I Know He's Not Real, But My Imagination Doesn't.

Over the course of my 16.75 years I've fallen for very few guys. Real guys, that is. I've fallen in love with more than a few fictional males. As per Steffi's request, here is a list.

1. Mr. Darcy. Need I explain this? He is the culmination of all any decent woman wishes for in a man.
2. Joe Hardy. Blonde, brilliant, funny--what's there not to like?
3. Sheftu (from Mara, Daughter of the Nile). An Egyptian double agent who is pretty damn sexy, what with his rogue actions.
4. Prince Rillian. A bewitched, long-lost prince in distress--oo lá lá.
5. MacQueen. He kills his boss. So bloody brilliant!
6. Michael Corleone. If you don't know who this is, I pity you. Go watch The Godfather.
7. Johnny Fontane. Ditto the above.
8. Dickon (from The Secret Garden). When I was younger, I daydreamed about being friends with Dickon. He's just so cool!
9. Marcus (from Eagle of the Ninth). A Roman warrior on a quest for a missing legion. So, so, so amazing.
10. Aragorn. No, duh. Who doesn't like him?
11. Roderick Usher. So delightfully creepy, and he's musical to boot.
12. Kinshi (from The Master Puppeteer). I don't really know why; I've just always liked him a lot.
13. Johnny Tremain. Classic!
14. Edward Cullen. I admit it; I'm attracted to him a great deal.
15. Jack Bauer. Hell yes.
16. Mac (from CSI:NY). He is so cunning and rather witty. *nod*
17. Tony Almeida. I like this guy more than Jack, actually, because who does Jack call to save his ass? TONY!
18. Jack Sparrow. As you can tell, I like the rogue guys.
19. Lucius Malfoy. I'm a bit ashamed to admit this one.
20. Booth (from Bones). Not much I can say on this one, except he always makes me smile.
21. Zach (also from Bones). So what if he was a cannibal's apprentice? He's still a lovable, adorable, quirky genius.
22.Michael Moscovitz!!!!! He makes me so happy. *grin* I love Michael.

Possible Future Loves

1. Heathcliffe. I have yet to read Wuthering Heights, so we'll see.
2. Severus Snape. Maybe...someday. I do adore this character, but not in this way...yet.

A Post About Almost Nothing Important

Someone told me I should blog about music. I feel like I do that too often, but I'll do it again anyway.

Concerts I'm going to:

--Relient K
--Leeland
--Anberlin (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
--The Decemberists

Concerts I haven't decided on yet:
--Cold War Kids
--Thrice
--The Academy Is....
--Of Montreal
--The Mars Volta
--Secondhand Serenade

'Course, Cyd will tell me to scrap Leeland and RK and see CWK and Thrice instead, but....I don't know.

Anberlin's new release, New Surrender, drops this month. Get it.

That is all...for now.

There's Heavy Metal Coming from Your Truck

Alright. I won't stop blogging. *bows with a flourish*

Something interesting happened today. On my TPS user profile I put Eloise's famous lines: I'm Eloise. I'm six. I am a city child. I live in the Plaza.
It was meant to be funny, but apparently some poor soul (who will remain anonymous) took it seriously. I got an email from said poor soul asking, "Are you really six?"
Because he (or she; for the sake of their privacy I will not disclose his or her gender) is apparently tremendously naive, I decided to have a little fun with him or her. I whipped back a response, saying, "Yes, I'm six. I'm a genius. My IQ is 178." Unfortunately, the student responded with a "WOW!!!!!"

This is why I try to avoid TPSers.

I'm going to stop blogging, I think.

It was inevitable, this decision. 

More later....maybe.

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.

Marcus Hook

Last night my family went for one of its exploration drives. Basically, we just drive to random places and look around.

We wound up in this neighborhood called Marcus Hook. It's along the Delaware between Media and Chester, not far from the Commodore Barry Bridge, a little ways from the airport.

It reminded me so much of my old neighborhood. There was this park on the river that reminded me of this park on the canal in Hamilton Beach.

It was freaky.

Meaningful stuff later.

