Thievery and thrift stores.

Despite what the title may seem to imply, I did not steal anything from a thrift store. "Thievery" is one entity and "thrift stores" is another.

Thievery: I think I'm very funny. The passenger head rest from Emily's car is now sitting on my bed.

Thrift stores: A few weeks ago, the church girls asked me what they would have to do to get me to come to our activities. Since there's only four of us in my age group, it's lonely, apparently, when I don't show up. My answer: "We would have to do fun things. Like go thrift shopping." It was meant as a bit of a joke, but yesterday night, that's exactly what we did. And it was enjoyable. The best part, though?

Jed (yes, Avery, that Jed) showed up. He walked in the door of that store. While we were there. Unplanned and beautiful as ever. And I died. My heart stopped and I died.

Therefore, I am writing this very blog post from heaven itself. Tell Jed he looked exceptional last night.(And that if I am risen from the dead, tell Jed I'm single.)

"If I wasn't so happy I wouldn't be so scared of dying."

All my love,

Addy.

P.S. Check out a little blog by my dear friend. He writes thought-provoking modern poetry.

Oscar Wilde.

Oscar Wilde was gay. Someone straighten him out (and make him un-dead), please, because I am convinced I am supposed to marry him.

That's all; I have writer's block. Still. Maybe I'll write about spring or something. Is that cliche?

Ten points from Hufflepuff.

All my love,

Addy.

P.S. Arctic Monkeys are coming on May 31. Anyone want to be my date?

Fact versus fiction.

Fact: Third term is officially over tomorrow.

Fiction: My grades are perfect.

Fact: Avery's birthday is today.

Fiction: She has a drivers license and is very legally allowed to drive us places, because she is 17.

Fact: I wore a dress and rain boots today.

Fiction: No one made fun.

Fact: I got a good grade in math.

Fiction: It was an A.

Fact: I read Harry Potter.

Fiction: I don't reread the entire series about once every three months.

Fiction: I don't compare most things in life to Harry/Luna/Hogwarts/Dumbledore/Voldemort.

Fact: Love exists.

Fiction: My love live is in full swing.

Fact: Matt Pokrus, Morgan Nelson, Emily Luse, Katie Thueson, Mallory Ash, Hannah Shill and Madison Russon all owe me notes.

Fiction: They're going to give them to me soon.

Yes, yes. We are magicians.

All my love,

Addy.

Graduation.

How much of my high school years I feel should be left: one quarter.

How much of my high school years are left in real life: two years and one quarter.

And I already have all the fine arts credits required for graduation. And then some. More than double, actually. (Did you guess that I am slightly right brained?)

Just allow me to graduate this June, could you?

Nothing rhymes with the word "orange" and no one looks good in parachute pants.*

All my love,

Addy.

*see Avery's blog

Happens all the time.

The science of jealousy.

I suppose if I ever have an official beau I wouldn't be considered the "jealous type." Most likely because I may never actually have a real-life boyfriend. Like, facebook official or anything. Nonetheless, I, like everyone else, experience pangs of jealousy every once and a while.

It's interesting, though. Jealousy is hard to describe. The lines between adoration, amusement, intrigue, and envy are skewed. In a case of adoration, one loves the things they see in the object of adoration. In a case of amusement, one finds the humor or loveliness in the object of amusement. In a case of intrigue, one wishes to know more about the object of intrigue.

Envy, however, is difficult to put into words. There is a love in all things that one sees in the object of envy, but one hates the lovely things. There is intrigue. There is amusement. It is just hard to put into words the feelings associated with it.

It's exhausting. I don't understand where it comes from. There are wonderful women who I aspire to be like. Women I enjoy spending time with. Women whom I love. Women who are well-dressed and funny and classy whom I don't hate in the slightest. And there are girls who are well-dressed and semi-obnoxious with marshmallow teeth who just fill me with wild and terrible envy every time I see them.

It's a science. But, like most sciences, I don't quite understand it. Maybe Matt or Cache or Emily or Hunter Wilson can explain it to me. Oh, well.

Mozel tov.

All my love,

Addy.

Tardy school and detention are obviously two different things.

I think I've been under the impression that tardy school would be similar to the way detention is in the movies. I think I thought it would consist of absolute silence and feeding the teacher any food left in your bag. It wasn't.

We watched The Twilight Zone.

I don't think I learned my lesson. Cause, you know, it didn't actually suck or anything.

Barbie bandaids are better than real bandaids. True story.

All my love,

Addy.

I have enough time for spring cleaning.

"Don't say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Theresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein."

I've been in a mood to clean things lately. I started with my nightstand drawer. I found ten dollars from my grandma and grandpa from my eighth birthday; I felt rich. (I'm very obviously unemployed.) Tonight, I'm going to start on my closet... That ought to take long enough. Nonetheless, it's a bit out of character for me on account of I tend to pride myself on my own amount of literary disorder in all that I do.

But I feel as if I am cleaning more than my drawers or my "junk shelves." I am cleaning out my past and all of the pieces of my old me which I am finished with.

It feels nice. Maybe you ought to go clean a thing or two yourself.

Je ne parle pas français. C'est bien.

All my love,

Addy.

P.S. Still afflicted with blogger's block. Sorry for the obvious lame-ness of this post.

P.P.S. Check out the new pages! What do you think?

I'm having writer's block in the very worst way.

