Confessions of a Loser

I have a confession to make.

I miss writing papers. I really, truly do.
*hangs her head in shame*

That is all......for now.

Song of the Moment

Who can tell me if we have heaven?
who can say the way it should be?
Moonlight holly, the Sappho Comet,
Angel's tears below a tree.
You talk of the break of morning
as you view the new aurora,
Cloud in crimson, the key of heaven,
one love carved in acajou.
One told me of China Roses,
One a Thousand nights and one night,
Earth's last picture, the end of evening:
hue of indigo and blue.
A new moon leads me to
woods of dreams and I follow.
A new world waits for me;
my dream, my way.
I know that if I have heaven
there is nothing to desire.
Rain and river, a world of wonder
may be paradise to me.
I see the sun.
I see the stars.

China Roses--Enya

Jaded: A Collection of Thoughts, Comments, and Forum Posts from My Week

I can't explain how I feel right now really, so I compiled some stuff I posted on various boards and blogs and things I said in IM conversations this week to try and articulate what I feel.

I have to give a presentation in a couple weeks about the Philly trip, and Kurt told me I need to bring a photo slide to share.  

Instantly I thought of I posted a picture on Facebook from a missions trip to Philly I took 
this summer. My friend Cyd left a comment saying, "Can you spot the 
missionary?" Which is hysterical, cos I'm the only white girl in the photo 
(nothing new for me, though). But it got me to thinking... 

The world should be able to play "Let's spot the Christians," just because 
of our compassion. But I look at the suburban American church and I 
don't see the welcoming, supportive, merciful, proactive community that 
it should be. I feel like she's missing her Jesus in a lot of areas. I know 
that Jesus came for the broken and the lost and the poor and the 
troubled. I know that it's not the healthy that need a doctor, but the sick. 
And I know that blessed are the lowest of the low and the broken and 
those who mourn and the meek and those who are persecuted. And I see 
what Christ did in living with them and being like them, and I don't see 
that played out in the church. And it frustrates me to no end. Because 
Jesus was homeless. And he lived his life amongst the hopeless. And he 
gave up his life for wretched sinners like me. And we're called to follow 
him and be like him. But we're not. We're too content to stay in our little 
shells of suburban comfort and offer hollow words of cliched comfort to 
those who are suffering. 

And all this has made me awfully jaded. Because I know that blessed are 
the merciful, for they will receive mercy. And I know that whatever we do 
for the lowest of the low, we do for Jesus. But I don't see this happening. All I see is hollow and meaningless and ridiculously commercialized. 

That said, I'm sick of the cliche answers I've gotten to these thoughts of mine. I'm sick of all the answers I've been given by Christians, actually. Lately I've just been so torn up and jaded. It feels like someone has stuck a hot iron into my soul and it twisting it around. I am broken; I am bitter. I can't write. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can only think. And thinking causes my soul to twist in a slow, tortured agony. And this is where I gather first-hand experience with the hollowness of the church. No one can commiserate with me or truly encourage or comfort me. They can only be fake and hollow and cliched.

And yes, I'm going to get up in church in two weeks and give this post as my presentation. 

More

First off, thanks to both amazing people who left amazing comments on my last post. Both of you have given me food for thought.

My greatest fear is leading a small life. Not because I desire fame or personal glory. But I have this feeling--this burning feeling that I was meant for so much more. I look at my parents and all the adults around me, and I'm disenchanted. I look at myself and know I wasn't made for a small, suburban life. Not in an "I just KNOW I'm the next American idol" delusion kind of way, either. And all this sounds so shallow and self-absorbed and probably makes me look like a terrible Christian. But leading a small life scares me to death. This much I know. I cannot become caught up in dinner parties and mowing the lawn and returning library books and driving my kids to soccer games. Somehow, I know that's not for me. 

Who am I to say what I am meant for? I know I am not God. But perhaps it is possible to have an inkling of what is to happen without knowing the full story, eh? It sounds too prideful to say "I am destined for greatness." Yet I know I was meant for something bigger than leading a typical life. Maybe it's because I'm atypical that I feel so estranged from the typical sort of life. I'm too bold to be confined to just my social circle. I'm too opinionated to silently agree or disagree with people. I'm too proactive to sit back and let others change the world. I'm too loud to not speak up. I'm too ambitious to settle for a dead-end job. I don't fit the mold of a typical person.  

And this is where I become confused and discouraged. Because I don't yet see how those aspects of my personality can do anything when I am so ungifted otherwise.