Yetserday I got home from Philly. After leaving the CSM housing site my group went to this girl's Main Line house to swim and chill. (It's Allen Iverson's old home.) The pool was ridiculous. It had freakin' waterfalls.

As tired as I was, it was difficult to enjoy the house and pool. It seemed so unjust that people enjoy such ridiculous luxury while they completely ignore the struggles going on literally ten minutes down the road.

I brought this up to a couple of the girls on the trip--whom I consider friends--and their reaction just broke me into smithereens. They said I was being to serious, making too big a deal out of it. "Why can't you just relax and enjoy it?" they asked.

Is it stupid to see literally blocks upon blocks of abandoned houses and know that the average age of a homeless person is nine years old and then think that suburban culture is unjust?
Is it stupid to get pissed off because the city spends more money on outdoor artwork than they do on homelessness?
And is it stupid to refuse to jump right back into this individualistic suburban culture where all that matters is what you have and what you can get for yourself?
Is it stupid to blatantly refuse to accept it?

I don't think so.

I'm Baaaaack!

I'm back from Philly, so here's a lightharted post about the trip. I'll post a more serious monologue later.

Hysterically Crazy Moments

--Jon's air guitar solo during Bohemian Rhapsody
--"....wait. Eve was naked?" --Adrian
--"What's the Bible book???"--Andrew
--Ryan's jokes about short Italians
--Blackballs, Silverballs, Googley Eye Balls.
--Running into an air conditioner
--"Hannah, how many times did you fall this week?"--Andrew
--Waking up in the middle of the night and seeing three girls standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me
--Playing High Water, Low Water
--Lulu mixing up Anna and my names
--All the conversations that Adrian and I had in the abckseat of the van
--The Van Band ("As looong as you love meeeeeeeeee....")
--Kelsey's mountain of clothing
--counting how many drug deals went down on the corner
--Kaitlyn and her crush
--other things that i shall not mention here. ever.

Away

I'm leaving in about an hour. Won't be back for a week, so.....

No new posts till then.

And boo. I miss you already.

More Lame Poetry

I suck at writing, but here's my latest. I hate the chorus part, but it'll have to do for now. I hate the whole thing, actually.

Hero Tonight

It’s dark and the streetlights are burning, burning out
It’s cold and your eyes are screaming, screaming loud
Screaming for someone to hear
But they’re closing their ears.

Maybe it’s fate that I’m with you now
But probably it’s something else
And there’s a question searing a hole in my heart
So much to say, and I don’t know where to start.

Can I be your hero tonight?
Can I be the one to rescue you?
Can I be your hero tonight, love?
Even though I don’t know what to do?

Well, damn the world; they’re lying, lying to you
And damn the one who played you, played you for a fool
Played you like a hand of cards
Stole your breath and took your heart.

Maybe it’s fate that I’m with you now
But probably it’s something else
Ask the questions, I’ll answer them all
Dig the tunnel; scale the wall.

Can I be your hero tonight?
Can I be the one to rescue you?
Can I be your hero tonight, love?
Even though I don’t know what to do?

And you don’t believe in coincidences
I’m coming closer to that end, too
Because it wasn’t just chance that you met me
I was meant to be a hero to you.

Relationships, Part One

"Stay your adorable self forever--don't ever change!"

Those words grace the back of my eighth grade yearbook. I've heard that statement (or something similar) countless times over the past few years as I've navigated through my high school years.

But when you really care about someone, you are willing to change for them. Willing to let the not-so-adorable parts of you go. Willing to be what they need, not what you need.

There is no greater love than this: that you would lay down your life for your friend.

Most of us will never even come close to having to physically give up our own life for the sake of a friend. But life is so much more than that, eh? It's your desires, your needs, your ideas.
So in a way, it's alright to change for someone by putting them first.

I had a real-life lesson in this this past week. I refuse to name names, but someone I care about deeply hit a rough patch, and learning how to deal with it has been hard for both of us. After thinking about it for a couple of days, I came to a conclusion. I told him I'll be what he needs me to be right now. And what he needs is something that's a little difficult for me to be. But hell. Love is sacrifice.

