Inde.

Let's clear this up.

"Indie" as in "Indie music" is a shortening of the word "independent" which, as you can plainly see, has only one "i" in it. So why do we insert a second "i" when we shorten it?

I don't know; I don't.

Inde. 

The Irony of Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope you all had a splendid time with family and friends this weekend.

I think Thanksgiving is a great holiday. As my grandma eloquently said in our prayer before eating yesterday, "It is sad that we must be reminded to be thankful" but nonetheless, the reminder is good. There is something to be said about setting aside a special day to give thanks for the abundance we've been blessed with. It's a good thing.

Too bad Thanksgiving has nothing to do with being thankful anymore. Like every holiday, it has been corrupted by commercials and consumerism. Not having the best turkey, the prettiest tablecloth, or the latest harvest-y door decoration is enough to set most people back into the realm of self-pity and dis-contentedness--subconsciously or otherwise.

It's also amusing that America dedicates the last Thursday of November to giving thanks for everything, and the last Friday of November to buying so much retail that it finally puts stores into "the black". Thanksgiving Day, immediately followed by Buy Everything You've Wanted All Year But Couldn't Afford/ Justify Day. It almost seems like many people use Thanksgiving as that justification for indulging the next morning. We spent the entire day yesterday being thankful, today we can go back to being discontent.

Thanksgiving starts and ends in the kitchen. We wake up, put in the turkey, start baking pies and chopping up veggies, peeling potatoes and cutting bread. Then we eat. Then we wash dishes for three hours. It's actually a kind of frustrating and stressful experience, leaving everyone secretly grumpy and upset, but also secretly guilty for not being really thankful for the running water and soap that is allowing you to wash dishes.

Then you get those people that text you and say,

Dear Everyone I've Ever Known,

I just thought I'd take a split second from my day to tell you that you mean so much to me that I'd take a split second out of my day to tell you that I'm thankful for you, that's how thankful I am for you. I am just so thankful for every single second we've ever spent together. In fact, I'm just ridiculously thankful for everything that has ever happened to me. I'm thankful for every color of the rainbow, and every smell in the world, I'm even thankful for spiders, rats and snakes, I'm thankful for my cell walls and cytoplasm. I'm thankful for subatomic particles and also intangible things like love, peace, happiness, and thankfulness, too! I'm just so freaking thankful. How are you today?

Love, 

T. Hank Fuller. 


These people are astonishing for two reasons: their inability to recognize a run-on sentence and their amazing and admirable ability to be thankful in every circumstance. I truly wish I could be more thankful. I don't, however, wish to show that in the form of such a text message. Mostly just because it would suck to receive that message on a bad day. How would you even respond to that?

Dear T. Hank Fuller,

I'm glad that you felt the need to list all the things you're thankful for right down to the smallest things you could possibly think of. I'm actually having a really horrible day. 

Love,

Thanksgiving Scrooge 

Not to say that thinking about what you're thankful for on a bad day isn't good. It's quite helpful to me, at least. But I am particularly bother by society (American, that is-- I can't speak for other societies) demanding that everyone always has a good day. It has become taboo to respond to an inquiry of emotional state with anything beside "Good. How are you?". This is even further extended on a day fully devoted to giving thanks.

But like I said earlier, I think Thanksgiving really is a good thing. We should have it more than once a year in my opinion. We just need to guard against these inconsistencies and problems. 

Video games.

I am terrified of video games. I seem to have an utter inability to distinguish between reality and virtual reality. I recall one occasion when I was at a friend's cabin and couldn't fall asleep so I watched her brother and his friend play Mario. If you've ever played (or watched anyone else play) Mario, you know how anti-climatic it can be. At one point this crazy freaky looking temple thing emerged suddenly from the sand and I jumped big time. This is Mario, guys. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was Paper Mario. I would love to tell you that I was only startled because it was 2am, but that would simply be a lie.

A friend of ours gave my brother and me an Xbox and some games last year. One of these games was Halo [3] which we thought might be fun. We decided to play the one-on-one-shoot-each-other thing. It took me a good hour before I could ever kill him simply because every time I saw him in my screen I started jumping around like an idiot. I just get nervous, scared and excited all at once and I couldn't control myself.

I've asked gamers why they game, and they respond with "it's fun." I can imagine that being nervous, scared and excited would be fun sometimes (like watching a suspense film is fun). So let me start this entire post off with this: video games have the merit of being fun-- exciting, nerve-racking, and scary at times.

In addition to being a fun activity, gaming is a competitive one. Like sports, there's a desire to win, and a pride when you do win. This is also-- admittedly or otherwise-- a big reason why gaming is so popular.

I would argue, however, that there is more at work behind the fun and competition. There are undoubtedly other ways to have fun and be competitive, so why video games? (Some of you gamers are already spitting out answers at your computer screen. If you have some legitimate reasons, you may be one step ahead of your fellow gamers. (A legitimate answer is not that it's fun.)) What video games offer that other activities don't is virtual-ness. Playing a video game is like living life, only with infinite second chances and awesome supernatural abilities. I'm not going to pretend to be exempt from the draw to this; I wish I could jump as high as the guys in Halo.

The question, then, remains this: Is it okay to be living an ulterior life? My simple response is yes. It is okay. But would it be better to live life in reality, doing epic things for the cause of real-life problems rather than fictional disasters? Yes. Video games can be a means of a necessary escape from real life, which is perfectly legitimate. But when one starts sacrificing real life for an imaginary existence there is not only lack of productivity, there is perhaps a serious problem.

In one of Mark Driscoll's sermons, he discusses this topic:

Before you dismiss everything he just said as weird religious jargon think about this: do video games count for anything in life? (Gamers are ready to tell me that if they get good enough they could win competitions, or if they go through enough school they could be video game designers or something. Yeah. Go for it.) I think it is pretty far fetched to say that avid gaming will bring any tangible benefits beyond thumb-controller coordination. In moderation, video games may have positive effects on things such as education, but I think even these benefits are more to be owed to video game technology rather than video games themselves.

 Exchanging reality for a fictional existence is a reflection of an unfortunate disconnect. Desire to do something spectacular and meaningful is wasted on video games, instead of acted out in real-life. This presents us with a generation of epic warriors, master-minds and ----, who rescue the helpless, speak out against injustice, fight crime, accomplish nearly impossible top-secret missions, defend humanity, and ward off evil-- "with their thumbs."

Hipsterism

 A strange thing started happening to me last March-- I began being referred to as "hipster." Before that, people would often say things like "different," "inde," "weird, "defiant" or any other of the many words that could classify a person as something different from the general population. When I was originally confronted with this classification, I wasn't sure how to respond. My immediate thought: what does that even mean? 

So am I a hipster? 

The dictionary defines hipster as:

noun Slang .

1 .a person who is hip.

2. hepcat.

3. a person, especially during the 1950s, characterized by a particularly strong sense of alienation from most established social activities and relationships.
 

Since I didn't know what "hepcat" meant, I looked that up too:
 

noun Older Slang .

1. a performer or admirer of jazz, especially swing.

2. a person who is hep; hipster.

Well, I certainly love swing dancing, but I'm not sure if that's enough to label me a hipster.

