Just Say No To France!

I never thought I would write such a blog.

Let's have a little chat with 7th grade Kira, shall we?

My 7th grade self was off tra-la-la-ing downtown with my best friend and mother, when my mother stopped on the sidewalk, pointed to a group of teenagers, and said the three greatest words ever uttered: "they're speaking French!" The only way that sentence could possibly be any better is if she added "and they're giving away free ice cream and want to marry you and ship you off to France."

And so, like any sane person, I followed them. Across the street. And nearly got hit by a car. True story.

And so, you can probably imagine what ensued when, six years later, my father got invited to Lyon for a conference.

Unless any of you can invent a time machine, send me back a few years, and make me a scholar on hiking literature, I'd basically have to spend $1300 dollars on six days in France.

That's a lot of cheese-wrapping hours.

When I first heard the news, I was convinced that it was a sign that I had to hop a plane to Lyon that fall, or my life would be totally worthless. You know that feeling when you're all "I'm so happy for you!" but secretly you're going "WHY, WORLD, WHY?" Not so endearing when you're supposed to be all mature and selfless and shit.

Well. Long story short, I calculated how many months of starvation I'd have to endure to even think about this trip. And...low and behold, I had another shower epiphany. Yes, this France invitation was a sign. But it wasn't like I was getting a phone call from the Eiffel Tower itself saying "hey. Hey. Why aren't you here yet? You were supposed to arrive an hour ago! Stupid American." It was more like a nudge to remind me how much the dream to visit France on my own, for an extended period of time, mattered to me. Like, I could save that thousand dollars for a plane ticket that allowed me to, at times, be lost and confused, but to have a trip that was mine, all mine! *Cue evil laugh here.*

I know, it's fun to be impulsive in your 20's. But my impulses probably shouldn't blow my entire savings. I'll save that for eating some cake and having wild nights playing Apples to Apples. Maybe Cards Against Humanity if I'm feeling particularly badass.

Namaste.

A Hand-y Trick in Film

Seeing as I am a breathing female human, I love Titanic. I mean, by the time the ship starts to sink, I start to lose interest, but I never cease to become enthralled by the love story between Rose and Jack. As I mentioned to a friend, that scene when Rose's hand slides down the car window gives me shivers. It's amazing what a non-sexual body part can imply--the scene would be far less romantic if the audience actually watched them have sex. Because the director trusts us with our own imagination, we can see the passion between the characters without, y'know, seeing the passion--'cause that part is icky and X rated, which would be a silly choice on the marketing end.

But it got me thinking about other movies that give me shivers. I mean, Jaws for one, but that's a more teeth based film. I'll save that for the next blog. Hitchcock's Psycho made such an impression on me, that I was terrified to take a shower for the following month. While the murder scene wasn't particularly scary, it was the victim's final breaths, and the hand grasping for her last few moments that resonates most with the audience.

I mean, we all have hands, we all use them for pretty mundane tasks, so what makes them so prominent in film? Could we just as easily see Rose's feet slide down that car and get the same reaction?

Maybe. Or we'd be wondering since when did sex turn into olympic gymnastics?

To me, a great film doesn't include a million special effects, nor does it focus on grand explosions and flying monkeys (although The Wizard of Oz did resonate with me as a child). The most renowned directors take the little bits in life and metaphor-ize them, without being all "hey! Hey you! Look at me, I'm a metaphor!" Hands are expressive, and what make us so...human. Sure, we take out the trash with our hands, but we also create with them, hold our children with them, and straighten hair with them. That's all some important shit. When we see a common link between ourselves and the characters, we relate to them. We realize we could be them. You too, could be in the back of a car with Leonardo DiCaprio. Just think about that.

Unless we're getting manicures 24/7, we don't often think about our hands. They're very lovely extremities, if you ask me. Maybe they could look a little more terrifying when I unleash the "claws," but other than that, I have no complaints. But we don't typically see the mundane as a defining moment or sexy. These films remind us that it's not what we have that allows glamour, but we we use it.