Very Funny

Haha, Lizzie. You got me.

I give up. xD

But that actually brings up something I've been pondering for a while. Is it "as __ as I" or "as __ as me"?

In one sense you're dropping the verb at the end of the statement, like so: "As __ as I [am]." In another sense "as" is a preposition, which means you use the objective case of the pronoun.

I have no life.

Face Paint and the Grammar Nazi

I love how every summer, the same rumor starts to circulate.
It's compounded now by my popularity amongst local students. (I have groupies, and it's scary.)

FYI, I'm still single. And so is he. And we plan to stay that way.
But I learned that he loves to write and is a Grammar Nazi like me.

So today the SC handed down a ruling that made me smile. They ruled against the 32-year-old ban on gun ownership in D.C., among other things. They declared the Second Amendment to be somewhat untouchable when it comes to legislation. Guns don't kill people. People kill people. Of course, we shouldn't be putting guns in the hands of criminals and psychopaths, but everyday citizens have the explicit constitutional right to bear arms. And don't give me any of that "But it's a living and breathing document!" crap. Words do not change. The need for self-defense does not change, either.

I'm proud of you, Scalia. So proud.

Lyd called me last night. Apparently Dan is sending me a bottle of Teflon....?
But what the hell. I accept any and all gifts.

Besides, I joke about my Teflon suit all the time. Reagan was the Teflon prez, and Gotti was the Teflon Don. So I'll just be the Teflon Flautist, I guess.

Tomorrow's the first day of Wild Week.

More later, after rehearsal.

I love my best friend. Well, I love all of them, but right now I love one in particular.

Today I was dragged around to a bajillion stores that I positively hate. Thank God for my iPod. And for Alicia Keys. She pretty much saved my life today when I was about to die of boredom.

There's a Degrassi marathon on, but I can't handle any more drama. Besides, I have my very own real-life Spinner, Paige, Marco, JT, and such.

I know I've been promising to post something meaningful, but I just can't bring myself to think of something profound. Oh well. Philosophical crap is for losers. xD

When I Leave

I talked to Lydia today (tonight?). And Dan. But he interrupted and only insulted me, so that doesn't count as a conversation.

My parents and I had yet another college talk today. Eww.


When I leave for college, I'm packing you in my suitcase and taking you with me.


I'll post some meaningful stuff tomorrow. Maybe.

Oy Vey

Oh, *insert string of expletives here* (I censor myself because some of my readers might be offended and hurt me if I didn't.)

Life just threw me a curveball. Correction: someone in my life just threw me a curveball. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Half of it was good; the other half was.....difficcult, but not bad, per se.

I have to say I told you so to this person, though. Despite what they may think, they're not always right.

Finally!

Peekaboo!

I found these sweet purple and black arm warmers.
I'm so fugly. xD

So today I finally (FINALLY!) convinced my mom to let me get another piercing. Currently I only have the standard holes in each ear (only one in each =[). I've been asking for something else for a looong time, and today she finally gave in.

I mean, Sarah (my sister) had a tat and a tongue ring by the time she was my age, so it's only fair that I get something too. I'm thinking about maybe just putting a couple more holes in each ear, but I'd love a lip ring.

Punkster, my hands are smallish. So. Just make them small. And I'd like red and black fabric, if at all possible. Thankee sooo much.

I still think he was just being humorous, though. I think that maybe you;re just making it into a tad too big of a deal. Sort of like they do in the media--"Oh my god guess what so and so said!" Just...take everything with a grain of salt and give everyone the benefit of the doubt, mkay? He's said it himself: sometimes things don't come out right; sometimes he crosses the line without intending to. Either way, I don't think it's such a huge deal.

Capital hills and lowercase people

Blogging has now halfway replaced my journal. It's kind of nicer; I don't have to hide my blog like I hide my journal.
I still use my journal for songwriting and letters and stuff.



I know all about you now;
It's been a long road all around.

Custom Wristwarmers?

