Style Vow I

I, Anna, being of sound mind and body, solemnly swear never to inflict bangs upon myself again. It has been shown repeatedly in the epochs of time that I look quite dreadful with bangs, with evidence given in a vast quantity of mirrors and an impressive collection of childhood photographs. I vow to resist the urges of the times and trends, which shall adopt bangs as "cute" and "trendy", and shall promise me that I too can wear them. I vow to remember in times of temptation or tribulation, how what can be snipped into being in a minute will later take many difficult months of annoyance and Snookie-like poofs to grow out, pulling our some of the aforementioned childhood photographs if necessary to strengthen my resolve. With my forehead as my witness, I make this promise for the greater good of my hair, general appearance and sanity for as long as I shall live.

Amen.

Reasons I Hate This Time of Year

1. Holidays. Why are they all in the winter? Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Valentines Day, St. Patrick's Day... it's just too much. I've expressed my rather dire feelings about holidays in general before, so it should come as no surprise that I feel clusters of them are uncalled for. Lucky, the worst is already behind us.

2. Forms. FAFSA, W-4, W-2, Taxes... federal shenanaganizing. Askeroscarooscarfug. (Congrats if you came up with some way to pronounce that.)

3. Snow. *sighs* Alright. I confess. I hate snow, but not really. It's complicated. Just when I think it's bearable and maybe even kind of pretty, it proves me wrong and gets in my boot or tries to trip me up or just generally interferes with the delicate task of living my life.

4. Darkness. I like the dark. It's fine. But the long dark mornings and nights make me want to sleep in and go to bed earlier, and me wanting to go to bed at 5 P.M. is rather annoying and counter-productive.

5. Cold. I loathe being cold. More than being hot, more than being sweaty, more than losing a toe to a shark. Okay, maybe not the last one. Being cold makes me feel like I'm about 100 years old and lacking the appropriate medication for my various conditions that are causing me this aching pain. Dire? Yes. They aren't your joints, so deal with it. (For the record, if they are your joints too, I express my sincerest sympathy and the offer to get together to have a warm beverage and discuss our unnamed condition.)

I know I complain rather a lot. I guess it's because it's the one thing I can do about the things I can do nothing about. And for some reason, complaining about things in a vaguely amusing thing somehow helps me to feel better about them. Go figure, eh?

Pawned Off

It’s like a giant’s game of chess

Where pawns go out to play

And rooks meet knights of many types

On squares of black and white

Curiosities

Sometimes I wonder why I wonder so much. Is it because I am stupid or smart? Curiosity killed the cat, but perhaps it also taught him a valuable lesson or two before his tragic death. Maybe I don't wonder enough... well that would be inconvenient.

Never mind.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Raining, raining, raining. All day long. Yesterday, today and maybe even tomorrow.

I like rain. Really, I do.

 But this is getting to be a little bit much .

So Close, Yet So Far

Summer is so close.

The end of this school year is so close.

It will be the end of highschool for me.

There are a million things that will change, flex, grow, fade and maybe even shatter.

You know you're getting older when you start 'thinking' about things.

'Thinking' is hard on a lot of things. It tests and challanges what you think you know and believe and what you think you might want to know and believe and what you think you might someday know and believe.

Do forgive me if I fail to make sense, it happens with alarming regularity and I'm over it.

Rate the Stranger

There's this game I play, usually from the passenger seat of a parked car. It is a game to assuage boredom, encourage critical thinking skills and celebrate awesomeness in all its many forms.

This game is called Rate the Stranger.

Be forewarned, this game is addicting.

RULES OF PLAY

1. You must rate each stranger on a scale of 1-10, 1 "Decidedly Unawesome" and 10 "Epic Beyond All Reason".

2. Ratings are based on:
            A. A stranger's tasteful, colorful or create fashion choices
            B. A stranger's awesome, amusing or downright strange actions
            C. A stranger's positive attitude, vibe or aura.

3. Personal biases (such as a love of beards, cute boots and random dancing and/or a distaste for people who drop their cigarettes in the grass, scowl at you and yell at their kids) are totally allowed and strongly encouraged.

