Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Just My Imagination
I forgot how waking up at 7:30 in the morning makes my body feel better throughout the day, as opposed to waking up at 9 or 10, which seems like a fantastic idea when I shut off my alarm and tell myself I'll only sleep another ten minutes, and which more often than not turns into another hour. It's an endless cycle. I think God is trying to tell me something.
It's December 19th and it still hasn't snowed. The funny thing about living in Oklahoma during the winter is that you almost always have to wait until January to get snow, whereas my friend Alyssa back home in Toronto feels the need to brag via Twitter, "It just keeps snowing and snowing and snowing. =)" Either way, snow is bound to come, at least that's what my friends and I keep telling ourselves. Our main concern, I think, is just having a couple snow days to get drunk and skate on the frozen road in front of our dorm.
"Black Swan" blew my mind. My friends and I didn't quite know what to make of it when the credits started rolling, our jaws still dropped. Natalie Portman was phenomenal, and Mila Kunis did a great job as well. What I liked most about the movie was the fact that you never quite know what's real and what isn't until you decide for yourself long after the movie has ended. No one can take you inside the mind of a crazy person quite like Darren Aronofsky.
I'm going to be the eight hundredth person to say that this semester has been Black Swan crazy. Well, maybe not as crazy as hallucinating the murder of your understudy in Swan Lake, but close. My cousin, always the source for information like this, told me that 2011 is a year of abundance in the Jewish calendar. I believe that abundance comes full circle. The pastor of my church this morning gave his sermon over joy and quoted something from John Wesley that stuck to my brain--"Make as much as you can, save as much as you can, and give as much as you can." The quote was regarding money, but in my opinion, it applies to every aspect of life. Everything is a circle.
What a joy it is to do what you don't want to do but know you have to.
It's December 19th and it still hasn't snowed. The funny thing about living in Oklahoma during the winter is that you almost always have to wait until January to get snow, whereas my friend Alyssa back home in Toronto feels the need to brag via Twitter, "It just keeps snowing and snowing and snowing. =)" Either way, snow is bound to come, at least that's what my friends and I keep telling ourselves. Our main concern, I think, is just having a couple snow days to get drunk and skate on the frozen road in front of our dorm.
"Black Swan" blew my mind. My friends and I didn't quite know what to make of it when the credits started rolling, our jaws still dropped. Natalie Portman was phenomenal, and Mila Kunis did a great job as well. What I liked most about the movie was the fact that you never quite know what's real and what isn't until you decide for yourself long after the movie has ended. No one can take you inside the mind of a crazy person quite like Darren Aronofsky.
I'm going to be the eight hundredth person to say that this semester has been Black Swan crazy. Well, maybe not as crazy as hallucinating the murder of your understudy in Swan Lake, but close. My cousin, always the source for information like this, told me that 2011 is a year of abundance in the Jewish calendar. I believe that abundance comes full circle. The pastor of my church this morning gave his sermon over joy and quoted something from John Wesley that stuck to my brain--"Make as much as you can, save as much as you can, and give as much as you can." The quote was regarding money, but in my opinion, it applies to every aspect of life. Everything is a circle.
What a joy it is to do what you don't want to do but know you have to.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Where Am I Again?
I once watched a special on MSNBC about an elementary school teacher who had lost all memory function in an accident. She literally had to remind herself of everything every day, from the most basic things, like the route she took to work, to the names of the students she saw every day. She kept tons of photo albums stocked full of photos from her past, which served as tangible memories.
Sometimes I feel like that woman. Granted, my memory isn't completely wiped out, but there are days when I actually can't remember what most of my childhood was like... what my high school life was like. It takes a lot of effort for me to even remember what I did on my birthday three years ago. Or what Christmases with my dad were like. Part of that scares me. I sometimes wonder if there's something wrong with my brain, because I just can't ever remember things that most people seem to have no trouble remembering. I barely remember my class schedule each semester. I for SURE can't remember the schedules of my friends, or even details they might tell me about a certain class they're taking.
I think the biggest reason for my forgetfulness is my tendency to zone out and not put forth my fullest efforts to actively think... or listen. I get into this weird habit of just... mindlessly living. Just occupying space. Just standing and looking good. I hate that.
Why is it so difficult for me to focus?
For whatever reasons, my brain doesn't seem to exert the amount of energy into certain areas of life that most people's brains do. I rarely plan ahead. I get lost in the moment. I get complacent. I forget where I am or what my greater purpose is at any given time. I lose track of my priorities. I forget I'm in college sometimes.
I could go on and on but I don't think it really matters.
It's a pain in the ass to have to remind myself of everything all the time, and for that reason, I usually don't. Actually... I just forget to.
But it's important that I do. There are certain things in my life that I have to remember. Here's to a more positive and active outlook on my life. Here's to a more conscious and thoughtful way of living. Here's to remembering where I am, where I'm going, and where I've been, because it all ties together with beautiful purpose.
"Each night when I go to sleep, I die. Each morning when I awake, I am reborn."
- Gandhi
Sometimes I feel like that woman. Granted, my memory isn't completely wiped out, but there are days when I actually can't remember what most of my childhood was like... what my high school life was like. It takes a lot of effort for me to even remember what I did on my birthday three years ago. Or what Christmases with my dad were like. Part of that scares me. I sometimes wonder if there's something wrong with my brain, because I just can't ever remember things that most people seem to have no trouble remembering. I barely remember my class schedule each semester. I for SURE can't remember the schedules of my friends, or even details they might tell me about a certain class they're taking.
I think the biggest reason for my forgetfulness is my tendency to zone out and not put forth my fullest efforts to actively think... or listen. I get into this weird habit of just... mindlessly living. Just occupying space. Just standing and looking good. I hate that.
Why is it so difficult for me to focus?
For whatever reasons, my brain doesn't seem to exert the amount of energy into certain areas of life that most people's brains do. I rarely plan ahead. I get lost in the moment. I get complacent. I forget where I am or what my greater purpose is at any given time. I lose track of my priorities. I forget I'm in college sometimes.
I could go on and on but I don't think it really matters.
It's a pain in the ass to have to remind myself of everything all the time, and for that reason, I usually don't. Actually... I just forget to.
But it's important that I do. There are certain things in my life that I have to remember. Here's to a more positive and active outlook on my life. Here's to a more conscious and thoughtful way of living. Here's to remembering where I am, where I'm going, and where I've been, because it all ties together with beautiful purpose.
"Each night when I go to sleep, I die. Each morning when I awake, I am reborn."
- Gandhi
Thursday, November 11, 2010
A Life Full of Gratitude
If someone surveyed the American people, asking the question, "When was slavery abolished?"... The most popular answer might be a simple "I'm not sure" or "Sometime during the Civil War." More informed responses would probably reference the Emancipation Proclamation.
But what many people don't know is that slavery still exists.
Worldwide, an estimated 27 million human beings are currently enslaved--this includes victims of human trafficking, forced labor, and sexual slavery. The only continent known to be slave-free is Antarctica. That means that slavery literally spans the entire globe.
The price and value of personal freedom is something I think a majority of people have forgotten, including myself. Recently, for reasons that I can't and won't yet post online, I was reminded of how precious freedom really is. I experienced an event that literally changed my life and made me infinitely more grateful for the freedom I previously took for granted.
Gratitude is something that's hard to come by or be fully expressed when you can't imagine anything else but privilege. No matter how hard Paris Hilton may try to empathize with poor people, she'll never REALLY know what it's like to be poor, because she's never experienced it. Nothing against Paris Hilton... she was just the first example that came to mind. What I'm saying is that the sweetness of simplicity becomes even sweeter when it's taken away. We want what we don't have, and, to quote a line from a country song I still remember from when I was a kid, "It's only human to never be satisfied."
I encourage anyone reading this to stop and smell the roses as often as you can remember. Triteness aside, beauty surrounds even the dullest of situations. Everything we've been given is a blessing, and no matter what, someone undoubtedly paid the price for it somewhere along the line. Someone undoubtedly paid the price for you to enjoy everything you currently enjoy in your life.
Continual consciousness of a spirit of thankfulness and awareness of the laws of interdependence that govern our lives is what ties us, as brothers and sisters, together.
But what many people don't know is that slavery still exists.
Worldwide, an estimated 27 million human beings are currently enslaved--this includes victims of human trafficking, forced labor, and sexual slavery. The only continent known to be slave-free is Antarctica. That means that slavery literally spans the entire globe.
The price and value of personal freedom is something I think a majority of people have forgotten, including myself. Recently, for reasons that I can't and won't yet post online, I was reminded of how precious freedom really is. I experienced an event that literally changed my life and made me infinitely more grateful for the freedom I previously took for granted.
Gratitude is something that's hard to come by or be fully expressed when you can't imagine anything else but privilege. No matter how hard Paris Hilton may try to empathize with poor people, she'll never REALLY know what it's like to be poor, because she's never experienced it. Nothing against Paris Hilton... she was just the first example that came to mind. What I'm saying is that the sweetness of simplicity becomes even sweeter when it's taken away. We want what we don't have, and, to quote a line from a country song I still remember from when I was a kid, "It's only human to never be satisfied."
I encourage anyone reading this to stop and smell the roses as often as you can remember. Triteness aside, beauty surrounds even the dullest of situations. Everything we've been given is a blessing, and no matter what, someone undoubtedly paid the price for it somewhere along the line. Someone undoubtedly paid the price for you to enjoy everything you currently enjoy in your life.
Continual consciousness of a spirit of thankfulness and awareness of the laws of interdependence that govern our lives is what ties us, as brothers and sisters, together.