Namaste.  

YouTube is Taking Over My Life

Let's be real here, making YouTube videos is hard. Without a proper camera and vlogging style that isn't just "soooo umm hey," they usually suck. I've made a few videos with like 5 views and friends who say "your vlogs are....different."

And so we resort to the written word. But do you know what isn't hard?

Watching YouTube videos.

And do you know how many YouTube videos are on the internet?

My brain just exploded.

My obsession started in 2007 when my stepbrother showed me this video:

Mainly, being a teenage (fan)girl at the time, I just watched it over and over because I tended to get enormous crushes on people whom I'd never met. But as I finally got tired of the chipmunk voice, I'd just search for Harry Potter interviews and squeal over Daniel Radcliffe, like a normal person.

But now. I literally have more channels in my subscriptions box than I have papers that I've written in the history of forever. Because the thing is, once you subscribe to a person, you may think you're just going to enjoy their weekly vlogs and be done with it. But then they bring guests onto their channel, and--gasp--that person has a YouTube channel too! One that also links to a second daily vlog channel and shows all the likes and comments that person has, which guide you to the YouTuber your former favorite YouTuber has been watching.

Like, one of the refreshing things about Jenna Marbles is that she's isolated herself from the YouTube community. I mean, sure she had some cameos in Hannah Hart's videos, and she attends VidCon because she's a breathing human being, but we can often count on Jenna going solo in her videos and her lack of comments on other channels makes for lack of evenings that get sucked up by following her every move (unless you're girl crushing and staring at pictures of her on google images...what?).

But once you hit other vloggers, you've unlocked only a tiny portion of the vlogging community. It's like one big-ass family tree that you're trying to put together one cinnamon challenge at a time. Even if you think you're escaping from the vlogging world, you see comments like "Tyler brought me here." Which then brings you to Joey Graceffa and the ever popular debate on his sexuality. But then you realize, oh wait, back in the day, Joey and Luke were really tight, which brings you to Miss Glamorazzi's makeup tutorials you've been sneakily watching when you want to impress your friends with the smokey eye look--only then do you realize that Nerdfighter Kristina Horner ALSO dated Luke, which means you have to catch up on all the Nerfighteria videos, which means you must watch all 2 kajillion VlogBrothers videos.

And then it's 4:00 in the morning and your coworkers wonder why the bags under your eyes are getting increasingly prominent.

While there are far more perks from YouTube then there are television, I'll admit this: if you discover a new show you enjoy on TV, you watch it, grab some popcorn, laugh and cry a little, then wait for next week's episode to air. But on the internet, it's likely that you'll run into a Vlogger who already has like 100 videos, all of which you can't. stop. watching.

When it gets to the point where you think you have a friendship with people you've never actually spoken to, you know something's gone a little crazy.

At least my addictive personality brought me to something that won't send me to prison. So hey, that's a plus.

Namaste.

A Farewell to The Black Hair

Welp, it's the end of an era. After nearly three months (sans touch up) of black-hair-ness, it's time to go back to my roots. Literally. I know people say to try new things and let your hair be a palette for your creativity, but I doubt the skunk look is gonna be gracing fashion magazines any time soon.

I've always wanted to be outrageous, hair-wise. The whole 'fro look when the humidity rises over 2% helps, but in terms of color, I'm your average blond. I never understood dyeing your hair brown and rocking the secretary cut. Even in 7th grade, when I tried to pretend normalcy was a thing I could do, my supposed brown 'do turned out a lovely mixture of purple and red. I don't even know how that happened. I was gonna switch to blue streaks, but at the time my father threatened to get the same look, which would have been social suicide in middle school.

Personally, I think black tips would've looked coolest if the hairdresser hadn't freaking tried to hide them under my hair.

