The Ramblings of an Insane Mind

This is Why I Don't Ever Play You Music I Write

2012-01-24T23:16:00.003-06:00

Attempt #293 at a Love Song

"Over Analysis"

You just hung up the phone
You were talking to me about marriage
Not in the way where we're talking about being married
Which is confusing
Instead you were talking about it in general
But I am a girl
And so I think were talking about it really

But I shouldn’t really care
Cause we are talking on the phone
I love hearing your voice and about your day
And maybe that is cheesy like a stupid dumb love song
And maybe that is what this is

So we are dating and you live really far away
People wonder if our relationships here to stay
Because you love where you are
And I love where I am
And we can’t decide if together is better
But maybe it doesn’t matter

So ill continue to talk to you
But in my head I am thinking about a million other things
And maybe that is cheesy like a stupid dumb love song
And maybe that is what this is

Sometimes I think about how we are going to break up
And then I am going to be really bitter
And I am not going to want to date anyone ever
I probably will though
But then I feel guilty about thinking about someone who isn’t you
And then I'm freaking out
Cause am I cheating on you?

Maybe I should stop this over analysis
Of all the facets of our relationship
But since you are far away
And you're not here to hold me
And I am really angsty
I have nothing to do
Cept write a song that I'll pro'ly never sing to you

What if you found out I was so neurotic
If that happened what would you do?
Maybe that’s why you will break up with me
And then I will date someone else
That I ll feel guilty about thinking about while we are dating
I should just break up with you first

But then I think about you and your smile
And how you eyes wrinkle when you are really happy
And I continue talking about your day
Maybe it just happens sometimes this way
And maybe that is cheesy like a stupid dumb love song
And maybe that is what this is
But baby Ill be talking anyway

Illness and Change

2012-01-01T15:57:00.002-06:00

I don't do change well. It makes me ill. Literally.

I have slept for 16 of the last 24 hours, and I am still tired.

Many changes have happened in the days that I have posted. I have traveled to Florida, the Bahamas, Tennessee, and then back to Oklahoma. As per usual, my travels involved lots of change.

And that has given me a runny nose.

One day, I want to be a laid back person that lets change wash over them and doesn't get sick ever.

But, alas, I am sick. And like a good sick person I have done nothing today...

Okay, I tried to do stuff...I did laundry, cleaned the apartment, and did my grocery shopping...

And then I felt too ill to leave my bed (which is where I am writing this from) and so NOW I will be a good sick person and stay in bed.

So now I am in bed.

That is really it.

Man, my life is boring.

Jesus Doesn't Answer Prayers Written on Bathroom Stalls

2011-12-18T01:40:00.004-06:00

Scratched into the paint on the outside-facing door of the tan bathroom stall in God-forsaken Arkansas were the following words:

Jesus doesn't answer prayers written on bathroom stalls.

As I stood there exhausted and about to wet myself waiting for the two chatty-kathys currently occupying said stalls, I pondered that statement.

The others surrounding it were less thought provoking. While someone might be interested that "Sumner wuz here" or that "Jill will love Kevin 4eva!" or that "Team Jacob is the Best EVA!!!!! :)", I found those remarks less provocative than "Jesus doesn't answer prayers written on bathroom stalls."
)
My first thought was that it would be the best country song ever. Can't you hear the weeping steel guitars and the sultry country singer discussing how she had prayed that her man be true and wrote in on the bathroom stall and "then he broke my heaaarrrrttt because Jesus don't answer prayers written on the bathrooooooom staaaaaaaaaaallll!"

Instant classic.

But, the statement lingered on me. People tend to bargain with God. I *cough* wouldn't *cough* know, but statements like "I will read my Bible every day for a bazillion years if you..." are pretty common. But, I don't think that the statement "If I write this on a bathroom stall, God, you will HAVE TO honor it" is that common.

I know what I was praying for at that moment. I was driving from OKC to Nashville to go home for the holidays, and I stopped in Little Rock for a nice americano and, while stopped, grabbed a Diet Coke and a water for good measure. I had just finished drinking those when all traffic stopped. And stayed that way for two hours.

Non-ideal.

My bladder was not happy with me. I prayed for strength in my loins. Please don't make me go into the details of the discomfort. You have had to go really bad before. Please draw from personal experience and insert that narrative here:

Thank you for your story.

Anywho, I finally make it past the blockage and there are no exits for a bajillion and a half miles (Hyperbole is the BEST thing EVER). I pull off the interstate, drive to the nearest gas station, fly out of my car, run to the bathroom, and find it full of two women who are taking their fine and dandy time doing their business.

I was so judging them.

But I was also reading the wall of the stall trying to stall my bladder from relinquishing my bodily fluids. Trying not to think of urination, the sound of which was already trickling out of the stalls as the two ladies continued to take their sweet time, I read the walls.

This is actually one of my defense mechanisms. I read. And I will read anything. ANYTHING. For instance, if I am in the bathroom, I read the labels of everything--pills, toiletries, you name it, I read it--and since I am usually nervous in, oh, EVERY social situation, I sometimes will be over at your house and then go into your bathroom and read the labels on your toiletries.

That's not normal, is it?

Anyway, I read this line and I am suddenly transported through a list of my most desperate prayers growing up.

Please give me a friend.
Please let me die.
Please help me stop daydreaming all the time.
Please make me thin and beautiful like my sisters.
Please make my head stop hurting.
Please make me less of a total fucked-up failure.

None of these would I ever write on a bathroom stall (though I did write them in code on the bunk bed boards). I searched for the prayer--there was a lot of writing. I couldn't find it. Many things had been scratched off or written over.

Or maybe the girl who wrote that had asked for prayer on a different bathroom stall and then God did not answer her in the way she wanted so she went around stalls bitterly ensuring that no one ever thought that God would answer prayers thus delivered.

The women got out of the stall AND PROCEEDED TO STRIKE UP A CONVERSATION WITH ME. Finally, I relieved my bladder and all was well.

Except it wasn't.

What was the prayer request? Who was this person? What was going on in her life?

On the remaining 7 hours of my trip, I pondered this. I will never know, but I will prayer for this person and their request that she just had to tell people about so much so she wrote in on a bathroom stall.

It is 2:07. My plan leaves in five hours. I have to leave my house in three and a half hours. I drove for a grand total of 14 hours today. I should sleep for my brain is fried.

But I can't help being somewhat haunted by the thoughts of my dear desperate friend who is so angered at God and his bathroom stall policy.

What was that prayer request? I am dying to know. What impulse grows inside you to bear your soul on the wall of a dingy, tan bathroom in the middle of nowhere?

I just have to know.

So, what would inspire you to write on a prayer request on a bathroom stall?

Santa Claus Tried to Pick Me Up in a Bar Yesterday

2011-12-10T09:43:00.003-06:00

I knew that I was going to get a letter yesterday. I knew it. And I knew the letter was not going to be the bright red envelope of acceptance, but one of rejection. Cause I am used to rejection. And I am a pessimist.

I finished work last night, and instead of going to home to read about being rejected, I was treated to dinner by my dear friend Caroline, who wears a puffy vest that makes hugging her even more enjoyable than it already is. We dined and decided to visit the Service Station, a restaurant/bar that we both had passed for over a year and never once entered.

It was there I met Santa Claus. And he tried to pick me up.

I do not like Christmas. Don't get me wrong: I am very glad Jesus was born. But let's face it, American Christmas is all about gifts, and I am the worst gift receiver ever.

What?? You ask. You don't receive gifts well? That's the easiest part! That's dumb.

You're dumb.

That's very mature.

You're mom's mature.

I don't have to put up with this. I am leaving.

Anywho, if I start crying when you give me a present, shedding genuine tears of genuine distress, don't panic. It is NOT because I don't like the gift. It is because I am a head case.

When I get a gift, I really want to show appropriate emotions of gratitude, love, and acceptance. I come off as a very dramatic person, but my real emotions are really blah. When I am really insanely happy, I sit there completely still and have a slight scowl. Seriously, this is my happy face.

That is not a happy face.

It is for me.

You're dumb.

Let's not start that again.

But people are always expecting me to explode with emotion and scream and be excited. And so they get really sad when I sit happily and scowl at their gift.

But that means I like it.

You're weird.

That is why I hate surprises. If I know I am getting a gift, I can rehearse my response. Yep, I rehearse emotions. In front of a mirror. It is hard to live having deep blah emotions. But, after rehearsing, I feel confident that I can show you how I feel in a way you understand. Instead of just scowling, making you mad, and making me feel like a failure at life.

Anyway, Santa is in the restaurant and he, with his belly that wriggles around like a bowl full of jelly, bumps my chair.

I wish I could say that I went flying and he had to use his Santa Magic to save me.

But really, I hardly noticed until he apologized and I turned to face this large, white-beared, red faced jolly ol' elf.

And THAT'S when he used his Santa Magic and changed me into a reindeer.

No, that did not happen.

We actually just went back to our respective conversations.

That wasn't much of a pick up.

Wait, there's more.

As we were leaving, he stops me. And he doesn't stop me with Santa Magic. Oh no, he stops me with the awkward hand on shoulder that is really more like hand on chest which is where certain fatty deposits that I do not want St Nick touching are.

And he doesn't let go for a loooong time.

"Sorry again 'bout bumping you, doll."

Doll? Do I look like a plastic figurine that you put under trees for young girls? Oh God, Santa is going to turn me into a doll and put me under a tree. Ensue Panic.

"That's alright."

"Seriously, you should give me a good one, two straight to the kisser."

Punch Santa?

"Uh. No..."

"I'd give you a good 30 head start before I'd get you."

You better not pout. You better not cry...cause Santa's going to come kick your ass.

"Oh, I'd never."

"I used to have red hair before mother nature took it away."

Santa was a red head. I always wondered.

"I hear she does that."

Did I mention his hand is STILL ON MY SHOULDER/CHEST?

"Bitch."

Santa cusses, people. Santa cusses.

I quickly make my exit.

That said, I am not attractive to medical schools, but I am insanely attractive to fictitious holiday characters. Watch out, Easter Bunny, Becky Myers is coming to town.

A Blog about Not Blogging

2011-12-07T23:09:00.004-06:00

So, I said I'd post every week. I try to post Monday or Tuesday. It is Wednesday. Since I didn't know if a blog posted post the Wednesday of the week counted as the week previous or not, I thought I'd do a short post about not posting to hold you over (and contractually fulfill my uncontracted obligation) till tomorrow or Friday when I will actually right a legitimate post.

Does it seem odd to you I am unclear about the blog rule that I myself made up? Or is that indicative of life? We make these rules for ourselves that we don't actually understand and we spend a lot of our time trying to understand the rules we just made or the definitions we just gave ourselves. We have no idea what's going on but keep having to consciously tell ourselves what is going on. Seems circular and linear at the same time, no?

Anyway, I am still processing the emotional upheaval that God decided I could handle this week. I think he was wrong. He says he's never wrong and that I've been thinking too much about the rules I have set for myself instead of thinking about the ones he has set for my life. Damn. He's probably right.

Suffice to say, this week should make for some interesting, if not exceedingly angsty blogging.

But, let's be honest, blog-fans: that's what I do best.

I am going to pretend that you are excitedly anticipating...but then that makes me nervous that I will not perform up to your standards and you will be depressed. Ah! Performance anxiety!!! AAAHHHHH!!!

Fine. I'll pretend you don't care. That I, this blog, and all the characters therein mean nothing to you.

Finally, I am alone and miserably happy.

Wait...

You'll be hearing from me soon.

He also makes really terrible jokes. But I think they are funny.

2011-11-28T21:20:00.004-06:00

I couldn’t get my banjo out of the bathroom stall. I don’t know if this has ever happened to you, but, if it hasn’t, it is rather stressful. If you too have experienced this, we are soul mates; please call me.

Back to the moment, the banjo was stuck and I with it. If you were there, you would have been able to save me (Hint: Turn banjo on side). But, there I was without you, soulmate, in the Albany Airport at 4:00 am madly trying to free my wedged banjo as the intercom tells me that my flight is boarding.

I sat down on the toliet and cried.

After stopping, I asked myself why I was crying, because I am trying to be better in touch with my emotions instead of bottling them up where hopefuly You-Know-Who will never find them.

Then, I realized, Holy Dickens! My plane is boarding! And resumed madly tugging at my banjo.

Then, I got it free.

FREEEEEEEEEEEDDDDDOOOOOOMMMM!!!

William Wallace and I share emotions. Yeah, I am that deep.

I am in the process of returning from Thanksgiving break during which I stayed with my Grams, a.k.a. Grandma Hershkowitz. Yes, she is Jewish. Whoa. That means, I, your ever-witty (cough) author, am in fact a Jew by race. If you stop reading my blog now or ever, you are an Anti-Semite. Just saying.

Grams is 94 years old. 94. Can you imagine 94? I can’t. She was born roughy 6 years after the Titanic sank. She doesn’t know what the Internet is. I tried to expain texting. It went over like a lead balloon filled with lead. Oh, did I mention that her memory is going so you have to repeat things? I tried to vary my variable methodology.

That said, I might have just seen my grandma for the last time.

Damn.

She really is not doing well cognitively and well, she’s 94.

So, visiting Grams involves dealing with the idea of death and history and is an intense emotional roller coaster in and of itself. But, that’s not all, dear blog fans. You know me, if there is anyway to make life more intense, I’ll do it. So, I don’t like talking about personal stuff, but there is this amazing boy and he is dating me and I really like him and he lives in my Grams’s hometown. Before this trip I had seen him for 4 days in the past 6 months.

Are you ready, emotions? ARE YOU READY TO BRING IT?!

Grams is depressed and highly highly anxious. She does not like to ask for help and will try to forcibly stop you from helping her, which is just pathetic. But, she will have freak outs where she will fixate on something and get highly worked up, agitated, cry, and sometimes get so disoriented that she is a danger to herself.

“Becky, oh God, BECKY!”

I was happy she got my name right.

“We have no food. We have no food for you guys.”

“Who, Grams?”

“For you and Daniel and Mark and Joanna and—“

“Gramma, no one else is here. It’s just me.”

“What?”

It took a while to clarify things. The saddest thing about my Grams is that she knows that she doesn’t know. She can see just enough to see that she is forgetting. And she really hates it.

“Oh god, Becky, I am not doing well.” She grabbed my shoulders and leaned into my shoulder crying.

“I am so sorry. Becky, I am so sorry. I am such a bother.”

“Grams, stop it. You are a blessing.”

“I should be serving you…I got to get the food ready. We don’t have enough food ready. Here I’ll just walk to Stewarts.”

“No, Grams.”

She started crying. I sat there helpless. How do you reason with someone who has lost her ability to reason? How do you console your grandma knowing she’ll forget?

Banjo.

“Grams. Let’s go to the living room and I’ll play my banjo for you!” She had been asking. I really think I am terrible and try to avoid playing solo at all costs.

“Oh, but dinner…”

“Please. Grams, please! Would you do this for me?”

“I’d do anything for you, sweetheart.”

We go to the living room.

My Grams is very interested in my boy. During the trip, she asked me a lot of questions. She is quite sad he isn’t Jewish. I asked her about her boy, my fourteen-years-deceased Grandpa Sam. How did they meet? What was he like? Did you know he was the one? The stories were…intense. On their first date, he brought her home afterwards to meet his family. It was late, and my grandfather’s father said Sam couldn’t drive her home because it was too far (it was maybe 25 min…old people…). So, she had to stay there. My grandfather slept in his bed and left Grams on the floor.

I help her to the couch in the living room whilst dragging my banjo in from the other room.

“My feet are cold.” I am up already and am two feet from the closet.

“I’ll get you a blanket.”

“You’ll do no such thing! You’re a guest.” I start towards the closet. A competition of speed ensues between the 94 year old and the 23 year old. Against all odds, I won.

“I feel so bad that you come all this way and then you take care of me. I should be taking care of you.”

Who took care of you, Grams? I want to ask. But I know the answer. When Sam proposed to my Grams, she started crying and squeaking, “No, no, no!” in what I assume was increduality. He mockingly mimiced her in falsetto. Who took care of you, Grams?

At this point, I sitting across from my panicking Grams, exhausted with a banjo on my knee.

I can’t think. I am struggling to breath. The weight is too overwhelming. There is a long and involved story of my Grams, Mom, and me. I know some of the problems my mother had to deal with as a child being raised by Grams. All three of us have so much dsyfunction and so much sadness. That is should come to this.

I just start playing. After a few bars, I realize I am playing “Hail to the Lord’s Annointed.” And so I start singing.

Hail to the Lord’s Annointed, Great David’s Greater Son
Hail in the time appointed his reign earth begun
He comes to break oppression, to set the captives free
To take away trangression and rule in equity.

And I sing and I sing and I sing. I call for Christ’s return. I beg for his saving grace. I praise him for his glory. I tell of Christ’s love, of my own doubt. I sing to my grandmother about a savior she does not know. One that I believe is the only way to eternal life. One that she now cannot understand. I sing because I want to calm her. I want her to be healed. I sing because I don’t know what else I can do.

She fell asleep. I woke her up, helped get her into bed, and then I texted my boy to hang out.

If there is anything more different than dealing with a dying grandparents, it’s hanging out with your new (ish) boyfriend. It is a beginning. Sure, it might come to a surripitous end. But it is a beginning.

And it is hopeful.

You don’t date someone hoping that it ends. You are hopeful with every relationship that this might be the one. Are you the one? Are you going to travel this weird thing called life with me? Did you too get an instrument stuck in the bathroom stall at the Albany airport? Are you going to love me even though I am crazy? I hope so.

I feel hopeless about my Grams. She can’t understand; she doesn’t know who I am a lot of the time. The only hope I could muster was in the words of those hymns that point to Christ and his kingdom.

Then, I am with this boy, this kind beauty, sitting in a dive diner laughing and talking. And, there is so much hope. But at the same time, I am utterly hopeless. You know the movie Toy Story? You know what the bad kid Sid did to all his toys? Yeah, I feel like my sin and my past have made me like one of those toys emotionally.

No one can ever love me. Look at what you did. Look at how you deal with your past. Look. You’re ugly. You’re broken. There is no hope.

He comes with succour speedy to those who suffer wrong
To help the poor and needy and bid the weak be strong
To give them songs for sighing, there darkness turned to light
Who souls condemned and dying were precious in his sight.

All this is hitting me, my emotional stability is maybe at a -2. And, there’s this boy. I was in rare form. And he held me as I quietly broke down.

I had to be at the airport at 3:30 am CST to make my 5:30am EST flight. His parents suggested that he sleep at my Grams's house to maximize sleep. My Grams consented. He gave me the bed and slept on the couch.

Flat Tire Promiscuity

2011-11-21T22:43:00.004-06:00

The life I lead is too interesting. Really. I have more stories that a dog has fleas. What? Your dog is clean, happy, and flealess? Well...my metaphorical dog is teeming with fleas. Just teeming.

I was returning from Dallas. My trip there was blissfully nice. Sufjan sang to me. Ira analyzed the world for me. Ah, c'est la vie.

Before hitting the road, I stopped and got a large lemonade from Chik-Fil-A. Ah, I could drink CFA Lemonade all day every day. Is it lemonaid or lemonade? No matter. I drank happily.

My goal was to get to 35 before everyone else did and for the most part I succeeded. Yes! I thought. Take THAT Dallas traffic!!

Then, the god of Dallas traffic look on my haughty soul and called down from heaven punishment befitting of my hubris.

A truck tipped over. Now, I don't know if you have ever waited for a truck to be untipped over, but it takes a while.

Now, imagine that you just drank a large, light-on-the-ice lemonade an hour before.

And you are just sitting there...

And sitting there...

Sitting...

There...

Do you have to pee? Well, I sure did. I sat on my heel. I took off my belt. I thought dry thoughts. (Oh, did I mention it was raining?).

And, all the while, the god of Dallas Traffic laughed uproariously. Ah me and my egregious hubris!!

Anyway, two-but-what-seemed-like-ten hours later, I have seen the truck be unflipped over and am merrily out of Dallas. I stop for gas and grab some Cheezits (dinner of champions). All is well.

It is now 8pm. It is raining cats and dogs. Not literally. I have just finished talking with an old friend who is getting her masters at Johns Hopkins. I was listening to Ingrid Michaelson. I was planning a blog post about taking pride in your calling and how one should not feel bad if one is teaching high school in Oklahoma when one's schoolmates are getting their masters at Johns Hopkins.

Thunk. My spider senses sense something slightly off. Thunk. My sympathetic nervous system kicks in THUNK, thu-thu-thunk. The wheel starts shaking violently.

I had a burst of many thoughts. This was the order: Aliens! Bomb! QUAKENADO! Psychotic Breakdown! Flat Tire!

Indeed, my last (but not necessarily the most logical) thought was correct.

I swerve deftly (is that an oxymoron?) into the upcoming exit lane and get off the interstate.

It is pouring rain.

Down the street is a Conoco. I can see it. Half mile tops.

I try to get there, but I am all rim.

Sighing at the dry oasis, I step out into the pouring rain.

Now, there are a few things that make this really poetic. 1) It is cold and wet, which are 2 of my 3 least favorite tactile sensations (sticky is #1). 2) It is pitch black and storming. 3) And the quaint little patch of road where my car determined to die had a good 5 inches of water in it already just waiting for me to splash around in.

Fun Times.

I change my tire. I wish I could say this was my first time. Or my second. Or my third. If I am counting correctly, this is the eleventh time I have changed/help change my tire. Let's face it. I am promiscuous when it comes to tires. I need help.

Anyway, please remember that I took of my belt due to the recent Bladderpocalypse and also please note that I have been working out so I have lost weight.

Yep, my pants kept falling down while changing this tire.

Flat Tire Promiscuity at its max, people. I need help.

After I get the spare on, I go to the aforementioned gas station dripping wet.

The gas station attendant who just finished mopping the floor looks at me and says, "You are dripping wet."

Observant little devil.

I ask him if he wouldn't mind checking my tire's bolts. He raises an eyebrow. He directs me to yonder tire shop.

I drip my way out.

The tire shop would have been the perfect scene for a murder moving. Large 18 wheelers loom ominously around. Flickering light. Awkward buzzing noise. I get out and eerily call hello.

The response was perfect. "Well, hello there, Cutie Pie." Which was funny because I was dripping wet (see gas station attention) and I was having to hold up my pants.

Now, I was expecting the voice to belong to a hook-armed man. He was going to have a limp and a cigarette. Oh, and he was going to kill me.

As he emerged from the shadows, I discovered two of those four guesses were right. I'll let you wonder as to which.

Anyway, he went to re-tighten my tire, tried, and declared, "D#$% girl! You a bad-a$%." I took that to mean, "My dear young lady, you have successfully and impressively tightened the bolts sufficiently. Kudos and Brava!"

He then directed me to the 18 Wheeler side of the gas station for air, because the other air box was broken. So, I pulled up next to an 18 wheeler and tried to look tough in my Toyota Corolla. I think I pulled it off. As I held up my pants.

The last two hours of my journey was blissfully uneventful. I talked to my boy, to my other friend who is getting her PhD at Harvard, to a fellow teacher, and to my sister's answering machine. Ingrid Michaelson sang about being okay and the world spun madly on.

And, somewhere, high above me, the god of Dallas Traffic laughed uproariously.

I am a maniac, maaaaaniac!

2011-11-15T18:28:00.002-06:00

Okay, if I tell you what am I doing you will be mad.

Okay, some of you, some of you will be mad.

The ones of you who are rooting for my self-destructive tendencies and thus my inevitable end, yes, you dear enemies, you will not be filled with worry and woe, but will cackle uproarious and/or stroke your cat with your claw hand and mutter, "I'll get you THIS time, Gadget--I mean--Becky."(Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, Inspector Gadget!).

Okay, enough suspense. (Is there suspense? I am trying to go for suspense. I think I am just being annoying. You want me to get to the point? I should get to the point. And the point is...).

I am sitting on the second floor of a building that might be structurally unsound. Yep, at any minute the effects of Oklahoma's Quakenado could cause this edifice to fall into a large heap taking my body and life with it.

But, you see, I have to be here. I was going insane. INSANE. And had to come here.

No, this is not like my fascination with running holding sharp objects.

No, this is not like my propensity to assume "safety" gloves just take the fun out of chemistry.

No, this is--will you just stop asking these questions and let me blog? Oh, what? This again. Of course, it always has to be about you. Well, when can it be about me? When can I talk about what I want? When am I going to have my moment, my shining happy beautiful glittering moment!? THIS IS MY BLOG FOR SHAKESPEARE'S SAKE!

Look, here is the deal. I am a psychotic individual (see any blogs from 2009-2010 for citation or the title of the blog itself). I need a place where I can go and just be. I need a place where no one is around and I can process my day. I need a place where I feel safe.

And it just so happens that a structurally unsound building is the only place that fits those criteria.

Oh, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that I don't need it. You are thinking that I only need Christ and his love. Well, you're...w-right...but I feel like I need it.

Oh crap, this is a great analogy and not in a way that vindicates me. Stupid truth always coming out.

So many times in life we seek comfort in things that we feel like will save us: food, pain-killers, television, relationships, our teddy bear, ancient Greek, music, weight loss, our children, our jobs, etc. So many times we feel as if those things are what make us peaceful and serene. But, really, we should lean on Christ and his love for us for our stability, because what we think we need could figuratively (or in my case literally) crumble beneath our feet. We are beings of such great irony: we cling to the mass of the sinking ship and tell ourselves that letting go will kill us.

So here I sit. In a potentially hazardous situation. Not letting go. Talking about it in platitudes is cute kind of like a platypus which is the image that platitudes always invokes. But, let's be honest. It is not cute just like a platypus is not actually a cute secret agent fuzzy green creature but actually a somewhat scary creature that does not fit into normal taxonomical boundaries.

I am insane. Insane, I tell you.

Where am I?

No, I am not in an abandoned mine shaft (that was last week).

No, I am not in a condemned building on the outskirts of town (though I wouldn't put it past me).

No, I am not on a shady storage building on the wharf (Seriously? I live in a landlocked state).

I am sitting alone in my own apartment on my bed as music plays.

The Quakenado kinked a water pipe. All the sewage backed up. And they think the leaking water and sewage has ruined the foundation of my building. Hopefully, it will not be condemned, but I was "strongly recommended" to stay "off the premises" until "more was known."

Curse you, God! How did you know my weakness? I want a home. I want rest. AND I WANT IT ON MY TERMS. I DO NOT WANT TO BE A NOMAD. DON'T YOU GO ON AND SAY THAT YOU ARE MY HOME BECAUSE...BECAUSE...because...

Dagblastit, I hate it when you are right.

Okay, okay, I'll leave and go somewhere not potentially condemned.

But, I am only going because I have to use the bathroom and all the water is shut off.

Take that.

