I am a packrat.

My room is a cove of items from my childhood- toys still collect dust in boxes in the bottom shelf of my bookshelf, still home to many picture books that I enjoyed in my early years and pictures that have faded in color, next to certificates yellowing behind more recent accolades. My closet holds unfinished Lego projects, old Shonen Jump magazines from my 2 year subscription in middle school and both my Boy Scout and Cub Scout uniforms. My drawers are an archive of classtime doodles, binders will bursting with schoolwork from whatever grade they were used in and my forgotten Yu-Gi-Oh! cards and handheld gaming systems.

Items that should have been cast away as soon as I outgrew them instead got stashed in every available space. I hold a connection to each and every item I possessed. Rather, I forge some arbitrary attachment to every item that I own, regardless of their actual importance in my life.

All through my life, I have worn out shoes and backpacks and papers and when the time had finally come to throw them out, I would kick and scream and cry. I always felt so connected to the items, even though I had no significant memories with them. I still vividly remember being forced to throw away one of my backpacks, my eyes watering as I lifted the trashcan lid, holding my backpack in my other hand for as long as I could. I suddenly tossed it into the trashcan, letting the lid fall as I ran back into the house and cried, cried, cried.

So last week, I surprised myself when I told my little cousin he could take some of my toys home with him. The “yes” had come out with almost a tone of carelessness, and I quickly reevaluated what I had just said. These toys were different from anything I had been forced to part from before. They WERE my childhood, items that were prevalent in almost every childhood memory I had.

One of the toys he asked for I remember receiving. It was a Power Rangers Megazord, one of my favorites. I remembered the first day I received it, how my hands shook as I held the shiny new figure from the weight of the toy and my excitement. I remembered the afternoons I had spent in the backyard with it, battling invisible enemies and finding new configurations for it. So why would I be so willing to give something I was so attached to away?

Then I remembered my cousin’s face all the times he came over just to play with it. He battled with his own imaginary enemies, he fiddled with its “instructed” formation and created his own combinations, same as me. If I had any time to give it away, there would be no better time than now, when I would be going to college. If I had any person to hand it to, there would be no better child than he, the boy who would care for it as I did, as I have forgotten to. The first step to becoming an adult would start with throwing away the chains of my childish antics.

So I didn’t cry as I watched him walk out of my house with a box full of my old toys. I knew what he would do with those pieces from my childhood. I knew that I might never see them in the same condition I left them. But I was relieved because I knew that they would not be unused because I left. I knew I would not have to face another trash can.

My room is still filled with childhood pieces left to be taken away by more deserving children. But in the spaces left by the pieces I gave today, I can hoard pieces from the beginning of my adult life. I am still a packrat. But I am no longer attached.

Season 5 of Dexter

HOLYYYYYYYYYY SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT IT’S ABOUT TO GET REAL ASDKFLDSJFLDSKFJDLKSJFKLDJFLKDJFJK

I hope that clarifies how excited I am for this upcoming season of Dexter. I mean, last season blew my mind with the (trying to avoid a pun-type adjective so I’ll go with some buzz words) sharp writing and stellar performances all around. Everything seemed to have come to a head last season, but it all wrapped up quite nicely, as Dexter finally feels at home with himself, his family and his “dark passenger”; Rita got closure with her daddy issues, Quinn just blossomed so beautifully as a character and really melded into the ongoing storylines; Masuka was Masuka; Arthur Mitchell found his right path and all seemed well. I was happy and wondering what the writers could do to amp the show up more when Dexter went into the bathroom to find Rita dead in a tub and Harrison crying in a pool of blood.

This trailer shows me a couple of things I’m really ecstatic about:

* They’re continuing major water cooler story lines from season 4 (besides Rita’s murder), including the Kyle Butler one, the Rita-Elliot (God that guy is such as sleaze) affair and the growing tensions between Quinn and Dexter.
* The changing dynamics in Dexter’s life- he now has no one to depend on to take care of the kids when he’s out killing, but apparently he still can so I want to see how they explain that.
* QUINN+DEXTER. I know I already said it but GOD THESE TWO NEED MORE SCENES TOGETHER AND THIS SEASON WILL BE FULL OF THEM.
* MORE CHARACTER GROWTH FROM DEXTER OH GOD. I mean, I thought Dexter was DONE, a fully fleshed out character, but here it seems like they’re showing Dexter crack under all of the pressure he is now under.

