A story

If you saw two people (let's say girls, just for the sake of the story) walking around the mall laughing and chatting, you'd probably come to the conclusion that they were best friends.

Let's say that both girls have been shopping and both have some stuff to carry (purses, bags, drinks, etc). Girl #2 offers to help girl #1, even though they're both pretty similarly weighed down. Girl #1 accepts the help and hands girl #2 one bag. As time elapses, that one bag evolves into the majority of girl #1's stuff, except for a few little things. Girl #2 is fine with it; she's a buff chick; but after a while it gets pretty heavy.

Girl #2 tentatively asks if girl #1 can take a few things back. Girl #1 gives her a withering look, but takes two bags. In a little bit, girl #1 whines that they're too heavy, and girl #2 (feeling guilty) immediately loads them on.

Pretty soon, girl #2 can't keep up. Girl #1 is irritated and runs ahead to meet some other friends, leaving girl #2 with all the baggage. Girl #1 eventually comes sprinting back and girl #2 is ecstatic; she's hurt, naturally, when she finds out that all girl #1 wants is her iPod out of her jacket pocket (which girl #2 is carrying) and that when she finds it, she leaves again.

So it's no surprise when girl #2 puts her foot down, right? She's tired, blast it all, and girl #1 is perfectly capable of carrying her own crap. But girl #1 throws a fit. She accuses girl #2 of being needy and not caring about their friendship. Girl #2 throws out the fact that girl #1 hasn't done a bloody thing, while girl #2 has been doing all the work. Girl #1 snaps that she carried two of her bags that one time, remember? Girl #2 wearily concurs, and the quarrel is over.

Girl #1 turns around to go back to her other friends, notices that they've left, and then in a falsely sweet manner turns around and offers to buy girl #2 lunch and then shop some more. Girl #2 is disgusted, for she hasn't missed a detail of what just happened.

She resists the urge to drop girl #1's crap in the fountain and instead hands it back to girl #1wordlessly, then finishes her shopping alone.

****

Note from the author: This is not a true story in the literal sense.

Hullo, everyone and no one

Sorry about that last vague, bitter post about Feast and Ball. What happened was this: I spent the whole day getting dolled up, and then didn't get asked to dance by anyone except for a guy who only danced with me because the chick he REALLY wanted to dance with wasn't available.

So the drama-drama-drama wore me down until I remembered that a dance by any other name still sucks as bad.


And now it's summer. Hi, summer. How are you? I've mostly been working at Red Hanger, sleeping, reading, adding to my book and DVD collection, and tutoring this kid in Algebra.

As for hanging out with people, I've been hanging out with Sally, Frederick, Jim, and Adelaide; Felicity, Gemma, Pippa, and Miss Moore; Miss Marple and M. Poirot; Matilda; Ralph, Jack, Simon, Sam'n'eric, and Piggy; Silas, Eppie, and Godfrey; and Montmorency, Scarper, Vi, Fox-Sellwyn, Frank, and Tom.

Yep. I'm a loser. All those are fictional characters. From (respectively) The Sally Lockhart Mysteries by Philip Pullman, A Great and Terrible Beauty Series by Libba Bray, Agatha Christie's mysteries, Matilda by Roald Dahl, Lord of the Flies by William Golding, Silas Marner by George Eliot, and the Montmorency series by Elenore Updale.

And on days where I get sick of reading, I write little blurbs where I meet these characters!

Yep. Loser. Bless my soul!

Feast and Ball

Dances are useless.

Being gorgeous is useless.

The end.

It's that time again!

Hoo hoo! Feast and Ball is on Saturday and I am STOKED!



For those of you who don't know, Feast and Ball is my school's Prom. Only BETTER because you don't have to have a date to go! Isn't that so boss?


You just get to go with a group of friends and hang out in the gardens (Thanksgiving Point; pictured here and here and here) for a few hours and flirt your brains out. It's lovely.

What am I wearing? Since Jaimi and Kayla don't read my blog, I'm going to write it here. (I've been keeping them in suspense for two weeks now.)

