A definition

What does it mean to be alive?
Most people say breathing, but I'm ready to believe otherwise. The moments to which people attribute feeling most alive-- the moments where you feel you are really living-- are when your breath is taken away or when you are out of breath. Neither of those things involve breathing.
If breathing is the determining factor in whether or not a person is alive, then how can I be sitting here, feeling the rise and fall of my chest, yet feel so terribly not alive? With every inhalation and exhalation, I feel the pressure within me escalade then subside. It throbs in tandem with the thump thump of my heart, propelling the blood that surges through my veins, bringing nutrients to my lungs, collecting oxygen to pump into my blood stream, at which point the cycle repeats itself. Over and over again.
I am caught in a cycle that needs to be broken. It is a foggy glass ceiling, a cramped locker, a straightjacket.  I can see there is something outside of where I am, but I can't tell what it is and I can't break through. I've been crammed in a corner all my life by a bully, but it's hard to fight the bully when she is yourself. I feel emotionally and psychological restrained to the point of it becoming physical.
My feet pace while my legs fidget while my back tenses. My fingers jitter while my hands wring while my arms slowly contract. So much energy rushes under my skin. I can feel the blood pounding, pounding, pounding through me, and I just want it to RELEASE! I want to tear myself open and let it all come out. I want need to be able to feel something flow out of me, pour out of me, until I can see it before me and just SCREAM at it. YELL at it for letting it take control of me. Beat it and punch it and kick it and throw it and cut it and burn it until it is all gone. Forever. And I will feel free.

Free.

What does it mean to be free?

One Month

It has been a month since my last post.


I have been so busy I've hardly had time to eat and sleep, though I figure I would feel less busy if I were not a freshman. Over the past 30 days, I've rollercoastered from happy to complacent to miserable to happy, around and around. I've wanted to curl in a ball and die. I've felt like the prettiest girl alive.


Ultimately, though, I do not know what to write.

hungry.

my stomach aches, and my vision

blurs until i have to focus on what

i'm looking at in order make out

definite letters and shapes. my

body needs food, my body is so

hungry

but i can't get up. i don't have the

energy to leave my room and go

get something to fill me. i've put

off eating this long- all i've eaten

today is a latte, yogurt, and two

Pop Tarts- so is it even worth it to

muster up energy i don't have just

to prowl alone, like an animal lost

from its pack, to find a little bit of

food?

it is late and my stomach's pain

blurs with the writhing of my

heart within my brittle form. why

should i appease my tangible

body when my heart cannot be

appeased? why should i taunt

myself like that? if i could, i would

feed my heartache. and if could, i

would make the aching inside of

me, the ever present aching within

me, go away forever because this

aching is more overpowering

than any physical hungry i have

ever felt. there is no remedy for

when your heart is hungry, for 

when your shelves are bare,

dust accumulating from waiting

for love to fill up its empty space.

so i'll close the pantry shelf and

sit in my room listening to songs

of passion and lost paths, suppressing

my bodily hunger until i wake

tomorrow morning, hoping i'll feel

just a bit more... together.

My heart is blonde and brands a sparkly guitar.

If I had to pick an artist whose songs consistently resonate with me, I would pick Taylor Swift. Go ahead and ridicule my taste in music, you pop-country haters. I laugh in the face of ridicule. [Muahaha.] Her words so eerily parallel with my life, it's almost like we have an ESP connection. Like we're the same person. With the exception of her being ten times more gorgeous than I am, and with the exception of her actually having a dating history, I listen to her music, and hear myself.

I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale.
I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet,
Lead her up the stairwell.


If you could see that I'm the one who understands you,
Been here all along, so why can't you see
You belong with me.


He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar,
the only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star.
He's the song in the car I keep singing, don't know why I do.


It goes on and on... and I love it. Her music is real and relatable. I can cry to it, or it can lift me up.

Thank you, Taylor, for putting into words what I can't always articulate well.

To the Boy Who Sat Next to Me,

To the boy who sat next to me today as I waited for my flu shot,

I never asked your name, you never asked mine. I didn't catch your name when the pharmacy assistant called it, and I don't know if you happened to catch mine when she did the same with me. When I think of you, there's no name associated with your face, but I do know that you have big brown eyes and shaggy, dark brown hair.

I also know that you're a sophomore in Pitt's business school and belong to AEπ. You hail from the state of Virginia, but also have some family who live north of Dallas; our little bonding moment over Dallas was fun. We're both flying to Dallas for Thanksgiving on the same day, and you said, "Maybe we're on the same flight!" You recommended that I book the supershuttle instead of taking the 28x; I thanked you for that advice.
You waited almost half an hour for your flu shot.
You are a swell enough person to carry on a conversation with a complete stranger.

Maybe I'll see you around campus. Maybe I'll see you at the airport in November. Maybe I'll never see you again. No matter whether or not I see you again, I'm glad we crossed paths.

Thank you, boy who sat next to me. You made my day just that much brighter.

(k)not

i am not a writer

my thoughts are all in
knots
and i like to pretend
(that writing will untie my stomach)

i am a fake
because i lie to myself
about myself

i am not a singer

i am not an actor

i am not an artist

i am not anything because

i do not know who i am




[i hate when i refer so much to myself it is self-centered arrogant ugly]


i am not a writer

selfish

As I groggily awoke from a nap this afternoon, and the rain hit pitter patter, pitter patter  on my window, my solitary presence on the bed slapped me like a bitter circus monkey with a wet towel. [bam, bam! mockery and bitterness *diddlydeedeedee circus music*] No one lay next to me, no one had been lying next to me to begin with for that matter, my body couldn't tell if it was warm or cold, my neck was sore, and my head still pounded with the intensity it did before I nestled under my blanket over an hour ago. An Advil and a nap of respectable length with only lackluster results... disappointing. But what else could I have expected, really?

