Hard Candy

It's been a while since my last post. A lot has happened. I've taken a medical leave of absence from NYU. I would rather not discuss why, because if I tell you the version that everyone else is hearing, I'd be lying. And if I told the truth, it would be rather unpleasant.

But enough about that. I have a job at a pizza place. I'm volunteering at the daycare for a hospital, which is so much fun I can't stand it. However, it has made me realize that I do not want to have kids until I a) am out of college and married for at least a year or two b) can grow two extra arms and possibly an extra leg and c) have the time, money, and patience to raise one. I do love them, though.

My boyfriend and I are becoming much more "serious". Not physically, but emotionally. Honesty is playing a big key in this. We'd had troubles with communication in the past, namely, his not telling me when something I'm doing/saying is bothering him at risk of hurting my feelings. He hates it when I'm upset. But what he fails to realize is that I get upset when HE is upset; thus, he should tell me when something's bothering him so in the future I can know not to do it. The same thing happened with my best friend... anyway...

And then... then I told him the truth. The truth about why I left NYU.

Finding My Place

Today I met someone really cool. I was at The Beach Ball dance which was really fun. I met two really nice girls, both kind of socially awkward, but still, really amiable. Then, I went into dance since the music changed from awful hip-hop to fun oldies remixed. The DJ was so lame though. Goodness. So I saw my friend E. V. there and she introduced me to her friend Ben, who was friendly and funny. So we stayed there for a while dancing. I taught them how to do thriller. It was fun times. Then I walked home and Ben offered to walk me home (even though it was only two blocks, it was so sweet of him, I couldn't say no). We got to my dorm and just talked and talked and talked. For legit two hours. Most of our conversation focused on the Harry Potter movies, the highlights and the disappointments. It was awesome; we agreed on almost everything. It was so cool. Anyway, he left at about 2 AM and he was so gentlemanly, he was all, "Have a good night." It was so adorable. I swear, I'm still a sucker for a gentleman. Sigh, maybe chivalry isn't dead after all...

COLLEGE!

Well, it certainly has been a while, hasn't it? Oh, yes, it has, all right.

And here's the update: I arrived at NYU last Sunday with my family and my mom and sister helped me move into my dorm room, which wasn't THAT small. Some would call it cramped, I call it cozy. My bed is comfy with the new comforter that my grandmother gave me! Here is what I have done during Welcome Week:

1. Gone to the President's Address and found out that he gives out hugs when you greet him on the street. He's my kind of guy. I also listened to the alumnus' speech, which was mostly jokes seeing as he is a comedian and wrote the script for Run Fatboy Run... He said he was wearing an NYU thong and knew that President John Sexton was wearing one too because he helped him put it on. Awkward? Yes.

2. Went to a Fondue party which was stuffy in Goddard's (my resident hall's) basement, and the chocolate tasted funny, so I left and went to the Tisch party which wasn't much better seeing as the music was blaring and all there was to do was watch the upperclassmen dance like lunatics. I met some cool people, though. (Wow, what a run-on sentence. Mr. Hill would be horrified.)

3. Went to Karaoke night and sang two songs. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the microphone. This makes me nervous about singing my two songs during my first class. Yikes! I also went to Arcade Night and played two songs on bass on Rock Band. It was fun!

4. Went to see a hypnotist show, but did NOT participate. Went to see an Improv show. Scattered laughs. Eh... Went to see a sketch comedy group. Laughed way too loudly seeing as I was there alone. Signed up to try out for Hammerkatz, as they're called.

5. Went to see Rocky Horror Picture Show with room mates. Was underwhelmed; I couldn't hear the movie because all the people shouting out the joke lines were not united, and so it was just a constant stream of people yelling. Although, I have a feeling that even if I could hear, I wouldn't understand it anyway.

6. Went out clubbing last night to celebrate my room mates birthday; she's 19! So we went to a (legal) 18+ club which was crowded (obviously) and laughed with horror as Khia was molested by this random guy who just started dancing with her. It was scary and funny at the same time.

7. Met lots of cool people and am excited to start classes! Yay!


I miss everyone at home, but I'm having way too much fun to think of coming home (until Thanksgiving break, that is!) Love you all, and can't wait to see you again (but not too soon).

I am sick of being a chorus girl.

I'm sick of watching the people with the lead roles slowly becoming the most popular people in the cast.