4. While this game is to celebrate the awesome and random stranger, it is also not intended to be a platform to demean those who may appear unappealing or utterly boring at a first glance. This game cannot judge the inside of a person, only the outside. If there is nothing positive you can find about a stranger, or a good reason to dislike them, it is often best not to rate them at all.

5. The glorious and special time may come when you see a stranger so awesome, the scale simply does not do them justice. In this event, you may declare them an 11.

6. The game may begin at any time and end at any time. Everyone in the vehicle, convoy or space ship is allowed to submit their rating. The group need not agree.

7. The players do not and cannot win the game. Epic strangers win the game.

Ten Strange Things You Probably Didn't Know About Anna

I love lists. Particularly lists of ten. It's a well rounded number.

1. I Name Everything.

Really. Everything. The piano is Betsy, my hair straightener is Sydney, my purse is called "The Cow" and my coat is Bysshe (pronounced BUSH-HEY) Anything even semi-important gets a name.

2. I Have a Thing for Symmetry.

Some would call it an obsession, but they just don't understand how important it is for everything to look uniform and proper.

3. I am a Grammar Nazi.

I'm a bit hypocritical about this, since I know I make plenty of grammar errors also. However, when someone makes a glaring mistake, I feel compelled to correct it out.

4. I Collect Worthless Objects

Glass figurines, rocks, bits of drift wood, sweet looking statues. I like awesome looking stuff. If it tickles my fancy, I want it proudly displayed in my room.

5.  I Have Mouth Full of Sweet Teeth

If I crave something, its sugar. Sometimes I want it in the form of chocolate and sometimes I want it in a peanut butter cookie, but I looove just about anything with enough of the stuff.

6. I Can Sing Like a Chipmunk

A talent which makes you a real hit with kids and chipmunk lovers alike.

7. I Am a Tall Woman

According to the standards of the TCI, (Tall Clubs International) I am a tall woman. 5'10 1/2, Baby.

8. I Am Obsessed With Google

I'm sorry, Yahoo people, Google is just better. I Google everything. How to spell and/or pronounce words, how-to articles, songs, people, places, random words... I love Google.

9. I Had a Cabbage Patch Kid

Nuff said.

10. My Hero and My Crush Aren't Real

Hero: Leigh Anne Tuohy as played by Sandra Bullock in the Blind Side. She's blonde, fabulous, has a major attitude and is who I wanna be when I grow up. The Crush would be Captain Jack Sparrow. Oh so beautiful and unattainable.

There you have it. Ten things you may or may not have known about yours truly.

I Beg of You, Please Follow Me

If you ever have to go away, take me with you.

     So I will never be alone
     So we will never be apart
    To keep us together
    To keep me from falling to pieces
    Because otherwise I will be afraid
    Because otherwise I might forget
    Who I am and
    Who you are and
    Who we are together

If I ever have to go, come with me.
 
    So I won't miss you
    So you won't be without me
    To keep me company
    To keep each other strong
    Because otherwise, I may fail
    Because otherwise, we may fail and
   Who would that leave me?
   Who would that make you?
   Who could we, would we ever be without the other?

The If is the Why

If my blog were a garden, it would be over run with weeds.

If life were a sundae, I would ask who ate the cherry.

If I were a hippo, I would float gracefully instead of sink as I thrash wildly.

If a hand were a claw, it would pinch people a great deal more often.

If a book could speak, he would always tell the same story.

If a tree grew down instead of up, digging holes would be even more of a pain.

If holes filled themselves, I'd dig more holes.

If I dug more holes, people would think moles were mutating.

If lawyers were honest, perhaps justice would be done more often.

If you tickle me, I may scream.

A Bowlful of Consolation

Is there anything more comforting than a warm bowl of soup to combat the cold inside and out?

The Way I Write Fiction

Also known as Why I Don't/Can't Write Fiction... this was part of the piece I composed for NaNoWriMo. Which, as you may recall, I failed on several counts. But here is a sample to be the object of your disgust and/or amusement.