Friday, November 5, 2010
In A Roundabout Way
In the event that the world should stop spinning simply because I feel out of whack, please alert my cell phone, tag me in a facebook post, and tweet @ me. Maybe then I'll realize that the center of the universe is somewhere far far away from my ego.
This past week has put a few things into perspective. For starters, I got to see Kristin Chenoweth in person for the first time in my life. She gave a masterclass at the music school to an audience of adoring college students, music theater gays, and distinguished rich white people. The best piece of advice that came out of that 4'11" blonde soprano's mouth didn't actually come out of her mouth, in my opinion. It radiated off her dazzling personality, outstanding confidence, and unmatched sense of humor. After she left the stage, I think every person in Petree auditorium felt moved to be the best person they could ever be, or at least, the best performer, musician, and/or artist. Period.
On a more real note, I owe the university $5,000, which I didn't realize until it was time to enroll for classes earlier this week, which I couldn't, due to the hold on my account. Working on figuring out how to pay that balance off and stay in school has reminded me of how important it is that I be here. And by here, I mean... at OCU, in Oklahoma City, being a college student, studying what I study, being around the people I'm around. It sounds redundant, but in all honesty, I know that I'm supposed to be where I'm supposed to be. In other words, to quote Vicky Leloie Kelly, "Do what you're doing while you're doing it."
I'm a firm believer in things working out for the best.
This past week has put a few things into perspective. For starters, I got to see Kristin Chenoweth in person for the first time in my life. She gave a masterclass at the music school to an audience of adoring college students, music theater gays, and distinguished rich white people. The best piece of advice that came out of that 4'11" blonde soprano's mouth didn't actually come out of her mouth, in my opinion. It radiated off her dazzling personality, outstanding confidence, and unmatched sense of humor. After she left the stage, I think every person in Petree auditorium felt moved to be the best person they could ever be, or at least, the best performer, musician, and/or artist. Period.
On a more real note, I owe the university $5,000, which I didn't realize until it was time to enroll for classes earlier this week, which I couldn't, due to the hold on my account. Working on figuring out how to pay that balance off and stay in school has reminded me of how important it is that I be here. And by here, I mean... at OCU, in Oklahoma City, being a college student, studying what I study, being around the people I'm around. It sounds redundant, but in all honesty, I know that I'm supposed to be where I'm supposed to be. In other words, to quote Vicky Leloie Kelly, "Do what you're doing while you're doing it."
I'm a firm believer in things working out for the best.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
With A Drunken Heart
I was tempted to write this blog while listening to music, then I realized that I don't write well with music playing.
Since this blog is read by a probable total of about five or six people in my life, I don't mind stating the most obvious and ultimately shameless facts about my life, such as why I'm still awake and still drunk from a night of realizing the motives behind people's actions, donning a snuggie for an obscenely long period of time while meditating on the quad at midnight, and of course, reading the truth that blazes forth from the eyes of everyone I'm around. Always.
If every person in the world were as honest as a squirrel, things would run a little bit more smoothly. Less people would get hurt. And I'm not even saying this in any sort of bitter way. It just finally occurred to me today that the more a person lies to themselves, the more people they eventually end up hurting. What does a lie get you? A false sense of security for a brief moment in time? Maybe a trickle of hope that whatever it was you were trying hide or escape isn't actually affecting you.
The truth is, squirrels will let you know when they're hungry. When they want to mate. When they just want to run in the grass because they like the way it makes them feel. It's absurd to think that a furry little squirrel would ever lie or manipulate a situation in order to accomplish something.
As I sit on my ripped faux leather couch rambling about the intentions of squirrels, doors continue to slam in the halls of Centennial, which, in my opinion, proves that a.) we're all in this together (no HSM reference intended), and b.) we are all inextricably linked to one another and legitimately intrigued by our fellow humans. Which causes us to seek and ask questions.
Sophomore year is beginning to look a lot more philosophical.
Since this blog is read by a probable total of about five or six people in my life, I don't mind stating the most obvious and ultimately shameless facts about my life, such as why I'm still awake and still drunk from a night of realizing the motives behind people's actions, donning a snuggie for an obscenely long period of time while meditating on the quad at midnight, and of course, reading the truth that blazes forth from the eyes of everyone I'm around. Always.
If every person in the world were as honest as a squirrel, things would run a little bit more smoothly. Less people would get hurt. And I'm not even saying this in any sort of bitter way. It just finally occurred to me today that the more a person lies to themselves, the more people they eventually end up hurting. What does a lie get you? A false sense of security for a brief moment in time? Maybe a trickle of hope that whatever it was you were trying hide or escape isn't actually affecting you.
The truth is, squirrels will let you know when they're hungry. When they want to mate. When they just want to run in the grass because they like the way it makes them feel. It's absurd to think that a furry little squirrel would ever lie or manipulate a situation in order to accomplish something.
As I sit on my ripped faux leather couch rambling about the intentions of squirrels, doors continue to slam in the halls of Centennial, which, in my opinion, proves that a.) we're all in this together (no HSM reference intended), and b.) we are all inextricably linked to one another and legitimately intrigued by our fellow humans. Which causes us to seek and ask questions.
Sophomore year is beginning to look a lot more philosophical.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Relative News
For the first time in my life, I wrote graffiti on a bathroom stall today.
But more importantly, people are starting to annoy me. I find that it's harder to love people when you see straight through their shit. And I'm not mounting any white horse while I say this, by any means. Believe me. I'm just as trashy... Just as ultimately self-interested... Just as shameless. But the fact still remains that I used to be able to love people blindly and openly. I guess, in all honesty, I still do. At heart, I forgive birth traits and primal natures. Yet, transparency is transparency; cubic zirconias don't glitter as brightly when you take them out of the display case.
In accordance to some fortune cookie law, I should accept the truth of life that all people need to be loved despite their un-goodness. Whether or not they delve into noble endeavors, just sit on their bed and Facebook stalk, or practice a combination of the two, they're still kindred humans to me. Skin and bone and organically driven to produce happiness for themselves. And sometimes, juuuust sometimes... produce it for others.
But more importantly, people are starting to annoy me. I find that it's harder to love people when you see straight through their shit. And I'm not mounting any white horse while I say this, by any means. Believe me. I'm just as trashy... Just as ultimately self-interested... Just as shameless. But the fact still remains that I used to be able to love people blindly and openly. I guess, in all honesty, I still do. At heart, I forgive birth traits and primal natures. Yet, transparency is transparency; cubic zirconias don't glitter as brightly when you take them out of the display case.
In accordance to some fortune cookie law, I should accept the truth of life that all people need to be loved despite their un-goodness. Whether or not they delve into noble endeavors, just sit on their bed and Facebook stalk, or practice a combination of the two, they're still kindred humans to me. Skin and bone and organically driven to produce happiness for themselves. And sometimes, juuuust sometimes... produce it for others.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Deuce In Between A Baker's Dozen
The time to leave Monkey Island has finally come. Well... kind of. I'm leaving next week, staying just long enough to finish my last two-week pay period at the restaurant. My mom is getting kicked out of her apartment. The idiot landlord who owns the two humble duplexes where my mom lives also owns a restaurant right by the duplexes, which he recently had to shut down due to lack of business. He and his wife are selling their house and moving into the duplexes. I guess they decided to kick Mom out because she hasn't been living there as long as the woman next door. Shitty? Yes. Completely legal? Also yes. By telling her thirty days in advance, he gave her the latest warning the law would allow. The point is, I'm going to egg his house before I leave.
I've noticed that the people on Monkey Island can be classified into three groups.
Group One is the vacationers. The drunken sunburnt college kids, old couples who dress like sailors, and upper middle-class suburbia families of three to five who are all seasonal guests of the island and who come here for one purpose and one purpose only--the lake.
Group Two is the wealthy property owners. These select few own all the land, restaurants, gas stations, marinas, horse farms, and vineyards on the island and live here year-round. They're generally older married couples who have lived here for centuries and accrued enough real estate to do whatever the hell want with.
Group Three is the laborers who work for the wealthy property owners. The people who actually work in and on the land, restaurants, gas stations, marinas, horse farms, and vineyards of Monkey Island. They too live here year-round, but unlike their upper class friends/employers, they make ends meet by scrubbing pots and pans in kitchens, waiting tables for $2.25 an hour, transporting drywall, hammering fences, and altogether doing anything the richer folk don't want to do themselves.
For the past couple of months, I have been in Group Three.
Don't get me wrong, I don't mind it one bit. It's people like my mom I think about... Single people without a lot of education but a strong work ethic living paycheck to paycheck. It's just odd to see the richer people hiring their poorer friends to do their dirty work. I guess it all works out in the flow of the Monkey Island ecosystem. Whatever.
Today I had an epiphany at work. For someone who complains all the time about not having any consistency in his life, I realized that I am one of the most consistent people I know. It all has to do with my OCD. I was noticing the way I washed the dishes, and I realized that I had developed a specific system for washing them since the day I first started. That way, everything runs smoothly and I get the job done the most efficient way I know how. And I never deviate from that system. I consistently wash those dishes the exact same way each and every time. I gather the forks the same way, hang the glasses the same way, and do everything in a very particular and predictable fashion. I do the same thing in other areas of my life, too, I guess. Some times I complain about being a creature of habit, actually. How strange and slightly ironic.
I don't have a problem saying goodbye to this place. After thinking about what brought me here, I've decided that I came here for a vacation. A kitten named Gandhi, an anthology of Frank Sinatra hits, and one moderately attractive news anchorman later, I've barefootedly rediscovered a few simple truths and the applications thereof, which is all I can really hope to take from any place I live.