I'm sick of being scheduled to run the same god damn dance twenty times just because they can't think of anything better with which to keep us occupied. Hmmm, maybe a BREAK would be nice?

I'm sick of waiting an hour just to sing for five minutes.

I'm sick of being given one costume for the whole show, because obviously, who will notice if one girl is sitting on a bus, in a park, and at a nightclub, all in the same day? I'm sick of wearing a dress made for a 12 year old in my scene where my character is 19. I'm sick of the director saying, "It really doesn't matter. It's fine." just to get me off his back. Why do they even tell us to create our own characters if the rest of the details pertaining to them clash horribly?

I'm sick of not having my needs addressed.

I'm sick of sitting in the audience during the twenty five scenes I'm NOT in and watching the lead actress do a shitty job at acting, even though her singing is flawless. If musical theatre values high notes over character development, count me out.

I'm sick of pretending I don't care, sick of watching the show and getting chills from the beautiful notes that I know I will never be able to sing as clearly or as strongly. I'm sick of seeing myself in that role in my mind's eye. I'm sick of wishing that I were "that girl".

I'm sick of being invisible.

Say what you need to say...

I miss him more than I ever thought I would.

Shock Humor

I read this and it immediately struck me as funny. Reading it again, I realized that it is actually very offensive.





Oh, well....

Knowing me by heart.

You know what I hate? I hate it when people write "Happy Bday" instead of Happy Birthday. I hate it even more when they SAY "Happy Bee Day". It's like... would it kill you to add four more letters, say one more little affectation. B Vs. Birth: Does it really make all the difference?

I'm only saying this because it is my sad, hopeless romantic dream to one day have someone who will remember that I mentioned that. Who will remember how years and years ago I said how I hated it when people said Happy "Bee Day" and since they have not said it, and exchange a knowing look of disapproval and annoyance when hearing someone say it. That would be wonderful. Having someone know you by heart so that even when you lied they would know the truth, a single look could tell them all they needed to know about how your day went, and a breath of air over the telephone would expose everything.

I think I'm lovesick. But it's not for the right guy. I'm in love with Steve. But I'm head over heels for the wrong, wrong, guy.




Classic.

Back to School

Well, after a week of parties, movies, and lounging about, it's time to go back to school!

I'm still going to be schlepping back to Stalag 14 to work with my Teacher's Assistant class. They have their final this Thursday and it is my civic duty to help prepare them for the vocab part of it. I don't mind at all, actually. Call me crazy, but I love those little freshmen. I am constantly making jokes about it. I say, "Be careful or I'll send my army of freshmen to annihilate you." I then lovingly add: "If everyone had a freshman friend, the world would be a better place."

And it's true; this year's freshmen are completely rad. They are also chill, and H-I-larious. Seriously, they're the best!



On a slightly darker note, I've been waiting to burst into tears all week. I've been waiting for the release that comes from working and working and working to get to a point that seemed to be perpetually far away, and getting there and not realizing it quite yet. Maybe it will dawn on me when I get to school tomorrow (technically today, I guess). It's just... I've never felt like a part of my grade. I've always felt like the odd one out, the third wheel of the whole grade. Everyone else seems to have found their place but me. I had a place in my old grade, a place I liked, and notch that I fit into perfectly. Snug next to the friends I made in middle school, I thought nothing could hurt me. And I was right. Because trust me, the next closest thing to the Spanish Inquisition in the lack of expectation dept. is a tiny little spirochete. I didn't know what hit me.

I really should try to stop dwelling on what's happened. It should be easy now that I'm finally out of school and so close to college, but I'm just wondering when the release is going to happen. Thinking about it makes me sad, and not just sad, but perplexed. It's like I've finally realized what hell it has been. It's like when your drowning in the ocean, you don't stop to think, "Holy shit, I'm drowning", you swimswimswimswimswim until finally you drag yourself on shore, cough the last bit of water out of your lungs and then it hits you: "Holy shit. I almost drowned." And that's what it's like for me right now. I really am having trouble fathoming (pun) what I've been through. Ask Mr. Hill: I've been writing about it for years, trying to puzzle it all out, but to no avail. And now that I've made it, pulled myself up on the metaphorical dock/shore, I'm waiting for the realization to hit me:

Holy shit. I just survived the fight of my life.

Cryptic

"Thank you for being my student."

That's what he said to me.

"You're welcome," I say,

But the first thing that came into my head when he said it was

"I was never really given a choice."