But one thing I've found is that hair experiments don't just make you look different--they make you act different as well. I mean, I may not give the Plastics their run for their money, but I was the coolest I'd ever been with black tips. I even stayed up until 11:00! Miracles, people. Colored tips also are fantastic motivation to fry your head every day. Perhaps some of this coolness coincides with the fact that I was boyfriend-ed at the time, but let's not go there.

Black hair resulted in multiple personalities (but not the scary kind). At first, I was a witch. People literally thought that I was wearing a wig and could cast spells at them. One of those things is not true. Other times, I was chic, seeing as my dark eyebrows no longer stood out screaming "hey look! I have no intention of matching any other hair on this body! Let's look like fuzzy caterpillars!" Most of the time, I was obviously lazy once the roots started coming back with a vengeance.

Although I wasn't aware of this until like two seconds ago, the constant change in hair color/style was the quest for A) a look that wouldn't require an hour with the straightener and B) the most drastic change possible. And since I've found it, I see no reason to experiment any farther with color. I had to have some act of badassery in college--and yes, it was a completely sober decision.

In a perfect world, the dead skin cells on top of my head would cooperate and look like this:

Then again, that might only look good on the 120 lb sort. Damn you, freshman 15.


Namaste.

Let's Get Physical: Confessions From an Inner Fat Kid

So you'd think that summer would be the perfect time to shed some of the freshman 15...and you would be right, if you were reading the blog of a sane, logical human being. But summer for me seems to equate to scarfing down all the frappacinos and watching all the YouTube videos--one of which called me out on my own inner fat kid:

And that's when I realized--this shit is getting out of control. Like, sure, weight is just a number, but breathing heavily after one set of stairs and clogged arteries isn't. It's basically a shiny warning sign that death is right around the corner.

And so, I present to you: Kira's let's-avoid-the-bikini-for-awhile list!

1) If I eat standing up, directly from the fridge, or from a cupboard, I pretend the calories don't count. I've managed to convince myself that if I'm not consciously indulging in a sit-down meal, then I can eat all the chocolate in the world, and my hips can still lie to me and tell me I'm skinny. Easter is the worst. When I'm at work, shuffling past that Cadbury egg stand, I am forced to buy one to eat before my shift. And then one becomes 5. As it turns out, that's not, say, 50 calories. That's 800. Oops.

2) I eat the same amount as a perpetual exerciser when I'm sitting on my ass all day.
Once upon a time, there was a (slightly more slender) girl who did yoga for two hours every day for a month. This girl ate 2 servings of big-ass meals 3 times a day. We're talking scones, cereal, orange juice, peanut butter, the works. Said girl did not gain nor lose weight. Girl went back home and ate same volume of food (though not same quality) and watched people do yoga on YouTube.

3) Dairy Queen has literally been my go-to place for two years.
I don't even know how this happens. I don't hate DQ ice cream, but it doesn't send me jumping for joy. But it never failed--every single "date" I'd go on with my boyfriend at the time would end up at Dairy Queen. I think I spent more money on ice cream in one month than I did on a year's worth of makeup. And even when the relationship ended, I just solved the "what do you wanna do?" debate with my friends by consistently answering "Dairy Queen!" And I wouldn't just get like, a Diet Coke and a salad. Who goes to fucking DQ and gets a salad? Nope--it had to be a medium blizzard with tons of oreos and double fudge, because obviously small is for sissies.

4) I excuse any midnight snack by saying it goes towards my calories for the next day.

5) If I exercise, I justify that as an excuse to eat dessert. But "dessert" has gone from maybe a cookie or some fruit to a bowl of ice cream filled to the rim, doused in chocolate syrup, smothered in chocolate chips and whipped cream and all the deliciousness in the universe.

6) I slant my full-length mirror and duck face it up so as to create the optical illusion that thinness isn't so yesterday.

My only consolation is that actually being responsible for my own groceries means I'll live on nothing but coffee and sparkly things for the next year.

Namaste.