I've noticed that the people on Monkey Island can be classified into three groups.
Group One is the vacationers. The drunken sunburnt college kids, old couples who dress like sailors, and upper middle-class suburbia families of three to five who are all seasonal guests of the island and who come here for one purpose and one purpose only--the lake.
Group Two is the wealthy property owners. These select few own all the land, restaurants, gas stations, marinas, horse farms, and vineyards on the island and live here year-round. They're generally older married couples who have lived here for centuries and accrued enough real estate to do whatever the hell want with.
Group Three is the laborers who work for the wealthy property owners. The people who actually work in and on the land, restaurants, gas stations, marinas, horse farms, and vineyards of Monkey Island. They too live here year-round, but unlike their upper class friends/employers, they make ends meet by scrubbing pots and pans in kitchens, waiting tables for $2.25 an hour, transporting drywall, hammering fences, and altogether doing anything the richer folk don't want to do themselves.
For the past couple of months, I have been in Group Three.
Don't get me wrong, I don't mind it one bit. It's people like my mom I think about... Single people without a lot of education but a strong work ethic living paycheck to paycheck. It's just odd to see the richer people hiring their poorer friends to do their dirty work. I guess it all works out in the flow of the Monkey Island ecosystem. Whatever.
Today I had an epiphany at work. For someone who complains all the time about not having any consistency in his life, I realized that I am one of the most consistent people I know. It all has to do with my OCD. I was noticing the way I washed the dishes, and I realized that I had developed a specific system for washing them since the day I first started. That way, everything runs smoothly and I get the job done the most efficient way I know how. And I never deviate from that system. I consistently wash those dishes the exact same way each and every time. I gather the forks the same way, hang the glasses the same way, and do everything in a very particular and predictable fashion. I do the same thing in other areas of my life, too, I guess. Some times I complain about being a creature of habit, actually. How strange and slightly ironic.
I don't have a problem saying goodbye to this place. After thinking about what brought me here, I've decided that I came here for a vacation. A kitten named Gandhi, an anthology of Frank Sinatra hits, and one moderately attractive news anchorman later, I've barefootedly rediscovered a few simple truths and the applications thereof, which is all I can really hope to take from any place I live.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Laundry List Keeps Getting Shorter & Shorter
I'm proud of my mom. She just broke up with her loser boyfriend who, among his many other charming qualities, has no job, sleeps all day, and lays the heaviest sets of judgment on people he doesn't even know. I say good riddance. He can take his inferiority complexes and bad attitude somewhere else. She doesn't deserve them. For a number of equally valid reasons, it seemed like such an achievement for her to dump his freeloading ass. First of all, she's never been the most forthcoming person, or even the type to say "no" to people. She aims to please and is scared of rejection, which leads her down the path of finding the absolute deadest of deadbeats as love interests, or, perhaps more truthfully, someone to sleep next to at night. I think she forgets sometimes that her life is HERS and not someone else's to do with as they please. She forgets that she deserves happiness in its fullest and that it's completely within her power to gain it.
But what she lacks in independence she makes up for in fervor. She's generally happy with her life, always looking for her next adventure, sometimes dreaming too far ahead of herself, and by that I mean that she doesn't always follow through with her intentions. A lover at heart and a worker til she dies, my mother has every right to be proud of herself for taking another step in the right direction, for not letting some idiot unwittingly steer her life.
I speak from experience. The reason I analyze my mom so critically is because I'm just like her. I can observe all my imperfections, stupid habits, and sometimes absurd thought patterns just by observing her. I tell people that if I were a 40-year-old woman, I'd be my mother.
Summertime has been cathartic for me. I like living with my mom because now that whatshisface is out of the picture, it's just me, her, and my kitten Gandhi. The days are languid and sunny. The weeks drag on for eternity, and I kind of like it that way. Having a lot of alone time presents me with the constant dilemma of solitude--I'm forced to either be happy with myself or be lonely, and I've been having surprising luck with keeping a positive, peaceful outlook on my life as of late. My job is monotonous yet fulfilling. Every time I leave I feel refreshed. That's irony for you... Washing dishes for five hours straight seems to keep my busy mind occupied and leaves out any room for pesky thoughts. Even though I'm covered head to toe in sweat and kitchen grime, I always feel at peace when I drive away from the restaurant, long after the sun has gone down over the island and the weekenders are lighting their fireworks and partying on pontoon boats.
Finding simplicity and balance has been easier than getting a tan.
Looking up at the stars on warm summer nights like this makes me feel poetic. Sadly, though, I can't write poetry for the life of me. Instead of being poetic, I'm stealing wifi from a metallurgical laboratory. Sounds intense, but all that really means is I'm sitting on asphalt across the street from our house on my laptop.
But what she lacks in independence she makes up for in fervor. She's generally happy with her life, always looking for her next adventure, sometimes dreaming too far ahead of herself, and by that I mean that she doesn't always follow through with her intentions. A lover at heart and a worker til she dies, my mother has every right to be proud of herself for taking another step in the right direction, for not letting some idiot unwittingly steer her life.
I speak from experience. The reason I analyze my mom so critically is because I'm just like her. I can observe all my imperfections, stupid habits, and sometimes absurd thought patterns just by observing her. I tell people that if I were a 40-year-old woman, I'd be my mother.
Summertime has been cathartic for me. I like living with my mom because now that whatshisface is out of the picture, it's just me, her, and my kitten Gandhi. The days are languid and sunny. The weeks drag on for eternity, and I kind of like it that way. Having a lot of alone time presents me with the constant dilemma of solitude--I'm forced to either be happy with myself or be lonely, and I've been having surprising luck with keeping a positive, peaceful outlook on my life as of late. My job is monotonous yet fulfilling. Every time I leave I feel refreshed. That's irony for you... Washing dishes for five hours straight seems to keep my busy mind occupied and leaves out any room for pesky thoughts. Even though I'm covered head to toe in sweat and kitchen grime, I always feel at peace when I drive away from the restaurant, long after the sun has gone down over the island and the weekenders are lighting their fireworks and partying on pontoon boats.
Finding simplicity and balance has been easier than getting a tan.
Looking up at the stars on warm summer nights like this makes me feel poetic. Sadly, though, I can't write poetry for the life of me. Instead of being poetic, I'm stealing wifi from a metallurgical laboratory. Sounds intense, but all that really means is I'm sitting on asphalt across the street from our house on my laptop.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
My Dreams Are Never That Imaginative
"Sometimes rain that's needed falls,
We float like two lovers in a painting by Chagall"
- The Weepies
I'm browsing Google images of Salvador Dalà paintings and entertaining the idea of living in one of them. Sometimes I wonder if artists make meaningless art just for the fun of it. Especially art that's avant-garde or surreal. Can art be meaningless? I half-expect 75% of the song lyrics I listen to to be meaningless, like "I Am The Walrus.". Someone told me those lyrics were just made up to confuse all the people who had been deciphering The Beatles' song lyrics trying to find deeper meaning in them. I guess it's not as critical to understand what the artist is trying to communicate as it is to find meaning in the art for yourself. Half the battle, maybe?
I do pointless things at various times in my life that, in retrospect, are unequivocally devoid of meaning. But I think to myself, Who's to say that art can't be a reflection of that inexplicable lack of meaning that characterizes human behavior from time to time? I could write a book on all the meaningless things I've done. Why, you ask? Who knows. Of that much I'm sure.
My brother and his girlfriend came down for his birthday. I didn't really know what to get him gift-wise, so I went looking at some antique shops outside of a nearby town. After a lonely old couple talked my ear off at the first gift shop, a nautical-themed store where I ended up buying a $4 Indian flute just to appease them, I wandered next door to a more peaceful venue. Shelves upon shelves filled with useless trinkets and knick-knacks made me feel pretty hopeless in finding a gift for my guitar-playing, Scottish beard-sporting older brother. But after looking through all the antique Coke bottles and porcelain chickens my heart could withstand, I finally found a German beer stein for $15. I figured he'd appreciate that, since he makes a hobby of brewing his own beer.
I guess you could say we celebrated by going to the lake the next day and swimming in what looked and smelled like dirty dishwater. But hey, that's Oklahoma for you. I didn't feel the tiniest ounce of guilt for peeing in that nasty lake. My family and I spent five hours in the sun, oiled up and getting drunk. Someone had tied their sail boat to some shrubbery nearby, which proved to be a bad idea, considering the boat ended up coming lose and drifting across the lake after being left unattended. Serves them right.
One of the cons of summer is that when you spend the night with your grandma who refuses to run her air conditioner at night, it makes it difficult to go to sleep. Hence I'm awake and blogging at 2:30 a.m. That's a small and infrequent price to pay, though, when one is at liberty to experience the simple pleasures summer has to offer. I love driving on the curvy serpentine roads of Monkey Island at night with the windows down and smelling the warm, musty summer air. It's almost intoxicating the way the scents morph in and out of one another: thick and woodsy to fragrant and flowery as well as other, more nameless smells that can only be described as Summer.
Life rarely makes sense. For instance, why do actors in movies with exotic or ancient settings always speak with British accents?
We float like two lovers in a painting by Chagall"
- The Weepies
I'm browsing Google images of Salvador Dalà paintings and entertaining the idea of living in one of them. Sometimes I wonder if artists make meaningless art just for the fun of it. Especially art that's avant-garde or surreal. Can art be meaningless? I half-expect 75% of the song lyrics I listen to to be meaningless, like "I Am The Walrus.". Someone told me those lyrics were just made up to confuse all the people who had been deciphering The Beatles' song lyrics trying to find deeper meaning in them. I guess it's not as critical to understand what the artist is trying to communicate as it is to find meaning in the art for yourself. Half the battle, maybe?
