The remnant.

Verdict on today:

Much, much, much better--physically, mentally, emotionally--than yesterday. Even though I'm still working on these damned essays.

I feel pretty good right now.

Next to the last romantic.

Good things: King's Speech!!!!!!, seeing Marcella and receiving my wonderful gift of the Bronte sisters, hand-writing an essay so I only have to type it up tomorrow, Shaun of the Dead, e-card from Glyn, Josh Ritter.

Bad things: Amanda being upset for an hour and a half, not actually being able to watch the Oscars, feeling kind of awful (physically), not doing as much homework as I should've, being kind of lame and unhelpful.

Half an hour before the first half of my birthday--whoops, more like fifteen minutes at this point--and I've suddenly realised I no longer want a birthday. I don't want to turn nineteen. Nineteen has always struck me as being a bit of an ugly number--I like nines, but I don't like nineteens. Hopefully being nineteen will be better than being eighteen, and hopefully I'll continue to grow and become a better person.

I wish my head would stop hurting. Hopefully, tomorrow will be nice. Seeing Ben and Marcella was nice today--it felt like what I needed. Perhaps some structure will make me happier, and make this damned midterm easier to finish.

Lovesick.

Weird realisation of the day:

I figured out the password to one of my friend's Facebook accounts three or four years ago. I used to log into her account and--well, I wouldn't really poke around, not intentionally; I'd just see what it felt like to be her, to have her Facebook page instead of mine. Which probably sounds kind of weird, but it was an interesting experience.

Anyway. I may or may not have just logged into her account again, for no particular reason other than to see whether or not my birthday popped up under the "events" calendar. (Someone else posted on my Facebook that Facebook said my birthday was on the 31st of December, i.e. the last day of February, and that I was turning eleven. So I was a bit curious if it was just his phone that said that or if it was on all my friends' Facebooks.) And I looked under her messages, not really to see what they were about or anything, but... I don't know why, actually.

To get to the point of the story: it looked like she'd done a lot of clearing out of her inbox, getting rid of old messages between mutual friends, or the stuff that clubs might send out--but she kept a lot of stuff from between us, even stupid stuff, like, "I think Ryan likes me!!! halp halp what do I do" from my fifteen-year-old self. And I think I realised today that I'll always be friends with this person, or even if not "friends-friends" then at least we'll still keep in touch about stuff. When I saw her this summer, catching up with her was wonderful. She even took a day off work to just hang out with me. When I contrast her behaviour with that of Marie--well, I don't even know how Marie feels about me these days, and I don't really think I care terribly much.

Still, it was a nice sort of feeling to have, no matter how creepy or morally questionable I might seem at the moment. I'm glad I'm friends with her, no matter how angry I might have been with her in the past. The fact that I (publicly) berated her about the stupidest stuff and cast her as the villain in my novel--well, I thought at the time that it might have permanently destroyed our relationship. But she forgave me for all my offenses, and we are still friends.

A very strange musing of the day.

Salvation song.

I'm on tumblr now, and there is a girl I follow because my friend sort of advertised my blog and she started following me. She is obsessed with the Mighty Boosh and specifically Noel Fielding, which I don't really find a problem--except that everything she posts is related to this guy. EVERYTHING. He was apparently on some dancing competition last night or something, and her posts are all about how she cried for half an hour and became nearly hysterical about his performance. (For the record: he did a number to Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights," in the same sort of red dress. And it was actually quite good, even if I'm not a rabid fan of the guy.)

Still, it strikes me as being a bit creepy--like, what would this guy think if he ever found this site? And then I think about my own fandoms. I don't mean to judge this girl--I really don't, because I have my own fandoms that make me ridiculously happy--but I'm beginning to look at what I love a bit more critically. Sure, I loved Jason Mraz with the firey power of ten thousand suns, and I still love his music because he's extremely talented; however, I no longer dedicate my life to listening to, blogging about, and internet-stalking Jason Mraz. The way I once behaved about him was a bit childish, although I have no regrets. His music has been a big part of my life, and I will never forget any of his songs. However, I'm growing (or, at least, I would like to think I am growing) and I'm realising that there is so much more to music (and life) than only Jason Mraz. Does that make any sense?

