Ten Things

It's almost a year later, and it turns out I'm still really bad at this whole blogging thing. Happy September.

Anyway, I saw someone do this on Tumblr earlier, and I thought it was interesting. It is:

Ten Things You Want to Say to Ten Different People!

So, yeah. I'm making a list that I want to say to ten different people, but can't/shouldn't.

1. Are you remotely aware that the world does not revolve entirely around you?
2. Jesus Christ, wear pants.
3. Stop. Listen. Focus. Process. Work with me.
4. No, you can't have my Ingrid Michaelson CDs, because I'm worried that if you take them, you will ruin my favorite artist for me.
5. I cannot talk to you about the future right now.
6. Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you're actually a five-year-old in a grown man's body, you asshole.
7. I'm sorry - I'm never going to be good enough for you.
8. If I didn't already love you so much, I would hate you.
9. We're probably more alike than either of us would like to admit.
10. I love you. I miss you.

It's actually kind of fun. Don't try to guess who each of those would be directed to, because you will not get it right. It's for me to know, and you to not find out. Sorry I'm so selfish, but it's just the truth.

Inability

Do you ever have those instances where you're so overwhelmed by everything that you don't know where to begin?

And so you don't, even though there's stuff that needs to be done?

And the guilt of not doing it eats you up and takes over your life, but you're still so overwhelmed that you can't seem to do anything about it?

And there's fear and anxiety and panic accompanied by headaches and lack of sleep and moods that go from bad to worse?

And all you really want to do is the stuff that doesn't matter at the current moment but you can't stop yourself from doing those things?

Yeah. About that...

Second Chances

I've never really thought of myself as a big believer in second chances. I guess I never really thought about it. I mean, second chances...they're okay. My personal philosophy is that you shouldn't screw up the first time and NEED a second chance, but whatever.

But I guess today was just a day for second chances.

I'll spare you the story about giving the girls I babysit a second chance today at the library. It's not a good story.

Tonight I went to Starbucks. If you know me, you know this is not out of the ordinary for me. I practically live at this particular Starbucks. It's sort of ridiculous, actually. A few months ago, we took to just sitting in this field right next to the plaza where the Starbucks is for hours at a time freaking people out and drinking coffee. Different people have come and gone, but at one time, there were eight of us who would hang out there.

And then something weird happened, and one of the eight broke off. So it was seven. And it was fun, but not like it was in the beginning. You know how when a TV series starts, and then randomly a few seasons later, a different actor is playing one of the characters? It's sort of like that.

But somehow tonight, it ended up being the eight of us again. And it was like nothing ever changed. And half-way through the night, when I realized that that was how life was supposed to be, I realized that it was probably the last time it would ever be like that. Sitting there, talking and laughing and enjoying each other's company, and just being, as that group.

When I first thought that we'd never be like that again, I wasn't ready to say goodbye to those nights. I wanted more. That's what I thought my best memories of summer would be comprised of. I wasn't ready to let go.

Tonight was my second chance to say goodbye to those evenings. I love each and every one of those other seven people more than is imaginable. I love them, I love being with them, I love the way I feel when I'm around them. And while I'm sad that it really is all over, that particular era of our friendship, I'm glad I got the closure. I'm glad it was like that one last time.

Editor

I've never really been much good at creating things. I don't have an artistically gifted bone in my body, so works of art are automatically out of the question, I'm not espcially musically talented, I don't build things, I don't cook, I don't bake. I just don't really create. Even when it comes to writing, which has clearly been my thing since I was in second grade, I don't really create well. I have started SO many stories, and never gotten to the end of any of them. I don't think I've ever even reached so much as a middle.

I don't really know that I've ever had an original thought in my life, to be quite honest.

In all honesty, most of my long-term projects are dead in the water before they even begin - it's like they're doomed to failure simply because I was the one who thought them up. They've never really stood a chance. The only stories I write that have any prayer of living are ones I write for newspaper (and the good old Power of the Pen ones), and that's because I have a deadline, and I KNOW they have to be finished.

I hate to admit it, but I'm horrifically bad at finishing what I start.

But I was considering all that, and I realized something. I don't create because I edit. I fix, and tweak, and correct. I am an editor in several senses. The most obvious sense being that I am co-editor in chief of my high school newspaper. I tweak what people have done to make it better and work in conjunction with three other people to make our publication the best it can be. It's about teamwork and collaboration and tweaking what others do.

But when I think about it, I've been editing since before I got that specific title. Think about it. I even consider applying make up to be a form of editing. I take my average face and paint it with colors and powders and all sorts of stuff to edit it and make it prettier. I take what exists and make it better (I hope).

I edit pictures. I use Picnik a lot to do so. I'm not a particularly good photographer, but I'm pretty fair at editing pictures, and I really enjoy doing it. There are at least 220 of my edited photographs up on Facebook, currently. I love taking something that has a life of its own already and giving it a new life as some completely different entity. I love putting words on them. I love playing with the colors. I love making something look vintage-y. I love fixing imperfections.

For years, people have asked me to help edit things they've written, and I could never really understand why. But I think I get it now. I am an editor. I always have been, and suddenly it is so clear - that's what I always will be. Of course. It's always been there. I just never noticied it before.

Maybe I'm Made of Chocolate?

I was not made to deal with heat. I tend to melt. My hair reacts badly to humidity and frequently makes me look like a distant relative of the Cowardly Lion. I hate putting on make up in the summer because it melts off faster that I can put it on. I was just not built to deal with heat.