Yes, please, Talia! Can they be here by Monday or Tuesdayish? How much are theyyy?

And I do believe the rabbits thing was an attempt at humor. I, for one, find it hysterical and true, considering all the PETA "animals have feelings too!" crap.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for the humane treatment of animals. However, we shouldn't elevate them so much that we treat them better than we treat our fellow human beings. There has to be some distinction. Wasn't there some song about that, one that said something like " we save the trees/but kill the children?"

I'd rather not elucidate on those, Punky. I don't think it's worth getting everyone all riled up over. But I will say this: Obama is like a meringue cookie. You think there's something there, but in the end it turns out to be mostly air.

And I know...I spell a lot of things wrong. How I managed to win the spelling bee four consecutive times, I can only wonder.

The Producers

I'm working on a list of dream producers. None of my songs will probably ever see daylight, much less a recording studio (other than my own really shabby one), but it's fun.

The list is pretty eclectic so far. I won't reveal it, though, although Steffi and Cyd already know who's on it.

My condolences to anyone who is dying to see it. I may eugoogolize you after you have passed away. (If you don't get that somewhat witty movie reference, you suck. The question is: do you swallow? You may excommunicate me now for being a small bit of a perv.)

I saw a disturbing commercial today. "The question is: when you turn your car on, does it return the favor?"
If you are being sexually aroused by a machine, you either have a wickedly odd fetish (and maybe a power complex) or you're a fugly bitch who has no life.

I am way too addicted to blogging now.

We are gathered here today....

...to mourn the loss of Drew's mouthbrow.

Not.

We (whoever "we" consists of; it might just be my multiple personalities and I) are, however, gathered here to read another post of mine, and perhaps to leave some comments.

Subtle I am not.

I found another freaky Manson/RK coincidence. "I'm really starting to despise beautiful people," sings Matty T. in that same song where he blasts Manson. Now, is he saying he despises the girlfriend mentioned in the song (who is presumably beautiful), or is he expressing his dislike of Manson's song, The Beautiful People?

I also found two SF lines that cancel each other out.
"Souls aren't built of stones..." --4:12
"...where the stones are built of souls..."--Rebuild
So souls aren't built of stones, but stones are built of souls?
Isn't that like "I have my mind on my money and my money on my mind"? Y'know, the same thing?

Currently listening to: Eriatarka--The Mars Volta

Yeah. Today my only company was my iPod, soooo.......music is really all I have to say.
If you were expecting some fantastically outrageous and profound commentary on society, politics, or the human condition, you'll have to wait till tomorrow at least. Unless you want to explore the Mars Hill site and watch the vodcast.

http://www.marshillchurch.org/

Warning: not for the close-minded, whether you're a die-hard atheist or a fundamentalist Christian nut.

I have to say, Mark Driscoll is brilliant. I'm...not too fond of organized religion as whole, though I am a believer. It carries such negative connotations and has built such a bad reputation for itself. It's strayed so much from what it was supposed to be. I guess that's the price of being comprised of imperfect humans.

But Mars Hill is fab. It's doctrinally conservative but culturally liberal. (That means it's all chain-smoking, college-age Seattlites who don't wake up till 9 PM and go to HempFest. Speaking of which, Mark Driscoll hung out at HempFest once or twice...)

So yeah. Go check it out, even if you aren't spiritually inclined. Not trying to convince or convert; just sharing some food for thought.

By the way, I totally blame Jessica for the huge storms on Saturday. She did this freaky rain dance, so I think it's all her fault. She is such a pagan. WE decided a while back that if we weren't Christians, we'd be Wiccans. That's probably blasphemous or something.

Black and white, red and blue; I think that I look good on you.

Oh, jeez. It's less than a week till Wild Week....and I still have to get all my stuff together.
How come I'm so shy in person and so....freakishly bold on stage?

o.O We're doing a cover of Dani California one of the nights. Which inspired me to start re-reading Scar Tissue. It's a pretty sweet book. I'm not....enthraleld by the other covers, though. Oh! Gravity is alright, I guess, but I hate Buddy Holly. I wanted to do I Wanna Be Sedated, but...that's not happening.