Lord of the Internet: Return of the Blogger

2011-11-07T22:47:00.005-06:00

Dear Bloggers,

It's been a long time since we talked. No, no, I am not mad. Have been caring for another blog? No! It's nothing like that it's...well, it's complicated. You see, I've been...busy sorting out life stuff, but I am back and, beloved reader, if you'll have me, I would love for you to read my blog again. I promise to do better. I am going to blog once a week from now on even if it is short and poorly written*. Indeed, Quack Attack is Back Jack! (At first, I wrote, "Duck Attack is Back Jack" and that didn't seem right).

Anyway, have some great blog ideas just waiting to be written in my usual fashion. If you are new to this blog, the basic premise is this: I sit at my computer and rant for a bit and then I click publish and boom! The magic happens. No edits. No cuts. Just straight free-associating going on. The only thing I will sometimes do is read a blog and realize that all of you will become dumber for having read it and so I delete it.

FAQ if I had enough people reading this to have an FAQ

Why should I read this blog? You shouldn't. Stop. Go away.

Really, why should one read this blog? I don't know. Maybe cause once in every fifteen hundred blogs I say something profound and you don't want to miss it? I like sharing the way my brain works and if that happens to be the way your brain works, it is comforting to know that there are other crazy people out there. Also, if you know me and don't want to talk to me on the phone, this is a good way to keep up with me. (Like anyone could keep up with me anyway, she says as she flips her scarf over her shoulder, puts on her sunglasses, and strolls out the internet cafe with an air of accomplishment and triumph) ((I wish I could a. look as cool as the person I just described, b. put on sunglasses without first taking off my glasses, and c. stroll in any form or fashion without looking like a partially mauled dear)).

What have you been up to? Teaching.

Anything else? Mostly Teaching or Sleeping cause Teaching is the Most Tiring Profession in the World Ever.

What about manual labor jobs? Or jobs where you work 20 hours a day? I am being hyperbolic and weak. I am 23 and an American. Judge me, but do not throw rocks. OUCH! I said...never mind...stupid readers...

There's gotta be something else? Okay, okay, there is a boy.

See! Ha! You do have something! Look, he lives far away and I don't see him often. But, when I do see him, every five months or so, it's so awesome.

Is he imaginary? No. Yes. I mean, no! Just kidding. I am not kidding.

Are you in therapy? Yes.

Good. *Awkward Pause*

So...what prompted you back to writing this blog? My mother mentioned that her friends who read the blog were commenting to her that I haven't written in a while.

So you are doing this for your mom? Lame. Your mom is lame. Don't call my mom lame. She's great. And...and...I could say something about your mother, but I choose the honorable road and won't mention any of her anal tendencies!

Very defensive, I see. How does that make you feel? Shut up. I don't have to unpack my feelings for you...You are not my real therapist! I am going to my room. I hate you! I HATE YOU!! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

*End of FAQ*

So, folks, welcome back to me welcoming you back. I missed this. I missed you. I missed thinking how awesome other people thinking what I write is awesome is.

And with that adieu!

*--Unless I am killed by either the tornado, earthquake, flood, or any combination of natural disasters therein that are currently hitting my marvelous state of Oklahoma.

On Passion and Action

2011-08-17T08:36:00.002-05:00

We just had parent orientation at our school yesterday. It was an exhausting and exhilarating affair.

The goal of an orientation is, yes, to orient parents to the new rules and procedures, but it also is a somewhat gentrified pep rally. We are excited! We are ready! Listen to the host of wonders we are going to put your child through!

Parents, friends, and random strangers always comment on my passion. It is infectious and boisterous and loud. I do not lack for showing enthusiasm about Greek or science or drama. I am quirky and interesting. You want your child to learn from me.

But I hate orientation for this. I am generating a lot of passion, a lot of vim and vigor, for these wonderful things that I hope to happen. But what if they don't? Sure, I don't promise anything, but I publish my dreams to my students and their parents and they drink my purple koolaid. They put their expectations on my inflated passion.

Today, I woke up and I was too exhausted to lesson plan, too exhausted to go for my morning jog. This is the person who you are putting your expectations in? If it weren't for knowing that Christ will get me through this, that in 10 months it will, one way or another, be over, I would probably go insane.

I do not lack for passion, but I worry that I lack action. Will we get four performances in this year? Will we qualify for the Shakespeare festival? Will our Science Fair happen? Will I be able to teach all the facts and lead all the discussions I hope to? Will I be a good teacher? Will my students be prepared for the next level of all their classes? I don't know. I hope so, but I don't.

I hope my passion can be translated into action, but I am scared that it won't.

How to Pray for Me

2011-08-10T05:58:00.004-05:00

I woke up at 5am on the day that I get to sleep into 7am.

School starts oh so soon. I am nervous. I am taxing my poor little brain. I am excited. I have a new headmaster, a new teaching philosophy, and new ideas. It is exciting.

Pray for me. Pray that I don't run myself into the ground as I am wont to do. Pray that I work hard and rest well. Pray for my fellow teachers to also rest and prep well. Pray for the administration of my school that they will lead well and facilitate smoothly. Pray for my students that they may grow in education and Christ regardless of my teaching ineptitude or awesomeness. Pray that God directs me as I move to OKC where to live and somehow does my packing for me. I hate packing. Pray for my relationships that they are strengthened in Christ. Pray that every day I lean less on my own understanding because I am overzealous to take God's job away from him. Pray that I place my insecurities and fears with him and that he would hammer my identity as his into my heart.

Just pray for me and my school, people!

I need it.

Badly.

On Existence

2011-07-05T12:53:00.002-05:00

Lt. Cmdr. Data: [of the "hole" in space] Sir, our sensors are showing this to be the absence of everything. It is a void without matter or energy of any kind.
Commander William T. Riker: Yet this hole has a form, Data; it has height, width...
Lt. Cmdr. Data: Perhaps. Perhaps not, sir.
Capt. Picard: That's hardly a scientific observation, Commander.
Lt. Cmdr. Data: Captain, the most elementary and valuable statement in science, the beginning of wisdom, is, "I do not know". I do not know what that is, sir.

Ah, Star Trek, bounty of wisdom and depth!

I am only being slightly sarcastic.

Hello, sports fans! Today's rambling is on existence, i.e. what it is and why it exists. Whoa, you can't talk about existing without talking about metaexisting, which is weird cause you can't talk about meta existing without talking about meta-meta-existing, which...

Yessiree, just like poor Data could not figure out what the void in space was, we can never really understand existing because we cannot get to a place of nonexisting. The terms we use to define existing have to do with existing, which is circular. Just as it is nigh impossible to define man without defining woman, it is hard to define existing without defining nonexisting.

Well, of course, you can argue that existence is subjective. For instance, existence for me right now is sitting in a house typing on a computer. There is a level of cognition going on in my brain that is proceeding to exude these words, but what is that cognition made of? We can go reductionist and say it is just a random spurt of chemical neurotransmitters and means nothing. People tend to reject this view as too simplistic. We are MORE than just chemicals, they cry beating their breasts for emphasis. The reductionists laugh and say that the criers are just too weak to admit their existence is nothing but chemicals and then leave to live cynical lives in cynical places. The other side of the camp indicates that there is a psychological smorgasbord of stuff going on. For instance, this post directly relates to how I am feeling about my life. If I was not in such a good mood, maybe I would have written "On Death" or "On the Futility of Existence," but because I grew up where I did, ate what I ate for breakfast, etc., etc., I am writing this post.

Either way, I don't like it. I still do not know what existence is only that I do in fact exist.

Or do I? Maybe I am just a figment of your imagination? Maybe this is all a dream and I am just a projection of your subconscious? MAYBE WE ARE IN THE MATRIX AND I AM AN AGENT?

I think I watch too much television.

Anywho, I was just pondering existence today and am wondering what you think about existence. Do you like existing? It is all speculative mumbo jumbo that means very little, but it is a fun foray into the hypothetical, which is my favorite vacation spot, as it were.

But, on my personal existence, I have very few complaints at the moment. My sister was recently married and the wedding itself was supremely eventful in a good way. I have a job that I love doing. I have good friends who laugh and cry with me. I have access to a host of fun things like calligraphy pens, banjos, and knitting needles. I am dating a guy who, I think, is the bee's knees. I have a Yoda Photomosaic over my head at this very moment. My joints are doing great and I am training for a half marathon! Sure, life could be better. But it is great. Reading old blog post (like this one), I remember when I despaired existence.

Is my perception of existence based on circumstance? Truthfully, yes. But I am working on it. Or should I say God is working on me? I look forward to the day when, despite circumstances' ups and downs, I will rejoice in existing.

But until then, to angst-ridden and joy-filled blogs!

Flew to Chicago...in a van...with my friends...

2011-06-22T18:47:00.001-05:00

On Waiting

2011-05-20T23:30:00.002-05:00

So, it has been a long week. It was the last week of school. There was grade drama. There were tears. And now I am done with students and grading. We still have a week of in-service, but I literally just have to show up. No lesson plans. No prep work. I get to work a normal 7 to 4 without the homework at the end of the day.

It is days like these I wish I had a significant other with whom to cuddle.

Granted, my de-stressing post graduation ceremony was pretty chill. I watched Zoolander whilst sipping a glass of red wine with my roommate. Fun. I then got in bed, propped up my knee (which is throbbing like all hell) and turned on an audio book. I do love being read to.

It is moments like this I wish I had a significant other to read to me.

I remember when I was 13 yrs old, I realized that I was going to have to wait at least--AT LEAST--10 years before I could get married. And I was devastated. Really. This was the worst thing ever. A quote from my journal: "I don't think I am going to make it ten years. Maybe I can become a nun."

Well, here I am, 10 years later, and 13 year old self, I MADE IT. (What would not making it look like? What is "it"? I should have been a better writer...).

Anywho, I am sitting here thinking, "I may not get married for ANOTHER 10 years." Whoa. I might not make it.

Make what?

Shut up.

Okay.

It is amazing how many things in life I feel like I can't do. Jobs I am not going to be able to finish. Friendships I am going to screw up. All these things make for one stressed out me. Anxious. Panicking. Etc. Looking at the waves all around me causes me to sink.

But, if there is one thing I know, it is that while I may not be able to make it, God will somehow allow me to make it, so in effect, I do make it. I didn't think I was going to make it as a teacher. I did. Sort of. Not perfectly. Not even prettily at times. But, it was made.

So, yes, I would love a boyfriend/husband. Yes, some days I am really sad that I don't have anyone to come home to except my pet rocks Fred and George. Yes, I would love my knee not to throb. Yes, I would love to be 40 pounds lighter and 50% prettier and 60% smarter.

But, I will make it. God will make all of those happen in his own time, and, if they don't, they will happen after I die. So ha. They will happen. Boo ya.

There are times I wish I had a significant other. And there is a big part of my heart that longs for that. (I also like the freedom of being single, so don't feel too bad for me. I mean, it is nice not having anyone to plan your schedule around, but it is also sad.).

The longing is still there. The nagging "No one would notice if you died in bed!" voice that says I will always be alone, which, let's be honest, could indeed happen. What if I have to wait another 10 years before I get married? Will I make it?

I will make it by God's grace. I will wait.

Broken Up but Still Planning a Wedding

2011-05-02T19:01:00.004-05:00

When my sister got engaged, she told me that I was going to plan her wedding. That's right. She told me I was going to. Truthfully, I was glad to. I like planning things and I like my sister (most of the time...cough...excluding our teen years...cough...).

And, I like it because I get to indulge in my girlishness, something I rarely do as I prefer to be the stoic, calm, nongiggling type of girl. Deep down, I have come to realize that I do in fact long desperately to be swept off my feet in the most rational irrational way possible.

But I would hate it if it happened.

And love it.

And hate it.

And love it.

Sigh.

I have a friend that purports that all men are jerks and all girls are crazy. Sometimes I prove him right.

Anywho, my sister asked me to plan her wedding when I was single and I said yes. Soon after that, I started dating a guy. He was my first boyfriend. I wish I could tell you tales of bliss, of how I gave my heart away, etc., but I am much to rational than that. I honestly feel as if I never got to know him.

However, planning a wedding while dating a guy does make even the most cynical of persons picture her own wedding. While standing in the dressing room amid a tower of dresses, you can't help but wonder about your own...and if the person you are dating could be the groom...

It also doesn't help if your boyfriend sits you down for the "I am in this for the long haul"(his EXACT words, mind you) marriage talk a three months in, right as you are looking at said dresses.

To be honest, it was overwhelming I didn't like it and didn't react well to it. It touched a part of my heart that I wanted to run away screaming from like an intellectual running away from a hoard of intellectual hating meta zombies. But, deep down, I was thinking about flowers and dresses...and it was nice...

Well, fast forward a few months and here am I single and a little more cynical. The guy decided that I wasn't worth the long haul. In coffee terms, his medium roast was no match for my extra bold. This paragraph could turn into a "WHY MY EX-BOYFRIEND SUCKS" paragraph, but I will not let it because a) internet bashing is mean, b) it made Mark Zuckerberg's life sad and c) I don't know if my ex reads my blog or not. All I will say is that he exemplified Bernadette Peter's description of the protagonists in Into The Woods, which, for you who are not obsessed with Sondheim, goes something to the effect of "You're not good. You're not bad. You're just nice," which let's face it dear readers clashes with my extreme nature. I am sometimes good, sometimes bad, but rarely nice.

But, single or no, my sister is still getting married. And I am still planning her wedding.

Not much has changed. I still ogle the pretty and/or shiny wedding-related things. I still wonder about my wedding. It just is a little tainted. I do not wish to be marrying my ex AT ALL nor would I want to marry Sarah's fiance (that's just weird), but I wish...I wish for something...it isn't really tangible...maybe for an alternate universe where things worked out or perchance a universe where I was already married or... I don't know. There's just an ache.

But, dear readers, the ache is covered by work business, by plays, by exercise, by my friends' nervous breakdowns, etc. I have discovered that if I don't make time for aching, I won't, which isn't good. A little aching reminds you that you are alive. That you are indeed human with emotions that are unexplainable and silly. Granted, one shouldn't be ruled by them, but feeling them gives that depth that let's you know that you are not in a cartoon or even a live action movie. You are in reality.

Forcing yourself to ache is hard, but being forced to plan a wedding after being dumped by some guy pretty much requires aching.

So, bring on the officiants and the photographer.

Bring on Bridezilla and crazy relatives.

Bring on the travel plans and the bachelorette party.

Bring on the everpresent sorrow of being a lonely girl living in Oklahoma waiting for her Christian, Ancient Greek literate, extra bold coffee loving guy.

An Update on Life

2011-03-31T22:29:00.002-05:00

Some days I feel a bit sad. I have some friends who are doing epic life things. I have two friends gallivanting all over South America, a dear friend falling madly in love with both her research and a swarthy Frenchman in Paris, and several friends studying at universities whose names anyone would recognize.

And what do I have?

Some days, I feel as if I made a huge mistake deciding to teach here in Oklahoma. Some days, I feel like a failure at life.

But most days, I am pretty sure I have the best life ever.

First, I live in Oklahoma, one of the most boring states in the entire country. No one expects anything of this state, which is how I like it. I have dreams, people, dreams for my state. OKC is going places! It is getting bigger. It will be, so I hope, the new NYC of America!

Second, I teach. And boy do I teach. I spend so much time doing this. I love teaching. I hate teaching. My students both bring me exuberant joy and the worst despair. In a slight way, I think it is like having kids (only you don't have to do half as much work, I know, I know). But, that moment when you give that student who always seems to fail a test and you just hope with all your heart that she will do well. Ugh. It gets me every time. These kids mean so much to me and for no apparent reason except I teach them for a few hours every week. Strange. Oh and they have given me great stories! So many blog posts could be written about what they say, but alas, along with stories, they give me the homework I assign. And grading is pretty much the worst thing ever. Maybe I should just stop assigning homework...

Third, Jesus. I was going to put this first, but then I felt cliched so I put it third. But I still feel cliched. Anyway, I have a great church that I am involved in. (Banjos make worship better!). And, I am involved in planting a new church too. What? Yeah, City Pres. It's going to be even more awesome (i.e. banjo + cowbell).

Fourth, I play music. So, I have this uber talented friend who plays music with me. We almost jam (I am still not good enough to jam). It is like I get music lessons for free. Of course, I am about as gifted at music as a fish is at underwater basket-weaving above water. But, no matter, I love it and I have been so taken with the banjo that I may never stop. It is not a habit...it's cool. Furthermore, I have an assortment of other instruments including a dobro, which is awesome and super hard to play (Shout out to sister for the epic birthday gift).

Fifth, I read. I love reading so much. Right now, I am reading the Wheel of Time series. It is fourteen long books long. I am slightly addicted and my social life is suffering. Blame Alex Kelley.

Sixth, I have three coffee shops (all independently owned!) where I sit and think about any independent thing. I have two corporately owned ones where I sit and think about corporate things. Note: I still switch cooperate and corporate. Sigh.

Seventh, I run. Okay, so I just got over my epic battle with the three week long virus, and went for a short run today and realized I couldn't run at all anymore, but for the most part, I have been doing p90x and running regularly and it has been great. Next summer, my goal is the marathon at Marathon.

So, that's my life. Sure, it doesn't sound epic or have the words "death-defying," "international," or "romantic" in the them. But, it is my life.

And I like it just fine.

On sickness

2011-03-13T16:02:00.002-05:00

So for the past four days I have been sick with the flu. We are talking deliriously muttering, staying in bed for three days, wanting to drill a hole in my skull to relieve some of the pressure that is threatening to destroy my entire brain sick.

It has not been fun, though I think I am over the worst of it now, as I can think as long as I keep the concentration of pseudoephedrine and phenylephrine high in my blood stream. All that to say, I am considerably more loopy that I should be and probably shouldn't be writing because I might say something inappropriate or something. But you know, I go with it because we are edgy, people! Edgy!

I am propped up on a couch. My roommate made brie which smells delicious but sort of makes my ill tummy want to die. My ex-roommate is playing with my iPad. She is messing with the Garage Band app. The results are already enjoyable. But I am biased toward this dear friend because she is a dear friend. I was getting texted and in my slightly more than not delirious state, I just didn't know what was going on and was beginning to panic.

Why? I don't know. I haven't held down solid food in the past three days people.

She just took my cell phone and told me she would handle it.

In my mind, two things happened immediately. First, I was flooded with relief that someone was looking out for me. Second, I imagined my friend as if she were Italian and in the Mafia. She then in a Marlin Brando fashion stroked her chin and said, "Yeah, I'll handle dis." But such is my very creative mind.

Anyway, being that I am well enough to sit up, I was very productive today. I read all about the Japanese earthquake, tsunami, nuclear meltdown, and volcano. It just goes to show that when you are thinking you are having a bad day because you have the flu, it can always get worse.

But seriously, folks, be praying for that poor nation.

I also researched a song that is popular with some of the more "worldly" students at the very conservative Christian school where I teach. It is Rihanna's S&M. A song all about sadomasochism and sex. While one could argue that it is talking about the desire for every woman to be a dirty skank, you could also say that it is really about the Illuminati. Oh yes, as it turns out, there is a whole movement of people who think it is about satanic worship.

Sometimes this world makes me very confused.

Life is bigger...

2011-02-27T00:26:00.004-06:00

So, it is past midnight on a Saturday night.

Was I out late with my boy? No. (I wish. He is out of town.)
Was I pondering existence existentially whilst reading Edgar Allen Poe? No.
Was I with a group of girls laughing at life and playing poker? Yes.

Tonight was my small group's (otherwise lovingly known as Rahab Rehab) annual Poker Night. Did we play that much poker? Not really, but we did talk about Jesus, about my students, and about existence. Why, yes, yes we did! It was pretty much great.

But it got me thinking. All five of the girls (including myself) who were there are in "transition periods" of our life. That is to say, one women has one more year of undergrad, two are in graduate school and have little time left, one has moved to Dallas for med school, and me? I am working as a teacher for another year or two before I go onto grad school/med school myself. In the next four years, we will all have moved. Now, I like to think we will all move to the same town, nay the same neighborhood, nay the same street. But in reality, we will probably all be in different states. Possibly different countries!

At first this makes me very sad. My life without these women is like thinking about not having air or Diet Coke. Just not possible. Leaving? Them? NEVER!

Then, in this first bit, I get bitter. They are going to leave me? Well, fine. I won't share my heart. I won't invest in them. Ha. See, then when they leave, my heart is guarded. Then it won't hurt.

Of course, then I realize that I have already shared my heart with them. And I get angry that I did such a stupid thing before I realize the second thing.

Secondly, I am so grateful for the time I have. Even if I were to move away tomorrow, I would not trade the time I have had for the world. The pain of future loss is nothing compared to the enjoyment of the present. As sad as it will be when we all move away, the truth and power of living in community trumps the hurt of that same community changing.

And besides, we all decided that once a year we would all get together for a good ol' Rahab Rehab Reunion.

That is community and the Gospel in a nutshell. God calls to a life of misery. A life filled with heart refining and life challenges. We are called to love and let our hearts be little open targets for others to hurt us (in wisdom, of course). But, that is good. In fact, that is great! That life, an out of control roller coaster of emotion, is exactly what God calls us to rejoice in.

So, rejoice. And again I say rejoice.

Things in 2010 that were new that weren't so in 2002

2011-01-01T17:50:00.003-06:00

2002.
I was 14 years old.
I lived in Nashville, TN.
I was home schooled.
I played no music.
My favorite album was PFR's Pray for Rain.
I listened to this album on a Walkman.
I thought boys were icky.
I did not blog.
My email address was the brand of our computer monitor because I was afraid that I was going to forget it.
All I wanted in general was a friend.

2010,
I was 22 years old.
I lived in Norman, OK.
I graduated from college.
I play banjo in front of people.
My favorite album this year was Punch Brother's Antifogmatic.
I listened to this on my iPod.
I am dating a super swell guy.
I am writing this blog on an iPad. (thanks, Sarah and Mom!).
My email address is my first initial and last name and it is affiliated with the school where I teach.
I write this while two awesome friends make me dinner. And I have more where that came from.

So, peeps, amidst all the bagillion posts celebrating 2010, read mine.

Also, wallow in the fact that eight years is enough time to change virtually everything about your personality except for bad parts...they stay. Don't ask your best friends for blog post ideas. Don't throw your keys in the drain. Try to avoid nervous breakdowns. Don't kill yourself. Teaching is hard but awesome. And sometimes a little balsamic vinegar goes a long way.

Hello, 2011! Bring it on.

A Fiery Christmas Return

2010-12-25T14:36:00.003-06:00

My family would make for an interesting psychological case study/sitcom. What happens when you place five children, two parents, one fiance, two neurotic dogs, one noisy Christmas Tree, and enough sarcasm to resink the Titanic five times in an enclosed ecosytem? Let the Hunger Games begin.

"So, are we going to First Baptist or Calvary for Christmas Eve Service?"
Inwardly, I groaned. If this wasn't the fiftieth time that question had been asked, the square root of 256 isn't 16. That is to say, the debate over Christmas Eve services raged.

And by raged, I mean, barely simmered. No one said anything. Whether people had an opinion or not, I cannot tell. All I can say is that no one was saying anything. Which was enough said.

3pm rolled around. "Guess we aren't going to the one at 3..."

5pm rolled around. "Can't make it to the five."

6pm rolled around. "I guess we will do one at home!" Unison groaning commenced.

So, after a well-prepared meal, the entire family flayed themselves floppily in different chairs and sofas in our living room. The physical layout looks like this:

The emotional layout was something else entirely. I, due to sitting in close proximity to the tree and being accosted by two highly neurotic dogs (whom my sister insists on calling my niece and nephew. No.), had become allergenically compromised and had taken an antihistimine. All that to say, I was quite drowsy.

My dad started reading Luke 2. And it came to pass that I was working on designing a CD cover for a project for a certain guy who is awesome and will remain nameless but will definitely come up under the name "Boyfriend" from time to time. It was truly enjoyable to hear the Christmas story whilst working kinesthetically. My whole family was there. Daniel dosing next to Jo Jo, who was busy cleaning her nails. My slightly ADHD brother Mark twiddling nervously next to the two of them. My sister Sarah and her fiance Tony sitting motionless on the other couch. My mom and dad on the hearth warming themselves in the room (which was around 56F). This, I thought, is Christmas. But something felt wrong. This was Christmas all right, but it wasn't Myers Christmas. Something was missing...

Finally, after reading, my mom handed out the Menorah candles for our candlelight Christmas Eve Service (we are a religiously confused family). Now, if you have ever been to a Christmas Eve service, you know that the candles have these paper skirts on them that are uber important in the overall cleanliness and wax burns prevention of the event. Menorah candles, however, are not outfitted with such skirts as they prefer to sit on Menorah and drip onto the table messily. In fact, the Menorah candles were so mad that they were being used for a service that was not befitting their religious preference and in a most intolerant fashion began to drip everywhere. Daniel, being a resourceful college student, went to the kitchen and got napkins for all of us to stick under our candles. This was both an extremely smart and utterly dumb action, as we will soon see.

So, all of the family members who ever worked with Menorah candles before knew that they would be most happy to drip freely as then they would almost feel like Menorah candles even though they would not be. Thus we placed the napkin underneath our hands, sacrificing wax burns for happy candles and clean floors.

My mom started her closing prayer. Now, my mother is known for her marathon closing prayers. Oh, I remember as a child trying so hard to stay awake but finally relinquishing to my hundred pound eyelids during her closing prayers. When I was older and could stay up later, I had the enjoyment of hearing my mom fall asleep while praying. There always would be a sentence or two before she would go under that would just make no sense. One time she prayed for the Sasquatches.

I found myself dosing slightly during prayer. By the time I heard Sarah screaming and saw Mark holding what looked like a fireball but was really a slowly incinerating napkin, I had missed the previous event. The following recollections are taken directly from other sources.

Mark, being born post-conversion to Christianity, did not know how to tend for Menorah candles. Thinking himself clever, he tried to hike up his napkin as a paper skirt. Silly Mark! He did not know that he had just incurred the wrath of his Menorah candle who promptly caught his napkin on fire.

Now, picture this. You are 10 years old. Your napkin is on fire. You look all around at your family, but their eyes are all closed. So, you jab your sister who opens her eyes and then looks incredulously at Mark and his slightly flaming napkin. Of course, we are in the middle of prayer so they whisper to each other frantically. This disturbs Daniel who opens his eyes and looks at the flames and closes them again.

Joanna, being six years Mark's elder, explains very calming to the group what is going on interrupting prayer: "Um...Mark's napkin is on fire."

Sarah began screaming. Tony tries to calm her down. Dad begins screaming and Mom tries to calm him down. Me? I laugh.

Mark has by this point gotten up himself as the angry flames begin to lick at his fingers. "Guys! Guys! What do I do?!"

Dad yells, "AAHHH GO TO THE KITCHEN...NO DON'T GIVE IT TO ME...AHHHH THROW IT IN THE FIREPLACE!AHHHHHHH"

Flagger and Peanut, the two dogs, just stared.

