2011

2011 is drawing to a close, and while I'd like to be all wistful nostalgic I can say with absolute certainty that 2011 will not be missed.

Despite it's best efforts to make me completely miserable, I learned a thing or two from this massive infected white head of a year on the face that is my life.

Things I learned in 2011:

Paper cuts, when left unattended, will become infected.

God is bigger than any problem you might have.

No matter how long you wait, the next person is always the rebound.

The Gulf War did not, in fact, take place in the Gulf of Mexico.

How to fix the action on an acoustic guitar.

No matter how hard you try, you will always lose tubes of expensive chapstick.

What a re-enforced polymer bed is.

When you make real friends, you can never lose them.

The ramifications of your actions are so much bigger than what you could possibly imagine. Proceed with caution.

That crap spewed out by a bored Morman housewife can create a multimillion dollar industry, while brilliantly written sitcoms will, without a doubt, always be canceled after three seasons.

Tina Fey is a goddess.

A cheated bar chord is an acceptable substitute.

Just because something claims to heal acne, doesn’t mean that it does.

Harry Potter T-shirts are always a good investment.

Phineas and Ferb really has no age limit.

Be cool to the pizza guy. He has a noble calling.

When Paul said “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good” he was kind of being serious.

I’m related to the guy who invented Play-Doh.

The Fez was outlawed in Turkey in 1926.

Just because you hate an actress in X-Men: First Class, doesn’t mean that she won’t be amazing in the Hunger Games (hopefully).

If it is Friday, yesterday was Thursday, tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterwards.

Salad is actually pretty good.

The only reason people don’t watch 30 Rock is because of douchey 30 Rock fans.

FRIENDS really is one of the greatest TV shows ever created.

How to (sort of) play the mandolin

The lyrics to “Blinded by the Light”

Peace out 2011. You will not be missed.

I like to think that I'm a fairly reasonable person. I'm not easily offended, I try not to stress the small stuff, and for the most part, I let peoples annoying traits slide.

But there are a hand full of things that I hate without any rational basis. I understand that it's foolish and is the opposite of constructive, but all that head knowledge doesn't stop me from flying into a white hot rage whenever I think about it.

The list is as follows (In no particular order):

People who ship Harry/Hermione.

When little girls start singing Wicked.

Jean shopping

And this re-posted status:

I am sick and tired of every year when CHRISTMAS comes around, there are people who want to take CHRIST out of CHRISTMAS. It might offend someone. Well how about all of the CHRISTIANS? What about offending us because you are taking our CHRIST out of CHRISTMAS!?!? CHRIST IS CHRISTMAS!!! If you aren't celebrating CHRIST then why are you celebrating? CHRISTMAS is about the birth of our SAVIOR! CHRISTMAS is one of a few holidays left that celebrate my CHRIST! Leave my holiday alone!!! And tell everyone MERRY CHRISTMAS, not Happy Holidays!

Re-post if you are not ashamed

When I first saw this, I quickly added it to the list of things I hate for no reason, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that my hatred is not in vain; it is both justified and multi-layered.

Ok, we'll start with the obvious. All caps. When I see all caps I imagine Harry Potter in his 5th year, filled with angst and disdain toward everyone who loves him, screaming at Dumbledore. All Caps= yelling. Whether to convey excitement or anger, this function tells the reader that you are raising your voice. So when I read this, I picture a person sitting peacefully at a table, drinking tea. Also, for some reason there are delicately painted china plates surrounding this person. I don't know why. So the person starts talking, but every time he says Christ or Christmas he suddenly becomes a manic animal, unable to control himself. Kind of like a werewolf or tourrettes guy.

Also, multiple punctuation marks are just tacky.

Now on to the more substantial issues I have with this horribly constructed paragraph.

"It might offend someone. Well how about all of the CHRISTIANS? What about offending us because you are taking our CHRIST out of CHRISTMAS!?!?"

Ok, this is a big one. I'm sure the author of this is a very wise and well read biblical scholar. At least I have to assume that seeing as how they got something very different out of verses like "speak the truth in love" than I did. Saying "This might offend someone" is not a free pass to say whatever you want. Warning me that you're going to say something stupid does not make what you're about to say any less stupid. And I'm sorry, if you have a problem with being offended, you might want to rethink your decision to follow Jesus, because I'm pretty sure He said that we'd be in for a lot more that just being offended.

"If you aren't celebrating CHRIST then why are you celebrating?"

I get it, sometimes everyone saying "Happy Holidays" when they clearly mean Christmas can being a little annoying, but on the flip side, not everyone celebrates Christmas. I don't know if it's news to anyone but lots of people are Jewish and, consequently celebrate Hanukkah. Also, if we're going to get technical, it really should be "Happy Holidays" if it isn't December 25th. We just got done eating our faces off on Thanksgiving, we're coming up on Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa (take your pick. Or hey, do all three, I don't care), and then, boom, it's New Years. I'm pretty sure even if your only Yule Tide celebration of choice is Christmas, there's more than one holiday you celebrate this time of year.

CHRISTMAS is about the birth of our SAVIOR!

Luke 2:8- "And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night." Meteorological and historically speaking, the prime time for shepherds to be watching their flocks in the biblical Middle East was spring time. So in all actuality, Jesus was probably born in April. Lawyerd.

CHRISTMAS is one of a few holidays left that celebrate my CHRIST!

Easter. I'm pretty sure that the evil liberal media hasn't taken that one completely away from you, right? Other than Christmas and Easter, what holidays are there that celebrate Christ? I'm really just curious.