I'm tossing around the idea of wearing a different hat each night. The red one Danielle gave me is a definite, and I'm picking up a new fedora tonight. I also have this purple newsboy cap that I adore. Aaaand I have fab new eye makeup from MAC. Loverly purple and gold shadows and stuff.

But I lost my fingerless gloves, and my arm warmers are torn to shreds (thanks, Adrian). Not cool.

(I love how I have this totally different persona on stage. I get away with so much crap that I would never dream of doing in real life.)

Other than plotting out cool clothing ideas, life is dull. I went out on my roof last night and looked at the stars. (Which, of course, made me think of Jono, and that made me remember to buy a new blackpinstripedfedora.) I found all of Ursa Major for the first time in my life. The moon was full, and these thin clouds started to roll in. It was all very surreal and had this stange beauty about it.

More later. Maybe.

Last Post, I Promise

This'lll be my last post on Manson...for now, at least. And this one is in response to a comment someone left.

"Hmmm....you use his quote about Columbine...but is he really blaming us for their terrible actions? Like, he is saying we didn't listen, so they had to shoot a bunch of people at school in order to make the world know they should have listened. Isn't he assuming the [world] is at fault? This statement reeks of the "it's everyones fault but the people who actually committed the crime" philospohy...can you defend against this charge?"


I would agree that the world is partially to blame for Columbine. True, the shooters are 100% responsible for their actions that day. However, I believe that, as with any action, there are underlying causes. Now, I don't know a ton about the Columbine massacre, but I would assume the shooters were driven by hate, anger, and perhaps hopelessness. The way our high school social culture works probably had a lot to do with that. The way we as a society treat certain people sucks. So yeah, I would say that society did partially cause them to take such drastic action. This isn't just true in regards to Columbine; it's true when it comes to things like suicide, self-injury, and other destructive behaviors. I'll leave you with this:

No one sits with him, he doesn't fit in
But we feel like we do when we make fun of him
Cause you want to belong--do you go along?
Cause his pain is the price paid for you to belong.
It's not like you hate him or want him to die,
But maybe he goes home and thinks suicide
Or he comes back to school with a gun at his side
Any kindness from you might have saved his life.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Recovery

I've finally recovered enough to blog about my traumatic experience in my hometown of NYC.

Saturday morning I was washing cars for a Philly/Burkina Faso trip fundraiser. My mom called me and asked if I was still interested in going to my best friend's graduation in the city. I said,"Sure thing!"
Half an hour later we were on our way. WE made amazing time on the NJ Turnpike; it took us only an hour and a half to get from PA to Brooklyn. But then everything took a disastrous turn for the worse.

The Belt Parkway was backed up for miles, and the news station said absolutely nothing about it. We got off and tried driving down Ocean AVe. , but THAT was a zoo, too. Eastern Parkway was horrendous, and the Grand Central was hell on earth. My dad refused to put the AC on, and it was humid beyond humid. I had to change in the backseat of the car....and I still missed Teressa's ceremony. I made it to Jessica and Richie's, but the trouble wasn't over....

It started to storm. hail, thunder, lightening, torrential rain, you name it. I got soaked...and I was wearing a white skirt.

It was the worst trip of my life.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6n5Oi4714o

I feel like I should clarify some stuff about my last post. Watch this video--it answers a lot of the questions I expect from people.

Manson is surprisingly well-spoken and very, very intelligent. He's writing and directing a film about Lewis Carroll, and he is so well-read. And yes, he has a normal voice. xD He's not a Satanist, either. Truth is, he had a poor experience with Christians growing up: a lot of hypocrisy, religion, and doomsday stuff. (They made him watch A Thief in the Night in grade school. I'm pretty sure that constitutes torture.) He's a fantastic painter and writer. He has a fabulous relationship with his parents. He knows what's wrong with our culture, and he speaks up about it. He doesn't use a lot of profanity when he speaks. He's also hysterically funny.

Basically, I don't think he's as horrible as most people make him out to be. He's probably nicer than most believers I know. Which is so depressing.