And in a few years I'll look back at myself, my stupid eighteen-year-old self, and say, "My god, was I stupid back then. I thought I could do this and that and everything else, but--really, when it comes down to it, I was young and idealistic." But I'm okay with being young and idealistic. I hope to continue growing, though. Let's face it--did I think I'd still be a rabid, rabid Jason Mraz fan at thirty, the same way I was when I was fifteen? I mean, I had to unfollow some girl on tumblr because everything she posted was Jason Mraz, and I honestly got sick of it.

I like feeling my mind expand. It's pretty wonderful, and I hope it continues to do so. At the same time, I do not want to utterly reject the things I love. Instead, I just hope I can grow along with them.

Hermit the frog.

Two things that made me happy about today (when I felt like everything was crumbling in yesterday):

1. Cute guy who came into work. Or, rather, cute guy who was there when I was at work. As I walked past him, he was like, "Hey! You were in Laroche's astronomy class, right? And your birthday is February 29." It's sort of worth pointing out that there were 130-ish people in that class in a rather large lecture hall over a year ago, so I was quite shocked (and pleased) that he remembered me. And then we re-introduced ourselves. I only got his first name, Austin; shame I didn't ask for his last, for I can't even creep on him now like a true Facebook creeper! Nevertheless, he made my day. Sue was teasing me about the fact that the past few days, there have been guys who have recognised me at work (yesterday, it was some guy who I'd had class with last term) and so she said that I might be helping add to SC's statistics, which just made me laugh a lot.

2. The lit conference started today!!!!!!!!!!!! I went to a panel about space in Modernist writings (Woolf, WCWilliams, Forster) and ended up understanding a lot of what was said. I even asked questions! (Which is sort of a Big Deal for me, because these are all kind of Big Shot Paper People who were presenting stuff.) I ended up chatting with the guy who did the paper on William Carlos Williams for a while--he wrote a lot about how Williams quotes from historical documents, thus showing some disconnect between the archive and a need of new history, and somehow I managed to bring up Girl Talk in relation to all of this--and he seemed really impressed by the fact that I was like, "Sooooo I don't know if you've read any Borges but there's this one essay that..." and he said that he had read that one and it related quite nicely to it. So I felt kind of smart and he was also kind of cute and grad-student-y and maaaaaaaaaaybe I'll get to see him around the conference a little more. That would be nice.

Today has suddenly become a wonderful day.

Spaceman.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever saw any of the Bahraini protesters in passing when I was there. I know I only went to Bahrain a few times (but it was nearly always to Manama), but I wonder--were they in the mall at the same time as we were? Did I ever pass them while we were doing our shopping? (We went to Bahrain to get--well, not "contraband," but stuff that Saudi wouldn't sell. Like dolls, and maybe bacon.) Did our car ever pass theirs? Perhaps some of them visited Dammam, Dharan, Al-Khobar: would I have seen them there, out where we lived?

It's a bit of a silly question to wonder about, but nevertheless, I still do. I learned quite a bit in the Middle East when I lived in Saudi. I'm not sure whether I can say "I learned a lot," because I was only ten. I wasn't really paying attention to the political climate at the time. I was more concerned with my history homework and when I'd get to play with Hayley and if I could go rollerblading that day. But there is something you learn when you live in a completely different environment and culture, even if you live a Western compound, safely blocked off by walls and security checkpoints. I remember such a feeling of security, and yet at the same time I knew it wasn't safe, that there was something amiss.

I know I will probably never make it back to Saudi. I gave up hope of ever returning to say a proper goodbye to the place years and years ago. Hardly anyone I know is still there; everyone has scattered to their various corners of the globe. But sometimes--especially now, with all the protests in the Middle East--my mind returns to Saudi, and my vivid summer days come to life before my eyes once more.

If I ever do make it back, though (and that's a huge if, like astronomically-sized, an if of the"if I ever get a variety of spider named after me" variety), I know that the political climate will be different, not just in Saudi but throughout the entire Middle East. Hopefully, it will be different for the better.

Lovesong.

I think the thing I fear most about you (which sounds like an awful statement to begin with) is that you outshine me in every aspect of life. I get so frustrated with you venting all your problems at me, but I suppose you need someone--somewhere--to vent at. I just happen to be conveniently located.