There are only so many places you can go, until you hit the end. Be it the end of the places or the end of you depends, I suppose on a number of things-the greatest of these things being your personal perspective on it all.

Today I am sitting at a desk in front of a computer, trying to type. Anything will do, I suppose. I just need words to count and rack up my word count so I don’t feel like a total failure. The author is supposed to be writing. Me? I don’t need to write. I am a character and I need to do something exciting that will make you people feel like I’m worth reading about.

Like pressure in a pop can, or a mite under a microscope, you are waiting for me to do something exciting and for a story to emerge.

I’m sorry, we’re experiencing technical difficulty and it might be a long wait.

This also may be difficult on my end, because the author has the attention span of a fly, the plot planning ability of a stick and the endurance of a glass house. Also known as like none at all. Not that I have anything against the author personally. You do realize the author is telling me to say this, right? The views reflected in this work are not necessarily mine, nor are they necessarily her own.


Goodness, that’s confusing.

It might be nice if she could buckle down to business and grant me some sort of personality and get this thing moving. She’s trying now.

My name is Peter.

Good job, author! You decided on something.

What about Peter, eh? I wish I knew. I think the author wishes she knew. I’ll ask. Author? Do you wish you knew?


The author says yes.

What about Peter? What should Peter say and think and feel? What should Peter’s story be about? Where should Peter live and work and play and do the things one might want him to?

The author needs to decide.

Peter (that’s me) should probably wish for a better author.

For Peter, however, the author will try.

I, Peter, shall be placed in England (at least for now-until the author gets bored.)

Just keep typing words, author, that’s all that matters.

What shall Peter do in England?

Maybe I should live there for now.


Which would mean I would have a British accent.

The author is quite partial to British accents.

Oops... she got distracted... that's all I get for know I guess.

She says she's sorry.

Accidentals

Sometimes when you're trying to write haiku's, syllables don't quite cooperate and you end up with something more like...

Sharing is caring
In most cases, you see
But one thing to keep to yourself
Is a sneeze

NaNoWriMo and Me

Ever heard of NaNoWriMo? Yes? (Insane, is it not?) No? (Link. Hover. Click. Ta da. Now you have.)

Anyway, I am embarking on this (painful) creative journey yet again. (I had a glorious failure in 2009. It was really epic...as in epically bad.)

So, being the dense and ever foolish fool that I am, I am trying it again!

I'll spare you the details of my story. I will probably have another, even more glorious failure (I have never successfully written a novel, though not for lack of trying, for NaNoWriMo or otherwise.)

Wish me luck. And sorry if I neglect my poor blog as I have been. I'm aiming for balance, but when the weak of coordination aim for such, they often fall along the way.

Thoughts on a Wednesday

Yes, I dare call them thoughts.

I almost fear opening my mouth right now, or at least letting my thoughts appear on this screen, because I am really not at all sure what I am going to say. I feel vaguely full of words and my fingers keep moving so I suppose I shouldn't try to squelch the muse and just let the dang thing happen.

Ah control. That tentative thing we all try to grasp. That security we all like to pretend we have.

(I say "we all" all the time. In case you had not noticed. I like to identify with humanity and yet I feel as though I am selling you all short in a way. Like I expect you to be as imperfect as I am. If it comes off that way, I apologize. It has not escaped my notice that many exemplary people exist and many of them to not have the vices I portray "us all" as having. I know I have them and, in my narrow scope, I like to think maybe those good and wonderful people once had them too, but they outgrew them. It's a very optimistic view and it gives me hope, so let it be. Just know that I am condemning no one but myself when I make overgeneralized statements about "us all.")

And that was a tangent! But it felt good. Today I just want words on paper (or blog as it were.) These short posts, as I mentioned before, seem so incomplete, so half hearted. I need some sustenance. So I will ramble and maybe something semi-readable will emerge and I will feel better and you will be like "Whoa..." (There are worse things than shocking people with your strangeness. Better than shocking them with your cruelty or your bad breath, for example.)