I do pointless things at various times in my life that, in retrospect, are unequivocally devoid of meaning. But I think to myself, Who's to say that art can't be a reflection of that inexplicable lack of meaning that characterizes human behavior from time to time? I could write a book on all the meaningless things I've done. Why, you ask? Who knows. Of that much I'm sure.
My brother and his girlfriend came down for his birthday. I didn't really know what to get him gift-wise, so I went looking at some antique shops outside of a nearby town. After a lonely old couple talked my ear off at the first gift shop, a nautical-themed store where I ended up buying a $4 Indian flute just to appease them, I wandered next door to a more peaceful venue. Shelves upon shelves filled with useless trinkets and knick-knacks made me feel pretty hopeless in finding a gift for my guitar-playing, Scottish beard-sporting older brother. But after looking through all the antique Coke bottles and porcelain chickens my heart could withstand, I finally found a German beer stein for $15. I figured he'd appreciate that, since he makes a hobby of brewing his own beer.
I guess you could say we celebrated by going to the lake the next day and swimming in what looked and smelled like dirty dishwater. But hey, that's Oklahoma for you. I didn't feel the tiniest ounce of guilt for peeing in that nasty lake. My family and I spent five hours in the sun, oiled up and getting drunk. Someone had tied their sail boat to some shrubbery nearby, which proved to be a bad idea, considering the boat ended up coming lose and drifting across the lake after being left unattended. Serves them right.
One of the cons of summer is that when you spend the night with your grandma who refuses to run her air conditioner at night, it makes it difficult to go to sleep. Hence I'm awake and blogging at 2:30 a.m. That's a small and infrequent price to pay, though, when one is at liberty to experience the simple pleasures summer has to offer. I love driving on the curvy serpentine roads of Monkey Island at night with the windows down and smelling the warm, musty summer air. It's almost intoxicating the way the scents morph in and out of one another: thick and woodsy to fragrant and flowery as well as other, more nameless smells that can only be described as Summer.
Life rarely makes sense. For instance, why do actors in movies with exotic or ancient settings always speak with British accents?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Home
If time is relative, then distance must also be. Driving back to my hometown with my sister was a sober reminder of just how mountainous the distance between the stages in a life can be. Even though the sum of actual driving time adds up to about three hours from the smoke-laden bingo parlors and discount auto dealerships of Enid, Oklahoma, to the windy, treeless frontier of the Oklahoma Panhandle, the trip itself seems endless, especially if it's been a while since you last made the journey to the middle of nowhere.
I haven't been here since Christmas, and I've always been divided on the issue of making trips back home. On one hand, I have a grand total of seven relatives who still live in Hooker (compared to the fifty who have, at one point or another, lived here throughout my childhood); on the other hand, a wealth of friends, school teachers, principals, pastors, community theater directors, and church family members still call this area their home. After moving away, I've since felt compelled to visit the people who I feel care so much about me, but in reality, I might just be exalting myself to the status of an overrated celebrity in the minds of those whom I always think bite their nails in anticipation of my return.
Nonetheless, I'm home as of now, at least technically. But what is "home," really? Where you grew up? Where your family is? A broken-down double wide mobile home on the outskirts of a meager town of less than two thousand people? When my friends would ask me where I was going for the summer, I never really said "home." I used phrases like, "going to live with my mom" or "moving upstate" to eliminate the boundaries that come with calling one place this or that. I guess I mean my home TOWN. In an ideal sense, I define home as where I feel safest, which is a number of different places. I have a home church, filled with people who care about me, and a town where I spent most of my childhood, filled with people who take notice of me. People who know my face and whose faces I recall by name. It seems like the more a person is in my life, the more they become a part of what comforts me.
Funny how so much can happen in a year.
I haven't been here since Christmas, and I've always been divided on the issue of making trips back home. On one hand, I have a grand total of seven relatives who still live in Hooker (compared to the fifty who have, at one point or another, lived here throughout my childhood); on the other hand, a wealth of friends, school teachers, principals, pastors, community theater directors, and church family members still call this area their home. After moving away, I've since felt compelled to visit the people who I feel care so much about me, but in reality, I might just be exalting myself to the status of an overrated celebrity in the minds of those whom I always think bite their nails in anticipation of my return.
Nonetheless, I'm home as of now, at least technically. But what is "home," really? Where you grew up? Where your family is? A broken-down double wide mobile home on the outskirts of a meager town of less than two thousand people? When my friends would ask me where I was going for the summer, I never really said "home." I used phrases like, "going to live with my mom" or "moving upstate" to eliminate the boundaries that come with calling one place this or that. I guess I mean my home TOWN. In an ideal sense, I define home as where I feel safest, which is a number of different places. I have a home church, filled with people who care about me, and a town where I spent most of my childhood, filled with people who take notice of me. People who know my face and whose faces I recall by name. It seems like the more a person is in my life, the more they become a part of what comforts me.
Funny how so much can happen in a year.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Maury Says... You ARE The Father!
The merry month of May. Usually by this time of year, the weather is blazing hot in sunny, windswept Oklahoma. But not lately. We had three tornados on Monday and an entire week of rain and cloud weather. Who's complaining? Not me. Rain or shine, summer just brings a smile to my face. It's the freedom to stay up til 3 a.m. and wake up at noon the next day that really puts me in a good mood, though.
Do you ever have moments in your life when you feel like a character out of a movie? Last night I walked in on my aunt and her boyfriend making out on the couch, and as if the fact that I interrupted their cuddle session weren't awkward enough, they're both in their late forties, which made for an odd situation of role reversal. I felt like a parent who just walked in on a pair of teenagers. Given my aunt's apartment is so tiny (and the situation would've been even more awkward had I stayed) I lied and said I was going to visit some friends at OCU. After some driving around, I ended up parked in front of the apartment, listening to music and waiting for Mr. Online-Dating-Service to leave. I felt like Shia LaBeouf in "Disturbia," which, ironically enough, I watched earlier that day.
My cousin is graduating high school, so I'm driving back to my hometown next week with my sister. We're gonna stay for about a week, which will give me time to catch up with everyone and revisit the people I haven't seen in over a year. I feel somewhat bad for not going back to my hometown more often, especially over breaks during the school year when I had all the time in the world to do so. It's four hours away from Oklahoma City, but I never made the effort to drive out there. Well the time has come to make the seven-hour drive from Joplin, MO (where my sister lives) to the Panhandle of Oklahoma. Straight across the state.
I dislike social security offices. I hate the fact that you have to arrive early, before the office opens, secure a good spot in an already long line, wait for the doors to open, then wait some more in a crowded waiting room full of pamphlets and crying babies and coughing. I went this morning to apply for a new social security card, and thankfully it only took a grand total of three minutes once my number was called. I came prepared, armed with my passport, birth certificate, driver's license, and any other form of credible ID I could find so as to minimize complications. But no need. "Just answer a couple of questions, and I'll record your responses for security purposes." In and out. Simple. My new card should arrive in about a week.
My cousin and I have been watching Maury a lot lately. I remember the days when Maury was an actual talk show and not just a three-ring paternity testing circus. A girl from my hometown went on the show, to (get this) find out if her baby daddy was actually the father of her child. I bet the free trip to L.A., hotel accomidations, and $1,000 spending money more than made up for the embarrassment of making a fool out of yourself on national television. But who am I to judge.
Do you ever have moments in your life when you feel like a character out of a movie? Last night I walked in on my aunt and her boyfriend making out on the couch, and as if the fact that I interrupted their cuddle session weren't awkward enough, they're both in their late forties, which made for an odd situation of role reversal. I felt like a parent who just walked in on a pair of teenagers. Given my aunt's apartment is so tiny (and the situation would've been even more awkward had I stayed) I lied and said I was going to visit some friends at OCU. After some driving around, I ended up parked in front of the apartment, listening to music and waiting for Mr. Online-Dating-Service to leave. I felt like Shia LaBeouf in "Disturbia," which, ironically enough, I watched earlier that day.
My cousin is graduating high school, so I'm driving back to my hometown next week with my sister. We're gonna stay for about a week, which will give me time to catch up with everyone and revisit the people I haven't seen in over a year. I feel somewhat bad for not going back to my hometown more often, especially over breaks during the school year when I had all the time in the world to do so. It's four hours away from Oklahoma City, but I never made the effort to drive out there. Well the time has come to make the seven-hour drive from Joplin, MO (where my sister lives) to the Panhandle of Oklahoma. Straight across the state.
I dislike social security offices. I hate the fact that you have to arrive early, before the office opens, secure a good spot in an already long line, wait for the doors to open, then wait some more in a crowded waiting room full of pamphlets and crying babies and coughing. I went this morning to apply for a new social security card, and thankfully it only took a grand total of three minutes once my number was called. I came prepared, armed with my passport, birth certificate, driver's license, and any other form of credible ID I could find so as to minimize complications. But no need. "Just answer a couple of questions, and I'll record your responses for security purposes." In and out. Simple. My new card should arrive in about a week.