  

According to the urban dictionary  "It is part of the hipster central dogma not to be influenced by mainstream advertising and media, which tends to only promote ethnocentric ideals of beauty" 

 http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=hipster&defid=2705928

As long as I can remember, this has been true of me. I was the middle school girl who refused to step inside a Hollister or Abercrombie & Fitch because I hated the idea of over-priced clothes that looked the same as things you could buy at Aeropostale or American Eagle, but without the expensive logo. In fact, I disliked even going to either of those less expensive stores because they were still essentially the same product that Target and Walmart sold. So yes, I do have a particular distaste for the way that mainstream advertising and media get away with selling the same product for more, just by their logo.

Apparently, however, I wasn't alone all those years. All of these articles about hipsters make it seem like all these years there were ranks of upset teenagers secretly defying mainstream behavior just waiting to sprout into maturity and make a statement about style and values. Or maybe it was all a bit more subtle. Maybe some of us just didn't want to fall for the trap of expensive clothing, and decided to shop at thrift stores instead. Or maybe some of us don't think pink polos are cute.

But now, we see a new genre of these anti-mainstream people. Now people shop at Urban Outfitters, where they spend $200 on a pair of jeans, and $50 on a metro vest. Or they go to American Apparel to buy $30 v-necks (that are, by the way, outrageously soft), or Buffalo Exchange which is basically a really expensive second-hand store. It is like the second generation of the Hollister trap going on. Perhaps round two is even worse than the first. The entire basis of the "hipster" movement was based on defying "ethnocentric ideals of beauty" and not being "influenced by mainstream advertising and media." But now hipsters are paying lots of money for what new trends are saying is cool, which is what old trends said was ugly. Hipsterism is about anti-trends. But when anti-trends become trendy, what happens?

Well that's where we find ourselves with our fellow hipster friends. The entire population of hipsters deny that they are part of a trend. I contend that hipsters can be defined as a people that desire to hold to a "different" set of ideals in all areas such as fashion, music, food and even politics.

Therefore, I plead innocent of being a hipster. I hold to the ideals that I always have: I like what I like, and don't let stupid things influence that. I buy things from the thrift store because I know I can find what I want for less. I listen to music based on talent and sound, not based on what's popular. I eat the food I like and do the things I like. This used to be called "Inde" and it is now being mistaken for "Hipster" but I want to strictly identify the difference:


Hipsters follow anti-trends because they are against the norm. 
Inde people follow their own trend regardless of everyone else and their opinions.

I will admit to having hipster moments-- those prideful times when I make a decision based on what everyone else isn't doing. But I think we can all honestly admit to those.

So there you have it. I am Inde.

That being said, you can expect many posts regarding hipsters. I find hipsterism comical, and I can be humble enough to laugh at even the things that relate to me. 

Hipsterism: a prompt

Read me.

The Disgrace of Modern Children's Shows: Kid Edition

None of these are good.

Spongebob:

     Spongebob is annoying and disgusting. He's a sponge. He lives in a pineapple. He periodically removes his own limbs. He has a pet snail. What about this sounds good at all? There is no quality of lesson-learning. No good.

Adventure Time:

     I abhor this show. I've seen one episode. There was some little girl (in gender only, as far as species I haven't the foggiest idea) in a tent crying. Some guy with outrageously long legs flew in and started screaming at her. He said something to the effect of (and I kid you not), "You stole my purity!" After some fighting or arguing or something, which apparently the intruder won, he said "Now that I have my purity back I can return to the Virgin Islands!" What kind of kids show says stuff like that?

     Maybe I'm judging a book by its cover. Does anyone have anything positive to say about Adventure Time (other than the ten-year-old I nanny)?

Chowder:

      This is a television show about a kid that lives in a chef's kitchen with his uncle (I think it's his uncle but maybe not) the chef. I have 3 major complaints about this show:

1) The cooking always fails. Not just a little bit, mind you. No. The cooking fails as in explodes the entire building, blows the roof off of the kitchen, turns all the pets in the town to ash-- that kind of thing.

2) Someone is always critically damaged. Someone always looses oxygen, or implodes, or is electrocuted, or falls to an abyss. Something along the general lines of too-damaged-to-come-back-to-life happens in every episode. Then of course, two seconds later, everything is back to normal.

3) The scene transitions are pictures of random food rapidly filling up the screen in different animation than the rest of the show.

I rest my  case.

Tuctu

Assignment: pretend to be writing the teacher an excuse for your missing homework. 

"Oh no I lost my homewrok Christy. My dog Tuctu chrid to eet it but he cudn't fit it in his mouth. Then my dad put his coffy on it and mad a big mrch on it. I tuck it in my car to finish it. I roled down and it flow out the window I thride to chas it but a thornato cam and I gad to get back in the car." 

What can I say? I was a pretty creative kid. 

I distinctively remember literally "lol-ing"  after writing my second sentence. In retrospect, it's really sub-hilarious, but I was convinced that it was ridiculously clever to make fun of my own dog for his smallness. I obviously wasn't very good at story-telling yet. In fact, I think that after a few lines I realized that homework not being eaten by a dog and getting coffee spilled on it isn't enough of an excuse, so I resorted to a tornado. Somewhat of a jump in intensity, but hey, I was limited on time. 

This is, by the way, the same dog previously written about in "Taceta". I could never quite decide how to spell it, I guess.

Taceta

This is mostly a true story.

A few corrections are, however, required:

A) My dog's name is Takita [ta-KEE-ta].
B) He was bleeding outside his chin. There was no internal bleeding.
C) I was not hired. I was told. No payment was involved.
D) He was not thrown into an abyss, made into an abyss or anything of the like. He was, however, abused.
E) He has a scar on his stomach, not a bruise. He got frostbitten at the veterinarian's office. 


Translation (for those who still cannot read my gibberish):

Last Thursday my dog "Taceta" got hit by a car when I let him outside. I was screaming like crazy. He was bleeding inside of his chin, and some on his legs. Later that day I was hired to give him a lot of attention. He is five now. But I will never forget when I saw him get hit. I always thought he went through enough since he was abused. And he has a bruise on his stomach from when he went to the vet to get neutered. [Please read with high increase of emotion.] But that dog is strong. He will never give up, even if he is a Chihuahua. I should probably stop writing before I start crying or something. 


This has to be one of my favorite stories to read from my journal. The phrase "I was screming like curasy" is now common vernacular amidst my friends. You are welcome to pass it on. I also enjoy rehearsing "I shud probly stop riting befor I strt crying or sumthing" just because it's funny. "My dag Taceta" is a good one, too.

July

July is an interesting time of year for many reasons.

I pretty much equate July with pretty explosions because there's a firework show every weekend for the entire month, and usually more than one. This year I've made some observations about fireworks:

1) People will do anything to see them, including spending the entire day in blistering heat, or being in painfully (literally) close proximity to strangers, and sitting right next to outhouses.

2) That being said, fireworks are also a bonding experience. My family and I walked like a half mile back to our car from where we watched the fireworks in the dead of night with a huge mob of people. Everyone was talking to each other and laughing away.

