Big Baby.

There are perks to being friends with people older than you, like when they can get you into that R-rated movie (that totally shouldn't be rated that, by the way) (I'm talking Grand Budapest Hotel), when they can provide car rides to the city for you so that you don't have to go with your mom, when they offer you sage advice on how to pass the SAT's.
Then, there are the pitfalls to having just turned sixteen when everyone around you is seventeen, eighteen. They're walking into local coffee-shop shows with confidence, while I stand in the corner like the big baby I am. They're going shopping with the money they earned from work, when you're not old enough to get a work permit. They can wrap their minds around high school, when you can't. Some of these are due to age, some are due to emotional maturity.
I am sixteen years old. My face is eleven, my body is twenty, my speaking voice is fourteen while my singing voice is seven. My maturity is twelve.
Being one of the youngest ones in your grade isn't fun. You're treated as the innocent child even though you are sure that is not the case. You have secrets kept from you because you're "too young to handle them." You're left out because maybe they don't want a kid around them. You're the little sister to the group.
Since you've earned the title, maybe you turn into it. You're completely dependant on other people and obviously you cannot function for yourself. The fact that you're graduating and expected to live on your own in two years makes you shake down to your core because the world is a very dangerous place, but you get mad because your parents wont let you ride your bike in the woods at night.
This is why I'm really just a big baby.

Sticky Little Fingers

Roll over and close your eyes. Maybe mom didn't just wake you up. Maybe it was a dream. Go back to sleep.
Moan when you know that it wasn't a dream, and that you have to get up. You have to get up to do something that you want to do. You don't want to get up.
Get out of bed. Find that floral dress that you like. Put it on. Spend too much time searching for your blue polka-dot socks. Put your feet into navy blue sneakers. Give yourself a once over.
"I guess you look decent" you tell yourself. You never look good, but today isn't particularly bad. You still need to brush your teeth. You still need to do your hair. You still need to put on makeup. You still need to finish your summer homework, but you can get to that later.
Put your hair into a light pink bow, make your eyeliner look like it wasn't done by a four year old with a crayon.
"You look more decent. Now you'll fit in places that aren't mostly populated by sad teenagers with not-enough-energy."
Destination: Flying Saucer Pizza. Company: A friend from a far off place, and your mother. Time: 12:07 pm.
You are outnumbered. You are the only vegetarian. Are you causing problems? Yes you are. Let them get pepperoni. You are ok with consuming some Coca-Cola and left crusts for lunch. It's not like you're that hungry.
The group settles on a meatless pizza with fig sauce and broccoli. You still feel like you're getting in the way of things, even though your group members seem to be enjoying the choice much more than you are. After all, you feel your stomach expanding with every bite you take.
Destination: Salem Willows. Company: Has not changed. Time: 1:34 pm.
Enter the arcade. Your mother hands you eight quarters. Two dollars. This responsibility makes you feel childlike, knowing that you're going to essentially spend it on Tootsie Rolls. You will later feel guilty for eating these.
You won at least three times the amount of tickets that your friend won. This makes you feel horrible. She came to America and is now watching you be exponentially better at things than her, and that is not a comfortable feeling. Leave the arcade. Walk towards the ice cream stand.
Order a small mint Oreo ice cream in a cone. This is your favorite flavor. You are already full from the pizza, but continue to eat the ice cream. You wish you had gotten a kiddie size.
You walk towards the ocean, carrying on conversation about college in America versus Russia. Your stomach churns with every word. The thought of living on your own and paying for further education makes you feel sick.
"It is only in two years, good luck, bozo." That's the voice in your head.
Your ice cream starts to drip onto your fingers. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. No, you can't start crying right now. You're in public. You're with two other people. There's nothing to cry about. You've been through worse.
More ice cream drip on your hand. There's sticky cream on your friend now, too. You walk back to the ice cream stand to get napkins. It's time to go home.
Once you get home, you look in the mirror. Your chubby, sticky hands connect to balloonish arms, clinging to a lumpy back which winds into a bubble of a stomach. You need to change into something that hides this.
The floral dress, polka dot socks, and navy blue shoes come off, and you trade them for old gray sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. You can hide in these clothes.
To start, your day was ok, you looked better than normal, but as the hours passed and ice cream dripped onto your hands, you realized that there are little things that make you want to return to morning, and never leave your bed.