My cousin and I have been watching Maury a lot lately. I remember the days when Maury was an actual talk show and not just a three-ring paternity testing circus. A girl from my hometown went on the show, to (get this) find out if her baby daddy was actually the father of her child. I bet the free trip to L.A., hotel accomidations, and $1,000 spending money more than made up for the embarrassment of making a fool out of yourself on national television. But who am I to judge.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Brink of Warm Insanity
Finals are over, classes have ended, and people are packing up and moving out of their dorms. I can see the anticipation in their faces as they spend all their unused Stars Cash buying boxes of overpriced Norwegian bottled water and as many bags of chips as their arms can carry. Everyone is trying to tie up the loose ends of their year before summer actually hits and they ship off to wherever they're headed for the next three months. Performing arts majors find summer jobs in the most interesting places--local community theaters, cruise ships, theme parks, opera companies, musical theater venues, Shakespeare in the Park. Some people are shelling out more money for additional training in summer music programs in places like Florida, Salzburg, and Spoleto, Italy. My thoughts on that: If you have the money, then by all means, go for it.
I spent my entire high school career doing stuff like that, so I'm taking a break this summer. As of now, I'm getting paid to be a temporary rehearsal accompanist for a community theater production of "Smokey Joe's Café." The music is relatively easy, and the pay is $15 per hour, with three-hour rehearsals five nights a week, including Saturday rehearsals from 1-5. I feel really blessed to be able to fall back on something that comes naturally to me, like playing piano. Everyone's in need of a good accompanist from time to time, and most are more than willing to pay. At the end of this month, I'm going to be moving upstate to live with my mom and sister and work at a restaurant where my mom works. She's already got a job lined out for me, apparently, and she says I'll be able to perform at different local venues, which will be nice, since I'm not doing any other sort of performing this summer. It's just going to be me, a piano, and a tip jar. What could be more beautiful than that?
Apart from the fact that school is out, other distinguishable traits of summer are popping up left and right. From the warm, sometimes abrasive rays of sunshine spewing down upon half-naked sunbathers lying poolside and oiled up from head to toe, to the extra sense of refreshment one gets when constant indoor air-conditioning cools sun-warmed skin, summer is slowly becoming more real. I'm actually wearing my swimsuit underneath my clothes as I type this.
People keep saying that they're so anxious to leave the school and go home, and I respect that. But I can't help assuming that after a couple languid summer weeks have passed, and all there is to do is sit and home and watch Vh1, people are going to want nothing more than to get back to school where all their friends are, where there's always another show to prepare your audition cuts for, where there's always an exam to be studied for. It's an insane life we lead, but we wouldn't have it any other way. It's summer's job to remind us of that.
I spent my entire high school career doing stuff like that, so I'm taking a break this summer. As of now, I'm getting paid to be a temporary rehearsal accompanist for a community theater production of "Smokey Joe's Café." The music is relatively easy, and the pay is $15 per hour, with three-hour rehearsals five nights a week, including Saturday rehearsals from 1-5. I feel really blessed to be able to fall back on something that comes naturally to me, like playing piano. Everyone's in need of a good accompanist from time to time, and most are more than willing to pay. At the end of this month, I'm going to be moving upstate to live with my mom and sister and work at a restaurant where my mom works. She's already got a job lined out for me, apparently, and she says I'll be able to perform at different local venues, which will be nice, since I'm not doing any other sort of performing this summer. It's just going to be me, a piano, and a tip jar. What could be more beautiful than that?
Apart from the fact that school is out, other distinguishable traits of summer are popping up left and right. From the warm, sometimes abrasive rays of sunshine spewing down upon half-naked sunbathers lying poolside and oiled up from head to toe, to the extra sense of refreshment one gets when constant indoor air-conditioning cools sun-warmed skin, summer is slowly becoming more real. I'm actually wearing my swimsuit underneath my clothes as I type this.
People keep saying that they're so anxious to leave the school and go home, and I respect that. But I can't help assuming that after a couple languid summer weeks have passed, and all there is to do is sit and home and watch Vh1, people are going to want nothing more than to get back to school where all their friends are, where there's always another show to prepare your audition cuts for, where there's always an exam to be studied for. It's an insane life we lead, but we wouldn't have it any other way. It's summer's job to remind us of that.
Monday, April 26, 2010
April Showers Fall In One Specific Spot
Three weeks ago I told my mom and sister that I was gay. They had both come down to visit me for my birthday. When I tell people that I "came out" to them, they automatically assume that it must have been dramatic or life-changing, but it really wasn't. I didn't expect it to be. I knew that they didn't care and would love me no matter what, which makes me lucky, I guess. I feel privileged, in a way. My family may have its share of issues, but I'm proud to claim what not many other gay people can--love and acceptance from my family.
I haven't told anyone outside my immediate family, but to be honest, I don't really care if they know or not. I mean, if they find out, they find out, but that's not a big concern of mine. I've reached the point in my life where I'm not accountable to anyone but myself and God. I'm the first person in my immediate family to go to college, and only one of a handful out of my gigantic scope of cousins. My parents aren't helping me with tuition or housing or food. In the natural sense of things, I practically forged this path for myself.
But I can't and don't take all the credit, by any means. God is ultimately the reason I'm in college, and furthermore, He's the reason I'm on the path that I'm on. Assuming I was the only governing factor in the succession of events that brought me where I am today would be egotistical.
On the flip side of things, the school year is dwindling down to a mere two weeks: one full week of classes and one week of finals. The more I think about it, the more nervous I get about this summer. I need to find a job, and quickly. I know myself too well... If I procrastinate any longer, summer will be here before I know it and I'll be jobless still. Can't let that happen. I want to find a job waiting tables where I can bank on tips. That's probably my best plan of action.
Stargazing cabaret is tonight. I'm sure everyone will have a good time, since the majority of people will be high out of their minds or drunk off their asses, or both.
I haven't told anyone outside my immediate family, but to be honest, I don't really care if they know or not. I mean, if they find out, they find out, but that's not a big concern of mine. I've reached the point in my life where I'm not accountable to anyone but myself and God. I'm the first person in my immediate family to go to college, and only one of a handful out of my gigantic scope of cousins. My parents aren't helping me with tuition or housing or food. In the natural sense of things, I practically forged this path for myself.
But I can't and don't take all the credit, by any means. God is ultimately the reason I'm in college, and furthermore, He's the reason I'm on the path that I'm on. Assuming I was the only governing factor in the succession of events that brought me where I am today would be egotistical.
On the flip side of things, the school year is dwindling down to a mere two weeks: one full week of classes and one week of finals. The more I think about it, the more nervous I get about this summer. I need to find a job, and quickly. I know myself too well... If I procrastinate any longer, summer will be here before I know it and I'll be jobless still. Can't let that happen. I want to find a job waiting tables where I can bank on tips. That's probably my best plan of action.
Stargazing cabaret is tonight. I'm sure everyone will have a good time, since the majority of people will be high out of their minds or drunk off their asses, or both.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
More Than Just A Procession of Song
Last night I saw Hillsong United in concert, and it was amazing. The whole event was pretty amazing, simply because Hillsong has never come to Oklahoma before, at least not Hillsong United. See, Hillsong has different branches across the world, with different worship teams that tour independently. I've seen Hillsong London's worship team twice at Church of the Harvest, but this was the first time I'd ever seen the real deal in person.
I went by myself, which was nice, because I didn't have to worry about keeping up with anyone but myself amidst the crowd of people, especially since my ticket was for the floor. I was standing about twenty feet from the stage and almost hyperventilating. I don't normally get that excited over things, but my few obsessions in life (Hillsong being one of them) can make me insane. I was almost having trouble breathing when the lights went dim and the projector screens began showing video reels of ministry promotions and Hillsong updates. The atmosphere struck me as not just another concert/praise & worship event opener, but something more. I'm sure it had to do with what I was expecting from the concert, "service," itself.... whatever you wanna call it. The roar of the three to four thousand people in the arena was deafening. The myriad of stage lights had already begun their dance. The band was onstage.
Although the first few songs were high-energy and meant to get people out of their shells, few did just that. For a while, I felt like I was the only person doing anything of the praise nature. It wasn't until the band played the first round of down-tempo worship songs that people actually began "getting into it." It sounds cheesy, but deep inside me, I knew without a doubt that God's spirit was going to manifest itself before the night was over. And it did. I remember the exact moment, for me, that I felt God's undeniable presence. Granted, God's presence, to me, is something that can be felt in varying degrees. The feelings range from warm-and-fuzzy to take-your-breath-away to can-barely-stand-another-moment-because-of-the-sheer-weight-and-power-of-God's-presence-pressing-against-your-entire-body. I felt all three throughout the course of the night. The third and final feeling came at a moment I distinctly remember. I could hardly breathe. I was sobbing uncontrollably and fighting with myself to remain on my feet. I felt release in joining the people around me in the rapture of the music and the rhythmic flow of energy pulsating throughout the arena. Three fourths of the way through the concert, everyone was practically drunk in the spirit. It was a frenzy of praise and worship that I hadn't experienced since my church back home.
What I love most about Hillsong is what they bring to the table. Their passion is unmistakable, and what they expect from themselves and their services, concerts, and ministry in general is excellence and life-changing testimonies. I believe that you get what you expect from God. And when people chase after something so elusive as a ground-shaking move of God, with every heart earnestly seeking, it just happens.
I went by myself, which was nice, because I didn't have to worry about keeping up with anyone but myself amidst the crowd of people, especially since my ticket was for the floor. I was standing about twenty feet from the stage and almost hyperventilating. I don't normally get that excited over things, but my few obsessions in life (Hillsong being one of them) can make me insane. I was almost having trouble breathing when the lights went dim and the projector screens began showing video reels of ministry promotions and Hillsong updates. The atmosphere struck me as not just another concert/praise & worship event opener, but something more. I'm sure it had to do with what I was expecting from the concert, "service," itself.... whatever you wanna call it. The roar of the three to four thousand people in the arena was deafening. The myriad of stage lights had already begun their dance. The band was onstage.
