Fencing, Fighting, Torture, Revenge, Chases, Escapes, True Love, Miracles...

If you asked me what my top 3 favorite movies were, you'd get a lot of different answers, depending on when you asked. But one movie will always be there, even when I'm old and grey and my eyes are so bad I couldn't see a TV screen two inches from my nose.

The Princess Bride.

I first saw part of it in music class in...second grade, I think it was. I really liked it then; when I saw the whole thing, I was caught. Completely and utterly. I really truly love this movie. It's become such a strong anchor for me, whenever I'm sad or scared of angry. It's just...wonderful. I'm quite sure how to say it more simply.

The book is amazing, hilarious and full of heart and warmth, and I suggest to EVERYONE OUT THERE that they go buy it. However, the soul of the book is different from the soul of the movie. The book is witty and more complex than the movie. Its characters are just as wonderful and vibrant, and the story is expanded upon, made even better and intense...but the movie is still in a different arena than the book. The movie is so full of beauty, sincerity, magic, tenderness, excitement, adventure, and comedy that I don't think anyone, whatever age, race, gender, or mentality, can ignore it for long.

It's hard to explain the spark that captures you mind, heart, and soul as soon as you begin to watch. The sense of magic, of the perfect fairy tale, is everywhere: in Fezzik, the slow, good-natured giant with a sense of a fair play. In Inigo Montoya, the fiery Spaniard whose unparalleled skill with the sword is spurred on by his thirst to avenge his father's death. In Vizzini, the ridiculous, yet frighteningly clever Sicilian who kidnaps Buttercup and battles The Man In Black to the death, using nothing but his wits. In Prince Humperdinck, the megalomaniacal, cowardly prince of Florin who plots against the heroes and can hunt like no man alive. In Count Rugen, the Six-Fingered Man, a chilly henchman of Humperdinck's who's fascinated by pain, invents the infamous Machine, and eventually turns out to be more ruthless than anyone could imagine. In Max the Miracle Man and his wife Valerie, who have the chutzpah to try and reverse death. Even in the Grandson and the Grandfather, who carry us through the movie with a comforting outsider's perspective.

And finally, that spark lives and breathes in Wesley and Buttercup, whose true love makes it impossible to separate them, through distance, pain, or death. Buttercup, the most beautiful woman in the world, engaged to the vicious, cowardly Humperdinck...and Wesley, her farmboy in masked black, every inch the hero and the devoted lover. The love story is what endures throughout the laughs and the swordfights and the Rodents Of Unusual Size. The love story, more perfect and pure than anything I have seen, read, or heard of since, is what we all want, just a little bit. Just a taste of that love and commitment, a whiff of what it must be like to find the person who cannot be stopped by death...only delayed for a little while.

I would not change a single thing about this movie. Nothing at all. It was beautifully made, lightning striking once. The cast is amazing: Mandy Patinkin, Andre the Giant, and Wally Shawn as the Sicilian Crowd, Chris Guest and Chris Sarandon as the two villains, Billy Crystal and Carole Kane as the nutty Miracle couple, and Cary Elwes and Robin Wright as the lovers. The Princess Bride is a work of art, in many small and many large ways. It's very comforting to me. When I've had a bad day, The Princess Bride makes me feel better again. When I want to feel young again, The Princess Bride helps me do that...and also makes me feel older in a good way. It has every element of a film I could ever want, and I don't think I'll ever grow tired of it.

Here's how deeply The Princess Bride is ingrained in my soul and memory: my friend Mira and I have memorized the entire movie. We can (and have, several times) recited the entire thing to each other. Swordfighting and wrestling included.

For those of you who read this and know what I'm talking about--and for those of you who don't--I have one thing to say.

As you wish.

*twitch* FAMILY BONDING TIME *twitch*: Part III

Okay. Let's have...three things to talk about, shall we? I've got limited time, so I'll only focus on the important things.

1) MICHAEL JACKSON

Okay, he's dead? That's so so so so so weird. I mean, this guy was an integral part of my life. Which sounds weird, but I've been listening to his music and hearing about his "exploits" since I was little. My mom loves him, and even she doesn't deny that he was one cracked pot, but still...I can't wrap my mind around the idea. Poor guy...universally worshiped, universally mocked, and now universally deceased. RIP, Jackson Man.

2) THE INNER WORKINGS OF MY MIND

I don't know, I've been feeling...better. It's hard to explain. I mean, yeah, I still get panic attacks and anxiety attacks and insomnia and paranoia and all the fun stuff, but generally, I just feel happier. I have an interesting summer coming up, my family has been together for almost a week WITH NO FIGHTING (this is really big, for us) and I'm making resolutions about things that I might actually be able to stick to. Things might be getting better. and even if they don't, I feel good. Which is nice. For a change.

3) NIGHTTIME WANDERINGS

I went out again to the Landing last night, at about 12:30 a.m. AND IT WAS CLEAR. For the first time in this horrible weather (which many are claiming is the worst Martha's Vineyard has seen in almost a century, at least for June), there wasn't a blanket of clouds over the sky. And it was glorious.

Because there are almost no sources of light around Chilmark Pond in the middle of the night--except for the dull glow of West Tis. and Vineyard Haven in the distance, the sky was crystal clear. Stars, millions of them, so thick in some places that the sky itself was glowing. The Milky Way was completely visible, stretching over my head like a pale, patchy bridge going to some strange place I couldn't see. There was a planet that was so bright my eyes kept coming back to it, and constellations and clusters and patterns that kept me looking back and forth until my neck jammed up. I don't have the words to talk about how beautiful and chilling it was...and at the same time, strangely calming. Maybe because it was so enormous, I lost myself in it. You can't focus on anything small when you're sitting beneath something so big.

And not only was I sitting under it on my little platform, I was sitting over it. The wind was totally gone, so the lake was as still as it ever was. The stars were reflected in it so clearly, I actually felt as though I was over a huge abyss, with stars shining at the bottom and overhead as well. The slight movements in the water made the stars glitter even brighter than they did in the sky, and the brightest planet that hung low over the hills stared down at its twin that danced beneath. The planes that flew overhead seemed so lonely, too far away to see me and too close to earth to touch the stars they passed.

And there was shooting stars. Small ones. I wished on all of them (yes, laugh all you want); one for my father, one or my mother, one for my sister, one for my friends and the people I love, one for people I don't know, and one for Wombat, who I had with me. It was incredible how quiet it was. The only sound was the surf humming over the dune, and the occasional "thlup!" as a fish or a beaver/otter/Loch Ness Monster wiggled in the water. No birds. No people. Nothing.

And I didn't think. I wasn't alone with my thoughts, I had no thoughts. It's so rare, to be completely and totally empty inside your own head. All the quiet and peace around you goes inside, and you don't think. You don't understand. You lie there looking up at a mass of stars and absolutely nothing goes through your head, because what can compete? That stillness is so wonderful...it's the most liberating feeling in the world. I wish I could explain better.

Okay, so that's pretty much all. We went to Menemsha Beach today, where I used to go crabbing in my little angelfish-bathing suit. Unfortunately, it seems the abudnace of crabs from my youth has been sadly killed off, and now there are hardly any there. That was depressing, to say the least. I also sat among the giant rocks at the end of the jetty, chatted with fishermen, and turned off my brain for a while. Seriously, if I don't stop relaxing, I'm going to melt. Gah.

More later. Miss you all!

*twitch* FAMILY BONDING TIME *twitch*: Part II 1/2

BEACH TIME = FUN. FATHERS = NOT FUN. ALONE TIME FOR ME = VERY HARD TO GET. RAAAAAAAAAH.

MORE LATER.

*twitch* FAMILY BONDING TIME *twitch*: Part II

Pre-post: my Twilight parody. This is what I do with my time, god help me.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5153526/1/Twilight_The_Twinkie

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So, on the family front: things are going much better than I expected. Stepsis and I had some wonderful bonding time (which was made slightly more and less memorable by copious vodka, I say in the interest of being very open with you all). No fights b/w parents, no crying younger siblings. In fact, we had a game of Articulate! last night (British board game, BUY IT) that was possibly one of the most hilarious periods in the last few months of my life. My sister asked me why George Orwell was married to Tom Cruise; that kind of hilarious.

But my god, the most amazing things have happened to me in the last few days, and they've happened when I've been totally alone. Okay, here's the cabin on the Vineyard: very small, surrounded by a unkempt lawn and collapsed wooden fence and with a path leading backwards to the road nearby. There is also a path leading forwards, and this leads to the Landing. The Landing is where we and all the other "renters" keep our boats and canoes, which we use to paddle around on Chilmark Pond, which is literally right there thirty second away from the cabin. The pond is bordered by our strip of land and other summer houses on one side, and by a ridge of sandy dune on the opposite side. If you take a second to listen, you can hear the surf perfectly, thrumming and rushing just out of sight over the sand.

At the Landing, there is a little walkway of wooden planks that extends maybe fifteen, twenty feet into the water. At the end of this walkway is a platform, about 4 feet x 5 feet, and this has been my favorite spot for a couple years now. It's the perfect size for me to sit, lie, or stand on, and from it you have a practically panoramic view of the pond, the surrounding land, and the sky. It's far enough removed from the cabin and other houses that you can't hear another voice if they don't scream, and my family has learned not to bother me there. It's like being removed from time and space, sitting in my own little dome over the water.