Men's Socks

It's very difficult to me not to buy mens clothing instead of girls. No, I don't identify as male, and yes, I am comfortable as a girl, but sometimes blouses and tights become bleak or annoying and change is due.
Considering that I have no impulse control when the summer starts when it comes to cutting all of my jeans into shaggy, uneven, totally not ok to go in public with shorts, each August brings a trip to Old Navy to get more jeans that fit. They also have a mens section.
Old Navy seems to be the only place where I can purchase pants because I have thick thighs, long legs, and weirdly shaped hips. Size six, Diva style, to be exact. Anyways, I went in to buy pants.
While I was there, I had to hunt down my brother. He was taking too long in the tee-shirt department. I was looking for a middle school boy, I found fox socks and blue socks and red socks and striped socks. On sale.
There might have been something weird to my mother about her teenage daughter coming up to her in a dress and saying, "Mom? Can I buy these men's socks?" But come on, they were fox-socks.
Aside from finding these socks to be the most comfortable thing ever, I wear my brothers clothes a lot. Not really pants, but a lot of shirts. If my house had transparent walls, you could often see me pulling boys tee-shirts on, trying to see if I can cut my old pajama pants into boxers, and letting my feet swim in my brothers size 11 socks (women's size 12. I'm a size 8). This annoys him a lot.
I have a distinct memory of wearing my brothers sweatshirt one February morning, and making pancakes to surprise him when he got up. The scene went like this:
"Take my sweatshirt off."
"No"
"Yes. It's mine, you're a girl anyways."
"No."
"Take it off."
"Fine."
So I did just that. My brother (twelve at the time) was standing there in sweatpants and no shirt, so why couldn't I?
Thankfully neither of my parents were home, and no one rang the doorbell, because I don't think anyone (besides the one person who did, and that was involuntary), wanted to see a half naked fifteen year old girl.
I didn't grow up with sisters. I grew up with my one younger brother. I hate his guts, but I've picked up habits from him. There's two bathrooms in my house, and my mother has offered countless times for me to share her bathroom with her. I always decline. The shower's too small, and she'll probably use my shampoo. Instead, I share the smaller bathroom (that has a bathtub) with two boys/men. This is probably why I have no modesty, because guys generally don't. I don't have a problem with someone brushing their teeth while I'm showering, as long as their not brushing their teeth in the shower with me. That would be weird.
Really, all I want in life is to ditch my floral dress every once in a while, and become a dirty boy. But while still being a girl.

Peter Pan

The last time I got a haircut was July 29th, 2013, my fifteenth birthday. The color was orange, fading back from the firetruck red it had previously been. When they were done, I looked in the mirror and thought how great it must be to never grow up, I thought I looked like Peter Pan.
In most theatrical productions, Peter is played by a fifteen or sixteen year old girl. Ideally, they would cast a ten or eleven year old boy, but they are generally difficult to work with. Once they reach sixteen, they have "grown up," meaning their voices have dropped and they are roughly giraffe height, which doesn't carry with the theme of Neverland.
One year later, on my sixteenth birthday, I am beyond any doubt a girl, I am growing up, and the dream of running away to stay with fairies and mermaids seems farther away than ever. Yes, my room is still bright celery green, decorated with more fairies and The Beatles than anyone should ever have to imagine.
In years past, the days leading up to my birthday were exciting and fun and now? Now they were confusing and worrisome. I don't want to drive or get a job or be an upperclassman or be able to legally get a tattoo with parents consent.
If I can fly, you can guarantee I'm going to the second star to the left, straight on 'till morning. I want Neverland back.

What John Green Taught Me

And I don't think it's a good thing. WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE NOT READ LOOKING FOR ALASKA AND ARE PLANNING ON IT. IT ALSO BRINGS UP DEATH A LOT. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED, AND CAN'T GET MAD AT ME.

