A Post About Photos With A Surprising Lack of Photos

I'm sitting on the floor in my bedroom. (I read, recently, that doing things other than actually sleeping in bed makes it hard to actually sleep in bed. Thus the floor.) My hair is wet and I'm listening to Mumford & Sons, which is my favorite band tonight. My window is open. Praises be for open windows.

I believe it's spring here, but, not being very practiced in seasons, it's difficult for me to be sure. In any case, I have plans on riding my bike to school some day soon and possibly playing soccer. Except probably not the soccer thing.

Today I went and got pictures developed off a disposable camera that I bought on impulse a month and a half ago. Also on impulse, and possibly in consequence of the first impulse, my friends and I started a photoblog.

I've never been a photographer, friends. As in, never. I am a reader, writer, biker, cooker, sister, and many other kinds of -ers, but I've never been a photographer. In spite of this I now have a photoblog.

Here's why: Most of my friends are leaving. And when I say most, I mean mostly all. They're all leaving on missions--to Spain, Germany, Japan, New Jersey, and many other awesome places.

I'm staying in Utah, and I'm preemptively lonely. Not so much this week. Last week was pretty bad, but this week my loneliness has been relocated and is regulated to an obscure part of my heart. In any case, my impulse when battling negative emotions is to curl up on my bed (which I'm not even allowed to do anymore, otherwise insomnia), which is actually a really bad idea. So instead I made a photoblog.

In my head, this makes sense.

You see, I have friends that are going to cities all over the world. The thought is, maybe they can take pictures of it and send it back to me and I can put it on the blog. The advantage here is threefold: (1) I stay in contact with my friends. (2) When they get back they'll have a record of their missions. (3) I don't spend a lot of time curled up on my bed and not sleeping. At least in theory.

I Beat Up a Ninja

You believe me, right? You believe I beat up a ninja?

No? Fine, then.

So last Monday I went in to donate blood.

I'd never done it before. I tried last semester, but they said I sounded like I had a cold and was too short. I was a little scared because the night before my roommate entertained me with horror stories about passing out, and somehow reading Romantic (capital "R," folks) Literature has not instilled me with a desire to faint.

Anyway, I got there and it was fine. I answered the questions, they took my blood. As a side note, I suspect that donating blood is as close as I'll ever come to alien abduction. Check it out next time you go in. If you close your eyes the whole time, you could totally be in a sci-fi movie.

About ten minutes after they were done and I'd consumed a bag of pretzels I looked down and noticed my arm was strangely swollen. Significantly so. I knew because it looked like I'm toned, and I'm not. The nice blood-bank people gave me an ice pack and handed me a sticker that said "I MAKE A DIFFERENCE."

(Does anyone else find the sticker's caps excessive? Like that Chinese restaurant that feel the need to declare that they serve "delicious" Chinese food. You know, in case you weren't sure. It's delicious and I MAKE A DIFFERENCE.)

Now, it's officially been a week and a day. The excessive sticker is pinned to my dresser drawer and guess what, guys? My arm is still swollen. And really sore. On the bright side, it came with some really impressive bruises that make it look like I won a fight with a ninja. On the dark side, these bruises encourage people to ask me if my boyfriend has a temper.

I've been unable to convince anyone I beat up a ninja.

Quotes for You

I have been negligent on quotes this year. My apologies, friends. Here are some quotes. For you.  Because I love you.

"Uneducated, uncivilized, uncultured swine! I'm sure they're nice people, though."

"This character is the scariest guy I've ever met."

"If this soy milk were a man he would cook and speak Italian."

"He doesn't wake up. Because he has no head."

"You stole a pumpkin for me! That is true friendship."

"I'm very attached to my decapitated people."

"Get your vulnerability off of me!"

"Say no to cannibalism!"

"Listen to my explanation as a poke your butt."

"Men don't have feelings, you know?"

"Ouch! Right in the feelings!"

"He doesn't wake up. Because he has no head."

"Today! I bought a head!"

"We'll have sexy face practice."

"I'm not sure it's ethical, but I have to do it.  It's like testing rats."

"I want to be a concubine!"

"I accidentally murdered Kaia in the hallway. Twice."

"It's like a double wedding, but of the funeral variety."

"My bones were being fat!"

"I don't like you."
"I don't like you eiher."
"I didn't like you first!"
"You sing good!"

"I think I picked the wrong concubine..."

Happy Valentines. I Wrote You a Poem.

I had to write a Spencerian sonnet last night. I don't know how much you know about sonnets, much less Spencerian ones, but let this suffice: They're really, really, really hard to write. They're supposed to use iambic pentameter (and hexameter) and rhyme all over the place.

I can't rhyme. Can't. So, like the sport I am, I whined about it for a few hours. Then I sat my roommate down and informed her we were writing a poem.

This is what we came up with:

I once fell down the stairs and hit my head

            And then my dog became a giant rat.

            My heart grew cold in one moment of dread

            Behind, I heard my cat yell out “Oh drat!”

And from my bag I pulled a wooden bat,

            With which I knew I could defend my Sam

            (And Sam, of course, he was my noble cat).