Anyway, that was me fanboying all over your dash. But seriously, get caught up on Dexter now, because this season will be killer (sorry but I HAD to stick one in).

Paul Conrad, in memoriam

“The important thing is that we continue to fight for these things [freedom, democracy], so that we have a country that is enviable because we, as a democracy, are the makers of our own destiny, the destiny of our generation, and for many more generations to come.” - Paul Conrad, ‘I, Con’

“Paul Conrad died.”

My mom informed me (rather bluntly) of his death a few days ago. At the moment, I took it in slowly, mumbling, “Oh,” and proceeding to walk off without so much as a second thought.

Today, my dad was organizing and found a book, which he gave me. It was “I, Con,” Mr. Conrad’s autobiography and the book that had introduced me to him. And as I held the book in my hand, I remembered him. I opened the book and saw poignant and detailed political messages arranged with skill and precision; words and images juxtaposed to call politicians out on their blunders. I remembered receiving the book my sophomore year and reading in awe all the Presidential terms he lived through, the 21st century he saw and wanted to correct.

This, I now remember, was the man who inspired me, who I modeled my own cartooning style after. I credit this man to helping me win various cartooning awards at write-off competitions at the local, state and national level and for giving me the brief dream of becoming an editorial cartoonist. Without him, I probably would have struggled as an editorial cartoonist on the Spartan Scroll; I would have lacked not only the skill and the passion required for the job. He does for my cartoons what Geoff Boucher and Bill Plaschke did for my personality features, and I regret not being able to meet him while he was still with us to tell him this.

But thank you, Mr. Conrad, for your contribution to modern cartooning and for showing me that we can all have voices that resonate far and wide, we just need a pen and a good idea.

Day 6: Beauty

Every weekday, I step off the bus after work and find myself surrounded in the screeching tires, revving engines and steel-and concrete high rises. The air smells of smog and dirt and the sidewalk I stand on is hard and unforgiving. And all the while, people push by me, regarding nothing but their destination and their own well-being. It must be Los Angeles.

And I continue forward, up a set of cobbled steps into a beige marble-lined square. Suddenly, everything has changed- the high rises take no presence over my location, and the ground is suddenly smooth. I walk forward towards a large square of grass, where dogs romp and play with each other as their owners smile and chat, looking as if they had been there forever. And I tread over the soft, wet soil, past the giant purple tower rising to my right. People sit at tables underneath large green umbrellas, business suits and ragged jackets interacting without much regard to the appearance of the other. A tall wooden tower rises immediately in front of me, host to a shabby wooden birdhouse and a million colorful scribbles all over its unfurnished walls. And soon the square opens up again, falling into a circle of stones that cusp the end of a yellow waterfall off the end of a purple arch. The arch connects to a long wall adorned with giant soda can mosaics of the King of Pop and a colossal painting of Salma Hayek. People skirt the edges underneath the shade, coming in on 6-foot tall bicycles for a weekly gathering. I pass a group of students admiring the City of Angels visible from the square, chattering loudly and snapping shots of the brick high rises.

But I cannot stop but notice the activity around me still, the rhythm of the heart of Los Angeles pulsating in vibrant color and remarkable harmony. Here, in Pershing Square, L.A. is at its essence and people from all parts gather to contribute to the vibe.

And as I step out along the large inset crack and back into the busier part of LA, I always find myself smiling, still giddy from seeing this side of LA. It truly is a thing of beauty.

I strode onto the bus, Keane drifting from my earbuds and a peculiar scene caught my eye. As I strode to the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but continue to turn around to glance at a man that was sitting in the front of the bus. He was tall and lanky, a beige fedora hiding the top of his jet black hair and a pair of aviators hiding his eyes, and around his neck he had a pair of arms from the little boy sitting in his lap. And as I stood towards the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but look at the man interact with the child. Every movement the child made, every string of babbled words that came out of the child’s mouth, every shift in position the child made- the man sat captivated, listening, interacting, adapting.