I'm on the last twenty pages of Looking For Alaska, by John Green. I can't say that the character of Alaska is one of my favorites, or even the most well developed, but she sure as hell leaves a whole in your heart. I think she reminds me of the type of people I generally develop crushes on. They pick up lots of bad habits, exhibit moods of all encompassing joy, earth shattering depression, and there's nothing you can do to help them during the latter.
She drives off one night, and ends up killing herself by crashing into a car. It's the type of event that you see coming, but aren't prepared for even though you should be. After she's gone in the book, I can turn back the pages and look at when she was "alive," and I can try to forget that she had ever been dead.
This isn't the case for people who live outside of bound paper. A senior at my school recently died (last Monday, exactly a week ago), and it makes me think. He was not my friend, in fact, I do not know who he is. It makes me wonder about his friends, and if they ever turn back their pages and forget that his life will be cut short. I know I would.
I've only ever lost grandparents, but I've been with my friends through the deaths of their parents, siblings, and friends. Three of my grandparents died while I was alive, one about eight years before my birth. Nana 'Laine went when I was four, so my memory of her is more than blurry. Papa Latinik left when I was ten, and I have a clear memory of him. His booming bass voice, his house that smelled like stale cigarettes and valve oil, the way he loved each of his thirteen grandchildren more than he loved the New York Giants. Nana Jerry died when I was eleven, but she had severe dementia, really she died when I was eight.
All of these people were over seventy, and what would my reaction be if a close friend of mine suddenly went out in the same way that they did? What would I do?
And some of my friends have died. Not in a literal sense. None of them are buried beneath dry earth and woods. My friends have died in the same ways that ideas die. People change, families move, life goes on. In a way similar to Looking For Alaska, I find myself turning back pages, looking at old conversations and Facebook posts dated 2012. Somehow, I think that this will reverse their metaphorical death, that reading through "Dear Bridget's..." and "I love you's" will turn a clock around and draw them back to build a blanket fort and hold each other together. That somehow, staring at the freckles dotting her nose the summer of 2009 will take us swimming in the rolling waves of Ocean Park, Maine again. In reality, these actions simply make the longing and missing them more intense. My life is not a book, and I can't flip back to page one whenever I miss Olivia*.
Figuring out why they faded away seems to me just as great of a mystery as why Alaska drove away, and why Tom* died. I know that death is essential for life, and life essential to death, and whenever an old friend dies, a new one is born, but the hole of the old friend is never quite filled.
I wish there was something I could have done to stop her from getting into the car and driving away, but there wasn't, isn't, and never will be, leaving me with an open wound, patched by a band-aid friend, which eventually ceases to work.
Life is not a book, and that is what John Green taught me.

*Some names changed, some names completely made up

The Love Club

To me, it seems that everyone has a best friend, a lover, or a sibling that they can't go a day without talking to, who they connect with intimately, and love more than anything on this earth. There are five types of relationships that I see exhibited.

The Melodramatic PDA Relationship: This is the couple on the train in broad daylight practically giving each other lap dances. These are the people who dart out of the school dance to suck face in the locker room, or maybe in the middle of the dance floor. Undoubtedly, they are in some sort of love, or else they probably wouldn't be displaying it for the entire population. The most common phrase just hear in reference to this type of relationship is "get a room!"

The Cute Couple Who Slow Dance And Talk About Bugs: Maybe that isn't exactly how these relationships work, but that how I'd like to imagine it. Two people who both like each other a whole lot, in the "I have a massive dorky crush on you" sort of way. They learn how to ballroom dance after school and laugh about dumb things together, without completely abandoning all other friendships. Almost no one has a problem with these two, especially if they are over 80 years old.

The Best Best Best Friends: These two do everything and anything together, whether it be watching Wes Anderson movies or bawling about boys whole listening to Buddy Holly. They've likely been friends since preschool or earlier, and will probably wind up living next door to each other in time. They make mix CD's for each other's birthdays and write letters from down the street, sending them snail mail style. The "I stepped out of an indie movie" type of people are usually part of these.

