I'm a Senior.

Right now, there are several things I could be doing with my time:
1) attempting my 85 calculus problems
2) studying for my European history test
3) watching the Grammy's
4) memorizing my oratory
5) reading Dorian Gray
6) eating the Hershey's Cookies'n'Cream chocolate bar right next to my computer mouse

Instead of doing all that, I am informing you of all these things I could be doing and comparing myself to a character in the Superman comic I read yesterday. (Judge me not) No, I'm not comparing myself to Superman, no, I'm not quite that narcissistic (or muscular). There's another guy in one of the comics who literally has no fear. None. He sat through an airplane crash,  a confrontation with armed crooks, and a scolding from Superman without flinching once. I'm not actually like that at all (I jump when a pen drops). However, lately, since Christmas, I have been unable to panic. Calculus problems due? Mehh I'll read a book. Car almost out of gas? Mehh it'll last a few more miles at least. Two weeks late with a biology assignment? Mehh I'll do extra credit later. No late nights crying about schoolwork. Never again.

Senioritis: a blessing and a curse. We worry not about academic things, but we still feel the need to put some pencil to paper because we feel sorry for our teachers deep down. No stress, but an ingrained compulsion to work. So, instead of finishing all our homework at 6 (good job, freshmen!), we start our homework at 10 or so, finish at 2, and then complain about all the work the teachers make us seniors do. Cruel world! At least Stumbleupon and frozen yogurt understand us!

Sigh. Good thing I've got no plans for Lover's Day, cause I literally have to write a whole seven page paper.

Bleck. Time to eat the candy bar.

My Daisy List, Part 1

According to Urban Dictionary dot com, a "bucket list" is:


"list of things to do before you die" 
"list of things you always say your going to do and don't" (grammar errors are not due to my failure as a human being) 
"you feel insecure about your life and therefore make a list of things to get busy on" AND
"list of ugly or undesirable females" (never heard that one before...)


While it might be incredibly entertaining to make a list of that last definition, I am certain that I will die naturally of boredom within the next two days. I would rather not die by violent means if avoidable. 


So, instead, over Christmas break (it was warmer then than it is now. WTF, God.), I wrote out a nice, long bucket list. 39 items so far, and I'm positive that as my life experiences grow, I will find more adventures to add. However, one thing about creating a bucket list turned me off. The name. Bucket list - things to do before you "kick the bucket." Real sensitive to all of us who are going to die [redundancy?]. Since I consider it offensive and ineffectual to approach life in this way, I decided to rename my bucket list. 


In this TV-saturated society, even those of us without a TV could name just about every show that has run in the past decade. Call to mind "Pushing up Daisies." A very nice euphemism for death, methinks. Therefore, my bucket list is now a 'Daisy List.' (Copyright, 2011) Before I die, I hope to gradually pluck each of these items off of my list, so that when I die, I will be truly ready to die.


Anyways, this is a very deep, personal list which will disclose to you my innermost desires. But my cabin fever rises by the hour, I have not much time left on this earth. This is to make you appreciate me before it is too late. 


1) Explore the Australian Outback. I would love to herd sheep or raise wallabies for a year, despite the constant danger of being drowned or swept up by a cyclone or killed by a stingray...


2) Perform the National Anthem at some sporting event, preferably one with more than ten people in the stands...And by perform, I don't necessarily mean 'sing.' Wouldn't you like to see a kazoo anthem, or accordion, or I could even drag a harp out on the field! Armpit farts, car horns, the classic spoon-and-wine-glass, cymbals, sign language, the possibilities are endless! Contact me if you have a venue...

Maybe if they had moustaches???

3) Backpack through Europe. The dream of every bored American. There's only so much enjoyment to be found in hot geysers, giant holes in the ground, and carved rock sculptures of several guys who didn't completely screw the country over while in charge (revolution, civil war, no big deal, right?). We want castles, man. 


4) Write a rap jazz song. An intense one, comparable to Nellie McKay's "Sari" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJZY-Czcp2E
or US3's "Cantaloop"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwBjhBL9G6U

5) Climb a big mountain. This will take a while, not just to climb, but to prepare, get in shape, and get over my fear of big rocks after 127 Hours....