Mom still is trying to console Dad: "Now, Greg, you can't freak out in these situations!!! I swear if I had to do a CODE with you before we were married, I never would have married you."

Mark is at the verge of tears as the fire is nigh upon him. "Guys! WHAT DO I DO?"

At this point, we all yell almost in unison, "Throw it in the fire place!"

He pitches it (he is a pitcher, you know! My bro is so talented) into the fireplace where it is completely consumed by the raging conflagration safely nestled betwix bricks.

Extinguished on the ground, the Menorah candle screamed, "NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO!!" as his plan to crush this religious nightmare was thwarted.

The screaming stopped. The fire emitted a new crackle and strange napkin-burning smell. All was calm. I laughed. Then everyone laughed. Now it truly was a Myers Christmas.

Now, this morning when I was making coffee my mom accidentally turned on the burner with a hot mitt on top of it creating another fire (officials are looking into seeing if the Menorah candle was behind this as well, but as of now, there is nothing to report), we handled it without screaming or yelling.

My mom looked at me and said, "Becky, if there is one thing I have taught you well, it's this: when you go to tend someone who is in cardiac arrest, the first person whose pulse you take is..."

I responded in rote, "Your own."

Merry Christmas!

It's good to be back.

Teacher? We've got a problem.

2010-08-03T07:31:00.002-05:00

Today is my first day of Teacher Orientation. That's right folks: I am a teacher.

I don't believe this.

I mean, in twenty minutes, I will walk out the door and I will drive to the school and I will do the teachery type things.

But, how did this happen? What has changed? Nothing seems to have. I am still just as confused about life and still just as angsty as a little college freshman. Sure, I have had four years packed full of experiences. But, is that enough to make me transcend the gap between student and teacher? Is there a gap at all? This whole time have my professors and teachers been just as confused as I?!

I spent more time today critiquing my appearance than I have done in a long time. My conclusionary dress is black slacks, gray formal shirt, and black shoes. I spent a few minutes agonizing over my make up (did I put on too much eyeliner? I put on too much eyeliner. No, I didn't...well...). The final conclusion is a slightly emo kid in slacks.

Nervousness is very present. My performance anxiety is kicking in. But, either way, in 18 minutes, I am going to leave this house and go to a school where I will be teaching in the fall.

I am no longer a college student. I am a high school science, drama, and Greek teacher.

Oh wow.

No worries though, folks! I am sure enough random things will happen to make this insane mind keep rambling...but also be ready for the random pedagogical SMACKDOWN!

A Meta-Meta Love Story

2010-07-28T12:44:00.003-05:00

What do you do when the system on which you faithfully based your morals is attacked by your own subconscious's logic? When you realize your method of pointedly assigning meaning to the world is flawed inexorably? What happens when you look outside and realize you had thought the sky was blue for all these years but it was actually a putrid shade of puce?

He sat pondering such things under a puce-hued sky. While through a window he looked into an office through another window, where she sat. She was nothing impressive to look at. Curly-haired, incredibly dorky yet the purest distillation of abstract thought. In conversation, she also maintained the sky to be a different color than the blue that most people vainly attribute to it. She though asserts that it is salmon.

But she is not the subject of this story. She is a merely a piece. A pit and parcel of a whole narrative that fills the universe with stories.

But that is the problem! Where does this love story fit? As it sits with other love stories and also murder stories, birth stories, death stories, it notices that its existence as a story isn't the point of the overarching story, but how can it know its part in the pattern when it is merely one thread? To assume importance or difference would be most presumptuous. "I am the only thread that has ever felt this way before EVER!" Foolishness. The converse to assume that it is not unique and not special but just one of the billions of trillions of gazillions of other stories--"I am just a love story"--is equally futile, because as a love story, it is the only love story that it has ever known. But, to even think of its own existence as a story is a futile thing unless, of course, it knows the grand overarching story which it doesn't because it cannot. It can guess at that overarching story, but certainty (which all stories crave to have) is nonexistent but not assuming something leads to nonexistence anyway. Oh dear. I don't think therefore I amn't.

Much like this story, but I return to blogging.

He sat under a tree staring at her as she works. The draw was one of color. Puce and Salmon aren't that different, right? The blue stands laughing.

No, it is not.

The problem is that she would want to do something that he wants to do but doesn't. Why? Because in a puce world, you wouldn't want to do that. But, if the world is salmon...

Blue keeps laughing.

Puce: Stop laughing.
Blue: No.
Puce: Okay.
Salmon: Laughter is good. You should laugh. Relax lay yourself down under this beautiful sky.
Puce: But is it beautiful?
Blue and Salmon: Yes.
Puce: You both think it is beautiful? How can that be? You can't both be beautiful.
Blue: Salmon's just beautiful in the short run. Blue lasts for eternity.
Salmon: Whatever.
Puce: Oh. [Puce bursts into tears]
Blue: Why are you crying, my child?
Puce: Because...because...it makes no sense. I am so confused.
Salmon: Calm down. You are beautiful too.
Puce: But I am not. I am ugly and fat. Nobody likes puce aside from other creepy shades of purple and I just don't go well with them.
Salmon: You can change. I like Salmon. You could become more Salmon and we could get together.
Blue: Become more blue. That is better.
Salmon: Why?
Blue: Because God says so.
Salmon: Oh don't get me started...
Puce: SHUT UP. SHUT UP ALL OF YOU.

He felt like running. Running for hours. Running away to a place where the sky was at least less blue. Gray would be better than this puce monstrosity.

Salmon: I will take care of you. As long as you forget the blue.
Blue: Ouch.
Salmon: Just saying, Puce can be any other color. She can even be a pastel blue.
Blue: Can't be partially blue. It is either blue or it isn't.
Salmon: See. It is that part of you I can't stand. You can't prove yourself blue but you have all these harsh rules of blue-ness that are really outdated.
Puce: But...
Salmon: But what? You want to be Puce? It is what you feel, but you see Blue and you wonder.
Puce: Just like I see you and wonder.
Salmon: Become more Salmon. You can still stay Puce. But just be a little more Salmon-y.
Blue: You have to be Blue to hang with me.
Salmon: How unreasonable.

Meanwhile, the Love Story walked to a bar, sat down, and ordered a Long Island Ice Tea under the Puce sky where the man sat staring at the girl who he couldn't burn out of his mind.

The sky above him as he sat was, in fact, beautiful.

Old Journal Entries with Parenthetical Comments

2010-07-14T12:29:00.005-05:00

28/7/97 (Yeah, I was European when I was 9)
Dear Diary,
This has been the worst 3 hours of my entire life. My mom went on a trip to Chattonooga for four days. Four hour. It is going to be the worst days I will have . Mom will never return. She is the light of my life. I wish she were here. I love her so much. I WILL never forget her. I will always remember to keep her happy. I am going to cry all night. I want mom. But I will always be comforted when I know that she is being watched by God. Thank you God for giving me a great mom.

An Original Picture of my trip to Florida in 1998

2/3/1999
Pain inevitably leads to sadness. Sadness is sadness and it is worse than everything. Here I write this in the dark not knowing, always wanting.

(Really, I was 11. ELEVEN! Are most kids like this at 11?)

12-10-01

If you thought last month was bad, then let me update you.

Sarah was left alone for the weekend while we went to a job interview in Georgia. She swore and signed something that said she would not see Brandi (my sister's druggie friend). Instead, she invited her over, got high, and broke the car. And to top it off, she lied about it. Mom read her journal which I had said to do in the first place but mom was against it. Now we find out Sarah is a druggie who has snuck out and did drugs. She also, when we asked for a urine speciemen, said no and hid in the bathroom and locked the doors and everything. She also stole from my wallet and now i have it hidden. I have a midterm tomorrow and I wouldn't care if I flunked (I probably would have cared). I hate all the yelling. Everyone is so angry. Daniel is angry at Joanna. Mom's mad at Dad. And everyone's mad at Sarah.

We aren't doing a Christmas tree. Sarah is so mean. Why did she do this to our family? Why did God do it? I was so happ. I had good grades. I played soccer. I had a loving family. It all ended. Everyone is fighting. I am sick of the fighting. Maybe if I killed myself everything would be better. I just don't know if I can stand it. Sarah, her complaints, her language. Dad has his mood swings and yelling fits...Poor Mom, I love her so. She is having such a hard time. She is my best friend. I can talk to her, well, I used to be able to talk to her about anything. Now my problems are so petty. I can't be mean enough to have her worry about me. I mean, if she was worrying about me, she'd kill herself. I have to have a stable front or she might just kill herself. Without mom, I'd die. I'd never kill myself but the thought comforts me. It's sad that the possibility of death makes me happy...There are things that you can't tell your parents...If I told my mom how I pretend to be skinny or how I like new music or how I wish I could die, it would destroy our family.

Whoa. Intense. I was one intense little kid. It is weird reading these journals are remembering how I felt when I was a kid. Especially since I am adult now. Cough.

A Post to Waste Time

2010-07-07T10:18:00.003-05:00

I wanted to see the Germany v. Spain game to day, so I decided to go to work at 6am and work till 1:30, giving myself a 30min lunch break.

I was determined to be productive, to get stuff done. So, I arrived at 6:00am to an empty lab, turned on some hip-hop and R&B, and grooved speedily working through several projects. For three hours, I danced dirty with pipettes and, let's just say we had great chemistry. (Har, har, har.)

Then I ran into two walls. First, the incubator-shaker died. I didn't kill it!! IT WASN'T ME!! IT WAS THE ONE-ARMED MAN! I mean, this i-s is older than I am and I am ancient. So, that means that my GA1 gp16 project is on hold (I know that means nothing to you). I am toying with making my own using a vortex machine, duct tape, and the plate incubator, but when I voiced my idea to my lab mates, they looked at me as if I had a huge growth on my face that was talking to them in Spanish. I pushed that idea to the backburner and focused on my other two to-dos Ga1 transcription and phi29 linearization. That is when I realized one machine was missing.

Losing a machine is not something I usually do. Thus, I went on a search for it, walking around my lab with a leash going "Here PCR-Machine! Tch, tch, tch. Here, you go, boy." After doing this for a while, I realized my lab mates again were staring me with that same look that I mentioned previously. One of them told me that it broke down yesterday.

These walls are all around me. Closing in. Not going to make it. Claustrophobia setting in...the walls...the walls...

So, I am working on my grand design for homemade incubator shaker and heating up four different water baths to precise temperatures (which for those of you who have never worked from water baths from the 80s, is SO FRIGGIN hard) so that it can take me 6 hours to do what one machine does in 2 hours. I have to okay these things with the boss (who remembers some of my other "great" ideas for homemade lab equipment) before I go ahead and strip wires.

All that to say, I have absolutely nothing I can do aside from wait for the boss...and write to you, dear reader.

NOTE: The boss never came into today. So I went ahead with project "Ghetto Shaker" (an African American in the lab said I could use the term "Ghetto" in the name so I am so PC). It is pretty much the most ghetto thing ever. I love it so much. Results tomorrow!!

Why My Bugdet Failed

2010-07-06T12:39:00.003-05:00

My summer budget was awesome. It balanced even with me saving half of my paychecks. And then...

May
$350 New Brakes (turns out you need to change your brakes every 3-5 years)

June
$400 Recalled Taxes (turns out, OU students don't pay as many taxes, but the second
you aren't a student they ask for them)

July
$450 The Vanishing Scholarship (turns out, some #$%&@ in the financial aid office made
one of my scholarships Non-resident, which then made it
not applicable to my tuition (cause I was Nat Mer and
therefore got both NR and R tuition) and so they
reclaimed the scholarship on June 18. I went in to
fight but they already redistributed the money and so
there is nothing they can do but say, "My B.")

Total in unexpected bills $1200

There goes my budget.

I am actually calm about this. I mean, I am sad and angry and sad. But, God has been so good in providing for me throughout my years here at OU. He has given me great scholarships and He also takes away. This is a taking away period.

Anyway, I am going to go give plasma tomorrow. Anyone want to go with me?

Define THIS.

2010-07-05T23:28:00.003-05:00

Nationality. What is it? Why am I identified by my place? Why should I be proud to be an American? Why do I need identity?

The way we orient our lives is a priority scheme. We are first and foremost identified by one thing, then another, then another, ad infinitum. That is how we relate, not in definite black and white, but in comparison. I am more a this person than a that person. I am more Jewish than I am American (though I am still American). I am more Christian than I am a scientist (though a scientist I still am). At different parts of your life, you are at different priorities of thing.

I am waiting for rice to cook for tomorrow's lunch.

I do not like having an identity. I do not want to be defined in relation to certain beliefs in my life. I want to be Becky and I want that to mean something intrinsic; that is to say, I want to be something regardless of the labels.

For me, it is easiest to orient myself in relation to people. I am so-and-so's daughter or Ms. what'sherface's best friend. Then I know who I am. That is a problem though not only because people are constantly changing (so latching yourself to them is akin to clutching onto a pillar during an earthquake) but it also stifling like clinging to a fellow swimmer and becoming limp whilst in a cesspool.

I can also orient myself to my occupation. I am STUDENT. I am TEACHER. I am. I am. I am.

Why do I need these I ams? Why do I search for something that seems really superfluous?

On another note, I love that my Mac has keys that allow me to skip songs right on the keyboard without having iTunes open.

Of course, the answer that I know to be what I should be wanting to be comes down to faith. I am a Christian, a child of God, a sinner and saint.

Why does that definition make me feel angsty? It doesn't feel like it is enough for my identity like when you are really hungry and make yourself a big salad without toppings or meat. Healthy, but not satisfying.

But it should be satisfying. It should make me calm.

I need definition. I want to be definitionless. But to be defintionless is to not exist. Therefore, I do not want to exist. But, is that true? Can an existing being want to not exist? Isn't that a contradiction of terms?

My rice is done. I was writing and forgot to stir so it stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Who am I? Where do I start? What direction do I go? What is starting and going? What makes up the pieces of the fabric of definition? Those are questions for other days.

I will let it soak and in the morning I will scrape the pot clean.

A Facimilitude of Worthiness

2010-06-08T11:19:00.002-05:00

Alas! The inexorable sorrow of working in ye olde elaboratory whence bacteria inextricably die and RNA mysteriously degrades.

What am I being paid for? For my failure? For my remnants acts of "Science" that are truly just shots in the dark under-belly of the physical science center? For what goal, whether of benevolent or malicious intentions, am I ritualistically making potions? In the unforseeable future, will my work be written off, ridiculed for being ridiculously ridiculous, or will it be used to justify terrible atrocities in the name of science? Or worse, will it be forgotten, my hours and years thrown into the metaphorical waste bin of time?

This I ponder as I work running electrophoresis gels, transform bacteria, write code, design primers, equilibrate buffers, and a host of other things that I would write and you would gloss over either scoffing me for pretentious name dropping of techniques that are more like cooking than elaborate skill or lauding my magnificent intelligence for using such ornate words. The truth is in the middle somewhere. I do not know. I lost my place years ago.

In order to increase productivity I now take 5 min "power breaks" which is not enough time to write a blog but is enough time to do this...

2010-06-03T12:54:00.002-05:00

1. Where is your cell phone? Backpack

2. Your significant other? Where?

3. Your hair? Short

4. Your mother? Tennessee

5. Your father? Alabama?

6. Your favorite food? Always

7. Your dream last night? Distressing

8. Your favorite drink? Coffee

9. Your dream/goal? Circus

10. What room you are in? Lab

11. Your hobby? Banjo

12. Your fear? Unfunctionality

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Somewhere

14. Where were you last night? Taj

15. Something that you aren't? Rested

16. Muffins? Where?

17. Wish list item? Bass

18. Where you grew up? Tennessee

19. Last thing you did? Electrophoresis

20. What are you wearing? Jeans

21. Your TV? N/A

22. Your pets? Rocks

23. Friends? Yes.

24. Your life? Winding

25. Your mood? Restless

Affirmation Needed

2010-05-24T20:20:00.003-05:00

I started writing this post in an attempt to sound intellectual and refined.

After working 12 hours in lab and spending $300 for the squeaky noise in my car NOT to be fixed, I have not a drop of wit left in me. My poetic coffers have run dry.

I have so much reading and writing to do, but my mind just wants to eat potato chips. No, I am not hungry. My mind--my brain--wants to literally figuratively snack on potato chips. It wants to pop a beer and sit back in the cerebellum watching smut on television. I on the other hand want to write a blog that makes me sound profound which is really hard to do as your mind sips alcohol whilst consuming mind-numbing amounts of salt and replaying old reruns of your life on the 3D Imax of my/its mind. That's poetic. That's pathetic.

Sigh.

I went to Starbucks today to spend money that I don't have on coffee which I no longer have. I stood there waiting for my latte when someone mentioned the name "Kaitlin" and "wedding." I thought it might refer to my friend Kaitlin whose couch I am flayed on at the moment who is being wed on Sunday, so I perked interest much like the coffee that was percolating nearby. The man to whom this woman chatted asked a seeming non sequiter inquiring the date for Norman High's final day of educating the stubborn and sheep-like masses. Turning to me, the woman asked, "So, dear, when does school get out for you?" Only being slightly perked (just like the coffee that was taking forever to touch my sweet lips it being only somewhat percolated), I stumbled like a drunken sailor on marijuana for a moment before weakly asserting that I, in fact, just graduated from college. Granted, I wasn't looking too...adulty. It was 8am, I had already spent 2 hours in lab, my car's brakes had gone out, and I had just walked from the Midas place. I was wearing ye olde fashion t-shirt and jeans, nothing fancy. At my response, she gave me the look over and the man asked, "What did you major in?" Ah, I love that question! Never in my life do I look more prestigious when I report my degreeS (notice the "s." Me, pretensious?! Never.) in Chem/Biochem and Classics. Of course, I don't really ever receive a response kin to the infamous "Noooo!" that is reminiscent of a high school girl's reaction to her friend telling her that the jock of the school is dating the nerd of the century as the two teens secretly whisper in the bathroom during class when I say that. If I did, I probably would not have a positive response to that question. "Nooo! There is no way you could have graduated college." After assuaging her doubts, most vehemently I sat down.

I got on this venerable blog to post something intellectual to mend the ever-growing hole in my soul. After slaving away in the back alleys of higher education for four years, I still look incredulously like a freshman in high school.

I am "smart." I have two pieces of paper that say that I know something.

Love me.

Please.

A very short and tired rant

2010-05-14T01:08:00.002-05:00

Finals?
Give me finals! I can do finals!
40+hours of work due to snow storm delaying school and makeup hours at the library and a somewhat demanding laboratory?
Bring. It. On.
Saying Goodbye to all my senior/getting married friends who are leaving and may never come back.
Heart-wrenching, but doable.
Moving my stuff into different temporary locations.
Shoot me. Just shoot me.

I am mostly packed, but not fully. My fridge needs to be cleaned out. My kitchen floor needs to be scrubbed. My room needs to be vacuumed. My bathtub needs cleaning. My drawers need to be swept. My stuff (post SC, pre house) needs to be taken to my "temporary storage sites."

This is all doable except I work at Veritas from 7:30-10:30 and then 11:30-4:30 at the library.

I have to be out of the apartment no later than 7:15.

Ugh.

Angsty, (sort of like ending a blog title with a comma)

2010-05-11T22:35:00.004-05:00

This was last year's angsty "I don't want to study anymore post": http://theramblingsofaninsanemind.blogspot.com/2009/05/already-and-not-yet.html

Oh readers, I am angsty. Seriously, I am listening to my Mad World Pandora station. That's how bad it is.

It has to do with change. I do not like change. I like consistency. As they say, the only constants in life are death and taxes...and Jesus...

I can't believe college is ending. I can't believe I am joining the work force. I can't believe I am not going to med school. I can't believe it.

But, there it is.

This year was a terribly awful year. It was a year where I looked into the proverbial mirror and saw what I was. And that freaked/freaks me out. But now that I see it, I can't not notice it. Sort of like those optical illusions where you can only see the young woman until someone points out the old woman and you can't ever go back to seeing the young woman. Yeah, it's like that. Only different.

I do not want to study anymore. My last final is tomorrow. I need a 55% to get an A. If I don't take the final, I get a C. C's get degrees.

Ugh, I am sad. I am tired. I am ready. I am not. I am so many things and so many emotions. I feel like an emotional pin cushion. I hate my emotions. I think they are stupid. Why can't they just go away? I can push them to the side, but they usually come back. Sort of like the tree that knocked Alana out of the canoe that one time I went canoeing in jr high with my sister and her (at the time) best friend Alana. They were the worst canoe-ers I have ever canoed with. We hit every cut bank and point bar in the entire river. Finally, this branch that had a bunch of smaller branches that overlooked the river caught us. Alana got so fed up that she stood up and smacked the branch. It swung away. She turned to look at me with a smug triumphant air. And that branch came back and smacked her hard and she fell into the water. She lost a flip flop. It was her sister's. Her sister was angry. I thought it was hilarious.

Why, God? Why did you create a world that changes so much? Why can't I just live in a hut in the middle of nowhere and not worry about paying rent or working or whatever? Why can't somebody just always take care of me so I don't have to worry about it?

Right, that is your job.

But, I still have to do things. I want to stop.

Last year, I was trying to be happy about my change by looking at the bright side of things.

This year, I will not do that. I will look into the face of my sadness and say, "Hi, Sadness. My name is Becky." I will be okay with it being there. I will not mask it anymore. I am sad. I am hurting.

On the bright side, anyone want to take a weekend trip with me to the Kiamichi River. For $100 total + gas, we can go canoeing for a day and spend the night in a cabin. I am looking for new stories.

My mind is a sea of mutable factors and imminent ends.

2010-05-07T17:05:00.004-05:00

My mind is a sea of mutable factors and imminent ends.

I am done with my classes on Wednesday of next week. I will have completed two degrees, a B.S. in Chemistry and Biochemistry and a B.A. in Classics (Greek Emphasis). I will have also completed all of pre-med requirements and graduate with honors summa cum laude.

What?

I am weary. I am weary because I have done 3 of my 5 finals this week. I am weary because I have an Oral Presentation Performance at 7 tonight that showcases MY class and MY students. I am weary because I have been writing curricula and preparing for teaching next year. I am weary because I have spent lots of time with people.

I have done many "lasts." I wrote my last undergraduate research paper (19 pages, 100%). I took my last quiz and turned in my last homework assignment. I went to my last RUF as an undergrad and spoke about not arriving but always striving.

I have put a deposit down for an awesome little house (complete with porch for banjoing). I have secured summer housing and work. I have a job next year doing something that I love and being paid near nothing for it. I think that means I am doing the right thing, or at least, the thing I want to do.

I need to pack up my belongings. I need to say goodbye to my roommate of two years. I need to find a way to be happy about all these changes that pull at my lack of trust and weary me.

All my life, I have been told that I was smart. That I was a great student. I am scared because I am losing that student status. I am becoming one of the working class. I am no longer going to be lauded on my papers and applauded for my research. I am not going to get the satisfaction of getting a good grade or feel the motivation of getting a poor one.

I may return to school. (I most probably will). I don't know what for. Classics? History of Science? Education? Counseling? Chemistry? Biology? Medicine? Who knows? I will do what I want to do when I want to do it.

What I do know is that I am here. I see my apartment (which due to my business, is a shade of dirtiness that I dislike much). I just showered and smell lemony fresh. I have to leave in 25 minutes for Oral Presentation Night.

I am so tired. Life is so fast. The end is near. Mars is a planet, but Pluto isn't.

Can't...Blog...Positively...

2010-04-17T23:41:00.003-05:00

I just wrote an angry, bitter blog post and then deleted it.

I am trying to think of something nice to write about...

Urg. Nothing's coming.

Today, I read a short story called Revelation by Flannery O'Conner. It was awesome. I will probably talk more about it later.

I also at some point want to write a letter about my short hair, how it is liberating, how it is making me a feminist (cough...in a manner of speaking), how it is changing the way I view life.

I also have an idea for a blog post on discussions that people have made about blogging.

I also want to blog about Sherlock Holmes. I watched it yesterday.

But all those things may or may not come to fruition. If you really want one or have any ideas for a good blog post, let me know.

Whoa. 10 New things.

2010-04-10T15:09:00.004-05:00

Life has continued to move. And has done so extremely quickly.

Recognize me!? Yep. Chopped off the ol' hair. Don't say I look like a boy. Actually it's fine. Call me a boy. I don't care. I love this hair cut.

Second, there is the fact that this picture was taken on a mac computer. My mac computer. Mine as in the one I own. It is shiny and I love it.

Third, I graduate COLLEGE in five weeks (if I pass my classes, which looks like it will happen God-willing).

Fourth, my dear roommate will cease being my dear roommate in a month. Turns out, living with me is not as easy as you may think, even though I seem so jolly on this blog ALL the time. Cough. Seriously, though, I am sad about this.

Fifth, I will be teaching full time at Veritas next year. Woot!

Sixth, I will probably be living with Amber, Nicole, and Melissa. If we can find a cheap four bedroom. Pray we find one.

Seventh, I will be working this summer in lab here at OU.

Eighth, my sister may be on the show What Not to Wear.

Ninth, this summer I will be living with one of my dear friends who just engaged. She is engaged to one of my dear friends, who freshman year was my crush! In fact, my only two college crushes are both getting married in August within 24 hours of each other. Weird coincidence?

Tenth, what the hell am I doing again?! Right, following this weird twisted path that God has me on...scary...

I need to do homework. I have two tests this week. But, I am going to take a nap and then I am going to go to the Dixons' for dinner. I am then going to cry, laugh, and sleep.

Bad Day

2010-03-22T19:24:00.000-05:00

Very, very bad day today.

Pray for me because I cannot.

Break: In Review

2010-03-19T21:12:00.002-05:00

So, dear readers, I sit reading Nietzsche (whose name I obviously still cannot spell) sipping a very cheap Cabernet Sauvignon (I have very little money to my name and it is a decent cheap wine) whilst Star Trek (the movie not the show) plays in the background. And now writing a blog post on my roommate's computer. Ah, c'est la vie.

Today I drove back from Nashville. I was a very uneventful drive both there and back. I did note a few things. They are as follows:
1. Cheesy Jesus Billboards need to realize that italicizing and _underlining_ _the same words_ just doesn't work. I mean, really?! Why do you even have a billboard? Go feed some poor people or something.
2. Starbucks are everywhere and great while driving. I have a system. You start with a Caramel Machiatto (sweet, but not that sweet). For lunch, a Mocha (sugar+caffeine=AWESOME). Dinner consists of a Americano.
3. Cheap Gas stations are as follows off of I40:
OK--Shawnee, 315.
AR--127, 42
TN--172
4. Things to listen to are as follows:
a. Avett Brothers, Andrew Bird, Inara George, Bird and the Bee, Eve 6, Coldplay, Punch Brothers, Nickel Creek, Edgar Meyer, Chick Chorea, Thelonius Monk, Rent, Hairspray, etc.
b. Tim Keller
c. Doug Serven
d. This American Life and Radiolab
e. The Weird Sounds That My Car Makes
f. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. So, I have two audio books: Harry Potter 5 and 7. I am currently listening to 7 for the 3rd or 4th time. I have a system. I listen to the CDs in order (right now I am on 9), but after I finish the "current" CD, I listen to my favorite chapter. The one about Snape. I cry every time. I start disk 15 track 13 and listen through disks 16-17 (the end). I cry. I get excited. It is really fun. I have a tendency to act out what is happening (which is fine except during the scenes in which Harry is pretending to be dead and HAS HIS EYES CLOSED). Anywho, I love the last couple chapters and have listened to them 9-10 times. Oh, Snape! Why must you be so tragic?! Harry! You are so angsty! Why do I love Harry Potter so much?!