*  *  *  *  *

young gentleman, n.

Someone who would fill that empty space with his whole being, not just with his body (I would ask for a boy if I just wanted someone to merely take up physical space). Someone to put his arm around my waist as I drift to sleep. Someone who will have his arm around me still as I stir from my slumber to the comforting tempo of his gentle breathing. Someone with whom I can stay enwrapped as the rain falls pitter patter, pitter patter, so that we'd keep each other warm and content. Someone who would massage my sore neck and kiss my forehead to "help the headache go away."

*  *  *  *  *

The lady thinks I'm still in love with him, I'm sure.
But I'm not.
The lady does not know I have an obsession,
But I'm sure I do.
I'm obsessed with the idea of what happened
(or what did not)
(or what I did)
(or what I did not)
(or what he did not tell me)
(or why he did not tell me)
and it haunts me
and it infiltrates me
and it breaks me down
to the point of I Don't Know Myself I Don't Trust Myself
so I Don't Trust
other people.

circles

"You must love yourself before you can love anyone else."
"You must love yourself before anyone can love you."

I want to
love.
I want to
Love.

I want to love myself because I love someone else and because he loves me.

selfish.

Replay

It's all too familiar, the shades of grey. The staying away from people around me. The "I don't want to eat" because my anxiety eats my hunger. The (self)doubt of all my friendships.

I thought it would be different.



It's not.

scene change

[same character. different setting.]

Good morning, moon.

We have another few hours here, together,

as the chill of the weather

outside the window panes bites

my heart as if it were sitting,

out in the biting wind,

exposed.

It is true, you know, the part

about my heart

being exposed;

I can feel a certain

prick, prick

like a woodpecker

peck, pecking on the organs

inside my ribs.

I guess the bird isn't all that's trapped in a cage.

Nothing has changed, has it, moon?

I am still floundering I am still groping I am still slipping I am still waiting I am all but

still.

[the window may now be a mirror, though it may not be, as the gentle drops of water fall either from a source outside or from a source within the room's four walls]

Your light moves me

lures me

intoxicates me

Your light forces me to confront what I bury during your absence.

You create a lesion in me,

toppling me over the edge of my

mind as it

c r   a c k    s

and I feel

e ve ry

th r e  ad

f r   a  y   i    n g.

Insert stage directions here:

[Dim the lights slowly to black out]

"Tell the ones that need to know, we are headed north."

Music has a funny way of saying things I've been trying to formulate in my head. As I head off to Pittsburgh to begin life as a university student, the Avett Brothers' song "I and Love and You" pops into my head. In fact, the title of this post is a line of lyrics from that very song. The lulling, evocative beauty in the chord strains and vocals in tandem with the compelling lyrics capture the excitement, yet nervousness, of moving away. Of starting a new life. Of finding new people and new places that will be the recipients of your time and energy, tears and laughter, stress and care.

It didn't hit me until today that I was actually leaving.

Tomorrow.

Er... today, technically, since it's now past midnight (I should probably get to sleep).

As I strolled aimlessly around the second story of my house after locking my suitcases (completely packed, at last!), a poem popped into my head. "The Walrus and The Carpenter" is one of Lewis Carroll's most well known pieces, revered by children and adults, alike. I feel that its popularity has something to do with how versatile the story is (similar to the versatility of my favorite story of all time, Peter Pan. But I digress...). The tale of the Walrus and the Carpenter can be a silly children's piece, purely for entertainment. It can also be something much more, though. The poem can be a metaphor for life, and leaving one life to start a new one, and finding that there are lots of bumps and humps and gligglyglumps in this new life that you're trying to set for yourself. It is a warning to not be too naive. It is a reminder to not take things for granted. It is a bundle of many more things I could think of if I weren't so tired.

And so, as I shut down the computer for the night, here is Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and The Carpenter:

The Walrus and The Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.


The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"


"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."


The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."


"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"


"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"


"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.


"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Another Angel in Heaven

As I try to process how fleeting life can be, only a few feeble lyrics dribble out of me. Perhaps, some day, the song will be complete. But for now, there are only scratches on a page.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

because He took you before you could wake.

I don't understand why I'm still living,

even after you stopped breathing.

How does He decide which ones to take?

They say the best die young.

I'll just keep living the best I can each day.

They say the best die young,

so young.

MDW

daughter, sister, friend, classmate

Be strong, be blessed
8/17/11

We will always remember you, beautiful girl.

scratch that.

The thing is

I always regret

blog posts

(that are positive)

/period/

The thing is

I regret

blog posts

(where I write about

faith in love being renewed)

/period/

I just do

/period/

I do not know

how to shake that

/period/

I regret

blog posts

/period/



-eleanor

pritty is me calld, no?

Some girls are born pretty.

Some girls become pretty.

Some girls lose their prettiness.

Others are just confused.

Perhaps being "pretty," though, has nothing to do with it, and perhaps I should not have used that word at all.

Maybe the correct word is Pretty.

I'm tempted to say that attractiveness is not a state of being, but a state of being in the right place at the right time. Humans, in this respect, are akin to items sold in stores.
The doll, loose brown curls and faded blue eyes, found in the antique store is ignored by the curly haired, ribbon-wearing four-year-old because it is old. It is not shiny. It is not what everyone else has or wants.
The most recent Barbie or Bratz doll, however, is feverishly stripped from the Toys R Us shelving unit because the little girl with the curly blond hair and tiny, pink-polished fingers knows that this is what she should find attractive. This is what she should find pretty.

