz at an early age. I can play the piano, the sax, the guitar, and can sing. I grew up with them performing in the streets, not even for tips, but to form a comradery with their friends and the locals or visitors. When I was younger, I would sing along with them, or dance between the instrumentalists with a little tambourine. After I graduated high school, I decided to study music. Whenever I came home during the summers or over holiday breaks, I would play in the streets with friends like my parents, and sometimes with my parents because that is a nice tradition that we share together. I excel in my jazz studies at the collegiate level, hanging out in coffee shops with my classmates saying things like "You don't know<i> real</i> jazz". Eventually I land a job playing at a blues bar, and teach piano and sax lessons on the side.<br />
<br />
New Yorker Italian: (This is kind similar to my actual childhood and life). My whole, big, Italian family lives outside of New York city, all on the same block. I can walk next door to my grandparent's, or around the corner to my aunt's and uncle's. I grew up playing kickball and hockey in the street with my cousins, or working at the family-owned Italian restaurant that I can see from my bedroom window on the second floor of my house. Abbruzzo's has been in my family for generations, and we have always all worked together mixing sauces, tossing pizza, and pouring wine. I knew one day that I want to own the restaurant, even though I went to school and got a degree anyway. Abbruzzo's and my family will always be my true love, and they both have my back even if they are sometimes overbearing. When I talk, I speak in Italian whenever I get really mad, or use Italian terms of endearment when comforting little ones or close friends. Whenever I am dating anyone, he has to pass a series of tests but eventually loves that I have a big family too. However, I will probably never completely settle down because I love working at the restaurant, even though my parents pressure me daily to give them grandbabies.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Good luck, daydreamers,<br />
JordanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-55702429028003143312015-05-27T11:37:00.004-07:002015-05-28T19:54:29.033-07:00A (Most Likely Too Elaborate) Caricature Of My Recent VacationA week after my college graduation, my mother and I flew south to Marco Island, Florida, a beautiful place that my parents have owned time-share in since 1990. For two weeks a year, we have the opportunity to relax, while I hiss at the sun that my skin is not used to being exposed to. Our resort, The Surf Club, lines the private beach on the west side of the island along with other condos and hotels. It has 54 units total, a hot tub and pool, some shuffle board and tennis courts, a boardwalk across the extensive vegetation to the beach, and most importantly: is painted a sweet, powdery pink. Every year when we park our rental car and sweat while pulling out our suitcases from the too-small trunk, I feel like I am taking a delightful trip back into the 90s, complete with a weekly horse shoe tournament and hilarious posters advertising the Surf Club sponsored "Beach Family Portraits", featuring a frightening family of four in all white smiling dead-eyed at the camera while the sun melts into a watercolor sky behind them. I do not think that they have changed these posters for at least ten years.<br />
<br />
For the past three years, my mom and I have just made the trip because it has become more difficult for my dad to leave work, or my little sister to miss high school classes. For the most part, the same people have owned the same weeks as us for as long as I can remember, so we can expect to see the same families each May. My mom and I will chat with these people in the pool, on the beach, or in the small gym located by the lobby, for we all form a strange week-long sense of community and understanding of what it means to be at the tiny Surf Club on Marco Island. I do not always remember the names of these groups of people, but instead have developed a series of coded nicknames that my mother and myself solely understand.<br />
<br />
<b>The Surf Club Community:</b><br />
<br />
Timon and Pumba: Timon and Pumba are the names of two older men that are inseparable best friends. We never see one without the other. The taller man is thin with grey hair, and often wears a speedo (he can be referred to individually as Speedo when the occasion calls for it). His shorter friend is very round with similar grey hair and expensive sport sunglasses that he never takes off, even at night. The two can often be seen playing cards by the pool, standing in the shallow end talking, or taking walks together along the beach. Their wives are often left behind, but they are all four very close and stay in the same unit together.<br />
<br />
Let It Go: Although the resort is primarily filled with older people, there are sometimes young grandchildren that come along. A particularly cute little girl has been spotted the past couple of years by loudly singing Frozen's "Let It Go" at the top of her lungs while walking around the pool in her floaties. She exclusively wears Disney princess bathing suits, and likes to swim up and talk to me while I am reading my dirty smut novels on the pool steps.<br />
<br />
New Jersey: A very friendly blonde woman from New Jersey comes yearly with her husband. She works at a doctor's office as a secretary, and spends most of the day on her beach chair that she rents from the hotel, or floating in the pool on one of the noodles from the public pool toy box. We tend to talk to her about which restaurants are "happening" that week (Marco only has select places to eat), or listen to her tell us about really private, tragic things that have happened in her life. She can often be seen with her brandy (she ships it to the resort prior to flying) in the hot tub around 8pm, where she alternately sits in the jets and then gets up to walk to the pool, and repeats.<br />
<br />
Laps: This older woman was completely new to our knowledge this year, but wins the award for the most irritating. The pool's prime time is around 3pm, when most people tire from the beach and are trying to still catch some sun before they have to get ready for dinner. This is also the most popular time for the few children to be in the pool, for they have mostly woken up from their afternoon naps. Like clockwork, Laps would come down to the pool, put on her goggles, and slowly make her way to the middle of the pool to unhook the rope that separated the shallow end from the deep end. She would then swim back and forth recreationally, forcing everyone else in the pool to get out of the way and shuffle to one side. We think that perhaps she did this for show, because the morning or evening would have been more considerate, and her freestyle form was absolutely terrible, like she decided that this week was the week she was going to start swimming for exercise.<br />
<br />
Small Talkers: A group of three women that are all work friends make themselves known each week by forming a triangle in the ocean or pool and loudly talking about the most pointless things I have ever heard in my life. They discuss their friend Susie's furniture arrangement, or who went to what restaurant on the island the night before and what they thought about it. These women are all very nice despite their boring nature, and will hang on every single word that you say to them in passing, no matter how irrelevant. We also eventually deemed them "The Trivolous Ones", a neat word that my mom created combining trivial with frivolous. The worst part is, by the end of the week, I was interested in Susie's furniture.<br />
<br />
Ducky: Perhaps the worst of the bunch, Ducky is an old man with large lips and thick, plastic glasses that works the front desk. He is a stickler for the rules, and often very unpleasant. Ducky thinks he IS the Surf Club. My mother, never afraid to speak her mind, has gotten into it with him after he treated us rudely during previous years. To me, he looks like a cartoon duck wearing maroon and emerald colored suspenders and large glasses. This year, he was so nice that is was suspicious. He casually asked us, "Is this your first time here?" when we have owned for 25 years. I will probably never forget this man. Each year when I sign the waiver to work out in the facility, he asks "Are you over 18? You look like you could be 16." when in reality I literally just graduated from college. He also makes sly sexist comments when we have questions, like "I am a <i>man</i>, I don't do the grocery shopping." I am convinced that he decided to act like he didn't know who we were this year, figuring that we would pity his poor memory and think he was a swell guy after all. I didn't buy it for a second, Ducky.<br />
<br />