Poetry is that Hipster Tie You're Wearing--A Blog about Blogging

So you know when you have that adorable skirt/tank combo laid out, ready to throw on at 7A.M., after you've hopped out of bed, jogged, showered, and made your eyeliner look exactly identical?

Yeah. Me neither.

But there are often those days that I am on a mission to create an adorable outfit, and it ends up kind of flopping. Literally. The number of times I have unintentionally flashed my professors whilst trying for adorable-ness is far too high to be comfortable sharing on the internet. But then when I slap on what I affectionately call my "fat era" jeans and some weird top with dinosaurs on it, people are all "look how cute!" and I'm all "huh?" and then my face does that thing that ruins the cuteness.

Well, writing tends to be woefully similar to wardrobe malfunctions.

When I blog, I'm taking a vacation from all things literary. Even if I'm blogging about literature. I mean. In blogs. I can write in. Fragmented sentences. And no one. Cares. I cAn EvEN; pLAy wIth Grammar AND p!unctuation. Okay, maybe not. But I can just let my brain do its crazy, weird thing, and my hands just obey by flying across the keyboard, and shit happens in thirty minutes or less. I'm like a pizza joint, although sometimes with less calories. I'm the lazy, let's-kick-back-and-have-some-lemonade outfit. Blogs are Target sunglasses on a sunny day. Cute, but not pretentious. Useful, thus not douchey. They are the jeans that will always love you, no matter how fat you get.

But then there's fiction. And fiction is that outfit that you have to wake up a half hour earlier just to prepare. It's that dress that only fits just so if you eat celery the day before. Fiction is that winged eyeliner that seems straightforward and flawless when you're half asleep and downing some coffee, but then everybody looks at you like you're Miley Cyrus on crack, unable to stop. Fiction includes those staple accessories you throw on in attempts to look sophisticated, but really, you just wear the same earrings every day, because if you were responsible for actual jewelry, you'd lose your shit. Sometimes fiction includes painfully high heels that look fantastic on famous people, but forces you to hobble about like Bigfoot.

Once I've hit poetry, I'm wearing those ironic Uggs that no one realizes are ironic. I'm dyeing my hair blue and pretending I like jeggings before they were cool. I'm wearing bright red lipstick and pretending it's a subtle message that my lips are bleeding love. I want my floral leggings to accentuate my overflow of emotions, but really they're accentuating the fact that I haven't tightened up that muffin top.

Wow, writing really is cruel to weight problems, now isn't it?

Poetry is that Diane Keaton tie you're trying to pull off.

Song lyrics are those dresses that make other people look about seven feet tall and ninety pounds, but make me look like an oompa loompa. They work fabulously on those who have spent their whole lives perfecting the art of shopping, but for the novice shopper, they scream out "I SHOULD'VE STAYED ON THE MANNEQUIN!"

And diaries? Diaries are this.

Namaste.

This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain at Grocery Store.

It's a little painful to admit at 20, but while I've picked up a few things at the grocery store (can you say pre-made pizza?), I've never gone shopping in preparation for an extended period of time. I've helped people shop, I've observed patterns amongst grocery shoppers, but you guys, now I get it. Because as easy as it is to say "make a list and stick with it!", that's before you have a credit card in your hand and a pile of whipped cream in front of your face.

And the reaction goes something like "HOLY SHIT I CAN BUY THINGS."

However, each department brings its own thought process. The bakery thoughts are still stampeding my brain. And so, without farther ado, I present to you...

Your brain at the grocery store!

1) Produce.
Nothing says summer like a watermelon. Except psh, who has time to cut watermelon anymore, when you can have that nice pre-cut looking fruit? It's so much easier to snitch at when I pretend I'm staring the fridge and am secretly eating all of its contents. I should get some blueberries--maybe that will get me motivated to learn how to bake pie.

I don't even like pie. Can I make a blueberry cake?

Why are there "ugly" tomatoes? Don't their feelings get hurt when they're automatically labeled that way? I'm sure they're quite tasty. This is produce discrimination! Maybe I'll put some in my grilled cheese tonight. Mmm, cheese and fruit, that would make a delicious appetizer. Maybe I should get a fruit tray. Hey, you never know when company might stop by.