So many people like you. They really like you. I wish I could say that I have benevolent wishes for you, that I've always wanted you to succeed, but to say that feels like cheating. I know I am an awful friend because of my discontent in our relationship. People think you are intelligent and funny and attractive and wonderful in general. They like being with you. They like being friends with you.

I know that I have friends, and I know that comparing myself to others is not a good thing to do. But sometimes I fear that people like you more than they like me, or that people think I'm weird because I don't like you as much. Sometimes I fear that you will outshine me, eclipse me in every aspect of life, even if you have no interest in it now. People like you change the world. And what do I do? Sit in a corner, writing useless papers, pondering my own existence. I sound silly with everything I say.

Perhaps it is just paranoia, perhaps it is--I don't know what it is. I fear that I am too unfair on you, and that you're really not that bad, and I'm just biased and awful as a friend. Perhaps I am just blind because, in reality, you are much better at everything--at life--than I am.

Salt skin.

Please don't stroke my hair. Please don't touch my head, please don't touch my shoulders. I am okay with people touching my body, giving me hugs, a pat on the back--whatever. But when you touch my hair, it's like you're trying to be a mother. You say, "Are you okay?" and I respond with whatever and then YOU TOUCH MY HAIR and it makes me feel so disgusted with myself, for some reason. It reminds me of when _____ used to touch my foot; I didn't want to be in my own body, even though it was a small touch.

I know you mean well, but it makes me want to vomit inside myself. Nothing against you. Or sort of against you, I guess. I just don't like it when you touch me. It reminds me that you think you have control over me.

At the same time, I can't very well bring it up in casual conversation, can I? Then you'll just get angry that I haven't told you for all this time that I hate it when you touch my hair. You're not my mother. You are not a source of comfort. You were at one point--back when I thought you actually cared, or that you were really listening to what I said--but now... please, just don't.

However, you're going to come in at some point this week and do it again, and I won't say anything because I am a coward.

Sweetest lie.

What do you want me to say? "I'm sorry your mother is unsupportive?" "I'm sorry I unintentionally put pressure on you?" I understand that you are upset, but--whenever you get upset, you tend to berate. And I feel like you sort of just berated me for not being able to say anything.

So you don't want to be pre-med anymore. Okay, so I feel a bit of relief with this statement; you would have scared me as a doctor, in all honesty. But was I supposed to say that? No, because then you'd have said, "Why don't you believe in me? You're just like my mother, who implanted the doubt in the first place. I don't know what she wants." I don't know what she wants either. I'm sorry you're emotional, but I have no idea how to help. I tried suggesting things--talking to different advisors, going to the career centre--and you vetoed every choice. Okay.

Then you said, "I'm sorry," and acted as if you shouldn't have said anything, probably because I was largely unhelpful and unconsoling. I'm sorry... I just don't know what to say.

If you're feeling sinister.

I really hope that everything works out for you. I so do. I know how much you invest in what you have, and I hope you can continue to find happiness.

I just don't have any of the right words to say to you.

Winter winds.

(On a sidenote: Belle & Sebastian's If You're Feeling Sinister might really be one of my new favourite albums. Also, B&S are NOT an "artist on the verge," Target. Please get your facts straight.)

Some thoughts that have been swimming around for the past little while:

- Today was everything I wanted it to be; so many good friends, wonderful food. Laughter and feeling free. Nothing felt like I was "performing" any specific identity. I just was. It was wonderful.

- In a month and a day I will be seeing Josh Ritter. I WILL BE SEEING JOSH RITTER IN A MONTH AND A DAY. JOSH RITTER JOSH RITTER JOSH RITTER JOSH RITTER JOSH RITTER JOSH RITTER JOSH RITTER JOSH RITTER.

- Marie seems to be talking to people again. I've stopped caring about her, really; I might have written a novel for her but I guess she really wasn't worth it.

- I fear that I sit here "biting my own neck," even though I haven't fucked anything up this time.

- I still worry about you.

- A and I have not talked much in the past week; we have been in separate spheres, really. I'm okay with this. Still, I freak out mentally every time I hear her voice.