I don't quite know how to describe how it is to sit at the Landing, my feet dangling in the pond and the grey clouds overhead drifting very slowly across the sky. When there's a strong wind, the water is ruffled and cooler than normal, and you can hear the trees and bushes behind you whispering. It's been thickly overcast here ever since we came, which makes everything slightly dull and dark in color. But when the sun comes out and the sky is blue, it's easy to sit for hours and just watch the light play over the surface of water. There are little jetties going down the shore on either side of ours, and on one that's about fifty feet away, there are usually at least twenty cormorants sitting on it: sleek black water birds the size of a skinny duck, that stay so still you have to watch for a few minutes before one of them flutters their wings and proves they're not statues. The birds in the trees never shut up, and the mockingbirds copy all of them over and over until you feel like they're doing a little bird symphony, with the catbirds squeaking out the lower parts and the sparrows calling in the sopranos. The osprey nest that's been there since before I was born usually has very loud, insistent babies in it, and they chitter and cheep the entire day. The mom osprey is around a lot: she sort of glides across the pond until there's a sudden flash and she dives, spray leaping in the air as some really, really unlucky fish bites the dust.

Going out there during the day is so insanely peaceful. The sounds of cars and planes just blend into the surf and birds and the wind and my own breathing. I read through The Color Purple there; seriously, I read the whole book in a few hours, lying on the Landing with my feet in the water and the book over my head. Then again, I also just sat and listened. And watched. And didn't think about anything except what I was seeing and hearing. It's been more than a year since I did that.

The first night we were here, I did what I've never done before: at around midnight, I got out of bed, put on a sweatshirt, grabbed a candle and my faithfully stuffed wombat, Wombat (what? I wasn't going to go out into the dark ALONE), and headed out. Let me tell you, Chilmark in the middle of the night is not very well-lit; it is, in fact, pitch black, and with the night wind my candle didn't survive for long. I went down the path to the Landing, which, by the way, looks like the road to Narnia or something in daylight, but looks and feels like Satan's Hallway at night. I finally got to the Landing and sat there, clutching Wombat and realizing just how alone it is possible to feel. When the sky overhead is solid black because the clouds have wiped out the stars, and the only light is a faint glow from a town on the horizon, and the water around you is silky-smooth and silent, and the only sounds in the air are the angry surf, the clanking of a dingy against the dock, and your own heart pounding against a worn, comforting stuffed animal...that's when you can honestly believe that there is no one else on this earth. That you and you alone are waking and thinking at this moment, and something is happening that no one else will ever see. The blackness is not threatening, it is encompassing, and soon you'll blend into it and become as quiet and serene as the reeds that cast spindly reflections on the water.

The night after this, I went out again, only this time with Stepsis--and alcohol, and the influence thereof (yes, I know, I know, I'm a horrible person and a shame to the family, but seriously, we were two teenagers stuck in a house with our loved ones in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere; IT WAS EITHER THIS OR GO COW-TIPPING). It was spookier then, and not as surreal. But I went out again the next day, and for the first time, I really appreciated how lucky I was. A handful of human beings get a place like that: a place to be alone with their own thoughts, a place where peace is not gained, it is inlaid. My head also wandered into the realm of "my god I am such a privileged American I have no right to whine about anything ever Jesus Christ this world is fucked up and I am a selfish bitch who will never change anything I'm useless and horrible", but that's not so uncommon for me anyway. Also, I might be a spoiled, apathetic, privileged American teen, but I am still human, and making myself miserable and never enjoying anything won't help others in pain, it will only make one more person unhappy.

But one thing I almost never reveal to anyone, but screw it, a blog is a blog is a blog, I don't care if y'all know: I prayed. I'm not a religious person, but I have my beliefs, and right then I prayed to whoever the hell is up there to preserve places like the Landing. The world isn't beyond redemption yet, it can still be saved, but there's a lot of work and pain and struggle to go through before any of the hurts people have caused can heal; if places like that, places of pure peace and calm, can continue to exist, I will have hope for this screwed-up planet. If the cormorants still sit in rows of jetties, and the surf still hums over the dune, and the water still soaks my feet and washes everything bad away for a moment of happiness, then there's still a chance for everything else. In places like Iran and Rwanda and Sudan and Uganda and Afghanistan, where every day people die and hurt and go through hell and wake up to do it again the next day--if they can survive the way they have for millenia, if they can have places like that where all the bad stuff is gone for seconds in time, then I think they can have hope too. Human beings aren't built to hate themselves, and they aren't built to suffer without thought. Even in the worst of places, people still have fun and fall in love and think about things. And when you sit under the sky and over the water and in the middle of the world, it feels like the time and place to ask for help. For yourself and for all the people who you want to help but can't.

I won't rant for much more, but there's a lot to get out. Last night, I went to bed at about 1:30 a.m. and woke up at 4:00, scrunched up in the sheets and shaking from a nightmare. Instead of going to sleep, I packed up Wombat and a pillow and went down to the Landing. There was no sunrise because of the clouds, but it was still incredible: that early, the light is just dim enough to drain all the color out of...well, everything. It's even stiller than it is at midnight, and not only do you feel like the only human being in existence, you feel like that's okay. It wouldn't be lonely to live in a twilight world forever, with the sleeping gulls on rocks and even the surf quieting down in the distance. Of course, the goddamn bugs took away from the experience a little, but most of the bites have gone down now, so whatever. I also saw a...a...a beaver/otter/Loch Ness Monster this morning, slithering across the pond, bobbing closer and closer to me until it reared up and I could see the outline of its slender neck and twitchy little ears and fuzzy muzzle; it stayed there for a few seconds, then dived and resurfaced a ways away. Well, it looked into my soul or something, so I didn't mind that it immediately ran (swam) like the wind. I communed with nature. Fun.

Yes, I do tend to blather, why do you ask? Other news: I have seen approximately two and a half dead skunks on this big Island road, and let me tell you, it was literally two and a half. Pieces of dead skunk are...just not fun. For anyone. Ever. EVER. Also, we have our own little visitor skunk who keeps loping across the yard...in the daytime, which means he might have rabies. Great; all the cute cuddly little creatures around me either bolt when they see me or have horrible brain-eating infectious diseases. Just my luck.

Doing a LOT of reading, which is nice: I am actually being an idiot and rereading Twilight so that I can complete my Internet parody (link at the top). I seriously am going to bite the bullet and do this; it'll be excruciating, but I will do it in the name of ART! (Actually, I might not be able to; pray for me, guys.) In Oak Bluffs, I defeated the Empire and saved the Rebel Alliance on a video game, then went and bought at the hippie store: a Bob Marley t-shirt I love madly, a new bag I love madly, and a hat I love madly. God, I am such a possession-slut: I love on a whim. Seriously, they are awesome.

Hmmm...not much else. I've made sure to walk at least 2 miles each day since we've been here (usually more; 5 1/2 miles is mostly what I do) because MV is just that gorgeous and it's a nice way to learn how to dodge cars without turning around (because MV, while abundant in much that is awesome, is sadly lacking in footpaths). I think I might become a local legend: Crazy Artsy Road-Walking Girl. If you whistle quietly and play some Broadway show tunes, she'll show up soon enough, wearing her floppy hat and flip-flops.

Okay, if you've read to the end of this post, you deserve a big hug and a cookie. Hopefully, you will supply these things to yourselves because I currently cannot. Tune in soon for some (hopefully shorter) observations on life in MV. I'll be here until Sunday, guys. Namárië.

(Yes, I am a Tolkien geek. WHAT.)

*twitch* FAMILY BONDING TIME *twitch*: Part I

About a minute ago, my little sister told me, "I'm building a stairway to heaven. With pennies!" She'd stacked up five little piles of pennies on the table: each pile was progressively a few pennies thicker than the one before it.

My response: "Thank god heaven is less than an inch off the tabletop."

We've been on Martha's Vineyard for about a day--got here midday yesterday and now it's mid-afternoon--and I am this close to throwing heavy objects at people's heads. They're my family and I love them, yes; but heavenly mother, there is only so much a human being can required to endure.

The drive to the ferry wasn't so bad. Mostly everyone read and we listened to Chopin. I fell asleep for an hour or so and then drank a triple mocha (mocha with three shots of espresso) so I was buzzing a little. The ferry: windy. Grey. Sticky. Not much fun. That's all.

At the cabin: started off good. I've been coming here for my entire life, my first visit was when I was in my mommy's tum. I love this place, and it's pretty much my second home. We were here last year--and by "we" I mean the Binstock-Maciak family--and it was stressful. Okay, but stressful. This year, it's not so much anger and yelling so far, just some stir-crazy and involuntary twitching.

My stepbrother is hiding in the loft kicking us all in the head. My little sister is alternately laughing like a hyena on meth and reading a book about fairies. My dad is aggressively "family oriented." My stepmother is...calm, which is weird. My stepsister and I are about to snap because it's raining so we're crammed in a rather small house with four people who are going to steal our sanity and feed it to the geese on the pond. HELP.

On the other hand, my dad bought liquor. Thank you JESUS, my fellow Jew buddy.

Sierra The Awesome

I promised this a while ago, but have yet to actually write it. Well, she got her wisdom teeth out today, and I FORGOT BECAUSE I AM A BAD PERSON WAH, and as a way of making it up to her, I will finally write this out...while listening to "So Much Better" from Legally Blonde: The Musical. Lord, have mercy upon me, I know not what I do. And hey, at least it's Not Shrek: The Musical.