6)  Join the Peace Corps. DREAM, right here. I would love to go to Africa or Central America for a couple years, chill with the natives, and help an impoverished area develop a bit. 2 years away from home sounds absolutely amazing right now, after being sealed up for four days.

7) Run a marathon. I have been planning to start running everyday, but everyday hasn't approached yet. I'll keep my eyes peeled for him.

Who wouldn't want to learn to speak this?

8) Learn Arabic. Especially with the unpleasant situation occurring over in mummy-land right now, Arabic would be a useful language to learn. If I go to University of Texas next year, I hope to enroll in its Arabic Flagship Program. Four years of Arabic, one free year in the Middle East. (What can I say? I can't refuse anything that's free...)


9) Follow a rainbow to its end. The lovers, the dreamers, Kermit the Frog, and me. Hey, that pot of gold would be useful too.

10) Get a pet monkey. Monkeys are adorable (at least when I'm not being told I LOOK like one...) If I am ever forced to get a pet, I would only agree to a monkey. Also, when I'm homeless and poor, a monkey might help me make some $$$.

11) Live without a car for a year. I'm currently living without meat for a year, can a car be much different? (Maybe by then, there will be an alternative to cars, anyways. Flying shoes, anyone?)

I'm not as ugly as they are, either!

12) Dye my hair lavender. Channeling...[racking my head for the name of a famous lavender-haired person] Kelly Osbourne, Lady Gaga. Sigh. If only I WANTED to be like either of those nutcases.

13) Have my portrait painted. Legitimately, though, not by a caricaturist in Central Park. Mona Lisa style! (except I'm not a man...)

14) Get stranded in a blizzard. WAIT. One petal plucked.

15) Take an IQ test. Am I Mensa material? I think, therefore I am. (Or was Descartes talking about something else?)

As I am nearing the 1,000th view mark on my blog, I would appreciate if you would refresh the page several times after reading this, to push the statistics up. It makes me feel really popular. Thanks, darlings.

February. Pigg. Countertenor. REJECTION.

Oh, snow days. You give me time to write long blog posts, read some Jane Austen, and lie around the house in a Superman Snuggie munching on marshmallow brownies and taking random naps in assorted chairs around the house. You also give me time to accept rejection and darkly anticipate a depressing month. Let's work backward, shall we?

I was rejected for the first time today. I applied for a writing scholarship in November, and was informed today that *sigh* UNC does not appreciate my sense of humor or skillful use of adjectives and insults. They did accept me, but this impoverished girl can't afford out-of-state tuition without a bit of a boost. UNC, I reject you.
Thus, my lucky streak in terms of college admissions is over, and I am preparing myself for more of these dank emails. My only consolation is that someday, when I'm famous with a best-seller and millions of dollars, they will remember not giving me that scholarship and regret it. Eat my dust.

Of course, when I am in the dark pit of despair, I always turn to la musique, the best gift God could bestow on his clay sculptures. Especially when the music is made by tenors. Or, countertenors.


SAM TSUI. The Youtube sensation who remakes awful pop songs into something resembling quality. For example, consider the new Britney song "Hold it Against Me." It has lyrics which make my six-year old sister's attempts to rewrite the birthday song (happy birthday to you, you smell like poo) look like Hammerstein material. But Sam Tsui's very high tenor voice (alright, he's not QUITE a countertenor, but it's pretty close) enters your ear like a Q-tip. It scoops out all the gunk left by Britney's version and gives you a 3 minute, 49 second eargasm. The video swoops from his face (head swiveling, eyes closed, cheesy-as-mozzarella sticks look of absolute concentration and ecstasy) to his hands (awful technical work, but it's the notes that count) to the not-meant-to-be-funny antics of his producer, the ever adorable Kurt. This performance rids the head of Bieber-fever and gives it Tsui-itis, especially if you are a teenage girl with red-tinted locks and an impenetrably optimistic view of love eleven months out of the year.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxTDK1S5qJ0
Now, Sammy also writes his own music (thanks, Yale education). While better than Britney's, these lyrics still barely surpass my eight-year old sister's skill with words (she's GOOD, man). "We say see ya later, but I know there's no way we're around here again." Really, Sam, 'later' and 'way we're' rhyme??
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1p74Isbcgc
But you are forgiven for pure virtue of the fact that you are adorable and Chinese.