Anyway, break was good. Got to hang with my siblings (and parents). It was fun. My lil sis and my older younger bro are both in the beginning stages of relationships. I told my littlest brother (who is 12 years younger) he cannot date until I do. So there.

Um, what else happened? There was some really good conversations with my mother and sister and some massive house cleaning. But, really, it was good to help my family as they are stressed (my dad lost his job).

And I really have nothing else to say.

Oh, I am getting a Mac. A pretty one. Cause my windows machine is gone as of now.

I am graduating COLLEGE in two months.

I wish I could be a crew member on a space ship.

Faith is hard.

That is it.

Roles

2010-03-10T19:58:00.003-06:00

"I want the world. I want the whole world! I want to lock it all up in my pocket. It's my bar of chocolate! Give it to me!!"

Ah, Veruca Salt, how I mimic you. Even though we all laugh at how spoiled Veruca (of Mr. Wonka and the Chocolate Factory fame) is, I can't help but cringe. I am Veruca. I want it all. I want all opportunities to be open to me. I want to do what I want with my life when I want to do it. I have unlimited ability. I want to follow my desire, the gluttony of my stomach as it were, to pick whatever delicacy that I like.

Truth is (as Elphaba doth cry in the end of Wicked) I am limited.

I hate limits.

No really, in math, I hate them. I mean, the limit as something approaches zero, but never gets there?! Really?! How mean can we be to functions? Let's send them infinitely close to a number but never let them get there. I think of it like sending a husband back in time to save his wife from being shot, but pulling him back to the present too early and then sending him back and then pulling him out a wee bit later so that he will never save his wife and he is just getting infinitely closer to saving her without ever really being able to save her at all. THAT WOULD BE THE WORST THING EVER!!!

Oh, I know functions don't actually have wives whether or not they are approaching zero, but in my mind that is what a limit is: the desire/need to do something (like save a spouse), but no matter if you get infinitely close to doing so you fail.

I HATE THAT.

I hate failing.

I hate being reminded that I suck (and oh do I suck).

Recently, my limitation of being a woman have been getting to me. Especially with regard to church things.

I can only have a couple of careers. That's limiting.

Also, living with a great musician, I also am faced with the limitation that I will never be a great musician (although, by Jove, I will get better at the banjo, so help me!).

I also realize that for the next couple of years I will not be someone who can not worry about money for a while (FYI, I am being AUDITED. WTF?! If you know anything about being audited, please let me know).

Anywho, these limitations made me get REALLY SAD. I was angry at God. Why?! I cried. Why do I have these desires and ABSOLUTELY no way of getting what I want? You are the worst God EVER.

But then God was all like Yo. I love you. You have gifts. I know I gave them to you. You are loved. You have things to do. Stop worrying. I will take care of you. And I love how you play the banjo. No, it's not perfect, but hey you should hear Paul trying to play the euphonium...

And I was all like but...but...but...

And he was like Hey. Come here.

And he gave me a hug and I love hugs.

(And by hug, I mean that he gave me a day where I got to use my gifts. That is, there was a student in cafe plaid that I was introduced to who needed help with a paper assignment and I helped him come up with one and then I was in a good mood and I chit-chatted with someone who gave me a hug and said, "Thank you for saying those nice things to me today. That really makes me feel a lot better." And then I realized that that person hugging me was really God hugging me by reminding me that I have gifts and that I have a role that is important to him and to my community. And that was awesome).

Anyway, I am sitting here and my roommate is composing. I am (cough) studying (cough) for my (cough) Quant (cough) test.

I am learning. I love learning. My roommate is playing with music. She loves music. We are friends. I love friends! I love this place where am I even though I am not as smart, thin, rich, or whatever as I want to be. I am. I am being. And that is so great.

Anyway, for the moment, I am thanking God for my role and my gifts. At the moment, I am not jealous of others. I am sure this will change (like when I watch people doing parkour...I want THAT gift!!!). But, I am thankful for this moment of thankfulness in which I can just be thankful for my role right now as a college student/teacher with a meager budget, no musical talent, and a love for learning.

Woot.

Locutus the Borg

2010-03-04T20:23:00.004-06:00

"Mr. Warf, fire!"

Thus, ends the Star Trek the Next Generation episode Best of Both Worlds Part A.

Of course, the end of Star Trek Season 3, for those of you who don't know, is a terrible cliffhanger. Captain Picard (played by the amazingly Shakespearean Patrick Stewart) is captured by the Borg, who/which is the worst villain in Star Trek HISTORY!!! Oh my goodness!! RESISTANCE IS FUTILE!! ASSIMILATE THIS!!! Oh my goodness, I am sorry I get really excited.

Anyway, the Best of Both Words Part A has a lot of memory associated with it. Truly, it is one of my earliest memories. I was four, I think, maybe five. My mom would let us stay up late to watch Star Trek. And I loved it.

I seriously seriously loved it.

No, guys, really, I had the figurines, I studied Klingon...it was bad (and by bad, I mean, AWESOME!).

Anyway, watching the final episode of Season 3, I was transported back 17 years ago. Seriously, folks, I remember the couch (it is a brown with white and dark brown stripes). It was in the living room. The walls had this bamboo wall covering thing. The Tv was on the wall, next to the bar (Hey Mom, did you guys keep alcohol in the bar?! I just remember that Daniel used it as a potty for a long time...har, har, har). I remember that I was wearing a pink night gown (seriously, it was a gown. It was silky and awesome. Why don't I wear night gowns anymore?).

I vividly remember three scenes. The first is when the Away Team that goes to the Borg ship to save the Captain opens a drawer and finds the Captain's clothes. I remember thinking to myself, "Oh no! The Captain's naked! That's embarrassing!!" But I also remember being so scared for Captain Picard. He is so nice (I have vague memories of writing a letter to Patrick Stewart asking him to be my dad). He just loves his crew and his ship and is generally a nice guy. He also knows Shakespeare and recites it beautifully throughout the series. I think it was probably the first time I felt love and fear for a fictional character. Anyway, I remember the drawer opening and seeing that limp Star Fleet uniform and starting to cry. Poor Picard.

The next moment that I remember from my young life was when Warf and Data look at the partially assimilated Picard and PICARD DOESN'T RECOGNIZE THEM!!! What?! I am crying just thinking about it. Why doesn't he remember them!? He is their father figure!! I remember wanting Picard to hug Warf at this point (something Picard would NEVER have done normally EVER). I wanted them to be known by him. I wanted the love and respect that defined these three characters' relationships to be present and it was not and I remember being so very sad.

(Hey, this special feature just informed me that the DALI LAMA visited the TNG set!! WHAT!? He supposedly was sad that he couldn't actually get transported. Of course, Colin Powell and Stephen Hawkings also visited).

The last and probably most memorable part is the very end. Commander Riker, the First Officer, arguably the closest to the Captain, the man who turned down three captainships to stay as 1st officer to Jean Luc, has to make a decision. The crew of the Enterprise (the nerdy ones, Data, Wes, and Geordi...I want to name my son Geordi) have jerryrigged a weapon that could possible destroy the enemy ship.

Riker has a choice. Kill the man that is his commander, is his friend, is his FATHER, and potentially save EARTH or try to rescue his dear friend and risk Earth.

I am sobbing. Seriously, folks, I cannot see the screen or what I am typing because I am crying so hard about Star Trek.

Wow.

Anyway, Riker has this choice. Picard comes on the screen, except it is not Picard. "I am Locutus of Borg. From this time forward, you will service us." OH MY POPE!!! REALLY!? PICARD?! NO!?!?! I MEAN, WHAT THE F$%&. SNAP OUT OF IT!!

(I am pretty sure I did not know the word f*&$ when I was a kid).

The episode ends with Riker looking at his dear compadre's face, eyes gleaming, brow furrowed. He says, not exultantly, but resolutely, "Mr. Warf, fire."

End Season 3.

I am crying less now. Why am I crying? I don't know exactly. That is why I am revisting Star Trek for my Relish Project. I have always wanted to revisit this show that I watched during a very important developmental stage of childhood. I am finding out that I feel a lot of the same things that I did when I was four. (Except they are different).

I still want to be part of a community where I am loved and respected. I want to be a part of something epic. I still don't want to have to make decisions like Riker's. I want to find the lost crew member, but even more so I want to be found. I want people to have to make Riker decisions about me! I want them to care. I want to MEAN SOMETHING. Even if I say that I am Locutus, that I am your enemy, I want you to love me and be sad that you have to destroy me.

Sigh. Well, I remember waiting for Season 4 (we were watching it on reruns at this point, so I only had to wait a week). It was the longest week ever. I remember that it was a good week though. Ashley, my best friend, at the time, shared with me a Fudge Round, which WAS AWESOME!!! But, anyway, I remember sitting on the floor leaning on the couch, I was next to Sarah, my parents were on the couch, I was in my purple night gown this time (night gowns, FTW!!).

After the recap, the camera pans to all of the crew who are sad that they have to fire upon the dear Captain. Oh Captain, my Captain.

What happens? Well, it is anticlimactic. Kind of. But I am not going to tell you.

No, you are going to have to come over and watch this with me. Yes, it is nerdy. Yes, it is probably pathetic that I am gleaning so much from Star Trek about myself and my past. But, I don't care. Come be nerdy with me! Schluff off your ideas of superiority and be with me on a couch watching Jean Luc...I mean, Locutus...sniff...

I still want to fly.
I still want to explore.
I still want to boldly go where no one has gone before.

(That wasn't supposed to rhyme).

Maybe I am just a kid trapped in a 22-year-old's body. But, I think what made Star Trek such a cult phenomenon was that it tapped into the soul-originating desire for meaning, for adventure, and for glory.

Engage.

A Little More on Pretension, Confidence, and Why I Don't Give My Number to Prospective German Graduate Students

2010-02-26T15:20:00.004-06:00

One of you dear readers commented how pretentiousness could come across unintentionally when you are just trying to communicate normally. I would argue (in a completely semantic way) that pretension occurs when something is out of the ordinary in your common behaviour. That is to say, when you deliberately spice up your vocab or reference some esoteric reference for the sake of showing off. If you are someone who naturally uses five-syllable words or references Ancient Greek lyric poetry, then your friends will know that you are not being pretentious. They will probably ridicule you for being that kid (let's face it: you were probably homeschooled, so you are used to it), but they will not consider you pretentious. People may think you are pretentious at the first impression, but I would argue that most people (aka I myself) can tell when someone is digging for pretentiousness and when someone is just generally geeking out even on first impression. It is just different, you know? Pretentious statement are usually awkwardly timed and inserted in such a way that they don't quite fit. There is usually a pause after you say a pretentious comment so that there is a space for people to admire your awesomeness. Those sorts of things do not happen in genuine communication. Or at least that's what I contend.

Speaking of Pretension, I had an awful run in with it today in the form of a English/Letters Double Major. I was having lunch with a professor, two other students, and a prospective professor from Montreal. I knew it was going to be a bad lunch when this one particular student said that his majors were English and Letters. The interviewing professor asked, "Oh, it seems like a lot of students here double major. Is that true?" He said, "Dual Degree, actually." Let us analyze this statement. First, notice that he does not answer her question; he merely states that his degree is better than what she is referring to. This is classic pretension (and is illustrative of my timing point in the previous paragraph). I recognized this pretension immediately, because I want to do this. I hate it when people assume my degree is a double major. I put in an extra 30 hours of upper div credit to get a dual degree! And you call it a major?! I AM SEVERELY OVER EDUCATED, PEOPLE! BASK IN MY ACADEMIC MIGHT!! All that to say, I pray that I am not pretentious. I am susceptible. (I mean, a non edited blog?! Smells pretentious in its very form). If you see me acting pretentious, please call me out on it.

And the next subject today...Confidence. That is one of the cures to pretension in my opinion (the other is humility). One should be confident in one's abilities. You should not worry about how you are perceived, but instead worry about who you are! Since this worry should humble you, your confidence aids in protection against pretension. If you know that you are smart or know that you are of average intelligence, you don't need to prove that to anyone. You just need to be. Of course, confidence fluctuates. Today, I have been a muddied roller coaster of confidence and chaos. I teach at a small school and today I just did not have my teaching glasses on. My lesson was disorganized, choppy, and mediocre at best. I hate not teaching well. The worse my talk became, the weaker my confidence became. I wept driving home. Then, I had the aforementioned lunch, but since I had been crying and I had donned mascara today, I made a pit stop in the bathroom before heading over. I had put on makeup today (THANKS, MEGHAN!!! I LOVE THIS MAKEUP!). I looked really professional. Makeup, Cords, 3/4 sleeved shirt, vest, scarf, rasto hat. When I left the bathroom, I felt confident that I could make a good impression on the visitor. And, for some reason, this made me sit straight at the table, made me clasp my tea cup more fully, and made me not care that the pretentious kid from the previous paragraph was trying to prove that he was smarter than I was.

With this bounding confidence, I went to work. At one point, three graduate students walked in. It is grad weekend and these were students of German. I gave them the tour and was wittily bantering with them. One played the oboe and liked viola jokes. At the end of their tour, I gave them our librarian's card and I wrote my email on the back telling them to email me if they had any questions (I usually do this for prospective students). One of the three guys asked me for my number. I laughed and said that he could come to OU and THEN talk to me.

Confidence and rest give me strength to be jovial and outgoing, but it doesn't give me the ability to give my number to prospective German grad student even if they are cute and play the oboe.

A Reply to Joel's comment (because it seemed too long to just be a comment, you know!?)

2010-02-21T09:05:00.002-06:00

You get a blog dedicated to you, Joel. (Hi, Jenny. I miss you.)

Oh, Joel! I was not trying to be Herodotian in denouncing all forms of complex discourse (though on some days I do think "ain't" should be considered "academic."). I am merely denouncing the form of writing that is uselessly complex, either in cases when the message could still communicate everything the author wants to say in simpler terms or in cases when the author him(er)self wants to sound so hoity toity (s)he doesn't know what in the world (s)he was saying in the first place.

Communicate should be the goal, not pretension. When I write academically, my teachers usually criticize me for "using $10 words when 10 cent ones would do" (one of my fav profs wrote that on my paper...sigh...). Most of the time, I am not trying to be pretentious: I just think words like "vituperative," "ignominious," and "cucumiform" are great, great words for illustrating my ideas. Joel, I personally enjoy reading your eloquent style of prose! I find it beautiful and challenging. There are some types of "eloquent prose" that I find disdainful (LIKE EVERY TRANSLATION OF ARISTOTLE EVER!!!). Some of the more recent pomos seem to be saying nothing. I think that it is because they are wrestling with very small gradations of ideas (which I think is silly because to have a COMPLETE worldview you need to talk about the intricacies and the big picture. For a marvelous example, I turn you to Aristotle's Poetics. Oh wait, there are not good translations. Learn Greek and then learn how to write a wonderful philosophy).

I could go on about how this huge mass of meaningless writings comes from the increased input of stimuli in the computer/internet age. I could also trace it back to the rise of the "publish or perish" mentality in higher ed. I am pretty sure I could also trace it to Barney the Dinosaur, but I am late for church.

(Hey, does any one know where the exclamation point-question mark pairing came to be?! Does it mean that it is a question?! I see it used in statements too!? What does this mean!? Is there a correct order?! Can I use more than one of each?!!?!?).

The Meta Narrative on Meta Narratives

2010-02-18T17:23:00.003-06:00

In 1996, Alan Sokal sent in his essay "Transgressing the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity” to the postmodern studies magazine Social Text. In it, he claimed that quantum gravity was a social and linguistic construct and didn't actually exist at all. He was published. After it was published, he announced that the article was bunk. He wanted to see if a pomo journal would "publish an article liberally salted with nonsense if (a) it sounded good and (b) it flattered the editors’ ideological preconceptions."

That is to say, if it sounded intellectual, stunk of intellectualism, tasted like an intellectualism and prestige sandwich, and felt like the cold slap of intellectualistic reality/fiction, but was complete and utter nonsense, would it be taken seriously?

The answer was yes.

To worsen (or better?) the affair, when Sokal published the reveal (and told everyone that Social Text was stupid (a little harsh...)), the magazine responded, that they thought it "was the earnest attempt of a professional scientist to seek some kind of affirmation from postmodern philosophy for developments in his field" and that "its status as parody does not alter, substantially, our interest in the piece, itself, as a symptomatic document." For those of you who don't speak pomo, let me translate: "even though you wrote that article as a hoax, we thought it wasn't and it therefore has meaning in our interpretation."

So, what does this mean? What does this blog mean? What does anything mean? In the realm of philosophy, I cannot tell. What is absolute? My perception? Can't. It changes. The constancy of Nature? Really? Do I even need to say anything more? I mean, what is the point of--

Sorry, I had to stop. That is not the point. The point is I am a very safe penguin and my friend is rapidly running out of limbs.

What is the deal with intellectualism? What is the point of meta-studies? I for one love meta studies. Meta history (aka historiography), meta science (aka history/philosophy of science), and meta modernism (see my book) make me happy, but what is the point of this intellectualism?

I would argue that the point of intellectualism is to sound/appear intelligent. Example: I was attending biochemistry seminars and sat next to one of my favorite professors. During the hour and a half long pointless jibber-jabber, I understood the following three words: RNA, transcription, and named. The rest is was akin to the Greeks trying to understand foreigners and realizing that all their words sounded like bar-bar-bar (hence our word barbarians). At the closing of the catastrophic miscommunication that was/is biochemistry seminar, I confessed to my dear professorial friend that I knew not what was spoken. At all. I expected him to throw down his testtube (cause chemistry professors always carry around little test tubes in their breast pockets and hydrochloric acid in their shoes), stand on the desk, point down at me, and start screaming, "She doesn't know! She doesn't know! She is ignorant, dumb, base, and pathetic! Let us point and laugh at her with our superior intellect and awesomeness!!" He didn't do that. In fact, he leaned over and calmly said, "Don't worry. Neither did I. Come with me." Now that could be construed as creepy and indeed it was a little unnerving but I did what I was told. Soon, I found myself at dinner with a bunch of my professors and the speaker. Following my dear professor like a young undergrad in a sea of PhDs, I came upon the speaker. I asked him politely to simplify his research for me, a lowly sophomore (at the time). He laughed and in ONE SENTENCE explained everything I needed to know.

Vis a vis, the entirety of his monotonic display was for intellectualism points.

I DO THIS. I love sounding smart. I like to seem elitist. Just today I was talking with a dear friend and used the term phenomenology and hermeneutics IN THE SAME SENTENCE. That is not wrong if I am using the words to communicate what I am trying to say, but it is wrong if I am using them just to show dominance. I know that when I get nervous, I hide behind extensive vocabulary, vague phrases, and pointless interjections that sounds intellectual but have as much meat to them as tofu.

Today I talked with one of my favorite classics professors, we talked about this very thing. He led me to conclude that many professors become professors to sound smart. If I am a professor of _______, then everyone will know that I am the smartest _______ in my classroom. That is so bad. Instead, professors should strive to be the dumbest in their classrooms by teaching the students. You teach with simple words and specific phrases. Vague generalities mean nothing; intellectual ramblings mean nothing.

I am going to be teaching at a high school next year. I want to teach. I don't want to impress. That means that I need to trust what I know. I cannot be so desirous to prove my worth that I forget that a teacher's job is to make the student not need me. It is humbling to realize that some of my students will become smarter than I am. But THAT IS WHAT I WANT, right?

Oh, let me tell you how my dear Chemistry professor became my favorite. In his class, he made mistakes. When I pointed them out, he didn't grumble at me, he didn't make excuses due to the lighting or the color of the blackboard, he didn't even joke about his mind deteriorating in his old age. He just said, "Oh, you are right!", fixed the problem, and kept teaching.

Prayer Request

2010-02-10T23:46:00.004-06:00

Hey y'all,

My dad lost his job today. He is a pediatrician. This is sad and terrible.

Please pray that he finds new employment soon. Pray for my mom that her fears about my family's financial future are assuaged by her confidence in God's sovereign love. Pray for my brothers and sister who are still financially dependent on my parents. Pray that God uses this hard time to bring them closer to God and to each other.

Pray for me as I am mourning with my family and am fearful as well for their future. Pray that I will be able to lovingly support and honor my family in anyway that I can.

Pray that God acts in such a way that anyone who looks at my family (including all members of my family)will rejoice in the Lord's wonderful work.

I love my family and wish I were home to be with them during this hard time.

(If you know of any people looking for a good ol' pediatrician, let me know!).

Many Moons Ago...

2010-01-27T18:20:00.002-06:00

I wrote this as an intro to a paper for a class in the fall of 2007:

Title:Engraved on the Mind

Certain chemicals in this ink reflect certain wavelengths that the paper that they are printed on absorbs. These wavelengths pass through a series of intricate apparatuses that focus, bend, and transmit these reflected waves onto a photoreceptor, which translates this visible light into an electric impulse, which travels to an interpretive center. After this entire process of reflection, refinement, translation, and interpretation repeats itself for every word in this document, you make a final interpretation of what you read and grade the author on the veracity, style, and overall content. In essence, your interpretation determines my GPA, which, in turn, determines where I go to graduate school, which ultimately will decide what I do for the rest of my life. My entire existence is dependent on an interpretation of reflected wavelengths. That is subjective. QED, there is no point writing this essay.

My day in a nut shell. No really. This is a boring post. I would not read it if I were you.

2010-01-08T22:58:00.005-06:00

I blew my knee out today.

I don't know how. It has been hurting to much for me to exercise so I didn't run or jump or anything. I just got up and the pain just whooshed over me. I iced and elevated and compressed to minor relief.

I took a pain pill and feel much better, though the stupid joint is throbbing still.

But, as always, when I am bereft of any joint pain, I realize how much pain I am in normally. Dude, I should be so much more grouchier than I am. It is amazing that even with the effects of the narcotics, I read and focus better. Seriously, my reading speed increased by 23%. Whoa.

I am now going to summarize my day as boringly as possible:
Class went well. I went easy on them and let them play more drama games than I normally do. It was nice though I always wonder if I am doing a good job. I then had lunch with a friend which was so relaxing. She rubbed my back and I was really tight so it was so nice. So nice. I love back rubs. I sadly then missed hanging out with friends in order to get my car fixed! (Turns out, they forgot to connect a hose...oh...). I then went to Walmart and bought new undergarmets (is that TMI? I think it's TMI). Jaunting down Main street, I stopped by the Cellar to get some wine for a dinner party tomorrow. With absolutely no spring in my step, I faxed some insurance stuff off. I came home and had a superb dinner that included salad, soup, and stuffed cabbage rolls that I made yesterday but not before talking to one of my engaged friends who invited me to be in her wedding which just honored and touched and made me cry a bit. I then cleansed my room, did my grading and refiled all my Oral Presentation stuff with newly bought folders so now next year I will literally just grab the folder, copy the contents, and review the lecture notes and boom! No other prep necessary.

It was at this moment I got terribly and miserably depressed. I don't know why really. I just had this moment when I looked in the mirror and I saw myself. First, I just get really upset with how ugly I am. I feel so fat (especially when I cannot exercise and had to go clothes shopping). Then I just reflected on how mean I am to people. Ugh. I then reflected on how dumb I was. No seriously. I used to be able to read for hours and hours. Now, I cannot even sit for that long without losing focus or bursting into self reflective tears. I just go so sad that I was not the thin, intellectual, uber kind person that I thought I would be when I graduated college. Instead, I am heavier, dumber, and meaner. I am going to be teaching at a small private school instead of curing cancer. Oh wait. I couldn't do that anyway even if I tried!! Waaahh!

I think I am going through a mid life crisis.

Anyway, I finished organizing my room, throwing away papers, thinking depressive and self destructive thoughts. I knelt to get something I dropped and as I straightened out my leg, I saw stars. I collapsed and laid on the floor disoriented. I got up and tried to tend my knee without drugs before succumbing.

All this to say, it was a good day.

Pray that God makes me less apathetic about life. Pray that he would fix my knee. I am going to go to the doctor again. Pray that he would make me content. Pray that he would use me in some way. Pray that he would give my heart peace and that he would finish whatever phase I am in soon.

Author's Note: Writing this made me feel so much better. Why is that?

Good Mourning

2010-01-07T13:14:00.002-06:00

The Greeks were obsessed with the word "shiny." There are over 30 different Greek words for shiny. I think that is awesome. I also wish I could know what the Greeks thought about ice. It is shiny BUT DEADLY. I went to check the mail today, innocent like a small fawn eating flowers in a field whilst a deadly mountain lion stealthily streaks across the meadow (It is a field meadow! GET OVER IT!). So was I as I walked and saw a shiny patch of shininess on the ground. I knew it was ice. I knew it. But I just had to go touch it. It was shiny. So shiny.

Well, now my bum is sore. At least I am not dead like the fawn that I killed in the previous paragraph with a Mountain Lion and not Mr. Body in the ballroom with the wrench! Anyway, let that be a lesson to you all on the nefariousness of shiny.

I wrote an extremely long blog post this morning (one of my streams of consciousness, a ramble, wheretoforein this blog gets its estimable name [because all my posts are non-edited, mental vomit expunged from my slightly odder than average brain which usually have no form or comeliness that you should desire them]) but like I do with more than 75% of my blog posts, I reread it and said, "FIE, FIE ON IT!" and deleted it.

Sigh.

But, it was all about mourning this morning. Now that it is the afternoon I cannot say anything because the entire labourious thing was filled with puns on morning, mourning, moorings, and bears (! Oh my!) with British spellings of words such as labour, colour, and behaviour just to mess with your mind. Like I said, now that it is the afternoon and I can think of no good afternoon puns, I will revert to a condensed but completely original (for if I were to copy and paste that would be editing and therefore anathema to my blog) essay on mourning that originated from colourful behaviour this morning when I had moorings to some type of philosophical rambling and was eaten by a bear.

The question I was rambling about was, in fact, why do we mourn? Not why do we mourn the destruction of the temple? Not why do we mourn when boys break our hearts? Not why do we mourn when your life goals slip from your fingers and you find yourself 21 with no prospects, no forward momentum, and a bear eating you?!