The "I'm Going To Kill Everyone On Earth Please Help" Friendship: everyone has this person in their life, whether it's her that's coming to you at three in the morning screaming and crying, or you going to her. I guarantee, you've had this person in your life at some point. The friendship might not have lasted long, but it was there. It is always a separate person from best best best friend, because ceaseless complaining and emotions really does get in the way of those chocolate banana cookies you were going to make.

The Person That Hates You or You Hate Them But You Can't Live Without: You know, when he breathes you want to snap his neck, but three days later you're in his kitchen making nachos and laughing about bad horror movies. But you can't stand each other. He lies too much and you say snide remarks that he hates, but you are inseparable. You spend more time with him than any other person. But you fight constantly. It never lasts. These friendships are sort of a crash course in how to ruin your emotions.

And that, my comrades, is Ayers' Five Types Of Friendships.

Why You Totally Should And Really Shouldn't Watch That Scandinavian Version of Alice in Wonderland

It's pretty well known that I'm not really what one would call a "party animal." At all. For the past six or seven weeks, I've been out on Friday nights. This doesn't necessarily entail raging parties filled with flashing lights and alcohol (I've never been to one of these, nor do I ever want to), but of small local concerts, sleepovers, and movie nights. Two weeks ago I caught a break and decided that this was going to be my night. I made my favorite type of tea, some popcorn, curled up on my couch, and began my great search through Netflix for a great movie to watch. I stumbled upon the title "Alice," and discovered it to be directed by some Nordic lady with a name that has too many j's in her name for any westerner to be able to pronounce without seriously offending anyone. Since the tale of Alice's adventures through her rabbit hole has been long a favorite of mine, I decided that I wanted to broaden my Lewis Carroll horizons. Press play, the movie begins.
The opening is similar to the one all too familiar to me. Disney's version. Alice and her sister rest on a riverbank, Alice becoming antsy. This version suddenly cuts to out to :our protagonists lips telling us that she needs to follow the rabbit.
The rabbit is an actual rabbit. And actual, dead, rabbit, complete with really bad taxidermy and stop animation. I'm still haunted by it.
Alice follows it through a cardboard desert, climbs into a desk drawer, and crawls through a cave of rulers and protractors. I shut the movie off at this point because the rabbit was scaring me too much. I watched Bob's Burgers instead (if you haven't started watching it, I highly recommend it).

Though this adaptation scared me to death, it made me ache for the days where my father would prepare peanut butter and banana sandwiches, situate me on a blanket in front of the t.v., put in a video tape with Tarzan, Alice In Wonderland, and Betty Boop on it, and say that I was having a picnic in our living room.

This is the rabbit from "Alice"

**correction; the version I am referring to is Czech, not Scandinavian. The director is Jan Svankmajer, which has significantly less j's than I originally thought.**

Great Expectations

Yesterday was a great day. One for the books. I slept until nine, cleaned my room without any sign of reluctancy, made hummus and cucumber pita pockets, and went on a picnic with two of my best friends. Other than the fact that there was ridiculous amounts of bees for mid-April, it went well. We played upbeat feminist pop music (the best type of music) and laughed about dumb crushes, stupid jokes, and long trips to Ohio (that's another post for another day).
We went to one of their houses to watch Wes Anderson movies, and then to the others to watch Shakespeare, and parted ways. I returned home at seven.
Yesterday gave me the ideation that all days during April vacation will be filled with friends and indie-movie like scenarios. It's not.
Today I woke up at noon, finished cleaning my room, shaved, and have done absolutely nothing. This is when i realize that all of my friends either have jobs, plans, or live out of state.
I regret thinking that my life is a movie and that every single day is filled with awesome.