My greatest fear is that I will settle for something that doesn't have a loud, radical impact on the world. I am too bold to be content with inflicting quiet change. Perhaps that is selfish. But perhaps God made me loud for a reason.

What I don't tell my friends, I tell my blog. Which is essentially a roundabout way of telling my friends the things that are too hard to say directly.

Lately it's been one of "those" periods  of my life. I've been completely discontent with everything.  I was sitting at the kitchen table today when I realized that wow. I have done nothing remarkable during high school. I feel like I've wasted the past four years of my life.

Everyone has their niche. I don't know what mine is, because I haven't found that one thing that I'm good at and passionate about. I feel like there's something I should be doing, but I have no clue what that something is.

And it hurts. Oh, it hurts so badly. I'm surrounded by driven, passionate people who know exactly what they're doing and....it makes me feel pale and cold and alone.

And I'll hear crap like "There are no small parts, only small actors" and wonder how that's supposed to make me feel better. My mom tries to tell me that there are many things I'm good at, but the world isn't looking for a girl who can hang spoons on her nose while writing mediocre papers on works of literature.

And the hardest part is that it never gets better. I'll be momentarily distracted by life but no, this feeling never goes away, no matter what I do.

Think

Love is, as far as I can tell, the most mature response to any situation.

Watch it.

I don't care what people say about my unchanging, unfading love of Switchfoot. There are just so many reasons why I enjoy this band. To sum it all up, though, watch these:

It's the Timmy Shimmy! He plays bass! He dances!

Diadecting and pultiplecting. Yes.

Autobiographical Nonsense: Skills I Should Master

I should learn to shut up.

I should learn to tell my right from my left.

I should learn to be more patient.

I should learn to play bass.

I should learn to tap my foot while playing.

I should learn to control my temper.

I should learn to write better papers.

I should learn to give a stunning argument.

I should learn to be more independent.

I should learn to do my work on time and not at the last minute.

I should learn not to be jealous.

I should learn what dispensationalism is.

I should learn to salsa dance better.

I should learn to do a decent flip turn.

I should learn to use a serger.

I should learn to fix a carburetor.

I should learn to do a cartwheel.

I should learn to French kiss.

I should learn to drive without killing anyone.

I should learn to do a triple toe loop.

I should learn to write.

I should learn how to conquer the world.

I should learn to use Logic Pro.

I should  learn to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

I should learn how to apply eyeshadow in the crease.

I should learn how credit cards work.

I should learn to answer my mom kindly.

I should learn to comfort people.

I should learn to give better advice.

I should learn to eat a whole jalepeno without batting an eyelash. Almost there.

I should learn to use a tandoor oven.

I should learn to fly.

I should learn to be the change.

I should learn to do a whole bunch of things before I go off to college.

Before I die.

The one thing I do not need to learn is to love, because someone I never expected to be my best friend is teaching me how.

Things I Forgot to Mention

Apparently people enjoy my autobiographical nonsense posts. That's a first. Honestly. I don't even like my posts. Steffi, I think I counted listening to you as "talking to people."

Thank you, faithful readers >.> You make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. In a mature way.

Autobiographical Nonsense: Things I Do to Waste Time

I talk to people.

I Wiki random things.

I mess around with makeup.

I dye my hair a random color.

I blog.

I read magazines.

I hunt for pervy flair.

I fill out MySpace bulletins.

I go on Myspace in general.

I change my FaceBook status.

I call Jessica New.

I give myself Sharpie tattoos.

I listen to music.

I make wacky plans about my future.

I read Cyd's Xanga.

I stalk people I used to know online.

I make up wicked perverted jokes with Kevin.

I go to Rite Aid and smell all the perfumes and colognes.

I swim needless laps.

I go running.

I find random blogs to comment on.

I post on message boards.

I hit up perezhilton.com.

I text Dean.

I go to the paint store, take lots of chips, and try to decide what color to paint every room in my house.

I mural.

I cook interesting dishes.

I reorganize my drawers.

I use the DDS to organize all my family's bookshelves. I do.

I read BookPages.

I go to the library and hang out at Reference, where I used to work.

I walk to Wawa.

I go on the swings in the park.

I jump rope.

I attempt to Double Dutch.

I write Op/Eds.

I watch Monty Python.

I listen to Brian Regan.

I do the sun stare.

I mess around in GarageBand.