            I stood and faced the beast and shouted, “Scram!”

The rat, he swelled, he grew big as a tram.

As I thought of my ancestors of lore,

 I knew this was a test, or an exam,

            A quest to test the greatness of my core.

And as I stood and thought I knew that I was doomed,

            So quickly I ditched Sam, and off away I zoomed.

We wrote it at eleven last night, at which point the entire thing was hysterical.

I felt even better about when I wrote my short analysis that ended thusly:

The theme of the poem is the discovery of one's flaws, in this case, cowardice. Even in his dream, the narrator is unable to face his fears or defend the things he cares about. 

Here's hoping my professor has a sense of humor. And no particular commitment to poetic aesthetic.

Happy Valentines.

(http://www.hangupurban.com/valentines-specials)

A Few of My Favorite Things. Again. I Have Lots.

There's this one building on campus where people are always talking about the newest fantasy story they're writing. Or about whether or not '?!' is acceptable (general consensus--no, but we're probably going to use it anyway). They're talking about BBC TV shows. And The Last Airbender. And foreign films.

They're such nerds, guys. Really. Nerds. And the first time I really stopped and listened to them I thought, I've found my people!

Anyway, upstairs in this building there is a board where they ask questions and leave sticky notes, and you get to answer them. This week it was What Is Your New Years Resolution?

These were my favorites:

       Be less creepy.

               Get into Hogwarts.

          Floss everyday.

                       Live like an art project. 

   Be even more awesome (will be hard).

                 Find a cure for the zombie apocalypse. YOU OWE ME!

Steal a snowman.

                Crash a wedding.

       Overcome my depression. (Accompanied by scribbled, encouraging notes.)

Stop the apocalypse (get the salt!!!)

             Don't kill ANY moths.

Don't you kind of love people?

In case that didn't do it for you, try this. (He's a local photographer, and I love him. He makes them look interesting.)

                  

Ah! And this. (It's a New Yorker story. And it makes me laugh, really hard. There is swearing, as a heads up.)

And this. (I'm totally not crying.)

Hey, guys, how do you think you steal a snowman?

(From http://www.vintageseattle.org/2008/02/22/seattles-great-storm-of-1916/)

Welcome to Winter, Leave Your Sanity by The Door

You know, they say this is Utah's coldest winter in twenty years. I think this means that Id is having a laugh at me. Me and everyone else in Utah from anywhere semitropical.

So you can see why I was a little upset when last night's weather report said it would snow today.

I checked it again before I went out this morning. I check weather reports the way normal college students check FaceBook. (What? Having a chronic fear of frostbite will pay off one of these days.)

When I went out this morning the weather guy said it would be "freezing rain." And I thought, oh, the rain will be cold. So I pulled out my umbrella and a scarf and walked out.

It turns out that the “freezing” is less of an adjective. "Freezing rain" is noun phrase.

What I mean is, the sidewalk was a skating rink, and not in the fun, I might get to hold a guy’s hand, maybe I'll buy a churro way. More in the I may break several major bones, no way am I getting to class on time way.

Like this, 

(frozen sidewalk by kabturek at Flickr)

but not as pretty, and more life threatening.

I passed two ambulances and a fire truck on the way to campus.

I saw cars sliding. Cars. Sliding. (Youtube it.)

I also fell down. Several times.

I have several interesting bruises developing on my thighs. And everywhere else.

The worst part? It would all be really funny if I didn't have to do it again tomorrow.

Anxiously Engaged

So I tried a new thing with New Years Resolutions this year. The new thing is that I actually have one.

This year I want to be "anxiously engaged."  I think this may be a Mormon term--I mean that I want to be active, out, doing things, interacting, participating.

It kind of terrifies me.

I have this ridiculously long list of things that I should be doing. Know what I should be doing?

Trying to stop the last of my Chinese from slipping through my fingers and into the abyss from which it will never be recovered.

Regularly going to the meetings for a school journal I joined last semester.

Talking to all of my teachers from last semester and letting them know that I think they're fantastic and I want them to hire me. For anything. Like, maybe dusting.

Volunteering at my school's radio station, so that I can muster up the courage to apply for a This American Life internship. Because even just applying for that would make me cooler.

Doing yoga. Writing consistently. Spending at least two hours on every one hour in class. Actually going to the majority of the church activities. Going to the swing club on Saturday nights. Getting my printer fixed. Publishing a paper in a school journal. Possibly sending that paper to a conference. Publishing something (yes, anything) in an online magazine. Learning how to whistle with my fingers and play the guitar and the harmonica. Getting a job. Talking to my professors. Talking to people.

I look at this list, sometimes even one thing on this list (hello, This American Life application. And Chinese), and I want to crawl under my comforter and hibernate through the Winter. And possibly the rest of my college experience. Resign myself to mediocrity (or whatever is right below that), and just let it go. Read a few good books, listen to some bad pop music.

Yesterday I called my mom. I hadn't realized it before I talked to her, but I was freaking out.

She suggested I drop the "anxiously" from my goal.