The Treadmill Effect

Walking home, living in fear, and falling down on quick-moving vinyl   

     When you move on a treadmill you have to be careful that you do not stop until it does, unless you want to end up with burns down whatever area you happen to fall on. You feel like you're pushing the makeshift earth behind you, but you are not.
     I think this is an attempt at a metaphor about life, my sheer hatred for physical activity, the four million projects I have due tomorrow, and the fact that I went to my friends lacrosse game today instead of writing an essay.
     Starting in backward fashion, my walk home today was...unique? I still haven't quite come to terms with this unusually long winter, leading to me leaving my coat at school and entering my home with blue hands. To me, people seemed unusually friendly on this chilly Thursday, or maybe it was the fact that I greet passers-by with a scowl usually. I don't intend myself to come off as mean or angry, but bear in mind that I'm probably carrying over 10 pounds in textbooks and really hate most of my classes. Today, at least three people greeted me with a smile and hello, with one college student yelling something lost in the wind out of a car window to me. For some reason, these people scared me so I shifted into what I call my "quasi-waddle-run carrying 15 extra pounds in ballet flats" to get home faster.
     Continuing along my path, I began to notice that my body was feeling stagnant. I was not moving. I was pushing my feet along the ground, pulling what is in front of me closer and pushing what was behind me father behind, similar to a treadmill. I gained the idea that maybe I was the reason the earth was turning. I immediately disregarded this idea because hundreds of years of physics tell me this is wrong.
     On the metaphor, life is constantly moving, like the tradmill belt. Don't fall off of it because you will hurt yourself and fall very far behind and take a while to recover. I learned this the hardest way of all through a certain class. I let all the work pile up and I completed it yesterday, setting me behind in my other classes.
     I think the moral of this story is that treadmills should just be done away with because nothing good ever comes of them.

Average

     At fifteen years old, I have the physical and mental maturity of a fifteen year old. Coming from attending high school, I see that everyone tries to stray away from average. No one wants to look exactly their age, they want to look younger and more innocent, or older and wiser. No one wants to have average intelligence, they want to have "above grade level" so that they have something to validate their boastful nature, or below so that there's something highly attainable to strive for.
     Everyone tries to be unique in their own special way, which in turn groups together bands of similarly unique self proclaimed individuals. The girls who are very athletic but care a lot about their appearance stick together in the cafeteria. The boys who try to start fashion trends with corduroy shorts and bow ties tote North Face backpacks around the halls. The friends who listen to popular alternative music and giggle about cats anxiously await the bell that dismisses them from band class.
     You see, every time one person stands out, they are apt to fall back in again with people following their trends and ideas. This has been going on seemingly since the beginning of teenage history. It's why we're not still wearing bell bottom jeans and perms. It's why Nike sneakers and Katy Perry are popular. Someone decided that they were bored with what they had and they needed change.
     If you ever stop and think where what you're doing came from, if you thought it was your idea, it probably wasn't. I don't wear floral print dresses because I feel like it, I wear them because they are very available and looked good on someone else before me. I don't use the word "ace" instead of "cool" because I invented the word, I use it because a character in a book used it and I thought it was cool.
     Competition also feeds into this system. If I feel that someone is trying to out-unique me, I will find another component of myself to draw out to make me not just a copy. I will thicken my eyeliner as a type of war paint and let out a battle cry of folk music.
       Everyone does this, and if you don't, you're probably just another liar.

Massachusetts Air

     My friend Joe moved here from California at the beginning of the school year. I don't often think of him as "my friend from California," because he has evolved into my "friend who still gets very excited when it snows even though it's March and every one else is very done with winter." The first real storm we had was after a bad weekend of freezing rain. Everything had a layer of ice over it, and then dandelion puffs began to drift down. Joe was ecstatic. Though he is seventeen, he was overjoyed with the thought of frolicking in the snow, despite our warnings that snow over ice is terrible and very slippery.
     Fast forward five months, to today. Since the rest of this week has been fairly warm, I thought it safe to wear a daisy printed dress with a thin green sweater. Knowing that the temperature rises through the day, I felt this to be appropriate. I was sorely mistaken. I ended up walking home with Joe, in snow. This is the boy who is in a winter coat and boots walking with a girl in a cotton dress and converse.
     Once we parted ways to get to our own abodes, I started thinking of the deplorable winters here. It started getting unbearably cold in mid November. We have endured almost half of a year in winter. By the time I got home, I could barely unlock the door because I couldn't feel my fingers, my nose had moved far beyond a cute pink and was now blue, and I was miserable, this is also entirely my fault for not wearing a coat.
     If you were to interview anyone living in the north east right now, my bet is on the fact that they will all be cranky and eager for the equinox, which will likely bring about no such change in the frigid Massachusetts air.