Sierra and I have known each other for a long time. We met when we were really little--maybe four or five or six--in micro-soccer, which is basically a lot of little kids running around and tripping over balls that are bigger than they are. Her dad was the coach of the our "team", and we...I don't know. We connected. For years, we were little-kid biffles, going over to each other's house and making all kinds of mischief: examples include writing fake love letters from her twin brothers to my little sister (god, that went over BADLY), practicing hypnotism with the aid of her Sailor Moon clock, and playing Neopets incessantly (I've totally given that up...no really, I have, STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, fine, I still play Destructo-Match 2). We were these two little kids having tons of fun, and not a whole lot else mattered.

Time went by and separate schools, soccer teams, and such took their toll. We lost contact. I think we met once or twice at movie theaters and on the street, and we were happy to see each other, but there wasn't really a connection. Even when high school started and we were in the same building for six hours each day, not much happened. After all, CRLS is not...how do I say...a small school. We had no classes together and different lunches. There was no place or time for a reunion. Even having a class together--Acting & Play Study under the indefatigable Mr. Cramp--didn't do much.

Then we did the Spring Play our sophomore year.

I can't really express how happy I am that Sierra and I are friends again. She's just...such an inspiring person. Her attitude about life is one that I've admired ever since I actually started talking to her again. She's cheerful and enthusiastic, but not, like, afraid to be in a bad mood or to be unhappy about stuff. She's smart, hilarious, and a beautiful person. I can talk to her about anything, and not only will she understand, she'll make me feel better or offer something new I hadn't even considered on the issue. She's a brilliant photographer and I love gabbing out photos with her slightly less than I love looking at her photos. I don't know, there's not a whole lot more I can say, except that I love her to bits and I am in no hurry to lose contact with such an awesome person again.

P.S. Her dog is also adorable. I would kidnap it and cuddle it forever, except I know that would make Sierra sad.

I'm Gonna Really Try

I'm gonna do it this time. I am. I'm sick of hating myself, of feeling weak and never being comfortable in my own body. I have a whole summer ahead of me, and junior year coming up. I know it's not impossible, and I know I need to do it now instead of later. I can do it. I CAN.

Meggles The Ginger

You know what? Meg and I don't always get along perfectly. We don't always agree, we don't always understand each other, and we aren't even that nice to each other sometimes. But the thing is, Meg is sort of amazing.

1)She's a performer who's pretty incredible to work with.

2) She's funny (sometimes unintentionally).

3) She's a ginger (which is awesome by itself).

4) She's probably the person I most enjoy singing around with and gabbing about musicals with.

5) She's nice. Even when we bitch at each other.

6) Even though it's not her main thing, she stuck with festival tech (which is not that easy, BELIEVE ME) and was there at the final bow with the rest of us.

7) She complains about most of the same things I do. WHINE BUDDY!

7) She a crazy crazy girl, but I loves her. What can ya do?

My high school experience would be very, very different if not for Meg. Hopefully, we'll continue to yell at each other in various languages and sing harmonies together for the next two years of high school. Also, I will have a million nicknames by the time we graduate. Literally.

If You Are My Parents, DON'T READ THIS

I caught my mother reading my blog the other day. I don't actually mind that much, but some entries have to be off limits. Seriously.

Mostly, today was good. Last day of school, no French, aced lit and chem (woot!) and had some Oreos with the best teacher ever. Came home, indulged in some LOST obsessing (I only watch that show for Charlie, which is why I haven't seen any episodes past the third season and I keep up with its progress by internet review; DOMINIC MONAGHAN, I AM LOYAL TO THEE) and watched Dr. Horrible with my mother. She said she wouldn't like it. Several times. Then she saw it and thought it was great. Ah, mothers.

But anyway. My dad...I don't know. I'm starting to get really tired of him, if that makes any sense. Today, when I tried to leave the house, he started up right away with the "Oh, Es! C'mon..." whiny-guilt shit. It all sort of evolved into a semi-joking, semi-serious disagreement about...stuff. Where I spend my time, how he acts, blah blah blah. My stepmom tried to mediate, but failed. Later, even though I thought my dad handled it reasonably well, he followed me out the door and managed to sneak in some crying, just in case I'd forgotten that I was SUPPOSED TO FEEL BAD. YES, DAD, THANK YOU, I UNDERSTAND NOW.

Why doesn't he understand what he's doing? I'm not under contract to spend time at his house. I love him, and want to be near him, yes. He is my parent and I should yield to his requests. However, I have another parent. I love my mother and want to be near her too, and she is also my parent. THEY are the ones who split up. I have another home, and I should be able to go to it. Whatever, he'd poke a dozen holes in what I'm saying because he's a fucking genius, but all I;m saying is what I feel. I should be able to have a say in where I sleep without being yelled at, guilted, and made to feel like I'm spitting in his face or something. I want to be with my mom. I want to be with my dad. But I want to do these things because I WANT to do them, not because I'm bullied into them. Yeah, he's a bully. And I know I bitch and whine about this...but it just scrapes me more and more raw every time. It's sort of exhausting. GAH. Fucking fathers.

I No Longer Have Finals Now To Do

For those of you who are slightly less versed in the art of literary sentence construction than I (for I am, indeed, quite skilled), I would like to point out that the title of this blog post is written in iambic pentameter.

I WROTE AN ENTIRE SOLILOQUY TODAY IN IAMBIC PENTAMETER.

Man oh man, school is DONE. We have the requisite day-after-finals tomorrow, but after that we're home free home. It's an amazing feeling. I made it through sophomore year. I made it through sophomore year. Dude, I don't want to incessantly toot my own frigging horn, but I am feeling a little proud of myself right now. Because guess what?

I made it through sophomore year.

Finals were full of suckage, but what else is new? Chem had 80 questions, about a third of which we were actually taught how to answer, but this teacher always gives impossible exams and curves them greatly, so that's okay. French was 160 questions--yes, I did type that right, 160 fucking questions I know right what the hell--but I guess I studied all right, because while it wasn't EASY easy, it was much better than I thought it would be. Lit was a walk in the park, and when I say a walk in the park, I mean a merry promenade through a park full of ponies and kitten-butterflies and cheerful leprechauns. It ended with me writing a soliloquy for Lady Macbeth's death completely in iambic pentameter, which, me being the dork that I am, makes me feel so badass. Oh, and my photo final? Include cupcakes and getting out of school an hour early. Gotta love photo.

On a slightly less giddy note: this year has been NUTS. Loads of sucky stuff, loads of awesome stuff, a fair amount of nondescript stuff, and a kilo of pure silliness. I got closer to old friends, made new ones, and lost some of both. I suffered through being a tree and missing my cues in Once on this Island, had the world's most amazing tech experience and playwrighting triumph in Sakuntala and the Ring of Recollection, and narrated and rediscovered old friendships in Things Fall: Meanwhile. I became sort of enamored with French Revolution history, suffered through Acting & Play Study sans the acting, was disappointed with my final algebra grade, kicked ass in Photography, hated chem and French with a passion, and found one of my favorite teachers ever in high school during lit. I celebrated my best friend's 2-year anniversary with her boyfriend, my dad and stepmom's 1-year anniversary, several birthdays, and my own little victories that are for me to know about and everyone else to guess at. I had a relationship, ended it, felt guilty, moved on. I had random hook-ups that will bear no more mention here. I sang, I wrote, and I wrote songs. I can't even remember the earlier part of the year very well...and now I'm losing hold of this half.

Wow.

Shit has happened this year. This summer, I hope, will be good. I'm gonna do my best to make sure it is. And next year, when I'm a junior with three AP classes, no freshmen, a mentoring program, hopefully a job, and a million other new experiences, who knows how things will seem. Good, bad, purple, whatever.

A friend of mine always tells me I'm too negative. And I know she's right. I'm gonna try to make her wrong this next year. This next year...I'm going to stop wanting things and start doing things. I'm going to commit. I'm going to grow. And I'm going to do everything I can to make the world around me more awesome. By typing these words, I make the promise to myself. I can delete them, never look at them again, forget them...but they're here. And the person I've always tried to be honest with is myself. I don't want to break my promises in the future. Here's to honesty, determination, awesomeinity, and kitties. Always kitties.

It's gonna be a crazy, crazy time, guys. For all of us. So sit back, put on a pretty bib with a sheep on it, and ready yourself for Summer 2009. I can sum it up in a single word: GAH.

Limericks

I've decided to make it my mission
To make use of nuclear fission
And build up a bomb
With great zeal and aplomb
To force the French into submission

When I am the leader of France
I shall order the Frenchmen to dance
And while they cavort
In their hand-crafted shorts
I'll abolish their language and pants

"Pants are no longer in fashion
And I hate speaking French with a passion"
And though they may whine
I will put up a sign
"Keep your protests away or I'll mash 'em"

So the French, who can no longer talk
Away to their homes they shall walk
With no pants of their legs
And they must call "oeufs" "eggs"
Any sympathy for them's a crock

I cannot explain what I am saying
All I know is that Beatles are playing
I'm tired and dumb
I've a cut on my thumb
To skip French class, I'd gladly be paying

Too Jew For You

If you spend any time around me at all, you'll know that I make a lot of jokes about myself. One of my favorite topics (as my father loves to bitch about) is Judaism. Why, you ask? Well, any amateur stand up comedian can tell you. Of all the groups, creeds, and races in the world, few have been so beaten up on, abused, mocked, parodied, stereotyped, and made fun of--BY THEIR OWN PEOPLE.