And I'm glad I wasn't.

If I had one wish

I would give my boyfriend back his old life.


He had a rough night tonight, and I swear, he deserves better. He deserves everything and anything he wants from this world, because it has treated him like shit for the past two years.

Sometimes I wonder if God is there. Cause if he is, he has a pretty sick sense of humor, and a morbid way of making people stronger.

Disengaged

from the world. That's how I felt yesterday. The last day of school, you're supposed to be overjoyed. Free at last, right? Not me. It never really sunk in. Walking around, waiting for that rush of euphoria. I'm still waiting.

I find that whenever I'm feeling detached and unemotional, I like to write poetry, and that poetry is better. You'd think it'd be the other way around, that when I'm present and in the moment, I'd write beautiful poetry, but it's not true. You see, it's only when you step back from the world that you can write about it accurately, you can look into the sun and not be blinded, to be very poetic. And speaking of being poetic, here is a poem I wrote yesterday. Cliché? A little. But it's happy, which is not like me, but nice, right?

Poetry Is Meant to be Written

Poetry is meant to be written.
Not typed, but written,
with a smooth fountain pen,
like the one my favorite teacher uses.

Poetry is meant to be remembered
from a time when you were so
Happy
you wondered if it were all a
Dream,
or the time when you were so
Sad
because it was.

Poetry is meant to be imagined
On a picturesque day
When you're lying stomach down
on the warm front porch,
cheek on the rough wood worn smooth by
bare feet,
or,
When you're lying face up
in a field of tall grass and
you feel
perfectly invisible
to the world,
and the clouds won't tell your secret.

Poetry is meant to be Dreamed,
and Wished,
and Concocted,
and Sang,
and Given as a gift
from someone who
Inspires you to write poetry
Every Day.

Today.

Today I wrote my entire 12 page English Poetry Reflection within the hours of 6 AM to 11:40. Fun times.

Today I got yelled at by a librarian for eating in a study room (in my defense, it was just an apple, and I was being neat) and promptly began to cry owing to the stress and fear of being kicked out of a room that was integral to my finishing the paper.

Today I went to a doctor's appointment only to find out it was for next week.

Today I voted YESSSSSSS on the Override!

Today I gave Mr. Hill my journal of favorite poems.

Today could make or break everything.

I've looked at life from both sides now...

God, I love that song. I first listened to it in theatre class and was instructed to, with four other groupmates, choreograph an interpretive dance to it. That was actually more fun and less awkward than it sounds. As we performed it, it almost made me cry. It really "hit home" with me. I spend my life trying to figure myself out, analyze my actions and plan new ones for the future. Despite what people may think about how my emotionality leads to rashness, it actually is not true. I am a very calculated thinker. It sometimes scares me, the stratagems I come up with to get what I want or need. This song, however, really speaks the truth: that no matter how much I think or plan or discover, I still am just as clueless as the next person. e.e. cummings once wrote: "Love's function is to fabricate unknownness". After my brief confusion at reading this statement, I saw what e.e. meant.

Right now I am writing down favorite poems, sonnets, and (sometimes) quotations that I love. They are poems that have moved me in ways that prose cannot. I am recording them all in this beautiful book. The cover is made from the fabric of a woman's sari, the pages are all recycled material, like cotton and there are even little blue pressed flowers in the pages. It is lovely. I am almost exactly half-way done. I am still debating whether I will keep it to read when I am feeling poetic or sentimental, or if I will give it to someone. That debate will probably last until June.

I don't know what quality it is that I have that makes me so susceptible to poetry, films, and music. I guess it is compassion. Sometimes I feel like my heart is a black hole, taking in all the emotion around it. Sometimes I feel like the films I watch, and poetry I read, and the music I hear goes straight through the pores of my skin and infiltrates my very cells. Granted, this is a very poetic, romanticized way of saying, "Art moves me" but this is genuinely what I feel. In the words of Ricky Fitts:

"Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in."

I will finally leave you with a monologue that my acting teacher gave as one of nine that we could choose from. It is from Dead Poet's Society. I find it refreshing and truthful.

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

"They love to tell you, stay inside the lines...

but something's better on the other side..."


Three cheers for low expectations. I came to school today late, my homework undone, dreading Psychology. I spent yesterday watching movies. I came home from the English AP, watched Dead Man Walking, cried my eyes out, watched Snow Falling on Cedars, teared up, and finally, watched Volver. All three were very good movies. And it was worth it. And the last thing one feels like doing when one gets home from writing for two hours straight is do more work. So there.