Feel Like Dancin'

    There are days where all you want to do is stuff your feet into your old tap shoes and kick around in a bright yellow dress to very loud swing music. At first you'll turn on the radio as background noise while you start your history homework. And you start tapping your pen along to the beat. Then you start to roll your left shoulder every so often. Then you find yourself shuffle stepping to the sink to fill your glass with water. Next it's off and running as you embrace your inner Daisy Buchanan and choreograph a full on flapper dance in your too small kitchen.
     It's things like this that make me remember that letting go is not always a bad thing. Yes, I finished my history homework, but a smile never left my face.
     My impromptu dance probably wasn't very good, and I had no idea what to do with my arms, so they flopped around my hips, but no one but my very confused dog was there to see. And if there were another person in my way, I'd let them watch along and laugh at me.
     Today is a beautiful day, beating out the snow yesterday, seize it.

Speedy Beat

     Being a self proclaimed musician, I hold myself to the fact that I can keep tempo like nobodies business. This is in fact a lie. Watching me tap along to a song is a sight for sore eyes, my eyebrows furrowing deeper with each beat that I fall behond, tounge pressed tight between my lips in a sad attempt to save myself.
      I know the basic root of counting music, and I try my darndest to match my footsteps to the drum beats pulsing behind a singer. One foot forward, next step, continue, following the bass drum, steady. I often find myself chasing the beat, which I guess is a musical term, but to be honest, I can never keep straight what is and what isn't, but this time it's literal. The mix of music on my phone that keeps me company on the way home is greatly varied, and for than I loathe myself. The song choice can go from an uptempo walking song that I can easily and merrily make my way, a song like Some Nights by Fun., to a slow song that drags my extremities in a mourners stroll, such as Alseep by The Smiths, to a high jump 'n jive song, bringing me to a full on sprint.
     Maybe the first sentence of this post gave it away, but I am not an athlete in any sense of the word. Needless to say, when Panic Song by Green Day starts pounding, I groan and accept the fact that my feet will not dance atop pavement or dirt roads on a journey, and it bores holes through my ears.
     A sort of serendipitous resolution came to me yesterday. My friend and I were planning on going swimming at the YMCA, yet the pool was closed due to untold circumstances involving someone swimming for 24 hours straight. The outcome? The verdict that we would head upstairs to the gym area. I have never set foot in one of these traps of sweaty elders and jacked college football players. Here we are, two teenage girls in Mickey mouse sweatpants, ready to work out. I was intimidated. The only time a smile broke across my face was when I was too light to. make one of the machines move.
     But I digress, I've decided that I needed to link my physical fitness to my ability to walk in time.

The Elephants Footsteps (and other analogies about a teenage girls emotions)

There is three things I hate most in life. Math, soggy mushrooms, and confrontation. Math is workable, I don't have to torture myself with writing out algorithms and quantum physics in my free time. Soggy mushrooms are completely avoidable, don't put them on pizza or sautee them and you're golden. Confrontation is inevitable.
     I will start by saying this: the public's opinion of me will probably be 100% inaccurate by the time I turn ninteen, because of the amount of agreement I make. I let people trod all over me and beat my opinions down like an ant under an elephants foot. The elephant doesn't realize it's impact, but the ant is crushed. If I state an opinion in a debate and someone counters it, I will agree with them specifically to get out of people being mad at me. I do this because if anyone else gets mad at me, I get more mad at me and more stuck in my own head. If you tell me that I am being annoying, chances are I will say "yes sorry" and then silence myself for an hour and only make any sort of noise or motion when instructed.
     My feelings are very fragile and get torn easily, but I will never let anyone know, because that would detract their attention away from what is important and onto me. I found one person who I talk to on will about my emotions and ink soaked rice paper heart, though my tears get sculpted into a puddle for her to compare her ocean to. She makes her problems out to be more than needed, bigger than mine, making the fact that my little brother called me fat and that I'm rubbing my bulging stomach with tears in my eyes less valid.
     I will not talk to anyone else, because they will try to make me feel good.