Also, this is something that bugged me about the whole thing, they keep saying "My Christ". I understand that to some extent. Like in a context like"never underestimate my Jesus" or "my Jesus bled and died for my sins" I think it's beautiful. But here, not so much. This person is taking their anger and frustration and manifesting it in a way that makes Christ exclusive to them. By them saying things like "my" they totally miss the point of Jesus. Jesus is not just a savior or our savior, He is the savior. I mean, as far as I know, no one else died for the sins of the world, but I could be totally wrong.

Leave my holiday alone!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHmvkRoEowc

Come on, everyone was thinking it.

And tell everyone MERRY CHRISTMAS, not Happy Holidays!

This ties into the thing I said earlier. Guess what, there are people who are different from you, and unfortunately, you can't just kill them. If we're not careful about this, we're going to end up with complete chaos.

Me: Merry Christmas.

Other Person: Um, actually, I'm Jewish. I celebrate Hanukkah.

Me: WELL TOO FREAKING BAD. I SAID MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Re-post if you are not ashamed

This pisses me off. I've seen a couple of these. They'll say something like "I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, re-post this if you aren't either. And if it ended there, it wouldn't be that bad, but then they follow it up with "And remember, God knows if you saw this. He knows if you're too ashamed to re-post this." I saw one once that said that if you didn't re-post it, you weren't a real Christian. Subsequently, about a million people made it their status for fear that God would send them straight to hell if they didn't change their facebook status right that second. Really? Really. The creator of the universe, against whom I have committed heinous crimes, for some reason beyond my comprehension loves me in spite of those crimes, and sacrifices himself so that I don't have to die and can live eternally with him. And in order to obtain that eternal life, I need to re-post a facebook status? Really?

"Not by works of righteousness that we have done, but because of our status updates, he has saved us."

If you're thinking of reaching your unsaved facebook friends with this status, don't. It's not going to work. They will laugh at you. Instead why don't you try some of that speaking the truth in love stuff? I hear it works wonders.

This is a tale of the dangers of carrying your android in your back pocket.

When you're significantly younger than the majority of your friends, you'd think that the residual effects of riding to Cold Stone in the bed of a pick up truck isn't really something you need to worry about.
And that's where you'd be wrong.

I'm 19, and I'm the second youngest person involved in the Refuge City Church plan in Dayton Ohio (The youngest of which being like a month younger than me), everyone else is in their mid to late 20's or 30's. This, however, does not necessarily constitute habitual maturity. So last week, after an introductory discussion on the ecclesiology of Refuge City, a number of us piled into the back of a pick up truck and drove through Dayton to get ice cream. Apparently that's legal now.

It was all good fun.

Until we wen't over a bump.

Then it was super-mega-awesome fun.

I was sitting in the rear most section of the bed, directly above the back tires, so when we went over the bump I caught mad air. Like five feet. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes. I had excruciatingly vivid visions of my body being thrown onto the blacktop into something that would inevitably end up in an exhibition of modern art. There were still things I had to say. Things I had to do. Things to watch on Netfix. It couldn't end like this.

It was also the most fun I'd had in a long time. I feel as if near death experiences and exuberant giddy are supposed to go together. I should probably see someone about that.

Ok, fine, in reality it was probably only like a foot of air. And the more I recount this story, the more I feel like Ross in that episode of FRIENDS where the car backfires. It wasn't really near death, but that doesn't mean that it didn't change my life.

And it wasn't in some deep, profound way.

It was changed when, an hour later,I checked my phone only to find a giant crack across the screen. My android looks like Charlotte was trying to tell me something but then was struck with acute and debilitating epilepsy.

Hey there E.B. White reference. Probably won't see you ever again.

Now, when I first decided to write this post, it was the day after the actual incident. It has now been six days, and I've yet to do anything about the giant crack across my screen. At first it was just because I was lazy, but now I think it looks kind of cool. Like maybe I was attacked by Russian mobsters and had to defend myself using my phone. Or maybe I jumped in front of a bullet to save a baby, and the phone saved my life. Or maybe I'm just super hipster and uncracked cell phones are so mainstream. You probably wouldn't understand.

Yeah. I think I'll go with that last one.

Pronunciation

This is going to be a rant about something that has always bothered me, but was brought to the forefront of my mind by a recent conversation with a friend (from which no part of this blog post is directly stolen *looks around nervously*).

If I had one wish-And I'm going to warn you, I realize that this makes me a horrible human being- I would not wish for world peace, or an end to poverty or for someone eradicate Nickleback. If I had one wish, it would be for everyone in the world to correctly pronounce Rowling.

Ok, that's probably a lie. I don't know what I would do in that situation. I like to think that I'd wish for something noble, but you always think of yourself as better than you actually are in hypothetical situations like that. So I guess first I would wish for something huge and monumental and for the betterment of all mankind, and if I had multiple wishes, I would put the pronunciation of her name up there.

But in all seriousness.

This woman is by far the most popular/famous living author. She's certainly the wealthiest author to ever live. She successfully navigated not a trilogy, but a 7 part metanarritive epic that transcends the boundaries of children's, young adult and adult literature. Her characters and stories will live in the hearts of thousands for centuries. She single-handedly revived a love of literature for an entire generation. She has been awarded Ordre national de la Légion d'honneur, the highest honor that France can bestow. She is an exceptional philanthropist, supporting charities ranging from Anti-Poverty groups to the children's charity that she chairs, Lumos. All the good that Harry Potter has brought to this world would not exist if it were not for this extraordinary woman.

Why, I ask you. Why, then, has every single American media outlet decided to incorrectly pronounce her name?

It's pronounced Row-ling. Exactly how it looks. Row, as in rowing a boat, and ling.... not Raowling.

What is that even? How as the elusive "a" ended up in there?

I could maybe understand if she was a lower profile author. Or if she had a super difficult to pronounce sir name. Or if her books weren't so darn fantastic.