Maybe it was the difference in hair color, but for some reason I could not relate the two people. To me, they were a random pairing of child and adult- a pair that was brought together to ride the bus together, hand in hand. This was part of their mystique- I wanted so badly to be the man, to be able to love a child, to be able to engage with him, to be able to love the child even though it might not be his own. I was compelled sit across from the man and introduce myself- maybe start a conversation, just to ask him how he did what he was doing.

And as the bus rolled to another one of many stops, the man and the child got up, and I suddenly hoped to see the man get off the bus and let the child go, that as soon as the child was off his lap, he would stop caring because he wasn’t weighed down. But then I saw the man walk onto the sidewalk, child dangling from his arm and I immediately regretted my hope. The bus drove away and I watched the father and his child romp playfully on the sidewalk.

I hope to be able to love like that someday. Even if the child I get in the family I start isn’t mine by blood, I want to love him or her like the man loved his child.

Today, I felt a twinge of paternity.

Untitled (wanted it to be Day6, but it sounds terrible.)

Tom waited underneath the stone arch, glancing back occasionally to check the time on the copper clock tower behind him. He clutched the purple orchids he had wrapped clumsily in magenta tissue paper. He exhaled mist and shifted side to side, waiting anxiously for the bell to chime 8 times and for Line 14 to pull up and open its doors.
The steam collected in heavy, thick masses around him, obscuring the tracks and the platform across the way. The hills, tinted with purple, rose to cover the orange-yellow sun that was settling behind them for its daily slumber.
And soon the 14 rolled around the bend as the sun threw its last golden rays into Tom's eyes, blinding him momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, the train was pulling into the station, the front car and many others sliding past him in stripes of blue and silver.
And the engine quieted and the wheels skid to a stop as the blurs cleared into a single set of double doors. The tall glass hinges folded in two and Ann stepped out of the shadows behind the doors.
Her eyes met Tom's, and for a minute they stood still, staring at each other as people blurred past them, hurrying to get on and off the train. And then Ann ran to Tom, prompting him to drop the orchids so he could cup his hands around her face and stroke her sunken cheeks, kiss her slightly crooked nose, wipe the grime from her forehead and brush her frizzy hair away from her muddy eyes.
And after four years she was still the divine creature he had fallen in love with.

Voice

I hate my voice. Of all the qualities I possess, it’s the quality I despise the most. It makes me sound stupid and childish, and I flinch every time I hear myself anywhere.

I don’t understand the drastic changes; in my head, my voice sounds fine to me, not too young and yet not too mature. When I talk, this voice disguises my actual lispy talk and lets me get on with life without me wanting to kill myself for saying “Yeth thir,” an insult my fellow scouts would bombard me with whenever I addressed a superior. And while I tried to keep face, it always hurt so much.

I always feel like when I talk, no one takes me seriously at all. Everything I say to them is some sort of joke, every observation a childish point of view, every analysis tossed aside with a laugh and a shaking of the head.

I remember distinctly in the third grade when my teacher asked the class to write about our favorite places. So write I did- like the true blue nerd I was, I storied for 3 pages all the reasons I loved the public library in the twenty minute time slot we were allotted.

And the next day, she told us she had something special to read to us. It was one of our stories. She professed that she thought it was very well written, and began to read it to the class. And as she read, I felt myself suddenly becoming aware that the story she was reading was mine.

I never heard myself once while she was reading. All I heard was the pen on the paper, singing out eloquently what I could barely putter about the library. The words were still mine, but the voice was completely different.

And I loved it.

Since then, I have always had a passion for writing. Although it took a backseat to my drawing obsession in my early years, I still found the satisfaction of hearing a new voice every time I wrote.

Today, I still love putting a pen(cil) to piece of lined paper and/or placing my fingers to keys and staring at a blank document. Today, I still love closing my eyes and listening for the perfect voice; the voice I want to speak with today. Today, I still love crafting that story in my mind and letting it flow to the paper or onto the screen, using the voice to guide my hand, writing and erasing and writing and erasing. Today, I still love opening my eyes and reading the story in my chosen voice.

But even more, I love sharing those stories, those voices with all of you. Thank you for reading.