Queen of the Aztecs (Or Wherever Chocolate Came From)

     It seems that most historical studies in elementary schools revolved around three topics: Abraham Lincoln (his early life, never the Emancipation Proclamation or Gettysburg Address), Martin Luther King Jr., and the discovery of chocolate by the Aztecs. Being the all-things-sugar loving child I was, when given a choice, I would delve into the ancient world of my favorite snack.
     When reading the 15 page "textbooks," I was always shocked and saddened by the fact that chocolate wasn't sweetened in its early days, and didn't come neatly packaged inside a Hershey wrapper. It came as a bitter, hot, liquid. My mission was to taste the origin of my joy. To become the Queen of the Aztecs (I was six, give me a break.)
     In 7th grade, I was given the opportunity to taste raw cocoa. Here was my chance. I was about to assume my position as ruler of the fine confections. I hated it. I swallowed it with a grimace and vowed that I would never go after so much power ever again.

Too Dumb To Refine

I don't think anyone reads these posts, but i like forming sentences, so I will continue.

It never crosses my mind that I am intelligent. Strictly, I am a b student, though I do try. Looking back on blog posts, the only two I actually liked were "Evaporar" and "Tea Cookies And Their Relevance To My Father In Ice Skates" and even then, I find my writing to be choppy and all over the place, exactly the way I cook.
     Anyways. I was listening to New Slang for the millionth time and a particular line stuck out to me that hadn't before. "Am I too dumb to refine?" It's relevance stuck to me like honey and pollen (bear with me through my food similes, I'm hungry) and I almost broke down in the car driving home.
     My music taste is comprised of indie and folk that my friends have shown me, and I usually like a bands most popular song, because I don't know any more. I can't learn any more. There isn't room for more.
     I like to cook but I can't seem to broaden my horizons beyond broccoli cheddar soup. I am not a picky eater, but if given the option of a sweet potato leek quiche and macaroni and cheese, ill stick with the good old American favorite. I don't have a very refined taste, and fear the new unknown. Probably because college is rapidly approaching (I just put in my schedule for junior year. Yikes!) and I fear that I won't be able to feed into this lifestyle of delicate dishes. I would like to try new things, but can't bring myself to do so.
     Being a 7 year band student, I expect myself to hold a spot in my heart for classical music, though there is nothing I had more in this world more than a sonata in b flat. I guess you would say it's not my forte.
     The thing I would say I am most refined in is literature. I made a promise to my freshman English teacher that I would read 101 books by the end of sophomore year. I finished by December. I like to think that I read high and sophisticated books but The Great Gatsby, A Clockwork Orange, and To Kill A Mockingbird are books that most high schoolers would have read by graduation. All I did was read them a few years early. Most of the one oh one was composed of John Green and Shakepeare. I give myself too much credit for liking Shakespeare.
     Anyways. The point of this (really poorly written) post was to show how The Shins make me realize my failures, and that I need to finish reading The Winters Tale.
      Happy winter to all, and to all a good night.

This Is Scattered.

WARNING. THE COHERENCY OF THIS POST IS NOT GUARANTEED,

It has always bothered me that I will never know what a Spanish accent in French sounds like. What a French accent in Russian sounds like, or a Chinese accent in Arabic. I will never be able to pick out who sounds different in other languages, because I myself sound different. I hadn't thought about this in a while, but I remembered in French class today while we were watching a video clip of a Jewish man speaking in French about his experience with the Holocaust and being held safe in a basement in France. He spoke in English and had a noticeable accent from Russia (his oringinal home), yet I could not for the life of me pick up on it while he was speaking French. This makes me think of how terrible my accent in attempted French must be.
I've recently taken on the daunting task of making a full length, feature film, documentary on my high schools winter percussion ensemble. I actually don't have a full idea of how this is going to go. But here's to hoping, right?
I am slightly worried about taking AP U.S. History and AP Language and Compostition next year considering that I am still a sophomore and it is february. I shouldn't be planning for Junior year.
This has been a frazzled Bridget, over and out.