Qualification: She does not know this is what is going on in her head. It's a subconscious processes, one we've all succumbed to without our consent at least once in our lives. Becoming programmed to think a certain way because of image overload. Why else do we shop at popular stores? Listen to Top40 radio? See box office hits at movie theaters?
External influence, that's why.

Likewise, the big Something that influences each person's tastes also has an influence in Pretty, just as it did on the little girl with the dolls.
A girl is mingling at a party with her girlfriends and sees a boy she finds attractive. She devises a way to start a conversation.
A boy is walking around campus and sees a girl who he finds to be attractive across the quad. He oh so naturally makes he way toward her to get her name and phone number.

Why do this boy and this girl find their respective targets attractive?
Experience has taught me that the answer is usually this: They fit today's definition of "hot."
Whatever that is.
I think it has something to do with wearing lots of making and looking kind of rude, or wearing an outfit that suggests, "I'm a jerk/easy," and having a personality to go along with your style.
But I could be wrong.

The fact of the matter is that I am not a girl who guys flock to. I am not a girl who is "hot." I am not a girl who gets hit on and flirted with on a regular basis by guys she hardly knows. Scratch that, I am never hit on or flirted with by guys I hardly know.
I am the old doll with the loose brown curls and the faded blue eyes sitting in the antique shop.

Until last week.

I had come to terms with not being pretty.
I had come to terms with always being the friend, not the girl.
Then, in a matter of four days, I've had a guy ask me to dinner the day after we met, and another allude to a movie date, two days after meeting each other.

Suddenly, my entire view of attractiveness and prettiness has altered, and I'm faced with the question, "What is Pretty? What is Attractive?"

Thus my conclusion that attractive is less a state of being and more a state of being in the right place at the right time.

I do not believe that cutting 9 inches off of my hair spurred this sudden interest in me,
nor do I believe that I suddenly woke up a more physically appealing person.

Especially not the latter. Oh dear, no.

I just happened to be at the movies and at the theater (respectively) when two certain guys (one at the former, the other at the latter) happened to be there at the same time as myself, and the timing was just right so as to open the door to just the right conversation that would then lead to further communication and ultimately result in talk of going somewhere.
The "going somewhere" topic brought up by him.
Not by me.
That's a first!

Now, I'm not saying I'm planning on getting involved in a relationship with either of these young men (because I'm not). I'm not saying I'm particularly interested in either of them, either (because I don't believe I am).
But perhaps I was at the right place at the right time
to restore hope in the search for a person to love.
The "pretty" factor turned into the Pretty factor. The external influence that drove the boy to the girl across the quad, and the girl to the boy at the party, and the little girl to the Barbie doll... it suddenly disappeared.
The boy suddenly switched his attention to the girl sitting alone on the floor in the bookstore. And a tottering child noticed the beauty of the faded doll.

Suddenly, Maturity awoke and punched "attractive," that sucker of an essence, in the face.

Some girls are born pretty.

Some girls become pretty.

Some girls lose their prettiness.

I am just confused.

-eleanor

Common Sense Killed the Internet Star

It's a vicious cycle, technology. To quote the possibly only hit by The Buggles, "Video killed the radio star." Before that, it was radio killed the telegraph star. It really goes all the way back to language killed the art of grunting and using hand motions to maybe convey something.

Fast forward to recent times: Internet killed... well... a lot. That's not to say it didn't bring life to a lot of things, because it did. Actually, yeah, let's play with "bringing to life." It brought to life the art of online dating, bringing people together in an alternate fashion. It brought to life an almost immediate way to communicate with people far away from you; at the click of a button, the month-long wait to get a message from Oklahoma to Lichtenstein is removed. It brought to life many business ventures, while expanding already established businesses into the trade of online sale.

However, the internet also brought to life the age of synthetic communication, the age of cyber bullying, the age of I Can Say Whatever Comes to Mind Because I'm Not Talking to This Person Face to Face. It brought to life the age of computer-screen hobbies trumping outdoor and creative hobbies.

With the internet, a slew of social networking sites came into existence, helping and hindering my generation at the same time. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without it. But this post is not for my musings on an alternate universe. This post is for reflections on an event the currently came to pass, hopefully working as a commentary for American culture today.

As with most universities, my school has a Facebook page for my incoming freshman class. As with many freshmen pages, people start talking and becoming unsettlingly buddy-buddy with each other. Maybe my class is special, but people are ALWAYS talking. ALWAYS. Every hour of every day. I consistently have new notifications about so-and-so doing such-and-such. That's great that they're having such a hunky-dory time bonding via computer screen. More power to 'em. Let's see how many stay friends once school actually starts.
The other day, though, the idea arose for the girls to make a secret group to talk about all the cute guys.
Consequently, the guys decided, "Oh, we need to do the same thing! But for guys to talk about cute girls!"

-Pause-

First: These are 17-18 year olds, remember.
Second: These are students going to an institution of higher learning that has reputable academics.
Third: Did I mention these are 18 year olds?

-Resume play-

Needless to say, the result is two petty groups based solely on connections over the internet. Quite frankly, the only connection you really have with a person over the internet is your fingers hitting a keyboard. Last time I checked, humans don't feel like plastic squares.
People seem to disregard this falseness, however, and get overly excited about posts, comments, and individuals. So much time seems to be absorbed by talking to strangers who you might not be reading correctly. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I'm waiting until I get to college actually forge friendships.

Except for the three people I've talked with to a great extent for the past two to three months. That's it for my computer-originated friendships.