Vicious cycles

I’d love to blame you for all the bad that has happened in the three years I’ve known you. For leading me on and crushing my dreams, for ridding me of my future hopes and aspirations, for all the nervous breakdowns you caused me to have, for all the sleepless nights that you’ve forces me to endure, for all the loneliness, the heartache and mostly for changing my outlook on love completely; showing me that I had to be cautious not to fall too quickly or too deep. I really would, because that would help me get up and move on with my life. And so I would for awhile, getting up and striding confidently forward. But then I remember all the smiles, all the laughter, the comfort I felt in your arms, and of course, how you changed my outlook on love; the fact that you showed me what love was and what kind of person I really wanted to be and what kind of person I wanted to love. And I would see your smile and fall right back, only to realize where I had sunk and want to blame you all over again.

Day 5: Innocence

"Where are we going?" quipped the young girl clasping his ring and middle fingers as she attempted to navigate through the tall grass that obscured most of the empty landscape that was around her. She walked at a brisk pace, sometimes breaking into a quick walk to keep up with the man dragging her along. She made sure to hop over puddles and walk without dragging her feet to avoid sullying her brand new paper white dress.
"Where are we going?" she asked again, this time more loudly as she saw the bright lights of the party grow smaller and less distinct behind her.
"Almost there," the man assured softly, his breathing growing heavier and deeper as he moved forward with abandon, scanning the field around him as he tiptoed through the wide field.
"Here we are," he said, arriving at the doorstep of a rotted cabin, its formerly white painted walls now black and dark blue in the moonlight and peeling from age. The house howled as the heavy storm winds blew through, swaying the abode dangerously to either side. A single rusted windchime hung from the porch roof, tinkering endlessly.
"This place is scary," the girl spouted, moving closer to the man and clasping his fingers even more tightly. The man inhaled sharply at the girl's movements, staring through the glassless windows and imagining to himself what would soon be taking place in the room he was looking into. His pupils dilated, his forehead began dropping with sweat
"Let's go in"
and he moved suddenly towards the door, nearly taking the little girl off her feet
"No, mister, let's go home; this place is really scary!"
and he suddenly became furious, snarling at the little girl
"Oh no, you're coming with me!"
and proceeding to snatch her up as she screamed
No no no no

up the stairs and through the threshold

No no no no

biting and kicking and screaming until the man finally set her down in the room he had been staring into. The moonlight shone through the window and the stars seemed to twinkle in time with the windchime. Breezes slipped through cracks in the walls.

Please mister I just want to go home

the girl cries, her eyes searching desperately for some sort of comfort in the shadows around her; instead, hands reach out and begin stroking her softly, the man's voice crooning

There there it will all be alright now

as she continued to cry, rooted to the spot, powerless to stop the appendages now unbuttoning her dress as the wind roars more loudly than ever, moving the clouds over the moon. And with one last whoosh of air

the windchime falls and shatters

Combination post- Days 2, 3, 4: Love, Light and Dark

Your high beams flooded the street suddenly, clunking to life and leaving me blinded by the light for a split second.

Your silhouette slowly cut into the white screen, and soon the darkness followed, framing the high beams in two intersecting rings of light. Your shadow split into multiple figures on the pavement, each frozen in the same stance, with arms hung down their sides like the silhouette that cast them.

And as I came to recognize your frame, my heart began to pound and my eyes began to water; my stomach began to flutter and my mouth turned dry. You jogged over to where I lay on the road, out of breath

"I-I ca-"

scrambling, grabbing blindly at the pavement around me, unsure of what to do,

"I can't-"

wiping some of my blood onto your fingers

"I can't see you" I gasped, my voice distorted by the dryness in my throat and the blood that was gushing out my mouth

And you picked me up, cradling me in your arms, whispering Please don't go, please don't leave me alone, please don't let me be alone

"I can't see-"

Please. I want you to stay. Please. Please. Please

My eyelids fluttered

Stay awake. Stay with me. Stay

I took a large breath

"I'm going to die"

It was barely audible, a whisper under the loud roar of the motor and the screaming white of the headlights, but he was taken aback; his eyes wild with anger and

Don't say that

soaked with grief

Please just stay

And he held me closer, holding my head to his chest, smearing blood on his jacket

And I closed my eyes, taking in his scent, the safety and comfort I was feeling in his arms, his tears dropping on my head, his heart throbbing a bit too quickly, his voice sobbing

I love you

over and over and over and over until

I slumped in his grip, my head landing on his arm. And he was squeezing me tightly, his tears ceasing as I dove into darkness, falling through the dark abyss as I approached the shining beacon at the end of the tunnel

I'll always love you

Day 1- Introduction

I reach up to the fogged double-glass, my hand placing itself on its cold, wet surface.
It moves in a sideways motion, revealing only a square jaw and a half-open mouth, gaping stupidly in surprise at the part of the mirror now clear.

