Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Little lions.

What is it about curly haired boys named Matt? They always go out of their ways to get me home. It's great.

All my love,

Monday, June 27, 2011


I think in English. (As much as I'd like to think in French, I don't.)

Claudio and Carolina think in Italian.

In Paris, people think in French.

So tell me: What language do deaf people think in? Like, really. I'm extremely curious.

Who cares if he's shorter than I am? Because that accent is incredibly god-like.
All my love,

Saturday, June 25, 2011

"That's crazy."

I think I hear things like, "That's not my hair. That's a penguin," or "Don't you think so, too?" a lot. The problem is that I don't remember how the hair became a penguin or what I am supposed to be agreeing with 'cause, you know, I'm not, like, the best listener or anything. 

So usually I'm like, "Har, har, har..." but then I realize that the penguin is some sort of endangered animal and the fact that they're headed down the path towards extinction isn't funny and you can't laugh in answer to a question, of course.

So I set out to find an answer that is appropriate for anything. I'm not saying it's the best response for anything, simply that it's appropriate. And guess what, folks: I've got it.

"That's crazy."

I told Avery about it several months ago. I've been thinking about it a lot, lately. Try me. Give me something that I can't say "That's crazy" to. That's right. You can't. That's crazy.

1. Incredibly depressing situations. Person no. 1: "There is an impending meteorite." Person no. 2: "That's crazy."

2. Incredibly exciting situations. Person no. 1: "I bought something cool!" Person no. 2: "That's crazy."

3. Situations that are totally, totally random. Person no. 1: "My toenails are several different shades of pink." Person no. 2: "That's crazy."

4. Situations in which you are not listening at all but need to interject something. Person no. 1: "I was like, who does she think she is?" Person no. 2: "That's crazy."

The only flaw is the command form, I think. When someone says, "Dance," it might be semi-odd to say, "That's crazy." But, I mean, not really. So pretty much it works for everything.

Also, if you get the right tone, you don't even have to change the the tone of your voice to fit with the situations, really. The recipe for mine is below:

1/8 sarcastic
1/8 joyful
1/2 interested
1/8 angst ridden 
1/8 incredibly depressed

Beat with electric mixer until solidified.

I hate you for leaving. I hate you for leaving. I hate you for leaving.
All my love,

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Cats? I think yes.

Woah. Woah. Wait.

I need this phone.

I need more cat related things in my life.

You are a footnote, I think.
All my love,

Monday, June 20, 2011

The issue at hand.

Here's the problem:

One night of this weekend I was downloading entire musicals and singing obnoxiously loud. The next: I was experiencing the most romantic thing that has happened in my whole entire real life thus far. And guess what? 

I liked the former a whole lot more.

In fact, the latter left me in a small anxiety fit.

Tell me. Tell me what's wrong with me.

"Do you know the number one reason behind all bad hair decisions? Love."
All my love,

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

I think I overthink a lot of things.

Sometimes I get really worried.

I lie in my bed and think about natural disasters and serial killers and how I may never fall in love and how it's possible that I'm a sociopath and then, after I've worried about all of those insane and unlikely things, I start worrying about other things.

My mind goes in a circle. It goes like this:

What if my parents had never met?
What if they had decided not to get married?
What if another sperm had beat out the sperm that I was?
What if I had eaten some sort of poison as a baby and died?
What if we had moved into a different house?
What if my sisters hadn't been born?
What if I had gone to a different high school?
What if I hadn't written notes to the people I wrote notes to?
What if I had picked different friends?
What if?
What if?
What if?

What if?

I have, after years of "What if?"'s, I've come up with several conclusions. They follow:

1.) There are no "What if?"'s. There is only fate. There is no chance that my parents never would've met or that I would've ingested poison as an infant. This conclusion is rather philosophical and makes for great poetry.

2.) Everything is an enormous coincidence. Every choice, every meeting, every letter - all of it - it's a plain old coincidence and all of those coincidences have come together to make me and my life real and actual.

3.) Everything is a long string of miracles. It's different from fate. It's the idea that all of these things weren't planned or anything, but that they all came together in a very beautiful way that was influenced by the hand of some higher power.

4.) This is all my fault. This conclusion usually comes when I feel a) empowered or b) blue. Everything that has happened is because of choices I have made or choices my parents made or choices Kaitlyn and Avery and Emily and Katie made.

Maybe someday it'll all make sense, but I doubt it. For now, I'll simply worry about all sorts of things. Maybe someday. Until then, "What if?"

"Nice sideburns."
All my love,

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Awkward me (pt. 2).

The Are You a Social Deadweight? An excerpt from a quiz from Classy by Derek Blasberg

2. You see a girl you know at a party. When you go up and say hi, she:
A.) Makes an excuse about a family medical emergency and leaves.
B.) Frantically looks around for someone to talk to and looks disappointed when she can't find anyone she knows.
C.) Gives you a big hug and says how happy she is to see you.

Is there an "I don't go to parties" option? 'Cause, you know, I don't go to parties.

I think we can jump to conclusions with this one.

He loved Big Brother.
All my love,

Monday, June 13, 2011

The truth about time.

"So it goes."