But none of those things are true. She has reached a level of popularity that no one else has, purely based on a book series. Her name is quite simple, has two syllables and is British. And her books are world wide best sellers, and in my opinion, will be classics 100 years from now.

Is it like some kind of conspiracy? Is our government trying to keep this from us? Is that why no one in this country know how to pronounce her name? I cannot recall the last time I watched an American program where they said her name correctly.

It's frustrating, because whenever it happens I find myself yelling at my TV or computer, only to slowly realize that they cannot hear me. My feeble attempts to correct this country are in vain.

So I have an idea. An evil plan to make sure everyone knows how to correctly say this very simple name.

1. Take over the government: it should be easy enough.

2. Make a movie of the woman herself saying her own name for two hours.

3. Pass a law that everyone in the United States of America must see it at least once in their lifetime.

4. Everyone will live happily ever after.

Now I realize that this whole plan involves me heading up a government regime that is in direct contrast with my own political views, but that's how strongly I feel about this issue. The woman deserves to have her name correctly pronounced.

Dark Magic

Do you ever inexplicably wake up at an ungodly hour, only to fall asleep and then later question if it actually happened?

Usually I forget those incidences, forging ahead past the confusion that is the blur of my 5 AM escapades. Sometimes, it all rushes back later that day, in completely unrelated situation. I'll be sitting in class and think "Did I actually wake up at 4:23, pee and brush my teeth, or did I dream that?" But if there wasn't a centaur playing the ukulele in the corner of the bathroom, or my teeth didn't spontaneously turn into pasta, I usually assume that it wasn't a dream. I move on. I forget it.

But this morning was different. What happened to me this morning somewhere between the hours of 4 and 6 was so bizarre that when it did eventually flood back to my memory, I was actually unsure of it's basis in reality.

I woke up this morning at 5:30 with no blankets. Obviously freezing, I searched the foot of the bed and the floor. My sheets and comforter were nowhere to be seen.

At that point, I was fairly perplexed/disturbed. First off, if my bedding wasn't anywhere in the general vicinity of my bed, there could only be two options.

Option #1: Someone had come into my room, removed my sheets from my body, and took them out of the room. This would involve someone breaking into my apartment. It also involves malicious intent, and a stranger in disturbingly close proximity to me while I'm sleeping. Even though this scenario stars the worst psychopath ever, I'm not OK with any of those things.

Option #2: I uncharacteristically slept walked (sleep walked? Slept walk? Is there even a past tense for that?), took my sheets with me, and neglecting to bring them back to my room.

I was contemplating checking my refrigerator, or oven until I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

Having already explored the ax murderer option, I might have had a minor spasm of terror. And by "might" I mean definitely. And by"minor", I mean not minor in any way.

At the head of my bed, was a horrifying conglomerate of my comforter, my sheets and my pillow. I had apparently been sleeping on it like a pillow.

As a general rule, I don't wake up like that. Never in my 19 years have I ever woken up with my blankets under my head.

Now, in retelling this story, I realized that it doesn't sound as weird as it actually was. But if you will, imagine with me how this would go down.

First of all, it's early. You're sleep drunk and confused. You're cold and you're 47% sure that a serial killer has been in your bedroom. Now you realize that your blankets have somehow, ended up in an inexplicable place.
And the thing is- I've gone through this a ridiculous amount of times- I honestly have no idea how they got there. The only reasonable* explanation I can find for how any of this happened is some kind of Paranormal Activity situation where I'm being possessed by some spirit that has somehow become enraged with comforters. Then later I'll kill Mallory, no big deal.

(*Not really reasonable at all)

Glee

When Glee first started, I'm not going to lie to you, I was excited beyond recognition. I mean, a musical TV show staring Lea Michelle was probably exactly what I would have wished for if I happened to stumble across some sort of magic lamp.
I grew to love that little ragamuffin of a show. It was sweet, quirky, had interesting characters and of course, they randomly broke out into song. My world was complete.

Then the first season ended. And everything went to crap.

I really couldn't put my finger on it, but for some unknown reason, I hated the second season of Glee more than I hate not together Ross and Rachel. It was campy and preachy and the whole thing felt like a poorly written after school special. I had given up on it. I would watch occasionally to see Darren Criss being a boss, but other than that my interest had completely vanished. The little show that could broke my heart.

But then the third season came along, and I thought "hey, I used to really love this, why not see what's in store for the glee club this time around."

And it's amazing.

I cannot express to you my joy at discovering how fantastic this third season is. And in understanding why I love this season so much, I can also understand why I hated the last season too.
Rachel Berry: I think she's the most consistent character on the show, in so much that she's consistently a horrible person. That was a major factor in me hating season two; she was such a huge focus of that whole season. My personal opinion is that, if you create a character who is so mind blowingly annoying that even the characters in the show don't like her, maybe you should try to develop her to a tolerable point. When she was introduced in the first season, I figured that she would undergo major character development. And while her unrequited love for Finn in the first season distracted us from the fact that she was selfish, shallow and kind of a sociopath, when that died down, all we were left with was an annoying character who you just wanted to shoot in the face. What the third season is doing right is humbling her. As someone who went through the whole MT College auditioning process, when she first oh so boldly stated that she was going to Julliard, I was a little peeved at the writers. But her and Kurt getting their faces melted off by some other arguably more talented kids was an awesome dose of reality.

Quinn: I think Quinn is my favorite character, and something the second season completely screwed up was her development. One of the things that made the first season of Glee so great was Quinns pregnancy and the story line that flowed out of that. Then along comes the second season and they barely acknowledge the fact that she even had a baby. Her character completely went back to normal and as an audience we forget the fact that last season she was knocked up by her boyfriends best friend and was kicked out of her house. That is quite possibly the most aggravating aspect of the second season. Now, the third season is picking back up where the second season should have, dealing with this teen girl who just went through some massive emotional trauma. And I love the fact that they brought Idina Perfecthumanbeing Menzel back to be apart of it.