The mouth closes with a snap. It droops at the edges a bit as the top part of the neck tenses and an Adam's apple scales the front of the neck. The mouth still frowns, but the lips unstick and the mouth opens slightly.

Then, the corners move back and up, opening the mouth and revealing two rows of slightly yellowed teeth barricading a pink cave, glistening with water.

A giant pink amoeba suddenly pokes from the space between the two aged, dirty walls. It quickly takes a peek into the sky before it darts back into its hiding place, as the lips mouth to me:

"Hello."

as my mouth utters the same.

Starting now!

(100) Themes writing challenge

Here’s the deal: I’m going to attempt to write anything I want about 100 different themes. I might write one a day, might write two. I’m mainly deciding to start this (after hearing about it from a few friends) because I’ve been very bored lately. I figure this’ll be a great way to keep me occupied during the summer. Out of two different variations of this challenge, I’ve switched it up a bit and decided to use some themes from each version.

THE CHALLENGE STARTS NOW! -cue catchy theme music-

1. Introduction

2. Love

3. Light

4. Dark

5. Innocence

6. Beauty

7. Breathe

8. Innocence

9. Drive

10. Free

11. Memory

12. Insanity

13. Misfortune

14. Smile

15. Silence

16. Questioning

17. Blood

18. Rainbow

19. Gray

20. Illusion

21. Vacation

22. Mother Nature

23. Midnight

24. No Time

25. Trouble Lurking

26. Tears

27. Footprints

28. Sorrow

29. Happiness

30. Under the Rain

31. Flowers

32. Night

33. Expectations

34. Stars

35. Hold My Hand

36. Dreams

37. Eyes

38. Abandoned

39. Dreams

40. Rated

41. Teamwork

42. Standing Still

43. Dying

44. Two Roads

45. Illusion

46. Family

47. Creation

48. Childhood

49. Stripes

50. Breaking the Rules

51. Twisted

52. Deep in Thought

53. Keeping a Secret

54. Tower

55. Waiting

56. Danger Ahead

57. Sacrifice

58. Kick in the Head

59. No Way Out

60. Rejection

61. Fairy Tale

62. Magic

63. Do Not Disturb

64. Multitasking

65. Horror

66. Traps

67. Playing the Melody

68. Hero

69. Annoyance

70. 67%

71. Obsession

72. Mischief Managed

73. I Can’t

74. Are You Challenging Me?

75. Mirror

76. Broken Pieces

77. Test

78. Drink

79. Starvation

80. Words

81. Pen and Paper

82. Can You Hear Me?

83. Heal

84. Out Cold

85. Spiral

86. Seeing Red

87. Food

88. Pain

89. Through the Fire

90. Triangle

91. Drowning

92. All That I Have

93. Give Up

94. Last Hope

95. Lightning

96. In the Storm

97. Safety First

98. Puzzle

99. Curiosity

100. Relaxation

Change [feat. Addiction]

"Here's the thing about change. Sometimes you think you've changed, but you've just traded one addiction for another. And sometimes that's the best you can hope for."
-Jack Bourdain, "Kitchen Confidential"

Coming back from college orientation, I was honestly really excited to go to Thurgood Marshall at UCSD. After all of the bickering and the moping I had done about not being able to go to the University of Puget Sound, I found the environment, philosophy and energy to be a perfect fit for me. The campus and the Orientation Leaders just completely swept me off my feet and changed my feelings about attending UCSD.
As I cleaned up my room after wrapping up the campus tour and so many fun presentations and icebreaker activities, I found that almost all past regrets, feelings of anger and bitchings about going to school there were all moot. Everything I had seen, all the people I had met- they all contributed in large part to the entire experience at TMC. This was the community I would be enveloping myself in, one of fierce school spirit and rigorous scholastic work, I affirmed.
All of my negative feelings had suddenly been replaced with pure positivity and I loved it. Then, and even now, I cannot bring myself to feel negatively about going to college (well, except for being nervous).
In short, my feelings had changed.
In an earlier post, I talked about change being unexpected and this experience only convinced me further of the tide-like nature of change. The above quote (from a wonderful sitcom that you all should watch) also reflects my feels about the change; how the negative feelings I clung to so were all "replaced" by excitement and energy. I couldn't have said it better.
Change is here. The water is only lapping at my ankles but I can feel the roar of the ocean, ready to lash out and drag me in, washing me in my new freedom, my new schedule, my new atmosphere, my new room/suitemates, my new everything, and I am definitely still nervous.