Peace,
-eleanor

Dear Whoever You May Be

Dear Whoever You May Be,

My supply of words has been exhausted for quite some time, and my body now feels the wear and tear of it all. It's not a foreign sensation, no,  not at all. I've lived it more times than I care to keep tally of.
The beating of my heart turned to a heavy throbbing against my frail rib cage. The flowing of my blood turned to a coursing river of monsters clawing at my veins in a desperate attempt to escape, but to no avail.
Sometimes my hands quiver. Sometimes my limbs feel frail and unsteady.
Mostly, though, it's the inexplicable feeling of being trapped in my own body.

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I wasn't crying for myself last night. I was crying for you. I was crying out for you.
I cried a tear for needing your way of knowing exactly how I'm feeling. I cried a tear for needing your way of looking at me that says, "Things are rough, but you'll get through it. It will get better"; for needing you to hold me even when I fight it; for needing that pacifying connection we have when we're together.
I cried because I need you.
I cried because I don't know your name.
I cried because we haven't found each other yet.


Dear Whoever You May Be,

You are somewhere in the world, aren't you? I need you too much for you not to exist.
I'm sure you need me as much as I need you.

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I'll keep fighting through life till we find each other.

I promise.

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I found a song I need to share with you. Listen to it. You'll hear what my heart has been trying to articulate.

Why are you so far from me?

In my arms is where you are to be.

How long will you make me wait?

I don't know how much more I can take.

I missed you but I haven't met you,

Oh but I want to.

How I do

Slowly counting down the days

Till I finally know your name,

The way your hand feels round my waist,

The way you laugh, the way your kisses taste.

I missed you but I haven't met you.

Oh how I miss you but I haven't met you,

Oh but I want to,

Oh how I want to.

Dear whoever you might be,

I'm still waiting patiently.

-"To Whom It May Concern" by The Civil Wars

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I love you.

I miss you.

Come find me, please.

Speak.

I.

I want to write,

but can't.

I want to write,

but can't find the words.

I want to write,

but can't find the words nor the push to make those words spew out of me, fall out of me, rush out of me, even though I need the right words to empty out onto a clean page so, so badly.

I need to write.

I need to write.

II.

I want to speak,

but can't.

I want to speak,

but can't make a sound.

I want to speak,

but can't make a sound that resembles a word even close to what I need to express what I'm feeling inside, expanding, heaving, building up pressure within me till I feel like I'll...

pop.

I need to speak.

I.

Need.

Speak.

III.

I want to write and speak,

but can't.

I want to write and speak,

but can't find the trust.

I want to write and speak,

but can't find the trust within myself to trust another whose reaction could so easily be not what I think I need, or could so easily make me second-guess myself.

I already second-guess myself

without ever talking to another

person.

I need to write and speak.

-eleanor.

List of Whatnot and Whatever 3

It has been almost a month since my last post. Here's a BlogList to get things rolling again.

1. Hail to Pitt!

2. Warming up an audience with an absurdist comedy is difficult.

3. You don't have to be a 5 year old boy to think that large bruises on one's leg look really cool.

4. Today's newspaper article by my favorite columnist. Click here to read!

5. Weddings are exciting!*

6. To know that your friend is competing in a national Shakespeare competition and to be completely ecstatic for him without the slightest twinge of jealous resentment is a really good sign of a healthy friendship.

7. SEVENTY-THREE DAYS TILL HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS, PART 2 COMES OUT!!! (Oh, and high school graduation is riiiight around the corner!)

*...for the people immediately involved in the lives of the spouses and their families. They shouldn't cause extreme, eye-boggling, drool-inducing, gossip-spurring, fashion-obsessing, across-the-ocean pandemonium involving celebrity status and alarms being set for 3:00 in the morning.

Peace,

eleanor

"I want to feel a bomb drop, the earth stop till I'm satisfied."

This weekend, I found myself slipping into contemplation of my friendships. Well, it was actually more of a small-scale condemnation pow-wow. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying anything bad about the people I generally have referred to as my friends. But there is definitely something wrong with all of the relationships in my life-- and I think it's me.

For starters, I am currently irritated at every other person I see. Sometimes every 2/3s of a person I see. Sorry if you happen to be that other person or 2/3rds of a person in my Line of Vision. Sucks to be you. Not really. Wow that was harsh.

Which brings me to my second point. I'm not a nice person. I lack grace and sensitivity in my speech. I say things, then regret them. I dwell on conversations for weeks and weeks afterwards, sometimes losing sleep over things that didn't "play out quite right." Because I just know that I screwed something up... sounded stupid... offended someone.

And I'm sorry about that. I would never hurt anyone if I wasn't so fucking clingy. Sorry for the language. It just hit me how much of an aggravating person I am. I'm never close friends with anyone for an extended period of time. I latch on to a person and talk solely to him or her (although it's usually a guy... I think I have a complex... great...), then I realize how stupid I must sound, how irritating I must be, and I shut myself off from them. I beat myself up inside my head for being such an idiot.
But then I realize I have no one else to talk to, so I feel I need to just go on and on to the poor victim of my blabbering. Yet I think of myself as a burden, so I type long text messages then delete them. I talk to an imaginary figure of them in my head to avoid imposing my presence in their life. And I successfully accomplish never actually talking to people to the depth in which my heart of hearts would like.

So as I walk the halls of school I feel awkward and semi-lonely. Even though I have friends?
I contact someone not at my school and I feel like I'm intruding in their life. Even if that's a figment of my imagination?

I just wish someone would be honest with me for once and say YES YOU ARE ANNOYING. GO AWAY. STOP TALKING. FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO BOTHER. GEEEZ.