Anyhow. More later.

Help! I'm being eaten!

It is only fitting that on Friday the 13th, I would fall in love with Marilyn Manson's music.
My new love stems from some conversations about wedding dresses that I had with Steffi. I saw Manson and Dita von Teese's wedding picture (her dress was this gorgeous purpley-blue affair, and the wedding was in a freakin' castle, complete with falconry) and started to wonder what his music was like. So I LimeWired him and gave his stuff a spin on my iPod.

That's where the title of this post comes in. A band that I like somewhat has a song that states, "Marilyn Manson ate my girlfriend/Satan consumed her mind/And he may do it again." (Coincidentally, Manson's latest release is titled Eat Me, Drink Me. xD) Don't worry--he is not feasting on my mind; instead, I'm feasting on his music. It was rather ironic, actually. Yesterday, on the way up to NYC, my dad had a Smitty CD playing in the car. Meanwhile, I was listening to Manson on my iPod. xD So ironic.

I'm expecting some criticism and stuff from my Christian peers.

I know, I know, I know.

He's freaky looking and has some....interesting ideas.

But the guy is talented. Really, really talented, both lyrically and musically.

Some of his lyrics are disturbing, I admit. But one should view them through a certain lense. If we compare Manson's work to that of Poe, Whitman, or Dickinson, his lyrics aren't all that troubling. The language is different, true; the basic prinicples are very similar. Also, you have to understand that he's pretty much just an attention whore. He wants to make waves and stir things up. That's what's behind his crazy antics; if we didn't give a crap about them, he'd probably stop. xD

Also, I've always been totally blown away by his appearance in Bowling for Columbine. When asked what he would say to the Columbine shooters if he had a chance to talk to them, Manson replied, "I wouldn't say a single word to them; I would listen to what they have to say, and that's what no one did." The enormity of this statement is indescribable. It's so...powerful that I don't know how to begin explaining it. So I'll just let you think about that for awhile.

I also love his political views. "...I refuse to vote, because if I have to align myself with any party, I'd come closest to a Libertarian, but I don't think I can call myself anything."

He's all about changing the way our culture works--defying the consumerism and the weird suburbanite conformity. Which is really what I, as a Christian, feel led to do.

Maybe I'm just a sucker for guys with eyeliner.

Day Two

Steffi made me join a new forum. As much as I love posting on boards and such, I strongly dislike joining new ones.

Ahh, well.

I have nothing meaningful to say.

Laterrr.

Day One

Two of my best friends left this morning for Portland. And they're not coming back.
And it's summer, so I'm left with hardly anything to do.

I think I'll be tackling the summer day-by-day.

There are addresses and phone numbers pinned on my bulletin board now, alongside my normal reminders of things I need to do. I've had long-distance friends before, sure, but never this long-distance. Thankfully plane tickets aren't that hard to get. But it'll still be a while before I see them again. Boo.

But back to today.

I'm going to be doing relatively nothing--sunning myself, listening to my iPod, and possibly going to Whole Foods later.

Oh, I lead such a small life.

Culture

This is possibly the most brilliant explanation of Christianity and culture and the difference between the sacred and the secular that I have ever heard.