Pretty voice, Sam has, but skill? That's Landon Pigg's domain. The only reason HE'S not ridiculously famous is because of his rather unfortunate name. Pigg brings up several images, none of them pleasant. But this indie-pop cutie with bad teeth, greasy lank hair, skinny pants and ties, shlurpy endings of phrases, and golden eyes, deserves more than a supporting role in a Drew Barrymore movie (Whip It) and a song commission for a Shrek movie. No, he deserves stardom and listeners like you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yaEc4SuhRbY&feature=relmfu
I mean, what is more endearing than indecision? He hasn't fallen for you, he has 'possibly, maybe fallen for you.' Huge difference. If he were a real boy, he'd be smacked cold. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kLfjhSmvFjM&feature=relmfu
Finally, he carries a messenger bag and is pigeon-toed. Buy me a plane ticket to Nashville, please.

Ugh. Now for my least favorite topic. February. No wonder it comes from the traditional Anglo-Saxon term for cabbage. It is asymmetrical with the other months, hard to say (Feb-roo-ary or Feb-you-ary?), cold, and not close enough to May to make me happy. I don't even need to mention Valentine's Day to make February sound bad. Yeah, it started with a snow day, but there's NO SNOW and it's WAY too cold to go outside, PLUS my car is being utilized not by me, so I am stuck here, complaining to you, computer screen, and you, dear readers, who bothered to read all the way to the end of this.

No school AGAIN tomorrow. I haven't started my calculus homework and self-pity makes me feel important and misused by the world, BUT I'M BORED.


PATRONIZE ME, higher authority, and give me something to do besides blog! 

The Thrill is Gone

I always used to look forward to dinner every night. My whole family, crammed around the table, saying grace, stuffing our faces, leaving only some scraggly veggies as leftovers (unless, of course, it's 'experiment' night for my mom...). But those days are over. Instead of joining my family as soon as mother calls the meal to order, I have to go into the kitchen, drag out a pan, some beans, cheese, assorted vegetables, kale, shrimp, bread, eggs, and any combination of those foods in order to make my totally meat-free meal. My family is usually done eating by the time I sit down at the table with my humble plate. I have not touched meat in 31 days. One month done, ELEVEN to go!

I am rather proud of myself. I definitely do not miss meat very often, and when I do, it's usually because I feel too lazy to make the effort to cook for myself. It's a pain but very good preparation for college and 'real life' (whatever the hell that is), if I say so myself. However, since giving up meat cold turkey, I have really not felt any different. I've lost a couple of pounds, increased my consumption of ice cream and yogurt, and learned how to peel an avocado and cook rice! Exciting, I know, but that's about it. I even have to take these strawberry-smelling multi-purpose vitamins which have over 100% of the daily value for several different nutrients (is that even safe?)

I was assured that after giving up meat, I would enjoy eating more, I would learn to love exotic flavors and the tenderness of florets of broccoli, lentils would caress my tongue, spinach would be my pillow, and more. LIES. I simply don't enjoy eating as much anymore, not because of the lack of meat, but because it takes so much effort to make a nice meal, that by the time I'm done, I have inhaled enough odors from the skillet to fill me up for a week. Master chef material? Not me. I'll read the cookbook and pick out recipes for YOU to make, but don't make me TOUCH the spatula (unless it's covered with cookie dough...)

Anyways, join me in saving the animals I don't really care about to begin with!

Reading is WINNING

In an effort to inspire you, dear readers, to read more than just my blog, here are quotes from some of my favorite books. Read them through, and you might just find that book which could change your life.


"It's a funny thing about the modern world. You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, "Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He didn't love me. He just couldn'tdeal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me." Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking,malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll--then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time."