Neither was my house. I don't have air conditioning. I am melting for the seventeenth summer in a row and it's starting to really piss me off. It's 91 degrees outside, and probably roughly the same inside my house. I hate getting out of the air conditioned car, walking into the ridiculously hot garage, thinking 'Oh, sweet Jesus, I hope it's not this hot in the house,' walking into the house, and finding that IT IS IN FACT, THAT HOT. I hate the feeling of sticky, sweaty skin. I hate the way water bottles and cans of pop and glasses sweat profusely on the table, leaving an obnoxious ring of water that you have to wipe up.

I don't mind the heat at the beach. It's supposed to be hot there. There's a breeze. An ocean breeze. In Ohio, there is no ocean, and consequently, no ocean breeze. But at the beach, I can go from air conditioned condo, to air conditioned car, to air conditioned restaurant, to pool or beach. And it's okay.

Part of the problem too is that I really don't like shorts. I hate my legs. Well, my thighs at least. So I try to avoid wearing shorts. And my arms are nasty too, so I avoid tank tops. And I look weird with my hair up. I LIKE TO WEAR SWEATERS, PANTS, AND MY HAIR DOWN, OKAY?! That's why I like cooler weather. It's acceptable to wear this kind of attire, and I swear I have never craved snow more than I have in the past couple of weeks. And I want to bake. I don't know why. But I do, and it's just TOO DAMN HOT TO BE DOMESTIC.

Okay. Sorry about the ranting, but I'm hot and sweaty and angry, and heat seemed an acceptable thing to rant about without sounding too clinically insane. Schmurrrr.

"There's Always a Dry Side to a Swing"

So... I accidentally just did something kind of emo. I drove by my grandma's old apartment on my way home from Starbucks tonight.

I know. It doesn't sound particularly emo. But...

She died when I was 9. We were really close for those first 9 years of my life. I would spend a lot of my summer with her. And what's weird is that she wasn't living in the apartment that I drove by at the time of her death. I drive by that apartment almost every day because it's a block away from my house. That one doesn't phase me so much. I think it's because I've gotten used to it.

But I drove by that old apartment tonight for the first time in a long time and realized I couldn't really remember the layout of it. Once I realized that, my eyes filled with tears. How could I not remember something that was a huge fixture in my childhood? I remember the living room and the awful green carpet that used to be in there. I remember the kitchen. I remember the basement, and the time my dad and uncle accidentally flooded it. I remember the back patio and the beautiful gardens we used to work in, but probably mostly from pictures. I remember the hammock. I remember the garage. But I can't remember the bedrooms or anything. I remember a hallway and a mirror but I can't remember the bedrooms or anything. I don't remember how the living room was set up. I vaguely remember coloring in a coloring book while the OJ Simpson trials were going on, and I remember watching 'Fern Gully' and trying to do handstands, and I remember asking her to tape the Oscar's for me once.

That's about all I remember. And that's scary. I pride myself for having a really good memory, but how good can it be if I can't remember such an important part of my growing up?

And then, as it always does when I think about her for a long time, a question enters my mind. It's haunting, really, because there's no way I could ever find an answer to it. But if there's one thing I'd love to know, it's if she would be proud of me. A lot has changed in 8 years. She was the one that got me into acting. I'm sure she thought that's what I'd be doing right now, and what I wanted to be when I grew up. Would she be disappointed that never really worked out for me? Would she be proud of who I am? Of what I've done? Of who my friends are?

Sometimes, I don't know. I really don't know. And I want to. I want to know. Would we still be close? Would I make her proud? What kind of adventures would we have together if she was still around? What would she have been like before my first high school dance? What would she have thought of Power of the Pen?

Would I be different if she had lived longer?

And I know that's a lot more questions than just the one I referenced earlier. But the only one I'd really love an answer to is 'would she be proud of me?' The rest of them I think I can pretty much figure.

I just want to know.

I have to go to bed. I feel sick now. Sorry about all that.

"It Sucks. But at Least It's Raining."

I used to have this crippling, intense fear of severe weather. It was mostly tornados I was afraid of, and the fear was inexplicable. Nothing terrible had ever happened to me during any kind of storm, and yet even the slightest dark cloud would make my mouth go dry and my palms begin to sweat. Rain scared me. Lightning was terrifying. Thunder was awful. I had to go to a child psychologist for this shit. It was bad.

I think at some point, without really noticing it, I outgrew it. I stopped hiding in my safe closet when there were tornado warnings in neighboring counties. I stopped trying to fall asleep whenever the sky clouded over. It doesn't matter anymore. It really doesn't.

I like the rain. The rain is my friend. Sometimes I get upset with the rain when my pants get wet, or my hair gets messed up, or I step into a huge puddle in a parking lot. We have our rough patches, just like any other relationship, but me and rain, we're mostly good. Right now it's thundering too. For all those years I feared it, I find it strangely comforting now. I love trying to sleep through the thunder. I usually don't even mind when it wakes me up in the middle of the night.

There's something wonderful about a thunderstorm. Maybe it's the way the rain seems to wash everything away and give the opportunity for a new start. Maybe it's the way the rain almost always seems to cool off the world. Maybe it's the way the thunder reminds me that there's always something bigger than us. Maybe it's the way the lightning lights up the sky piece by piece. I love the way it gives each corner individual attention. Maybe it's the way thunderstorms seem so violent and scary, but beautiful at the same time. Maybe I'm not quite sure what it is. Maybe it's the mystery of not being able to pinpoint what I like about it.