I rehearse possible Oscar/Grammy/Tony acceptance speeches.

I read The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy.

I try to get a life. Alas, Walmart doesn't carry them.

Olympic Weirdness

I hate the women's gymnastics floor routines. They remind me of poorly choreographed and poorly executed dances.

But tonight, for one single, solitary moment, they had my rapt attention.

There is a Russian gymnast named Anna Pavlova.

For those of you uneducated, Anna Pavlova was one of the greatest principal dancers of all time. She was most famous for her signature dance, The Dying Swan. (Which, by the meandering way, is danced to Le Cygne, the thirteenth movement of The Carnival of Animals, a Saint-Saens piece. I love Saint-Saens and that piece especially. "The Dying Swan" is also a poem by Tennyson, whom I also enjoy tremendously.)


Freaky much?

Autobiographical Nonsense: Things I've Learned Get You Prayed For

Lots of Christians disagree with me or find my more culturally liberal views (I said culturally, not politically) repulsive. Thus they always feel it's important to tell me that they are praying for me. Here's a list of things that--while I find rather normal--are apparently dire enough to prompt intense intercession for your wayward soul.

Listening to Marilyn Manson gets you prayed for.
Wearing jeans gets you prayed for.
Disagreeing with Josh Harris gets you prayed for.
Being sarcastic gets you prayed for.
Advocating social justice gets you rpayed for.
Having dreds gets you prayed for.
Having a tat or multiple piercings gets you prayed for.
Refusing to homeschool gets you prayed for.
Using birth control gets you prayed for.
Believeing that we need missionaries in the US gets you prayed for.
Skipping church some days gets you prayed for.
Playing drums gets you prayed for.
Not hating homosexuals gets you prayed for.
Watching Tila Tequila gets you prayed for.
Wearing red lipstick gets you prayed for.
Wearing "hooker heels" (aka stilettos or spiked heels) gets you prayed for.
Baring cleavage gets you prayed for.
Having a significant other gets you prayed for.
Going to a good college instead of a small Christian one gets you prayed for.
Owning a nude scuplture gets you prayed for.
Wearing lots of black gets you prayed for.
Having cable gets you prayed for.
Going to public school gets you prayed for.
Believeing men and women are equal gets you prayed for.
Speaking in tongues gets you prayed for.
Reading the Apocrypha gets you prayed for.
Reading The DaVinci Code (and enjoying it) gets you prayed for.
Watching The Ring gets you prayed for.
Listening to NPR gets you prayed for.
Being a Yankees fan gets you prayed for.
Being a celebrity gets you prayed for.
Headbanging gets you prayed for.
dancing gets you prayed for.
Screaming gets you prayed for.
Voting for a Democrat gets you prayed for.
Being a Democrat? Oh, that gets you kicked out.

WOOOO! for the 400 m IM!

Michael Phelps is a fucking beast.

That is all.

Autobiographical Nonsense: Obsessions

I'm obsessed with vintage clothes.

I'm obsessed with Dita von Teese.

I'm obsessed with weddings.

I'm obsessed with Shirley Temples.

I'm obsessed with blogging.

I'm obsessed with being obsessed.

I'm obsessed with perezhilton.com.

I'm obsessed with writing papers.

I'm obsessed with chem.

I'm obsessed with the city.

I'm obsessed with my friends.

I'm obsessed with Degrassi.

I'm obsessed with drama.

I'm obsessed with music.

I'm obsessed with cleaning my flute.

I'm obsessed with third-octave A. 

I'm obsessed with pervy flair on FB.

I'm obsessed with pizza. Both kinds.

I'm obsessed with coffee.

I'm obsessed with swimming.

I'm obsessed with red lipstick.

I'm obsessed with eyeliner.

I'm obsessed with high heels.

I'm obsessed with gossip.

I'm obsessed with Fred.

I'm obsessed with Facebook.

I'm obsessed with reading.

I'm obsessed with Nancy Drew.

I'm obsessed with almost everything.

Ahh! Demon iPod!

I love my iPod. I really, really do. But I swear it has a mind of its own. I think it's possessed or atleast has a keen interest in BritRock, oldies, and weird alternative music. Every single time I put it on shuffle, it plays nothing but Radiohead. Oasis. The Verve. Travis. The Beach Boys. The Beatles. Aretha Franklin. Stevie Wonder. The Shins. The Mars Volta.