Good thing I dressed in trunks.

To dream

When I was young, I remember standing outside with my friends at night staring up at the sky and watching it glitter like studded satin.
And every once in a while, one light, a bit brighter than the others, would tear across the black sky and one of my friends would proclaim, “Look! It’s a shooting star!” And I would stare up at the light, my eyes following it as it traveled across the sky. The light would fill my heart with joy and wishes and put a smile on my face as some snot-nosed brat popped my wonder with, “Nah, it’s just an airplane.”
In the episode “Dream On” of “Glee”, Jesse St. James (played by the amazingly talented Jonathan Groff) defined a dream as “something that fills up the emptiness inside, the one thing that you know if it came true, all the hurt would go away.” Those airplanes I saw were what I thought were dreams that could fill my life with happiness and push out all worries and problems I had and would face.
I was, and still am, a fervent dreamer- for as long as I can remember, I would never really recall some of the things happening in classes and the events around me because I was imagining another life: one where all my troubles were nonexistent and life went my merry way.
However, whenever the question of what I wanted to do with my life came up this year, I was stumped. In all the dreaming- the fantasies of being a doctor, an artist, a superhero and a Broadway actor, all which faded as my attention shifted to something else I caught interest in- I realized that all my dreams were just airplanes in the night sky, fake wishes that were substituted for passions that I would fervently pursue.
Suddenly, I was jerked from my dream life into reality, where the airplanes that I had misidentified as dreams suddenly disappeared. I found no passion, no drive and sadly, no will to dream any longer among the lights that dotted the sky. I no longer knew what a true dream was after chasing airplanes for so long. I became lost, cautiously observing everything that I could perceive as a dream.
Amidst all the wandering this year, I met and got the chance to interview three amazingly passionate and interesting people. As I talked to them about their lives, dreams and goals, I found myself asserting the reason why I had no dreams: I had no passion. I had met two people who were in their dream careers, spreading their love for what they did and another who worked day and night to break into his dream job and I finally realized that passion is something one is willing to work at, to sacrifice all one’s time to practice, spread and love what they do.
My dream now is to find my dream, my true passion in life. As I head off to the University of California- San Diego next year, I will keep this foundation for my dream safely tucked away in my back pocket so that when the opportunity arrives, I can catapult myself into the sky, soaring past the airplanes and the star clusters to reach that shooting star, the true dream that I had yearned so long for.

I fell hard for you. When you slowly wrapped your fingers around my hand, I felt my legs liquefy as I slid face down onto a cold, concrete floor. And all I could do was lie there and wait for you to pick me up, brush me off and laugh, so that we could move on with our lives together.
And you did, a bright light shining from behind you, encircling your head and blinding me. And I drifted with you-clasping onto your hand so tightly that I was scared I might crush it. In our palms was hope and realization; hope that we could last, that I could love and be loved in return; the realization that I was in love. I told a few of my closer friends about us, how you made me feel, how we sat next to each other and used each other's shoulders as pillows, how we could talk for hours and hours about the most random things, how you made me feel, how I thought that my first relationship could be my only relationship. I was truly, unconditionally in love with you.
I went over my feelings for you every day in my head, smiling and whistling tunes as I strut down the hallways. Especially on this particular day, as I sat in class idly looking out the door. And then I saw you with her.
Suddenly, the alarm went off and I found myself still lying on the floor, groggy from my long sleep. I looked up again, only to see your lips on hers, standing almost unobstructed from view. I was across campus but I could see your hands clasping hers, your smile as you lay your lips on hers again. I could only watch from the floor.
I went home trying to rationalize what had happened. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a mirage! Maybe it was someone else! Maybe she leaped on you! Each excuse only became more feeble and more flimsy, leaving me in tears in my room, tears dropping onto the hard floor that I lay on.
Every muscle in my body seemed non-functional. I could not get up and was forced to watch you and her over and over in my head, even though your shadows were long gone. I could remember nothing of the fever dream I had, only the nightmares that had crept into it. When you told me you weren't into me like that, but I just told myself that you weren't comfortable with it; when you didn't return my texts; when you left me waiting for you to come.