White Teeth by Zadie Smith is a social commentary dealing with racism, religion, radicalism, genetic manipulation, war, peace, Jehovah's Witnesses, animal rights, love, hate, sex, passion, mice, and, most importantly, TEETH. It is laugh-out-loud funny but liable to bring the reader to tears or moments of deep reflection. I read most of this on a car trip: out of the ten hours on the road, I spent two reading this book, and three staring out the window thinking about this book (I slept the rest of the time...)

"Human beings do not live forever, Reuven. We live less than the time it takes to blink an eye, if we measure our lives against eternity. So it may be asked what value is there to a human life. There is so much pain in the world. What does it mean to have to suffer so much if our lives are nothing more than the blink of an eye? I learned a long time ago, Reuven, that a blink of an eye in itself is nothing. But the eye that blinks, that is something. A span of life is nothing. But the man who lives that span, he is something."


The Chosen by Chaim Potok is an examination of friendship and religion, with an emphasis on how education shapes each individual. It is the story of two Jewish friends who overcome baseball injuries and stubborn fathers to find the meaning in their lives in this coming of age story. I have read it four times, thrice in the same summer. 

"Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it's been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week--a miracle, people say, as if they've been educated from greeting cards." 


"We and the world, my children, will always be at war.
Retreat is impossible.
Arm yourselves."


Peace like a River by Leif Enger (amazing name, I know) is a spiritual book. It follows the lives of a family which is touched by crime, not as victims, but as sort of accomplices. It contains allusions galore and makes the reader feel hopeful and empathetic. Expect to shed many, many tears. 

 "Now constipation was quite a different matter...It would be dreadful for the whole world to know about troubles of that nature. She felt terribly sorry for people who suffered from constipation, and she knew that there were many who did. There were probably enough of them for a political party - with a chance of government. Perhaps - but what would such a party do if it was in power? Nothing, she imagined. It would try to pass legislation, but would fail."


44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith is an interesting view of the world from the perspectives of several characters: a college student, an art gallery owner, an anthropologist, a six-year old boy, a dog-owner, and more, who all live and interact in Edinburgh. This is absolutely dry humor with a sadistic slant and an overall feeling of absurdism.  Read this quote again if you didn't catch the awful pun the first time...


"In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York is in heavy boots." 


"Succotash my cocker spaniel, you fudging crevasse-hole dipshiitake!"


Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer is a novel like no other. It skips around from plot to plot and image to image; the reader never knows what will come next. However, eventually the reader catches the thread of the story, and feels everything the narrator is feeling as an orphaned son of a Jewish man killed in 9/11 and the grandson of two rather troubled individuals who lived through the Holocaust (one of whom communicates entirely through writing- he has 'yes' and 'no' written on his hands for quick responses). This book contains crude, pre-teen, absolutely hilarious jokes and wordplays. Also read/watch Everything is Illuminated, and meet Sammy Davis Jr. Jr., the seeing-eye bitch. 

"Ah, good conversation - there's nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing." 


"His whole future seemed suddenly to be unrolled before him; and passing down its endless emptiness he saw the dwindling figure of a man to whom nothing was ever to happen."


"In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs"


Edith Wharton is the pre-eminent feminist writer of the Victorian period. She explores true love and passion and how easy it is for people to completely lose themselves and waste away their lives on an empty dream or by giving up on their dreams too early. The Age of Innocence: the title explains all. 


Read these, tell me you read them, and discuss them with me so I can enjoy them once again! These all make great college essay topics if you are able to relate the book to your own life (they're intellectual books wink wink).
Readers are leaders! 

Mr. Darcy and Domestic Abuse

"where fun goes to die"