The music: In watching the third season as it airs and in thinking back to the second season, one thing that sticks out to me as a massive throwback to the first season is the way they incorporate the music into the lives of their characters. In the first season, you just stopped and sang a song in the middle of a scene to express a deeper emotions that words alone just can't. That's what a musical is. In the second season they kept looking for logical reasons for people to be singing, while simultaneously forgetting the fact that there is no socially acceptable reason for people to break out into a choreographed song and dance, and in that they made themselves look like idiots. I realized that this past week as Will began to sing Coldplays "Fix You" to Emma. There was no explanation for why he should be singing that to her, except for that his emotions overflowed into that song. Like I said before, that's what a musical is. That's how the songs in the first season worked, and I really hope the third season continues this way.

Overall story line: Before this third season started, I made some pretty strong arguments that Glee should have been a mini series. As someone who watches a lot of TV I can say that I believe that the first season of Glee really was awesome television. Then we get into the second season and it just felt like they were grasping for anything to make it interesting. Yes, bringing in Darren Criss was a smart and interesting move, but apart from some minor subplots, the whole thing was just a glorified after school special. There was no driving force. There was no need to prove to the school/world that this show choir/TV show could be more than what everyone thought it would be. Maybe it's West Side Story, or the college auditions or just the general sense of impending adulthood which gives this season a overriding purpose. Whatever it is, I like it.

Glee has somehow managed to jump the shark, and then unjump it one season later. I don't know how that works. Do you have to drive the boat backwards? Does Henry Winkler have to be involved? I should ask Ryan Murphy, because I'm super curious. It probably involves voodoo dolls, ritual chanting and Lea Michelle's blood. Because, let's face it, she's obviously not human.

This week

In March of 2010 my parents split up.

When I was three I had a kidney infection that all the doctors thought was leukemia for a really long time.

Senior year I spent two weeks glued to the couch because I had mono.

In one week in late July early August 2010, My cousin was born 4 months early had very slim chance of survival, my grandfather was hospitalized and another cousin was hospitalized for skateboarding down a hill onto oncoming traffic.

I've spent weeks heartbroken, depressed and lonely.

Please don't think that I'm trying to be dramatic. I'm trying to give some perspective so that when I say that this week has legitimately been the worst week of my life thus far, you don't think I'm being theatrical or hyperbolic or clever. This has honestly been the worst week of my life.

I won't go into details, because if you don't know the whole situation than you probably don't need to know, but Monday I received news that someone that I love more than life itself was in serious danger. I'm stuck an hour away with no way of getting to that person until Saturday.

On Tuesday, I experienced the worst sickness of my life as a reaction to that news. I've never actually had a my body react to my emotions that forcefully before. I could not breathe through my nose, my throat was sore, I had the worst headache of my life and I spent two hours in my bed shivering under my covers quite literally unable to move. I had mono last year. Tuesday was worse.

I have a paper that's worth 50% of my English grade due on Tuesday. Along with a substantially less weighty, but equally as unignorable (not a word) paper for an different class and an exam due tomorrow.

And last night I did not sleep. At all. I was writing a paper till 2, but then Mallory(the roommate) and I started talking about some pretty deep stuff until we realized that it was 5:23 and attempting to sleep and get up for school a few hours later would be more detrimental than helpful. So I've been up for the past 32 hours, literally running solely on caffeine. I'm going to use that as an excuse for how terrible my writing has been/is going to be.

This week has been awful. I'm tired, I'm stressed, on 24 different levels and I cry at the drop of a hat. If there has ever been a week for me not to get spit on, this would be the week.
But no. I totally got spat on.

Walking back to my apartment from my last class of the day, a person physically spits on me. And not a regular spit. A tobacco spit.

First can I just say how disgusting that is to even be chewing tobacco in the first place. I mean, if you're going to be feeding a nicotine addiction, smoking is like 75% cooler. And you are 99.9% less likely to spit on me.

This is how the whole thing went down:
Walking, walking, walking, walking, not paying any attention to my surroundings, walking...

I hear a weird, bubbly, high pitched sequel-y noise comes from out of no where.

I feel some light pressure on my left pant leg.

I feel moisture on my foot.

I realize what happened.

I really had no response to this. The guy looked at me like he was genuinely sorry, but didn't say anything.

I couldn't either. First of all, I was in sock that it happened. I mean, I've never been (unintentionally) spit on.

I would say that I was proud of myself for exercising grace in the quad, and not using any and all of my combative sentences, or favorite curse words, but really I didn't have anything in mind to say. I just kind of stared at the guy. And for a second, it was almost like he could tell that my week had been one thing piling on top of the other.

I'm not really sure if that's what was going on in his mind, or if his naturally relaxed face is one of concern and empathy much like mine is one of anger and dissatisfaction, because I turned as fast I could and walked away.

Because I was crying.

Like, I said, drop of a hat.

It wasn't so much that I was upset that I got spat on, as it was the complete and utter symbolism in the act. He had spat on me. School had spat on me. Life had spat on me this week. And not a regular, mildly gross flemmy, but all together in-retrospect-not-that-bad spit, but a spit filled with all kinds of nasty stuff, that comes with addition and death and I guess in this case loosing your jaw. Isn't that was chewing tobacco is supposed to do? I'm not really sure.

But yeah, that happened.