I remember now. Every time you write sweet nothings to her, every time you tell me how she makes you feel. Every time I talk to her, every time I read what she has to say about you. I see how much you care for her, how happy she makes you, and although I'm disappointed that I can't be the one who makes happy, I'm happy for you.

So why haven't I gotten up?

Art as ideas.

What is art?

Recently, I was forced to endure through a frustratingly close-minded discussion in my usually enjoyable AP Art History class.

We were discussing the Dada movement, a movement that was supposed to be a slap in the face of Classical art conventions. So my teacher brought up Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain"


and proceeded to ask us, "Is this art?"

Almost immediately, I came to the conclusion it was. However, I was rather surprised that my Art History teacher disagreed, bringing up a slide of Michaelangelo's David:


protesting "How can you compare it to this? 'The Fountain' is not art."

I was stunned. IMO, art is not about the effort put into making the piece a reality. Art is an idea, manifested into a physical, tangible form. So to me, he was saying that the "Fountain" was less of an idea than "David."

Then, my teacher pulled up a desk and said, "So, if I put this in a gallery and say that it's 'art,' is it really art?"

Absurd. Of course it is. You have an idea, a premise for the world to see and deconstruct. You have a point to prove and you created a way of expressing your point and getting it across. Congratulations, you have made art.

And of course the ignorance continued. When we were reviewing Pop Art, some idiot classmate had the balls to quip that none of what we were currently reviewing was art because they all "did it for money."

Are you fucking serious? Were you even paying attention in the entire year you dumbfuck? Most of the "Classical" art that we went through, the ones that you said were done because they wanted to do art, were paid for by patrons. Yes, idiot, people paid artists to make art, and yet, because they got paid to make them, that makes them more "artistic" than modern art. Fuck off.

Then, another one of my more annoyingly idiotic classmates said that she would never listen to music that artists made "for the money," to which I had to look at her and ask, "Are you fucking stupid, or just acting?"

Everyone makes art for the money at first. No one becomes a full-time artist saying, "You know what I want to do when I grow up? Starve myself and make absolutely no money!" I think people who say that one of their goals in art is to make money are just honest, and although it makes them seem a bit pretentious, I respect that they are forthright about their true intentions. Anyone in the business who says they're making art for art's sake at first is failing to mention the money they want to make.

I just hope my classmates revert back to their quiet and more amusing dumbassedness as the year finishes.

AP Exam break!

Breaching security at school is fun. I should be in band right now, but I'm in the journalism room with Annie and Lindsey and Sallacious. Fun stuff.

Two AP Exams left! Lit. tomorrow then Art History next week then I'm DONE WITH AP EXAMS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Awesome.

Kind of sad.

Okay, so I had a post idea...

...but I forgot. Maybe later.

Evening of Nine-Hundred-and-Ninety-Nine-Plus-One Hardee-Har-Hars was hilarious. And riveting. I regret quitting forensics. :(

AP exams are coming up! I am studying. Later.

I wanna be in a musical. Or watch one. Soon.

Staying CURRENT

Portland Nationals was something else.

I mean, besides the fact that it was my fourth and final NSPA/JEA High School Journalism Convention, I found the experience to be a complete package and a perfect beginning to the finish of my high school journalism career. Very cool stuff indeed. I finally immersed myself in the Nationals experience, and when I opened my eyes I found that I indeed had a passion for journalism, writing and telling stories. Another career choice for me. :)Two issues before I have to write my final column. GAH.

I just cannot get over the fact that high school is almost over soon and that college is coming, with me having to make a final admission decision by May 1st. May 1st! And I'm still not sure on where I should go. Yikes.

And with AP exams coming up, there will probably be minimal blogging from here on out. Sigh. School, why must you run my life?