3) The fireworks show is about having pretty fireworks that make people go "ooohhh" and "ahhhh".

4) The grand finale has nothing to do with seeing the fireworks and has everything to do with feeling the explosions. The game is about how loud you can be. They bring out the super lame looking ones that no one cares about just because if they fire off fifteen at a time, people will still feel like they are going to have a heart attack.

A brief guide to punctuation (revised).

As you may recall, I recently implored you all to learn to use proper punctuation. Since I feel so strongly about it, I have compiled a concise and (hopefully) helpful guide to assist you.

PERIOD:

A period (.) is used to indicate the ending of a sentence:

A period is used to indicate the ending of a sentence. 

^That sentence ended.

A period is not used to indicate emphasis:

I.L.O.V.E.Y.O.U.S.O.M.U.C.H!!!!!!!!!


This is not acceptable. This should have ended with the age of MySpace.

A period can also be used to indicate an abbreviation:

A period is used to indicate the ending of a sentence, abbreviations, etc., in order to clarify thought and communication.

COMMA:

 A comma (,) is used to separate clauses. For those that are less informed in the realm of grammar, a comma can be used to indicate a new direction a sentence is taking. For instance, take this sentence:

For those that are less informed in the realm of grammar, a comma can be used to indicate a new direction a sentence is taking.

There are two clauses in the above sentence, one before the comma and one after it. The one after the comma is the independent clause because it can stand alone. I could have simply said "a comma can be used to indicate a new direction a sentence is taking" and it would have made sense. The clause before the comma is a dependent clause because without the second clause, it makes no sense at all. In other words, it cannot stand alone.

EXCLAMATION MARK:

An exclamation mark (!) is used to indicate that something is being exclaimed. This is its only purpose. There is no other reason to ever use an exclamation mark. Ever.

QUOTATION MARKS:

Quotation marks (") signify when something is being quoted. For some odd reason entirely beyond my comprehension, this is extremely confusing to many people. So many, in fact, that there is a whole blog about it. To clear up the confusion as best I can I will offer an example:

"Dinner's ready!" Mom yelled up the stairs.

The quotations marks surround dinner's ready because those are the only words being spoken, rather than narrated. If that isn't comprehensible, I can't help you. I do, however, think that quotation marks are confusing to people because people have taken to using them in conversation by signalling with their fingers. This is sometimes also used to indicate sarcasm, which can probably account for a good majority of the misinterpretation.

It is, however, perfectly acceptable to indicate sarcasm with quotation marks because they are still indicating that someone said something. As a fictional example, we can pretend that my friend John has just told me that he is busy tonight, when in fact I know that he is not. When venting to a friend I might say:

John's "busy" tonight, so he can't hang out. 

The use of those quotation marks helps my friend understand that John says he's busy but that I don't believe him, only in less words.

Remember, quotation marks are not used to emphasize a word. That's why we underline things.  

ELLIPSIS:

An ellipsis (...) is used to tell the reader that there is something that is not being said. This particular form of punctuation has been terribly abused. I have texting conversations regularly that look something like this:

Me: Hey! How are you?

Friend: I'm good... You?

Me: Oh, what's wrong?

Friend: Nothing... I said good...

See what just happened there? They mistook an ellipsis for a period, and thus made me think the exact opposite of everything they were saying.

COLON:

A colon (:) is used, in a general sense, to indicate that some sort of specification is coming up.

For example, it can be used to signify the presence of a list:

I went on a picnic and brought many things: jelly beans, pizza crust, pickled ham and onions. 

It can also be used to signal the start of a description:

I went on a beautiful picnic: the sun was shining and the trees still had morning dew gripping to their leaves.

I personally dislike that usage in most cases, though.

You get the general idea, eh?

SEMICOLON:

A semicolon (;) may be my favorite form of punctuation. This is most likely due to its ambiguity, making it hard to portray to you its proper usage.

A semicolon is used as a conjunction, just like the words "and" or "but". Without the use of a semicolon a sentence may look like this:

A semicolon may be my favorite form of punctuation and its ambiguity interests me.

Look at how much better our sentence reads if we use the semicolon as a conjunction:

A semicolon may be my favorite form of punctuation; its ambiguity interests me. 

As you can see, I had so many options with that sentence. I could have made it into two separate sentences. The problem I see with that in this particular case is that the two clauses are too closely relation to be divided with a period. Semicolons allow for stylistic writing, rather than writing "and" and "but" and "yet" all the time to conjoin clauses. I'm sure you're getting a taste for the ambiguity.


PARENTHESES:

Parentheses (()) are fun because they work in pairs.Their job is to close in optional information, excluding it from the rest of the sentence. The key to correctly using parentheses is making sure that your sentence can be read without the text in parentheses and still make sense:

That's a really good picture of Alexandria (even though she looks fat). 

I very well could have (and maybe should have) left out the part in the parentheses and the sentence would have operated perfectly well.

EM-DASH:

An em-dash (--) is similar to a dash (-) only longer, in appearance. Unfortunately, there is no key for an em-dash so I simply put two dashes next to each other. I will refrain from explaining the other forms that dashes can take simply because they are confusing and long and weird. But an em-dash is a very lovely piece of punctuation that should be brought to light.

Its function is extremely similar to the parentheses. In fact, most sentences that have parentheses can be re-written with em-dashes. Take this parenthetical sentence:

I gave Amy the necklaces (the blue and silver ones) to keep until I return. 

That sentence could employ em-dashes:

I gave Amy the necklaces-- the blue and silver ones-- to keep until I return. 

So what's the difference between those two sentences? Decidedly, the difference is strength. It is a much stronger break in thought to use em-dashes.

Another fun fact about em-dashes is that, unlike parentheses, they don't have to work in pairs. I could say:

I gave Amy necklaces to keep until I return-- the blue and silver ones. 


The uses of all of the above symbols are not limited to my examples, so feel free to explore their other uses.

Writing is a beautiful thing because it is versatile. Enjoy it.

Low-fare pretzels.

I don't know about you, but to me, this translated as:

We know our pretzels suck, okay? But maybe if you just (please!) think about how cheap our flights are, you won't mind so much? Please?

Why You Should Learn to Use Punctuation Properly

If I had to make a list of things I'm thankful for it would probably go something like this:

#1- The saving grace of God and all of its facets
#2- Relationships with other human beings
#3- The ability as humans to think deeply
#4- Adjectives
#5- Punctuation

As far as number four goes, without adjectives language would be pathetic and human thought would be stunted tremendously. Don't believe me? Think about "Newspeak" in 1984. Yeah. Scary. But that's beside the point. This post is really about number five: punctuation.

In all honesty, punctuation is a beautiful thing. It is not only helpful but it is artistic. The way that you can manipulate the voice of your reader with, one little piece of punctuation is amazing. See? While you were reading that as soon as you hit the comma you inserted a short pause and then probably read the rest of the sentence more quickly and in a different tone of voice. That was an example of a comma splice-- which is bad, but necessary in proving my point. So punctuation controls the reader, directs the reader and can paint a more beautiful picture in the reader's mind. Not to mention, without punctuation we wouldn't have very much sentence variation and we would all get really sick of simple sentences, I guarantee it. If nothing else, punctuation provides clarity in otherwise very confusing situations.