My mind

My brain is a really scary place right now. I've had the inclination to blog recently, but every time I sit down to do it, all that comes out is half a paragraph about something that I don't really care about and then my mind drifts off into thinking about how much I want a pumpkin spice latte, or finding faces in the weird shapes on my wall. On about my third attempt to write something that wouldn't make me want to pull out my own hair, I started making a hair tie chain (it's where you link together as many ponytail holders as you can to make a chain. It's really not a hard concept to grasp) and I realized that I had a problem. I've diagnosed myself with writers block mixed with ADD.

But I'm embracing it now. I'm just going to write tiny snip-its of whatever I want. Screw you organization.

This is what my brain has been doing for the past few weeks. Its slightly appalling/endearing depending on how you want to look at it.

In no particular order:

I need a job. Like really need a job. I've applied at five different places, and I'm seriously about to go around and start begging. I'm not above that.

Words with Friends. I'm really bad at it. I mean, like really really really bad. But I'm also super competitive, so I refuse to concede. It's like when I played basketball in the 8th grade all over again.

Monica and Chandler: How on earth did they not get together sooner? Seriously, this is honestly something that perplexes me. They might be the greatest TV couple (Chandler voice) of all time. Was it something that the writers had planned for a long time? I feel like that's the only explanation, because there is no way that half way through season four, they were all like "Oh, you know who has really good chemistry? Courtney and Matt. Maybe we should get those two crazy kids together." To which everyone else in the room was like "Duh."

Doctor Who: I have a time line. I just know that this season is so much more wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey than we understand.

I actually do school, too. Just in case you had visions of me sitting in front of my TV, watching Friends and making Doctor Who charts all day.

11th century Islam. That's super fun. So is studying it's architectural ascetic and influence on western culture. I had a dream about becoming an Ulama the other night. Also, I'm researching the first ever Comic Con held in the middle east, in Abu Dhabi. That's pretty legit.

Cyberbullying and teen suicide. Hooray for English class. I picked the most depressing research topic ever. Go me!

Rocks are boring. If you get the choice to choose between a science course that looks easy, verses one that looks interesting, pick the interesting one. For the love of God, pick the interesting one. Yeah, it might require a little extra effort, but the up side to it is that you can actually stay awake while studying.

Didn't Molly Ringwald used to be a good actress? Correct me if I'm wrong, but Pretty in Pink is one of my favorite movies, right? And now, on Secret Life she's awful. I really wish I knew what happened there.

Could I live off of apples? Because I'm seriously considering it.

The converse of the previous statement: I've been eating everything. Seriously. All I want to do right now is eat my entire apartment. I've also been uncharacteristically sleepy. I understand nothing.

After years of only speculating, I can now say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am horrible at potions. Thanks Pottermore, for making me realize my own mediocrity.

I cried at an episode of Khloe and Lamar the other day. Not super proud of that.

I think the reason I've been so unfocus-y lately is because I'm stressed. I had two exams this week and one more on Friday. So basically I've just wanted to stick my finger in my eye for the past seven days. I spent all last weekend studying and I really haven't left my apartment except for class. All studying and no social interaction makes Kirsten a basket case.

But this Sunday I'm going to the Renaissance fair, so hopefully that'll be my reward for being so diligent/an outlet for me to act like a the crazy person that I've become over the past two weeks. Then I'll be able to return to normal society, and be able to watch E! without crying.

If you actually read all this, thank you. You are both a gentleman and a scholar.

Service

There is a very disgruntled man who works at the Wright Cup. It's understandable, he's a middle aged man serving smoothies to college kids, so I don't try to give him too much grief.

But today, I had the sneaking suspicion that he has a personal hatred for me.

Reason number one: I was standing in line, and he walks up to me, and stares at me. Completely silent. I was all like "is it my turn to order?" and he, very grumpily goes "yes."

Reason number two: When I ordered a Reese's Cup shake, he rolled his eyes and made a very, very distinct groan of disgust. I gave him grace there. I'm sure it's super popular and he doesn't like making it. Whatever.

Reason number three: He didn't even make me a Reese's Cup shake. He made me an Oreo shake. American problem, I know. So I didn't say anything. I can be a big girl and eat Oreo's instead of Reese's.

Reason number four: When I got my change back, it was supposed to be $16.75. He only gave me $15.75. And he even said "$16.75" when he handed me back my change, a whole dollar short. When I was all like "Hey, this is only $15.57" he rolled his eyes, as if he was trying to pull one past me.

Needless to say, I was extremely displeased. And I get that being a man of that age in that job can't be the most exciting or prideful thing, but seriously? Seriously.

I was all ready to leave and never think about it again. Until I saw something. And what I saw, scared the crap out of me.

On his name tag on his hat it read "DR HOWARD".

This is the part of the movie when the camera zooms in on the "DR" while dramatic music plays.

Is this guy really a Dr? Like... I don't know. Maybe it's his name, like not Doctor, but the actual initials D.R. Maybe he IS the Doctor. You know, the time traveling alien who traverses the galaxy and recently got some metanarrative plot lines? Except I've never seen the Doctor so upset about a milk shake, and I'm pretty sure he can do math.

The whole thing literally terrified me. Here I am, in college with absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life, being served ice cream by a man who, for all I know, has Ph.D.

Can that really happen? Like, can you get all the education you want and still not go anywhere? I was recently told a story about a guy who graduated from Harvard Law and was living in a homeless shelter, dancing for change. I chose not to believe it, but after what happened to me today I'm thinking it might be true.

I don't know. The whole thing was just surreal and upsetting and I don't even know what to make of it.

So now, looking back, I guess he has pretty good reason to be pissed.

Unless his name is just D.R. I really hope that's the case...

Feathers

When I was a little girl I was obsessed with Indians. Like, really obsessed. I knew everything about certain tribes, there was a tipi in my back yard and on more occasions than I care to admit, I would smear berries on my face and run around with spears that I carved myself. It was actually quite lovely.