These People Are All Dead

A few times this winter, I've caught myself nestled up on my couch watching a gritty movie from the 1930s, complete with bad acting and lots on cigarettes. Today's pick was "Reefer Madness" which was likely intended to be an educational film about the dangers of marijuana. Anyways, my point.
As I watch this, with the actors feet tapping to the swung beat, it came over me that all of these young, shining teenage actors are dead. These are the people of my grandmother's generation, and it makes me think how in eighty years or so, who will be seeing my face at age fifteen while the person behind that face is long buried beneath the soil?

Do You Ever Feel Very Small?

I often find myself sprawled out across my twin sized mistress, extremities extending as far out as they can go, yet keeping the entirety of myself off the floor. It's moments like these where I feel small. I feel small in the shower, where I have to stand on my tip toes against the slippery bathtub floor to adjust the shower to spray on my head. I feel small when I sit in the grass, sun on my back, with a ladybird tickling my kneecaps, when I can tap my knees and feel the bones. I feel small when curled up with a fever, waiting for my mother to bring me a sliced apple, or when I blow the air from my lungs across a small wooden flute bought in China Town.
On the contrary, I feel large when I am in New York City or Boston, taking up copious amounts of space on the crowded sidewalks, my boney elbows poking into the eyes of little kids, my feet trampling subway grates and old candy wrappers. In the lobby of a high ceilinged, ornately decorated hotel, I feel like Alice wherein my blond head will soon meet the golden chandeliers.
I feel small and largely significant when I am alone, yet enormous and useless in crowds and massive architecture, though I am merely an average sized person.

Evaporar

A song is always filled with emotions and words, even when there are no lyrics, even if the poetic verses aren't in a language you know. On every beat there's a new glimmer, every delicately strummed chord holds a promise, and every breath creates a sound that I cannot begin to explain to you.
     I have recently discovered a song that has held me close. It's a warm song for a rainy day, to keep your chin up and your feet rooted. To keep an end in sight but enough distance to keep you captivated. I don't know what language it's in, probably Portuguese or Spanish. It's the type of song that you want to wrap in parchment wax and keep in your back pocket to be with you on the days where you feel especially lonely. I want this song to dance on the arteries pumping blood to my appendages. I want to embody this song.
     This song is not a song that I understand all of the words to. Ill catch the word "tempo" here and "t'aime" here, "Evaporar" echoing through the air that it's sound occupies. You don't need to know the words to know the song. Each note carries me like a breeze across a lake, a journey into a land unknown, promising me that I will return home.
     This song is a daisy on a golden summer day, or a bowl of hot broth once you've come home from a hard day of sledding. It's a song for the chipped paint along a windowsill of a house once called home, but since forgotten. It's a song to fit around your ankles like a new pair of socks, to slide around a smooth wood floor on. It's the wind that fills my sails during the first blowing day. It's the crust on the bread that I fed to the ducks. It's the stones on a trail in the woods. It's everything right in the world. Evaporar.
     I think I will use that word as a sort of adjective to tell a friend how I am, or what the most beautiful things and ideas are.

Three Am

It is ok staying up until three am talking to your best friend on the phone about boys.

It’s ok to giggle about the fact that she owns practically a makeup store and you have 3 sticks of eyeliner and some chap stick, though you both wear the same amount.

It’s ok to poke at your stomach and not like it, and have her tell you that it’s perfect.

It’s ok to stumble out of bed at 7 after four hours of sleep cursing yourself because you have rehearsal in an hour.

It’s ok to be relieved that the rehearsal was cancelled due to the snowstorm.

It is ok to wake up at 1 pm in your basement watching spongebob even though you promised yourself that you would stay awake.

It’s ok to have magic moments.

Believe youself.