My friend recently got a text message that said:

what can she drive?

It is only safe to assume that, rather than asking what kind of vehicle (or other object, perhaps?) her little sister could drive, he was trying to say two separate sentences:

What? Can she drive?

or:

What! Can she drive?

You know, even placing a comma, an em-dash or an ellipses would have been better than nothing.

See how helpful punctuation is?

The lack of proper punctuation can also be very helpful in literary works. For instance, in the book Play it As it Lays, Joan Didion deliberately leaves out probably close to 90% of the question marks because a big theme in the book is the fact that the main character doesn't ask questions. These little, almost barely noticeable, nuances can create deep meaning in literature. However, if punctuation isn't learned to be used properly, its improper use can not add such meaning.  


So, for the sake of simple, day-to-day communication, the avoidance of awkward and potentially harmful situations, the cultivation of human thought, and the furthering of great cultural enrichment like deep and thought-provoking literature, you should learn to use proper punctuation.

Starbucks is Green

60% post-consumer materials!

Don't forget to throw this sleeve away after you use it, though. We wouldn't want you to reuse it, that's not our intention at all.

The Disgrace of Modern Children's Shows: Toddler Edition

I am going to take a look into modern-day television shows one by one.

Caillou:

     My nanny kids watch Caillou quite a bit so I'm basically an expert on this show. For those of you that for some inexcusable reason don't know every kids' television show by name, I will offer a description: This is the show that's about that bald kid that's perpetually four years old. It looks like it's drawn out with crayons.  For all of you parents, I highly recommend not looking to this show to give you any insight into parenting. For one thing, it is near impossible to distinguish Caillou's talking from his whining. Not only do they sound similar, they are both almost constantly present. 

      Secondly, Caillou's younger sister Rosie has some major growth abnormalities. Her age is both ambiguous and confusing. She drinks both juice and milk, meaning she has to be at least one. According to my recollection, she walks a little, but also does some crawling action. In spite of this, she sleeps in a bed, not a crib, which is both dangerous and stupid as a parent. She also can climb out of her bed without the help of anyone else, but for some reason sits and cries in her bed instead 90% of the time. She can also, without a doubt, understand all the conversation going on around her. She laughs at the same thing that everyone else does (as a separate critique, those things are just not funny). I know for a fact that she shouldn't find those things funny because the two-year-old that I watch it with doesn't even get the jokes, much less think they're funny. What's most surprising about her is that she can also speak in almost full sentences. I liken her speaking to that of a foreigner. Her english is improper and she often leaves out conjunctions and prepositions, but she has a full understanding of what she's saying and the words to choose. 

     The third reason to ignore all parental example given in this show is that no one in that family changes clothes-- ever. 

Barney:

      Ohhh Barney. No one over the age of ten will disagree that Barney is loud, obnoxious, and obviously unrealistic. I also have a hard time dealing with the mass amount of colors and noises in this show, but that's just a personal thing. The music is way super catchy; consequently, I have songs like "If you're happy and you know it..." or "Clean up, clean up..." or "If all the raindrops..." stuck in my head for days after a single episode. 

     I have to give the makers of Barney some props though. Unlike most of the other TV shows, Barney is pretty hardcore dedicated to teaching lessons in their episodes. I'm a fan of this because naughty children just... are a bummer. 

     My biggest problem with Barney has to do with the very premise of every episode. For the uninformed, Barney is a small stuffed animal that comes to life when the kids all come together to play. I can't help but think that all the kids are on some acid trip. How else could they all just imagination everything so vividly? I know it's a grim view, but I can't help it. 

Berenstain Bears:

     This is actually my favorite of the the toddler-oriented kids shows. It's just kinda cute. It has plots that someone older than the age of five can actually appreciate. But there's a lot of weird things about it, too. To support my case I will simply give you the lyrics to the theme song:

Somewhere deep in Bear Country
Lives the Berenstain Bear family
They're kind of furry around the torso
They're a lot like people, only more so


The bear fact is that
They're just like you and me
The only difference
Is they live in a tree


The Berenstain Bears


When things go wrong as things might do
The Berenstain Bears will find a way through
Mama, Papa, Sister and Brother
They'll always be there for each other


The bear fact is that
They can be sweet as honey
Sometimes you'll find
They might be just plain funny


The Berenstain Bears
The Berenstain Bears

The only difference is that they live in a tree? Really? Let's just confuse our children's identities until they run around with bear skin clawing things. Great. 

Fireman Sam:

     This show is awesome if you're looking for an instant headache. I challenge you to spend thirty seconds watching this show. Really. The voices of the characters are unbelievable. 

Gotta catch 'em all.

Pokémon seems to be all the rage these days, so I thought it might be appropriate that I tell my personal story as it relates to Pokémon.

My first recognizable memory of Pokémon was the day two new kids moved in at the end of the block. I know for a fact my Pokémon journey started before then, but this is the first time I can cognitively recall. The two new additions to our neighborhood family were quick to assimilate. I remember that night, the older one sat on my front porch with my brother and I until after dark, observing our Pokémon cards. I had some awesome card (I think it was sparkly-- whatever that means), and he wanted to trade with me. He, however, didn't have his cards so he offered me some small plastic version of Nine-Tails. I enthusiastically agreed-- I mean that beats like a million little paper cards, right? Wrong.

Suddenly his mom's voice came loud from down the street, it was time for him to go. He left in a hurry. After we had watched is shadow run towards his mom's voice, my brother and I collected our things and went inside. As we neatly stacked our prized possessions, he informed me that I was just majorally ripped off. I didn't understand. How could a pretty foxish toy not be better than a shiny card? He explained to me that there was no benefit to having toys. Only cards mattered.

I was so angry! Why would someone cheat me like that? To clarify, I think he had fairly honorable intentions. The real question is why Ben waited until afterward to tell me.

Anyway, after that, I was much more careful with myself. Knowing now that trades are just a way to exploit the one with lesser Pokémon knowledge. I was the one with lesser Pokémon knowledge. Always. No matter how much I tried, I always got slighted.

We would all watch Pokémon on TV, followed by Digimon (we did not realize we were being neutral in a heavy rivalry when we watched both; had we known, we would have doubtless chosen Pokémon), and later Yu-Gi-Oh! We would all buy decks of cards, and even play each other after school. Unfortunately, I missed the point of playing the cards. I was too young to really understand, but I knew cards were important, Ben made sure of that. I was determined to be the best. I just needed a lot of cards, then I would "catch them all," or something...

I was extremely disadvantaged as a young Pokémon master, however. I was young, which meant no one would let me play their Gameboy, and I couldn't comprehend the complicated rules of card play. I also had very little income, as compared to the "big kids" who would do endless jobs around the neighborhood to a) blow it all at The Corner Store, and more importantly, b) buy the big packs of Pokémon cards. My biggest downfall, perhaps, was my endless attraction to the completely worthless and useless Pokémon. Chicarita was my favorite. She was so cute! She was green and small and constantly said her name in a high-pitched cuddly voice. I loved her. I would trade anyone anything for a Chicarita. I think I had like twelve. I was convinced that she, as the underdog, could win as empowered by my love. I was wrong.