Let there be LIGHT

Congratulations to Next to Normal for its Pulitzer Prize win. Sexy. I'm so glad that something that I love won a Pulitzer. You know what that means? I'm getting more refined tastes! >:D

Hahhaha! Success. I love N2N. Congrats again.

Sunday morning (afternoon, actually)

Jesse Tyler Ferguson and Barrett Foa. Just thought I should share.

Need some serious Maroon 5 on my iTunes. Grr.

GLEE screening was fun yesterday. Lovely ladies and even lovelier night. I love Glee!

Mark Valley/Christopher Chance

Human Target is pretty freaking awesome.

Nice photo^

Lucky to find JOY in hard times

I love this book. I love the narrative style. Amy Tan <3

Nationals issue done! Smashing job. :)

And, I realized today that I never loved you, just the idea of you.

I'm so giddy today, I could just sing! And I did.

The best days are the days when bad things happen

but


you don't give a SHIT. :)

AND GLEE! 6 DAYS!

Clash of the Titans

Definitely a spectacle. I loved it. The thing is, I kind of went in knowing it would be a terrible movie dialogue-wise, so I turned my brain off as soon as the Legendary Pictures logo showed onscreen. Still, some dialogue sequences irked me a bit, and to be honest, 3-D is not worth the extra money. It's basically sharper 2-D.

Amazing visuals nonetheless, which is why I am mad that they even tried converting it to 3-D(the movie was originally filmed in 2-D). I hate 3-D, but that's a post for another time. The movie felt gritty, real and intense and the entire experience was a blast. Go and see this, but make sure to not bring your brains with you into the theater.

Also, Sam Worthington. When he's clean.

LAST Festival

I can't say I'm excited.

I can't say I'm nervous.

But I can say that...

tomorrow better rock.

Hard.

"Here to Stay"- Production Blog 1!

I'm writing a play! Yay! It's titled "Here to Stay" and it chronicles a cancer patient and her struggle with the disease as well as some some big changes in her life.

It's practice. I've got some stuff down. Wrote the first 5 minutes of the first scene of the first act. Really. Then I got stuck. Then I tried to write a synopsis. Not going that well either, actually...

Plan: Finish synopsis this week. Finish play by end of April.

Letsdothis!

Also, watch Modern Family.



Friggin' hilarious.

Passing the torch

As my sister gets more and more letters, packets, and brochures from colleges, I can't help but realize:

I got those annoying letters. I got those stupid packets. I never read them.

And as those letters dry up for me, the spigot is just turning clockwise for my sister. Another faint reminder that my time is nearly over.

I'm graduating in June.

I'm going to college in September.

And in two years, my sister will be too.

All out

Friday was fun. I will post pictures as I get them. Should be cool.
I was nervous at first for sure. Almost threw up outside. Had my head down. But when I got in, I figured I might as well go all out and danced my ass off. Fun stuff.
The entire event was just fantastically fun. I highly recommend seeing it, or even better- being in it. All the other contestants are so supportive and just all-around awesome guys. Winning meant nothing to me after a while and it just allowed me to enjoy performing and putting on a show.

Hooray for blogging within the week. But I still wish I could blog as much as this lovely lady.

Gawd.

Jude Law is illegally handsome.

Also this:


Mr. Schurr High is Friday. Friday!

Time passes by too quickly.

I'm nervous.

I miss blogging. Stupid short posts. Maybe I'll blog during late nights. The danger!

end

Dollhouse had its final episode. I missed it because Fox moved it to 8 on that night.
When I watched it online, I felt my eyes glazing over, my heart growing heavy as I watched it end, slowly, surely.
And as I watched Echo slip into her pod one last time, battle-worn and time-weary, as I remembered all the nights I had spent in front of the television watching my favorite show of all time, a part of me died inside.
I know this show got too short a run. It should have lasted for years, because I know that it could have, and it would have been kickass, given how the much second season improved on the first.
But some things are out of my control. I'm glad I enjoyed it while I could.
Dollhouse will forever hold a special place in my heart.

I miss Friday nights.
I miss awesome action scenes.
I miss Echo.
I miss Tahmoh Pennikett.
I miss Topher.
I miss British accents.
I miss political scandal.
I miss primal romance.
I miss the House.
I miss science-y nerd talks.
I miss poignant scenes.
I miss lush back story.

I miss Dollhouse.