I wish I could find the right words to tell you the story of last night's dance party and all of its stunning perfection or the words to tell you of what it's like to fall in love* or the words to give you one moment of the anxiety surrounding my scene that I finally performed yesterday or the words to just... Just write something worth reading. However, I simply cannot find them. So, to make up for that, I am leaving you with the best music video ever made. Ever. And that superlative isn't even a hyperbole.

Ladies and gentlemen, a great song with an even greater music video: "A Thing For Me" by the one and the only, Metronomy.

Wikipedia has a page about itself. It's very long. How narcissistic.

All my love,

Addy.

P.S. I promise to post something real soon. Cause I know all of you are just dying here. (Sarcasm intended.)

*My faith in love could actually possibly be restored. I just can't find the words to explain it to you. They'll come eventually.

My slow and delicate decent into spinsterhood.

I am fifteen and seven twelfths of a year old and I am giving up on love. I've had my shots and my opportunities, but nothing has ever worked out in my favor. I've never even been kissed and I find this positively wretched, unfortunately.

So I've decided that unless loves breaks down my front door and falls at my feet and pleads for me, my future will contain cats.

I've decided I shall have 21 cats. 14 of them are named after notable women in history, such as Susan B. Anthony and Ginger Rogers and Elizabeth Blackwell; one shall be named Anne-Sophie Mutter (because she's awesome), another shall be called Alexander McQueen, you know, because he was sufficiently incredible, and another shall be named Fluffy - because every deserves to have a cat named Fluffy. The final four shall be named George, Paul, John, and Ringo in tribute to the fab four.

I shall begin wearing unflattering, unbecoming, oversized holiday sweaters all months of the year. I shall obtain a fanny pack that is not ugly enough to be funny; yet, not cute enough to be cute - just really, really ugly; I shall carry tampons and dollar bills and other small trinkets in this really, really ugly fanny pack of mine. I will reject any heated tools used to do my hair. I shall watch Bosnian soap operas all hours of the day and night.

This universe has sent me a sign. This is the future it wants for me. If you want to save me, send a cardigan-wearing or sweater-clad boy who enjoys books and libraries and European chocolate and doesn't mind matte lipstick or turquoise rainboots or dancing in public places. Send him to break down my front door and battle each and every one of my cats.

He had better be an exceptional kisser.

All my love,

Addy.

P.S. If you're sending a boy, he also needs to have nice hair and nice skin and nice teeth and be very skinny. But not skinner than me. He also needs to understand politics. And fashion. And not mind my cats, because they're staying.

P.P.S. And if he doesn't fit these specifications, you should probably just forget about it.

Day 30: I can't believe I made it this far, and, in honor of finishing 30 days, here it is: One. Last. Moment.

Because in the end, we're all pretty indie.

Blog posts shall now return to usual.

Cheers to 30 days.

All my love,

Addy.

Day 29: I plan on doing lovely things with myself, thank you.

[Dear Anonymous commenter: I posted before thirty days and I shall post after thirty days. Have no fear. Thank you for reading.]

I remember the talks I got constantly starting day one of fifth grade. "Where do you see yourself later today? Set goals for later today. Where do you see yourself tomorrow? Set goals for tomorrow. Where do you see yourself in one week? Set goals for one week. Where do you see yourself in one month? Set goals for one month. Where do you see yourself in one year? Set goals for one year. Where do you see yourself in five years? Set goals for five years. Where do you see yourself in ten years? Set goals for ten years." I was always inspired by these lectures. I never actually filled out those weird goal charts with sections to write "goals for later today" all the way up through "goals for ten years." But, alas, due to the fact of my father being a human performance coach/goal lover, I have not only filled out a goal chart or two, but I know all about goals and why you ought to make them (it's 'cause they did a study at Harvard once and the people who wrote down their goals made like 300% more money than the ones who did not - I thought it was a nice get rich quick scheme). So, ladies and gentlemen, here is the fully filled out "goals for the rest of forever and every second until forever ends" chart, special for the second to last day of thirty days.

My goals for the rest of today: Keep my things organized (cause I just cleaned everything). Call Jake Meyer to help him ask his oh-so-lovely date to prom. Get my homework done. Call Katie.

My goals for the rest of the week: Look acceptable. Do something worthwhile over the weekend. Read at least three chapters of Atlas Shrugged. Avoid fighting with my parents. Do Kiss someone lovely (this one is highly unlikely). Get Madison a Madison-worthy birthday present.

My goals for one month: Get back on the track of very healthy eating. Convince Jake's band to name their band "The Very Skinny Narcissists" and then let me design T-shirts for them. Get really, really good grades for term three. Learn a new song on my ukulele.

My goals for one year: Kiss someone lovely (this is a more likely time period, I think). Throw the legendary 11.11.11 party. Also, throw a spring tea party. Run a half marathon (I'm still deciding if I actually want to make this goal). Get a job. Obtain a legal drivers license.

My goals for five years: Graduate from high school with honors. Get accepted to NYU. Buy a VW Bus. Hold down a job. Go on a road trip in said bus.

My goals for ten years: Columbia. Grad school. Journalism. Get a good job with Vogue or New York Times. And, you know, while I'm at it, I think I'll get married. The goal: marry someone classy, lovely, and generally fabulous. Someone I shall be happy with.

My goal for forever: Stay happy. Because I have it lovelier than most. You do, too.

I wish it was still National Birdfeeder Month.

All my love,

Addy