Eventually I just decided to give up on being the best to everyone else. I was the best to me, and that's all that mattered. Every time Ashley and I would play Pokémon (we played it like it was "house," acting out the narrative as if we were producing the show), I would be Chicarita, and should would choose to be some huge crazy dragon or something. I always "lost," in the game. But I was a winner in real life. I was a winner to me.

A strange turn of events occurred when I became utterly convinced that Pokémon was evil. Someone had told me it was brainwashing hundreds of poor children in Japan to kill themselves. I was terrified that all my friends would turn against themselves, and me, if I didn't do something about it. Oh how impressionable a child can be! So, I determined to destroy my cards. I was done with my past life, and moving on to better things. I could have gotten a small fortune for my collection, but instead I chiseled things into the cards, and ripped them to pieces (plan B, next to burning them).

The Worship Screen

Today in church I noticed something I had never noticed before: the worship screen.

Now if you just read that and thought, "How could she possibly miss that all these years? Those things are huge!" then you have a problem that will be addressed shortly. In fact, I have noticed the existence of the the big screens that go over the stage where the pastor speaks. In fact, my church has two. But what I discovered today was the particular adjective-noun combination of worship screens. "Now please direct your attention to the worship screens," said the worship leader. And just after everyone had thought they were done worshiping! Little did they know, the TVs they were about to watch were actually worship TVs. Man, those churches just force you in to worshiping in all kinds of ways.

But what makes a screen of the worshipful variety?

Is it the screen itself? Do churches have a special connection with manufacturers that sell only TVs that have been made with products dipped in holy water, or blessed by Jesus Christ himself? Hmm... That seems outrageously unlikely.

Perhaps it's the money used to buy the screen that makes a worship one? Maybe the fact that it was bought by the money given to offering makes it holy. Hey! That's why they emphasize tithing so much. After all, we sure as hell don't want to be looking at any pagan screens in church. This is slightly more probable.

Maybe it's the simple fact that it's in church? I mean, after all, we call the guy who sings songs the worship leader. The room of choice for congragating is often called The Worship Center, and the service is called The Worship Service. It only naturally follows that we called the screens worship screens. If this is true (which it most likely is), we can expect that soon more inanimate objects will follow in this worshipful renaming. At the end of each service the pastor will kindly dismiss us out the worship doors. There will be cute little signs outside the sanctuary asking that no food or drink be omitted for fear it will spill on the worship carpet. Hearty remarks will be made about the awesome sounds that guy made on the worship drumset last week.

Like I said before, the last option is far more logical than the others. After all, we all know that the same money used to buy the church's TV could have been used to buy yours. Not to mention, you could buy the same TV for your house (we're just assuming churches really don't buy from special Worship Markets that hand-dip them in holy water) that was bought for the church and it wouldn't be called a worship screen. I can just see Dad after supper, "Hey can someone turn on the worship screen? I wanna watch the football game tonight."

In conclusion, when anything (or anyone, mind you) enters The Worship Center, you have free reign to add the word worship before referring to it/them. It is in that spirit that I admonish you to greet all your friends. "Hey worship Jack!"

The day I had the "holl" day off school.

Translation:

One day I had the whole day off school. I got so happy! I went outside and made an igloo. Then I got cold so I went inside. I drank some hot cocoa with marshmallows. Then I looked outside and there was a whole bunch of snow in the yard.

I continue by saying:

"So I went outside agen. This time I maed a ice casil. It was vresing inside so I went inside and walk upstairs to my room but I didn't take my shoos off. Then I took 5 blankits and put them inside my casil. Then I went back to my room and pulled out my monny. Then      went down stars I asked my mom if me and her could go to the stor. She said yes, so we did. I butt 12 boxes of hot coca. Then when we got home I put them in my casil. But I didn't have anything to drink with si I ask my mom if I could ues some of her mogs and she said yes. Then I put them in the casil. So finaly I took my mom outside into the casil. She freet out. Then we maed people pay $2.00 for a twer of the ice casil."

Goal accomplished. Mom freeted out.

Todd: A Very Sad Man

Translation:

Todd was a very sad man. He was sad because he did not get to go to a ball game. He loves! Ball games. His friend does not. His friend's favorite word is dude, but Todd's favorite word is ball. Todd and his friend are very different (I mean come on! They have different favorite words!), but they are friends, best friends.

Sometimes I still get "bycas" and "because" mixed up. I mean they're so similar...

The Illiterate Child

Translation:
One day there was a small fire two blocks away from my house. Me and my friend wanted to go check it out so we walked to where it was supposed to be, but it wasn't there. But some people were giving cats to people, we we wanted some. So we took four home. It ended up that we had to give two away. We were sad but we dealt with it. We named them Teddy and Punk.

Translation:

My name is Joanna and I am conceited.


Truth be told, journal entries like this actually are the fruit of utter humiliation. Cool and fun were quite literally some of the only words I knew how to spell.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

I'm actually not a fan of this particular holiday. I think it's stupid that we celebrate love with chocolate and roses once a year. Not to mention that whoever decided this was a good idea had no regard for anyone that was single, considering this is definitely one of the most depressing days ever for lonely people. I'm sorry for all of you who wish you had someone to celebrate SVD (St. Valentine's Day) with. For your sake I wish it didn't exist.

My boyfriend and  I found ourselves realizing that it was SVD soon a few days ago and figured that considering we were both free, we should consider hanging out. Because he's such a great guy, he drove me around my favorite lake while I stuck my head out into the 40 degree crisp air. I was curled up, snug in a blanket, and we were listening to my favorite band, Emery. Best day ever, even without roses and candy bars.

But on a different note, SVD always holds great memories for me. My memories concerning this holiday usually revolve around my favorite candy-- Necoo Sweet Hearts. Now when I say Sweet Hearts, I mean the sweet kind. Some people are into the tart ones, but they're just... wrong. Every year I would wait until late January rolled around so the best candy ever would start popping up in stores (it's just my luck to have my favorite candy be seasonal). I would buy the big ol' bags of them and stock up so that mid-June I would still have some. It was great.

You may ask why all of this is in past tense. I will tell you. Last year I went to the store and noticed that the SVD section was set up, everything all pink and red with hearts floating from the ceiling. So I naturally got overly excited and prepared to indulge myself. I get to the little Necco section, only to find that there are none! After quite some time, I realize that they are indeed there, but in a different looking box. I buy them anyway, clenching my teeth with fear that it might be more than the box that changed. My nightmare was realized when I grabbed my favorite color--green-- and put it to my tongue. It was completely different, absolutely disgusting. I was dreadfully disappointed. I didn't even try another one.

As much as I loved them, it took me about four seconds to stop caring  (I try not to let trivial things impact me severely), so when this year rolled around I wasn't expecting to have that lovely SVD taste. I noticed, however, a generic brand at a Holiday gas station and decided to try it. To my surprise and joy, it tasted the same as the originals! I bought a big bag and am prepared to buy more tomorrow when (hopefully) they go on sale.