Speaking of whom, I completely adore The Mars Volta. I started listening to them a little over a year ago, when I first read Scar Tissue (which is a fabulous book, by the meandering way). I iked them a bit, so I bought a bunch of their albums. I wasn't too enchanted by a lot of the weirdness. It seemed like major overkill. And trust me, you haven't heard weird music until you've heard M.I.A. and The Mars Volta. (God, what would they be like on stage together? I can only wonder...and shudder at the images my overactived, overstimulated cranial lobes create.) Anyhow, since my iPod seems to have the free will that Calvinists argue man lacks, it's been playing a lot of The Mars Volta lately. And I've been enjoying it tremendously.

Go buy "The Bedlam in Goliath." It's fab.

Autobiographical Nonsense: Guilty Pleasures

All the things I shouldn't love, but do:



I love Nancy Drew books. I've read all the originals plus all the spin-offs.
I love calamari.
I love red lipstick.
I love Britney Spears' music.
Ditto Hanson.
Ditto Nysnc.
I love brownie batter.
I love stilettos.
I love itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow-polka-dot bikinis.
I love butter.
I love being mean.
I love gossip.
I love guys who curse periodically.
I love arguing.
I love A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.
I love Degrassi: The Next Generation.
I love the subway.
I love bridges.
I love big, thick legal books.
I love Marilyn Manson.
I love stoichiometry.
I love swimming.
I love ghetto dancing.
I love Beyonce.
I love truffles.
I love Monty Python And the Holy Grail.
I love dying my hair different colors.
I love duct tape.
I love texting.
I love long phone calls.
I love to talk.
I love tabloid magazines.
I love perezhilton.com.
I love The Simple Life.
I love ska.
I love Five Iron Frenzy, to be specific.
I love old-school gospel songs.
I love chicken sandwiches from Wendys.
I love Wawa.
I love eye doctor appointments. Shocking, ehh?
I love itching at bug bites.
I love being work crew at YoungLife camps.
I love really long roadtrips.
I love hot, sticky days.
I love the feeling I get in my chest after swimming lots of laps.
I love how my best friend leaves me breathless and high.
I love staying up till, oh, five a.m. or so.
I love being completely blunt.
I love offending people.
I love Victoria's Secret.
I love Dita von Teese.
I love eyeliner.
I love amazingly strong coffee.
I love lists.
I love people who are OCD.
I love danger.
I love the feeling when it falls apart.
I love guys with lip piercings.
I love The Cracked Pot. (Shoot me now, but I do.)
I love writing papers.
I love research.
I love Skull Mountain.
I love blended families.
I love stalking people's blogs.
I love being scared.
I love long-distance relationships.
I love giving advice.
I love telenovas.
I love being a snob.
I love Coco Mademoiselle.
I love vintage hats.
I love Jackie O.
I love Singin' in the Rain.
I love to sing along to Singin' in the Rain.
I love Shakira.
I love causing trouble.
I love being the center of attention.
I love knowing I can always call this person, and they will always answer.
I love leaving voicemails.
I love not paying attention in class.
I love texting/IMing/goofing of during class.
I love saying really perverted yet really funny things.
I love having a "little sister."
I love this girl named Cyd who makes me fall off my bed a lot and whom I can through popcorn at and whom I am one day going to marry.
I love this guy Dean who keeps me up all night and makes me think and doesn't let me win and whom I'm packing in my suitcase when I go to college.
I love this girl named Teressa who makes me laugh and shares her life with me and is more than almost a sister and who has a serious tan to die for.

Autobiographical Nonsense: I Am What I Hate

I am rude.
I am loud.
I am sarcastic.
I am mouthy.
I am a snob.
I am proud.
I am annoying.
I am unfaithful.
I am frustrating.
I am tempermental.
I am manic.
I am pushy.
I am tired.
I am exhausting.
I am lazy.
I am mean.
I am sinful.
I am greedy.
I am self-centered.
I am bitchy.
I am angry.
I am forgetful.
I am lost.
I am grieving.
I am ridiculous.
I am foolish.
I am stupid.
I am confusing.
I am complicated.
I am rejected.
I am unknown.
I am untalented.
I am dillusional.
I am insane.

I am a backstabber.
I am a snob.
I am a freak.
I am a strange entity.
I am a loser.
I am a failure.
I am a fool.
I am a heretic.
I am a deserter.
I am a procrastinator.
I am a sinner.
I am a lost soul.
I am the opposite of who I want to be.


Oh, what a wretched man *cough*woman*cough* I am.