That's what Mr. Vonnegut taught me.

I have writer's block. It's awful.
All my love,

Thursday, June 9, 2011

1984 vs. anything else.

My mother always tells me to stop reading at the dinner table and at my grandmother's house and in church and in math class and whatnot. She says that it's rude and it's more fun to talk plus it makes people feel like my book is much more interesting than they are.

The semi-unfortunate fact of the matter is this: Often, books are more interesting than people. 

I mean, personally, I'd often rather read about George Orwell's 1949 vision of what 1984 would be like than listen to someone talk about the funeral they attended this morning.

I sing about spooning at church functions.*
All my love,
*Fact. I sang You & I by Ingrid Michealson.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011


I try to wake up every morning and be a good person and be happy and optimistic and ready to be so alive, but I'm so terribly human and I can't seem to always be perfect and I don't know why I feel upset or why I can't sleep or why I don't want to talk to so many people I admired and called my friends, plus I'm not sure if love only exists in fairy tales (or '80's movies) or what to do with myself and my shoulders are sore and I'm just trying my very best and hoping that's sufficent.

Post number 200.
All my love,

Saturday, June 4, 2011

You have really long arms.

(And I am in love with you.)

It's a two (short) post day.
All my love,

Eventful evening no. 1.

And then I threw up in a hotel bathroom. (No, it was not alcohol induced.)
I also may've attempted to roll under a cracked open garage and jump on a foreign trampoline.

Bed and Jentley.
All my love,

P.S. I said I was skipping graduation because I didn't have the patience. I really skipped because I wasn't ready for goodbyes quite yet.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Yearbook day (and other disasters).

We all know that being a high school student isn't exactly my strongest suit. And yearbook day is (one of) the worst of the worst. There are many issues with yearbook day. They follow:

1. The people you really, really actually love in real life. These are the people you really love and feel like you ought to write something really truly heartfelt and sentimental and tearstained that details all of the times you have had with them and how that one day when you just wanted to kill yourself (but not really, 'cause you're not actually suicidal in real life (even though you'd probably be suicidal if they weren't in your life)) they said that one thing and it just made you feel so much better and hey! remember that other time when you did that one thing with them and it was so funny and now there's that inside joke and then you can quote said joke in really big block letters and then get all serious and tell them, "No, really. I totally love you" and sign off with some words of advice and tears. The problem comes when you are like me and you have no patience and a belief that yearbooks are impersonal. So I end up simply writing the inside joke (e.g. "Scar-touching" or "[insert fat joke here]") and hoping to high heaven they know how much I really love them in real life. However, these people are the least of my problems...

2. The problems begin with the "Oh, I like you" people. These are the friends of friends who are nice and stuff and it would be fine if you ended up in the same place at the same time at some point over the summer and you'll hug them or something when you see them again but you're never sure what to say because what if they have been obsessed with you and think you are so cute or what if they hate you and you don't know if you should write something really nice like, "You are beautiful and intelligent" or "H.A.G.S.!" so I usually sit amuck and see how long it takes them to write and watch their face to see if they look intent or just calm and normal. I usually end up trying to combine both of the bespoken options into some sort of nice/impersonal message like, "You are beautiful and intelligent... H.A.G.S.!"

3. The "I've been in love with you forever" folks. These guys are the ones who are perfect. Sometimes I want to be all brave and semi-awesome and write something like "I've been seriously in love with you forever. Wanna kiss?" but most of the time, I just write something like... Okay, let's be honest. I avoid these people on yearbook day.

4. And then there's the "What's your name?" people. I usually try my best to spell their name correctly and write something nice about what they are wearing that day and find some quality that seems especially redeeming; however, I've always wanted to do one of the following:
      1. Write an extremely heartfelt letter about how much I love them and how I was so happy about that one time when we did that one thing and how cute they are and how much I want to hang out with them this summer and how awesome that class was where we never talked and, oh! what will I do with out you?
      2. (This one's a little more likely.) "I don't know you. And I don't know how to spell your name. Insert something nice about what you are wearing and imagine that I am telling you about how pretty/funny/talented you are at something you are talented at. I've loved sitting across the room from you and never speaking. Maybe if we get to know each other next year, then we can laugh about this."

To sum it all up, yearbook day is exhausting. I left early and rode my bike to the public library where I curled up in a chair and read paperback novels all afternoon. I feel a little more myself there than at high school.

As far as other disasters go, I think I am dying my hair blonde again. I like this hair, but I really miss my old hair. I look at pictures of me and think, "I want that back" but I feel dumb 'cause I seriously just dyed my hair.

I also feel dumb because having angst over the color of my hair is sufficiently stupid when there are superenormous issues out there I really ought to be worrying about - like global warming or divorce rates or something.

B is for bad poetry.
All my love,

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


I've sat in front of this computer and written a sentimental post four times now. I tried to write a sad/hopeful "The world is over, but not really over" post. I tried to write little letters. I tried to give little awards. I tried six word memoirs.

I ended up with this:

“It’s the tragedy of loving: You can’t love anything more than something you miss.” 
-Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

And the ambulance flashed, "Goodbye. I love you. Goodbye. I love you."
All my love,