Naturally, being the obsessive creature that I was/am, I had a costume. It was polyester but I would swear to people that it was deer skin. I would braid my hair and looking back, I made a pretty convincing little Blackfoot. One day, I found a feather in my back yard. Being singularly minded as I was, I taped it to a head band and walked around like Princess Tiger Lily for the better part of the day. That is until my mother saw me. What happened next shaped my world view in ways I can never fully understand.

Because to this day, I believe, wholeheartedly and fallaciously that if you touch a feather, you will suffer a horrible death.

Because feathers carry diseases.

Because feathers don't just carry normal diseases, but deadly, wretched, soul eating diseases that will ostracize you from normal society and force you to die alone, naked, in a ditch, in debt, eating off your own hand.

Now, in reality she probably just threw it away and told me not to touch feathers anymore. To be 100% honest, I don't remember it that well, but the reaction that it caused in me leads me to believe that her response to the feather was greater than what is characteristically normal for her.

To this day, I won't touch feathers. I even tried an old writing quill once at this random festival and I had to wash my hands like five times before I could eat.

So when people started putting them in their hair recently, it did not go unnoticed.

It actually took a while for me to figure out why I hated the hair feathers so much. There are a lot of trends I don't like, but very few that evoke this strong a reaction within me and it took most of the summer to figure it out.

I just don't understand it. I don't think it looks good. It's just like a random thing hanging from your head. It doesn't add to a look. It is obviously not naturally there.

But above all that, it's the fact that every since I was a little girl, it was drilled into my mind that feathers are dirty, gross and carry diseases. Touch a feather and you will catch the black death, small pox and scarlet fever all at once.

But beyond that irrational fear, it really just makes me curious. How do you wash your hair with it? That's what I really want to know.

Also, is it a real feather, or some synthetic material?

Hopefully it'll just be a summer of 2011 thing. Something upon which we can look back and laugh.

"Remember when everyone had leprosy hair?"
Good times.

Muggles

Wherein I discuss the annoying things that happened to me at the Deathly Hallows Part 2 premiere.

I love Harry Potter. Can we just be clear on that. If we're clear on one thing, it's that I love Jesus. If it's two things it that I love my family, and if it's three things, it's that I love Harry Potter.

And while many people view my great appreciation for the Boy Who Lived as unhealthy, especially within church circles, I have this to say to you: I am not a witch. I do not in any way have any desire to practice wicca or the dark arts. I would argue that the magic in Harry Potter does not in anyway resemble the actual art of practicing actual witchcraft. Harry Potter has helped me understand life and love. It has helped me understand God as the author of love and the creator of imagination and stories. It's inspired me to learn, to create and to be brave. Long live Harry Potter.

So naturally, yesterday, at 10, after watching movies 5-7 1/2, dining on a Hogwarts feast and drinking butterbeer with people who might be equally as enthralled as I am, I made the fateful journey to the Rave in Milford for the final installment of in the epic tale of Harry Potter.

I just got chills.

Timeturner in toe, I found an awesome seat, sat down and prepared myself for what I thought would be the destruction of the 8th horcurx of my childhood. That however is a different story for another post.

As I sat in my seat, it was hard not to feel the excitement. It was pure energy as the excited fans, many of them feeling as I did, ran around the theater in costume, talking to people that they've never met and instantly forming a bond over this story that we all so dearly love. That's one of the things that makes Harry Potter great; it's fans. The fandom of Harry Potter truly is a wonderful one to be apart of. People are open and inquisitive and fun and frankly, have some of the biggest hearts I've ever encountered. Concerning myself, personally, my deepest and most meaningful friendship grew its strongest in the heat of anticipation for the 7th book. I love the Harry Potter fandom, almost as much as I love Harry Potter.

That is why I was so ticked last night.

If you have not read the series, you cannot be apart of the fandom. You do not count. Just because you like Harry Potter, does not make you a true fan. Because, lets face it: everyone likes Harry Potter. If you don't like Harry Potter, I might assume that you've created a horcrux and are incapable of feeling human emotion like you once were, because that's the only way you could not be touched by that story.

Please, I beg of you, take that in the most light tone possible. I joke. I know you still have your soul. But I'm still concerned for you.

But just because you've watched the movies does not mean that you are a part of this fandom. And don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that if you haven't read the books, that there's something fundamentally wrong with you. If you like the movies, but haven't read the books, I understand. Just don't pretend to be something that you're not.

Because you're a muggle. And you should not be at the midnight showing of the LAST MOVIE IN THE FRANCHISE annoying those of us who are weeping bitterly beside you as we watch beloved characters fall, watching bravery at its finest or hearing words straight off the beautiful pages being conveyed in profound ways that we could never have imagined.

If you are a non-reader going to the midnight showing of the movies, more power to you. A true Gryffindor. But there should be guide lines:
You can't dress up.

You can't ask stupid questions during the movie. Save those for your HP fan friends after the film.

You can't pretend to be something that you're not. Don't act like you like Harry Potter as much as the person who's dressed as Dobby sitting next to you. You do them a dishonor.

You do not get to laugh when Voldemort thinks he's defeated Harry.

If you sit behind me and say "What is the big deal with that snake? Is it like his pet or something?" you do not belong at the midnight premiere .

If when Harry pulls the Resurrection stone from the snitch you say "Oh, he's going to resurrect himself!" you do not belong at the midnight premiere .

If you announce loudly to everyone in the three row radius that you have never read the books, but are still dressed up as the Gray Lady, you do not belong at the midnight premiere!