It was none of those. It was just a simple why question: Why do we mourn at all? As Christians (for those of you who read who are such), you know that the world is fallen and such. Why does it surprise you when it sucks so that it instigates weeping and gnashing of teeth? And you who read and are not of the Christian variety, LOOK AROUND. THE WORLD SUCKS! We are in agreement? Good. So, why do YOU get upset when things are terrible for YOU? I mean really, a pessimist should never mourn. They knew it was going to happen. Buck up!

Wait. That's wrong.

Science moment. *Funky Science Dance to this song*

What I associate with mourning is the tightening of the chest that is known as angina (I think). This is a tightening of the blood vessels surrounding your heart. That is why people sometimes have heart attacks after they get really upset: the already congested vessels get squeezed more. What is cooler than lava and black holes mixed together is that they recently found out that the tightening is caused by a steroid hormone that is stimulated for release from the pituit-wait for it--tary gland which is stimulated (here is the really good part) by a NEUROTRANSMITTER! WHAT?! YOU MEAN THAT THIS PHYSIOLOGICAL STIMULUS IS CREATED BY A PSYCHOLOGICAL RESPONSE?! WHAT?! YOU MEAN, BECKY'S THEORY OF THE INTER-CONNECTIVITY OF PSYCHOLOGY AND PHYSIOLOGY HAS ANOTHER PIECE OF SUPPORT!?

All that to say, the poetic heart ache is actually heart ache.

End Science moment

Anyway, I concluded this morning that mourning was the suspension of logic. Logic is a finite means by which we analyse our world. At some moment, it ceases to explain reality. That moment is (but is not limited to) sorrow and the resulting mourning.

(It took me four huge paragraphs to say that four sentenced paragraph above).

I was pondering mourning as I read Job this morning and also as I have several friends who need consoling in their mourning. I thought that if I could logical determine the source of mourning this morning I could, in fact, have a good logical means of consoling.

Unfortunately, my findings indicated that there is no logic or reason behind mourning this morning or any morning or any mourning because it is just hurt. It is just the effects of living in a world where we don't control things and we mess things up and are messed up by others as well. Logic can't explain it except in the most rudimentary method (i.e. I lost X. I miss X. Therefore sorrow. While the premises exist, the presuppositions behind the premises (why does losing X evoke missing?) does not hold water much like the cup that I dropped yesterday while cooking).

Of course, I still want to answer my question on how to console and not be like Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar and to be more like Elihu. I could read my Bible (shutty). But I can also take what I remember of Job and not get ahead in my reading schedule. (lame, I know).

But, my shift at the library is about to end so this will have to wait for a different time when I am free (or not) to ramble.

This is a New Years Nostalg-ick Blog

2010-01-01T00:59:00.003-06:00

I am sitting at the Dixons' because ice was home-driving prohibitory.

So, 2010. Whoa. I feel like a totally new person. The person I was an hour ago is completely different from who I am now.

What?

Why do we celebrate the passing of time? I do not know. I personally think New Years is a stupid holiday. So what time has kept doing what is has always done? So what that I am now a year closer to death? So what that my mind is so finite I have to measure time at all?!

This last one is my rub. I don't like thinking that I am like everyone else. I hate being reminded that just like everyone in the world, at any period in history, I am controlled and manipulated by time. I don't like that I want to sit and reflect about my year on "New Years Day." I should reflect every day. I don't want to want to fill in all the "Your Past Year" surveys. I don't want to want to read my facebook status updates for the entire year. I don't want to want to.

But I want to.

So here is the impasse. I could give into my human, emotional side and go nostalgic on you. Or I could avoid it by ranting about it which is basically the same as the first (and what I did for the first half of this post). In this way, I am partially filling my need to be nostalgic.

The third and final option is the most elitist, the most logical. I could just stop writing.

Home again...?

2009-12-23T15:25:00.007-06:00

So, I was supposed to be driving home today, but instead I left on Monday. The reason? Well, I was supposed to get Nelly back from the shop and then party on down to Nashville today...but then they said she wasn't going to be ready till Monday. Okay, so no big deal, why not just keep with your plans and go down on Wednesday anyway considering you had said you were going to work and hang out with people on Monday and Tuesday? Well, the rule with the rental is that I have to have the rental back 24 hours after the car people say that Nelly is finished or my rental will turn into a pumpkin! No joke! As it turns out, RENTALS ARE ACTUALLY PUMPKINS. Fairy Godmother, CEO is making a fortune. Anyway, I promised the 'rents a week home, so I unexpectedly left home on Monday and headed to Nashville (but not without first cleaning my kitchen, vacuuming, doing laundry, unloading the dishwasher, picking up a Rx, dropping off a book to one of my favorite people, and running around like a headless chicken (have you ever thought why people say "a chicken with its head cut off"? So redundant. Headless chicken. Get on the band wagon. Do it. Or Else.).).

The drive itself was uneventful, praise Jesus. (Yes, that is not a comma splice. Jesus deserves to be IN THAT SAME SENTENCE). The highlights include the following:

1. My iPod dock would not fit in the car so I had to listen to the few CDs that I had with me. I listened to Inara George's All Rise CD 12 times. No joke. After I realized that I had listened to it 5 times, I decided to see how many more times I could listen to it without going insane. Answer: 12. But I seriously like that CD. I have listened to it another 2 times since being home.

2. A truck blew some serious tire-age and I got "sprayed" with rubber. Uber intense. I am still a little jumpy from the drunk driver running a red and smacking me. I am pretty sure that I started crying and screaming, "Why God? Why?" before I burst into laughter. You should have been there. You missed a great moment.

3. I had to make a stop to pick up a friend in Little Rock and drive her to Memphis. I had been driving for 6 hours so, when I picked her up, I was pretty zany. It was epic. I was going crazy (especially since she bought me a MOCHA!!). She also let me spend the night with her in Memphis. Restful win.

4. I drank an entire 2 liter of Diet Coke that this person had purchased for a gathering at my domicile on Sunday. I am pretty sure that I was the only one who had some at said gathering. That is to say, I drank two liters of Diet Coke in 3 days. I am proud of myself. My liver is failing.

5. I passed 24 cop cars. No tickets. Word to your mother's mother.
(Yes, I counted. I was bored).

Home is as always interesting. I am uber stressed cause that is what home sort of is. However, today has been nice. I had a dentist appointment (my last before I become a bona fide adult off of my parents' medical and off into the uninsured abyss!). Then I hung out with a friend. What? I have friends here?! Kind of. Yes. This was one of my mentees back in the day. That is right. Yours truly was a high school mentor to middle school/junior highers. Whoa. I had 6 girls. I have lost contact with three of them, but the other three I try to see when I come to town. Ti Hee Hee. (That was just to preserve the rhyme). It is weird/awesome. It is weird cause back in the day (nearly 5 years ago!) they were my "kids." Now the older ones have just started college and the younger ones are all juniors and seniors. What?! They have moved from being my "kids" to being my friends. That is awesome but weird. I am the older woman. WHAT!? In the day, we discussed things like crushes and mean teachers. Now we are discussing sex and employers. AARP is pending my membership. It is beautiful to see them grow and change. Sadly, two of them are no longer Christians part are card carrying Dawkin-ists. I am planning on praying for them more. Everyday, in fact.

Um, I was talking to my sister and this really depressed me. She is in a homeschool group called LCA. One girl named Brianna renounced the faith. She is one of Joanna's best friends. One day Joanna was hanging with a group of around 5 LCAers. One of the girls said to her, "You aren't allowed to invite Brianna. You can witness on your own time. Don't do it on mine." The girl who said this is a daughter of a pastor and is an "exemplar Christian." AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I invite you to be righteously angry with me.

Yesterday, Mark and I did a duet on recorder and banjo. It was freakin' adorable. I am planning to record that action and post it for your viewing pleasure once I buy some batteries.

Oy! My roommate from my last post got herself a blog. You should check it out. It is deep.

Okay. So I am going to go work out. My mom invited me to her aerobics class. Whoa budddy.

A post about my wonderful roommate who is unwittingly sitting across the room playing guitar while I write this post....

2009-12-20T21:28:00.002-06:00

I highly recommend living with a talented musician for all/some of your life. Living with a musician has drawbacks (like violins) but it has a lot--a LOT--of perks. Like live music. All the time.

Okay, so maybe not ALL the time, and not all musicians. I mean, if they are mean or obnoxious, you might not want to live with them. I think I may need to retract that statement and rephrase it: if you get a change, I highly recommend living with a musician who is/is like Maggie.

Sure, Maggie has her drawbacks being a grenade-shaped teddy bear and all. But, oh my goodness, she is awesome. She cooks, cleans, stays up till 3am with you laughing and crying about life, and is a Christian struggling and growing in Christ. I mean, Maggie FTW!!!

And of course, Maggie is an awesome musician (though her music is maybe 2% of why she is a great roommate). Let me set the scene for you. Finals are over. We are vegging out on the couch. The only light on is the kitchen light and our computers. It casts light on her face as she stares intently at her guitar. Normally, it is the mandolin that graces her lap, and the guitar looks behemoth in comparison. Her hair falls over the guitar as her fingers graceful pluck strings and dance over chords. Every now and then she exclaims "Oh!" or "That's how it goes!" It is an awesome sight, an artisan with her craft. I wish I had a video camera cause then in 20 years when VH1 is doing a series on from where famous musical people originated, I would be able to sell my footage.

As she is sitting on the little sofa in our living room, she is learning how to play this song by Inara George called Fool's Work. The last part of the song goes like this:

Take up your hands
Lift them off your eyes
Couldn’t it be wrong to think you’re mad?
With such a face now
How long and sad.
I learned a way, I learned away from you.
From walking on a line, I keep some poise
But I’m all wrong now,
I make no noise?

I’ve been good to you, I’ve been good to you
What have I put through? No, I’ve been good to you.
Haven’t I been good to you?

She spent about 5 minutes learning the song. Sometimes I am a bit jealous of Maggie's music ability. My musical ineptitude is even more apparent in the light of someone who definitely has a gift. I guess, living with a musician has its acoustic perks and downsides. For instance, right now. I love this song and I love Maggie's voice. She has the ability to evoke such sadness with it. Seeing her play is seeing a bit of her that is hard to talk about together.

I struggle with communicating with people, ahem, including/especially people I see a lot...or live with...but it is nice to know that there are other forms of communication other than talking. Like right now, just being with a person singing her heart out. There is something holy about that.

Anyway, pulling out from my own head, it is just so nice to hear live music in your living room as you veg out on the couch. It makes me feel drunk almost. It relieves tension. It is a way of being with someone I love and not worrying about the metanarrative of verbal communication. We are here together. That is it. How nice it is to be with someone without talking!

She is now working on another Inara George song called Mistress.

The trick is to never look into their eyes
All the times, all the loaded times
And it’s belly up, and it’s hot and cold
All the time, all the loaded times
And it fights and it lies and it sighs and it sighs and it sighs
Will you take me as your mistress?
Could you ever love a mistress?
It never feels the same

She just said to me, "That is the coolest effing chord progression I have ever heard!" She says that a lot cause she loves music. It is awesome to see. Tomorrow she is going home for break. I will miss her. Granted, I am happy about a break from living with people (cause living with people is hard). I am content with a break from being roommates with Maggie. But, I am going to miss her!

So, if you could live with someone like Maggie, I highly suggest it.

Finals(') Week

2009-12-15T08:10:00.003-06:00

So, is it Finals Week (with Finals acting as an adjective) or is it Finals' Week (possessive, equivalent to the Week of Finals)? I do not know and, instead of studying for my finals (definitely not possessive there), I debated with my roommate about such things. It was a nice diversion.

Speaking of diversions, people, do online stuff! Blog, post on peoples' facebook profiles, DO SOMETHING. I know you are ALL online mindlessly reading anything and everything to divert you from studying, so contribute to the meaningless stream of online fodder. I want there to be stuff to stalk on your facebook pages.

Oh, shout out to Jessie who just posted a summary of this article: http://visionarydaughters.com/2009/11/how-twilight-is-re-vamping-romance .

So, I know you probably won't read the article, but it is very interesting. Here is a quote from Systematic Theology that I found awesome:

Because ours is an age with a will to fiction, the role of imagination is extremely important. Men who will not be governed by God’s word will not be governed by reality, because reality is not of their making. God having created all things, reality reflects the mind of God, not man. Hence, it is the essence of sin to resort to imagination to escape God’s law world.

Whoa. Intense. Of course, this quote is for men and pornography, but this is applicable to all of us. Especially to me. I enjoy escapism. In fact, I love escapism. I think that if I didn't have escapism, I would die. Hmmm...indication of sin, anyone?

This world sucks, right? I feel lonely, fat, ignored, and altogether like a pathetic excuse for something that exists and cognizes. So, if I can take a few minutes of my day to go to my "happy place" where I am thin, healthy, and the center of attention, I feel better. That can't be bad! Or so for many years I thought. But, it started to get more and more demanding. The more things sucked the more time I would want to spend daydreaming. More and more of my time got sucked up and I began to lose my grip on reality. No lie. I began to hate life more and more. Past tense? I am struggling with this RIGHT NOW!!

This is a problem for many people. I know cause I am so not wanting to study that after reading the article posted above, I wanted to look up fan fiction for Twilight. That stopped really quickly cause the second post I read was...uh...really inappropriate. Look at youtube. How many fan vids (videos of favorite movies or shows cut to different music) are there? How much time did these people spend writing and editing, creating and expressing the scenes in their heads? I am not accusing them without accusing myself. I just am too ashamed to show anyone how much time I spend in my happy place in my mind.

This sin has been in my life for as long as I remember. I struggled a lot with whether or not this type of mental escapism was a sin. I am not doing anything wrong. Is it a sin? I read verses like these: "For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds. We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ, being ready to punish every disobedience, when your obedience is complete." Okay, I thought, I am probably doing something wrong. But I didn't want to admit it.

I didn't want to ask people about it, cause for a long time I thought my fantasies (for that's what they are even though they are not always sexual per se) were a unique sin. No one else struggled with this. When I did ask people about it, they would quickly change the subject. See! I would tell myself. See! They think your problem is so bad that they won't even talk about it. I was so ashamed.

But then I talked to/read other people who said things like fantasies aren't bad! What's wrong with fantasizing about your husband? That's not a sin. Woot!!! I thought, A citation that says I am okay!!

They were wrong. They are wrong.

The core problem is not that I, we, go to a happy place. We all need a mental schema, a cognitive area where we can go and reflect on things and chew over what is happening in our lives. The problem for me and for you as well is that our happy place is not a place where God is (yes, I know God is everywhere!!! You know what I mean!! Please let me be loose and sappy!!). That is to say, our happy place should be turning to Jesus and not turning to Edward Cullen or Harry Potter, not to your wedding or your future children, not to when you are thinner or when you are rich.

Those things aren't real. God is real. Leave the Matrix of your mind. Embrace reality. Embrace God.

So, you may wonder how I am going to end this ranty blog post. Well, I am going to end it how I started it: talking about finals. So I am seeking escape from my finals via facebook, blogging, baking, and other internet activities. See where I am going with this? Yep, escapism from life and escapism from finals are directly related. But one is not a sin!! (At least, I don't think it is...opinions?). So, help me not sin! Post things!!

I am going to go study now...

Are you ready?

2009-12-07T18:05:00.003-06:00

This post is going to be deep. It is going to move you. You will probably cry, most definitely laugh, and experience every gamut of emotion in between. Are you ready?

If you said yes, you are lying. You don't want to be emotionally manipulated. Or you're a masochistic. Either way, you have issues. If you said no, you stopped reading and I no longer have to deal with your insufferability. Good riddance and all.

This past week has been very emotional. My dearest friend is very sad, very very sad. That makes me sad. Not in an emotionally dependent way, but in the empathizing I-am-trying-to-be-in-community way. It is always hard when someone you love is hurt. It is almost harder than being hurt myself. I am a fixer. I want to fix everything. Even You. After years of getting so tired trying to fill my friends' metaphorical cracks with myself caulk, I had a nervous breakdown. Now I no longer try. Instead, I try to have Jesus fill in the metaphysical cracks with allegorical caulk but I can never seen to find Schrodinger's cat or figure out which way the strange androgenous figures are walking in that blasted Escher picture. Why, logic? Why?! So, that is trying. It is also trying not to verbally lambaste the figure that is more than a little responsible for this dear person's malaties (that word is not misspelled). Of course, the love of Christ compels me to love, but my flesh...ooohhh...it is so bad. One time, my older sister was in this abusive relationship with this guy. For narrative sake, let's call him Blake. He was pretty terrible, doing some aweful things I desire not to publish on the interwebs. Well, let's just say that I joined the FBI's junior something-or-other squad which basically meant that I pretended to do illegal things and then busted people. It took six months to get into the drug division (I mostly did underage drinking stuff). I then busted Blake's ass. He got 6 years but was killed in prison after 1. True story. Except for 2 details. You should ask me which 2 are incorrect. Oh wait. You probably just read my blog and never actually talk to me (for those of you who don't live in Norman, you are excused).

I am also sad because on Friday night a drunk female ran a red and totalled my car. I now have no car and a concussion. This is my 8th concussion. 8th. I have a splitting migraine which has been aggravated by working on my senior thesis. Also, Maggie is playing her violin which is terribly loud. I love hearing her play, but right now, I want her to stop so I can sit in silence and let the throbbing subside. Luckily, she has a date at 7 so that means only a few more minutes of madness. Speaking of Maggie, she was in the car with me. She is okay. Her knee is pretty swollen though. She is limping around and all. I feel bad. The accident wasn't my fault, but I was driving. I like to take responsibility for my passengers.

AH!! MY HEAD!! Pain puts me in an angry mood. I am angry. I hate everything.

No, I don't. I am thankful for my community. I had me some awesome community today. It was awesome. I mean, AWESOME! Phew. See, I don't hate everything. It is just this stupid concussion. Stupid.

Don't drink and drive, people. Don't do it. If you do it, you will hurt someone eventually. That may mean a concussion or death. Every time I see Maggie, I tell her that I am glad she is alive. Cause we almost died. If I had accelerated faster or had jumped on that light, I probably would have died. (The car struck the front of my car on my side, crunching my door shut.). Whoa.

My head hurts. Did I mention that?

Did I mention that I hate the violin?

Penelope. That was my car's name. She was named after Odysseus' wife. I will never forget you. I drove to Florida three times in you. I drove the Nashville-Norman route 30 times. I drove to Nashville and back in 48 hours once to see a concert with you. I drove to Dallas in hail storms. I hit the garage with you and that one mailbox that I didn't report and still feel guilty about. There was the week I had no where to live and lived out of your trunk. You were a great car. The best car a girl maturing into an adult could ever ask for. I miss you. I look for your face and get sad when I don't see it. I dream about the time we spent together. You were my sweetest downfall. I loved you first.

Did I mention that my heart is heavy in sorrow?

Did I mention that I am rejoicing and again I say rejoice?

Did I mention I love Christ and am encouraged and almost (dare I say it) hopeful?

God, you can have my car, my computer, and my iPod. You can have my head. Thanks for your blessings. Help me love and love well.

Never have I ever.

2009-12-02T23:38:00.002-06:00

I never understood songs like Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats." Why would I want to dig my keys into the side of his pretty little souped up four wheel drive? What would compel me to carve my name into his leather seats? Who in their right mind would take a Louisville Slugger to both headlights? Only psychopaths want to slit holes in all four tires just to teach someone to think before he cheats.

No one cheated on me. But I am that furious at someone. I would slit holes in his tires. I would slap him if I could. I am so consumed with hate for this person I wish God would just smite him. I am not a happy camper.

I am angry. I am not showing the love of Christ. This is a problem. I hope God can reign me in before I have another conversation with this man, or by all that is good and holy, I might just do something about which a country singer might croon.

Never have I ever been this pissed at anyone outside family. Never have I ever identified with a country song. Never have I ever needed Christ so much as now.

To Sit in Solemn Silence...

2009-11-24T10:23:00.002-06:00

I am awaiting my executioners. In seven minutes (now six), I have a committee meeting that will determine whether or not I can use my senior thesis as my senior thesis. It is a long story, but the general gist is that my research I chose to write up was from another university, from my work at NYU. I got this okayed with my advisor, with the capstone advisor, with my mentor, and my two readers. But, all of sudden, a week before I have to turn a bound copy in signed and all, they raise some questions as to the validity of my research. AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Why must these people hate me so?

In other news, I am still depressed.

Also and otherwise, I am trying to figure out how to teach persuasiveness. Luckily, Aristotle and Plato are helping me (Demosthenes and Cicero too), but if you know of anyone who can help teach that thing I just said, let me know.

I am exhausted beyond all reason.

Nyquill gives strange dreams.

Really?

2009-11-19T01:19:00.002-06:00

There has to be a point when you can't cry anymore. I want to be there. I want to be done crying. Is there a tear duct removal surgery? Is there--is there balm in Gilead?

Senior-Thesis Induced Frustration

2009-11-02T09:40:00.002-06:00

I feel like I only rant on my blog. Perchance the blog is the new soap box. In 100 years when nobody blogs anymore, they may in fact say, "Oh, sorry that I am ranting. It is just that this issue is my blog topic."

I am frustrated with my mind. It is broken, I think. I can't think. I mean, I am sitting here trying to write. I have 3 more pages I have to write. And I can't. I just can't. I am unable to string words together in a seemingly coherent structure. I just can't. This is petrifying.

I think I can do and know everything. I know that I do not do nor do I know everything. But, I tend to think that if I put my mind to it, then I could. Pride, hubris, outrageous arrogance.

Flying is a good example of this. I have always wanted to fly. Living in OK with its open skies and epic sky space has worsened my condition. Sometimes I look up and would give anything to just leap and forget to fall. I tried throughout my life to make myself fly. (Next time you see me ask me about the story involving the trampoline, swimming pool, roof, and wagon. Hehehe...).

Okay, so it is okay to want to fly, but I get angry about my inability sometimes. Not furious, but silently angry. As I look at the wide blue awesomeness that I will never explore, I just feel so small, so impotent. Infuriating.

But, I hide my sorrow in knowing that I can do/know most actually doable things. Cooking, cleaning, plumbing, mechanical, school-related stuff. I mean, when there is something to be done and I don't know how to do it, I read everything I can find on it and then do it. And, I usually do it well. Changing oil, fixing toilets, baking croissants, etc. All of those I made myself learn. I take pride in that. I take pride in knowing that I can apply my mind and make it happen. That's how I feel limitless, as if I could rule the world if I put my mind to it.

This is a big part of my identity. And I feel it is being taken out. No matter how I am feeling internally, I am able to overcome that and be the perfect friend/daughter/student. No...now I can't. I am supposed to do great things with my life. But, I couldn't say yes when I got in to med school. I am supposed to be able to do my school work. This is not hard. It is a paper. It is complex, but I can't. I can't. And that is freaking me out. I am shaking and scared. I am supposed to be able to do this.

I want to be able to can. But I can't. I am frustrated and angry. Why can't I? I just am so frustrated. No, I am angry. I am downright pissed that I can't make myself do something so simple. I just can't.

This makes me angry at God. I don't know why he is taking my ability to do. I mean, I wasn't doing terrible things. I was applying this gift of ability for good. I was helping people and doing things. Now I am impotent, unable to do anything, even write a paper.

This is probably some good thing that will make me a better person or whatever. I may be in a phase that will resolve into something better. In 10 years, I may look back and say that I am so glad that I went through this.

But right now, I see no hope. I see nothing. I am angry. I am frustrated. I am alone. I am bitter. I am craving escape.

And I still need to write three more pages.

Pride and the Wal-Mart Pharamcy

2009-10-21T09:33:00.002-05:00

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarums of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

By Matthew Arnold

I needed to fulfill a prescription for anti-seizure medication. Unfortunately, my insurance was being...difficult...so I went to Wal-Mart and joined the ranks of the functionally uninsured. What? Middle class, intellectual, cravat-wearing me waiting at the Wal-Mart pharmacy being categorized with the doped crazies and the senile geriatrics that frequent this poor-man's fix-Mecca?! As I sipped my Earl Grey and they their whiskey, I felt dually superior and refined. As I judged them for their infirmities, I realized how wonderfully perfect I was. I left thanking God that I was not such as these.

No. That is a lie.

The line was long. It is always long. I had my 3/4 of a hundred to waste on 18 pills. My mind was ablaze. Anger at my insurance company, anger at myself, anger at Wal-Mart, anger at the flimsy-ness of my budget, anger at the world, anger at God, anger at...
HI!
The voice startled me from my anger.
Hi. My name is Joanna. And this is the third time I have been stuck in this line.
Joanna's my sister's name. I replied. Why have you been here so long?
Her eyes were wide, seemed spread open too much, and were constantly darting back and forth.
I had surgery three days ago. She said. She didn't say what type. I am in such pain.
She moved rigidly like a a twitchy puppy. As she talked, I eyed her over: nothing seemed wrong with her head, her short blond boycut was odd but there were no sutures. Her legs, revealed by cut off jean shorts, had no sign of swelling or trauma. Same with her arms. She was thin, almost pretty aside from the mania behind her blue eyes. Her toenails had been painted red but now were chipping and decrepitly stuck out of her flip flops in a regretful sort of way. Of course, torso surgeries are the most common, my medical mind echoed pulling me back to the present, sort of.
Three times! Three.I have been here three times. The first time I came and waited in this line. Oh, but my check from work is not...so...my mom had to come but she doesn't drive any more and she...yeah, but the bitch left before we got through this line, this fucking line. She left a check but then they, those idiots, wouldn't take it because I didn't have her ID. Oh God, I am in such pain. I just want to get through.
I told her I would hold her place in line. That she should sit down in the waiting chairs.
Oh, no. She reassured me. My husband is here. He will take my spot when he gets back.
Her voice was squeaky.
Oh right, like, so now in line with the check and her ID and I am going to get medicine. I want to not be in pain. I mean, I had surgery two days ago.
In my mind, I wondered how 2 could equal 3.
At this point, her husband came back. Every single stereotype for white trash was epitomized by him. He walked over to her, muttered something that, even to my trained Southern-hick acclimated ears, was unintelligible. He handed her a few items--deodorant, chapstick, and condoms--and sat himself down on the waiting benches. She smiled at me.
He is the best, I mean, the fucking best, she said, her crazy eyes focusing rested on him for a moment.
For the next ten minutes, she told me how much she hated Wal-Mart, her job as a waitress, and her landlady. For those ten minutes, I was wrestling internally. Part of me wanted to touch her and heal her, to say something to her that made her better that fixed the pain and her mental torture that made it hard for her to use complete sentences. But, another part of me wanted to yell at her: You fool! They won't take your mom's check with your mom's ID without your mom. Your husband is a selfish ass. You probably didn't have surgery and are just after the pain pills. You are pathetic, low-class, and crass. You just don't get it, do you? You don't stop and think about your life. You don't stop and think about existence. You just are. And that is okay for you. That makes you inferior to me.