2) Cheese.
If I get some brie, will it make me more French?
That's a stupid question, of course it will.
I will take all the bries ever made.

3) Bakery.
What I wouldn't give to douse my head in that vat of chocolate.
Obviously if a doughnut is peanut butter filled, it's made to go home with me. Hellooooo.
I wonder how many cupcakes I could eat before getting sick? Better find out.
Why have one birthday cake when you could have five?
Nothing says dessert like one long sugar coma.

4) At the register
Goddamnit, I forgot my re-usable bags again! I'm sorry, environment, for killing you with my plastic bag-usage! I'll never go grocery shopping for as long as I live! Or until I run out of pudding. Whichever comes first.

And it never fails, even if you have worked at a grocery store for over a year, you will still have to be prodded to sign. Whee, epic fails.

Namaste. 

If Celebrities Had Superpowers

So in my attempts to maintain some level of fitness this summer, I've been braving Jillian Michaels workouts--which is equivalent to lifting a hundred pounds of bricks over your head. My only consolation, while sweating through fifty minutes of Hell is well gee, at least she doesn't have the ability to reach out of the screen and kick my ass. 

Unless she had superpowers.

So what if we lived in a world where celebrities congregated and unleashed their secret powers? What would they be? Would they be heroes or villains? Would they squeeze the top or the bottoms of the toothpaste tube? Life's most important questions here, people.

1) Jillian Michaels--Curve destroyer. Villain.
Every time Jillian Michaels even looks at someone who has a moderately feminine shape, she has the ability to re-construct their body through a single glance. If there are hips or breasts, get Jillian to stare at you with that "no pain no gain" glare, and BAM! You'll have the flattest hip bones and chest in the entirety of womanhood.

Shiva Rea--Hypnotist. Hero. 
With her breathy spiels and water-esque movement, Shiva will have you melting into relaxation in no time. While she could very well make you late for your doctor's appointment, she only uses her hypnotic powers to turn the colder sort more relaxed and soft. She can turn an evening of hating the world into a spiritual hug. But not the awkward kind.

3) Brad Pitt--intelligence destroyer--villain
While Brad Pitt's powers work against a limited age range (12-25), that makes his abilities no less powerful. Every time a woman comes within a 500 foot radius of Brad Pitt, her ability to construct a coherent sentence is eliminated. She might be able to scream "GODDAMN YOU'RE SEXY!" But her mind will no longer be able to grasp complex, analytical thought. Normally conversations with this villain go something like "hi." "difdsaljfoieafjd;isjoa!!."

4) Paris Hilton--the love interest (too dumb to be hero or villain)--the money creator
Paris Hilton has the ability to create money out of thin air. She needs to printing press or actual talent. She just gets paid to dye her hair various shades of bleach. She creates the illusion that she does things with her life by looking vapidly at television cameras and calling things "hot." No human to speak of gives her this money. It just sort of happens.

5) Channing Tatum--Cologne sweater--Hero
Thinking of entering Abrocrombie & Fitch for the overpowering cologne smell? Think again! All you need is your own personal Channing Tatum and a sweat-inducing workout, and you will have a week's supply of cologne scent. It only comes in one scent, however: MAN. The more heavy lifting involved, the more cologne produced.

Namaste.

Might as Well Face it, You're Addicted to Bad Advice

I'm all in favor for giving/getting advice. During the most tumultuous of times, the only positive can be having those long, boy crazed philosophical discussions with friends. As much as adults tell us they're here to listen, how could we possibly trust someone who fears the internet? We can try to put ourselves in another age group's shoes (and trust me, I have---why don't those light-up sneakers come in adult sizes??), but when we talk to people our age, it's much more likely that they are going through the same (or similar) situation. And while my friends are the best advice-givers of sorts (they've given me many-a-blog ideas), I've heard of and experienced several pieces of advice that equate to telling Voldemort to stop trying to kill Harry and to start eating his vegetables.