I steeled myself for my teacher's reactions. Well, my first stroke of luck was that my Math class was in the library, researching for our final project. I looked up some websites for later reference and then proceeded to finish writing the third study for my Psychology project, jotting down a hypothesis and not caring what the group thought of it, seeing as no one bothered to contact me about working in the first place. Zoe did not bother to thank me when I came to class with study sheet and hypothesis in hand, but then again, it's Zoe. I'm fairly convinced that it was she who convinced one of the people from her group of friends to pinch my butt at a dance two years ago, or at least she was giggling when I turned around, and I have not forgotten it.

So, I brought the homework to Psych and hoped for the best with the essay portion of the final. And I knew every one of the terms! Even the one that I guessed at. It was so cool! Then, we watched Mujeres Al Bordo Del Un Ataque Nervioso (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown) in Spanish and it was the strangest, funniest thing I've seen in a long time. And Antonio Banderas is in it with one of those cropped but poofy haircuts and glasses, and he stutters, and I didn't even recognize him until Sra. Elkind said, "Así es Antonio Banderas" and the whole class went, "WHAT?"
In Theatre I had my monologue down word for word (the best out of the class) and I only made a slight error in moving to Susannah Kaysen instead of Beatrix Kiddo (we chose three characters and had to seamlessly move between them. My third was Maggie Fitzgerald from Million Dollar Baby), but no one noticed, I'm sure. The icing on the cake was when my Anatomy teacher pushed back the lab until Monday, and our quest until Thursday! So it was a spectacular day on all accounts.

I went to see Romeo and Juliet and it was lovely. It was really well done. Mercutio was stunning. He stole every scene he was in (as Mercutio should) and I never do this, but I went up to him afterward and said, "You don't know me, but I wanted to say that you were spectacular." I just couldn't... not.

So, overall, it was a pretty good day! All you have to do it go in with rock bottom expectations.

I'm so giggly and girlish,

it almost makes me sick.


And all for a boy. Le'sigh.





I honestly never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd swallow my pride and fear and... ask out a boy.

And I did!

And he said, "Yes".


Holy shit.

I hate hospitals.

I hate the glaring white walls, the sickly ambience every room exudes, the irritable nurses, the long waits (if you're not bleeding from the head), and everything in between.

The only good thing that came from passing out in F Block and going to the ER was that I didn't have to take the bus home and then walk (seeing as that was the exact thing I was dreading at the beginning of F Block, hot and sweaty, short of breath, and dizzy). I guess it was nice to be chauffered to the hospital by ambulance and then to home in a cab. What service.

There's nothing terribly wrong with me by the way. Dr. Thompson (a really nice doctor who reminds me of Katherine Hiegl in looks as well as demeanor) said that my QT was a tad longer than normal (the time in between the electrical current that starts your atria to contracting. She said to get it checked out but not to worry.

So none of you worry, either! I think it was just a combination of things: being a little upset about an emotional conversation I had previously with a teacher, it being very hot in said teacher's office, and the trek downstairs to Anatomy where (I thought) fetal pigs awaited me (they weren't). The last thing I remember was turning to my friend Akiyah and saying, "God, it's so hot in this room". The next thing I remember is everything being black and hearing, "No wait, look, her chest is moving up and down. She's breathing." And that seemed really strange to me, and the next thing I knew, Ms. Rosen was shaking me lightly and I woke up and the class, for once, was dead quiet. Ms. Rosen thought that was really funny, seeing as she's been trying all year to get them to shut up for five minutes so she can teach. I live to serve.

Lately I've been wondering

why Steve, my best friend of two years, is not someone who I can date. Everything's there: I love him, he loves me, we are ridiculously compatible, we both like the same things, I can tell him anything, and vice verse. And yet, I can't seem to hold a relationship with him. I think we've "dated" three times and I always ended it. Somehow, I can't commit to someone who I know is decent and respectful of me, and kind, generous and sweet. I don't know what's wrong with me. I suspect that, after dating a series of crappy, manipulative, demanding boyfriends from age 14 to 16, I sort of got used to dating only jerks and scumbags. And now, when I try to date a genuinely good guy, it just seems off. I have no idea why this is. I always knew there was something wrong with me.