I felt very guilty for these thoughts. Our time finally came and we went to adjacent cashiers. My transaction went smoothly: 15 hours of work exchanged for 18 little pills. Hers not so much. Of course, they wouldn't take the check. She got agitated. She started yelling. Her husband came over. Both of them were yelling. The managers were called. My cashier quickly handed me my receipt and pills and dialed security. I beelined out of Wal-Mart. In my car, I realize that I could of helped them. I could have offered to pay for them. I could have helped. But, I didn't. I didn't cause I didn't want to. I didn't want to be penniless, I didn't want to be burdened, I didn't want to be associated. But, but, I told myself, maybe she was after drugs. I could get in major trouble for being associated with that. It is wise that I didn't get involved.

But, I knew that I was guilty. Even if I did the right thing by not helping, my thoughts and my silent, unexhibited judgment condemned me.

I cried.

A Long Awaited Ramble

2009-10-20T13:17:00.002-05:00

I am going to ramble. Ready, set, go.

I'd like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly. That is a line from Owl City's song Fireflies. I like this song. It is very pertinent to me. It is a happy and upbeat song about being utterly depressed. It is hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I am asleep cause everything is never as it seems. I mean, there it is. This song seems like a happy ditty about bugs, but everything is never as it seems. I dig this song.

Jealousy. I have never been jealous before. Untrue. I have never acknowledged my jealousy before. This is weird. It sucks. I feel very helpless. I am jealous of everything it seems! I am jealous of my friends with boyfriends, of my friends with career plans, of my friends who fit into size 2 jeans. ACK! I liked it better when I was just in denial. It was not so painful, I think. But, less real, I presume. Doesn't make it better. What do you do with jealousy? I try to love and try to pray and try to give it to Jesus. But, I am still miserable. It really sucks with friends with boy/girlfriends. Not only do they flaunt their now-significant other, but they also neglect me now. Sadness. I hate being ignored. I like attention. I am a 3 yr old.

I was thinking about teaching styles today as I had my first parent teacher conferences. Professor Beck and Professor Fears have the same attendance policy. Both of them don't take attendance. Both of them really only require attendance at test time. Yet Beck's students never show whilst Fears always has a packed house. Is it the drama and fervor with which Fears teaches? Is it because blood and gore innately inspire more than grammar and syntax could ever? My hypothesis is one of respect. Professor Beck, that marvelous, marvelous man, doesn't want your respect. He loves Greek and wants you to love it too. Talk to him. He will say something to the effect of professors are not much better than students, we are all learning, etc. Talk to Fears and you will see that he wants respect. No, he doesn't want it. He demands it. And, because he is clear, because he knows what he wants and has the knowledge needed to acquire it, he is respected. He is feared. He is Fears. But, he does not love you like Beck.

Shout Out: A Blurb

2009-10-18T09:25:00.008-05:00

Normally on my blog, I pull from my great wealth of existential source writings, but today, dear friends, I am instead writing a shout out. Yes. I have become a cooperate sellout, a friend of the Man! No. Just the opposite, really! This small, privately owned company fights the Man by making wonderfully un-cheesy spiritual t-shirts that are actually witty, cool, and not trite

This is a cheesy shirt. Notice how it is not witty, not cool, and so trite that it is starting to smell.

This is not a cheesy shirt. Instead, it is witty, slightly elitist (you need to know who Che Guevara and Martin Luther are), and fresh.

But, this company that I am espousing arose from a desire to put blurbs from hymns that we know and love onto tshirts. The results are awesome.

This is an awesome result.

Okay, so the website is this:
http://www.blurbshirts.com/

I am a happy owner of three blurb shirts (first person who guess which three correctly will get a prize! (Jolly, you are excluded from this contest)).

These are some great shirts. Yeah, they are $15 a pop, but, in my opinion, well-worth it. They are real, fresh, unique, and pretty. Yeah, I just said pretty. What are you going to do about it?

Not your normal Christian T-shirt

So, guys, I strongly suggest getting cool shirts from blurb. Yeah, I am plugging for them. No, they aren't giving me money. No, they are not blackmailing me. I just really like these shirts and wanted to share them with the people whom I love and/or who read my blog without me knowing.

On Being Productive

2009-10-06T18:17:00.002-05:00

I have 50 lines of Homer to translate, a paper on the structural and biochemical analysis of Lamellipodin to write and revise, a book on the introduction to literary criticism to read, and a class lesson to plan. Instead, I am blogging. It will be brief.

I am working in the library, the job I have had for almost three years. It is a bit boring sometimes, but I love the work. I love the quietness. The unepicness. I like the blah-ness because I struggle with obsessing over epicness. I feel sometimes that my life needs to be epic. As if I will be fulfilled and happy if my life is like that of Achilles or Bill Gates or someone AWESOME. I get really depressed sometimes because if I am honest with myself my life is mundane, boring, and somewhat pathetic. Okay, okay, really pathetic. I want to be someone. I don't know why. There is no someone that I really like. I mean, I read about great characters, but are they really great? Michelangelo was only made awesome by historians. We look at his art which is cool, but do we know him? Maybe I want to make my mark. I am not artistic or musical. Fail. So, sitting here amid ancient texts that no one ever comes to read soothes me. They were epic, yet they are not. Maybe I don't have to be epic. Maybe, the old books whisper, I can just sit here in the library shelving and processing to my heart's content till I die a totally nonepic death and that will be okay.

I just want someone to look at my life and say, "Yep. This one is not a total waste."

Jesus does that. But he doesn't speak. Or I don't hear him at least.

Sigh

2009-10-01T12:07:00.000-05:00

Dark. It is dark. I am at Cafe Plaid in the north west corner booth. There was no light bulb in the socket and it was dark.
I turned on the song "Painted Black" to fit the mood.
But then a man came and put in a light bulb. For a moment, it was bright, brighter than all the other booths.
dc Talk's "In the Light."
It was warm. Then, it went out.
Dead Milkmen's "Life is Shit."
I tried twisting it. No light. I then clicked it. It flicked on.
"Only Hope" from A Walk to Remember
I looked at the light with tears in my eyes. Yes, I thought, light. It is so dark. I am so alone. I am lost, but the light...It flicked off.
"Lost!" Coldplay
I got a little upset. I took the bulb out. I put it back in. I clicked it. I hit it on the table. The other people in the booth section began looking at me strangely.
"Act of Desperation" from Chicago
Why? Why can't I have a little light? I cried aloud in my head. Why can't there be a silver lining? Why is everything so miserable and dark and terrible? Why? Why must I go on and face another day of darkness? I just want a little light to study by. I don't need a sun. I just want a little light.
"Could you put a light on, please?" Harry Chapin
I begin to cry. Not just cry. Sob. Silently shaking shoulders. Stiff intake of breathe. The whole nine. I laugh. This is ridiculous. I am crying about a nonworking bulb at Cafe Plaid. Really?
"Natural Fool" Lil' Cap'n Travis
I wiped the tears off my face. I make myself smile. I try to make that smile go through me and smile up the inside. I fail. But I remain fiercely smiling. A friend walks up. We small talked. I tried to hide the despair. I want to tell him that my light is gone. I don't know if it will ever turn back on. He leaves to meet with a friend. I start to cry again. It is dark. It is dark. It is dark.
Sigh.

In the Decks

2009-09-15T17:25:00.004-05:00

I am sitting at the front desk in the History of Science collections. I have homework to do, which I am allowed to do here, but my mind is restless, restless about my past, my present, and my future. The cheesy cliche-ness of that last line did not go unnoticed on my part, dear reader, but I have conceded that I am actually one big cliche wrapped in an idiomatic expression with triteness drizzled on top. Yummy.

My imagination has been working overtime. It happens, when papers tests and other things start demanding my attention, that my mind tries really hard to ignore the impending reality of failure and instead daydreams. Working in the library does not help that. In fact, it worsens it exponentially. Whenever I walk down an aisle filled with voluptuous books, my lustful mind wanders where it should not go. For instance, I walked down the Ancient Greek theory aisle not two hours ago. I saw Greeks popping out of books talking about their perspectives on mimesis, three Greek words tried to mug me as I side-stepped the Peloponnesian War. It was epic but not quite as epic as my run in with Homer: he is one person, not many, just so you know. Going down fiction aisles are even worse.

But, the worst is just my general mind explorations in the library. I mean, the building itself is a maze of shelves and cockamamie floors. It is somewhat silent. There are books that have not been opened in hundreds of years that may or may not contain curses, trapped princes, and money inside their weather-worn pages. I have imagined my death more times in Bizzell than any other location. I mean, it plays like a movie. You and a friend are being chased by an ax murderer. You run into the decks. You and your friend separate accidentally, but there is NO time!! You hide between Voltage and Voltaire. You wait. Thump.Thump.Thump. Is that your heart or the stairs? You look up and see that your friend is right above you. You also see the heavy footsteps of another going towards him/her. You shout out, but it is too late! Blood stains the semitransparent glass and you realize your friend is dead. You wait in silence. You see him coming down the stairs covered in blood. You...oooh, I am getting goosebumps. Suffice it to say, ax murderers are constantly killing me in the decks.

Okay, okay, so that is a bit morbid. Yes, but I also have sickly sappy stories in the Decks. Think Music Man except not quite. Oh to find a romantic encounters with my soul mate as I reshelve books! Excuse me! Oh, yes sir? Could you help me find Nagy's dissertation on Homeric forms because I read Symth's and found it quite erroneous? You don't say: have you read Eagleman's? Our eyes lock. Ah, all you need is love! Or perchance an angry scene in a long term relationship. Huffing and puffing, I go to the L's only to run into...YOU! What are you doing here? Darling, I knew you would come to the Ls to look up Lloyd's historiographical work the Way the the World and I wanted to apologize! No, ____, it's over! My heart can't take it any more!! (Insert melodramatic music here that leads into a musical number...wait...what!). My mind has not always been so innocent either. Sometimes, I have thought about making out in the stacks. It is awkward.

But alas, I have not been killed or kissed in the stacks though I have many times thought of it. Oh, I also have day-dreamt about opening a book and obtaining secret powers. This stemmed from me once finding an old $5 bill in a copy of Thucydides in Greek. There was a note in Greek citing a line from Herodotus (I had to look it up) where Herodotus says that the riches of Croesus were not enough to save his kingdom. In trying to find out whose it was, I discovered the book hadn't been checked out since the 40s. I kept the bill and put a new one in its place. Perchance someone in 2069 will find it. Or maybe all the books will have been eaten by then by the monster that was accidently released when I opened the accursed book! Or maybe I will open a book and fall into a world where words are eaten like apples and time grows on trees and Martin Luther never nailed the 95 theses! Gasp. Who knows??

But, alas, I sit here on the desk working my imagination while not moving forward at all. I am trite. Many of my mental ramblings are actual stories that I have fallen into and am still dripping from. Eh, c'est la vie. But, I hope I am not the only one who has been gruesomely murdered/passionately embraced/enhanced with super human strength in the stacks. I wonder if I could ever bring up this conversation with you in person. I don't know. I think I would be too embarrassed.

Shake'n'Bake

2009-09-07T09:29:00.002-05:00

So, we have a three day weekend. I had planned to go home, but that didn't work out. I am here. My roommate/best-friend/motivator-to-get-me-out-of-the-house was sick and in bed. I did a little homework. I watched have of Pirates of the Caribbean. Then, I sat and I thought. I asked myself of all the things I could be doing, what did I want to do.

The answer: cook.

So, I made my first beef stock (I just massacred removing the fat...does anyone have a good method of removing the fat from atop chilled stock). Then I got some yeast, flour, and water and went to work. I made my infamous sweet plain bagels and then some cinnamon raisin (+ mace!) bagels and then I made 2:1 whole wheat bread. Yum. Since I wasn't rushing (as I usually am), I was able to give things extra rising times and so everything was puffy and nice. (I almost wrote puffalow but I didn't).

I love baking. But life is somewhat like making a bagel. You start out soft and goopy, but then time adds flour and you start to thicken. Then God starts kneading you. Ouch. Then he will let you rise for a little bit, but then you start to get puffed up and so he punches you down. Repeat. Then he molds you into the shape that he wants and let's you rise. Uh-Oh, you are puffy again. Look, there's a pot of boiling water! AKK! So, he makes you boil, but now you will not get puffed up again. So, you are sitting there steaming and at that moment you realize that God is in control. That you will be okay. That this bagel making process is outside your comprehension. So, you say to God, "Use me the way you want to use me." At that moment, God slathers on you a fine egg and milk coating. While you think to yourself, WTF, you are trusting. You are ready for the next step: into the oven you go! It's hot. It's uncomfortable. But you notice your egg-milk coat browning. You notice your yeast bubbling. And you realize that even though the cupcake gets it so much easier, you are content to be a bagel. You pop out of the oven. You are done. You then reach glorification after dying, aka being consumed. Whoa. I am bagel.

Shower-tastic

2009-09-02T10:26:00.002-05:00

I need to take a shower. I don't want to. This is an irrational response. I love feeling clean and fresh. I thoroughly relish knowing that I don't smell foul in class.

But I sit here dreading the flow that is to come.

Why is that? I do not know. It is probably depravity. No, it is probably sin's fault that I have to shower. Grrr...sin...

This semester is painful. Emotionally painful, physically painful, spiritually painful. Unlike last semester, I am not trying to dull my pain with bottling up my emotion or utilizing the pain pill bottle. This sucks. But it is better.

I think I have a cold. No, I know I have a cold. Statement: I have a cold.

I don't want to shower.

I am getting in the shower.

Tired, I'm tired.

2009-08-26T07:28:00.000-05:00

The first week of classes is always a flurry of excitement. Finding the right room, finding the right book, finding time to do homework, finding yourself. This year, school seems strange and I am tired.

What's next? Eh, who cares? What's due? Whatever.

I have hit the apathetic senior wall. And it's week one of classes.

Home

2009-08-18T23:46:00.004-05:00

What is the nature of home? Is it the place where you feel the best? Is it the locality where you grew up? Is the meaning of this word definable with the linguistic and cognitive constraints of human existence?

I love Norman. I feel very at home here. But does it mean it's my home? I mean, far far away I have a place that has my family, a house, an address. Lately, I have really felt like I don't belong there. They don't seem to like whom I have become. Does that mean it's not my home? Does that mean here, this place away from my family, this city of friends and school, is my home? Is home the place where I feel most comfortable?

If so, then home is just a feeling, an ephemeral emission of dopamine, norepinephrine, and oxytocin. Really? Is home just a feeling, a vague emotion?

I love Norman. I am here with a roommate who is dear to me, who laughs/makes fun of me when my mind goes on its random seemingly narcotic induced (but totally legit) tangents. I have friends whose house I can crash at whenever. I have mentors who chastise me and help me see my flaws. Is this home?

It feels like home, but at the same time it is lacking. My mom isn't here. My brothers and sisters aren't here. I want them to be here. I want them to see me here in this place where I am relaxed and free. I want them to see me and say, "A sinner, but our family." I want them to love me. I want them to sit in a bookstore and read with me for hours and hours.

They are not here. This is home. But it isn't.

I can't wait till I go home to heaven and do not have to have these conflicting feelings of home/not home.

The Itinerary

2009-08-15T07:01:00.004-05:00

It is that day, the day that throughout this long and arduous summer I thought would never actually come: today I start my journey to Norman. Now that it is here I don't know what to do with myself. I am scared that I hyped Norman too much in my mind and that when I return it will be like the kid who really likes Chuck E Cheese and waits and waits to go back and then finally he does only to realize that he no longer fits inside the play place and even worse he doesn't even like the play place anymore and the ferris wheel lift now seems somewhat insipid.

Wait! What am I saying?? The Ferris Wheel Lift is NEVER insipid.

Anywho, I am struggling with the usual emotions: sadness at leaving the family, anxiety for the long and lonesome road (expect phone calls, peeps!), and exhaustion. But, unlike the last times, my sadness is dwarfed an uncontrollable desire to return to Norman, to hug some roommate, to drink with some others, to babysit some babies and babbies, to be with these people who are now a part of my story.

What?! I am supposed to be a rock and an island. This emotion, this excitement, it feels wrong...

But it's not. I am going to see you soon. It is going to be awesome. But for now, I get to take an epic two day car trip. There will be much singing, much musicalling, much phone calling (yay weekend minutes!), much crying, much speeding (not too much), much visiting with Annie, Mary, and the Dixons, and much Penelope-Becky bonding time.

Then, of course, I will settle. I can't wait to be settled for the next 9 months of my crazy and always unpredictable life.

Oh, yeah...

2009-08-13T18:09:00.000-05:00

For those of you who read my blog and haven't talked to me, I have decided NOT to do medicine or research for the time being. While I do not know where God will lead me in my future, I decided not to even apply to schools. Instead, I am going to do...something else...teach? beach bum? Qui sais? But I am not ready to commit to medicine and I hate research with an ungodly passion.

That is all.

Life Update

2009-08-12T19:08:00.003-05:00

So, I am in Tennessee with the family. Yesterday I moved my brother into his college dorm in Cηαττανοογα ΤΝ. Οη δεαρ, Ι σομεηος τθρνεδ ον μυ γρεεκ σψριπτ. τηισ ισ οδδ...ηος δο Ι ψηανε ιτ βαψκ?!? Oh, that was scary...stupid hot keys...where was I? Oh yes, I moved my brother into his dorm. It was sad. He was scared. I didn't like leaving him there alone. I cried. It was emotionally draining. I am excited for Daniel. I just wish he was at OU.

Anyway, below is a recap of my life this summer. If you have been a bad correspondent, then this will catch you up mostly aside from a few major things that are not blog appropriate.

June: Arrive in Boston. Find hangers. Begin working as a research pathologist at Harvard Med. Get steeped in pretension. Throw up. Get really sick. Have nervous breakdown. Sickness worsens. Get better. Still hate work. Still hate Boston. Make friends. Get really sick. Go to the hospital. Leave the hospital. Go to work. Work. Work. Work. Sleep. Busk. Work. Work.

July: Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work. Sleep. Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work. Visit family. Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.Work. Servens visit! Work.Work.Work.Work.Work.

August: Work.Work.Work.Work.Work. Go home. Move Daniel in. Cry like a baby. Come home. Start getting ready for Norman...

In three days, I leave for Memphis and hang out with Annie for a day (I love Annie). Then, I will depart for Norman on Sunday staying with some awesome people on Sunday night and moving in to my apartment on Monday.

I have no time to think about where I am. I have no time to get done the plethoras of things that need to be accomplished. I am tired, overworked, and underpaid.

But that is okay. I am almost ready to get my vacation back at school.

Nashville. Again.

2009-08-09T19:52:00.002-05:00

Portland Maine is just the same as sunny Tennessee
Portland Maine is just the same as sunny Tennessee
Any old place I hang my hat is home sweet home to me

That lyric by my current favorite musician (but not my favorite mandolinist...)is completely and totally erroneous. While I was 2 hours from Portland, MA for the last 10 weeks, I am now in Sunny Tennessee.

They are completely different.

Nashville is currently at 91 degrees. Boston is 67.
In Nashville, my parents pay the electric bill so there is no air condition. In Boston, my air was set on 60 all day long.
In Boston, I was alone. In Nashville, I get 24/7 family coverage.
One is a home. The other was a temporary location.

Perhaps though, that is because I don't have a hat to hang.

I am hot and sweaty. I am going through my room and getting rid of old clothes and old things that I no longer need. It is nostalgic and sweaty. Mostly sweaty.

I don't miss Boston. I miss my friends and the ease of living alone. But, I do not miss the temperate weather or the impressive skyline or even Mike's pastry (okay, I miss Mike's Pastry a little bit).

It is hard to think that I will have to leave here in 6 days. I am so happy to get to Oklahoma, but at the same time, I wish my scenery didn't have to change so quickly. I wish I had more time to get my mind settled. It seems that I will just forget Boston when I arrive in OKC.

The mind is a strange thing. Already the last ten weeks are becoming ethereal. Did I really jump off a bridge in Cambridge? Did I really go and buy white heels with my friend three days ago? Did I really present my research to my peers? Did I really get to know some awesome people? The details are fresh but cloudy. As if I had entered a tollbooth or wardrobe to another world and now I am back here wondering if I am going crazy. I hold my shoes and remind myself I am not.

Or at least, not any more than usual.

I sit here typing surveying my room. Piles of clothes. Charity pile, Trash Pile, Keep Pile, and Clothes-I-should-give-away-cause-I-never-wear-but-I-love-a-lot pile. The last pile is weighing on my heart. My college shirts are in that pile. Cornell, Harvard, Stony Brook. Those were my dream schools in order. They sent me shirts. I wore my Cornell shirt to my first day of Boren's Poli Sci class and he lectured me on how he hated OU students wearing other school's memorabilia. I made it a point to always wear a different college shirt to his class for a month, but I never wore them around again.

Love

2009-08-06T07:56:00.002-05:00

Oh, tis the summer of love! Or at least, tis the summer of thinking about love! There was a lot of love floating around Boston this summer...

First, there is the love of Christ so rich and free. I realized I did not know what that meant. (think agapa for you Greek speakers).

Second, there is the love of friends who are far away. I never had close friends that I missed before. This was the first summer I have ever missed someone who wasn't a family member. Whoa. Weird. And what's even worse is that there are more than one of you! I spent hours on the telephone (sorry about using all the minutes, Mom) and got hand cramps from letter writing and methodically check facebook every couple hours to see if anyone wrote me. The first word that comes to mind is pathetic. But, no, it isn't pathetic. I believe needing people is pathetic and that is just blatantly untrue. From now on, I am going to be more needy!!! Cough.

Third, there is L-o-o-ve. The eros (for you Greekers! The last one was filos if you were being smart, which if you have, had, or do study Greek, you are). There has been some romantic tension here at SHURP. (Random unrelated shout out to the Doctor of Love and his beautiful wife in Ithaca!). I have doubled my date count (from 1 to 2!) and have been steadily "friend dating" a guy and then it turned awkward turtle on me, but oh well. Mostly, I spend time thinking about romantic love, about husbands and children, about "settling down." Then, I spend a whole lot of time thinking about thinking about love. Which ultimately leads me to Jesus again...

Suffice it to say, I am glad God loves me.

Countdown

2009-08-03T05:35:00.002-05:00

5 days
126 hours
7619 minutes
457172 seconds

Till I leave Boston

13 Days
318 Hours
19138 Minutes
1148298 Secods

Till I hit Norman

FYI

2009-07-31T08:47:00.000-05:00

8 days, 2 hours, 46 minutes and 42 seconds

That is how much time I have left in Boston.

Wait. What?

2009-07-27T16:31:00.003-05:00

I broke the change machine in the laundry room. It wasn't my fault. It was early on Saturday. I had two washers and needed to dry but I only had one dollar on my card. The only money I had was in the pocket of the jeans that I washed. Who knew a wet dollar bill would make the machine groan like a woman in labor? Who knew? I am so sorry. I didn't mean to break it.

I break things. I break people. I break myself. I need a break.

The jammed, labor-panged change machine made a noise: eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr. It was unerring. It was metronomic. It was my tell-tale heart. If the police had shown up, I would have flung back the floor boards and shrieked, "Villains! Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of its hideous heart!"

I thrust all my clothes in one dryer. When I came down an hour or so later, the machine was still writhing in pain: eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr. I turned up my headphones and began folding my half-dried clothes. I was distracted: I balled my white socks with my black, I turned my right-side-out shirts inside out. I couldn't bear to look over at the pitiful machine. Even though I drowned out the noise with my headphones, the light still blinked on beat: blink---blink---blink---eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr.

In haste and guilt and shame, I thrust my damp garments in my reusable shopping bag and bounded upstairs. I was shaken. I was ashamed. To loosen myself, I thought I would go for a run. I turned up my head phones and pounded the pavement--err, the treadmill. As usual, I picked a song whose rhythm fit the pace of my lead foot: I(thump)---feel(thump)---so(thump)---untouched(thump)---right(thump)---now(thump)---(thump)---eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr. It followed me the entire 5K before I ran and hid.

At this point, my guilt was overwhelming. It is probably still whirring downstairs crying for aid. Who is going to fix it? Who do you tell? I wanted to tell someone. I wanted to reveal my shame. I wanted to strip off my shirt, beat my breast, and cry, "Look at me, a sinner weak and vile! Judge me! Exonerate me! Save me!"

Of course, as I paced yo-yoing in my room, angst ridden, sweaty, and forlorn, I realized that this was an exaggerated response. Everyone breaks things. Why was I so upset? It is then I realized that the change machine was a metaphor for my life: the engine must be our head, the dining car our esophagus, the guard's van our left lung, the cattle truck our shins, the first-class compartment the piece of skin at the nape of the neck and the level crossing an electric elk called Simon.

I screwed some things up royally. With people. With myself. With God. I am guilty. I stand in complete shame with no hope of self-justification. The machine eerrrs my guilt. I can't escape it: not in running away physically or literarily. I am cornered by the stark realization of my total depravity.

I get bogged down by this machine. I forget my hope, my savior, and redeemer. That is bad. I need to be reminded of grace. Not just depravity.

Basically, I need Jesus to miraculously come down from heaven fix the change machine in the bottom of Vanderbilt Hall so that the eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr---eerrrr---ing stops.

Ode to the Teenage Smutty Novel

2009-07-20T16:22:00.003-05:00

Oh smutty teenage novel
whose 432 pages I read today
whilst working
I hate you, yet I love you.
I love you for your ease of reading
your addictive yet vapid subject matter
for your ability to make me feel
as if I could write a novel
too
(but why would I want to pervert the world
in such a way as you do?)
I love you for the way you make me feel:
I can follow all your "big twists"
and I can predict all your "character" flaws.
I can read at 93 pages an hour.
It makes me feel smart. Almost classy.
Until the dirtiness sets in and
makes me feel like a cheap whore
on the side of the street who once
was a princess but now, intentionally,
has spit in the face of her savior and
has climbed in the gutter where no one
can save her.
But, the reason, the only reason, I keep
flipping your flaccid pages
and returning to the rot
which is you
is that my brain
after 9 months of aching
cannot read and comprehend
and I
am
left
alone
without
books
and
my
character-friends
for
a
month
or
two
as
I
heal
.
Then, all of a sudden
I do not just read:
I devour
You are my baby food that
leads me to the meat
every summer and break
So, I thank you.
I hate you.
Just as I hate mashed carrots that
my mom forced down my throat.
But, thanks.

All that to say, I just read Hero by Perry Moore which was a poorly written superhero story about a homosexual hero-to-be who has to come to grips with his father's shame and his mother's invisibility all whilst falling in love and saving the world. I give it a F+.
I just finished Death Be Not Proud by John Gunther about his son's death via brain tumor. Quite good. I cried several times.
I am 1/4 of the way through Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks (of Radio Lab fame--think kidneys!). It is a wonderful intellectual novel about music (duh) and the science of the brain. So awesome.

I always think that I have lost my love for reading cause I will prefer to veg out to How I Met Your Mother than read Jayber Crow. Then, without fail, it comes back, and the rest of the world goes on pause, because I am reading.