Fort Lauderdale: There is always a Floridian native that decides to rent or buy an owner's week and spend a few days on the island. This person is interchangeable, for they can come from Miami or Key Largo, but this year, we met a man from Fort Lauderdale. He made his first and only appearance one morning while my mom and I were working out, when he came into the rec area with an awkward "Sorry I am interrupting you ladies", when in fact we were clearly lifting little five pound weights in the middle of the 20x20 foot work out room, so I am not sure what he thought he was intruding on? We gave the usual polite "Oh, you're fine, no problem", and he continued to ask the basic questions, like where we were from, if we owned, etc. The topic of the weather came up, and he enlightened us that if Florida does not get a frost, then the invasive species of two feet long iguanas won't die out and will continue eating the vegetation and being a general nuisance, although not aggressive. Intrigued by this problem, I continued thinking about these large lizards while he told my mom that a lot of the immigrants that have moved to Florida will catch and eat the iguanas, which slightly helps with the population control. I picked this opportune moment to ask, "Do they eat any native birds or upset the eco-system in any way?", referring to the iguanas that I was currently taken with. The man scrunched his face, jutting his neck forward slightly, responding with: "Uh..who? The immigrants?" "Oh god no!" I said, probably too defensively, "The iguanas!". I panicked, unintentionally sounding racist and ignorant "<i>Oh those immigrants, they'll eat anything!</i>" *studio audience laughs*.<br />
Turns out the iguanas pretty much only eat plants and bugs.<br />
<br />
<br />
When we aren't interacting with other visitors, my mom and I spend a lot of time walking on the beach or reading by the pool. At night, we usually watch movies or reruns from canceled sitcoms. I have always had a good relationship with my mother, but we have our differences which can be exhausting. My mom also goes into a "Vacation Mode", where her usually personality traits spike.<br />
<br />
<b>Things My Mother Does While On Vacation:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
While I stay on the beach reading, my mom will often take her book and wander into the ocean, flipping pages while the waves lap at her lower thighs. After about ten minutes of being separated from her, I will hear a faint "Jordan!", and look out to see my mom waving her arms and miming to me what she wants me to bring her. I don't understand why she can't verbally tell me, because she did just yell my name after all, but these "Guess What My Mom Wants" sessions usually result in her pointing at me and hitting herself, trying to describe what she needs. One of my favorites was when he repeatedly pointed to her bag and hit her left hip over and over again, forcefully. It turned out that she wanted her pedometer to count her steps--while in the ocean.<br />
<br />
My mom likes to stay up late, as do I, but also likes to wake up really early while in Marco. At home, she does not sleep in terribly late, but never wakes up around sunrise. She tells me "Oh Jordan, we are on vacation, you can stay up late and watch E News with me" but then comes and wakes me up passive aggressively at an early time the next morning, when I usually wake up by myself around 9:30. I can't do the staying up late and waking up early thing, but somehow managed it all week begrudgingly while my mom delegated my precious sleep schedule.<br />
<br />
Out of an excuse to engage in friendly small talk, my mom will ask strangers questions that she already knows the answers to. Furthermore, once she has received an answer, she will wander over to another group of people and ask the same question to see what they say. If we drive close to the bridge to get off the island, there is a small fishing town called Goodland. Goodland has a restaurant called The Olde Marco Inn that serves a delicious Grouper Sandwich. We have had this sandwich previously, and know exactly where to find it, yet for the first couple of days my mom insisted on asking everyone what they thought of Goodland and where could we find good grouper. I followed her around, smiling at everyone's responses, fighting my natural response to answer her question myself. This is just one example.<br />
<br />
All in all, I have a great time with my mom. She likes to shop and run errands (even on vacation) more than I do, but we always end up having a stronger relationship when we leave. This year, we even endured a seven hour flight delay on the way down from Delta Airlines, and U.S. Airways losing our luggage on our way back to Columbus. Next year I might walk, I don't know. Marco also has the most gorgeous sunset that I have and will probably ever see, that brings out hordes of people to the beach every night facing the water in silence, like a strange religious experience. Half of the time, I expect Cthulu to show up. I often hope that he does. Maybe he could eat Ducky.<br />
<br />
Other highlights are: I got to hold a two year old and a five year old baby alligator that were both super adorable and had cute, chubby little bellies like puppies. I saw a shark in the ocean, while I was in it, but wasn't afraid because I was too in shock to think of anything else other than SHARK. I no longer look like a latex glove, but am now sort of a nice pancake color.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mlMZC48IxtY/VWYOwBkn1cI/AAAAAAAAA7A/o2gTv5575Ks/s1600/momandmemarco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mlMZC48IxtY/VWYOwBkn1cI/AAAAAAAAA7A/o2gTv5575Ks/s200/momandmemarco.jpg" width="112" /></a><br />
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I actually never got that grouper sandwich,<br />
Jordan<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-56565105563607793322015-05-06T11:19:00.005-07:002015-05-06T11:19:55.936-07:00Dublin, 12:00 a.m.<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Dublin, 12:00 a.m.</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Looking out from behind the dusty beige curtains in our
hotel room, I could see that the streets of Dublin were increasingly becoming
more crowded with people as the sky became </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">grayer</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">. I moved the curtain back and
forth between my finger tips, a small smile playing on my lips as I felt the
fabric and looked at the wet pavement below the cold window. My hotel roommate
Christina and I giggled together as we planned our outfits for celebrating New
Years Eve in Dublin, Ireland. We were brimming with excitement at the
possibility of drunkenly stumbling along the uneven sidewalks amidst the hub of
cheering locals and tourists helping us celebrate the holiday. Ever since we
found out that we would be touring Ireland with our choir, Christina and I had
been theoretically planning a crazy New Year’s Eve that we knew we would never
forget.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Before the real fun started, we first were scheduled to
perform during the “Torch-Lit Ceremonial Parade” at Dublin Castle. We had given
an afternoon concert at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral the day before, and had
gotten most of the singing-abroad jitters out of our system. Our current
problem was determining what to wear for our big night. Would Irish people be
dressed scandalously? Conservatively? After practically emptying my suitcase of
every clothing item that I packed, I decided on a modest pink dress with thin
black stripes to wear for the evening. Christina leaned into the bathroom
mirror; applying lipstick as I pulled on my tights under my dress, realizing
that the rain outside was beginning to hit the building with a greater force.
According to Irwin, our charming middle-aged tour guide, we would have a
fifteen minute walk to Dublin Castle. I also knew that we would be performing
outside, but did not want the burden of carrying an umbrella. My winter coat
was water repellant and had a hood, so I put my faith in its capabilities and
headed down to the lobby with Christina, ready to brave through the weather
that would hopefully not last through the night. We were about to celebrate New
Year’s Eve in <i>Ireland</i>, and
circumstances would not be as cruel as to rain through the whole evening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">While
making our way to the Dublin Castle in a long line, I imagined that we would
soon experience a completely dry night running through the streets with pints
of Guinness and cider sloshing over the sides of our glasses, while various
Europeans cheered and danced around us wearing party hats. We would be laughing
and spinning, our faces illuminated by the streetlights, a swirl of color
surrounding our party. My visions all seemed very cinematic, and perhaps would
make a fine scene in a chick-flick about college girls going abroad, but I had
the highest hopes that they would happen, nonetheless. I thought of myself
jumping up in down on the sidewalks in slow motion with Christina while Irish
college students clapped along, chuckling at our outgoing American nature. I
pulled my wet hood tighter to my face and continued our walk feeling cool and
confident. Things were going to be perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Once we arrived at the celebration, I stepped onto the
black platforms outside of Dublin Castle with the rest of the choir, squinting
through the massive amounts of water that were now blurring my eyes. The hood
was hardly doing the trick, in fact, with the front parts of my hair dripping
onto the bridge of my nose and running down to my lips. I had carefully applied
my make-up for the evening and could feel it washing away. I smiled tightly at
the public, who were anticipating our joyous hymns, my face now looking like a
damn Monet painting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We awkwardly began our set, struggling to watch our
conductor in the rain and hear one another over the continuous patter of water
on the cobblestone and platform. We quickly finished, with the crowd’s excited
and appreciative response of hollers and claps <i>almost</i> making getting soaked in the rain while singing <i>Angels We Have Heard on High </i>worth it.