So basically, what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry for being such a crap friend. The only way to change that is for me to put all my friendships on hiatus. ...like they're not already. Psh.

Do not even think about posting some globbledeeshnuff comment about how "awww no youre wonderfulllll!! bestfriendddd i love u!!"
Because that is I exactly the opposite of what I want to hear.

Either don't comment, or agree with me.

peace,
-eleanor

Sing Sing Sing

How to spend the last Saturday night of Spring Break:


Put on a flowy black dress and a baggy 80s-esque Mickey Mouse sweatshirt.
Adorn your loose pigtail braids with a black and white polka-dot headband.
Lace up your wingtip shoes as you exit your house.


Arrive at the swing dance at 8:15pm.


Meet up with your friend.
Discover that he got a pair of wingtip dance shoes for himself.
Have a brief "We're twinsies!" moment.


Dance.


Have a guy a year older than you come up to you and say, "I have a cunning plan."
Reply, "Okay. What is it?"
Receive the reply, "I don't remember. Want to dance?"
Continue to dance two consecutive dances with him because your conversation was not finished during the first dance.


Dance.


Dance.


Play with your friend's Fedora while he's not near you.
Get complimented on your hat by a stranger.
Tell stranger it's your friend's hat.
Have stranger say that it probably looks better on you than on him.
(Win.)


Dance.


Rest.


Dance.


Dance five songs in a row. Even though you're out of breath and your feet hurt.
Be asked by a random dance partner if you take ballet because "You're so graceful. You look like you're flying."


Rest.


Dance.


Meet your friend's friends. 
Have conversations with them.


Dance.


Pull chairs together in a circle.
Talk about random things... including the decline of the music industry.


Dance.


Dance.


11:59-- Last dance of the night!
Start to mess up simple dance steps.
Come to the conclusion with your friend that exhaustion is the cause of your skill-lowering.
Laugh half the time you dance.


Leave the dance with your friend and his friends, feet aching but not ready to head home.


Arrive at Denny's.
"I'll have a strawberry milkshake. Could I have it in a to-go cup, please?"
"I'll also have what she's having, in a to-go cup."
"I'll have orange juice in a to-go cup."
"I'll have a vanilla milkshake in a to-go cup."
waitress: "So... what do you want in a to-go cup?"
"I'll have a chocolate milkshake, NOT in a to-go cup."
Reprimand (in good spirits, of course) your friend for being a nonconformist and for not following the trend you started.


Head home at a quarter to 1.


Kind of get lost...
...but then call your friend and figure out where you are.
Thank him for saving you from ending up at the wrong part of Harry Hines in the wee hours of the night/morning.


Wake up Sunday morning to sore feet and sore calves.
Feel absolutely thrilled that you're in a bit of pain because
Nothing is better than dancing the night away!


peace,
-eleanor


P.S. The title of this post came from this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2S1I_ien6A

Texas, My (gun-slinging, weapon-concealing) Texas

Dear Governor and Congress,

Thank you so much for helping me with my college decision. I read in the news that the bill to allow concealed weapons on college campuses passed favorably onto the House floor. If the bill does eventually become law, I will more than likely not be attending a university in this gigantic, oddly-shaped state.

Why do we need a law to allow concealed weapons on a college campus? Do we not already have enough problems? Quite frankly, the thought of hidden weapons in who-knows-whose pocket or pant leg or shirt sleeve frightens me. It only takes one argument taking place at the wrong time to result in foolish (and fatal) gun fire. And what if there is a glitch and the gun goes off by itself?

I'm also puzzled as to why you are legalizing the concealment of the weapon. Would it not be more effective to legalize the weapon in plain view? If I were wanting to pick a fight, I would be much less likely to do so if I saw that a person was toting a pistol on their belt. It's more intimidating that way. Not to mention easier access. If someone were to cause a dangerous situation in which one who supports this bill would say is a prime example of needing a gun, it would probably take too long for a) the reaction time to kick in, b) the weapon to be un-concealed, and c) the defender to use said weapon.

Basically, there are more cons to this bill than pros.

Typical.

But it's Texas! And we're better than everyone! And we were once a country which makes us, like, tooootally awesome! Right? Yeeeuhhh.

(gag)

Again-- thank you, Governor and Congress, for helping me narrow down my college list.

Most sincerely,
eleanor

"sometimes i just need to escape"

It has been brought to my attention that a blogging hiatus is not in my best interest. So, "Hi!" I'm back.

Over the past week, a familiar question once again rose to the forefront of my mind: Do I really know myself?
My answer: Not really.

As the reality of embarking on the college journey draws nearer, I worry greatly about who I am and who I'll become. If you know me, you are well aware that I am a compulsive worrier, jumping to blame myself for mishaps and the first person to be in a tizzy about little things. If you don't know me, well, there you go-- I am horrible about beating myself up and worrying myself sick. And I mean that almost literally. Almost.

Just this week, some serious life-related issues came up: what am I actually good at? Am I actually capable of spending my life doing what I love to do? What do I believe in?

What am I actually good at? This question has popped up many times throughout the years, namely because I view myself as a very well-rounded person. I do not excel at any one school subject more so than the others. I am not an adolescent guru in any area. I do not have abnormally commendable talents.
I am a dabbler. My talents dabble all over the place. If I had to pin myself to being good at something, I would say that my talent lies mostly in the arts, predominantly theatre; however, is it fair to say that? I am not exceptionally talented, just averagely so. Sure, I love it and I really only feel at home when I'm around theatre people, but loving something does not equate to being successfully good at something. Which leads quite beautifully into my next point...