The three most commonly self-deprecating "ethnicities" are probably blacks, Jews, and the Irish. Not that everyone else doesn't make fun of themselves; I've heard everything from Welsh jokes to Ethiopian jokes to Canadian jokes (oh, Canada, how I love you and mock you and love to mock you). An important point is that very, very rarely have I ever heard truly racist jokes, or any jokes that were meant sincerely. I mean, I have, who hasn't, but the point is, almost everyone mocks themselves and their people at one point or another. In fact, most non-race based jokes are WAY more offensive. I have a friend who knows endless dead-baby jokes, and those ones are just...*shudder*. I have no words for those jokes.

Also, think about the big-time funny people who crack jokes about them and theirs. Chris Rock, Will Smith, Sarah Silverman, Jon Stewart, Seth Rogen, etc. I have a big comedy thesaurus somewhere, and I could probably pull out a few more names, but whatever, you get the point. Basically, it's okay to rash a group of people as long as you're one of them.

Or is it?

My friend Phia is an incredibly funny person, and she often makes Jew jokes; she also happens to be Jewish, and WAY more practicing than I am. She made one joke in particular about Newton, a nearby town with a very large Jewish population. She called it "Jewton", which I thought was funny. Later, while visiting my grandparents who live in Newton, I casually blurted out the "Jewton" joke. It took fifteen minutes to convince my grandparents that my friend was not an anti-Semitic neo-nazi who was influencing me with her evil ways.

Okay, so not quite that bad, but they were pretty upset about it. Mostly it's my fault--what kind of an idiot says things like that around her sweet Jewish grandparents?--but still, it made me think about how many Jew jokes I make, and how okay they are. After all, I'm proud of being a Jew, and it's a very solid part of my identity. I also don't want to piss my fellow Jews off.

Both of my parents are reform Jews with solid Ashkenazi ancestry that goes back as far as anyone can bother to remember. For you goys out there, Ashkenazi Jews are from Eastern Europe, and my roots exhibit that pretty obviously: I'm a fourth Hungarian, a fourth Polish, a fourth Russian, and a fourth German. You can't much more Ashkenazi than that. Also, to explain "reform": orthodox Judaism is the most strict and observant form of Judaism, followed by conservative, then reform (there's another one that starts with an R that I can't remember; might be reconstructionist). As reform Jews, my family...well, we practice in our own way. We always have seders and Hanukkah dinners, and usually go to temple on the High Holidays. But I've only ever done Shabbat at my friends' houses, and I don't think I've been to Friday services since I was little.

I'm pretty okay with all of this. Yeah, I do sort of wish my parents had sent me to Hebrew School because I'd like to know more about my religious fundamentals and stuff, and I wish I'd had a Bat Mitzvah (and not only because you get HUGE AMOUNTS OF MONEY for your Bat Mitzvah). Maybe when I grow up, I'll be a little more practicing than I am now, but in the meantime I'm content. However, as far as cultural Judaism goes, I might as well be a rabbi.

I have a sort of persona...the "bubbe" voice and manner, if you will. Basically, I adopt an accent that sounds like a hybrid Russian/Bulgarian/Polish accent, and become the perfect Jewish grandmother. My friends are well acquainted with Bubbe; I pull her out to cheer people up and stuff like that. My friend Meg knows Bubbe particularly well. During an improv session in our theater class earlier this year, Meg and I were paired together for a scene. Bubbe came right out and set Meg straight in life. It went over quite well.

My features are vaguely Jewish, the most telling being my voluminous curly brown hair which, when unbrushed, collects into a very poofy, puffy Jew-fro. Other than that, my face is not easy to pinpoint. I've been mistaken for Mediterranean and British, though some people do get the Eastern European vibe. My mom looks REALLY Jewish; plunk her anywhere in the world and people will know who she is in a second (and with a last name like "Perlman", it just gets more and more obvious). My father and sister hardly look Jewish at all, with their blonde/light brown hair and round faces. Conversely, my dad's brother is the proverbial Jew, nose included. Oy, who can figure these things anymore? I just think it's funny, the separation of looks in my family. My sister is pure dad's-side, she looks like his carbon copy sans the beard and mustache. I...don't look like my mom's side or my dad's side. GAH IDENTITY ISSUES GAH.

I don't know. Judaism is weird for me to talk about, because I have conflicting feelings about the religious parts of it. When I went to my cousin's bar mitzvah and stood on the bima with him, I felt a weird connection to the Torah and to the words my cousin was chanting in Hebrew. When I went to temple this Yom Kippur, I looked around at my fellows Jews and felt how much I was a part of something: a proud, unbreakable people, stretching back thousands of years in thousands of different incarnations. Also, when you consider the history of the Jews--anti-Semitism stemming from the death of that Jesus guy (who was a Jewish liberal, BY THE WAY), the Spanish Inquisition, pogroms, and the legendary H-word, the Holocaust--well, it's hard to not feel a kinship with the millions of Jews out there. After all, we're all connected through our culture. We're all the Chosen People, or whatever. It's heavy and sort of thrilling, at the best of times.

But most of the time, I have a lot of problems with Jewish faith. There's a prayer where men thank God that they weren't born women; that's not right. I love shrimp (traif) and cheeseburgers (traif) and I eat pork sometimes (traaaaaaif). The rules of Judaism are one of the things that's so easy to mock, because there really are a LOT of them. And when you follow them, it's hard to do much else. I'm not really up for having a Shabbos goy, you know? A little too much to ask of someone, I feel.

Ah, well. We Jews can sure kvetch better than almost anyone else. I gotta go study for French. BLEH. Actually, OY GEVALT.

Breaking News!

Wow! You guys may have heard it, and you may not believe it, but I'm here today to tell you something you'll appreciate for the rest of your lives!

CHEMISTRY AND FRENCH SUCK.

No offense to the French people or the chemistry professors or whatever, but right now I utterly hate both. And life in general. Okay, not really, but the gods have not smiled on me today. In fact, they have made faces at me. Goddamn it.

Into The Sunshine

I think intimacy is the most sacred thing in the world.

When you know someone, and it's not just a front. When someone has seen parts of you that you keep hidden at all times, even if you're a very open--maybe too open--person. When a person is able to look at you and see something that nobody else does...because they can. And because you let them.

I am a strange person. As in the above, I write sentences in the 2nd person sometimes. I love to be with people, but I also love to be alone. I develop crushes on any man or woman in this world who has a Scottish accent. I love vodka and lemonade...in small quantities. I like to wear flip flops, even though I hate it when my feet get all dirty and yucky. I'm scared of swimming in the ocean or the sea or a river or something, because if a fish bit me (or even TOUCHED me) I would be utterly traumatized (she says sincerely). I can't look at another person without wondering how they look at me. I tell stories to myself in my head. I wish life were a movie, or at least a documentary with a really good soundtrack. I am jealous a lot of the time. I am unsure a lot of the time. I love cats and dogs, but I'm a little scared of dogs because when I was four, I was rolling on the grass in a park and a Great Dane puppy jumped on me. I miss opera, but not too much; mostly, I miss how happy I was there. I want to undo my mistakes right after I do them. I have a reel of Awkward Moments that plays in my head sometimes and still makes me cringe. I hate it when I grow apart from friends, even if I'm conscious that it's happening and I do nothing to stop it. I love musicals, but I feel like the genre is going downhill. I like wearing baggy clothes. I love the theater in every way, shape, and form. I want everyone to like me, and know that as long as that's not true I'll always be a little bit unhappy, if only deep inside myself. I can't wait to move out of my house; I have no idea what I'll do when that time comes. I can't imagine a world without my mom or dad. My sister is one of the few people in the world I worry about impressing. I want people in the future to know my name. I have a single Miley Cyrus song on my iPod. I know I have problems, but I know they'll work out in the end, because everything does; of course, that doesn't mean I won't have tons of new problems. I want to lose weight so badly. I have HUGE feet. I have ridiculously weird cuticles. My favorite musical/movie is RENT. I actually think that 42 is an important number. The one person I will always know and trust the most in the world is myself.

Now you know things about me. When we meet, if you can remember even one, that's intimacy. I said some things everyone knows, some things no one knows, and some things you might know. I wouldn't know.

Boys Are Fun.

So...yeah, I am blogging when I should be studying. Damn it.

Friday night, I went out to dinner with my friends Ethan and Will. Now, I like both of them very much indeed, but until recently I hadn't spent much time with either of them, at least not one on one. However, after the Video Game Extravaganza of Awesome, I made a cool discovery: both Ethan and Will ROCK. So I was psyched to hang with them some more.

We went all over Boston at first: Will tried to lead us to Chinatown, which I politely pointed out was in a completely different direction from the one we were going in. On our travels, many subjects were discussed, among them Lord of the Rings, Clerks 2, the T system, and the possible existence and/or nonexistence of a town called Charlestown. Once in Chinatown, we couldn't decide on a place...so after much wibbling and changed minds, back to Harvard Square in Cambridge we went! Oh, the places you'll when "you" is three hungry teenagers on a Friday night.