My only question is, why are you here? I'm sure you're a lovely person and you obviously don't hate Harry Potter, which gives you points in my book, but wouldn't you rather be sleeping? Couldn't you wait like 12 hours to see it during the day when it's not so crowded and when there aren't hundreds of on-the-verge-of-Post-Potter-Depression fans ready to Sectum Sempra you if you text during the movie?

And might I remind you who Deathly Hallows is for anyway? Jo said it herself. "...and to you, if you have stuck with Harry util the very end." It's for the fans. The ones who love Harry as much as she does. It's one thing to never have read the books, but to have started them and not finish them? There was a girl there who admitted that she stopped reading the books during Order of the Phoenix. I get it, Harry is super annoying then. He's 15 and moody and awful to everyone who loves him, but the Ministry is slandering him every chance they get and pretty much everyone thinks that he's a narcissistic liar. Give him a break. You haven't stuck with him until the end. This is not for you.

I think the problem is that we don't have a good enough name for ourselves. I think that someone tried to start calling HP fans "muggles" but that's just stupid. I mean, that strikes no respect into anyones heart. I mean there are Trekkies, Ringers and Whovians and you don't question them at all. You don't see someone in full Spock gear at a Star Trek convention and go up to them thinking that you have the same amount of knowledge or love for the franchise. You just don't. Harry Potter fans don't demand that same kind of respect.

Eventually, aside from the fact that a few choice muggles talked/laughed at the wrong times, I got over it, because I was watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. And it was amazing. But that is, indeed, another topic entirely.

Crying in public

Hey there blog-y. Sorry I've been so neglectful. I promise I'll do better from now on.

That's what they all say.

But seriously, I'm going to start back up on this, like, incase anyone actually cares.

I am of the very strong opinion that crying is good. Really, think about it. You just feel better after you cry. It doesn't really fix anything, but for some reason the waterworks really seem to help any situation seem not as bad.

However, crying in public, is not acceptable. Ok, let me rephrase. Openly weeping in a non designated crying-is-allowed area is not acceptable.

What is a designated crying-is-allowed area, you ask? Allow me to explain.

The movie theater: it is perfectly ok to cry in a darkened room when Titanic is playing. Seriously, how can you not cry at the end of Titanic? It's a sad movie, OKAY? Acceptable crying movies include, but are not limited to:

Forest Gump: I dare you not to cry when Jenny dies.

The Notebook: Ok, I know some people hate this one, but seriously, how sweet is it that they die HOLING HANDS! Isn't that all any of us really wants? To find a cool person to hang out with until we drop dead?

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part 2: I will cry. And it will be acceptable.

Juno: It's super sweet and precious and crying is totally ok.

The Passion of the Christ: The whole thing is so brutal and bloody and its not close to what the actual cruelty of Roman crucifixion was like. And when I add to that He did all that for me just because he loves me and can't stand to be away from me. I'm gone. So basically from that moment when He falls and Marry sees him as a little boy and runs to Him on, I'm and endless river of salt and snot. Get over it.

At a wedding: it is perfectly acceptable to shed a tear when two people pledge to not only love each other, not only stay together forever, but to become one flesh and to create a new family. Oh wait, did I say "perfectly acceptable"? I meant, you probably don't have a soul if you don't.

When someone you know dies: Ok, self explanatory. I'm not a robot.

When you find out that you're going to see Josh Groban live in concert on July 15th: Oh yeah, that's just me. Sorry.

But other than these things, and other few exceptions, I find crying to be a mostly private activity. I usually try to hold it together in public. But I mostly fail at that.

Today at Crossroads Community Church in Cincinnati, the sermon was about the prodigal son. So naturally I wept. Openly, and loudly, and uncomfortably.

For my whole walk with God I've had no problem with a lot of the names and job descriptions He takes for himself. Lord/Master? I'm totally cool with that (in theory of course, I tend to really suck at that in actual execution a lot of the time.) Good Shepherd? Savior? Creator? Sustainer? Lover? All these things I can understand that. Those make sense to me, I can grasp those things, for the most part. Not perfectly of course, but on the whole I have no problem with those titles. But for all those titles, there is one that I do have trouble with.

Abba.

When I hear that God is my father, it can be hard for me to fully understand that. And I know I'm not alone in that.

I never understood why God chose to reveal himself to us in a name that holds such a negative connotation for so many people. For so many people their fathers were absent, or neglectful or even abusive. So when people here that God is their father, their mind immediately jumps to the man who yelled at and abused their mom. The guy who could never make it to their baseball games. The guy who couldn't bring himself to tell them that he's proud of them, or that he loves them.

But today in church I realized something. God is not a model of earthly fathers. Our earthly fathers are supposed to model themselves after the heavenly Father.

The image that God gives us of his fatherly love is pretty radical. It's an old, wealthy man, picking up his robes, dropping all his cultural dignity and sprinting to his rebellious son. Not just any son, though. A lot of times the cultural ramifications of the prodigal sons request is lost on us in 2011. But in Luke 15, when the son tells his father that he wants his share of the inheritance, he is in short telling his father that he wished he was dead. That the best that the sons life could get is if his father died.

And the father is running to this son. That's crazy love.

A son who not only asked his father to liquidate his estate to give him his money, but then used it to buy alcohol, drugs and prostitutes.

And the father is running this son. That's crazy love.

A son who, when famine struck and when his money was gone, worked with the pigs. Ancient Jewish culture 101. Pigs are unclean. You don't want to be unclean. Not that hard to work out what this made the son.

And the father is running to this son. That's crazy love.

This is the picture of God hit me in the most ridiculous way today. In a way where I wept uncontrollably in church. Golden.

It was because I think I finally understood God as father. A ridiculous, amazing father who loves His children more than anything.