Why do I love those candies so much? I'm not entirely sure. Obviously the taste is amazing. I love the enjoyment of slowly picking them up and reading their little sayings and then popping them in my mouth. I love that each color actually tastes significantly different (what is up with the pink ones, though?). I also have quite fond experiences with them. Back before Necco down-graded, they would sell them in the little boxes, which came in packs of six. This worked out perfectly because there were six people in my family. My mom would come home from the grocery store and give everyone one little box. All of us kids would gather together and trade according to what colors we liked best. I always got sucked into taking the nasty pink ones even though I hated them just because that was my favorite color. Eventually, we would each have our boxes with our desired content packed nicely inside. The boxes even had the little tabs so you could reseal them like cereal boxes if you wanted to save some for later. Growing up, I was never prudent enough to utilize that convenience. I would later learn to enjoy it. Now, every time I eat one those grand memories are wrapped up in a little heart-shaped sugar cluster. It's lovely.

P.S. Many people say that the all-year-round Necco wafer things are equally as good as the seasonal Sweet Hearts. This is what I have to say to that:
A) FALSE! They have that super strange brown color that nobody likes and it rubs off on all the good colors and make them taste super funny.
B) Even if they are the same flavor, they're wafers, come on! There's no way that thin little round thing can compare to the satisfaction of biting into the almost-too-crunchy hearts.
C) The waferness of them reminds me of the communion wafers used at big churches, which is awkward and makes the idea of ever eating the flavorless wafers at church that much more unappealing. I don't actually mind that as much, because I think whoever invented the wafer wasn't the smartest cookie in the jar (or wafer on the sliver platter used for communion) anyway, but it definitely doesn't add to the appeal of the wafer things.
D) Wafers don't have cute little sayings on them like "fax me" or "email me" (which are my favorites).

Almost Dying via Bull

This was one of the scariest things I've ever done in my whole life. It was absolutely terrifying. It took place in California, when I spent half my summer there in after freshman year. This is the account of the experience the day it happened (if you're friends with me on Facebook you may have already read this):

Today Karina and I went on an adventure. We previously found an area in Simi Valley (you don’t get to know where ‘cause its ours) that is untouched by the evil hand of the world. Standing on a cliff, you can see mountainous terrain and rolling hills seemingly empty and void. Karina and I decided that we were going to embark on a journey across this mysterious land. This morning, we came prepared to take a hike through unmapped territory. Unfortunately, we first had to cross through barbed wire (that should have been our first warning) and pass a “No trespassing” sign. Determined to have an unforgettable adventure, we crossed the wire nonchalantly and continued on our hike. The first thing we noticed was the many holes in the ground where snakes dwell and are ready at any moment to come rattling our way. Though we were in fear of the creatures, we mustered up the courage to make our way to the exciting unknown we saw in the distance. Soon after we passed the fence, we discovered that neither of us had any idea what poison plants looked like. Meanwhile, our legs were collecting scratches and hopefully not diseases. Still, we were determined to see the beauty of the mysterious valley that awaited us. We made our way down the steep incline leading into a dried up stream. We followed that for a little while and noticed face-sized (poop, crap, excrement, poo-poo, feces, bodily waste, undigested food, bile pigments). At first, I thought it was some kind of strange plant that happened to look gross and poop-like. I poked it with a stick and it was hard and leathery. It was unfamiliar, but it became the reality of the substance became clear once we encountered it often and in large quantities. Thinking nothing of it, except that it was gross, we persisted. We climbed up a hill, and found on the way a huge patch of wild cacti. It was the first time we had seen such a plant growing in the wild. We then found a small path. Apparently, we were not the only ones that discovered the land behind the fence. Following the path, I intersected a spider web. I thought that the giant black thing floating in the path was a bee, and therefore kept walking. But after I felt sticky stuff and saw a big, gross, creepy creature crawling on my leg, I realized what I had done. I walked through the web of a possible poisonous spider.
Back at the beginning, we saw a huge, beautiful tree between two large hills toward the center of the giant valley. Soon, we encountered that very tree. Near the tree, we found a larger path. It looked like a vehicle of some sort (such as an ATV or tractor) had made and used this. But, the tracks on the path evidenced that an ATV was not the last thing to make use of that trail. Hoof-like imprints on the soft sand should have indicated, along with the excrement, that something else was at hand. We progressed, still, along the trail. By this time, we figured that this place was not so remote as we thought. We concluded that this valley was only fenced off on one side, and that people were able to come from the other end, where cliffs and dangerous slopes were not involved.
From the top, we could only see that one lonely tree, but soon we came across a cluster of big, shade-providing trees. This small forest was intriguing. So, we moved toward the trees, observing their malicious beckon for us to join them. Their twisted branches and dark surroundings were strangely inviting. Stooping under the branches, I almost walked into another spider web that Karina saved me from. Realizing that those trees could not give us shade without also giving us spider bites, we quickly lost desire to stay. Nearby, there was another small tree. This tree, soon became the center of our attention. Karina claimed (for the fifth time) that she heard noises. Just trying to entertain her suspicion enough to continue, I quieted down and listened to what sounded like the simple rustling of the branches due to wind. After listening impatiently for a few seconds, I assured her that it was just the wind in the trees, and we could safely walk away. However, the noise grew louder, until even I was sure that the wind had nothing to do with these mysterious stirrings. It sounded as if a monkey were falling out of the tree. Karina quickly implored me to leave the location. As we turned to walk away, I said I’m sure it was just a bird in the branches. But no sooner than I spoke, did the noise increase to a loud and terrifying rustle. This time, it was clear that it was not the tree that was making the noise, nor was it a bird and most definitely not the wind. The sound was coming from tall bushes farther, even, than the tree. I turned my head to see where the noise was coming from. I saw, emerging from the bushes, a black figure. I thought, at first, that it was a person. But a split second later, I realized that no person was that big. All in a glimpse, it became clear that there was a horse-sized black animal walking on all fours. It looked like it had hooves, able to match the prints we saw earlier. The size could definitely accommodate for the enormous crap we had already seen. In awe, I whispered in desperation to Karina about the sight I saw. Her jaw dropped, and together we totally freaked out! Immediately, we turned around and started frantically walking along the path we came from. This moment was one of few moments one has in their life where they are convinced that there is a pretty good possibility that they could die, or be seriously injured. Coming to the realization of the chances that we could make the night news, we were in shock. Our fear for perhaps a second got the best of us. Walking in terror along the path we had no idea what to do. That path was not a road less traveled, as evidenced by tracks and feces. There was nothing keeping that creature (by this time we were sure it was some kind of bull and we are both still convinced of this) from running up that familiar path and killing us both. Terrified and confused, we offered up a prayer asking God for protection. Our fear then drove us on to a fast walk, retracing our steps, constantly hoping that there were not more waiting for us around the next bend. On many occasions we stopped to listen, thinking that we heard the trampling of the huge animal.
Karina and I, in fear of the impending doom ready at any time to overtake us, we hastily made our way back. It took us forty-five minutes to get to the point where we saw the bull. It took us fifteen to get back. Spiders and snakes took no toll on us now. We were not cautious due to prickly plants or pokey cacti, we had no fear of poison oak, our only concern was making it back to the fence without any more encounters with things bigger than ourselves. Finally, we made it up the slope where our journey started. Through the ditch which we once thought was so big and scary, across the side of the steep hill where we first noticed that our legs were being ripped apart. Through the fence, and up the last stretch of the slope. We were finally back to the top. Looking back at the valley from the point where we began, we were in awe of the journey we just made. We now safely reminisced about our experience. Everything looked so much smaller. From where we stood there was no sense of what was over that first hill. No one would know, but past that fence, across that stretch of plant-infested rolling hills, was a huge animal. In Simi Valley, where everything is safe and sound, is at least one wild bull. We almost died today.