1) You should break up with him. 
 Girlfriends often love three things: Movie nights, dance parties, and complaining to each other. It's addictive--worse than alcohol. Okay, whatever, I've never been addicted to alcohol. It's worse than chocolate. But it is scientifically proven that when women complain/are complained to, they are more likely to listen through it, rather than offer a solution. Yes, relationships are complicated and messy and oftentimes result in the girl asking "what should I do?" Do not be fooled. Even if the boyfriend says your friend looks like the Joker, do not tell that friend to break up with him. What do you expect when you offer that solution? "Oh yes, break up with him, why didn't I think of that before? I thought you said 'rake up with him'! Silly phone reception!"

Though that would make a fantastic Verizon commercial.

If someone is ready to break up with her boyfriend, she will break up with him. Maybe if she were in 6th grade, she'd have her BFF tell him it's over, but if you tell your adult friend in an adult way to break up with someone, they will be more likely to break the friendship, not the relationship.

2) Be yourself. 
 I'm sorry, you're my friend, right? Then you should know how ridiculous people act when they are actually themselves. It took me almost four years to reveal the insanity that is my brain to my best friend. The cover up is there for a reason, mostly because Revelon was having a sale.

Hah. Gettit?

But seriously. Liking long walks on beaches would not be a thing if we could actually be ourselves when trying to impress someone. Long walks on beaches are messy and hot and there are probably scary animals with sharp pincers.

If I were myself at work, I would start rapping about wrapping cheese and would probably evoke several stares. Not the good kind.

Do you know what happened the last time I was myself? I nearly fell off an eliptical machine, screamed at a television, slammed a cart into a wall, and sent a pile of freshly-wrapped cheeses tumbling onto the floor.

I think I'm watching too much New Girl over here.

3) Stop being so messy. 
 Every time I start a system of organization, I put something in a special place, nicely planned and laid out. I put all my shit in special places. Then I search my room for the next hour, trying to remember where that special place even was, because I'm so used to it being sprawled on my floor.

4) You look hot in that bikini
Nearly every woman who has ever gone bathing suit shopping knows how low her self-esteem drops when she tries on a bikini. While it's a nice pick-me-up, it's difficult to believe that those hips are anything other than love handles when it's your own self. Sorry.

Namaste.

What's In a Name?

I haven't always liked a lot of things about myself. There were years when I had staring contests with myself, convinced that I constantly had to suck in chipmunk cheeks. I didn't like the fact that once I enjoyed something, I became addicted to it. But something I have always liked is my name. It wasn't complicated, but it wasn't plain. It means "sunshine" in Gaelic and repeat my name once and you get "glittery and shining" in Japanese. If that doesn't fit my glitter obsession, I don't know what does.

Because I had no problems with my parents' decision (my mother fortunately vetoed my father's vote for "Zaidico Mac"), I didn't think much about the way we title ourselves. There was a short period in kindergarten when I announced that at 18 I would change my name to "Jaguar," but that was back when 18 was so far away we'd also be flying our jet packs and partying with some robots. It was just another label--we were students, we were humans, we were named. We don't see any horny toads going "hey! I'd really love to be called Knicknack, and I honestly just think of you as a friend."

Enter Shoshoni (right on schedule, as pining after the Ashram occurs about two months after I've left it). There's a certain ritual that much of the staff goes through--getting a spiritual name. It's not required, and there's no schedule that determines when you have to shed your given name. It's not like getting a new hat either--you can't just one day, out of boredom, say "I think I'd really love to be Esmeralda--" because obviously I already took that name when Kira feels too tame. Here, you can take Princess Consuela Banana Hammock instead.

A spiritual name is supposed to represent new beginnings, a sign of spiritual growth. Oftentimes they derive from Hindu Gods and Goddesses. There was actually once a work study at Shoshoni who started as Sarah and ended as Kira.