My new dress was wet and pressed to my skin under my coat, and I could feel the
water that had been stagnantly in my boots for too long hotly pushing through
the spaces in between my toes every time I took a step. We were then ushered
off of the platforms by an overly nervous woman with a clipboard, pushing us
off to the side while telling us repeatedly that “The parade is coming!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I looked at my friends’ faces in confusion, suddenly
alarmed at what type of parade could induce such panic and haste. Suddenly, the
courtyard was filled with an array of cirque de soleil styled performers. Men
and women in colorful costumes rode tall, oversized bikes or flexibly danced
with streamers. A contraption that looked like two thirds of a circle was being
pushed on wheels while a woman in a bright leotard hung upside down from the
top, flipping and contorting her body. Men followed behind her juggling fire,
with a band playing enchanting circus music with a sensual flare marched
towards the back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> It was all breathtaking, and I suddenly felt like I was
in an animated Tim Burton film. The whimsical spectacle was unlike anything I
had ever seen before, however, it was still raining, and I could feel my
spirits sinking. The night was young, and I was very, very wet. Christina
whispered to me that her stomach suddenly hurt badly, scrunching her face. She
wanted to try to tough it out, but also wished to go back to the hotel to see
if she would feel better after some rest. I sighed, also wanting to go back to
the hotel, my patience for the night thinning. We decided to trek through the
streets all the way back to our room, and then reconvene with two other girls
later to find a pub. Concerned about all of the pubs closing early, I
approached our tour guide before we made any final decisions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Irwin? How late do you think the pubs will be open
tonight?” I started, trying not to sound like an alcoholic. It was only 8:00
p.m., and most of our group was expected to start drinking very soon.
“Christina doesn’t feel well, so we were going to go back to the hotel and then
go out later.” I defended myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “The pubs will mostly be open until midnight,” Irwin
answered, “with some staying open until 1:30 in the morning”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Perfect!” I exclaimed, grinning with Christina and then
turning to see one of our chaperone’s worried face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> She walked towards us quickly, apparently overhearing our
little inquiry. “Jordan, Christina?” she began, “Seriously. If you are going to
be out after midnight, you need a male guide. You will look like easy
Americans, and anyone out after midnight is going to be very, <i>very</i> drunk” she concluded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I drew my lips into a line and nodded before walking
away. Christina and I had both been to Europe before, and did not planning on
doing anything unsafe. Plus, her warning definitely stunk of victim-blaming,
and I was insulted. She seemed to be insinuating that if we chose to walk the
streets drunk at a late hour, then we would deserve anything that happened to
us because we knew the consequences and were choosing to be unsafe by walking
without a “male guide”. I thought of all the times that I had been out with my
friends at school until 4:00 in the morning, and laughed. Yes, anyone out after
midnight would be very drunk—and I would be joining them. Dublin also seemed
quite harmless, although I suppose that some of it could have been the European
charm. Admittedly, a few of the buildings were run down, with some not so
welcoming alley ways, but being in another country made me feel invincible. The
novelty of the place made it all seem flawless and magical. I could not fathom
anything unfortunate happening to us in the Irish streets. I knew that Dublin was
entirely different from our quaint college town in Ohio, which mostly consisted
of cookie cutter families and elderly people. Our campus police also kept
themselves busy by surveying the area at night, so I was not used to feeling
threatened while returning from a bar. Furthermore, I was not going to be
frightened by a concerned warning implying that I give off an ignorant,
happy-go-lucky vibe. I would put on a hard shell. My New Year’s Eve Game Face.
Besides, the unrelenting rain had been enough of a downer. The night was going
to be wonderful…as soon as it got started.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Once we made it back to the hotel, I hastily threw open
our room door and peeled off my clothes to hear them thump on the carpet, heavy
from the wetness. I rummaged my already messy suitcase for leggings and a large
sweater (far less fancy than my previous outfit) and pulled on my rain boots.
It was still pouring, I was irritated, and things were going to be comfortable
from here on out. I flopped backwards on the floral bed comforter, letting out
an exaggerated sigh. After Christina rested for a bit, we decided to leave the
hotel room again. I grabbed my umbrella, still annoyed, but was officially
armed and ready for the rest of the evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Christina and I met our two other friends, Lexi and
Kayleigh, in the lobby. We decided to walk towards Temple Bar to begin our
night. The Temple Bar area was well known, and also a busy place for locals,
tourists, and students alike. We figured it would be exciting, and made our way
through the streets with a small amount of optimism. I made sure to step in
every puddle, merely for the satisfaction of knowing that my feet would stay
dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Halfway through our walk, we spotted a pub that hardly
seemed crowded and figured that we could have a couple of drinks before going
to Temple Bar. We entered, walked towards the back, and threw our wet coats and
umbrellas on the floor by a few stools. I ordered a pint of cider, and we began
chatting and laughing. My hopes were rising in my chest, warm from the alcohol.
Perhaps tonight could be salvaged, after all. How could spending New Years in
Ireland not be? I was losing perspective. I had to realize how lucky I was to
be abroad, what I was getting to experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> After my second pint of cider, the bartender looked at me
skeptically as I approached the bar for a third drink. I was completely fine,
and assumed that he was not used to seeing a small woman want multiple drinks.
I remembered that I had previously read online under a <i>Yahoo</i> <i>Answers</i> tab for
“Irish pub etiquette” that women in Ireland did not drink that much in public.