[Skip this paragraph if you dislike me] I'm one of those good kids who offer to watch the little ones while my parents take a date night (of course, there is a certain amount of coercion involved...like ice cream and movies, but I am sacrificing my Saturday night after all...). Anyways, after 8 o'clock, when the girlsies go off to bed and the boy falls asleep with Buzz Lightyear on the sofa, dreaming of Star Command and light-up sneakers, I have free time. Free time to think, do homework (ha), read, and write. Also, since I did a selfless thing in offering up my time, I reflect on all of my other amazingly amazing qualities. Gosh, I am perfect. And the thing which makes me even more perfect is the fact that if someone told me I was not perfect, I would not believe them. My mind is made up. I am confident in my perfection. Now, since the only ones who would read my fantastic blog posts are those who APPRECIATE fine writing like it was French wine over Cali or White Rock coffee over Starbucks or Half-Price over Borders or love over sex or calling over texting or Henry James over Stephanie Meyer or Draco over Harry or Gandalf over Dumbledore or University of Chicago over the Ivies, I feel confident that all of you, dear readers, love to hear my countless success stories. Without further ado, I will brag a bit more before I actually get to my topic (third blog post in a week! welcome, senioritis!) I received a scholarship to the University of Chicago. Made my life, pretty much, considering that only 8% of admitted students get ANY merit aid there at all. (I will not mention the fact that the scholarship would only cover half of my boarding costs...so it's like hitting a ball and getting halfway to first base). BUT still. That is why I am perfect. Ask to see my pretty embossed certificate. It even comes in a personalized folder! Too bad the scholarship is MEASLY. (I blame this fact on Mr. Obama. He is liberal therefore he hates rich people therefore he believes that only need-based aid should be given out so that rich people have to pay full tuition and since he taught at Chicago, he influences all of their admission policies. EFF him.)

But now for my real topic.
I am re-reading Pride and Prejudice (fourth time) for the TAPPS Literary Criticism competition. Now, I love me some Jane Austen and all the movies and all the fan fiction. I have been compared to Elizabeth Bennet several times (best way to impress me: compare me to a literary character from a classic novel), and I fell in love with Matthew Macfadyen as soon as I saw the recent movie adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. I am well-versed in Austenian language. I abhor Emma. I understand Jane Austen better than I understand myself (or, at least, I understand Anne Hathaway's portrayal of her...)

However, there is something profoundly disturbing in the relationship between Eliza and Darcy in P&P. Look at the title. Pride = vice. Prejudice = vice. Both combined? Not healthy. Let's start with an outline of their relationship (if you have not read this novel, you can stop reading my blog. FOREVER.)
1. Darcy tells his friend Bingley that Eliza "is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me."
2. Elizabeth hates Darcy now, understandably.
3. They quarrel like married folk.
4. Darcy is secretly madly in love with Eliza, and treats her even worse to try to convince himself that he isn't, since she's poor and he's filthy rich.
5. Darcy can't stand his passion and proposed to Eliza. She rejects him cold.
6. Elizabeth falls in love with Darcy for a number of emotional reasons. The reader suspects her love has been repressed from the beginning. Freudian win.
7. They simmer for a while.
8. They express their undying love and mate up quickly. The book ends here so it doesn't have to explain what a trainwreck their marriage [probably] is.

It's pointless to resist. Really. 

Elizabeth is portrayed as a feminist throughout the book. She is strong-willed, cleverer than all the men, uniquely pretty, and does not fall for every rich man who walks into her life. But she falls into that pit called love. Now, some people have pillows at the bottom of their love-pit. Others have cotton candy, or cashmere, or are caught by a gust of fresh air before reaching the bottom. Elizabeth has vipers. Love bites her and poisons her. She forgets about her own pride and instead indulges Darcy's. Darcy gets everything he wants. He wins the love of the person who most despises him. What can't he do?

And there lies the issue. P&P is such a popular book, that I blame it for a certain amount of domestic abuse. Not the actual abuse, but the toleration of the abuse by women. I reason that women who have read the novel want a Mr. Darcy. Unanimously. They find an imitation Darcy, whatever suits their interpretation of his virtues, and marry/date him. Their Darcy might be a dirtbag, though. But the worse he treats them, the more they feel Elizabeth-like, and the more they wait for that day when their Darcy kneels in front of them and asks for forgiveness and love. But real life ain't like the books, sister. You get treated badly? You won't ever be treated differently. Darcy was verbally abusive, rude, and ridiculously elitist. If he were real, he would never change. Jane Austen could morph him into the perfect man, but she's the author. She can rewrite the personalities of her characters. You cannot rewrite the personality of your man. But I'm not going to write a petition to ban P&P. Not only have I fallen head over heels for Mr.Darcy and am a total hypocrite, but I am a true feminist. You wanna marry the dirtbag? Be my guest, you should be able to make your own decisions. That is the true spirit of feminism. I applaud you. Enjoy your illusion.