So when I got the picture of Father God in my mind, I realized that I had the picture of the child of God wrong. We have the wrong view of God, and therefore we have the wrong view of our intended relationship with him. We're the rebellious, angst ridden teenager, instead of the child who looks up to Him for safety and comfort.

I was baby sitting a one year old recently (side note, Kirsten love babies) and at one point, her dad walked into the room, and in that moment I saw exactly why God reveals himself to us as a father. This little girls face lit up with the most uninhibited joy I've seen in a long time. She dropped her toys and began crawling to him with a ridiculous, determined fervor. When she got to him, she grabbed his leg and used it to support herself as she stood up. She loves him. She knows that no matter what, he will always love her. She doesn't know very much, but what she does know is that he is stable, and that if she grabs onto his leg, she'll be able to stand. In her head, he is all she needs to be safe and loved and secure. And a day will come when she looks at him and doesn't see him the same way. But for now, she sees him the way God wants us to see Him.

So yeah, I cried in public today. It wasn't a shining moment for me. But that's usually how God usually works with me.

Forgetting

Dear Kirsten

Yeah, remember me? That this blog that no one cares about, but for some reason you seem to have some vested interest in? Yeah, that's me. Thanks. I can tell you love me a lot.

Sincerely, your blog.

I'm sorry bloggy (it's pet name, obviously). I promise that I really do love you. I've just been incredibly busy.

LIES! You have NOT been busy, Kirsten. The last time you blogged it was Thanksgiving. Look at the bottom right corner of your Toshiba. It is January 24th. It has been two months. For shame...

Ok, honestly, if anyone out there in the great abyss that is the internet ever gave a second thought to this, I apologize. Wait, what's that? No one cares? Ok, I thought so.

Basically what happened is that I ran out of writing juice. It's bad. I have very little motivation to write anything, which is the tiniest bit depressing, so I figured that if I force myself to do it then bigger stuff will come. Look out world, the great american novel is on it's way.*

So what better topic to write about than forgetting things. I don't like forgetting things. This is a blog about stuff I don't like. Whoa. Crazy how that kind of stuff works out.

Wow, I really did not get any better at this whole writing thing while I proceeded to not write anything. Also crazy how that works out.

No, but seriously. Have you ever remembered that you forgot something. Not like, awe shucks I forgot my purse kind of deal, but forgotten something beloved to you.

I hate/love Nicolas Cage. It's actually this new thing for me. I'd always been mildly indifferent toward him, and may have found the National Treasure franchise to be entertaining as a 15 year old, but recently I've been awakened to the reality that he really is a terrible actor. Really sketchy. Most of his stuff is just pure crap. So, naturally, I have made it my goal to see every Nicolas Cage movie. I'm awesome that way.

While almost every Nic Cage move is awful in it's own respect, (Moon Struck, Honeymoon in Vegas) none is worse than the Wicker Man. It's a remake of a 1973 cult classic that I've heard is actually pretty good. But sweet virgin Mary, this movie is awful. If you're like me and enjoy awful movies, I definitely recommend this one. It has everything; Horrible acting, unresolved plot points, Nic Cage running around in a bear suit hitting women. Truly golden.

But Wicker Man is a different topic for a different post.

Where was I? Oh yes, Nic Cage. Awful, hilarious and ever entertaining has inspired a fabulous website known as Nic Cage as Everyone. That's right. Nicolas Cage as everyone. It's pretty much everything I could ever ask for. Nicolas Cage's face superimposed onto everyones body. There's really no effective way to get my point across other than to just post a link.

http://niccageaseveryone.blogspot.com/

My world centered around this blog for about two weeks after I found it (and by "found it" I mean Emily showed it to me. But lets keep that on the down low). So you can imagine my horror when today I remembered it. I must have forgotten about it for at least two days. Like, actually forgot that it existed. But that's how a lot of things are.

Pandora truly knows my soul. It's a little bit creepy. Today on my Ludo station, it played Nine in the Afternoon by Panic! at the Disco. Remember that song? Yeah, it's pretty legit. Cause it's nine in the afternoon, and your eyes are the size of the moon. You could 'cause you can so you do. We're feeling so good just the way that we do when it's nine in the afternoon. Don't even try to tell me that wasn't your jam in 9th grade. It so was.

The sad part was though, that when it started playing, I couldn't be sure of what exactly it was. You know what I'm talking about. That moment before the realization sets in, those seconds where you can't be sure of why that nostalgic feeling is coursing through your whole body. No? That's just me? Ok, carry on.

When I realized what it was, I flipped. Suddenly I was 14 again and nothing could ever quench my love for that song.

But then again, the situation is raised. I had forgotten it in the first place. But the thing is, because I forgot about it, that made rediscovering it all that much awesome. Same with Nic Cage as everyone. And upon further reflection, I wish I could forget more things. It sounds weird, but think about it. What do you love more than most things on this earth? Are you thinking about it? Ok, good. Now take yourself back to when you first discovered it, and the way you felt. Are you imagining that? Ok, good. For me, it's Harry Potter. I would honestly pay money to get amnesia that only effects the Harry Potter section of my brain, and read Harry Potter for the first time all over again. Experience everything, be surprised again. Cry over the deaths and be overwhelmed by the portrayal of real love and friendship.

What? I'm not a nerd. Don't judge me.

So I guess in retrospect, I really don't not like forgetting things. I actually kinda like it. Take that blog! How's it feel to be shamed in such a public *coughcough* arena?

And to that, my blog responds by turning down it's paper, scoffing and returning to the New York Times and it's cup of tea.

My blog is very sophisticated.

Wow. Now THAT was some quality writing! Thanks for not sucking, Kirsten!

*See back about this in approximatively ten years. I should be, erm, a publish author by then? Yeah, let's go with that.