In fact, hardly anyone did. I mentally prepared myself for the bartender to
question me, deciding that I would say “<i>Please</i>,
I am an American with Irish blood. I can <i>definitely</i>
drink.” (Only a few days afterwards upon some reflection did I realize how
embarrassing that would have been for me. What does that even mean?) He handed
me my third drink with a shrug, and I was saved from having to say anything
suave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> After leaving the pub and eventually making it towards
the general area of the Temple Bar, our luck hardly improved. It was still
raining heavily, and most of the pubs were completely closing themselves off to
new company because they were overly crowded. Large men in suits were standing
outside of the doors, not letting anyone new in. It was bizarre, and also kept
us from finding anywhere else to hang out. By this time, I desperately had to
use the restroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We checked our phones, wiping the rain from our screens, realizing
that it was almost midnight. We knew that we would not find another pub by the
time the New Year struck, and decided to wait out in the streets and see what
would happen. We were easily surrounded by a few hundred people, all drunk and
swaying back and forth. It was like I had previously imagined—except it was
still raining and I was not having that much fun. If I was moving in slow
motion now, it was because I felt like I was going to pee myself if I walked
too quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Regardless, we huddled together in anticipation in the
final minutes before midnight hit. A street-wide countdown began with ten
seconds left as we became more excited despite the situation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “3…2…1!” We all yelled in unison. “Happy New Year!” I
lifted my face to the black sky, still spitting rain. The crowd jumped and
laughed, creating an overall cheeriness that couldn’t be ignored. I smiled
anyway and hugged all of my friends, cheering loudly, until I decided that I
needed to find a bathroom as soon as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We continued to walk towards the Temple Bar area, but
were suddenly blocked by the emergence of a group of about fifteen young adult
men, dressed in rugby uniforms. They formed a circle that took up most of the
street, arms around each other’s shoulders, rocking from side to side. They
began to chant loudly in unison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “They are chanting U.S.A.! Do you hear them?” Christina
laughed in confusion.<br />
Surely enough, the group of
Irish men were indeed repeatedly chanting “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!” over and over again
in thick accents while rocking back and forth. It was odd, slightly flattering
I suppose, but mostly odd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Why are they doing that?” I asked, completely weirded
out. “They know that means United States of America, right? I guess they must
be big fans.” I shrugged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We spotted a McDonalds ahead, and forcefully navigated
our way around the rugby men, leaving their chanting echoing behind us. We
entered the McDonald’s, figuring that we would be able to use the toilets
quickly. Naturally, a similar suited man stood in front of the bathrooms,
telling us that we had to buy something before being allowed to use the
facilities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Please sir,” I begged, “I really have to go. It’s
practically an emergency”. The man shook his head and we left, hoping to find
an open pub with a usable restroom. We walked up and down the street through
crowds of intoxicated screaming people (thankfully the rugby team had since
left), the pain in my bladder worsening. We looped back around and ended
outside of the McDonald’s yet again, its golden arches beckoning. I was going
to wet myself. <i>My destiny is here</i>, I
thought, <i>laying in the middle of the
Dublin streets, peeing my pants in the rain.</i> My friends could leave me, I
would have found peace. It was what I was meant to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Ugh, whatever!” I huffed, opening the doors of the
McDonald’s and making my way to the line of twenty people. I crossed my legs,
my rain boots squeaking on the white tiled floor. I moved back and forth,
clenching my teeth, as I waited my turn. I was finally able to order a small fry
and walked away from the cashier, painfully waddling up to the suited man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I held up the fries triumphantly, a trophy of my
persistence, as the man nodded and stepped aside. I miraculously made it to the
bathroom, shivering when the cold toilet touched my skin. Tears formed in my
eyes with relief, <i>Thank you God, </i>I
cried while swinging my feet. I stared at the stall door in front of me while
shoving the limp fries into my mouth. I had overcome all adversity in that
moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> After I reemerged, my group concluded that it was nearly
impossible to find a pub, and decided to walk back to the hotel, discouraged.
We made our way in silence, the taste of fries still in my mouth, wondering
what we had done wrong. This was supposed to be the best night of our lives. I
had anticipated spending the New Year in Dublin for months, all for it to come
down to us not being able to enjoy ourselves. Perhaps I was not trying hard
enough, or I actually should have peed in the street because it would have made
a better story than giving into the suited McDonald’s man that guarded the
restroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We made it back to the hotel and decided to try The
Bleeding Horse pub that was attached to our building as a last resort. We
walked Lexi to the front lobby door, and made our way into the dark bar. Happily
enough, there was an open table that we were able to occupy while having a
couple more drinks and socializing. The atmosphere was friendly, so we decided,
once again, to give the evening another try. I grabbed a cider and joined our
friend Kayleigh at a corner table. Christina walked over a few minutes later,
completely irritated at her gin and tonic that had cost seven Euros. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“This
would literally be four dollars in the states. I just practically paid nine
dollars for a freaking gin and tonic” she rolled her eyes. I winced, the price
of the drinks not aiding our defeated mood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We began talking and quickly drinking to make up for time
lost, and eventually started to joke and reflect on the absurdity of the
evening with a sense of humor. We knew that we would have other nights to go
out, and other places to see, so we could just pretend and re-do New Years
another day. The positivity was forced and not completely sincere, but our
attempts to cheer ourselves up were somewhat working, regardless. We would
probably never get another New Year’s in Dublin, Ireland, but we couldn’t let
it ruin the rest of our tour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Our
musings were quickly interrupted by an intoxicated, gruff middle-aged man to
our right. He wore a stylish grey coat and a dark cap, his face outlined by
greasy curly hair and rough stubble. Next to him was a younger man in similar
attire, quietly sipping his beer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Hey, I want to tell you something,” he started, sloppily
pointing at Kayleigh. “In this life, you only get one set of legs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Kayleigh abruptly laughed, “What?” she yelled back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “You aren’t even listening to me!” the man threw up his
hands, getting somewhat angry. “<i>In this
life, you only get one set of legs</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The three of us looked at each other, slightly cocking
our heads. Either I had drunk more than I thought, I wasn’t picking up on some
deep Irish philosophy, or this man was loony and we were trapped with him in a
crowded corner of the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I don’t know what you are saying. You aren’t making any
sense.” Kayleigh tried again, giggling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Come over here.” He called to us, patting empty seats
beside him. “Come on now.” He grossly smiled. His friend laughed to himself,
looking into the foam of his drink and shaking his head slowly. Wasn’t he going
to say anything or help us out?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I too, shook my head, in an attempt to get Kayleigh to
stop talking to the weirdo. “Just ignore him.” I whispered, our chaperone’s
warnings going through my head like a scroll at the bottom of a news screen.
What if he came over to us? Or waited until we left and followed us out? Yes,
our hotel was ten feet away—but a lot can happen in ten feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No.” Kayleigh continued. “We are fine over here,
thanks”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Then you are stupid! So stupid!” The man yelled,
pounding his beer glass on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Stupid because I don’t want to sit by you? Okay.”
Kayleigh laughed harder. “Dude, I am drunk, just stop talking to us.” Christina
and I began laughing too, at her honesty, and ignored the man’s continued
attempts at waving his arm in a beckoning way and patting the seats around his
table until he finally left a while later. There was power in numbers, and no
one was going to take advantage of my friends and me after the obstacles we had
already overcome in a few short hours. We continued talking and eventually had
a great time, determining that despite a string of disappointments, the night
ended on a somewhat positive note. We were together, in a calm setting,
celebrating the New Year among locals, like we originally wanted. The optimism
was no longer totally forced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We had high expectations for the holiday, imagining pub
hopping and celebrating in Dublin to be far grander than anything that we had
experienced before. Instead, we walked about three miles in total, in the rain,
and purchased fast food in order to relieve ourselves in a public restroom. I
had better New Years Eve celebrations in high school watching movies at home,
or the one time I went to a bowling alley with an overzealous church youth
group that my best friend was a part of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Our expectations of the place had hyped up the holiday so
much that I had forgotten what I enjoy the most—spending time laughing with my
friends. Being in Ireland, no matter how romantic, should not have changed
that. We ended up at a less crowded pub where we were able to talk and joke,
while discussing our hopes for the New Year and our futures. Sure, we could
have stayed home and had a similar type of New Year, but being in a beautiful
city sharing music with people that I cared about made it that much better. The
parties, bars, and copious amounts of alcohol really had nothing to do with the
spirit of possibility that the New Year brought. We ended up celebrating the
holiday, and each other, correctly. It just took us some rain, multiple closed
pubs, an America-loving rugby team, a McDonald’s bathroom, and an unruly drunk
man to figure it out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AQ-T7bYgNso/VUpa5VgMIbI/AAAAAAAAA5I/s5wWGVroG_4/s1600/GalaxyPhonePics%2B591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AQ-T7bYgNso/VUpa5VgMIbI/AAAAAAAAA5I/s5wWGVroG_4/s1600/GalaxyPhonePics%2B591.jpg" height="200" width="112" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AFO-81I_dJU/VUpa0zGF7mI/AAAAAAAAA4o/qExQUtJTQ98/s1600/GalaxyPhonePics%2B586.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AFO-81I_dJU/VUpa0zGF7mI/AAAAAAAAA4o/qExQUtJTQ98/s1600/GalaxyPhonePics%2B586.jpg" height="200" width="112" /></a>Cheers to next year,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Jordan</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-10804894402084868682015-03-24T10:03:00.006-07:002015-03-24T10:03:50.274-07:00Strangers On Airplanes<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I had finally finished
shuffling down the aisle of our crowded international flight, and turned to
shimmy into my seat, my carry on catching onto arm rests and other passengers
in the process. It was my University Concert Choir’s third flight in the past
twenty four hours, and also my third time that day with a window seat. I
sighed, staring at the wing outside the tiny smeared glass, and shoved my grey
floral bag under the seat in front of me with my feet. Our tickets had been
bought in bulk, but also at random, so I had been sitting next to strangers all
day. I had the privilege of being by an elderly couple that were making floor
plans of how they theoretically wanted to reorganize their house, and a younger
athletic woman that was tapping her smart phone with her acrylic nails all
through the flight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I hoped that the seat next to me would be empty. After we
left New York, the journey would take around five hours, and I was not sure
that I could handle any more awkward new friends. I also hated the window seat.
