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.