I may have failed to mention I am home schooled. It may or may not have been on purpose. We shall delve into my feelings on this subject at a later date, because while I feel like posting something long, that deserves it's own header instead of being lost in this free write of randomness which is basically me trying to get a grip and let the words loose. (Hey- we came back to control again! Why does this excite me?)

Returning to the sentence the home schooled thing was supposed to support, I am loving the Literature program for Senior year. Like, seriously. Where was this stuff all my life? You know, back when I was too young and (because I was/am not a child genius) stupid to read it? It was there, I assure you. (Dickens is a lot older than I am.) They are so deeply refreshing.

I won't lie (this time), I read a lot of what is best classified as crap. (Sorry, Mom.) It's light and the stories are trite, recycled and... mediocre. Not to say this stuff isn't popular, because it often is. But many times, it just isn't quite art. I realize that in order for the artist to get paid (a.k.a. pay the bills, not starve, keep the electricity to run his/her computer) he needs to sell a product. It's basic economics (yeah! I am learning something from that loathsome book!) But when the product becomes our main goal in art, sometimes the creativity and quality of that product is compromised. And so, we have lost the meaning of art. True artists often don't get paid and those who write to sell do get paid. 

Economics. You give the people what they want, they pay you, you make money and can support yourself. Yay! Good things! But should art be sacrificed for its sake? Perhaps it shows how the focus needs to shift. In a materialistic world, material (product) is the goal. We forget about the means and the people behind them. But... (Here comes the impossible, riduculous, idealist statement: run!) prehaps we can balance these two? Maybe one does not have to die at the feet of the other (wow, Anna, that was graphic). Maybe the two can co-exist and... maybe... they can even strengthen each other.

I do apologize for the scatterness of this post. This was more for me than for you. Though if you ever glean, like, loathe or laugh at anything in this blog... you're welcome.

Peanuts

I don't have a lot today. Just a few things I'd like to say.

I owe you and me and this poor blog a long post. It's starving over here and I just keep feeding it a peanuts and promising it a sandwich tomorrow. (Tomorrow as in that fictional 'later' that is postponed indefinitely) I keep on posting thoughts I should have expanded on and I didn't due to time constraints. It's annoying me.

Sweaters are knitted hugs. That's probably why Grandmas are famous for making them.

I hate this post. I will publish it anyway though, because peanuts are supposed to have some nutritional value.

What is Nothing?

Nothing.

What is nothing?

Everything is something... what is nothing?

What is not something?

To me, nothing is best described as that that best and blackest level of sleep. Where you don't dream, don't know, aren't aware at all. A sleep so deep and complete, it is almost death like in that when you awaken, it is like being recalled to life.

Nothing.

What does that mean to you?

To My Abandoned Coffee Cup

Dear Half Finished Cup of Coffee,

Is there anything in the world sadder than the sight of you? Cold, lonely, and bereft. The milk I so carefully measured into you now risen to the top in a little island of white I prepared you with love, my coffee cup. That first hot sip of you was estacy, like a kiss of caffeine. We started so strong... what happened to us? I held you to my lips and gently sipped your creamy contents. I carried you with me, close to my heart. Everyone said we were perfect together.

What came between us, my darling? How did I forget you? I set you down, promising I would be back soon. And you  waited. You believed me. You waited for me. But I forgot about you. I left you all alone, while you life force, your warmth dwindled.

Still you hung on. Waiting for me. Scanning the horizons for my under-caffeinated soul. I needed you and you knew it. So you were faithful, staunch and loyal. You held out, waiting, trusting... dying alone.

But when I finally came back, by chance, not even remembering you, I saw you... cold... dead.

Ah! The guilt of wasting you! Of letting one who was so dear to me pass away without so much as a goodbye.

I pick you up, laden with sorrow, your remains swirling slowly about. I take you to the sink and pour you down the drain to the place of your eternal resting.

I am so sorry... I know its too late... but please, know that I cared about you. You were so good to me and I am sorry... so sorry...