Am I actually capable of spending my life doing what I love to do? I have had an increasing number of break downs during shows over the past two years. Last year, I mostly felt just stressed about balancing school and plays. This year, in the fall, the non-theatre stuff in my life brought me to tears twice during school. Just this past week, I had two or three moments where I cracked-- I felt incapable of adequately executing my job on deck crew and had to pull over to the side of the road one night driving home because I was crying too hard. I wanted to someone to hold me and actually understand me, not just say "Aww, I'm sorry! Don't worry, you'll be fine!" I wanted my body to just crack open so that all the pressure and confusion and frustration inside of me could explode everywhere and leave me alone. I wanted to quit.
But I didn't have anyone like that to run to. I didn't have the ability or will to physically release the intense emotion (beyond sobbing my eyes out, then hiding my blotched face from my parents' eyes). I couldn't quit.
So I am faced with a complicated conundrum: What do I do when the only thing which provides me with a sense of love and acceptance also provides me with a slowly increasing level of frustration? How do I reconcile this conflict? And, more importantly... is it me, my mind, who is the source of the problem?

So... What do I believe in? I believe that friendships can be fleeting, but that the few true ones are invaluable. I believe that I would be content with living in a small apartment for a chunk of my life if that's what ends up happening. I believe that the most valuable things in life are intangible. And, although I don't know exactly what I religiously believe, I do believe in the power of prayer. Beyond that, I'm not sure what much else I believe in.

People tell me not to worry. People tell me that I'm too hard on myself. But the thing is, I don't know how to control the way my mind works. I don't know if I'll ever learn how to. For all the rockiness already in my relationships, it will become even less stable in a few months-- and that, above all else, scares me terribly. I included in a letter to my friends the other day to "Learn to love YOU, because YOU are the only thing you know for sure will be with you when you go off to college." I wrote that half as advice to him... and half as advice to myself. I need to figure out who I am so that I don't drown in everything which will soon flood around me. If only I knew how to do so.

peace,
-eleanor

Blogging: Selfish and Futile

The futility and selfishness of blogging recently dawned on me.

Nothing I put in a blog will better or further anyone's life. It is a virtual soapbox where I can pretend that I'm eloquent and pretend that I have something important to say.

But in all actuality, I really don't have anything important to say.

And I'm not that eloquent.

No one really cares what an 18 year old's thoughts are. No one really cares about an 18 year old's life. Unless you're on reality TV... which is stupid.

People only care about stupid things.

Like... do people read my blog? WHO CARES! It's unimportant, trivial.

So many of the things people care about most are trivial.

And the only time you need trivia is when you play Trivial Pursuit or if you're making small talk and are trying to sound witty/intelligent/random/suave/etc...

Why do people care? Really?

So... I'm going on an indefinite hiatus from blogging until I can find some meaningful, humble reason to blog.

peace,
-eleanor

Part I and Part II: Completely Unrelated

Part I
There comes a time when life starts to get the better of you, and you just have to take a step back, take a deep breath, and look at things in perspective. Perhaps things will not run as smoothly as you planned, and perhaps your won't get that certain grade you so badly wanted. But priorities must be established, and the realization that you are not, in fact, superman, must dawn on you sooner or later. Better now than in the middle of a midlife crisis, as I like to think of it.


So organization is reassessed.
Certain communication is re-prioritized.
And the idea of prayer is re-evaluated.


Maybe I really can't do things on my own.


Part II
I always find it both touching and amusing when people come to me for relationship advice. Touching, because I'm honored do be seen as trustworthy and reliable. Amusing, because I have practically no personal experience to draw upon to help them out. However, I always end up saying things that, well, make sense... and I'm not quite sure why. Maybe giving relationship advice has less to do with actually having been in a relationship, and more to do with a history of anti-climatic infatuations and innate empathy and insight.


If you need a pick me up, or need a slap in the face, or anything in between, here are some of my thoughts on the matter:
-"Taking a break" from a relationship doesn't work well. How can you be both in a relationship and out of a relationship at the same time? Exactly. You can't.
-Most high school boys, and many college boys, and a surprising number of "adult" boys, lack the mental maturity to handle relationships well with intelligent, witty young women. (While we're on this, I must be completely fair: Many high school girls, many college girls, and a surprising number of "adult" girls, lack mental maturity to handle well-rounded relationships, too.)
-Don't idealize. Don't jump back into situations that were hurtful because the past has been romanticized. Memories do not always replicate the truth of reality.
-High school is a bubble, so it seems like everything. But it's not everything. And the fact that it's not is a beautiful thing.
-No boy/girl should ever make you feel the need to live up to his/her standards. He/she should make you feel perfect, not make you feel the need to attain an obscure "perfection."
-The prospect of being alone can be frightening, but not dating someone does not necessarily equate to being alone. Being alone can stem from a number of things, whether or not you're dating somebody.
-If you're single, you get to jam out to Beyonce's "Single Ladies." Yes, guys, that means you, too. "WhatWHAT!"--Burton Guster, "Psych"


And to close, a favorite quote of mine:


We have, as human beings always have had, an instinctive admiration for those who are apparently supermen, and our acknowledgement that we are not heroes goes with a sneaking with that we were, and a fear of what it involves.
-J.C.B. Gosling


Peace,
eleanor

Perhaps I'd Like a Sundial.

I've decided that the concept of time is too complicated to think about, let alone deal with. Especially when you look at the clock, then the next time you look at it, two hours have passed, and although you've been working diligently without any distractions, you have accomplished almost nothing.
Thus, I am considering doing away with time altogether. Perhaps this sounds drastic. Perhaps this sounds confusing. Perhaps this sounds just plain stupid.