"To be honest, this question grieves me because I feel that it represents a much bigger issue than simply a couple SF tunes. In true Socratic form, let me ask you a few questions: Does Lewis or Tolkien mention Christ in any of their fictional series? Are Bach's sonatas Christian? What is more Christ-like: feeding the poor, making furniture, cleaning bathrooms, or painting a sunset? There is a schism between the sacred and the secular in all of our modern minds. The view that a pastor is more “Christian” than a girls volleyball coach is flawed and heretical. The stance that a worship leader is more spiritual than a janitor is condescending and flawed. These different callings and purposes further demonstrate God’s sovereignty. Many songs are worthy of being written. Switchfoot will write some; Keith Green, Bach, and perhaps you have written others. Some of these songs are about redemption, others about the sunrise, others about nothing in particular: written for the simple joy of music. None of these songs has been born again, and to that end there is no such thing as Christian music. No. Christ didn’t come and die for my songs, he came for me. Yes. My songs are a part of my life. But judging from scripture I can only conclude that our God is much more interested in how I treat the poor and the broken and the hungry than the personal pronouns I use when I sing. I am a believer. Many of these songs talk about this belief. An obligation to say this or do that does not sound like the glorious freedom that Christ died to afford me. I do have an obligation, however, a debt that cannot be settled by my lyrical decisions. My life will be judged by my obedience, not my ability to confine my lyrics to this box or that. We all have a different calling; Switchfoot is trying to be obedient to who we are called to be. We’re not trying to be Audio A or U2 or POD or Bach: we’re trying to be Switchfoot. You see, a song that has the words: “Jesus Christ” is no more or less “Christian” than an instrumental piece. (I've heard lots of people say Jesus Christ and they weren't talking about their redeemer.) You see, Jesus didn’t die for any of my tunes. So there is no hierarchy of life or songs or occupation only obedience. We have a call to take up our cross and follow. We can be sure that these roads will be different for all of us. Just as you have one body and every part has a different function, so in Christ we who are many form one body and each of us belongs to all the others. Please be slow to judge “brothers” who have a different calling." ---Jono

Some Stats

Alright. I'm going on a missions trip this summer to Philly, which is only three miles away from my house. I've been asked a lot of questions about it lately, most of which sound like this: "Why Philly? I mean, you might as well just stay home and sleep all day."

Here's a short recap of why:

The average SAT score in Philadelphia is 800...out of a possible 2400. That's the lowest score possible.
24.5% of Philly residents live below the poverty line.
There are an estimated 7,000 homeless people living in Center City.
Philadelphia has the highest murder rate in the nation.
Many are employed but are part of the "working poor;" that is, they have jobs but they are entry-level or minimum-wage positions. Due to the poor educational system, many cannot advance in the workplace.


Does this sound right? Does this bother you?
It should.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for Him.

"The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." (Luke 4:18-19)

Be the change.

Work in Progress

So I'm working on a song about a friend and me. The music is coming along nicely, but here's the lyrics I have down so far. I'm going to scrap and rewrite and stuff. I promise.

Moonbeams and Shadows

And you said, "I'll drive you to the moon
'Cause you're too old, too old for fantasies."
And someday, someday you'll get the best of me.
And you said, "The day is coming soon
When life will, life will break our reveries;
Life will be just memories."

And there are shadows on your face
Breaking into my space
Hard look, wrong time, wrong place;
Right now, right here, black trace.
Don't leave me less than amazed
Don't leave a bitter taste.

If there's one in the world, and you're in my hand
C'mon, child, don't act or pretend;
Stop flailing your arms, just reach out your hand
Grab onto mine--yes, that's the plan.
Get in the car and park in the trees;
Don't you dare go--don't want you to leave.

Suckish Poetry by Me

Lame Love Poem No. 1

Oh, to see you was to behold the heavens
In all their splendiforous glory;
And to know you was to understand the universe
In its deepened intricacy.
Love, to find you was to unearth a great treasure
With its shimmering wealth and wonder.
And oh, to hold you was to fill the recesses of my soul,
To smooth its jagged edges.
To love you was to sacrifice my heart
On the alter of longsuffering.
To forgive you, darling, was to ignore my conscience
In favor of my turbulent mind.
But to lose you, love?
To watch you leave, my love?
Oh, that was to murder me.

Fiiiiirst Pooost

Happy now, Steffi?

My blog name warrants a bit of an explanation.

Famous Blue Raincoat
by Leonard Cohen

It's four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening.
I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert
You're living for nothing now,
I hope you're keeping some kind of record.
Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Did you ever go clear?
Ah, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
You'd been to the station to meet every train
And you came home without Lili Marlene
And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
And when she came back she was nobody's wife.
Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief

Well I see Jane's awake --
She sends her regards.
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you,
I guess I forgive you
I'm glad you stood in my way.

If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
Your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.
Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried.
And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear.....