Although the first few songs were high-energy and meant to get people out of their shells, few did just that. For a while, I felt like I was the only person doing anything of the praise nature. It wasn't until the band played the first round of down-tempo worship songs that people actually began "getting into it." It sounds cheesy, but deep inside me, I knew without a doubt that God's spirit was going to manifest itself before the night was over. And it did. I remember the exact moment, for me, that I felt God's undeniable presence. Granted, God's presence, to me, is something that can be felt in varying degrees. The feelings range from warm-and-fuzzy to take-your-breath-away to can-barely-stand-another-moment-because-of-the-sheer-weight-and-power-of-God's-presence-pressing-against-your-entire-body. I felt all three throughout the course of the night. The third and final feeling came at a moment I distinctly remember. I could hardly breathe. I was sobbing uncontrollably and fighting with myself to remain on my feet. I felt release in joining the people around me in the rapture of the music and the rhythmic flow of energy pulsating throughout the arena. Three fourths of the way through the concert, everyone was practically drunk in the spirit. It was a frenzy of praise and worship that I hadn't experienced since my church back home.
What I love most about Hillsong is what they bring to the table. Their passion is unmistakable, and what they expect from themselves and their services, concerts, and ministry in general is excellence and life-changing testimonies. I believe that you get what you expect from God. And when people chase after something so elusive as a ground-shaking move of God, with every heart earnestly seeking, it just happens.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Addiction
I wish people would stop running up the stairs in my stairwell. It makes me nervous. Every time I hear that sound, I half-expect someone to come barging into my room, where they would find me laying stomach-down on my bed typing on my computer listening to The Weepies, with Comedy Central on mute.
People are disgusting. I have a hard time making "I would never" statements, but one thing I know for SURE I would never do is let my self-interest affect the well-being of another person. I would never let my addiction consume me to the point that I resorted to violence or degradation of an individual who had nothing to do with my problems. I was looking at the Shared Hope International website today. It's an organization that helps rescue victims of the child sex slave industry and prevent the advancement of sex trafficking. Smut attracts the darkest side of people's desires, and it's frightening what people will do under the guise of anonymity. Trading children for sex is one of the most disgusting manifestations of human self-interest. When someone is so morally vacant that they allow themselves to pimp 14-year-old children to adult men who will have sex with them repeatedly until their digestive organs begin to fail, something is seriously wrong with humanity. The issue is much bigger and more widespread than people think. Here are just a few statistics from CrisisAid.org:
- 1.2 million children are trafficked every year.
- The average age of a traffic victim is 14.
- The average victim is forced to have sex up to 40 times a day.
- Between 14,500 and 17,500 victims are trafficked into the United States each year.
- Sex trafficking is the number one crime worldwide.
Sex is dangerously universal, and it sells everywhere, no matter who you are or where you're from. Everywhere people are looking for a fix. I'd put heroine addicts one rung above buyers of child prostitution on the ladder of human depravity. Sticking a needle in your arm only directly harms the YOU. Of course, it's not even practical to make a "lesser of two evils" statement like that, because all addiction inherently harms someone other than the addict.
In the end, individual conflict between doing what's right and what feels good will never be fully resolved. I think that's a big part of the human experience--finding balance between your own desires and the will to do good for others.
Most people, I think, would be surprised to know just how strong they really are in the fight against their addictions. I'm a firm believer in the notion that, if you can will it, you can do it. I guess you could call it mind over matter. God doesn't give us challenges that we aren't able to overcome in some way. In regards to overcoming the ugliest parts of who we are and denying that which marks the human race as morally corrupt and bankrupt on conscience, Whitney Houston said it best: "I was not built to break... I didn't know my own strength."
People are disgusting. I have a hard time making "I would never" statements, but one thing I know for SURE I would never do is let my self-interest affect the well-being of another person. I would never let my addiction consume me to the point that I resorted to violence or degradation of an individual who had nothing to do with my problems. I was looking at the Shared Hope International website today. It's an organization that helps rescue victims of the child sex slave industry and prevent the advancement of sex trafficking. Smut attracts the darkest side of people's desires, and it's frightening what people will do under the guise of anonymity. Trading children for sex is one of the most disgusting manifestations of human self-interest. When someone is so morally vacant that they allow themselves to pimp 14-year-old children to adult men who will have sex with them repeatedly until their digestive organs begin to fail, something is seriously wrong with humanity. The issue is much bigger and more widespread than people think. Here are just a few statistics from CrisisAid.org:
- 1.2 million children are trafficked every year.
- The average age of a traffic victim is 14.
- The average victim is forced to have sex up to 40 times a day.
- Between 14,500 and 17,500 victims are trafficked into the United States each year.
- Sex trafficking is the number one crime worldwide.
Sex is dangerously universal, and it sells everywhere, no matter who you are or where you're from. Everywhere people are looking for a fix. I'd put heroine addicts one rung above buyers of child prostitution on the ladder of human depravity. Sticking a needle in your arm only directly harms the YOU. Of course, it's not even practical to make a "lesser of two evils" statement like that, because all addiction inherently harms someone other than the addict.
In the end, individual conflict between doing what's right and what feels good will never be fully resolved. I think that's a big part of the human experience--finding balance between your own desires and the will to do good for others.
Most people, I think, would be surprised to know just how strong they really are in the fight against their addictions. I'm a firm believer in the notion that, if you can will it, you can do it. I guess you could call it mind over matter. God doesn't give us challenges that we aren't able to overcome in some way. In regards to overcoming the ugliest parts of who we are and denying that which marks the human race as morally corrupt and bankrupt on conscience, Whitney Houston said it best: "I was not built to break... I didn't know my own strength."
Friday, April 2, 2010
Just One More Button On That Cardigan
I like most people who have April birthdays, or I like to think that I like them. Let me rephrase: I have this strange fantasy in my head that everyone I know with April birthdays would be good friends if we all hung out with each other, even if I've never actually spoken to some of those people. Oddly, I'm only now realizing how ridiculous that statement sounds.
The weather has been so poetically perfect lately. It's that time of the year when daytime may be slightly too warm, but when the sun goes down, the night is just perfect. You can walk around outside in shorts and not freeze, or even be uncomfortable, for that matter. I wait for weather like this to listen to certain music. Some music just sounds better with certain seasons. For example, Bon Iver fits best with winter, in my opinion, whereas The Weepies is perfect for mild sunny days. Spring calls for sounds like Iron & Wine, Ingrid Michaelson, Jason Mraz, Emiliana Torrini, and basically anything with a guitar.
Last night I had two dreams involving burglary and murder. One right after the other. The scenarios were similar in plot to that movie "When A Stranger Calls." Then, I dreamt about one of my friends eating at a restaurant by himself. THEN, I dreamt I met up with a kid from a music program I did last summer and his parents were there. Why did I meet his parents? I half-think that all dreams, or at least the ones you dream consecutively in one night, are related in some way. I bet the reason I saw my friend eating alone was because I had recently talked about that with one of my other friends. Not the friend himself, but eating alone in a restaurant. I can't bring myself to do that. When people play the "Never Have I Ever" game, I should list that as something I've never done, although it's in no way sexual or even interesting. But it's true. And I think more people do that than they let on.
To expound on the area of uninteresting topics, springtime beckons the completion of a litany of unsavory tasks. Grownup tasks. There's nothing I enjoy more than doing taxes and filling out FAFSAs.
Lady Gaga is coming to Oklahoma City this summer, and the ticket prices have exposed my lack of dedication that I regrettably bragged about having. Last time I checked, the cheapest ones were $138. The highest was something ridiculous like $350. I would like to take this opportunity to make it clear that I am NOT that big of a fan. Sorry, Gaga. You inspire and fascinate me, and I love you to pieces, but I can think of much better things to do with that money. Like buy your CDs on iTunes and your weird line of sparkly earphones.
The weather has been so poetically perfect lately. It's that time of the year when daytime may be slightly too warm, but when the sun goes down, the night is just perfect. You can walk around outside in shorts and not freeze, or even be uncomfortable, for that matter. I wait for weather like this to listen to certain music. Some music just sounds better with certain seasons. For example, Bon Iver fits best with winter, in my opinion, whereas The Weepies is perfect for mild sunny days. Spring calls for sounds like Iron & Wine, Ingrid Michaelson, Jason Mraz, Emiliana Torrini, and basically anything with a guitar.
Last night I had two dreams involving burglary and murder. One right after the other. The scenarios were similar in plot to that movie "When A Stranger Calls." Then, I dreamt about one of my friends eating at a restaurant by himself. THEN, I dreamt I met up with a kid from a music program I did last summer and his parents were there. Why did I meet his parents? I half-think that all dreams, or at least the ones you dream consecutively in one night, are related in some way. I bet the reason I saw my friend eating alone was because I had recently talked about that with one of my other friends. Not the friend himself, but eating alone in a restaurant. I can't bring myself to do that. When people play the "Never Have I Ever" game, I should list that as something I've never done, although it's in no way sexual or even interesting. But it's true. And I think more people do that than they let on.
To expound on the area of uninteresting topics, springtime beckons the completion of a litany of unsavory tasks. Grownup tasks. There's nothing I enjoy more than doing taxes and filling out FAFSAs.