Flying generally makes me nervous, and the constant reminder of just how high
in the air we were barely helped. A middle aged man with fair skin and wisps of
red hair paused by my seat and moved in to sit beside me. His eyes were a grey
blue, sitting in his face that looked like it had not received proper rest in
days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I stared at him, figuring I should introduce myself if we
were going to be in close proximity for the next few hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Hello,” I began—casually, I thought. “How’re you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Good.” He sighed back, “You?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I’m doing fine!” I smiled, embarrassingly. The man was
Irish, with a thick accent. I was ecstatic and could barely keep myself from
smiling. It was the first Irish accent that I had heard besides Gerard Butler’s
character in<i> P.S. I Love You</i>. I was
suddenly very nervous. This would be my first time spent with an actual Irish
person, and I had no idea what to say. I wanted him to like me, to think <i>What a lovely young woman. I am so glad that
she is coming to visit my country. She is a representation of everything
charming and good.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Where are you going?” I continued the conversation. I
wanted to seem interested, and I also waited in anticipation for him to speak
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Dublin for my niece’s wedding” he replied, with a hint
of resentment. “I have lived in New York for twelve years and hardly ever go
home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I was taken aback. Of course people still immigrated to
America to Ireland. But why would he choose New York over Dublin? I hadn’t yet
been to Ireland—but it seemed so green and calm. The essence of serenity and
beauty sprinkled with sheep. I enjoyed New York on a basic level, but—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “New York is a fun place” I decided to say. “Do you like
it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Busy, but I love it” he finally smiled, his eyes
creasing around the corners. I could sense his adoration of the city, for it
reflected mine for Columbus. Fine, perhaps he was crazy for wanting to leave
Ireland for America’s busiest city, but at least he was happy and had made a
home. I realized that I was weirdly dissecting this man, and was going to make
things uncomfortable if I seemed too interested. I didn’t want to ruin my first
interaction with an Irish person by being creepy, so I turned back to look out
of my window while we were still standing on the runway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I soon heard another male Irish voice in a close
proximity. I turned my head to the right to see an older gentleman passing out
small chocolates wrapped in pink and blue foil. He gave a handful to my new
partner in flight, who turned and offered me some. <i>How sweet,</i> I smiled cherubically, <i>I would never be so kind as to buy chocolate and give it away. I would
definitely eat it all because I have a problem.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I wondered if this was an example of the Irish
hospitality and friendliness that I had heard about. If it was an American man
in tube socks, jean shorts, and a button-up tee shirt with hibiscus flowers on
it, I probably would have been freaked out and declined even the most delicious
of candies. I unwrapped the chocolate and set it on my tongue, letting it melt
slowly in my mouth. I suddenly had the fear that the gesture could have been a
façade. What if the chocolate was poisoned and the man used his Irish charm to
get away with mass murder? <i>Oh God</i>, I
contemplated spitting the chocolate out. I turned to look at the man next to me
wondering if he would notice, only to decide that I was being insane and the
chocolate was already in my system anyway. If it was foul play, I was already
done for, and might as well eat the other piece to make sure that the job was
done right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Why are you going to Dublin?” my seat partner asked me.
I felt a shock move through my abdomen. He spoke to me without being provoked!
He didn’t sense my paranoia and alarming fascination with his accent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I am traveling with my University’s Concert Choir,” I
started, hoping that it sounded impressive and not juvenile because I was still
a college student. “We are touring the country to give multiple performances
over our winter break.” I then realized that it perhaps sounded pretentious. He
probably wondered if there was a need to spend thousands of dollars and fly
across an ocean to sing to strangers. I wanted to tell him that it was more
than that. That we wanted to build a cultural bridge with our music, and bare
our souls to a whole group of people that we hope would be touched by our art.
We wanted to change lives, even if for an instant, and maybe change our own as
well. I decided that the background explanation was a little too deep for plane
talk, so I bit my tongue and hoped that he would get it. He looked
unaffected—perhaps he didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The plane started to move and we took off, quickly
reaching the point in the sky where we were free to walk around and utilize
electronics. The backs of the seats in front of us had small, individual
screens where we could watch television shows, movies, read books, or play
games. I fumbled in my pocket for my headphones and decided that I would
distract myself with a movie. I shifted through the selections, suddenly very
conscious of what the man next to me would think. Would he scoff at me for
watching <i>Tommy Boy</i> twice in a row? I
knew he wasn’t paying attention, but I worried that he would shift his eyes to
see which movie I selected, or would nonchalantly turn to see Chris Farley
ripping David Spade’s coat in a motel room. I slyly turned my eyeballs to look at
his screen, while keeping my head forward. He had a small map of the world
showing, with a tiny plane flying over the Atlantic Ocean, headed towards
Ireland. How did he know how to find that? No movies for the flight? This guy
meant business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I decided to watch the movie anyway, hoping that any
thoughts from the man regarding the film would be in appreciation of my
timeless sense of humor. A little while later, a flight attendant came by to
give us complimentary drinks. I hesitantly asked for an apple juice, knowing
that I would have to use the restroom a short while later. Inevitably by the
end of the movie, I definitely had to go, but realized that the man next to me
was fast asleep with his head tilted back, slightly snoring. I did not want to
wake him, and decided to try to hold off going to the bathroom for a little
while longer. On a normal day, I tend to use the restroom about every hour
because I hydrate incessantly, as a singer. I knew that I would drive this guy
crazy if I actually used the bathroom five times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I decided to wait until he woke up to use the restroom,
and then I would get out too. I did not have to inconvenience him. He would
think, <i>How thoughtful of her. She waited
until I had to go instead of climbing over my lap to get to the aisle.</i> It
was a decent plan. Although the pain started to swell in my bladder, I decided
to wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The man woke up not too long afterwards to utilize the
facilities, and I eagerly followed. I struggled to retain my balance in the
cramped bathroom stall, and was equally challenged to find out how to flush the
toilet. I found a grey button and pushed it, only to hear the loudest flush
that I could ever imagine. I jumped backwards, hitting the locked restroom
door, covering my ears. My faces reddened with hints of tears in my eyes, for I
have always had an irrational fear of loud noises and often cry on the spot if
I am not prepared for them. I looked at myself in the mirror, realizing that I
looked ridiculous. I couldn’t go back down the aisle looking like I had been
crying in the restroom. I wiped my eyes and ran my fingers through my tangled
hair, while giving my reflection a few exaggerated smiles. Good. No one would
notice that the toilet almost gave me a heart attack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I got back to my seat before the man next to me did, and
I decided not to drink any more beverages for the remainder of the flight. I
glanced at his screen and realized that we were practically halfway there.