Picture this: Shimmery red dress with black hints. Floor length. Hoop skirt. Corset. Puffed sleeves. Black elbow-length gloves. (it's a dress slightly like the one Jo is wearing in the pic above)

I'm. So. Incredibly. Excited.

Who am I?

There's this poem I read called "The Invitation" which basically challenges the reader to really think about who they are. Without all their stuff. Without their so-called accomplishments. Without the people they hang out with. Without all the frippery the world uses to define you.

It was a frightening thought.

I wasn't in the best of moods when I came home from work, so I downed some food and planned on sulking on the computer, but then I realized that it was raining. I love the rain. So I decided that I'd go for a walk to one of my favorite places. It was during that time I figured out who I am, stripped down to the bones.

I talk to myself and have jolly conversations. I talk to birds, cows, and any other wildlife that happen to be in the area, and I enjoy it thoroughly.

I laugh because I'm soaked to my knees from walking in the wild wet grass, and I lift my face to be kissed by the descending drops.

I notice small things; trees are blossoming in pinks and whites, there's an unusually beautiful pebble lying on the ground, the drizzly pavement makes elegant reflecting puddles for the streetlights.

I mourn the nearly-empty canal.

I found out who I am while I was standing in the middle of a forgotten field:

I'm me.

I don't need the meds, I don't have to deal with the drama, I don't need to waste my time worrying what other people think about me.

I'm satisfied with merely being.

Compliment of the century

Dear Blog,

I realize I haven't hung out with you for a while. I also realize that it's been even longer since I used you to post anything actually worth reading. *shuffles feet* What I'm trying to say is... I'm sorry. I wish I could say that things will get better from here on out, but I just don't know.

...

No, please don't cry! It's not you! It's me! It's me! I'll change; I swear I will!

Yours most sincerely, affectionately, and devotedly,

Modern Jo March

***

I'm sorry you guys had to see that. My blog and I are going through a rough patch; we'll be okay, though, once my creative juices start flowing. Granted, that could be a very long period of time, but we'll make it.

...

Man, I wrote all that in the hopes that my brain would suddenly light up with ideas, but not so. Dang. Oh, well. I'll just type one story and then go mop the floor.

Last night when I was hanging out with Jaimi (we were on our way to go Peep a guy's car; Korinne, I couldn't stop! I have an illness!), she gave me the compliment of the century.

"Becca," she said, "I'm glad you're too sensible to have a boyfriend."

Needless to say, I laughed. Hard. Jaimi got all worried, thinking she'd said something wrong, but after my tears of mirth had stopped flowing, I said,

"Jaimi, coming from you, that is the ultimate compliment. Thank you."

Come to think of it, I can't explain exactly why I found it so funny; it just was. It was so totally opposite of everything society teaches teenage girls.

*grins* Awesome.

Rambly

As much as I love Perelandra, I really don't want to write a response to it right now. I mean, it's very fascinating to think what would have happened if Adam and Even HADN'T eaten the fruit...but I'm not into it right now.

SO don't want to do my Calculus make-up work...(by the way, the AP test costs $121! That's some mighty expensive failure right there. I know, I know; "Becca, why don't you just study?" Because studying won't help me with stuff I haven't learned yet!)

Or read Paradise Lost. Have I mentioned how much I hate poetry? Especially 200 page long poetry? I fell asleep twice (for undisclosed periods of time) during Great Ideas this morning. And when we read it out loud? Sorry, Satan, as much as I sympathize with your being kicked out on your butt from heaven, I don't care enough to listen to Milton go on and on and ON about the thirteen different kinds of angels.

*yawns* Should I make my dress for Feast and Ball this year? Or should I rent one? Or should I just buy one? *wanders Internetilly across multitudinous websites* Ooh, I think we're gonna do a Southern belle one this year... Ow ow!

Okay, I'm done now.

Oooh, and maybe a wig tambien? No! Becca! Go to bed! Dresses later! Finish your response!