Thoughts amid a silver stain.

2009-07-14T15:18:00.004-05:00

So, I am still in lab. I am very tired. I cut my left index finger open on a razor blade. I am dumb.

Work is good. I enjoy working. I hate work. But, I enjoy sleeping. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream! I don't like dreams. There may be Harry Potter in my future. My bed hurts my back.

The last four working days I have worked very hard which is good but it also drains me and sustains me. Ugh. Yay.

I am worried right now. I am worried that I may need stitches and how this will affect my banjo playing. I suck at playing the banjo anyway. Why am I worried?

I am worried right now about later. Where will I live in the fall? Who will I marry? What will I do with my life? Though the fig tree may not blossom and I become a bum and let everyone down, yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

I am sad. I don't know why. I do. I am sad that the fall happened. I am sad that there is pain, silence, and death. But, I am saddest that there is nothing I can do to fix it. In fact, I just make it worse.

My PI talked for our program today. I was proud. It was like showing off a new toy: yep, this one is mine. He is a doctor. My dad is a doctor. He is not my dad. I think all men are my dad.

I have a pimple coming up on my chin. I find myself picking at it when I try to think of what to write. An outline? I do not do "outlines."

This week I climbed to the roof of my building. I stared off the ledge for a few hours. Ten stories. I thought of a story for each floor. I had my cell phone and called a person for each floor and hit ten floor voicemails. People sound very different on their voicemails. I wonder if I sound different on mine.

The sky is cloudy like my mind. I used to think I could control the weather. I cried; it rained. Now I think the weather controls me.

Fenway

2009-07-11T06:24:00.002-05:00

Hey. What's up? We are going to the Sox game. Wanna come? Cool. Lobby, five minutes.

Fenway is about a mile from where I live. Like any stadium, it is big and crowded when there is a game going on: scalpers, buskers, beggers, hot dog-ers, all come like mosquitoes to where all the people are.

Our seats Bleacher 41, row 21--they were cheap--look out over the grass. The players, so adorable in their costumes, take the field. The dance is on.

I could poetically describe the rather uneventful 1-0 Sox victory, but I bet most of you would tune out. No, instead, I am going to tell you how going to a Sox game at Fenway is the perfect analogy for my summer.

I cheered. I drank an overly priced beer. I helped start the wave that circled the stadium four times. I laughed with my friends who came. I sang "Take me out to the ball game," "Sweet Carolina," and "Shipping up to Boston." I chanted "Bullshit! Bullshit!" at a sketchy homeplate call. I also heartily cheered "Yankees suck. Yankees suck." (We were playing the Royals). The weather was great. It was probably the best night of my summer.

Yet, there were three twinges. The first was remembering my other friends. While my SHURP friends are awesome, they don't have history with me. They don't know my quirks. The friendship curve is steep here, but the deeper friendship curve takes time. I cannot wait till I can quote hymn lines and my friends finish them.

The second was my brother Daniel. He got me into baseball. There is something epic when a 16 yr old and 13 yr old drive 5 hours in a mommy van to go see the Cardinals at Busch. After the adrenaline rush of a fledgling driver egged on by her brother with ears that poked awkwardly after his worn Cardinals cap, all other baseball experiences seem superfluous. I learned to score games at Daniel's little league ones. I cried when he came out in the bottom of the nine during the championship game, two outs, bases loaded, down by one. I cried not because he was going to lose it for the team, but because I knew that my brother knew what was at stake and he would be dying inside as he stood waiting for pitches for hours.

But, third, it was a Sox game. I still haven't quite gotten over the 2004 World Series. I am not a Sox fan. They are my favorite AL team, yeah, but they aren't mine. I am a Cardinal fan. That is who I am. I can tell you the players and their current hitting/pitching slumps. When I go to Busch stadium, I am a proud. The cheering the camaraderie: they're mine. At the Sox game, I enjoyed myself, but I felt dirty as if I was cheating on someone. In a sense, I was: I was rooting for someone not on my team.

This summer I am not where I need to be. Locationally, spiritually, ecumenically. Especially spiritually. I am lost. I am at Fenway. It is great, the people are great, the baseball's great. But it is not my home. I know this is not right. It is not me. I will continue to cheer and go on. I will have fun, but I will not ever be a Sox fan.

I need to go to Busch.

To the Right, to the right, to the right. To the left, to the left, to the left.

2009-07-07T19:57:00.002-05:00

You all know that you have two halves of your brain. You should know that the left brain controls math, language, and most motor function where as the right brain controls artistic skills, the idea of beauty, and feeling. Your left brain tells you who you are where as the right brain tells you how you feel about that.

There was a study done a decade or so ago where they studied adults who had witnessed terrible things (murder, rape, etc) in pre-cognitive stages, i.e. before the left brain understood language. They had more social problems that were unresponsive to therapy. They studied another group, adults who had witnessed terrible things post-cognitive, i.e. when they understood language and could speak albeit poorly (I can't find this article. My mom read it to me eons ago). The pre-cogs had much more issues and psychological problems likes schizophrenia than the post-cogs had. The theory was that stuff that happened to you before you could talk was remembered without a left-brain imprint. Think of it like a file with no name. You can search for that file as much as you want, but you won't be able to find it. You won't ever be able to put your finger on the issue.

What if that happens because instead of being cataloged by your calculating left brain, it imprints into your right? There have been crazy studies done on people with Alien hand syndrome (when your right hand literally doesn't know what your left is doing) and with people with split hemispheres that are just crazy! In our age, the age of the left brain, is our right going unheeded? Perchance, in some of our population, we are taught only to understand our left brain; our right brain is sorely neglected. Maybe that is why we have nervous breakdowns and depression. Because we don't take time to listen to our right brains and do irrational things.

That isn't to say we should just "do what we feel" cause that can be wrong and sinful and by thinking about it, we make it a left brain thing. See, we think using language most of the time. When I am self-evaluating or criticizing or writing this very blog, I am thinking words in language (left brain). But, when I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I don't think "get keys, open door, lock door, walk down hall, open door, go to stall, etc." I am really just thinking "uuuuuuhhhhh," which I am pretty sure is background noise for my right brain.

I have been taught (and I am sure some of you can corroborate) that feelings are sinful and bad, trust only reason. But that is dumb cause reason can get you into so much trouble too and is always influence by your emotions. Just if you deny them, then you are in denial. I mean, a recent studied showed that it takes around 7 choices in your rational brain to overwhelm it. Wimpy rational. Weak.

Another study was also fascinating. They measured brain waves of people and told them that at some point in the next 15 minutes to wiggle their fingers. So, there was a spike from the brain pre-wiggle, but there also was a tiny spike before the brain spike. What?! Yep, there was something that pre-cognitively said to wiggle. Now, on radiolab (the uber awesome radio show where they talked about this very experiment) the two hosts talked about free will: does this mean there is no free will? (I already, of course, knew that there wasn't). But, that made me think. Maybe that first spike was right brain saying, "Hey left brain, I feel like wiggling." Then the left brain nodded and said, "Okay, fingers do your thang!" And then the fingers danced. Perchance we are governed more by our right brain then we think.

In a House episode I saw a while back, a case presented with Alien Hand Syndrome. Somehow the right hand knew that this guys deodorant was causing his problems so he would throw it or slap the person handing it to him, etc. I think that is a bit of an exaggeration, but what if your right brain could see that something you were doing--excessive work, train of thought, etc--was bad for you and could stimulate excretions that made me you feel terrible. We know that when you get stressed out your body starts producing chemicals. What if depression is just your right brain reeking havoc on your neurological biochemistry for something you are not dealing with? That would be crazy!!

What makes me think this is that I am happy. Giddy, almost. Nothing has happened. I have not met a boy. I have not had any good results. Heck, if anything, I am worse. My stupid ankle decided that it was a good time to die and my knee is trying to compensate. I keep having really bad stomach aches and head pains. Furthermore, I am sicking lower and lower into the pit which is becoming a slacker: for the last two days, I have gotten back from work, ate dinner, watched tv, called a few people, and slept. Whoa. No practicing music, reading, drawing, rubick's cubing, or anything that I really enjoy doing. I dislike tv for the most part. But, maybe that is what my right brain is needing. My left brain has worked really hard. It has gotten to the point where I struggle to know what reality is sometimes cause my left brain is trying to sugar coat things (luckily, I have friends who tell me my life sucks). Maybe, it is because I am turning my left brain off for a few minutes and allowing myself to feel.

That sounds wishy washy. Hmm...more thought must be put into this. Later...

The 7:10 to Schenectady

2009-07-05T12:24:00.001-05:00

You need to take a bus ride.

Today, I set off at 5:15 am to catch the 7:10 am bus from South Station to Schenectady, residence of my dear Grandma Hershkowitz and current visiting place of the entire immediate Myers family save my eldest sister.

After taking the subway without any real interesting conversations, I entered South Station, Boston’s version of Grand Central Station. It is a pathetic replica like most of Boston, small, like your younger sister who is mimicking you whilst trying so, so hard to appear like she isn’t. Pathetic. To get to the bus terminal, you must walk outside on the Track 1 train platform. As I drug my backpack, banjo, and self across the terminal, I stared at the gray foreboding sky hopeful for a glimmer of light, a sliver of blue that would signify that this was actually 6:30 am, that time existed, that this was not my purgatory. But, alas, nothing but rain. Damn. This has been the gloomiest June in the recorded history of Boston. Seriously, it has made the record books. There have been three days of sunlight. Weird weather instigates a preponderance of small talk: everyone you meet will brainstorm with you reasons why it is the case. Global Warming? Pollution? Secret Russian plot? I alone know the reason. The sun doesn’t shine in Boston cause I am here.

Bemoaning my existence: that is what I am doing when I meet MJ. She is black, short, and thin. Missing all but two teeth which are huddled together in the bottom left corner of her mouth. She looks to be in her fifties, but her bulging belly indicates she must be younger. I keep hoping she had some stomach condition instead of another life inside her. Her hair sits on her head, matted, dirty, graying. She reeks of city which is impressive as Boston hides the smell furiously. She limps, right leg rigid in her maroon elastic pants. A huge green coat with large black buttons fastened all the way up her neck covers her torso; it would be all encompassing aside from her belly jutting out. While she talks she keeps pulling her left hand out from the enveloping sleeve.
Hello. I am MJ. I am the newly elected governor of Boston.
Hello. I reply. I am Becky. I am nothing to report.
Oh, I am also the minister too.
The minister of what?
Boston
She went on. She wanted equality for women and free dogs on Tuesdays. She refused to live in a house cause “real people don’t and I want to be real.”
I listened and asked questions. I asked if she needed help.
Damn. Look at you. She said laughing. You need help. I am the fucking newly elected governor of Boston. She started waving her packed of magazines around. Minister too! They were wet and looked ancient. In her other hand, she had a plastic CVS bag with God knows what in it.
I zoned out reflecting on the veracity of her last statement, but tuned back in as she exclaimed
Shit I haven’t eaten in three days and I am fine. Just fine. Great. Alive. Don’t need nobody.
Acting on impulse, I quipped, Oh you haven’t! Well, can I share my lunch with you?
I don’t take charity.
But you are the fucking governor of Boston. It is a gift. I continue babbling using words like nepotism and—if I remember correctly—referenced Ronald Reagan.
Don’t forget minister of Boston.
More reason for me to suck up to you.
Whattdaya got?
I had a sandwich and coke left over from last night’s lecture on transvection of actin-induced molecular something or other. She snatched them from me and scarfed them faster than I have seen anyone eat before. I offered to go get her more food, miss mayor.
That’s mister mayor to you.
I am very sorry.
No, I must go meet other people. I am the new elected mayor of Boston.

As she walked away, I went up to get my ticket, waited for my bus, and boarded. I cried intermittently.

On the bus, I wanted to sit and read. I had picked up a $1 book at the used book store. Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult. My mom is slightly obsessed with that author and I thought I read it to see what she was like. I am a pretentious book snob. But, mostly, I wanted to be left alone in my gloomy world, bemoaning MJ and her child, bemoaning my inability to help her, bemoaning my desire not to.

Hi, I am Kevin.
Hi, Kevin.
You like to read?
Yes.
Do you want to see a baby skunk?
He shows me a baby skunk, dead, in a Tupperware encased in a plastic CVS bag that reminded me of MJ. Does CVS give away free bags?
This is my Frog Frank. Frank the Frog.
He digs out his living frog also in a Tupperware in the crinkling pastic.
I silently ask God if a peaceful ride would be too much to ask for.

Kevin smells really, really bad. The inside of a old port-a-potty bad. He is dirty and is wearing flip flops. But, when a pregnant lady boards the already full bus in Worcester, he gives her his seat and curls up on the luggage rack and falls asleep clutching his zoological CVS bag. MJ's similar bag was a mystery and I sort of wish that he hadn't divulged his contents. But while we were bus neighbors I found out that he was going to Albany to visit his girlfriend. My immediate thought was how come I can’t get a date and this guy has a girlfriend? I immediately felt guilty for that thought. He told me about his parents both dead now. D-did d-d-rugs all the time. S-so bad-d. But my aunt sh-she rais-ded-d me and sh-she’s the best. D-do you like my s-skunk?

I could have said that his skunk really repulsed me and was probably festering with disease. I could have said it with such words as to belittle him. In this case, I was the superior being. I was god. I could have crushed his happy little dead skunk world.

Instead, I sputtered. I am not much of a skunk person. I think they smell funny.
Oh, you play with them long nuff you don’t s-smell them t’all!
Oh.

It was then he began talking to his dead skunk and I turned up my headphones and dove headfirst into the novel seeking, as I always do, protection from the world betwixt the pages of a book.

Why You Should Come to RUF

2009-06-30T22:31:00.002-05:00

I am excited cause today is halfway through this week and this week is halfway point of the summer which means I get to go back to Norman in less time than I did at the beginning of the summer.

One of the huge reasons I love Oklahoma University is my wonderful campus ministry RUF. Now I am not just saying it's awesome cause most of you reading this are RUF-related in some way. Oh no. In true reformed fashion, there are three alliterated reasons why I love RUF.

They are as follows:
1. Conformity
2. Competition
3. Community

I hate conforming. So much so that if something is popular I will do the opposite. That is not good cause that means I am finding my identity in a non-identity whereas biblically you are supposed to find your identity in Christ, which means that I should act not because I am pursuing atypicality but because I am pursuing truth. RUF is atypical. I initially started going BECAUSE it was atypical. But then I discovered that there were fraternity and sorority kids fully clad in Ugg boots. What? I thought, Why are they here? Through RUF, I learned that it was because they were seeking truth. Doug (our campus minister at OURUF) preaches from the gospel. The gospel is truth. Therefore, Doug preaches truth and that is invigorating to EVERYONE cause it is real and true. And hard. Many times Doug has said things that make me furious, make me almost want to punch him, but, since they are biblical, they are true and I need to stop living to my idol of uniqueness and live instead to the God of Truth.

Speaking of Doug, the second reason you should come to RUF is that Doug is one of the most competitive people I know. I mean, play Cornhole, Puerto Rico, Agricola, whatever, and you will see a man who gets frustrated, trash talks, etc. My favorite Doug story from last semester concerned a girl in RUF who fainted right after large group met. The next Sunday, in the middle of church, I notice Doug scribbling on his bulletin. Psst, he whispers across the aisle calling this girl out. He then flashes his bulletin: "Don't Faint" was scrawled in dark letters. Now, if you don't know Doug, this may seem strange. Doug really disconcerted me for a while. Pastors needed to be above the rest, walk with perfect posture, always have great hair, speak with a slight Southern twang and look a little like the Colonel from KFC. Okay, so I had/have a bad view of pastors. But, Doug is not a perfect person, and he will confess to that. He is real. He is weird. He is always there for you. After my freshman year, I came back early to work and had an unfortunate roommate experience. Knowing really no one (all my friends hadn't returned), I called Doug, with whom by this time I had had a handful one-on-one conversations. Tearfully, I explained my situation. He then told me that he was going on vacation that week, but I could have the keys to his house. What?? Yep, Doug left me his house. And, that is Doug Serven for you: competitive, quirky, but truly loving and willing to give you the house off his back.

So, with his quirkiness Doug reflects the love of Christ onto his students and that with God's grace is mimicked by the RUFers themselves and helps create "community." Now, I never had community and when I started coming to RUF, it was a bit of a buzzword. Everyone mentioned community and I was nonplussed. Having friends? Big deal. I was a loner. It was then God sent a slew of persecutions my way that made me realize I couldn't do it on my own. When I was freaking out, I had to call people I knew for help. And they helped me. More than that, we started to have conversations more than just "how are your classes?" or "strange weather, no?" I started to actually be a part of lives and other people meaning more to me than a good conversation or transactional friendship. Having people to lean on and trust, who screw you over sometimes but know they are sinners and are willing to hear your criticisms and apologize. Whoa. I didn't know this EXISTED! It is truly a family of friends who are there for you. My roommate has spent many hours with me as I cried and whimpered like a baby and I tell you I HATE DOING THAT. I hate it cause I want to be independent, but I am not. I am weak in need of help and I get that through community...

Which then points me to Christ! WHoa! She is pulling out her conclusion/fourth point (notice it still starts with a C). RUF is a ministry that is based on teaching the Bible and learning about Jesus. Through RUF, I learned that people are messed up and, nonconformist and everything, I am just as messed up. I realized through watching Doug screw up, apologize, and lead a godly life that the stringent bar of perfection I set up for myself was the gospel without Christ saving me. And without Christ, the gospel is nothing. As I began to see redemption--not in big ways, but in little things: making friends, fighting with them, and making up, sitting on the floor of apartments talking about life, drinking with friends and learning about limits, etc--I began to see the immensity of Christ's love. I can be very mean and yet my community still loves me. They are reflecting Christ. It is not any of the people really treating me kindly but Christ through them. And that motivates me to seek after God.

I struggle. I don't believe. I mess up. Yet Christ loves me. I have done some stupid things, so stupid that I would never think of posting them on a blog, but Christ, Christ loves me a sinner weak and vile. I am just seeing this again in learning about my own sinful self, seeing how Doug loves his students, and being part of a sinful, but loving community.

Rock on RUF.

Soccer

2009-06-28T17:04:00.002-05:00

I apologize in advance to all the children/innocent people who read my blog.

I fucking fucked up my fucking ankle again playing fucking soccer.

Okay. I am sorry. But...aaahhh...it hurts and I am mad that I couldn't finish the game and it hurts. The worst part is that I would do it again. I would go and play just as hard and do just as many risky ankle maneuvers and be aggressive. I would. Cause it was so fun. I haven't been that happy in a long time. I forgot how much I love this sport. I love soccer. The grass, the ball, the teamwork. It is my favorite sport and...I AM A TOTAL IDIOT.

Fuck.

Things I learned last night

2009-06-28T05:44:00.002-05:00

Medical students drink more than college students drink.

When you are drinking with them, every guy is on the student admissions committee and can play killer guitar.

The two song lyrics that are reverberating in my sore cranium are "Stay away from jazz and liquor, and the men who play for fun " from Chicago and "Rye whiskey makes the band taste better, makes your baby cuter, makes the sound taste sweeter...Rye thoughts aren't good thoughts boys have I ever told you about the time" a Punch Brothers' song

This is the Song

2009-06-26T23:24:00.003-05:00

I am in a song phase. This song is "This is the Song" by the Punch Brothers. Let me set the scene for you: I am in South Carolina with my friend. I am sad as I have left Norman. I am stressed cause I am leaving for Harvard in a week. I am frantic cause my family was being more crazy than usual. I am relaxed though as I have nothing "due" and no commitments really for another week. I am walking that fine line fence post between utter despair and utter peace. My mom calls and kicks me out of the house. Whoa. Intake of air. What? Yep. Homeless. I cried. A lot. But I went to South Carolina to enjoy this concert and by Jove! I was going to. Music affects biochemistry in a way science cannot explain. The Greeks already explained it though: Catharsis. When this song played, I had come to that point of catharsis, that moment where the tension in me was so high that I was going to have to burst. I was sipping a terrible beer. The wind was blowing through the beautiful Charleston campus. We were outside. I was listening to my favorite band along with my favorite person with whom to listen to this band or really any other band or do (or not do) really any activity. And this song played:

This is the song where I listen
This is the song where I sit still
Called the dogs off of the things I am missing
And to everyone but you before I set sail I said
Good Luck, Good Luck, Good Luck these are tough times
We'll get by, good luck
This is the Song where you speak up
This is the song where you get moving
cried some trouble out into a teacup
and to me and no one else before you threw it you said
Good Luck, Good Luck, Good Luck these are tough times
We'll get by, good luck
Put shore in front of our apartment
and watched you comb the stoop for shards of porcelin
Satisfied that there were none you broke the silence
and after this I promise not to interrupt again
cause this is the song where I listen
this is the song where I sit still
till our heartbeats drown out the sound of the clock ticking
and this song becomes I love you and always will
Good Luck, Good Luck, Good Luck these are tough times
We'll get by, good luck
these are tough times
we will get by
Good luck
these are tough times
we'll get by
Good luck.

This is my song for this phase of my life. And I don't even believe in luck. As I sobbed at the concert for what felt like the bazillionth time that day, I felt a strange peace, not the "AAaaahhhh! Doves! Sunsets! Landscapes that don't exist!" peace, but the "AACK! Can't Go On! But Will" type. I believe that I will be broken and love and get that thrown right back at me. I believe that these are tough times. Away, alone, apart, amid, among: Problems are ubiquitous. I do not know if it will ever get easier for to me to live or love living or whatever. All I really know is what I knew as I sat there with beer, friend, and music: that I believe that I will get by. So Good Luck.

I mean, Good Providence.

Subway: The Way Reflection Should Be

2009-06-14T22:02:00.003-05:00

I rode the subway today twice. Well, three times if you count the ride where I realized that I got on the wrong way, exited the next stop, and reboarded outbound. I like to listen to my headphones on the subway. After church and a nice lunch with some new church friend-folks, I hopped aboard the T Green-Line toward Boston University. The only seat open was a single seat facing the opposing wall. Staggering slightly as the train groaned forward, I stumbled, headphones in place, into the seat. Next stop Park Street Station. The band, as they say, played on: " I don't want what you want. I don't feel what you feel. See I'm stuck in a city, but I belong in a field."

I check my belongings as I always do on a subway. Are they out of place? Is my disheveled appearance saying, "Mug Me!"? I adjust my shirt. Stupid church clothes have to be so uncomfortable. I fiddle a bit with my undershirt. iPod, check. Wallet, check. Keys, check. It is a full 20 seconds before I look up. Park Street Station: Doors open on the right. "It seduced me, soft and silver-tongued with a way out after all the fun."

She couldn't have been more than 5 years older than I am. She was wearing black boots, black baggy pants, and a black undershirt cami. She was also iPoded and she clutched her iPod tightly. She didn't bob her head to the music. She didn't seem aware. Her hair was long, longer than mine, blonde in two tight braids. Next stop Boylston. She wore no make up. Small nose ring. Freckles. Black wrist guards. And cuts. She obviously has some sort of cutting problem. Slits up her arms. A pentagram carved into her bicep. They were all a couple of days old. "It only looks like we have something you don't. I lost my faith in our sweet illusion where every wound heals. So if you're still there, let me tell you, this is all real."

I was fascinated by her. I wanted to give her a name. I wanted to know what she was listening to. Heavy metal. It must be heavy metal. I continue to stare. I try to make it look like I am not just watching her. I am just staring forward in my seat. Other people don't notice. While the T is not crowded, all the seats are taken. A mother taking care of her baby. A man furiously typing on a blackberry. We are underground and have no reception. Several people reading. Several iPoded. Boylston: Several staring out to space and into themselves. Doors open on the right. No one notices me or this girl, her cuts, her iPod clutchiness. We were alone on that subway. "So I rolled up my sleeves and then began to draw lines just as deep as the days are long. I sewed up my wrist and sewed the ground with my blood."

Ask her name. No, that's weird. Her eyes were affixed to the floor in front of us. She would lazily glance at stops as we went by. Her eyes look glazed. Had she been crying? Or was she just high? Or both? My mind immediately went to high. Looking at her I became self aware. Who was I? Jeans, button up white shirt, vest. Hair pulled into a flip over. No make up. Glasses. Next Stop Arlington. If you saw me you would probably think I was listening to country music. You'd be wrong. You'd think that I had it all together. You'd be wrong. I usually journal in the Subway. A student. I look like a student. I look like a slightly disheveled, slightly well to do student. My eyes are curious. I look around. I smile. I...I am alone. "And the night goes by so very slow. Oh I hope that it won't end though. Alone."

I want to say something. I don't know what to say. I feel compelled. This woman is hurting. I can see that she is hurting. She adjusts her black backpack under her seat. She still hasn't looked up at me. I need to say something. I want to hug her. Tell her about love and comfort her. Next stop: Copely. I want her to know that she is loved. I want her to know that she is not alone. I want someone to do that to me. I have it together. I have it together. It's all good. It's all good. If I keep saying, then it will become true, goddammit. "I hate to see a friend of mine, laughing out loud when she's crying inside but you've got your pride."

I want to listen. I want to know what she is listening to. Wouldn't it be funny if it was classical? Ask her. My throat is silent. She shuffles a bit. Does she want to talk to me? Next stop: Hynes Convention Center. Her hands are clenched on both sides of her MP3. Cluctching. Holding. Fondling. I pray for God to give me power to say something to her, if that be his will. I want to hear her voice. "She said, 'I don't want to bother you, consider it's understood. I know I'm not no beauty queen, but I sure can listen good.'"

Next Stop: Kennmore Square. This is where I am getting off. I am meeting two girls at a bookstore to hang out. I will end up spending three hours and reading two books: Outliers and Pride, Prejudice, and Zombies. I will steal a bite of my friend's brownie and joke with the other about her boyfriend. We will then come home, sit in my room, eat chocolate and leftovers, listen to music, and disperse. This girl, this woman, dressed in black with cuts all about her arm will also be with me the entire time in my mind. She represents something profound to me. Something deep. I don't know what. But it is. "You came to take us: all things go, all things go. To recreate us: all things grow, all things grow. We had our mindset: all things know, all things know. You had to find it: all things go, all things go."

I didn't ask her name. I didn't ask her what she was listening to. I didn't ask her why she wore black. Why she didn't look around. Where she was going. Why she was going there. I didn't ask her why she cut herself. I did pray for her. It seems like nothing. I did not help her. But...Kennmore Square: Doors open on the right. I got up. Hopped down the stairs. I was crying. "'If you want me to come with you, then that's all right with me. Cause I know I'm going nowhere, and anywhere's a better place to be. Anywhere's a better place to be.'"