But don't be offended when I give you pepper spray as a wedding present.

Chipped nail polish? I am judging you.

Humans have a strange habit of changing the colors of the dead things hanging off of their bodies. And I've got the urge stronger than many. Not only have I dyed my hair, but I also love to paint my nails every other day. One of my biggest pet peeves is chipped nail polish. If I had less self-control, and if travel-sized nail polish remover bottles were available, I would go around and virtually attack those girls with awfully painted nails. And, sadly, it's usually those same girls who are absolutely obsessed with every other aspect of their appearance. Perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect lip color, perfect eyebrows, perfect color coordination, but GOD those nails!

NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

Granted, I sometimes do find myself without that extra fifteen minutes to fix my nails, but that imprecision never lasts more than a day. So here are some facts, advice, and suggestions for you to make your phalanges fabulous (one of my lists! get excited!):

1) Nail polish helps you to express your creativity in a non-destructive way (that is, until you spill some on a marble surface...take it from me, your momma won't be happy) If you are constantly uniformed, nail polish can relieve some of the feeling of overwhelming conformity. You can be different, even if it's only in a shallow way like neon nails. Suggested colors to stand out: BLACK, ALL-WHITE, NEON, BROWN

2) The ultimate brand of nail polish is OPI. It's a bit pricey, but it covers flawlessly, lasts forever, and has an amazing array of colours to choose from. My favorites? Over the Taupe, Makes Men Blush (what I'm wearing now!), Midnight in Moscow, Sanguine, and the color I desperately want called Black Shatter, a new kind of polish which you paint over another color, and it 'shatters' to reveal a pattern like the one above! [Nail nerd alert: go here http://www.opi.com/ and you can find every OPI color and try it on a virtual hand. GAHH]

3) Four layers for perfect coverage. Base coat, two color coats, and one top coat. (I always cheat on that, never fear...but if it's perfection you want!) And make sure your remover works well, or you will have streaky fingers when it comes time to change colors. And NEVER paint over old polish unless it's a minor touch-up. It looks messy, and after a while the polish soaks into your nails and turns them yellow. Gross. If your bottle ever gets sealed up with dry nail polish (OPI bottles do this. A lot.) boil some water and stick the top of the bottle in for a few seconds, and the top should screw off instantly! (Remember, boiling water is HOT...)

4) Now, tomorrow, look at people's hands. You can tell a lot about a person from the color they have on their nails. Unless, of course, it's me, since I own almost the whole spectrum of the rainbow and beyond and have no fear of strange colors. Here are some examples: 

Black? Goth or very fashion forward (take a cue from her clothes)

Red? Always the best color to turn to when befuddled. Several meanings: businesswoman, theatre chick, whore, passionista.

Pink? If it's bright, then beware the Barbie! If it's pale, expect a shy, feminine piece of innocence (I'm wearing pale pink right now, doncha know ;) )

Orange/yellow? Sunshine! Enthusiasm! Self-confidence!

Coffee (aka 'brown')? My favoriteee! Earthiness, sophistication.

Purple? The grown-up pink. 

Metallic/glitter? Purely for fun. 

3) Pamper your nails! Let them dry all the way, and wear lotion often to keep the cuticles soft (the rest of your hand benefits as well: I have a reputation for very soft hands). To reach that point of pillow-soft downy hands which everyone wants to hold, wear lotion to bed with socks over your hands. I KNOW it sounds dumb. It is, really. But if you're determined to get that second date and/or get really cold hands at night, it's ridiculously effective...

2) Okay. Coordination with clothing. If you are a pastel-wearing person, stay away from metallics! Otherwise, unless you're going to a dance or nice dinner or fancy party (in which case you should find the perfect color to match/clash with your outfit) anything goes! Well, at least in my leg-warmers, rainbow striped tights, ugly sweater and jeggings style book...

1) It's generally better to have someone else paint your nails. But never ask me. You'll end up all gloppy like the brownies I attempted to bake yesterday...However, I have reached the point of enough ambidexterity to paint my own nails rather impeccably. But hey, that's the gift of twelve years of piano. Go to a salon or a friend or a sister. 