Feeling sleepy, for my whole choir group had hardly slept in a day’s time, I
decided to lean against the window and try to sleep. I positioned myself as
close to the wall of the airplane that I could, terrified that I would wake up
on the guy next to me’s shoulder. And he would probably have just let me sleep
there. He seemed like the type, too nice and Irish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> When I woke, the flight attendants were busy handing out
meals that resembled breakfast food. Because of my Celiac Disease, I was given
a special gluten free meal that consisted of a rice cake with honey, and an
apple. I turned to see the man next to me eating eggs and a biscuit
voraciously. I dipped a piece of the clumped dried rice into the honey packet
and stuck it in my mouth, trying to convince myself that it couldn’t be that
bad or else they wouldn’t serve it. It was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The attendants quickly came back to gather our trash, and
I faced my fears to use the restroom once more before we landed. I nervously
asked the gentleman if I could get out, and he let me through without any
embarrassing complications. I plugged my ears before I pushed the grey button
this time, and glided back to my seat optimistically. We were almost in
Ireland!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The plane landed roughly, bouncing all of its passengers
from side to side when the wheels hit the pavement. We raced down the runway as
I finally willingly looked out of my window to see grey sky and green grasses
surrounding the terminal. We were here. I was about to breath Irish air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The plane finished taxiing and we all stood up to stretch
and grab our belongings. We began to form a line in the aisle to get off of the
plane, and I watched the man next to me move up through the aisle while the
other passengers in front of us took their time to organize their bags. I had
said nothing to him, or he to me as he left. I knew that I would never see this
man again. I contemplated yelling for him, telling him to have fun at the
wedding but decided against it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I held the handles of my carry on in my hand as I made my
way into the airport to go through customs. I was finally in Ireland, and had
successfully had multiple conversations with an Irish person. He had given me
the little bit of confidence that I needed to walk the Dublin streets and
converse with locals, and I was thankful for that. I smiled to myself, moving
slowly through the plane, realizing that I never even asked his name. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.omniglot.com/soundfiles/irish/thanks2_ga.mp3" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16.0016002655029px; line-height: 21.6021595001221px; text-decoration: none;">Go raibh maith agaibh</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16.0016002655029px; line-height: 21.6021595001221px;"> (Irish for Thank You),</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16.0016002655029px; line-height: 21.6021595001221px;">Jordan</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-3551537432745579952014-08-17T12:24:00.000-07:002014-08-17T12:24:03.296-07:00Are We Fat-Phobic?I followed a lead on Reddit a couple of weeks ago about a possible pop culture blogger. Upon reading the description, I was totally like "YES PLEASE ME HEY LOOK!". I sent the woman some samples of my writing, she seemed to dig what she read, but then also asked me for a more contemporary pop culture piece in the style of the website. Over two weeks and a few emails later, I have not heard back from her. So, I decided to share my attempt on here, instead, since it is completely valid and discussing an important issue.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> With
workouts, diets, and magazine tips, women almost everywhere are striving to
improve their body image. Our society regards being thin as the desired body
type for women, which often results in unrealistic photoshopped pictures of
celebrities and models that are meant to set the standard for beauty. On the
other end of the spectrum, whirlwind sensations such as Beyonce, Sofia Vegara,
and Kim Kardashian are giving curves positive attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Unfortunately,
if you are a woman that does not fall into the “skinny” or “curvy” categories,
your weight and self confidence are still challenged by our societal
expectations of beauty. We are so quick to shame heavier bodies and pass it off
as a genuine concern for women that we do not even know, with comments such as,
“Poor thing, she has really let herself go,” and, “She cannot possibly be
healthy or happy with <i>that</i> kind of
lifestyle!” Why does a woman’s weight have to dictate her beauty and
contentment, and are we, as a society, Fat-Phobic? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Amanda
Duberman, at the Huffington Post, shed some light on actress Mindy Kaling,
dealing with this exact issue. It is easier for us to judge and criticize
celebrities because we do not personally know them, and they are often
objectified beyond the point of being human. Duberman writes about the “12
Things We Can Learn From Mindy Kaling”, highlighting quotes from Kaling
pertaining to her weight and astounding assurance. She writes:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>“In an interview with Parade magazine last
September, Kaling called out those who seem to think that women must overcome
some tremendous hurdle in order to feel confident:<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I always get asked, “Where do you get your
confidence?” I think people are well meaning, but it’s pretty insulting.
Because what it means to me is, “You, Mindy Kaling, have all the trappings of a
very marginalized person. You’re not skinny, you’re not white, you’re a woman.
Why on earth do you feel like you’re worth anything?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Perhaps her worth comes
from the fact that Kaling is a successful actor, producer, director, and New
York Times best-selling author. It has nothing to do with her physical
appearance. She does not feel the need to justify her body image, and will often
be blunt about her body and love of eating in her popular television show, <i>The Mindy Project.</i> Her positive outlook
empowers women of all body types, and she acts as a positive role model to
young, Indian girls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Kaling also made the
point that women can wear whatever they wish, despite their weight. Duberman
makes note that during an interview with Jimmy Kimmel, Kaling made fun of the
fact that heavier women are often praised and seen as “brave” for wearing
revealing clothes on television. After wearing a cropped top to an event,
Kaling recollected that “Some people were like, “She’s just so courageous!” She
then said to Kimmel, “Aren’t surgeons courageous?’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Regrettably, heavier
celebrities have to bravely embrace the fact that ignorant commentary will come
with the cropped tops and tight dresses. They must be comfortable with their
bodies to be able to let the negativity not affect them, or keep them from
dressing and looking how they want. Women like Kaling are completely inspiring,
but should also not be telling us these things that seem so obvious. Her
statements should not be an epiphany to us all, but instead, common sense. When
we see an average or larger sized woman in the spotlight, we are either
relieved by her optimism, or disgusted by her weight. Why can’t we see her for
what she is: a talented woman?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Kaling is not the only
actress that refuses to let societal pressures sway her self-esteem. Recently
interviewed by Rolling Stone Magazine, Melissa McCarthy seemed mostly content
with her life, saying:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I could eat healthier, I could drink less. I should
be learning another language and working out more, but I’m just always saying,
‘Ah, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Thankfully,
she has not. Until we stop looking at heavier female celebrities like they are
heroes for merely existing, or being completely turned off by their appearance,
we need women like McCarthy and Kaling to keep making a difference and
reminding us that “fat” can also be synonymous with success and beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Stay lovely poopies,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Jordan</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-48427893136709413812014-08-02T15:21:00.004-07:002014-08-03T18:48:58.202-07:00Are You A Good Witch, Or A Bad Witch?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As a child, I can remember sitting on my bed and staring at the knick-knacks on my dresser, attempting to will them to move with my mind. I would stare at the glass dolls or "Girls Rule!" picture frames, trying to get them to float, or even shift a fraction of an inch. I was totally and completely convinced that if I concentrated hard enough, I'd be able to succeed. I had seen <i>Bedknobs and Broomsticks</i> enough times to know how things worked.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I was also constantly obsessing over Disney's <i>Halloweentown</i>, and <i>Hocus Pocus</i>. I read <i>The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe</i> a countless number of times, flinging open closets and the door to my family's eerie guest room (that literally no one has ever stayed in). I was consumed by magic and finding the ~~other~~. I'm still not completely sure that these realms do not exist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> A few weekends ago, I spent time at a local, eccentric bookstore—The Book Loft. As I walked through the rooms, running my right hand
along the shelf tops, a book on Wiccans caught my eye. Curious, and recently
enlightened by an early American Literature class that I took last Spring Semester, I
casually flipped through the first couple of pages with great interest. The author explained that
witches are connected with nature, and that Wiccans only cast spells for
positive energy. She also wrote that she and her husband were occasionally
approached by Satan worshipers or individuals that wished to cast spells to
harm or possess others, but that Wiccans firmly do not associate or condone any
sort of Devil-worshiping or dark magic. The witches in older readings (such as Cotton Mather's accounts) were seen as
satanic and malevolent by a society that feared what varied from their