Lady Gaga is coming to Oklahoma City this summer, and the ticket prices have exposed my lack of dedication that I regrettably bragged about having. Last time I checked, the cheapest ones were $138. The highest was something ridiculous like $350. I would like to take this opportunity to make it clear that I am NOT that big of a fan. Sorry, Gaga. You inspire and fascinate me, and I love you to pieces, but I can think of much better things to do with that money. Like buy your CDs on iTunes and your weird line of sparkly earphones.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Say Hello To Cloudy Weather
"True Life" is one of the few remaining shows on MTV that's actually engaging. It's interesting to watch because it's not typical reality television, mainly because it's actual reality. The people are real and so are their problems. Although, there are some I couldn't care less about. I'd rather not spend an hour of my life watching "True Life: I'm in a summer romance" or "True Life: I live on the Jersey Shore." I like watching documentaries on people whose lives are radically different from my own, not that I've ever had a summer romance or lived on the Jersey Shore. One was about three girls with shopping addictions. Another was about people living with severe OCD. The most interesting to date, though, is a tie between "True Life: I have Tourette's" and "True Life: I work in the porn industry." There was a True Life marathon on yesterday. I sat on my bed eating Panda Express, soaking in the laziness of the Sunday afternoon and eagerly viewing the previews for episodes of the new season of True Life, which includes, most dramatically, "True Life: I need a transplant." You wanna know what's true life? My obsession with this series.
The truth is, it's officially spring break, and 95% of my friends are in New York for a week-long workshop called OCU NYC. I'm partying it up on campus... by myself. I drove three of my friends to the airport this weekend. That number would've been four, but one of the girls going to OCU NYC got sick and had to cancel her flight because she was in the ER. But that's just ONE of the horror stories spewing forth from the text messages of all my friends who've hopped planes to NYC for spring break. Everyone one of them have either experienced lost luggage, cancelled flights, inappropriate airport goers looking at pictures of their seminude boyfriends on their phones, or a combination of the three. Thankfully, I'm in my dorm room enjoying the benefits of long-awaited solitude: blaring music as loudly as possible, feeling free to be as naked as possible (can one be more or less naked?), and just reveling in the fact that I don't have a roommate for an entire week.
Alice in Wonderland wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it'd be. 3D helped somewhat, but when it comes right down to it, bad acting is just bad acting. Anne Hathaway gave an odd performance, which seems suitable for a movie like Tim Burton's freaky rendition of Alice in Wonderland, but it was odd in an unintentional way. She was inconsistently funny but terribly consistent with her bad character choices. All in all though, the movie was visually stunning and altogether magical. Who doesn't love a good colorful movie? Take "Avatar" for instance. Case and point.
The truth is, it's officially spring break, and 95% of my friends are in New York for a week-long workshop called OCU NYC. I'm partying it up on campus... by myself. I drove three of my friends to the airport this weekend. That number would've been four, but one of the girls going to OCU NYC got sick and had to cancel her flight because she was in the ER. But that's just ONE of the horror stories spewing forth from the text messages of all my friends who've hopped planes to NYC for spring break. Everyone one of them have either experienced lost luggage, cancelled flights, inappropriate airport goers looking at pictures of their seminude boyfriends on their phones, or a combination of the three. Thankfully, I'm in my dorm room enjoying the benefits of long-awaited solitude: blaring music as loudly as possible, feeling free to be as naked as possible (can one be more or less naked?), and just reveling in the fact that I don't have a roommate for an entire week.
Alice in Wonderland wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it'd be. 3D helped somewhat, but when it comes right down to it, bad acting is just bad acting. Anne Hathaway gave an odd performance, which seems suitable for a movie like Tim Burton's freaky rendition of Alice in Wonderland, but it was odd in an unintentional way. She was inconsistently funny but terribly consistent with her bad character choices. All in all though, the movie was visually stunning and altogether magical. Who doesn't love a good colorful movie? Take "Avatar" for instance. Case and point.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Jason Derulo Is Hiding In The Cafeteria. I Knew It.
As the entire world watched the Oscars last night, I practiced piano and went to the gym. How strange that I decided to do something productive instead. Actually, that doesn't surprise me, because I'm not particularly enamored with awards shows. The Oscars, Grammys, Tonys, etc... They don't really interest me as much as they apparently interest everyone else. I don't mind not knowing which movie won Best Picture for 2009 or who snagged the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in a Romantic Comedy. Is that even a category? I'm so out of the loop, I thought the Academy Awards and the Oscars were two separate ceremonies.
About a week ago, the cafeteria served midnight breakfast as a gimmick for midterm studying, which no one was doing at the time since midterms weren't until the following week. Shakira and Ke$ha blared over the already noisy cluster of students from speakers whose origin I'm still trying to discover. Why don't they play music all the time in the caf? It makes for a brighter atmosphere, in my opinion. There are two tvs, but one is usually off, and the other is usually too quiet to hear. So basically, as we eat, we get to watch either a blank screen or muted cartoons.
The winter Olympics are over, thank goodness. I was kind of sick of seeing endless figure skating routines on the tvs in the gym for two weeks straight. Canada won in hockey, which just goes to show you: You can't beat someone at a sport they invented. Quatchi will forever be in the hearts of millions of adoring fans, as well as my bed, where a miniature stuffed replica of the mascot sasquatch currently resides. We can all go back to our comparatively mundane existences, where people don't fly down icy luges at high speeds on a regular basis or nail triple axel twists with half turn leaps.
Rainy Monday? Check. Music theory cancelled on Friday? Check. Now all this week needs is a little disco and all will be in order.
About a week ago, the cafeteria served midnight breakfast as a gimmick for midterm studying, which no one was doing at the time since midterms weren't until the following week. Shakira and Ke$ha blared over the already noisy cluster of students from speakers whose origin I'm still trying to discover. Why don't they play music all the time in the caf? It makes for a brighter atmosphere, in my opinion. There are two tvs, but one is usually off, and the other is usually too quiet to hear. So basically, as we eat, we get to watch either a blank screen or muted cartoons.
The winter Olympics are over, thank goodness. I was kind of sick of seeing endless figure skating routines on the tvs in the gym for two weeks straight. Canada won in hockey, which just goes to show you: You can't beat someone at a sport they invented. Quatchi will forever be in the hearts of millions of adoring fans, as well as my bed, where a miniature stuffed replica of the mascot sasquatch currently resides. We can all go back to our comparatively mundane existences, where people don't fly down icy luges at high speeds on a regular basis or nail triple axel twists with half turn leaps.
Rainy Monday? Check. Music theory cancelled on Friday? Check. Now all this week needs is a little disco and all will be in order.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
So Much Glitter, So Little Time
This weekend seemed to last forever. Friday, I had every intention of doing something productive besides just going to class, but that didn't happen. Instead, I bought an iPod and a pair of black bedazzled spandex pants to wear to a themed party. Saturday, I decided on a whim to drive four hours to visit my friend Tyler who goes to West Texas A&M in Canyon. We had never met in person before then. I ended up working a mardis gras themed fundraiser with him and a bunch of other broadcast majors from WT that lasted until midnight. Today, I drove back to OKC and almost ran off the road six times because I was texting.
My sister is coming to visit this week. Actually, both of my sisters are coming, my younger half-sister Faith and my older sister Charity. I'm trying to think of fun things to do with them while they're here, which should be a couple days. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I never really leave campus to do anything fun unless it's to eat out or go to the mall. Neither of those two activities are very interesting.
I'm becoming obsessed with my body. I've been investing a lot of time and effort into looking good and feeling good about myself, which is a positive thing I suppose. Since I've started sessions at my model training agency, I've become infatuated with looking my best. I go to the gym six days out of the week and spend at least an hour there each time. I guzzle protein shakes like there's no tomorrow, yet I don't seem to be gaining any considerable amount of weight. I've been drinking the protein shakes for about three or four weeks now, and I've been lifting weighs for a solid two months. I used to weigh 150; now I weigh about 153. I guess it's a start. To be honest, though, I'm the most defined I've been in my entire life. I actually have abs, pecs, and biceps now. I hope I don't get any taller than my current height.
Someone needs to turn down their booming car stereo. My window is cracked and I just heard the most deafening bass system drive by outside. It literally shook my blinds. I'm thinking about investing in a megaphone. Or a gun.
My sister is coming to visit this week. Actually, both of my sisters are coming, my younger half-sister Faith and my older sister Charity. I'm trying to think of fun things to do with them while they're here, which should be a couple days. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I never really leave campus to do anything fun unless it's to eat out or go to the mall. Neither of those two activities are very interesting.
I'm becoming obsessed with my body. I've been investing a lot of time and effort into looking good and feeling good about myself, which is a positive thing I suppose. Since I've started sessions at my model training agency, I've become infatuated with looking my best. I go to the gym six days out of the week and spend at least an hour there each time. I guzzle protein shakes like there's no tomorrow, yet I don't seem to be gaining any considerable amount of weight. I've been drinking the protein shakes for about three or four weeks now, and I've been lifting weighs for a solid two months. I used to weigh 150; now I weigh about 153. I guess it's a start. To be honest, though, I'm the most defined I've been in my entire life. I actually have abs, pecs, and biceps now. I hope I don't get any taller than my current height.
Someone needs to turn down their booming car stereo. My window is cracked and I just heard the most deafening bass system drive by outside. It literally shook my blinds. I'm thinking about investing in a megaphone. Or a gun.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Salt On Leather
The weekend before last, we had an ice storm. Classes let out early Thursday and were cancelled Friday. It was beautiful. Except for the "whole mountains of snow and dangerous sheets of ice" thing. I went sledding down a hill by the law school on the corner of campus and hit my head on a pole. Thank goodness I didn't black out. That really would've ruined my free day. For a couple days afterwards, I tried to decide whether or not having my black puffy jacket smell like a wet dog from all the melted snow was worth the enjoyment of an hour of exhilarating sledding. The answer was yes.