P.S. I did gear this post rather towards girls (gosh, do I HAVE female readers???)...but if you're a guy and you love to polish it up, good for you. My little brother gets his nails painted every week by one of his loving older sisters (Buzz Lightyear colors always!)

Remember, painting your nails is the best way to hide grubbiness!

Metaphors are LIES

My blogging spirit kicks in about this time every night before a calculus test. My brain seems to want to rebel against integrals and velocity and simply enter default mode. And, of course, I have to blog about this amazing little book which I read this weekend. (Note to all: Go to Half-Price Books. Find the $1 bargain books. Buy them. Read them. Be happy.) The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is not the sort of title you would expect me, the Henry James addict, the Agatha Christie expert, to read on a long weekend. But I did. And I would recommend the same to you.

In 2003, British author Mark Haddon published his first book entitled as above (taken from a classic Conan Doyle story). Christopher John Francis Boone, the 15-year old narrator of the story, has some form of autism but happens to be an incredible math savant. In fact, he can list every prime number up to 7057. He goes to a school for what he calls 'stupid' children (there are several heart-wrenching scenes where he tells stories about his school-the children who have epileptic fits, the frequent fights), but he makes history by being the first child to be prepared to take A-level maths, apparently the equivalent of an AP test or SAT.

This quote almost made me reconsider my future as an English major and change to mathematics ASAP. [key word: almost]: "Prime numbers are what is left when you have taken all the patterns away. I think prime numbers are like life. They are very logical but you could never work out the rules, even if you spent all your time thinking about them."

This is coming from what many would call a mentally disabled teenager? Hell, he's deeper than I am.

So, this kid has major social problems. He can't bear to be touched, even by his single father, without screaming. He doesn't understand any human emotions except happy and sad, and he only learned about those with help from his counselor, Siobhan, the most abstract yet admirable character in the story. He loves his pet rat more than anything, and is more upset at almost losing him than he was about his mother's death.

Christopher finds his neighbor's dog dead one night, stabbed through the heart with a garden fork, and resolves to find the murderer. However, by investigating this, he accidentally uncovers secrets which his close acquaintances have been hiding for years. What are they? Completely unbelievable, yet this is a book and this child is clueless. And you are as clueless as Christopher. When he explains what he is thinking about, and why he is thinking about these particular things, you understand him. He makes perfect sense. Why wouldn't you run away in his position? Why wouldn't you sit and groan for three hours? You sympathize and empathize with the boy. I definitely cried.

If you believed that genetic manipulation was a good idea before, I hope you will think about it more. If we were to lose children like Christopher, who would be able to make such honest observations about the world? Consider it akin to genocide: wiping out a 'race' of people who are very much able to contribute to society. Of course, it is a struggle to be a family member of a challenged child. My own cousin has Asperger's, but the challenge is worth the rewards: the trust, the simplicity, the common sense, the lack of judgment. This book forces you to retreat from the ideal of a 'perfect' society, where everyone has a certain IQ or the right amount of social skills, and instead forces you to consider perfection in places where you would not expect to find it. Think about it.

"I think people believe in heaven because they don't like the idea of dying, because they want to carry on living and they don't like the idea that other people will move into their house and put their things into the rubbish."


"And I know I can do this because I went to London on my own, and because I solved the mystery…and I was brave and I wrote a book and that means I can do anything."


 "The word "metaphor" means carrying something from one place to another . . . and it is when you describe something by using a word for something that it isn't. This means that the word "metaphor" is a metaphor. I think it should be called a lie because a pig is not like a day and people people do not have skeletons in their cupboards. And when I try and make a picture of the phrase in my head it just confuses me because imagining and apple in someone's eye doesn't have anything to do with liking someone a lot and it makes you forget what the person was talking about. "
 
"Then he asked if I didn’t like things changing. And I said I wouldn’t mind things changing if I became an astronaut, for example, which is one of the biggest changes you can imagine, apart from becoming a girl or dying."

"Everyone has learning difficulties, because learning to speak French or understanding relativity is difficult."