In Harvard Square, we met with Christine, whose hair looks adorable and who "oh man!"-ed enough to give me a minor aneurysm. Circumstances ended up with her leaving to "food" with her family and us "fooding" at Flat Patties. Talking, talking, talking about everything and nothing...then wandering over to Peet's Coffee, where there was POLITICAL TALKING, OH NOES, then around the square and into Harvard Yard. We clambered up on one of those big wall library thingies beside the library steps and hung out there for a long time, discussing foolish friends and drunken shenanigans...and then Will drove me and (presumably) Ethan home.

I don't know why I felt the need to blog about this, but it's been making me happy ever since. Just spending a long time with two incredibly awesome guys is something I haven't done in a while. Also, I love it when you get closer to friends who weren't so close at first. Anyway, the point is Will and Ethan = WIN.

Pride Is PROUD

"Knock knock.

Who's there?

Pride.

Pride who?

Pried the door off the closet and KICKED ASS!"

Okay, that was really, really bad. But Boston Pride, however, was not. It was awesome.

I've been to Provincetown Festival two years straight, and I thought I'd been at the pinnacle of gay celebration. Certainly Provincetown is more compact than Boston, which meant that all the gayness was concentrated and therefore very very very very potent. Think of this: literally thousands of gay men and women, many cross-dressing or not truly dressing at all, and quite a few dressing in leather and nothing else, running around with the fire of homosexual pride burning in their hearts, throwing Mardi Gras beads and slapping every other person on the ass, and all of this activity set to the dulcet tones of "It's Raining Men." You have Provincetown Festival.

See, Boston was like that, only to the power of seventeen. It was huge and crazy and ridiculously awesome. There was a giant burrito and men in LEATHER CHAPS and boatloads of balloons and as many drag queens as a girl could want. Boston Pride is also one of the places that anyone can feel comfortable at. I mean, there are men and women who are, to put it politely, sloppily put together by God or whatever, walking around wearing swimsuits and short shorts. There are teenage kids screaming their heads off and square-dancing. There are fifty year olds shimmying. There are SEVENTY year olds shimmying. Nothing I or anyone else could do could top that.

I got there a little late and alone, and only managed to find my way by calling various friends, asking my dad to read me GoogleMaps directions over phone, and following the thin trickle of gay people heading towards the parade (I followed these two girls who I subconsciously dubbed "The Star Lesbians" because they were obviously gay and had matching star tattoos above their elbows; they also led me two blocks in the wrong direction). In the end, I found it; how I managed to miss a gigantic crowd of rainbow people screaming and singing in the middle of the South End is a mystery, but it is something that I am apparently skilled enough to do. Go ME.

After a little exploring and numerous shouted phone calls, I found a Sierra! She was marching with Sophie Epstein and her church, so I decided to join. Let me tell you all, Sierra Schwartz (also known as one of the funnest and loveliest human beings you will ever meet) is an enthusiastic Pride marcher. She ran to and fro like the world's most adorable Mardi-Gras-necklace-bearing squirrel, handing them to everyone who looked like they had a jewelry deficiency. Her awesome cheeriness was really infectious, and before long I was like her squirrelly partner in crime. Some people responded...better than others, but it was great to see them burst into cheers when we ran by and threw beads at them. Ah, sweet satisfaction.

The parade continued to wind its way through Boston, and it was incredibly fun, mostly because I was marching in it with Sierra (who, again, is made of pure and solid amazingness). I was just so pumped up and jazzed and happy to live where I do...Pride is great. Like I always say, I think homophobes should be forced to attend one Pride parade and try to hate such nice, happy people. After all, what's not to like about us? We have colorful clothes, we like pretty beads, we chant happy slogans...we're so much fun!

Anyway, Sierra continued her crazy running-around-and-getting-people-to-cheer thing all the way up Tremont Street and up to the Statehouse. She did drink some water and rest for up to ten feet at a time, but her enthusiasm could not be curbed. Good side: she made people happy, was happy herself, helped spread gay Pride, and was generally the best person ever. Bad side: she almost passed out from heatstroke and overexertion. Seriously, Sophie and I were this close to forcibly restraining her. She was the color of lox.

The parade came to a halt at Government Center, aka City Hall. There, Sierra and I parted ways. I came upon Danika, also known as my friend whom I love but constantly fall out of touch with. It was wonderful to see her again, and we set out on a quest to find her girlfriend, which was sort of hilarious and culminated in me meeting her girlfriend whom I DEFINITELY approve. Go, Danika!

Went with Danika and Scoot (girlfriend) to Starbucks, where I got lots of water and a yummy cookie. From there, transferred to Roze and Shawn, who were suitably cranky with me for ditching them earlier (SORRY GUYS SORRY SORRY SORRY). After they became their lovely selves again, we walked around for a bit and ran into people we knew, eventually settling for a bit with people from True Colors. Leora, Red Headed Queen of Awesome, came by and I hung with her for a bit, then Lilly showed up and I couldn't miss an opportunity to see (and poke the boob of (don't ask)) a senior friend, could I? Anyway, after a long while I walked to the T with Leora, went to Harvard Square to buy my stepbro a birthday present (a cow toy that poops jelly beans, and an assortment of jelly beans for him to refill). I hung in Harvard Square by my lonesome for a while, got lunch, and went home, where I watched LOTR Extended Edition bits and IMed with people for a while. Then I went on a walk.

I love being around people; I'm a very social person. But more than anything, I need a certain amount of time alone inside my own head. Sometimes I make excuses not to see friends or family, simply because I need time to myself. Today, I went out and walked to Magazine Beach just as it was getting dark, and sat on a picnic table as it grew darker and darker. I listened to some RENT and got more emotional about it than I have in a long time. I watched the very few stars in the sky come out, and I calmed myself down. I've spent so much time with people these last few days...and spending time with myself made it all even better.

Closing rant: any arguments against gay marriage and gay civil rights have become more and more ludicrous to me recently. This is AMERICA. God damn it, we keep telling the entire world how our Constitution--the founding basis of our government--guarantees freedom and rights to EVERYONE. All genders, all races, all levels of financial and social statuses, all sexual orientations, EVERYONE. For god's sake, Martin Luther King Jr. marched the streets of our country not fifty years ago. Arab-Americans and Muslims were, and still continue to be, persecuted simply because of 9/11. Jews have had to struggle against anti-Semitism in every area of life for centuries. Women have to deal with glass ceilings and sexual harassment. I mean, have blacks forgotten "Colored Only" drinking fountains? Have the Irish forgotten "Irish need not apply" signs? Have Jews lost sight of Leo Frank, the word "kike" and boatloads of refugees turned away during World War II? You name an ethnicity or social group, it's been discriminated against in American history. Maybe not the WASPs...but whatever. The point is, I don't understand how people can look at themselves in the mirror every day, knowing that they stand in the way of another person's marriage or parenthood or happiness. This country...so wrapped up in screwing with other people's affairs, we still manage to fuck up our own. Matthew Shepard, Harvey Milk, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover...when are we going to stop piling up the bodies? I can't even begin to name the countless LGBT persons who are not alive because of prejudice or discrimination...or even by proxy of these things, struck down by their own hands. It's sad. And it's fucking insane.

Ending on a cheerful note, aren't I?

Lord of the Rings Part 1: I Just Love Hobbits

Okay, so I have to post about this, because honestly, it means a lot to me. And I need to get it out of my system.

My Lord of the Rings love flared up a few months ago, when I was bored and in need of something to watch. I found my Extended Editions (aka EXTRA LONG) set of the Lord of the Rings movies, which had been sitting around my room for a while, and figured, "Hey, good movies, long, boring day, what the hell." So I popped Fellowship into the DVD player and off I went.

The movies--which are truly epic and amazing and really, really awesome--sucked me in, and before long I was watching little clips of them daily, repeatedly viewing my favorite parts of the extra features, and just generally immersing myself in LOTR culture. I developed "crushes" on all the actors (which in my case entails wanting to hug them all the time and referring to them by first names) and read about the characters, growing more and more attracted to this amazing world of Middle-Earth every day. Getting into the movies, however, meant something obvious: reading the books. I'd tried a while ago, but could never get into them. This time, however, I was determined. Fueled by my love for Peter Jackson's masterpieces and by my love and respect for Tolkien literature, I plunged into the first of the three books. The three very, very, very long books (one "very" for each book).

Now, again, a little background information: when I was about...hmmm, maybe five or so, my father read The Hobbit aloud to me and my sister. He always read to us, and this book was one of his favorites. It soon became one of mine, so much so that a year later I made him read it to me a second time. As many Tolkien fans will tell you, Tolkien wrote The Hobbit as a book for his daughter and other young children. The writing is rather simpler and less sophisticated than much of his other work, but it struck the perfect pitch for a little girl who loved fantasy and fell in love with hobbits from the first word out of old Bilbo Baggins' mouth. I adored everything about the book: Gollum and his horrible riddles, the myriad dwarves and their rough-but-lovable band, Thorin Oakenshield the Grouchily Awesome, and especially Gandalf, the wise old wizard who I always imagined looking a little like my grandpa combined with Albert Einstein. I also had a fondness for Smaug, who embodied the terrifying monsters of childhood fairy tales that I was so enthralled with.

Fast forward to FifteenYearOld!Me. The Hobbit is still one of my favorite books, and now, enamored with the movies and ready to return to Tolkien, I opened Book One: The Fellowship of the Ring and readied myself to be amazed.