Christian, normative lifestyle, simply for being <i>different</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We are now in a society that
honors a practicing Wiccan religion, and weaves witch figures into our pop
culture through works such as <i>Harry
Potter, Wicked, and American Horror Story: Coven</i>. So, have witches really
changed? Probably not. Instead, I believe that we have turned
Puritan witches into Elphaba and Hermoine. To be a powerful, magic woman is totally sexy and seemingly forbidden. And that's cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I have previously mentioned my incredible Buffy fandom, which is perhaps out of control. But I honestly cannot help but to drool over Dark Willow when she becomes "the big bad" of Season Six. Sweet Willow sheds her sweaters and maxi skirts for an all black outfit, dark hair, and a vein-y face that somehow, totally works.</div>
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As far as supernatural story-lines go, obviously vampires were recently (or still perhaps are?) in their prime. But the witches in mass media movement is so much different. These characters are not only witches, but women, showing that girls can be strong and take charge. Jessica Lange in AHS Season Three is a total bad-ass. Hermoine Granger was the brains of the operation throughout the whole Harry Potter series. The underlying empowerment is stronger than we realize, and completely effective, especially for those of us that are completely swept away with worlds of mysticism. </div>
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12 years later, and I'm still trying to move things with my mind. I'm also currently contemplating a super hot witch costume for Halloween, although also in the running is a gypsy, Inara from <i>Firefly, </i>or Shilo from <i>Repo! The Genetic Opera</i>. Obviously, I have some decisions to make.</div>
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But maybe I'll just give <i>Halloweentown</i> another go,</div>
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Jordan</div>
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<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-23318038239526694682014-07-29T08:02:00.002-07:002014-07-29T08:02:57.109-07:00Sassy CowsWhile grocery shopping on Sunday, my boyfriend purchased us a couple of mini chocolate milk jugs. Being extreme chocolate milk advocates and connoisseurs, we excitedly decided to give "All Natural Promised Land" a whirl.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until now that I decided to read the back of the container, while waiting for the kids that I nanny to awaken. The description started off normal enough, with only a slightly dramatic flair:<br />
<br />
"Purity. All natural goodness. Sustainability."<br />
<br />
Okay, All Natural Promised Land, I'm listening.<br />
<br />
I continued reading the next portion:<br />
<br />
"We do things a little differently here at Promised Land Dairy. First of all, we start with all Jersey cows. These Jersey cows, with a <b>sassy swish of the tail and a wink of a long-lashed eye</b>.."<br />
<br />
I'M SORRY, WHAT? Did Promised Land Dairy just sexualize their cows?!<br />
<br />
So naturally, I think of this:<br />
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<br />
<br />
And this:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8PiILiuwJm0/U9e2OcsmnkI/AAAAAAAAAEY/pyZIsXGlk_k/s1600/sassycow2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8PiILiuwJm0/U9e2OcsmnkI/AAAAAAAAAEY/pyZIsXGlk_k/s1600/sassycow2.png" height="320" width="195" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
Promised Land Dairy Farmer: "Oh Bessie Cow, love, can you spare a drop of milk for me?"<br />
Sassy Bessie Cow: "You'll have to can-can it out of me, daaarlin" *batts eyes*<br />
<br />
If it wasn't bizarre enough, the container ends with:<br />
"<i>He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Deuteronomy 26:9"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>????????????</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oN6vjk7u4RY/U9e2V0E4cdI/AAAAAAAAAEg/01WB-7bQhpo/s1600/popecow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oN6vjk7u4RY/U9e2V0E4cdI/AAAAAAAAAEg/01WB-7bQhpo/s1600/popecow.png" height="217" width="320" /></a></div>
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Cows be with you,</div>
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Jordan</div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219590013057591250noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-81026177833965724042014-07-27T16:26:00.001-07:002014-07-30T07:24:30.335-07:00Sleepy Hollow FanfictionLast Wednesday was indeed, my birthday.<br />
<br />
I had a wonderful gluten free grilled cheese, visited my favorite, eclectic bar, and received a POP TV GOB Bluth vinyl figurine :')<br />
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<br />
This 22nd birthday was made possible by Sarah Michelle Gellar, Yoohoos, and Neopets. xoxo.<br />
<br />
In lieu of having quite a busy, previous week, and working an obnoxious amount, I will share with you a mini Sleepy Hollow Fanfic that I wrote a couple months ago (in the style of Washington Irving).<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The
Curious Happening With Katrina Van Tassel<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just
then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">hurling
his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">but
too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash—he was <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">tumbled
headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">goblin
rider, passed by like a whirlwind.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> (Irving 37)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ichabod slowly raised
his head, only to see his ghoul offender galloping through the night before him,
with a deserting Gunpowder on the Hessian’s heels. He jumped to his shaking
legs, a bit disoriented from the blow. Quivering, he ran back into the depth of
the wood as quickly as his length would take him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Branches whipped at his
upper body and knotted roots grabbed his ankles, slowing his pace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The whole forest is
enchanted!” gasped he, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me”*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ichabod continued
stumbling through the forested ground, but was stopped when a coy voice echoed
around him,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“My dearest Ichabod, I
can assure you that you will find protection with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ichabod halted and
lifted his eyes to see the young, beautiful Katrina, completely untouched by
the dark evils of the wood. If anything, he imagined, she had a slight glow, and
a bit of rose to her soft cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What sweet apparition
is this?” sang a startled Ichabod. “Fair Katrina Van Tassel, there are dark
forces afoot. The Hessian, he came with night fall and nearly terrorized me
into a deathly fright. We must make haste with God’s speed” Ichabod finished,
while dutifully making the sign of the cross.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“But foolish Ichabod”,
hummed Katrina, “I rather fancy the cloak of the wood, especially at this late
hour. I have been looking for you. I pray that you stay a while with me, for we
have hardly the opportunity to properly converse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Beautiful lady,”
responded a slightly more irritated Ichabod, “I will not let you fall to the
witchcraft that lurks about this haunted forest. The Hessian will surely be
back, and I will get us to safety.” He began forward, reaching for Katrina’s
plump upper arm, when she let out a cackle. Ichabod, taken aback, noticed a
sudden, peculiar height difference in Katrina’s usually delicate frame. He
looked to her shoes and saw that she was indeed levitating off of the ground!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Katrina!” gasped
Ichabod, “Witchcraft! You are a witch!” Practically in hysterics, Ichabod tried
to step away but found that his feet were firmly planted in the ground.*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You have paralyzed me,
you demon! Tricked me into love, you bewitched coquette!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Katrina morphed her
lovely face into a slight pout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“But Ichabod, I thought
that you had taken quite an interest in me, and would court me despite our
minor differences,” she closed her eyes and laid back her head. Suddenly, a
cooked Cornish hen and a bowl of corn popped up in each of her hands. The smell
was intoxicating, and soon wafted to Ichabod’s vulnerable snout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Stop this, this
instant! Unhand me!” demanded a weak Ichabod. Despite his fears, he was finding
himself alarmingly drawn to the handsome Katrina and her plates full of
delicious food. He could feel his stomach tremble and growl while his heart
raced in his chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“As you wish”, sighed
Katrina. The hen and corn vanished as quickly as they had come, and she floated
back to the ground. Ichabod regained power of his legs, and approached the
witch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Thou shalt not suffer
a witch to live”* Ichabod hissed, feeling betrayed by his devotion to the
deceitful Katrina. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“If that is how you
really feel, sir, then so be it. But let me remind you that you have taken a
strong hit to the skull, and perhaps you are delirious. Who can say if I am a
mere figment of your imagination? A playful fantasy”, purred Katrina as she
traced a fingertip around his chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ichabod firmly grabbed
her shoulders. “Lovely witch, I’ll prove that you exist and are what I accuse
you of. I will find the mark of a witch, and the truth will be before our
Lord.”*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With that, Ichabod
ripped at her collar in a rage, tearing the top of her dress down past her now
exposed breast. Towards the center, where her bosom rounded, he could see a
light, red marking, ever so clearly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Proof, you devil,”
whispered Ichabod, still staring at her exposed chest. He looked up to meet
Katrina’s sultry eyes and slightly parted pink mouth, as a sigh escaped.