P.S. There was a whole stack of these on sale at Half-Price. Make a trip. NOW.

SMILE DAY!

The second week after getting back from vacation is probably the most awful week of the year. You are over the excitement of seeing friends again, homework starts piling up, the first tests surface, and you feel lethargic from all the leftover holiday goodies. Not to mention your New Year's Resolutions, which have either been broken or never started (no fears, I am still a veggie-eater!) So, in an effort to have a good day tomorrow (yes, this is all for completely selfish, self-absorbed, ME reasons), I am asking all of you, dear readers, to SMILE tomorrow. At everyone.

For example:

That awkward moment when you are walking down the hallway and there's a single person walking toward you from the other end. SMILE.
When you walk in a classroom of the teacher you abhor. SMILE.
When you bump into:
That unrequited love. SMILE.
That requited love. SMILE.
That kid you hate. SMILE.
A freshman. SMILE.
A doorway. SMILE
Smile at your mom, your cellphone, your car radio, the dead flowers in your yard, even your calculus homework.
And if you want to be even more exciting, smile at people in the cars next to you. I mean, people actually get DATES doing that. Who knows, it could be your lucky day....

Not only will you make yourself feel happier (it is scientifically proven that if you pretend to be happy, you will be happier), but you might end up freaking other people out and making them feel like sourpusses, which definitely is worth the sore face at the end of the day.

Of course, the cynics among you are sneering. "Stupid, cliche bloggers. Real life sucks. No reason to be happy." Yeah, yeah, yeah. But cheer up just for tomorrow, Grinch. Grow a heart. Don't be negative. Eat a cookie.

In the 'words' (snicker) of the great Charlie Chaplin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ps6ck1ejoAw&feature=related

Lily Allen is great, too, if you're new-fangled and shit:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZyTOROlo9E

SMILE!

Dare to Dye!

Yeah, you. You know that feeling. You do something drastic to your appearance: cut all your hair off, remove your braces, lose your baby fat. Or you do something kinda rebellious: apply to that college in Europe, buy that skanky dress, leave your trash on the lunch table (ooohhh. detention, guys!). Or you do what I did. (If you like to read out loud, please whisper this next sentence!)


You dye your hair. 


Oh gosh, oh gosh. Maybe the Mayans had it wrong! Maybe December 12, 2012 really meant January 1, 2011!

Silly, I know, but people react like that. With something resembling hate, just because you dared to change a bit. The same goes for other things. All things, really. If you start doubting your religion, you are often ridiculed. If you never doubt your religion while all others are, you are ridiculed. If you listen to show tunes and you play football, you are ridiculed. If you listen to rap and perform in a musical, you are ridiculed. Not by everybody, no, but there is enough hidden whisperings and rumors and such that it is certainly enough.

Enough to REALLY rankle people who are attempting to individualize themselves a bit. Anything wrong with that? And sometimes, they're not even attempting to be unique. They simply are unique.

Wow. Deep.

When one is unique, one does things that proves one's uniqueness. One is not TRYING to become hipster or cool or weird. One simply is. One is satisfying oneself.

For example, I have wanted to dye my hair red for two years. I like red hair. Just because I like red hair and decided to dye my hair red does not mean I want to run away from home and join a circus (I mean, I do, but that's irrelevant). If it unsettles you that I changed, then man, you don't know me. You don't even deserve to know me. Next in line, please!

And if it's the red of the hair that bothers you, then you have serious issues that cannot be answered by anyone but a shrink. And if you think I look horrendous with red hair, then I might agree with you. Then tell me how that changes anything. Whenever I see anyone with a hair color which does not suit them, I definitely admire them. Obviously, they don't obsess over matching clothes or lint-free boots or a little hole in a pair of tights. They might not be striving to be attractive. They might be self-confident.They are chill. I want people to think I am chill. Who doesn't? But if you don't think I'm chill, then you're not chill to me. So deal.

Anyways, it's actually kind of nice to know that people care enough about my virtue and my personality (at least as it seems to them) to wonder about me. Don't worry, I'm the same person. Same little Catholic nerd who sings in choir and reads books.

Unfortunately, you are the same person too.
Yeah, life sucks.