An exposition of great intellect and scientific value

2009-06-11T10:10:00.002-05:00

I sit here perched on the edge of eternity. I stare out the hospital window and see the roof of the adjacent building. Ah, the horror, the horror. I am waiting, always waiting, for a machine to be come available. This machine is called a tissue tearor and I use it to mash up testes. Yes, I have become a literal ball-buster. Daily, I mash up these testes and then do a series of tests--so far all have failed and have made me feel like a failure wrapped up in a pizza...now that's what I call a taco!--to find out more about this protein NUT, a misnomer acronym, for there is no word in the name that corresponds to U. The protein is just the Nuclear Protein in the Testes (it is also in the ciliary ganglion)...but you who know the English language can see that the acronym should be NPT, but no, at the time, there were only three guys working in this lab and they thought it was hilarious that this protein that causes a terrible type of lethal cancer (life expectancy: 10.5 months) normally is only found in the testes (and ciliary ganglion). So, they named it NUT. They still giggle about it when you talk to them. So does a room full of your peers and your peers' mentors when you describe your NUT-cracking project. Great.

I sit here perched on the edge of a moment, gazing out my dorm window to the dumpster below. Why oh why? My dorm room is small, white walled with a big desk and little dresser and my banjo. The banjo makes it. I still sound like a wee tot playing a really cool instrument poorly but that is how the cookie crumbles and becomes cake. Or so they say. Things here are not too terrible. I gave a research presentation today. It went well except Ispedupalotbytheendanditwasprobablyhardforpeopletounderstandme. Oh well. Lab work is lab work. I discovered that I am not a researcher. I think I will take a year off and then be a doctor. Or a classicist. Or an alien. Yes, I think I will be an alien.

I am very tired. Not just in the way you say it after a long day. No, like Lincoln was tired after the Civil War ended. Like a cancer patient is. We have a cancer patient. My research is for a specific type of cancer. We have a drug. It hypothetically and theoretically should get rid of the tumor. This boy is 10. The medicine makes him throw up blood. He has a portal directly to his stomach so he can take the meds. The tumors started in his lungs and are now in his brain. Pray for him. Hypothetically. Theoretically. Really. Not really. It is amazing to think that one researchers slip of the hand or accidentally dropped zero could ruin this boy's life. Personally, theoretically his platelets will drop hypothetically with his meds. Since he really has a brain tumor, he will hypothetically hemorrhage which theoretically will be due to the medication and really die. My God, what have we done? I am on the Enola Gay.

So, I am doing okay. I am lonely, but there are nice people here. I forget. Quickly. I forget I have friends. I remember but they fade so fast. My flesh and blood friends become paper dolls. Flat and one dimensional (okay, two dimensional). My memories are analyzed like the wonderful writings of the past: these aren't the autographs so they must be false. Burn them. I watch the angry mob burning my memories and I feel...I forget. But then a phone call, a letter, a word or phrase, a facial expression, a smell, a noise and wooooosh! The memory leaps from the flame a phoenix soars skyward and leaves. Leaves. Then, I realize how cold it is outside and I put on a jacket.

My Prayer after a wonderful day in which I saw a play, had good coffee, had 2 great conversations, saw a wonderful musical, and got 3 letters.

2009-06-11T00:29:00.005-05:00

Lord,
I am consistently and constantly reminded of your immense love toward your people. Not only is your love etched onto ever page of the Bible through Jesus Christ, but your love is powerful and active in the world around me, in my nation, in my community, in my church, in my family, and in me. You are pulling me closer to you everyday, sometimes through tribulation, troughs, and trials. You understand that I am a sinner, tempted to change even your gifts into my own merit, inflating my self-righteous pride. You understand that my motivations for doing anything even praying to you are not pure: I feel like prayer will bring me closer to you on my own merit or I want to feel worthy through an articulate and artist prayer that makes you love me or even I want others to think of me as spiritual to inflate my ego and to press a false salve on the reality of my decripitness, derelictness, and depravity. This is a terrible offense to you, but you see me in my weakness and you love me any way, based solely on the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, even in my stumblings. In fact, you rejoice in these stumblings, in my feeble attempts to worship you. Even though I am not a sinner who is a disgrace to your name, you rejoice in my turning to you, even though it is the blood of Jesus Christ covering me and the soverignty of your will that directs me to you. You lift me up and make me walk against all physical, emotional, and spiritual disability. As I stumble, you love me. As I deny you, you love me. As I hate you, you love me. As I kill you, you love me. No matter what I do, if you love me, you will never let me go. You instead will pull me through the troughs of despair, shine the harsh light of reality into the darkest, dirtiest sewers of my personality, sever my prideful heart, and show me to be nothing. It is then I see you, still not as you fully are for I am still a sinner weak and vile but I see a glimpse of you that, even though not anywhere close to perfect, is truer to reality. You scare me, but you love me. And for that and that alone, all will be well.

Boston

2009-06-07T18:23:00.002-05:00

I am in Boston.

So far I really hate it. I don't know if I am going to be able to finish the internship. It is not the work itself. That stuff is pretty easy. It is being here. Alone. In a small room that smells. It is hard to do anything when four white walls just bear down at you. I can't play instruments. I can't even remember how to solve a friggin rubick's cube!! What?! I used to be able to do that in my sleep. I can't focus enough to read. I think I am going crazy.

Church today was hard too. The people weren't very nice. I tried to talk to three different people during the meet and greet times. They all were talking to friends and even though I tried to interject. I was ignored. Church fail.

The city is awful. It is like a cross of a big city and a suburb with the problems of each and the benefits of neither. It is expensive and you can't park, yet it takes forever to walk anywhere.

I really am not doing well. I don't know if I will be able to finish the internship.

From City Church of East Nashville Last Week

2009-06-01T07:22:00.003-05:00

O Lord, we have so light an awareness of your holiness and the extent of our guilt that we often see little need to be declared acceptable in order to draw near to you. However, below the surface of our lives, we are deeply guilt-ridden and insecure. Often, we tend to draw our assurance of our acceptance with you from our sincerity, our past experiences, our recent religious performances, or the relative infrequency of our conscious, willful disobedience. Forgive us. Other times, our insecurity shows itself in pride, defensive assertion of our own righteousness and defsinvie criticism of others. Forgive us.

We draw near to you now, not on the basis of our feelings or performance, but on the basis of the scrifice of Jesus Christ. Through him and him alone we are accepted by you and come before you as saints and holy ones. Through him and him alone we confess our guilt and are granted forgivenss and are seen as beautiful in your sight. Through him and him alone we find our righteousness and have no need to defend ourselves, for we are fully and eternally loved by you through him.

Thank you, Father, for sending Jesus for us. Amen.

The Already and the Not Yet

2009-05-13T08:15:00.002-05:00

The A and the NY saying usually describes our relationship to Jesus' victory. He has ALREADY won, but we have NOT YET received the benefits (shout out to glorification, anyone?). I however think it also applies to finals week.

There comes a time in my studying where I can't study anymore. Not that I am prepared, mind you. I have just decided that I am done even though I am still pink. It is then you enter the Already but Not Yet zone. Because you already have done all that you are going to do but you cannot yet take the final. Nerve racking. I am sitting here now somewhat like that. I have to go to work in a minute and I need to reread some labs, but really it is already but not yet nervousness. It is anxiety producing because unlike Jesus' victory that is 100% legit, my studying and preparedness isn't. Of course, I also feel this anxiety concerning Jesus because my faith is about as strong as a wet paper towel (store brand, not Bounce as it is 10X stronger than store brand).

If you think about it (which I just am doing now), a bunch of stuffs follow this already and not yet pattern. That's cool.

Things that are already and not yet that I am looking forward to...

Spending a summer in a new city: Boston
Being done with finals
Going to Summer Conference
Seeing the Punch Brothers before Harvard
Living with the coolest person ever next year
Upcoming game night
Glorification

Ah, waiting...

Things that are already and not yet that I am not looking forward to...

Spending a summer in a new city with no one that I know anywhere near me doing work that I am afraid I will hate
Having only one more year left in Norman
Taking my biochem methods final
Driving to Summer Conference
Driving to see the Punch Brothers
Moving my stuff
Total Depravity (that one isn't really not yet, is it?)

Not to say I told you so

2009-05-10T05:50:00.008-05:00

I just want to say that I have been saying this for years. I also should sue the makers of this documentary as it was my senior thesis in HS.

http://www.twilightearth.com/2009/05/the-world-according-to-monsanto-full-documentary/

No, seriously. I sent emails to many of the same people. I got yelled at by the FDA. I went protesting. I got arrested for protesting. It was the life. My stance was a bit more general: I believe that GMOs should be labeled (for complete argument, ask me to get up on my soap box).

Hahaha!! I just found this:
http://www2.volstate.edu/rbarber/Example%20Paper.htm

This was my first collegiate paper!! It was considered exemplary...eesh. My professor, who is still my favorite professor EVER, is a big proponent of GM foods, so I had to make it a pro-con paper. Notice the inherent bias in my writing. (Gosh, in reading this, I want to say that I have come a long way in writing since I was 15 and please don't mention my comma usage.)

All that to say, I might make my next couple of posts about GMOs, genetically modified organisms. They are ubiquitous. In my mind, they are congruous with the radiation tests during the Cold War. For more info on those, read Plutoniums Files (my fav example is the radioactive cocktails that Vanderbilt gave underprivledged pregnant women under the guise of free pregnancy care. Yay science!!!). In 30 years, they are going to say the same things about GMOs that are being said now about radiation back then. Except instead of interviewing some old guy who has cancer and is dying, they will be interviewing you...

Ode to a New Toothbrush

2009-05-09T09:06:00.002-05:00

I have been needing to get a new tooth brush for a while now. But I didn't get it till yesterday. I just brushed my teeth and my teeth feel so brushed and clean. Those firm bristles bristle well my molars and incisors making them both feel happy. I have more than two teeth.

Impromptu Ode to a New Toothbrush
Oh, new tooth brush.
The verisimilitude of your awesomeness
is awesome.
I really dislike driving around and seeing
dead possums.
When you are in my mouth and swishing all around,
I cannot say that I like you but that's okay.
Cause my teeth will thank me someday
And afterwards you make my mouth feel quite
svelte.
Which almost makes me want to go to the Veldt.

May I never wear a kilt.
May your bristles never wilt.
May they all stay firm and tall.
For I would not like to buy another
Until next fall.

Coffee, RNA folding algorithms, Ancient Greek Drugs, and Mindlessness

2009-04-21T15:46:00.002-05:00

I didn't sleep last night. At all.

It might be the pressing homework. It might be my mental anguish. It might be the whirrings and purrings of my mind. It may or may not be the 5 cups of coffee I drank at 5pm.

But, in my defense, I had a lot to get done.

It's still not done. But, I did buy myself a few more hours before the blade of the guillotine falls.

It's not that bad. I am just melodramatic.

But, I am taking care of myself. Right now, I am taking five with my most favorite-est roommate. She is drawing. We are both sipping coffee at Plaid (El Salvador...hmmm...). Don't worry. I am practicing moderation. I am on cup 3.

I have two presentations today. One is completed and went well. Our TA said it was awesome. I was glad. I had to be saved by my partner (who is my most favorite-est lab partner ever) when the professor asked a question and I was stumped. I mean, under normal circumstances I could have told you that a constant pressure calorimeter is more complicated because you have to take in account heat AND work, but I went blank as a white sheet of paper two minutes before the essay test starts. After just two long seconds, she just jumped right in and said, "WORK!" I could have kissed her (in a not weird, platonic friend way...). That was nice.

I have a lab presentation today on crystallization data that I don't have. I haven't gotten any crystals. So, I am talking about my attempts and then showing some RNA folding algorithm data that I have been working on. My goal is to not fall asleep in the middle of my own presentation. My two colloquium presentations are going well, I think. I am going to channel professor Fears for my one at the conference. It is going to be awesome. Or it will suck. I haven't decided.

I am sad. I am happy. I am exhausted.

But I love, love, love coffee.

Sticky!!

2009-04-09T23:06:00.002-05:00

Of all the tactile experience of which one can partake, the one that I consider to be most vile, most disgusting is sticky. I hate sticky things. Granted, I enjoy maple syrup and jam on my food, but no where else.

I think this goes back to my early years. As one of many siblings, pancakes, waffles, and the like would result in syrup on the table. And, due to the shoddiness of forced child labor in the household, that syrup would go from sticky to icky really fast. When dinner approached and we sat and leaned our arms on the table (we were not a family of silly social rules), they would stick. My mom would invariably yell and the stickiness would spread to our arms, legs, heads, or whatever else we stuck on the table.

Hair makes stickiness worse. You know what I mean. The sticky plasters the hair to our skin and you just have to pick it off and it hurts and you end up plucking out your hair and getting all moody. Or there is that person who would play the piano with sticky fingers leaving stickiness on the keys for someone to find.

I hate the sticky sensation. I was reminded last Saturday when I baked a flan complete with saccharine sticky topping. As I traipsed merrily to the car with said dish, the wind caught a corner of the loosely covering covering. Thinking myself to be wise, I used my hip to wedge the plate and keep the kamikaze foil from escaping to the windy plain. I was helping the environment. But, then I saw the ooze which was my saccarhine sticking slipping, dripping, and ipping down my shirt, on my pants, down to my very shoes.

Normally, if this calamity were to happen in decent company, I would have smiled and said, "All's well" whilst slowly dying a hot and sticky death inside. But, seeing as there was only my dearest friend present, I showed my true self. "STICKY!! STICKY!! STICKY!!" Needless to say, this amazing friend was both perturbed and slightly embarrassed at my squeallings, but aided in the deposition of the sticky culprit in my trunk and then told me that I should go change before I hyperventilated.

I agreed, changed, and threw my stickiness into the hamper. I (just now) washed them and therefore was reminded of the stickiness. On Saturday, I proceeded to drive to my friends' house where we ate tacos and flan (remember: edible stickiness: good in tummy). It wasn't until later, when I was removing said dish, I noticed something--STICKINESS IN MY CAR!!

You never can get away from stickiness....ever...beware the stickiness...

Degree...CHECK!

2009-04-02T09:51:00.003-05:00

I had a degree check today.

29 hours and I am finished with both my degrees. I am so close to finishing my undergrad.

What?!

3am not so happy and (you guessed it) angsty post

2009-03-28T03:15:00.002-05:00

Hi. It is 3:16am and I am not asleep. I am tired, nay exhausted even. But my mind keeps whirring and whirring and it isn't even whirring smoothly. Instead of the normal, whirrrrrrr-whirrrrrrrrrrr-whirrrrrrrrr it is going whirrr-tick-rr, whirrrrrr-thump--rrr, whirrr---kurplunk--rrr. The left side of my head feels like it is on fire. It is not a happy thing to be me at the moment.

And, I just realized it is an unhappy thing to be me for a long time now. There is no reason. There was no boy, there was no big event, there wasn't even a party?! It was just a day that was a little grayer and a little grayer and before I knew it I couldn't see my feet for a forest.

I am not taking joy in anything. I have tried and tried, but I think I am just going to resign myself to never getting anywhere. I just stopped trying. I thought that is what I was supposed to do. To stop trying and let God help. I stopped. He isn't helping. Granted, I have been a pretty terrible follower lately, but isn't there supposed to be grace, the loving hand of a loving father? I just feel abandoned. Really abandoned.

But, I am not abandoned, right?! I can quote a bazillion Bible verses that say that I can't be abandoned, but here I sit pretty much abandoned and this is causing all sorts of problems because it is illogical. I try to tell myself that my perception must be off (or that this is a period or a stage or whatever). But, you can only convince yourself something so much, you know? I mean, sooner or later that teeny voice in your head--the one that is always saying that God doesn't exist, that you are deluding yourself, that the text of the Bible is textually errant, that evolution explains things so much better, that reason is god and God doesn't make sense--that voice just gets louder and louder, not with rational arguments that you can usually work your way around, but with emotional arguments: God doesn't love you, you are alone even among all these people, no one cares, God doesn't care." And that is hard. Cause you are used to this voice with its calm rationality and normally I say to it, "Reason is NOT God." But, when it comes at me, throwing those very emotions that I am struggling so hard with right in my face, I am speechless. And, you know the only way to deal with a voice in your head is to yell louder. Otherwise, it just drowns you out.

So, I am really doubting. I am doubting almost everything, not just about God, but about everything. I stopped trying to force myself to read my Bible. It just made me nausiated. I mean, the Bible shouldn't do that. Every word should not make that voice louder. It should have the opposite effect, right?

Oh, man. Little voices? I think I may be going crazy. How would you know if you went crazy? Losing my mind is one of my greatest fears. The only cool part of me is my mind, so to speak. Not to mention, that there is this family precedent of losing one's marbles. If I didn't, then I wouldn't be up to contemporary Myers professional standards. Ha. *insert bitter laugh* Lately, I don't know if this is just depressed period of ickyness or if I am legitimately losing my sanity and that scares me a lot.

I wish I could just disappear. Temporarily, at first, to make sure it doesn't suck to not exist, but right now, I think I could handle nonexistence. I don't think there is anyway I can handle existing. I am going to keep trying. But, if someone doesn't send in the Calvary soon, I will definitely be quashed by the hundreds of thousand angry Persians that are barrelling down my Thermopylaeian field.

Decisions

2009-03-17T10:28:00.002-05:00

I am sitting here on the verge of tears over a decision. Should I go to Harvard this summer or not? I want to go to Boston, but I don't. I would love the experience and the prestige, etc. But I do not want to research all summer.

What do I want to do all summer? Veg out on a beach.

Not an option.

I would rather research in a new place than work at a restaurant.

But, am I selling out? Is there a right choice that I am disregarding for my stupid performance idols? Would giving up such a lucrative and resume padding decision just be an emotional reaction to a tough year and not a choice that reflects my inner dissimilitude? Or would a break be good or...ack?!

My posts this week are going to be a bit sketchy. Normally, I write in my journal but what did "Pack everything but the kitchen sink" Myers forget to pack? Her journal. Sigh.

I wish I had an inflatable friend (pathetic note: I made one melting beach balls together once in middle school).

I am going to go do something.

Apology

2009-03-16T21:56:00.000-05:00

That post was really negative.

It is not that bad. I mean, physically I am hurting in the head and ankle department, but mentally I am okay. Really.

Sorry.

And the Doctor Says...

2009-03-16T21:33:00.003-05:00

...I am broken...She says I should talk to my Creator about a complete refund. If that doesn't, bargain for some replacement parts maybe. All in all, she thinks I got gypped in the life department.

I am now on 7--count them 7 prescription drugs. I may not take them. Stick it to the man. Die sooner. Etc.

So, what do I have? They don't know. Chronic Migraine. Fibromayalsia. Total Depravity...they aren't sure. I am on anti-seizure meds, migraine meds, vasodilators, pain killers, and pain killers.

So, my brain told them I was in pain. It was like "I AM HURTING REALLY REALLY BADLY. PLEASE HELP." So, they said that I needed to fix my pain problem before they could find the real one. So, pills, pills, pills that treat my symptom and not my problem, whatever it is. I was not noticing how much pain I was in. But, now I am noticing cause they told me. So, is it real? What is reality? If I don't notice that I am in pain, does that not mean that I am actually in pain? Is my perception real?! I mean, I am feeling like a headcase and that I am completely losing what little fucking sanity I have left.

Oh, wait. That is a side effect from all of the eight million drugs that I am on.

Oh and today I read this. Remember the test that I had that was positive. Yep. Same one. Except I took when it was just a theory. Now it is published.

I keep telling myself it doesn't mean anything, but I can't help but feel that it does.

Oh, and my brain has "restructured." Turns out if you have chronic migraines your brain structure changes. Due to my many head wounds, they were able to compare many years CT scans and, if they disregarded the head wounds, guess whose brain is deteriorating?! AAAHHH! I mean, I am kind of freaking out.

But, I don't know if it is these stupid medications and the realization that I am in pain that is making me freak out or my low self esteem or what... I feel like reality is slipping, but I don't know what is going on. I want to sleep but I can't and my head feels like it is about to fall off even with the bazillion and one multi colored pills I am on and I just want to go somewhere and die but don't worry I can't do that cause my head hurts to much to figure out the intricate details that go alone with such a venture.

Huff, huff, huff. I feel a little better now.

So, I am pretty down about my doctoral results. They think I am also suffering from hypothyroidism as my thyroid is inflamed and icky. Great.

I am not happy, friends. I wish I was with you all so I could whine in person to you and not be alone on a bed trying to decide if the book is actually moving itself across the floor or the room is spinning, etc.

But, I am not in too bad of spirits. I am forcing myself to laugh and remember how inconsequential life is and that pain is relative and that I am not as fat as a whale and how...

Yeah, it is all good. Except it is not. But, I am going to focus on the darned silverest lining so I don't permantly go insane.

Oh wait. That is a possibility. That makes me laugh. Should that make me laugh?

In other news, I learned a banjo riff that I forgot, I helped Mark do school, and I read a book not for class today and didn't do any homework.

The MCAT Blues

2009-03-04T07:17:00.002-06:00

So, I got a 30 on my MCAT, which is somewhat crappy. Average accepted into medical school is a 30.5. I am below average.

My good friend who is a PhD director at NYU says that I have no choice but to take it again.

I am not going to take it again.

I may take it again.

This really sucks.

Surviving

2009-03-03T12:15:00.002-06:00

I have been wondering the most utterly pointless and intellectual question lately: why? Why is life the way it is? I mean, why? Why were we created with 5 fingers? Would 6 be better? How about double opposable digits? I mean, why? Because that is the way it is. That is not reasoning. Is there a reason? Probably not one that is discernible. But, still, I want to know.

Wanting to know has been eating me a lot lately. I want to know everything which has cause a great deal of reading to ensue. Sadly, I don't want to know everything about my classes cause they are dumb. No really, I have learned all that really is to know about my subjects and now it is just honing my skills and learning new vocab. That is so sad. I thought I would have to learn forever and that isn't true. No, I am now going to communicate. I have to learn new things to be able to communicate, yes, but that is not helping me learn more about my world. 'Course, you could argue that learning more about people is learning about the world, but that is not what I mean. I want to chew on something mentally. Anything, really. Something conceptual. Not tangible. Just something that sparks me and causes my mind to whir. When it doesn't whir, it gets grouchy and sad. It is very grouchy right now. Be careful. It may bite you.

So, my MCAT scores are supposed to come today. They may be delayed up to 3 more days. I just want to know the scores, you know? I mean, I love waiting and have bountiful amounts of patience...cough...but I just want to see. I checked 10 minutes ago and there were no scores. I am not going to check again till after 5. I can do that, right?

I just checked again.

This summer. I was planning on staying around, taking a class to make senior year a bit more relaxing and then I got into a really nice research internship. At Harvard. Now, first of all, this isn't that cool. I got in cause the director last summer (who wrote one of the recommendations) knows the director of the Harvard program. But, oh, what to do? My gut inclination is to go. I mean, great opportunity--not to mention great resume padding--but I don't want to go just because. I want to do what is best for me as a person, not just as a student. Cause let's face it. I have done what is best for me as a student for a while and I am pretty messed up, tired, and mentally grouchy (don't get to close: the brain will bite). So, hmmm...

And, I am a very prideful person. There is a part of me that just wants to shout, "HEY CORNELL!! GUESS WHAT?! I AM GOING TO HARVARD, FOOLS! WHEN I TAKE OVER THE WORLD, YOU WILL BE A PUBLIC UNIVERSITY!!" There is a part of me that wants everyone to know that I got in, but there is also a part that doesn't want anyone to know. At all.

I am very reclusive lately. I was pretty much a hermit in highschool (with my large feet, I was almost a hobbit). Going to college, I got really social...and now I am wanting to be alone. Sometimes, just alone with Maggie (so not quite alone), but mostly alone. Part of the call to summer program away from OU is being alone. I hate being alone, but it is also better in a way. I can deal with things, be sad and depressed, and not worry about making other people sad. I am not a good long term friend, I fear.

So, I am surviving. I am struggling. But, let's not talk about that. Instead, let us discuss why the sky is blue, or why people wear hats, or why the world has meaning even though it seems otherwise.

Birthday

2009-02-28T07:12:00.003-06:00

Tomorrow is my birthday. I turn 21. My license also expires and I can do nothing about it but wait till I go home (yep, I get to drive cross country with an expired license. Yes, I am not happy about this. Long, awful government story.).

I hate my birthday. I don't like when people try to make me happy. Let me explain. If a certain roommate of mine were to come over and give me a hug, it would make me happy and I would thoroughly enjoy it (I am a touchy person). However, if even that same roommate were to give me a hug with the expectation that I would indeed be happy, and her happiness is dependent on my happiness, I get happiness performance anxiety. I act happy a lot. So, birthdays hold a lot of memories of not being happy or excited and a lot of acting, which makes birthdays very stressful.

That is one of the reason my birthday is not posted on facebook. It is such a little thing but it does not sit well with me. I do not want the world to know about my birthday. Why? A bit of pretension, really. If you are not close enough of a friend to me to know about my birthday, I don't want you to get credit for the b-day wish. That is weird, I know. But, I would rather two good friends sincerely wish me a happy birthday than two hundred who give me a two word wall post about it.

That and people always ask what I am going to do for my birthday. I feel like being rude and saying, "What do you do for your birthday?" but I don't instead I smile, feel stupid, and make something up. No seriously. I totally BS. People don't want to hear: "Well, I am going to go to church, then fellowship meal, then to a prayer meeting. After that, I am going to a roommates concert and we will probably go grab some alcohol and then go home early so I can study for a pchem test." That is lame. No, what I say is something like this: "I am probably going to go skydiving in Bolivia" or "You know, I think I am going to get a tattoo" or " I am going to get high. Really high" or (my personal fav) "I am going to existentially ponder the utter depravity of mankind in hopes to ameloriate the complete malediction in my mind." That one is probably true.

Anyway, I don't like my birthday cause people get emotionally invested in making me happy and I get scared of expectations. I totally love being the underdog which was why high school was so fun. Being a 7th grader in senior high geography was awesome. My teacher said I was going to fail. By saying that, she petrified my victory. But, on birthdays, ugh, there is just blatant expectation. I mean, the words "Happy Birthday" are more a guidline than a wish (i.e. "I hope you have a happy birthday" vs. "You better have a happy birthday."

Of course, I have a complex about such things so this may just be another incorrect rambling of an insane mind.

Or maybe that is what you want me to think...

Self update (cause wants more important than me?! COUGH)
1. I got 3 hours of sleep last night.
2. My voice sounds like Yoda when he is dying.
3. I slept with a pencil in my hair and it stabbed me pretty badly in the night and now my neck and head really hurt.
4. I had a scientific epiphany and I believe it will win me a nobel prize if I can prove it...
5. My MCAT scores come in any day now, so I religiously check the website every day. I open the site and sign in. Hold my breath. Hold my breath...aaaaawwwwwww....
5. I love getting comments, so comment.

Whoa

2009-02-15T07:46:00.001-06:00

My older sister who swore never to marry is getting married. On July 4. I am planning the wedding. Whoa. I am just a bit overwhelmed.