Writing makes you mean.
Writing makes you beautiful, writing makes you mean.
I wrote a story about Princess Academy Finals incorporating all of the stages of memory for Psych, and then tried to translate it into a rap and it brought me back to the days where we used to talegate in Mitch's truck after Open Mic at Volcanos, drinking green tea and singing along to songs we all grew up with; Green Day's Time of Your Life, Oasis' Wonderwall, Ignition, by whatever ghetto superstar. I remember I created a freestyle rap, almost two pages long so that, if ever there came a time when I ended up on the spot, I could pretend that I had the ability to live in the moment. Hours of planning in case of spontenaity.
I have the heart of an old lady. I spent so much of my childhood and early teenage years so wrapped up in my own indecision, and paralyzed by my own fear that I am only now, as a seventeen year old university student, learning to get tangled up in life. This blog is named after the biggest adventure I expected to have going to college: Bee demanded to know, made me promise like she was on her deathbed, that I will not just cycle through my three favorite shirts, all of which are plaid.
Bethany, the baby sister, star of my childhood and present, had many concerns for me going off to college. She forcebly shoved me down into a chair on the day of my college interview.
"You're not leaving the house without knowing how to put on eyeliner," she told me, with a gleam in her eye that was either the playful mock-malice she reserves for making fun of my lack of female skill or unshed tears. She was talking in specifics, one foot crossing the other over the threshold of the house where we grew up, to go see the place I'd move in the fall, but also, I think, wanted to impart a bit of wisdom that would reach a little further.
She recreated me for almost an hour, joking and using all of her strange little voices, my baby sister who grew up prettier, and grew up faster, and grew up the entertainer, flourishing in the limelight I continually shied from. When I won the DARE award in the fifth grade, and had to read it, I nearly cried onstage. Bee would have presented it through interpretive dance.
By the end of the makeover, I was choking back tears, thinking about the Bethany-shaped-hole I'd have in my life when we didn't consider the same place our home base. I don't remember how she reacted, but when I recreate the situation in my mind I see her, herself on the brink of tears, snapping at me not to ruin my mascara because I'm too much of an invalid to fix it later. This is the response that would have made my heart stop hurting, and sounds most like what she'd say because she knows it.
These moments, I realize now, after searching for the annoyances and messes of the day for my stupid memoirs are what my days are made of. Yes, there are pieces of me that are hostile and get annoyed and snap at people, but my roommate and I also dance around, the sun also rises, and I have people who want to talk about the the crazy dog-sized crabs that infest Christmas Island to the LULS LANGUAGE of Livejournal, to Zombies, which are always a favorite, and school, which I have not yet failed out of. (And by which I mean, FRIG I'M SO EXCITED THEY HAVE A WHOLE CLASS ON THE CONSTITUTION, WUT. COLLEGE IS HELLA COOL GUYS. :3)
The ugly parts don't need to be the parts I strive to articulate.
I wrote a story about Princess Academy Finals incorporating all of the stages of memory for Psych, and then tried to translate it into a rap and it brought me back to the days where we used to talegate in Mitch's truck after Open Mic at Volcanos, drinking green tea and singing along to songs we all grew up with; Green Day's Time of Your Life, Oasis' Wonderwall, Ignition, by whatever ghetto superstar. I remember I created a freestyle rap, almost two pages long so that, if ever there came a time when I ended up on the spot, I could pretend that I had the ability to live in the moment. Hours of planning in case of spontenaity.
I have the heart of an old lady. I spent so much of my childhood and early teenage years so wrapped up in my own indecision, and paralyzed by my own fear that I am only now, as a seventeen year old university student, learning to get tangled up in life. This blog is named after the biggest adventure I expected to have going to college: Bee demanded to know, made me promise like she was on her deathbed, that I will not just cycle through my three favorite shirts, all of which are plaid.
Bethany, the baby sister, star of my childhood and present, had many concerns for me going off to college. She forcebly shoved me down into a chair on the day of my college interview.
"You're not leaving the house without knowing how to put on eyeliner," she told me, with a gleam in her eye that was either the playful mock-malice she reserves for making fun of my lack of female skill or unshed tears. She was talking in specifics, one foot crossing the other over the threshold of the house where we grew up, to go see the place I'd move in the fall, but also, I think, wanted to impart a bit of wisdom that would reach a little further.
She recreated me for almost an hour, joking and using all of her strange little voices, my baby sister who grew up prettier, and grew up faster, and grew up the entertainer, flourishing in the limelight I continually shied from. When I won the DARE award in the fifth grade, and had to read it, I nearly cried onstage. Bee would have presented it through interpretive dance.
By the end of the makeover, I was choking back tears, thinking about the Bethany-shaped-hole I'd have in my life when we didn't consider the same place our home base. I don't remember how she reacted, but when I recreate the situation in my mind I see her, herself on the brink of tears, snapping at me not to ruin my mascara because I'm too much of an invalid to fix it later. This is the response that would have made my heart stop hurting, and sounds most like what she'd say because she knows it.
These moments, I realize now, after searching for the annoyances and messes of the day for my stupid memoirs are what my days are made of. Yes, there are pieces of me that are hostile and get annoyed and snap at people, but my roommate and I also dance around, the sun also rises, and I have people who want to talk about the the crazy dog-sized crabs that infest Christmas Island to the LULS LANGUAGE of Livejournal, to Zombies, which are always a favorite, and school, which I have not yet failed out of. (And by which I mean, FRIG I'M SO EXCITED THEY HAVE A WHOLE CLASS ON THE CONSTITUTION, WUT. COLLEGE IS HELLA COOL GUYS. :3)
The ugly parts don't need to be the parts I strive to articulate.