(By the time we crossed the fence we realized neither of us had phones, or a camera. I apologize that there are no pictures involved. I know it would be easier to believe if you could see it. Have a little faith.)

(Also, I am not proud of the stupidity of this story. I would not advise ever embarking on such an adventure as this.) 

This is the best picture I could find on Google.

 

Sour War Heads

Most people would consider a small baby, still helplessly laying behind the bars of a crib, adorable. I think, though being the youngest this is just speculation, that older sisters think differently about their little baby siblings. I suppose at this time I wasn't exactly the baby, and the excitement of my cuteness (and perhaps even my cuteness itself) had worn off, at least temporarily. My sister Sarah, along with our foster sister Crystal (slightly older than Kara), had found my vulnerability a perfect opportunity for entertainment. This they ceased with excitement.  They lurked into my room while I was lying awake in my crib, and they put a sour war head in my mouth. Knowing them, they probably chose the yellow ones, too. They did it simply to watch me hold on to the edge of my crib and shake as the sour taste penetrated my tongue. My lips pursed together like a fish and my big eyes opened as far as they could go. It does sound like a funny picture; I don't blame them.

This action they continued throughout the younger years of my life. There were even instances that I remember rolling around on the floor while Sarah and Crystal stood over me laughing hysterically. Sometimes The Neighborhood Girls would come over and Sarah would pop one in my mouth to show off how awesome and hilarious her little sister was. I was pretty awesome, I suppose. But as all things do, it faded as I grew old enough to realize they were laughing at me. I was half offended and half just really wanted to impress them with my funniness, therefore becoming significantly less funny. On the bright side, though, I built up a very high tolerance for sour things and can now eat lemons without making the embarrassing squinty face normal people do... most of the time.

But now that I think of this, I wonder about the logistics of the whole situation. Did Sarah and Crystal save up their penny change in order to buy a weekly bag of War Heads to feed to their little sister? Did my parents get tricked into buying bags for them? Maybe it wasn't as often as their retelling of the stories made it seem.

I'm told that their devious plans were often at my expense. But I'm sure my reactions were priceless, and I don't blame them for taking advantage of me. I do the same things to my friend's siblings sometimes. It's the nature of being older than someone else.

The time I went to Kansas.

As I mentioned before, I was a late bloomer in the ways of literacy. Every day, the first fifteen minutes of class was devoted to writing in our journal. Some days she would let us write whatever we wanted, sometimes she gave us prompts. On one fine occasion, I decided to write about the time I went to Kansas.

 

Translation: 

One day my dad and my brother and his friend wanted to go to Kansas. I wanted to go too, but my brother said I couldn't go. Then when my dad got home he said I could go. So I started to pack. My friend wanted to go, too, so I asked my dad if she could go. He said yes. Then my sister wanted to go and my dad said yes. Then she found out that my brother and I were bringing a friend so she wanted to, too. She called a friend and asked if she wanted to go, and she did. So we all got ready to go but the man we wanted to see had a heart attack.

Notice how capturing my writing style is? It's almost enticing. I have had problems understanding if I started packing my friend or not, though. Whoever invented commas was a genius.

Good news, though! The guy we were going to see (who did, by the way have a heart attack or two), got better. We decided to go to Kansas so see him anyway. Apparently there's an annual RC plane race or something. My dad's friend was in it, hence the sudden trip. Since there were still going to be planes one way or another, my dad still wanted to go. So my dad, my sister Sarah, her friend Kimberly, Ben, Cody, Ashley and myself set out in our very crowded van to Kansas City. Most of the trip is not note-worthy, with the exception of the time Ashley's manipulating powers caused me to wander unto a stranger's farm.

When I say "wander" I mean more life deliberately jump the fence to pet the llama on the other side. It started licking us with it's disgusting tongue, so we decided to move on. Instead of re-mounting the fence and going back the way we came, Ashley convinced me that if we kept walking on the farm we might find chickens. I have no idea why we were on a farm in the middle of nowhere alone, or where anyone else was at this point, but our immaturity and irresponsibility lead us to walk along some man's acreage until we spotted a barn. When it processed in my brain that a person actually lived there, I was terrified. I wanted to run away. Ashley, being older, new more about human relations, however. She decidedly told me we were going to knock on his door. I knew it was a bad idea but I didn't know how many smelly llamas would be in the surrounding fields, so I figured it was best to stay near Ashley. She knocked on his wooden door. "Excuse me, sir" she said, "can we pet your chickens?" 

Lucky for us, the man was not a rapist or a serial killer, but a kind old man. He was confused, I'm sure. But he very clearly couldn't say no. He led us to his chicken pen to pet the nice little chickens. Soon thereafter, my dad pulled up in the van (the chicken pen was right against the fence near the dirt road), and yelled at us to get in the car. The nice old man helped Ash and I climb over the barbed wire fence, and we climbed into the vehicle. I don't remember anything else, but I'm sure my dad was very upset with us.

The time when my best friends lived in my kitchen closet.

I'll start this one off with a disclaimer: my family did not take any of my friends hostage and stuff them in the broom closet. That being said, I'll give my statement some context.

I grew up in the city. There's none of this huge houses with trampolines and pools suburbs stuff where I'm from. When you look out the window, you see right into your neighbors window. As a side note, I've come to the conclusion that all the houses in this little neighborhood were designed by the same architect. If I go to a neighbor's house for the first time, I can already determine where the bathroom is--to the right of the living room, between two bedrooms in close proximity to the stairs. This is the case with literally every house I have ever been into in this neighborhood. All kitchens are the same shape, and living rooms are the same size rectangle. I don't want to, however, give the impression that I live in one of those clusters of identical houses. Nah, in my neighborhood, every house looks different. For awhile, there was a big theme of blue-trimmed stucco houses but we settled that by repainting our trim brown. It took me about fourteen years to finally realize that the blueprints of all my friend's houses were the same as mine, which is proof of the diversity.

With fourteen other houses on the block (not to mention the numerous blocks surrounding), I was bound to find a few friends. The first friend  I, or rather my brother, made was named Ashley. We first moved to this house when I was about six months old. Upon arriving, my brother and sister were intrigued by the gas station at the end of our block, which we later referred to as "The Corner Store." Eager to explore the new neighborhood, Ben and Sarah ventured to The Corner Store for some candy. On their way, they encountered two kids playing on their front lawn just down the street. Their names were Ashley and Cody. They were siblings. The details of the rest of that day are useless, except that it resulting in a friendship with Ashley and Cody. So, Ashley is my longest standing friend, as I cannot remember a time when she was not there. I grew up with a best friend five years older than me for years.