Autobiographical Nonsense: I'm Not the Best, Nor Anything Special

I'm not the best blogger.
I'm not the best Christian.
I'm not the best author.
I'm not the best poet.
I'm not the best singer.
I'm not the best flautist.
I'm not the best student.
I'm not the best daughter.
I'm not the best sister.
I'm not the best friend.
I'm not the best advisor.
I'm not the best leader.
I'm not the best follower.
I'm not the best helper.
I'm not the best thinker.
I'm not the best revolutionary.
I'm not the best activist.
I'm not the best pushover.
I'm not the best speaker.
I'm not the best at being quiet.
I'm not the best athlete.
I'm not the best techie.
I'm not the best hairstylist.
I'm not the best dressed.
I'm not the best planner.
I'm not the best at adapting.
I'm not the best dancer.
I'm not the best waitress.
I'm not the best librarian.
I'm not the best teacher.
I'm not the best learner.
I'm not the best version of me.

I'm not the prettiest.
I'm not the skinniest.
I'm not the curviest.
I'm not the richest.
I'm not the poorest.
I'm not the funniest.
I'm not the smartest.
I'm not the healthiest.
I'm not the wisest.
I'm not the happiest.
I'm not the saddest.
I'm not the coolest.
I'm not the greatest.
I am the least.

I'm not the most understanding.
I'm not the most charitable.
I'm not the most atlented.
I'm not the most beautiful.
I'm not the most humble.
I'm not the most faithful.
I'm not the most trusting.
I'm not the most loving.
I'm not the most kind.
I'm not the most gentle.
I'm not the most peaceful.
I'm not the most loved.
I'm not the most reliable.
I'm not the most flexible.
I'm not the most disciplined.
I'm not the most talented.
I'm not the most anything.

City of Blinding Lights

I love how my best friend calls at the most inopportune moments.

I actually have something to blog about now, though.

I'm ready to explain more of the Philly trip, as I've finally come to terms with my conclusions.

On the trip I took everything differently, mostly because I was raised in an urban culture. I did not grow up in a white, suburban culture. It's just strange for me that all my neighbors here are white and that everyone speaks perfect, unaccented English. It's also weird that everyone here is pretty well-off and lives in detached...err, mansion-type houses with huge lawns.
Anyways. I took the whole urban culture and setting a lot differently than everyone else on the trip. I was not surprised at the condition of kensington. When Lindsay said how "terrible" it was that people had to hear the El going past every few minutes, I wanted to scream. Because truthfully, you block it out after a week or so. You just don't notice it.
At one point, Kurt mentioned that the city is so "segregated." Translation: West Philly is black, North Philly is Hispanic, et cetera. truthfully, though, I don't see it as segregated. When people immigrated here, they set up ethnic enclaves. In New York everyone knows that Jackson Heights is Latino, Howard Beach is Italian, and Jamaica is African American; no one thinks anything of it. It's not segregation; it's the way things are. When we saw how people on the block would sit on their stoops and talk to each other and had an amazing sense of community, my heart broke. I want that. I miss that.
Basically, I felt so at home on the trip. And that bothered me. I'm not supposed to feel at home there. I'm supposed to be shocked, right?

Wrong.

My heart's been torn apart since that trip. But I've reached a conclusion.

I'm moving back to Queens someday.

For good.

Comparing photos then and now, now and then,
Just wondering--wondering where it all went wrong.

I really have absolutely nothing to say. And that greatly disturbs me. I, of all people, have nothing to say. Me? The mouthy one? With nothing to say? I must be losing my touch.

Actually, I do have something to say. Dan just called. He's back from Burkina Faso...and coming here. To my house. *puts on her Teflon suit and prepares for playful "your face" insults* This should be interesting. 

I just lost the game.

Arg.

Writing is such a bipolar art form, hence my not blogging for days on end, suddenly to fight back with a burst of meaningless, tangent-filled posts. Or a boring, utterly concise post like this one.

Nothing is....nothing's happening. besides the fact that I didn't get to say goodbye to my best friend. Damn you, lateness.

I am piercing my ears again sometime this week. Yes, I'm doing it myself. Maybe my cartilage too.....

I'm going for a ride with my family now. I'm bringing the song binder. (Yeah, I started putting my bajillions of ditties into a binder. For my OCD's sake.) Maybe I'll post some later. if I can get over my insecurity, that is.

Buhbye, sweet darlings.