Ice sickles the size of katanas soon melted when the sun finally decided to show up, later the next week. Now, the campus is recovering aesthetically. Muddy tracks left by the Bobcats clearing snow off the sidewalks and dried epsom salt can be seen everywhere.
My mom came to visit this weekend. She came to the first night of Stripped because I played for one of the shows. I had to navigate her to the right building on campus over phone during the first intermission. Whatever tiny sense of direction I inherited from my parents, I didn't inherit from her. I hadn't seen her since July. I almost started crying when I was talking to her after the show, which surprised me, because I normally don't get that emotional when I see my mom for the first time in a long while. I grew up bouncing back and forth between living with her and my dad, and she moved a lot, so I never really knew when I would see her, or for how long. But something about her being there with me after the performance and just radiating all her love for me, and me understanding and absorbing it, was beautiful and priceless. I love her so much.
So since February is Black History Month, the cafeteria decided it would be fitting to serve fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and collard greens last week. Not only that, but they also posted signs everywhere for Black History Month that featured four pictures in four separate quadrants, one showing a pair of presumably African hands primevally flattening a husk of corn against a stone. I think some people found that offensive.
Perhaps more importantly this month is Valentine's Day. I've decided to wear black.
Ice sickles the size of katanas soon melted when the sun finally decided to show up, later the next week. Now, the campus is recovering aesthetically. Muddy tracks left by the Bobcats clearing snow off the sidewalks and dried epsom salt can be seen everywhere.
My mom came to visit this weekend. She came to the first night of Stripped because I played for one of the shows. I had to navigate her to the right building on campus over phone during the first intermission. Whatever tiny sense of direction I inherited from my parents, I didn't inherit from her. I hadn't seen her since July. I almost started crying when I was talking to her after the show, which surprised me, because I normally don't get that emotional when I see my mom for the first time in a long while. I grew up bouncing back and forth between living with her and my dad, and she moved a lot, so I never really knew when I would see her, or for how long. But something about her being there with me after the performance and just radiating all her love for me, and me understanding and absorbing it, was beautiful and priceless. I love her so much.
So since February is Black History Month, the cafeteria decided it would be fitting to serve fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and collard greens last week. Not only that, but they also posted signs everywhere for Black History Month that featured four pictures in four separate quadrants, one showing a pair of presumably African hands primevally flattening a husk of corn against a stone. I think some people found that offensive.
Perhaps more importantly this month is Valentine's Day. I've decided to wear black.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thirteen Blocks Is Just A Hop, Skip, & A Jump For Some Desperate College Students
One of my mom's friends is a photographer, and she does the makeup for his shoots. His name is Jeff, and he just sent me some pictures of a photo shoot he did with my mom. All I have to say is that she's looking good for 39. Real good.
This four-day weekend was a godsend. Everything is covered in snow and ice. Everything's white. Despite the inherent risks involved with snowstorm weather and slick roads, I've enjoyed this miniature break quite thoroughly. It might be a bit of a stretch, but I'm hoping they cancel classes tomorrow as well. It's been so long since I've been in class. I think I've forgotten how to sing.
My friend from Canada is having the best time making fun of Oklahoma snowstorms and what we consider "state of emergency" weather. I find it endearing that we plow snow on the highways with tractors.
I was thinking about what song I'd like to have sung at my funeral, and I'm still undecided. I think the apocalypse is going to occur within my lifetime, so I guess it's not that big of a deal if I don't have my funeral all planned out. Nonetheless, I want something straight-tone at my funeral. Like the Vienna Boys Choir. Or Enya.
This four-day weekend was a godsend. Everything is covered in snow and ice. Everything's white. Despite the inherent risks involved with snowstorm weather and slick roads, I've enjoyed this miniature break quite thoroughly. It might be a bit of a stretch, but I'm hoping they cancel classes tomorrow as well. It's been so long since I've been in class. I think I've forgotten how to sing.
My friend from Canada is having the best time making fun of Oklahoma snowstorms and what we consider "state of emergency" weather. I find it endearing that we plow snow on the highways with tractors.
I was thinking about what song I'd like to have sung at my funeral, and I'm still undecided. I think the apocalypse is going to occur within my lifetime, so I guess it's not that big of a deal if I don't have my funeral all planned out. Nonetheless, I want something straight-tone at my funeral. Like the Vienna Boys Choir. Or Enya.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Waterfalls In January
I'm sick of thinking. Some days I just want to sit and think about nothing. That would never happen, though, because there are always millions of thoughts running through my head at any given moment. But the thoughts just don't make sense. They're half-thoughts, and there's no use trying to communicate them to anyone. I'm not an active thinker by nature, which I think most other people are, or at least the people I'm usually around seem to be. I think about pointless things and in effect miss the big picture, which is why it's easy for me to lose focus all the time. I also hate typing about any of this knowing that someone will eventually read it because I know that no one wants to hear about my issues.
That said, I refuse to ramble on about them.
I think I'm going to have to drop my composition class and replace it with a three-hour-long "Intro. To Sociology" class that meets on Tuesday evenings, which makes me want to shoot myself. The fact that the new class meets once a week for three hours and deals with topics I couldn't care less about doesn't bother me as much as the idea of leaving my Comp. II class. I love that class. The professor is a short, clever woman with black-rimmed glasses and a voice that's almost as unforgettable as her hair, the brightest strawberry blonde I've ever seen. She makes me laugh and she makes me think, both qualities I find to be extremely endearing.
I think God is trying to wipe Oklahoma City University off the map. Last night, a torrential downpour, complete with lightning and hail, soaked the entire campus. There's a parking lot behind the music school that's especially tricky to traverse during a rainstorm because of how dark and shiny the asphalt gets when it gets covered with water. It makes it difficult to tell where the water is deep and where it's shallow, which is how I soaked my Chuck Taylors last night before leaving for church choir. Interestingly enough, I didn't see a single earthworm on any sidewalk last night.
That said, I refuse to ramble on about them.
I think I'm going to have to drop my composition class and replace it with a three-hour-long "Intro. To Sociology" class that meets on Tuesday evenings, which makes me want to shoot myself. The fact that the new class meets once a week for three hours and deals with topics I couldn't care less about doesn't bother me as much as the idea of leaving my Comp. II class. I love that class. The professor is a short, clever woman with black-rimmed glasses and a voice that's almost as unforgettable as her hair, the brightest strawberry blonde I've ever seen. She makes me laugh and she makes me think, both qualities I find to be extremely endearing.
I think God is trying to wipe Oklahoma City University off the map. Last night, a torrential downpour, complete with lightning and hail, soaked the entire campus. There's a parking lot behind the music school that's especially tricky to traverse during a rainstorm because of how dark and shiny the asphalt gets when it gets covered with water. It makes it difficult to tell where the water is deep and where it's shallow, which is how I soaked my Chuck Taylors last night before leaving for church choir. Interestingly enough, I didn't see a single earthworm on any sidewalk last night.
Friday, January 1, 2010
2010
I envy the people who work at this Chinese restaurant in my home town. I'm sure it's one family that owns the restaurant itself, and all the family members work there. They are some of the most hard working people I've ever encountered. Maybe not so much hard working as focused. They do their jobs extremely well and they always seem content with where they are at the time. I wonder if any of them ever dream beyond the scope of that restaurant, or if their lives are limited to it. Whether or not they're bound to upholding the family tradition doesn't seem to phase them as they pour your drink for you every six minutes and smile the fakest smile you've ever seen. I'd like to think that they're all happy doing what they do. And maybe they are. Who am I to judge?
Last night I brought in the new year with wine and pizza and Jay-Z's freaky new world premiere video, as well as a strange twist of fate. A kid from my old high school came over. He graduated the year before me in my sister's class, and I hadn't seen him since then, but apparently he works here in Kansas City at the BKE that my cousin used to manage. It's such a small world we live in. After the ball dropped, I spent the rest of the night watching Paranormal Activity by myself, which makes me feel like a hypocrite, because just the other day my friend did the exact same thing and I made fun of him for it. I didn't even finish the movie, not because it wasn't interesting but because I was tired.
It's sad that my only goals at this point for the new year are to get a new battery for my car and to graduate my freshman year of college. I should be more focused on what I want to accomplish, but I know that when I figure out what I want to do, I'll do it. I'm going to turn nineteen in April, and I'm thinking that's when I want to get my tattoo. On my birthday, I mean. Wait... I just realized that I have another goal: get a tattoo. This year is looking brighter already! Just for fun, though, I'd like to make a ridiculous New Year's resolution that I know I won't keep--I resolve to pursue a modeling career in Italy and end up on the E! True Hollywood Story.
Last night I brought in the new year with wine and pizza and Jay-Z's freaky new world premiere video, as well as a strange twist of fate. A kid from my old high school came over. He graduated the year before me in my sister's class, and I hadn't seen him since then, but apparently he works here in Kansas City at the BKE that my cousin used to manage. It's such a small world we live in. After the ball dropped, I spent the rest of the night watching Paranormal Activity by myself, which makes me feel like a hypocrite, because just the other day my friend did the exact same thing and I made fun of him for it. I didn't even finish the movie, not because it wasn't interesting but because I was tired.
It's sad that my only goals at this point for the new year are to get a new battery for my car and to graduate my freshman year of college. I should be more focused on what I want to accomplish, but I know that when I figure out what I want to do, I'll do it. I'm going to turn nineteen in April, and I'm thinking that's when I want to get my tattoo. On my birthday, I mean. Wait... I just realized that I have another goal: get a tattoo. This year is looking brighter already! Just for fun, though, I'd like to make a ridiculous New Year's resolution that I know I won't keep--I resolve to pursue a modeling career in Italy and end up on the E! True Hollywood Story.
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