And right from the off, I had to struggle through a chapter-length introduction about the history of hobbits, their pipe-weed, their culture, their hair-color, their favorite bedtime snacks, and pretty much everything there was to know about the furry little midgets (yeah, and I haven't even STARTED the appendices in Return of the King yet).

Tolkien, a master storyteller and inventor of amazing worlds that stand the test of time, had a serious flaw: overestimating his readers' stamina and putting in an intro that slows you down before you even begin. Though most sane persons might skip that introduction, I felt it was my OBLIGATION to read it, and so I read on and on and on until finally it came to Frodo and Bilbo and the Shire. Tolkien could have put the introduction at the back so as not to ensnare dedicated readers like me, but NOOOOOOO, he just had to trip us up like that. I do actually understand why he put it at the front, because it gives a lot of information on hobbits that's useful later on, but you'd think he'd edit or something. Jesus, it took me a full day just to finish the section on pipe-weed (which is never called tobacco or snuff or anything, just "weed"; I don't know about you, but I'm thinking quite a few hobbits were flying high during most of the year in the Shire).

ANYWAY. Once we got to the Shire, I found myself back in the world of hobbits that I love so much. I've always said that Tolkien shone brightest when he was writing the hobbits, and I think many will agree with me. Aragorn and Gandalf and Eomer and all the rest are still well done and awesome characters, but it's the hobbits who draw the reader in from the start, and who keep us engaged on an emotional level as well as a literary and heroic one (not that Aragorn and the rest of them don't have my love and affection, but it's harder to squee over "I am the rightful heir to the throne and shall return to claim my country" than it is to squee over Sam crying when he loses his cooking pots).

The hobbits connect people to the story and really reflect what it is that makes this whole thing so special. I read that Tolkien began the whole saga by randomly writing one day, "There once was a hobbit who lived in his hole." He seemed to express his favorite things about life through them: peace, tranquility, kindness, the comfort of a small tight-knit community. The hobbits love nature, live by their own simple means, and try never to tangle in the Big Folks' business. They're good-natured and sweet, and mischievous as well as funny. Bilbo, the original comical, upstanding, proper, latently adventurous hobbit, has now retired and become rather eccentric. His distant relation who we'll call his nephew, Frodo, is a gentlehobbit: calm, intelligent, well-mannered, possessed of an inner strength, and easily loving. Merry and Pippin, his closest friends and racally cousins, are fun-loving and immature at times, but also individually awesome in their own ways. Merry is scholarly and sharp, figuring things out when he's not been told anything, and Pippin is intuitive and smart, often coming up with neat solutions and striving to do the right thing. They are both strong and brave, and grow a lot throughout the book. But the hobbit of all hobbits...is Samwise Gamgee, gardener of Bag End and endlessly devoted servant to his master, Frodo.

Sam is my favorite character by far of the series. Tolkien portrays him as simple and "rustic", his speech styled in a rough country tone and his manner both blunt and very polite. Sam is modeled after men Tolkien fought beside in World War I, who he saw become heroes and saviors of their fallen comrades. Sam is kind and sweet, and purely good-hearted. He is in awe of the elves and unlike most hobbits, always loved to hear stories of adventures and great deeds. He's...just...basically, Sam is good in every way, shape, and form. Oh, he has flaws, like mistreating Gollum and basically being a little lumpish for his own good sometimes, but everything he does is so sincere and so kind and so lovely that you can't help but love the little guy. He's also in love with Frodo at the boundaries of sanity; he follows him to the ends of the earth and never stops caring for his master. Honestly, I did get a gay vibe, but only because Tolkien writes of Sam and Frodo's affections for each other in a way that no one would do anymore, in this world of sexual separation and stereotypes and so on. Sam is amazing: he is good all over, from his hairy feet to his round head, and I love him.

I wish I could be more articulate, because there's a lot more to say (OH GOD), but it's late and I'm going to bed. More on Lord of the Rings later. You know, these books are epic classics that made my heart beat fast and my eyes fill with tears...but in the end, I think the chief reason they've captured my heart so thoroughly is a simple and unashamed truth: I just love hobbits.

Top Three Issues of Bitchery and Whineology

Well, it's that time of the night where I sit down, crack my knuckles *pop**pop**POP* "Ow!", and get my write on. I could do some work on my Macbeth essay which determines my final grade in lit...but screw that.

Sometimes, when I feel really shitty and unhappy about my Top Three Issues of Bitchery and Whineology (my family, my weight, my insecurity issues regarding everyone else in my life), I have a little trick to make myself feel better. I think about five years from now, or ten years from now, or even one year from now...and remind myself that NONE of this shit will matter then.

It sounds like a really weird strategy, but it actually works. So my dad and stepmom are fighting so much right now that I just want to whack them both with a two-by-four and then cry; so what? A year from now, I won't even remembered that happened. So I feel like a ridiculous blob who no one really likes and who will never be loved because I'm seriously disgusting to look at and embarrassing to be seen with; so what? I might be feeling like that in a year, but I'm trying to change that right now (stumbling in the attempt, but TRYING, dammit), and hopefully the crappy way I feel and look now won't matter in a year. So I have a paranoia attack and become convinced that random strangers hate me and everyone barely tolerates having me around because I'm uninteresting and really really annoying and I don't have the social life of my stepsister; so fucking what? I won't feel like that when I'm next out having fun with awesome people, and in a year I won't remember those thoughts.

Yes, I angst a lot, I KNOW, I KNOW. But the thing is, I am a screwed up person, and I fully admit to that. I like to function the best I can, and that includes using a lot of little tricks to keep me from curling up in the fetal position and pretending to be a couch cushion so I don't have to interact with the rest of humanity. For instance, if I need to remember something, I make it into an acronym. Scoop the kitty litter? Litter Is Needing Excavation = LINE. See? It works! (It's also how I got through Algebra 2 HN.)

But the point is, I try to keep things in perspective. In a way, that makes me a little sad. I'm a teenager; I shouldn't be getting comfort from the future, I should be trying to enjoy myself right now. Also, keeping perspective is somewhat of an adult habit, due to longer lifetimes...I feel too young to have to do something like that. Except I'm not too young at all; not in my head, anyways. True, there's a lot I don't know and a lot I haven't experienced, but that doesn't mean I can't be mature. Goddamn it, I've been playing therapist to my dad ever since I was 11 and therapist to my friends since kindgarten, though I only really mind the former; if listening to other people's problems hasn't forced me to grow up faster than usual, a painful divorce, doubly painful remarriage on my father's part, abandoment/trust issues because my grandma died with absolutely no warning and blew my family to pieces, having to deal with pissant kids all through school, and years of sucky friendships has done the rest. Oh, emotional abuse, you and I are good buddies, aren't we? I just wouldn't be the person I am if you hadn't been hanging around since I turned...hmm, maybe 3? How the time does fly. And my, how I can whine when I want to.

I'm eager to grow up, maybe too eager. I want to get out, get free, figure stuff out without everyone I've grown up with and changed with and learned with influencing what I think. I want to keep my old friends and make new ones, and I want to rely on myself for a change. I want to get jobs, lose them (not too many, though), find love, lose it or keep it, have kids...I can't wait to have kids. I have no idea where I'll go in life, but if I'm ever financially and emotionally stable at all, I'm going to have at least one child. I just know that I want a kid...maybe it's for the same reason as my dad. Maybe I want unconditional love. But I hope that's not the reason, or not the only reason anyway.

By the way...I know my dad loves me. I know I love him. And I know that we are two grievously fucked up people.

Two final notes before I head to bed (early, YEE!): first of all, I recommend that everyone out there buy the West Side Story Original Broadway Cast album from iTunes. Though for the actual songs I prefer the movie version for the most part (with the exception of "One Hand, One Heart"), there are some instrumental pieces that are so beautiful they make me ache. I've been listening to the adagio orchestrations of the Finale and Somewhere all night.

Seriously, Leonard Bernstein is a genius composer. There's actually a story in my family: my dad's mother, a particularly awesome lady I called Mops, was once at Tanglewood, this big music place up in the Berkshires. One day while she was there, Leonard Bernstein came around, and...well, Mops was not bad looking, let's put it that way. NO, nothing dirty, but he did lie with his head in her lap. His genius, brilliant, amazing head.

Second thing: today, after months of not reading and trying to read and struggling through solid chapters of traveling descriptions and no dialogue and Tolkien-speak and on and on and on...after 1180 pages, I have finished the Lord of the Rings. Okay, I haven't, but the goddamn Ring went into the volcano, so I'm past that point anyway. These books are actually quite incredible, anyone with a taste for epicness, heart-racing moments, beautiful poetry, and the best character ever written by any human being (Samwise Gamgee, the hobbit) should read them. However, be prepared for loads of descriptions about every bush, tree, horizon, skunk, chipmunk, rock, blade of grass, mountain, valley, river, sky, cloud, clover, flower, and dandelion fluff that our Fellowship venture across in their travels. Seriously. You think I am kidding? I am NOT. In fact, I will do a Lord of the Rings post tomorrow. But not right now. G'night, loves!

I Feel Dumb

You know, it's incredible how blind we can be sometimes: blind about ourselves, blind about the people around us, blind about the world around us. Today, I read the words of someone I've known since we were little. Like, really really little. And I was knocked off my feet.