- I wish I could have gone to the HP lecture tonight but it's okay. I'll get highlights from others, lolz.

I fear so many things, but my new pens make my life less fearful.

Same damn thing.

(100th post?)

Pet peeve of the day: when people say "you don't understand" how much they hate something, or how much they love something, or what they are feeling. (I am aware of being guilty of this as well, but I've been trying to phase this phrase out of my vocabulary.) I am well aware of the fact that I may not understand. To explain is one thing; to say "you don't understand" and then explain is another. It's like saying, "Here is how my brain works, in a way you will never comprehend." And it feels quite condescending.

It's not my favourite phrase, but I suppose I'll have to get used to it, because I clearly don't understand anything.

Number 1.

My roommate is upset because some guy who likes her gave her a box of chocolates and a card.

What did she want me to say? "I'm sorry someone thought of you?" Or perhaps she wanted me to channel what she's been berating so she could yell about it some more.

I wonder if she even told the guy thank you. I can't tell her how or what to feel; but then again, neither can she do that to me.

She frustrates me so much.

You don't make it easy babe.

Thanks for belittling my suggestions. I'm glad to know that you ask me about stuff and then discount everything I say because I "don't understand" how tired you are or how much work you have to do. It's so nice to feel like my suggestions mean something to you.

No matter how much you claim you "love" me or that I'm one of your "favourite people in the world," I don't think you really mean it. I think you try hard, but you're not a friend at all. You don't listen. You never have.

Rattling locks.

Brian Jacques, author of the Redwall series, died at age 71 this weekend.

Well, that's the end of my childhood, if it hadn't already ended. The Redwall books were among my favourites as a kid; they got me through many a tough time, including the whole evacuation mess that we had to go through. Whenever I opened a Redwall book, I knew that I was going to fall into it and live among the characters for the next week or so. I could hear the mice, voles, hares, badgers, and stoats all talking in my head, with their distinctive voices and sayings, and I could almost always taste the food from the feasts he gave his characters. I read some of those books a multitude of times, falling in love with the characters again and again--Matthias, Mattimeo, Martin the Warrior, and so many more.

So thank you, good sir, for giving me so much to read. Thank you for reminding me why I loved reading in the first place, and, most importantly, thank you for being an early influence on my writing and being one of the reasons why I wanted to become a writer in the first place. I hope you know just how many children (and adults) you made happy and enthralled with your books. May you live forever through your words.

Folk bloodbath.

Just got back from a really good weekend in Columbus. A brief list of Good Things that I'd like to remember:

- ended up not doing quite so horribly at the tournament: got crazy powers for questions about Arcade Fire (not even done with the first clue and I knew it, it was something like "On the title track of this band's third album, they sing of 'the houses built in the seventies,'" at which point I buzzed in) and Ian McEwan based on the first clue being about the plot of Enduring Love.

- saw The King's Speech once more and it made me cry.

- had good conversations with Ben & Colton that did not feel over my head, so to speak.

- 18 people liked my status on Facebook (oddly enough, I'm really proud of that).

- BEN BOUGHT ME A TICKET FOR JOSH RITTER BEFORE THEY SOLD OUT. ALDASKJLA DSKJLA DSLKJADSIUOEWIUOA AWKJLADSKLDSKJL~!~!!!!!!!! SO I GET TO GO!!!!! (I may or may not have screamed when he told me.)

Overall, good times. Now I need to go read some Martin Luther and write some stuff. This should be fun.

Energy.

It has been a good week, given all the "weird stuff" that happened. Granted, it wasn't much weird stuff, but... I feel pretty good. This weekend's going to be slightly hellish what with quiz bowlling and homeworking away from home, but--I'm excited.

I hope I can carry this enthusiasm for the rest of the year. I feel like doors are beginning to open once again, and it feels, well, brilliant.

Lovers in a dangerous time.

/sigh

Josh Ritter sold out before I even had the free time to get online and buy a ticket.

Is it bad that I nearly cried at this news? I've been listening to him obsessively all week, imagining what it would be like to see him live (and acoustic), but apparently the music gods are against me. I never really want to go to that many concerts, so this one was going to be a big one for me.

It could be worse.