But hold yer horses, cowboys, because guess what? I have logic behind it all! Here's my reasoning:

I have just over three weeks of school left before spring break, meaning a mere 17 week days...
... 2 of those days I won't be at school...
... 8 of those days will include rehearsals...
... 2 of those days will include shows...
... 3 of those days will include auditions...
... I have to read 2 novels over the next 3 weeks...
... and I have at least 3 papers due over the next 3 weeks...
... plus my normal tests that will have to happen before the quarter ends...
... on top of my regular homework...
... and I can work solidly for hours and still feel unaccomplished.

Because sleep has to be squeezed in there somewhere, I added up all these factors and decided that Time Is Stupid and Much Too Much of a Hassle.

Side note: The last two days were a turning point... I've begun to find Facebook to be unimportant.

Back to topic: I've even begun contemplating such clichéd phrases as "What would you do if you didn't have to sleep?" And I don't like contemplating clichéd phrases! Especially not that one, since I rather enjoy sleeping.

But the fact of the matter is, a college-bound 18-year-old can probably last through a five-day school week on 5 or 6 hours of sleep a night, consecutively. After all, my friend Angela once went 2 or 3 days without sleeping at all, while being  the lead in her school's fall production, and she's still kickin'.

... Except that Chris has severely warned me against sleep deprivation.

... And not getting enough sleep makes me wacky, in the not-good sense of the word.

... But grades still matter, especially when exemptions and scholarship money are on the line.

So my question for YOU, darling pumpkins, is this:
What's the lesser of two evils? Not enough sleep or not enough time to complete assignments?

If I don't post for a while, you know why.

peace,
-eleanor

Love. And Stuff. Musings on the Topic of Valentine's Day

“I don't understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine's Day.  When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon.”
--Author Unknown


"Given that St. Valentine was a 3rd century Roman priest who was stoned and beheaded, wouldn't a more appropriate celebration of the evening be taking one's steady gal to witness a brutal murder?"
--Sheldon Cooper, PhD. The Big Bang Theory, Mondays on CBS


Just to throw you off, I'm going to write about Valentine's Day.
Quite the contrast from my last post? Perhaps. Quite necessary? Definitely.


Here goes:


Valentine's Day.


Those two words are probably either making you swoon or sending you into convulsions. You're either drooling at the prospect of some jewel-eyed Adonis, sweetly emanating the scent of cologne, carrying the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers, just for you; or you're about to vomit up any trace of love-related sentimentality you contain in your body, and direct said up-chucking in the direction of those previously described. In either case, I have two more words for you: "Chillax, brah."


This year, I've decided to reassess the situation.


Usually, I jump on the counter culture bandwagon, sporting my broken-heart earrings, tying a black ribbon in my hair, painting my nails black, and adding a touch of black eyeshadow to my usually make-up-less school appearance. Cute, right?


However, I'd be lying to myself if I said I hate Valentine's Day. Honestly, it's not that bad.


Yes, I just said that.


Valentine's Day is not that bad.


As much as I try to suppress being a romantic, I can't completely stifle romantic ideas. I would love to go on a nice date, wear a pretty dress, look all darling and lovely. I would love to be given flowers and go dancing, just us. I would love to have a late-night picnic under the stars. I would love it if I had a special someone who would put his arm around me and could just sit there, enjoying my company while I enjoyed his company, no words needed, just a deep, unspoken understanding of each other.


And that is why Valentine's Day is not that bad. It symbolizes the ideas and dreams about love which are innate in all humans, whether they want to recognize it or not. We were made to love. We need to love.


However, what makes Valentine's Day slightly... well... let me put it this way:


My problem with Valentine's Day is that it is a blatant exploitation of love.


Now, I'm not an extremely pious person, and I don't divulge in reading heavily religious books. (C.S. Lewis's "The 4 Loves" is on my list of things to read, though.) However, I do firmly believe that love should not be taken lightly. Yeah, yeah, yeah, puppy love is kinda cute and all, but when it comes down to it, I'd rather have an intellectual and meaningful relationship-- a relationship based on mutual understanding and meaningful conversation-- than a passing and shallow relationship based on physical appearance and physical actions.


The way Valentine's Day is marketed (for it truly is a consumer "holiday"), implicitly encourages the latter of the two types of "love." I put it in quotes because puppy love is not real love.


Excuse me while I slightly digress in order to make a point-- People need to learn what the word 'love' means. There is a difference between infatuation and love. Infatuations are exhilarating, stomach-twirling, anxiety-inducing, self-consciousness-supporting diddlydoos.
Love is different.
Yes, love can be exhilarating and stomach-twirling, but it is also somewhere where you feel safe,  not anxious. It is a place where you are completely comfortable with yourself, completely comfortable talking about your insecurities, your confidences, your fears, and your hopes; not a place where you are self-conscious.


And now I bring my digression back to relevancy: If people seriously assess the institution of Valentine's Day and incorporate it more thoughtfully into their lives, it may actually bear more meaning. Here are some suggestions:


Celebrate the meaningful relationships in your life, regardless of whether or not they are "romantic."


Let down your guard for a bit and appreciate the beauty of love, in its truest sense.


Send some special thoughts in the direction of the people you care about.


Smile.


Give the prospect of love a chance.


Know that you're beautiful/handsome even if you don't feel so.




Before you say, "You hypocrite child, you!," I too am working on taking my own suggestions. I've decided to make Valentine's Day different this year, something beyond the greeting cards, chocolate hearts, and teddy bears. I've decided to make Valentine's Day something meaningful, regardless of my current relationship status.