As time moved along my family adjusted to the new house. There may be stories worth telling somewhere in there, which I will explain later. But first, I must finish my tale about my friends. My sisters started meeting all sorts of "Neighborhood Girls" as I've always called them, as if they were some entity in themselves, so my pool of faces grew larger. Soon it grew to include some of the little sisters of  the " Neighborhood Girls." One of the most notable was McKenna. We were like two peas in a pod. We underwent all kinds of ridiculous things as children. Another indispensable part of my childhood was my friend Melissa. Her and I grew closer in many ways then the others. But we didn't see each other as much because she actually lived in a nearby neighborhood. Her grandparents lived next door to me, and she would go there every day after school until her parents got home from work. Her little brother Tony was there, too.

In a different sphere of life, I had my one church friend, Brittany. Every week after Sunday-school, (every week may be an exaggeration, it's hard to tell) we would play at one of our houses. We would play with dolls, stuffed animals, real animals, each others' hair, etc. She, too, was (and still is) a very important aspect of my life.

All of these friends worked out really great for awhile. But only for awhile. Soon they collectively decided to hate each other. McKenna hated Ashley especially. Ash was old enough to know it's stupid to hate little playful girls, but constantly talked of the immaturity with which McKenna approached everything. I suppose she was right, but we were all young and naive. Melissa tried to stay out of it for the most part, but McKenna really bothered her. She didn't care too much for Ashley, either. I think she was intimidated by her age. Brittany did not hate, but was only hated. Every Sunday that I brought her over, the other girls would get jealous. One time, standing beneath the smaller of the two trees in my yard (where a lot of significant events in life seemed to happen), McKenna and Melissa were arguing with each other, outraged that two people would want to play with me at the same time. The argument escalated into a small cat-fight. In an effort to separate them, I stretched out my arms between them. They ceased this opportunity to really decide who was the better friend. Each took a hand, as if telepathically communicating their intention, and pulled me between them.

I was outraged. How could they be so immature? Ash was right. My solution to this problem, and I very vividly remember thinking this out, was that I wouldn't have friends anymore. They were too problematic. Instead, I resolved to spend every day in the comfort of my house where I would make my own friends, and bask in constant imagination. I was determined not to be bogged down by silly things. I searched my house for my new companions, and chose two new best friends: Broomy (a broom) and Moppy (a mop). They lived inside the Broom closet in my kitchen. Each day when I wanted to play with them, I hopped into the closet  (which was also the resting place of our trash can), and shut the down, encasing myself in a very small and smelly space. I would fiddle with my fingers, pretending to press buttons. Then I would wait approximately fifteen seconds, or until I couldn't handle the smell of rotting bananas, and I would nonchalantly walk out of the "elevator" unto to the "third floor apartment" of my "friends" Broomy and Moppy. My attachment to them was short lived but severe. I would often carry them around everywhere I went. When I couldn't take both somewhere, I would settle for just Broomy, since he was my favorite. One day I was so obsessed, that I refused to take a bath without bringing Broomy into the bathtub with me. I washed his "hair" and scrubbed his... "neck"?

I'm not sure if it was the lack of the response from my friends, or just the psychological need for humans to have real friends, but somehow I was soon playing with human beings again. My habits of-- shall we say creativity?-- stayed with me for years, though. Other humans were usually my primary source of friendship and comfort, but since then I would often turn to inanimate objects for entertainment. Such instances included when I would have pop bottles perform weddings, when I would play house with the "family" of scissors we owned, and when I would play high school with markers.

Starting with my childhood.

My brother and me getting ready for snow. 

I wasn't quite sure how to start off my posts, so I decided that I would begin where my life did. I was born sixteen years ago. I was (and still am) the youngest of four. My oldest sister Kara [Car-ahh] was nine, Sarah was seven and Ben was five. Needless to say, I don't remember that. We'll go ahead and fast-forward to a time that I can actually recall.

As a young child, I was... strange. My older siblings experienced some pretty bad things in public elementary and middle school, so when my turn rolled around to enter first grade (I skipped kindergarten and preschool), they decided to switch all of us over to homeschooling. Public-schoolers: do not immediately dismiss me as a socially awkward kid that has hair down to my mid-calf; I assure you I am not representative of the home-school stereotype. Home-schoolers: please do not take offense to the above statement. My parents weren't super great at homeschooling at first, which caused a lot of intellectual problems in our family. For instance, I did not learn to read until I was nine. As a result, we decided that my mom didn't have time to mature into the super-home-schooler-mom that she aspired to be, modeled after the hand full of moms that had been homeschooling their children from the prehistoric ages in our church co-op.

Anyway, my brother and I were enrolled in a charter school starting in fourth grade (for me; eighth grade for my brother). Looking back, I have no idea how I made any friends. I was the girl that always-- as in every single day of fourth grade-- wore my hair in a knotted pony-tail, and wore the same turquoise sweatshirt and blue jeans repeatedly. This particular school was different in the sense that it was on-campus only two days a week. The remaining three days of the school week were spent at home. In many senses, I was home-schooled + social life. It worked out extremely well for me. By the end of fourth grade, I was one of the top readers in my class, and well on my way to achieving... nothing really, but at least I was caught-up to other kids.

That's when I started getting relatively similar to other ten-year-olds. Before then, I was left to way too much alone time, and, consequently, way too many strange, imaginative habits. I find that period of my life rather entertaining. My transition from "awkward" to "normal" was a long, hard one, and in many ways I'm still working on it. I'm not gonna lie I'm still super awkward (or so my friends tell me), but thankfully not in an uncomfortable way. I'm just going off what people say. Maybe one of my four followers (four followers!), that I assume are my friends, could better explain my strangeness. My point is, this "transition period," as I call it, makes for some funny and interesting stories. Perhaps I'll start there, then.

My first post.

Welcome to my blog.

I started reading blogs semi-religiously about a year ago, giving my friends all the more reason to think I'm weird. (But hey, if you're reading this I guess you're in the same boat.) Since then, I've really wanted to have my own blog, but didn't know if I had what it took. After all, my life isn't really awesome, and I don't have anything to set me apart from anyone else enough to actually get a blog following. Recently, though, I decided that if I was ever going to be a blogger, I would have to start somewhere. The beginnings of blogs always suck (if you don't believe me just go look at the very first post of your favorite blogger, if they haven't already deleted it out of shame), so I might as well have a sub-par blog while I'm still young so that someday I can have some blogging dignity.

So this is it. It probably will suck for a few months, maybe longer, but bare with me as I mature into a talented blog-writer (hopefully). You will find that I will have a wide range of content, as I am still unsure what I want my blog to really be about. If random life stories, theological debates, and sometimes a few good laughs interest you, you might enjoy this. For now, though, I can be pretty sure that whoever is reading this is a friend or family member, in which case they already know many of my life stories and stances on theological debates.

Why do I have a picture of really dirty feet on my blog?

That picture was taken at one of my prouder moments in life, after running around in a coal pit when I was visiting my sister in Beijing. I decided to capture the moment on a speed bump. As far as the significance of that picture in relation to this blog, there is probably none at all.