There's no point anyway; I'm leaving in three months, and we're such good friends, and it obviously hasn't worked in the past, so why give it one last shot? The thing is, I'd do pretty much anything for Steve: I'd quit soccer, I'd come down from NY every weekend, just to see him. He's one of two men I would marry without a second thought. I can honestly picture myself spending the rest of my life with him.

And yet, I can't bring myself to date him. I think it's because I'm scared to mess it up, like I always do. See, all those times I dated those horrible boys, I had something to try to fix, something to salvage. I was in control (or so I thought). However, if I were to date Steve, there would be nothing to remedy, nothing to complain about. He's a perfect gentleman to me. I realized this yesterday as he held me in his arms and stroked my hair while I cried my eyes out. I've never had a man do that for me. Not even my own father. And that is what I'm scared of: losing that constant affection, respect, and security. I'm a strong girl, but knowing that I was responsible for ruining the best thing that's ever happened to me? That would completely destroy me.

Candy Girl

I finally cut my new Prose piece for Catholic Forensic League Nationals. I chose to do an edgy, riskier piece than normal (when you're doing a piece about a girl who decides to strip for a year in front of judges who may as well be southern preachers, you're pretty much asking for trouble). However, it's my last year doing Speech and my last tournament, and I'm going to go out with a bang, doing a piece that I like, and that I chose, and that I cut. My other prose piece (The Sweet Hereafter) was one that my coach had picked and cut and given to me, saying I'd do well with it. However, when I only broke to semifinals at States, it worried me. Granted, the judging at States was completely effed up, I still felt nervous at the thought that the piece I'd be taking to Nationals in a little over a month didn't make the top 6 in Massachusetts. Therefore, I sought out a new piece, one that I would have fun doing, and one that wasn't nearly so confusing. (As my friend Stephanie told me, "It's a reeeeally confusing piece. You only did well with it based on your talent.") She finally put it into words for me, and as much as I hate complimenting myself, she's right. I really only took it to finals at state tournaments because I could infuse an overall cryptic piece with life.

So my original cutting of Candy Girl by Diablo Cody (the screenwriter of Juno (which you should ALL make a point of seeing, by the way; it came out on video last Tuesday)) ran about fifteen minutes. Not good, considering it should be no more than 9 minutes 30 seconds (leaving room for an introduction of approximately 30 seconds, and still getting under the 10:30 time limit (it's safest to shoot for no more than 10 minutes, to leave time for dramatic pauses or audience laughter, if the piece is funny). I've always wanted a dramady piece. And that's what this is. It starts out edgy and hilarious, and then it really gets pretty heartbreaking towards the end. I am so excited. I'm going to have SO much fun with it! I'm going to work SO HARD with it. I'm already working with this guy Eric Leist (a former National qualifier himself) on this Thursday, so I hope I have the time down and an introduction written by then. I'm not worried about my Poetry piece. It's been taking care of itself. The only tough part is that it kind of depends on women judges. They're the ones who get emotionally involved with it (since it's about a woman who looses her son). Anyway, I hope things will sort themselves out.

It's my last shot at Nationals after going for the fourth year in a row (yeah, I'm kind of a big deal.) Not. My first year going in Prose/Poetry I only got to Octafinals (I was still really sick then), then going in Duo the next year, I think it was only Octas then too. Last year going in Duo, we didn't break at all :( and who knows what's going to happen this year? Cross your fingers for me during Memorial Day weekend! Send good vibes all the way out to Appleton, Wisconsin for me. Love you all.

A Fresh Start

Sometimes, the best thing you can grant someone is a fresh start. I have deleted my old blog due to... discrepancies about the material being posted there. I will not admit that I was wrong, but I will submit to another's wish. It was a reasonable thing to ask of me, I suppose, and that is why I have made a brand new blog on which I will never vaguely mention anyone. They will be named. The only reason that I was ambiguous in the first place was to protect myself from their criticisms or rejections. But since Mr. Hill thought it best for me to get rid of a couple posts, I thought, the hell with it, and scrapped the whole blog because, after all, Mr. Hill always looks out for me and knows exactly what is best for me.

I suppose that was catty. But I meant it. I will not hold back my opinions, and now, thanks to Mr. Hill, everyone about whom I am speaking will be specifically identified. I suppose it was cowardly of me to hide behind a guise of anonymity, but then again, this is the internet, and who doesn't worry about what people will read?