So, I surrender, spiteful feelings. Bitterness is overrated, anyway. I won't get any farther in life by throwing daggers at Cupid's dance party, so I may as well join the dance myself... but with better dance moves of course. Duh.


Are you with me?


peace.
-eleanor

I used to dream of Prince Charming

I used to dream of Prince Charming
who would steal my breath at first
sight, then carry me away into the fading light
of the sunset
while my hair fluttered gently,
kissing the air behind us
like a whisper.
"I won."

But seventh grade came
and went.
"No boy will ever like you
Because
You
Are
Too
Smart."

I used to dream of Prince Acceptable
who would be the person I thought
I needed to fill the empty spot
residing in the tucked away corner
of a teenage heart--
the corner that needs to feel
accepted,
included,
loved.

But sweet sixteen came
and went.
Never been kissed.
Seventeen came
and went,
with a moral to the story:
Don't jump in. It hurts.

I used to believe any Prince
would somehow find my whereabouts,
though it would be difficult for him to find a route
through the maze of the
Heart I now possess.

He hasn't.

("No. She was never asked on dates. She was never anyone's 'steady gal,' really. Good story, huh?")

So I don't believe
The words my friends tell me--
You're beautiful. You're talented. You're a joy to be around--
Because nothing
(of consequence)
Has proven them true.

And I can't believe.
Because late at night
I still feel unloved.
Like in a lame, sappy movie.
(I hate lame, sappy movies.)

And I won't believe.
Because I am
afraid.

I used to believe in Prince Charming
until I realized that I am afraid
of being hurt, or of being made
into something untouchable.

I want someone to hold me,
but I'm afraid to give in.
I want someone to tell me
"You're amazing,"
but I'm afraid I won't believe it.
I want someone to call my own,
but I'm afraid I'll hurt him.
or myself.

So I don't believe.
I can't believe.
I won't believe.

Prince Charming.

Fudge without the Chocolate Implication

I learned a new word today.

And... well... fuck, mate, I didn't really learn it today. I just... I learned it's fucking value!

It's fucking crazy how one baisante professeur is able to expand the fucking vocabulary of her students in their native fucking language, yet not  in the language she's supposed to be fucking teaching us.

But I guess it's something to thank her for?

I can't fucking thank her for saying my "lack of confidence in the language is sickening," after all. That'd be fucking stupid of me.

Nor can I thank her for making me cry, fucking bawl my eyes out, TWO TIMES this year. In class. Then telling me I'm a fucking bat-shit crazy loon.

I can't thank her for dismissing our questions about grammar in class, for fucking telling us that what we learn "really isn't that hard." Because guess what? It fucking is. Because we don't fucking know the language.

No, I cannot thank her for much more than forcing me to incorporate a new word into my English vocabulary and for doing a fucking creepy Shirley Temple imitation during class instead of fucking teaching us.

I learned a new word today. Can you guess what it is?

peace.
-eleanor

Dear ____, Please ____

Dear French Teacher,
Please do not tell me that it is "sickening" that I do not have confidence in myself when it comes to the French language (at least, not confidence at the level you think I should have). Please do not tell me that I am "too much of a perfectionist" and care too much about things being "just right." It is my choice not to take the AP test, and your condescending remarks will not raise my skill level any. I would rather develop a strong sense of stability before floundering through a test-- isn't that a more effective way of achieving near-fluency? I think so.
Sincerely,
Disgruntled student (who wants confidence in a language before spending $87 on a test)

Ever have those moments?

As I indulged in my weekly visit to Postsecret, I found this secret. For the first time to my recollection, someone posted a secret which mirrored identically one of my own. Perhaps I'm warped and troubled, perhaps I'm normal, perhaps I'm somewhere else along the line of that spectrum, but I often contemplate the idea of my own funeral.
Will anyone [bother to] come?
If so, who will [bother to] come?
There should be a lot of dancing at the reception. In fact, the actual service should not last very long. The reception or whatever should be the long part. I want there to be music and dancing. I want there to be a slideshow set to music with flattering and funny pictures of me from various parts of my life.
If not many people come, I don't want it to be very emotional. They cared enough to come, so they should have a nice, happy time.
If a lot of people show up, I want it to be as emotional as possible. I want to make them cry and feel bad, because I doubt friendships more frequently than anything else I doubt (except for, maybe, myself). So the pictures better be really heart-wrenching, tear-provoking, etc.
Is it even worth it, though? Because I really don't think people would come.


And the funny part is, I don't feel bad about that. Really and truly. I mean, I'll be dead, after all, so there is no point feeling bad about whether or not people will come.
But I do feel something when I think about it. A weird, unnameable emotion, somewhere between confused and unsurprised, sprinkled with regret and seasoned with painful smirks.

I guess that's my general outlook on life, though, as of right now. For at least a week, maybe longer, I've felt like a hopeless blob of nothing. And it's weird, because during the day, I can go from feeling completely at ease and accepted, to feeling extremely out of sorts and distraught, to feeling on top of the world and loved, to feeling alone and deceived.

My relationships are always in a state of limbo because the reliability of my mental functioning is always in a state of limbo. I'm sorry. I think.

I know this is a jump and you're going to think "What a petty thing to say. How stupid if you," but I worry that because of this--even if/when I do find a potential Mr. Right-- I'll never be able to have a steady relationship because I'll screw it up. He'll try to make it work, and I will, too, but... I won't be able to handle it. I'll doubt everything, think myself not good enough, create imaginary scenarios in my head based on my completely fictional conclusions (as per usual), and mess myself up. And mess him up, too, in turn. Fail.

So I guess I'll just stick to scavenging through photographs and picking ones for my funeral.

-eleanor