In sincerest sorrow and regret,

Anna

I'm A Back Seat Driver

Why is this as funny as it is annoying?

Because I don't drive.

Seventeen years old and I don't drive. I don't even have a permit.

I am the bane of many people's existences.

Anyway, my younger sister, Clare, is learning to drive. She was practicing with our Mother today and I was along for the ride. Funny, when my older sister learned to drive, I was worried the whole time I was in the car with her. (She was a bit jerky on the whole stopping-starting thing and she was nervous a lot. Bad vibes, man.) With Clare, I was so relaxed I almost feel asleep. (She's a smoother on the accelerator.) And I almost did... except for the part when she drove up on the curb and jolted me awake.

In all seriousness, she was doing very well. It was only a minor disagreement with the curb and she trampled it into submission with minimal damage to our respective spinal cords. And I wasn't sleeping. I was coaching her along. Wise and encouraging words flowed forth from my lips like a fountain. A very talkative fountain.

"Slower on the turns. One hand over the other on the wheel. Like how sailors pull in their sails? That's a girl. Very good."

"Splendid, Clare! You only took out four imaginary cars!!"

"You have your own lane, sweetheart. You can get out of theirs."

"Give the poor thing some gas, please. I don't think you'll make this turn at four miles an hour."

At one point my Mother asked at when I had read the drivers manual. (Um... never? I had no desire to.) Then she said she wanted to see my oh-so-advanced knowledge of driving in practice.

No, thanks, Mom. Really, I'm fine.

Why don't I drive? I can't remember wanting to as a kid. Mostly it just scared me and I wondered how adults managed to keep their eyes on the road and stay awake. Looked terribly dull. Still does.

It still scares me to some degree. The few times I have driven, it's felt weird. Wrong somehow. Probably it would go away with practice, but I am adverse to the idea. I'm a hazard. I'm doing the world a favor staying off the roads.

Besides, I love shot gun. You have the view, control of the radio, but none of the responsibility. Well, I suppose I am still responsible for distracting the driver, but that's easy. Not to mention fun.

I suppose I will eventually learn to drive. But I'm in no hurry. Being a back seat driver is so much more fun.

A Flippant and British Mood

I get in this certain mood. (Maybe you have it too.) When this mood strikes, certain words are way too appealing. Like, I want to use them, not because they are particularly useful in the context, but because they strike me as superior to others. They are quirky. They are strange. They aren't run of the mill. They just sound darn pretty.

Shan't. Perhaps. Since. Quaint. Forgetful. Pensive. Fashionable. Simplistic. Hop-scotch. Figurative. Majestic. Practically. Mooch.

Most of these words sound excellent with a British accent. Go on. Try it. No one's watching, and if they are, you will totally make their day.

Maybe that's all there is to the mood. Maybe it's just me feeling British.
I have a bit of a thing for accents. That's what I get for being boring and from the Midwest. I know there is supposedly a Midwestern accent. We say things like warsh or wursh rather than wash. A creek is a crick. It's actually a joke in my family because we don't. Ever. The only Midwestern quirk I can detect in my own speech is saying fur instead of for. I fail to stress the O sound. It sounds funny to say for like the number when I try to stress it.

Any way, I like to pretend to have different accents to annoy people. My British accent is fairly decent. My Southern accent is way overdone (but one of my favorites), my Irish accent makes me sound like an old man who has had a few too many shots. My Australian accent turns British after a few sentences. I took three years of French, so I have a less than horrible French accent. Spanish? Nope. I can't do it. Which is just hilarious and annoying.

Ya'll have probably figured out by now that I am an annoying person. Yeah. It's an art.

In this same mood, I love to read poetry even more than usual. This mood is dramatic. It is vibrant. It loves sharp, strong, concise emotion. I could go on and on about poetry all day. It wouldn't be very good, but I do love it, though meager my grasp upon it.

This is an atricious blog post. I rather loathe it. But I don't care. I'll post it anyway.

The mood doesn't care. It just does whatever. Thinks later.

For the cronic over-thinker, this is delicious.