Overcome by the undeniable attraction to the lady, Ichabod kissed the witch’s
mark, following his lips up her décolletage and neck until he landed on her
full lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You darling creature,”
he groaned into her neck, “I am helplessly enchanted and will always love
you..” he stopped abruptly, feeling cold. He looked before him to see the vast
darkness of the woods, with Katrina nowhere in sight. Ichabod Crane was
completely alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(based on: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving)</span></div>
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Hopefully I utilized the term "in lieu of" correctly,</div>
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Jordan</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-38586163682475431252014-07-18T13:31:00.003-07:002014-07-18T13:31:59.029-07:00OYY OYY!5 Facts About My Recent Trippity Doo Dah To Cincinnati, Ohio:<br />
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1. I stayed in a quaint bed and breakfast with my boyfriend that had a lovely, eclectic garden. The path wound through a small, forest area. The trail was dimmed to shadows, decorated with old bird baths and a twinkling of purposefully forgotten Christmas Lights. The whole feel was very steam-punk and whimsical, with a touch of Alice in Wonderland.<br />
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2. During the first night, we underwent bizarre experiences of apocalyptic proportions. While driving through the country-esque roads to the bed and breakfast, small pelts of something unidentified kept splashing onto Jeepus' window. The residue was almost milky-white, but the sound of the hit was audible, like loud rain drops. After we slowed down to observes our surroundings, we noticed what seemed to be a plague of giant, swarming bugs. They were similar in nature to giant flies, and perhaps were a mutant strand, but they flung themselves at my car with impressive force and did not easily wash off. We had also noticed that an incredible storm was quickly moving our way. Obviously, we were under attack by monstrous flying bugs with acidic insides and a hunger for human flesh, trapped under what looked to be potentially the worst storm of all time. I whimpered, shrinking downward in the passenger seat, while black clouds covered the sky, spitting lightning. The thunder was groundbreaking, while the bugs swarmed on, thumping against my windshield. We miraculously made it back to the bed and breakfast, with only minor, emotional scarring.<br />
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3. I went to Kings Island and saw DINOSAURS ALIVE! It was essentially an hour-long path through the woods with animatronic dinosaurs. I gleefully ran through the trail looking anxiously for the triceratops and a baby tyrannosaurus-rex. The models were life-sized and all extremely impressive. My boyfriend turned into a six year old, and happily gave me multiple facts about each dinosaur we approached. We made plans to soon rewatch the fabulous documentary, "Walking with Dinosaurs". ~~It's on Netflix~~<br />
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Mommy dino and bebe dino</div>
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4. While eating King's Island's infamous blue ice cream, my boyfriend told me about when he came to King's Island with his family as a small child. He and his mother jokingly would make silly sounds to each other, one of them being a high-pitched "OYY-OYY-OYY!", in the spirit of a young pig. In the bustle of the crowd, my young boyfriend was separated from his mother and sister. Overwhelmed with panic, his mother began to yell "OYY-OYY-OYY!" at the top of her lungs in the middle of King's Island. My tiny boyfriend then bounced through the crowd, with a responsive "OYY-OYY-OYY", and they were re-united. This is probably the best story anyone has ever told me.<br />
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5. I saw this.<br />
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I'm now back on my two-job-work-grind, saving up money to buy novelty hedgehog and zombie items.<br />
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Challenge: Try to think of a baby octopus today ^.^<br />
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OYY-OYY,<br />
Jordan<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8103365293752947684.post-6428291683536502652014-06-22T15:33:00.000-07:002014-06-24T11:40:39.374-07:00BraveHedge, A RenditionIn the year of 1280, King Hedgehog "Longspike" attacks and conquers the most majestic garden hedge in Scotland. Fighting alongside his family in a war to defend the hedge's throne, young Huff Wallace survives the onslaught and is taken away to live with his uncle in Rome. There, Huff Wallace receives an education, and later returns home to Scotland.<br />
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Huff quickly falls in love with his lovely childhood friend, Pointenne. The hedgehogs marry in secret, but Huff soon has to save Pointenne from being poked and sniffed by English hedge soldiers. As a result, Pointenne is captured and banished, never to place her tiny paws in a Scottish garden again. Enraged at losing his love, Huff Wallace bites two English hedge soldiers, gaining the attention of King Longspike.<br />
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Longspike commands his son, Prince Hedgeward, to stop Huff Wallace's uprising. Huff rebels against the English hedge soldiers, with a legendary army of hundreds. Through a series of battles, Huff's militia proves to be successful and noble. Growing worrisome, Longspike sends his daughter in law, Hissabella of France, to confront Huff. Lonspike hopes that Huff will harm Hissabella, tempting the French to declare war on Huff's rebellious army. However, upon meeting Huff, Hissabella becomes incredibly infatuated with him. Huff does Hissabella no harm, and Longspike prepares for a war against Huff's army.<br />
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Hissabella learns of Longspike's plans and warns Huff Wallace of the planned invasion. Longspike leads his hedge fighters into battle, and loses to Huff Wallace's might. Huff is taken to safety, and engages in a seven year war against Longspike and his hedge soldiers, with the help of Hissabella.<br />
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Huff Wallace is eventually captured by the hedge soldiers and tried for high treason. He is condemned to be publicly tortured until he submits to the king. The hedge soldiers tug on Huff's spikes and bite his little nose and paws, but Huff does not cry out. Obviously pained, Huff stands valiant in front of the crowd. The hedge magistrate offers once more for Huff to mutter "mercy", and the pain will end. Determined and empowered, Huff instead yells "FREEEEEDOM!!!" before he is ordered to be banished from Scotland.<br />
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While stumbling through the Scottish garden terrain to his isolation, Huff sees a vision of Pointenne in the distance, and is filled with an inner peace at his fate.<br />
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In Huff's memory, the rebellious are later able to rise against the English hedge troops and gain freedom for the Scotland hedgehogs, at last.<br />
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Quote from my boyfriend: "Hedgehogs never die. They live forever."<br />
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Freeedommm!<br />
Jordan<br />
<br />
(Based on the 1995 film, Braveheart. <i>Braveheart</i>. Dir. Mel Gibson. Paramount Pictures, 1995.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0