This person can write beautifully. Not perfectly, but with a sincerity and poetry I never expected. I loved reading their words and finding this whole new mind that I'd never known about before. I've known them ever since we were little kids, and I didn't know. What's worse, I didn't suspect.

How is that: that we can not only fail to see the way people shine, but we can even convince ourselves that they DON'T? I'm so superior sometimes it makes me a little sick when I finally realize. I'm smart, okay, that's true. My dad's a frigging genius, he raised me well, and I know how to do math pretty fast and how to write nice sometimes. Does that give me the right to assume that everyone else can't keep up with me? I feel like such an uppity bitch. I mean, honestly, I'm no child prodigy. More than that, I'm a normal teenager. So is everyone else. We all have those things that can make other people drop their jaws. There is something amazing in everyone. And I'm an idiot if I forget that.

I think I have some deep-seated security issues. God damn it, I KNOW I do.

Thank The Lord For Saints Row 2

Today, something very, very sad happened. Video games were forever ruined for me.

A couple weeks ago, my friend Bill (unreal name) and I decided to plan a video game party. We included my friend Captain Hammer, who is made of win. Today was the day of the Video Game Extravaganza, and MAN was it epic.

See, Captain Hammer has an amazing house, like his bathroom is twice the size of my bedroom. However, he could live anywhere in the world--the White House, the Taj Mahal, New York--and still not have a cooler gaming room than the one he has right now. It's amazing. The room is long and wide, and has a row of really really really comfy recliner chairs--with automatic switches that control said reclining SO AWESOMELY--and the TV...the TV...man, the TV is beyond words. I'm pretty sure it's about the length and width of a good-size refrigerator, one of those big ol' clunky ones. That TV has completely spoiled me for video games. Nothing will ever look that good and defined, pixel for pixel, again.

Do I sound smitten with Captain Hammer's gaming stuff? Well, I am. However, the day itself was pure fun. Me, Bill, and Cpt. Hammer are all quite..."involved" gamers, and we screamed and trash-talked and hollered so much it probably sounded like we were being canonized into gangs or something. "Oh my god, turn right, turn right! NO, YOUR OTHER RIGHT, FOOL! NOW GO UP! NO, YOUR OTHER UP!!!!" "Get him get him get him!" "NEESH! GAH! OOOooooOOOOOONO! OMIGOD, OMIGOD, PLEASE STOP CRASHING INTO WALLS! THERE'S A DOOR THERE, DOORS ARE FOR GOING THROUGH!" "Shoot, shoot, shoot UP! No, the shotgun, seriously OH HELL NO, BITCH!" "FUCK FUCK FUCK THE COPS! THE COPS ARE THERE!" "Die, foolish pedestrians! Run, you puny mortals! HAHAHAHAHA!" "Bill, gimme, I wanna use the katana NOW!"

Yeah. That's what you'd hear in about 30 seconds of crazy, crazy craziness.

We also ate some ramen, gossiped (the way only two high school boys and one high school girl can) and had a great time. Finally, Bill gave me a lift home, during which we discussed the relative merits of high school and the graduation thereof. Bill is going to Bard, and while I'm very pleased for him, I'm quite perturbed that he will be only communicable with through IMs. I love that kid, I tell you what. He's completely nuts, but I love 'im.

Just to stress again: the video games were INTENSE. We played Grand Theft Auto 4 first, which was incredible. That game is amazing, yo, and you can wear your goddamn fingerprints off trying new shit, but there will always be something you haven't thought of. I sucked at first (I never play video games outside of at friends' houses or the like), but soon got my skillz in order and kicked ASS, I tell you what. Seriously, I did some of the most amazing driving ever...right up until I went headfirst into the river. But before that, I was on FIRE.

Then we played Saints Row 2, which was so so so so so cool. I really failed at that, mostly because it involved a sound understanding and mastery of camera viewpoint manipulation, neither of which I possess, so when I was playing our character mostly just ran into walls and got shot in the back. However, I was able to do a little pwnage with a katana and when I inadvertently jacked a motorcycle, we found out I was HUGELY talented at motorcycle driving. I still did a lot of bailing-right-before-crashing-into-walls-oh-noes, but I also did some fancy steering too.

Basically, today rocked. My boy buds are awesome, and I am lucky to know them. Captain Hammer, also, is insanely skilled. I bow before his mighty presence. Sadly, he is also taller than me, so I don't have much to be superior about (I make it a point to be superior to everyone about SOMETHING.) Luckily, he's a rather quite-voiced person, so I've got him BEAT there. Ha HA.

Twilight: One Of The Many Reasons I Loathe it

Okay, if you don't know me (or even if you do), you should be made aware of this fact: I hate the Twilight books so very, very much. However, I also have to make it clear that I am addicted to them. How is this possible, you ask? Oh god, it's not a pretty story, I tell you what.

This is the thing: the Twilight series is badly written, includes numerous tropes and cliches that drive me nuts, carries messages that both disturb me and irritate me, seems to value itself far more highly than many others do, and is just all around a bad-quality piece of literature. That said, I have a wonderful streak of masochism, and I'm a little obsessed with them. Maybe it makes me feel better about myself and my writing when I read them, because I may not be a published author, but you sure as hell don't need real talent these days to become one! Also, Cleolinda says it best: Twilight is a like a Twinkie. Twinkies are bad for you and very cheap, but when you want a Twinkie, you want a Twinkie. No fancy desserts or pretty cakes or anything: just pure, unadulterated processed SUGAR. So yes, I read Twilight because it is so so so so so so SO fun to mock and shriek about.

One particular thing was bugging me earlier. In Breaking Dawn, the fourth and easily one of the most unintentionally hilarious books in the series, Bella, our Mary Sue protagonist, has a baby with Edward, also known as Gary Stu. This baby, Renesmee (formed from Esme and Renee, the two respective names of the mothers of the parents, and no, I don't know what the hell seriously WTF just keep reading) is sooper-speshul and beautiful and wonderful and all that. Of COURSE she is. And even beyond all that, there is one thing that just makes me want to find Stephenie Meyer and slap her.

Renesmee has "accelerated growth."

Because this baby is a vampire/human hybrid, Meyer thinks she can use whatever cheap tricks she wants to make the story sparklier. However, it's really obvious why Renesmee grows so fast, and why Bella's pregnancy was accelerated as well, taking about two or three weeks instead of the requisite nine months. Because, for Meyer, it's much more convenient to speed up the action so that everything fits into her world of romantic garbage. You want your main character to get pregnant? Fine, great. But nine months will convolute the ROMANCE OH NOES, so let's just speed that up because it's a VAMPIRE BABY. Yes, a vaaaaaaaaampire baby. Of course, I thought the thing about vampires was that they never age, not that they age in triple-speed...but oh well. Guess I was wrong. And then when you want the adorable tyke to interact with everyone--but you know, as Mrs. Meyer with her three kids does--that eleven-day-old babies don't do many charming things other than cry, sleep, and poop, you have to find a way around it. And that way is...Vampire Baby AcceleraGrowth. Just zoom her up to about age 3, and then she'll be coherent enough to be charming and adorable and useful, instead of a lump of baby. Good idea, Meyer.

Ick. This whole series just wireds me out. I have to go and organize a book burning or something now (as a lifelong bookworm, I cannot believe I just typed those words; see what you do to me, Stephenie Meyer? SEE?).

Oh, One More Thing--Memories of Romance

I just remembered one more thing I want to post.

I was trying to understand why I felt so nice inside today when I was struck with a sudden memory: it was of my first date with my first girlfriend, who is now my ex. She came down from Lowell, where she lives, and we hung out around Boston, being all awkward and flirty and generally first-datey. Because movies are fun, yo, we went to see WALL-E, which was the only thing that a) we could both legally see and b) the only thing we both didn't think was atrocious-looking.

So: in the movie. Lights off, previews down, the film progressing on its merry way. I'm sitting there thinking, "Oh my god, what do I do? I can't just make a move, god, that would be so tacky, help help help, I have to do SOMETHING, oh god, I think I'm gonna have an aneurysm." Meanwhile, Kelly (not her real name) is sitting next to me, and I have NO IDEA what she's thinking. So, being as neurotic as I am, I go for--wait for it--the "stealth" approach.

Over the course of maybe three minutes, while pretending to watch the movie--of course, I had no idea what was going on--I very, very, very slowly edged my hand out and touched hers with mine. No reaction, which I took to mean, "I won't scream or pull away, but you have to keep making the moves."

Of course, it could also have meant, "This movie is truly fascinating and I am so involved in it that I haven't noticed anyone is touching me."

I went a little farther and put one finger on top of her hand; no way she could ignore that. Still no reaction, so I kept going--finger by finger, second by second, so nervous I was gonna start twitching or something--until finally. Finally. FINALLY.

Finally I was holding her hand.

I don't think I can express what this was like. I'm a person with image problems, self-esteem issues, and an underdeveloped urge for relationships; in other words, I fail at getting a significant other, and that's just fine with me. But in this case...god, it was magical. To have proof--REAL PROOF--that another human being wasn't repulsed by me. That she wanted to hold my hand; that was huge for me. To this day, when I watch that part of WALL-E-- the part where WALL-E has hitched a ride on EVE's spaceship and is marveling at the beauty of space--I remember the first time I held someone's hand. You know, held their hand LIKE THAT.

I actually tried going further, but she was waaaaay too nervous, so that went nowhere. Later, we walked around and finally went to the Government Center T stop, which was near her commuter rail line. We lingered by the construction partitions there, leaning against the wall under the awning outside, avoiding puddles (it was raining lightly) and generally being nervous weirdos. I had no idea what to do, my head was blank, I delayed for what felt like years--

And then I kissed her.

I'm proud of myself for that. No matter what I do later in life, I will have that for myself. I had to the courage to take a kiss, initiate, go for it myself. Me, the girl who still can't believe anyone would ever be attracted to her. Me, the girl who's had self-esteem issues from frigging birth. Me, the snarky Jewish teddy bear from Cambridge. ME. I kissed her. I did it. Even if I grow up to fail again and again and again, I'll have that triumph. That strength was there then, and I know it's there now.

We hung around for hours longer, just at that T stop, giggling and kissing like complete idiots. We kissed in and out of the rain, kissed once for every person that walked by (she was too nervous to kiss around people) and then made our way to the commuter rail station, where we found a back-alley kinda thing and...you guessed it. Kissed.

So what if this wasn't the girl I'd marry, or whatever. So what if things ended badly. This memory--holding her hand, kissing her, being strong--will stay with me as long as I live. And today it came to me randomly, and it made me smile. And it is part of why I was actually happy today.

Happier

ANYWAY. So now, I am going to write a lot and then go to bed.

Today started out HORRIBLY. My dad screamed at me about my blog, and then when he, my stepmom, and my stepbro came home from Stepbro's soccer game, there was a mega-fight. Like, both parties shouting, crying, hitting furniture, storming out of the house, the works. Yeah, not fun, especially when they're fighting in the living room and the only way out of your walk-in closet of a room (other than out the window) is a door that leads TO THE LIVING ROOM. GAH, I TELL YOU.

I did eventually extricate myself from the morass of familiar issues and get on up to Porter Square, which is where the awesome began. My friend Ana's (not her real name, I'm all paranoid about what I say here now) graduation/moving away party was going on, and it was hugely fun. At first, not many people were there: Becky, Aaron, Tim, etc. However, as time wore on and more people showed, everything picked up, and when Mr. Benson (a much beloved math teacher who can only be described as a mathematical, Jewish, New Yorkian, twinkly-eyed muppet with a pudge) showed up, it was all just epic awesomeness. He's a really great guy, and we all just stood around and gossiped with him about couples in class, the drama department, math, New York, etc. Then, there were even more people and food, the latter being MOST important. There was gobbling of munchies and crunchies (as my mommy calls food) and then just general hanging out with great people. Rachel (also not a real name) is an adorable and also wonderful junior from Spain who I absolutely adore, and I talked with her a lot, and everyone else, and...it was great. Me and four other friends sang "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" on the karaoke thingy (we were PROFESSIONAL, I tell you what) and later I sang "Don't You (Forget About Me)" solo, which led to some nice praise, even from the catering peeps. There was much dancing, and yummy cake, and funny freshman, and I learned how to make much better paper cranes. Overall, just awesome in every way, shape, and form.

After that, I was planning on a quiet night with my mommy...but no! I went to my friend Molly's (ALSO not a real name, Jesus H. Christ) house. Now, "Molly" and I have been friends for a good long time, and we used to be really, really, really close. We're still very close, but I somehow have not talked to/seen her at all recently, because I have been busy and tired and because, as I have always suspected deep down inside, I am a baaaaaaaad person. But anyway, she was there with two other very old close friends, one of whom I do actually see and talk to a lot (she's pretty much my best friend) and the other, who I love enormously but also have lagged in communication with. The point is, we had a great time and caught up a bit, watched some Miyazaki, and partied like we were all ten years old again. Great stuff, man, great.

Then I went home, finished the latest portion of Return of the King (I love Tolkien and these books, but sweet fancy Moses, they are SO VERY VERY LONG SOMETIMES) while eating strawberries with my mama, then went downstairs and IMed a lot. I also read some new stuff from my favorite net-writer, Cleolinda Jones, who everyone out there should read.

http://www.cleolinda.com/

That is her website; go click around a little and I swear, you shall be engulfed by hilarity. Her movie/boom parodies are legendary.

Anyway, I am actually happy now. Yeah, don't know why, I just am. *sigh* This is weird. But I like it.

Oh My God

Okay, so first of all: damn it.

My previous post was deleted because a friend of my father's found it, tattled on me, and he pitched a fit. I had to take it down immediately or ELSE, so because he chose to yell at me about this at 9 in the morning, when I am CLEARLY not at my best, I was unable to argue/resist and just complied. WHATEVER. Personally, I think that's bull, but my dad is the one with the crazy-messed-up head right now, so I will humor him. And to the person who informed on me, no offense but please don't read this if you're going to talk to my dad. I'm not waving this in his face, the chances of him or my stepmom or anyone in the family reading it are minimal, so give me a chance to put my writings out there without fear of being yelled at.

FUCK.

Bloggin'...

Well, I'm up, might as well write about stuff. Today, all the seniors in my school graduated. It was a long ceremony, but nice, except for the speeches made by the deputy superintendent and the mayor. I mean, why don't people who actually INTERACT WITH STUDENTS ON AT LEAST A WEEKLY BASIS make speeches? They can actually say something relevant, instead of blathering about earning caps and gowns and giving out pens to "write about your life experiences" and recycling pretty much every graduation speech ever made. I think Filo (our infamously famous sharp-tongued dean who is both beloved and feared by the majority of the student body) should have talked. She would have been like, "Now ALL OF YOU, I don't care what careers or such you get yourselves mixed up in, I want to see GOOD behavior from EVERY SINGLE ONE of YOU. The world is NOT a PLAYGROUND, and we do not conduct ourselves as if it WERE. You will represent CRLS in a EXEMPLARY way, or so help me, I'll drag you into the office and keep you there until you've decided you're ready to rejoin civilized society." All this in her wonderful accent. Bless that scary, scary lady.

Anyway, graduation was indeed fun. Humbi and Rachel (respectively Valedictorian and Salutatorian) made some very good and sincere speeches, and Lilly, Robbie, and Derek played some great music. Also, the words "diversity" and its various incarnations were said many, many times, as is the Cambridge way. Finally, FINALLY, it was time for the students to walk: but ho, this was not a swift process! No, indeed, when you have 358 graduates (less than usual, we seem to be losing students per grade), it is lengthy in the extreme. Granted, it was quite gratifying to see various friends--Becky, Ayo, Sofia, Zelda, Miles, etc.--walk across the stage and get their diplomas. Even "friends", like Elinor, Adam, Maeve, Jonathan...people I care about, but don't really have a standing relationship with. Ah, well, it was muchly awesome to see so many people who I've gone to school with for two years graduate, even the many that I didn't know. I felt some pride, I tell you what. Also, the school will feel even more empty now, since they literally don't go there anymore. I will miss them, and the ones who I love I wish safe passage into college and adulthood. I hope I'm there to see some of them become even cooler than they are now.

Got home, ate some delicious homemade shish-kebab, commented on Facebook stuff...etc. It's all good. I'm looking forward to what should be a very fun and relaxing weekend before my final full week as a sophmore at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School.

Man oh man. It's so crazy...I'm fifteen, almost sixteen. I'm halfway through high school. When did this happen? The other day, I was singing a song from Wicked at my eighth grade graduation. The day before that, I was hugely disappointed that my school was moving buildings because I was looking forward to moving to the top floor for fifth grade. And the day before that, Halie was moving into my room and I was dancing around in a dress covered with roses, getting in the way as my parents moved the old crib around and filled up the closet with baby stuff. I feel old. I'm not even that old, but my head...my heart, my brain, my eyes, they all feel old.

I'm scared about the future. What do I know how to do that I also love? Drama, music, and writing. All professions that depended on luck, a smidge of talent, single-minded dedication, and a propensity for taking risks. I have none, although maybe a smidgelet of that smidge of talent. I don't want to be my dad: I don't want to have one thing that I want to do, and be partially miserable for the rest of my life because I failed at that (or wasn't able to do it in spite of supreme efforts, is more like it). I don't know what to do, I can't ignore it for much longer.

I'm growing up. Holy fuck.

I want to do things before I graduate. I want to lose weight, I want to write a full play, I want to ace a semester, I want to do a lot of shit. I hope it'll happen.

But for now, I have a family that, while very dysfunctional, loves me, friends that are fantastic and love me (despite my crazy insecurities) and that I love, a good mind and a nice place to live in. Who knows what'll happen in two whole years? Well, I for one want to find out. I'm a little wary of it, but I truly want to know what happens next in my story.

Need To Keep Writing

I'm a writer; I write. That's how I've expressed myself, ever since I was little. Writing and music, the only things I really know how to do, and I'm not very sure about the second one. There's a play in me, thousands of plays, something big...but I can't get at it. I can't get it, and it's driving me insane. I doubt myself, I lose steam, I fall behind...God, I need to keep writing. There has to be something to keep me going. Something to inspire me. And I need to find it soon.

Bit of self-happiness: I've been beating myself up because a friend didn't invite me to something and I mentioned it on Facebook and she ignored me and I thought I was pathetic and it wa horrible but then she said, "you're coming, aren't you?" today and I feel so so so much better.