Look at me, enlightened from the womb. My mom's got some naming skillz, y'all.

I've thought about changing my name, curious to see if it changed how I saw myself or how I acted. Some names I've considered in my life:

-Pamplemousse (means grapefruit en français)
-Satyam (a very yogic way of saying "what you see is what you get")
-Alphonso (Can there please be a girl version of this name? Pretty please?)
-Sheets (to go with Pillow and Blanket--unfortunately, a convenience store has stolen my fabulous idea)
-That girl with the face and the hair (as inspired by a group of basketball players outside my dorm)

I like the idea of having a clear-cut reminder of starting fresh, but it almost feels like a rejection of the past. Plenty of people have changed their names and stayed true to themselves, but to me, it would be as though I was splitting myself in half. How on Earth could I remind myself that I have no fear-a if my name didn't rhyme? What if this other self stopped liking Pop Tarts? Think of the consequences, people!

Have you ever felt like your name doesn't fit you? Would you get a spiritual name?

Namaste.

We Don't Have Techno Fear...We Have Techno Joy!

Not the music. While I do love me some Basshunter every now and again, there's a certain time and place one should enjoy techno music: At a club, post Drunk-O'Clock. I'm totally kidding, guys. It should be post Pass-out-O'Clock.

I'm talking about technology.

We are the guinea pig generation, let's just face facts here. And while I grew up as an honorary guinea-pig babysitter, my fear of becoming one is still a little on the extreme side. We, the '90's babies, are both the learners and the teachers.

When was the last time you taught yourself calculus? Don't answer that question.

I admit, while I started off apprehensive about the computer world, I quickly learned to have techno joy...Allow Eddie Izzard to illustrate:

As one could ascertain from my previous blogs, I'm a bit of a Facebook addict. I mean, when, before the internet, could you see a book of faces?

Every year, on the last day of school. When people obnoxiously scribbled "HAGS" and "stay in touch!"

I've become so dependent on technology, that even when I'm reading a book, I have to stop every five pages or so to Tweet, Tumble, send desperate messages that read "I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT APARTMENT-ING!" And then I wonder why it takes me three months to finish a book.

But then I go out to socialize. Do you know what happens when I socialize? I end up texting the very person whose face I can see. I hop onto my iPhone to anger some birds and revel over that red notification box.

I follow so many YouTube channels, it takes me longer to catch up on their Vlogs than it does to watch the entire Lord of the Rings series.

Houston, I think we have a problem. I'd tell you what it is, but I'm too busy googling Nerimon's face.

And it makes me wonder...what exactly did we do before internet-ing was a thing? I mean, for the love of Bill Gates, I am older than Google! We didn't always have the luxury of searching "what to do when bored." We just dug out the eyeliner and had some fun with poloroid cameras.

Do you remember when this was the most exciting highlight of computers?

The saddest part is, I can barely remember life from two years ago. I didn't have my own laptop until I was 16 (and that is when the jinxed screen disaster began). Texting was a mystical creature to me until 17. But I wasn't desperate to have them. Sure, it would've been nice to not have been so obvious when I was staying up until 2:00 to have pointless G-Chats, but it's not like I was all "Mom, Dad, I'm gonna sit here like a lump until I get a shiny screen to stare at all day!"

Not too long ago, that would've been a request to go to an asylum.

No one can argue that the internet never wastes our time. It would be nice to have some internet-less days where we *gasp* venture outside. But no one can argue that technology always hinders creativity, either. The problem occurs when we can't draw the line between creativity and obsession.

Example: May, 2013, the Rocky Mountains. A certain woman has plans to trek through mountains and do yoga until her ass falls off, but doesn't follow through because of a certain "blog every day in May" challenge.

If I didn't plunge into the black hole of the internet, I wouldn't force myself to watch all the Vlogbrother's videos and I could be writing instead. If it weren't for the internet, I would be writing a hell of a lot slower. If it weren't for the internet, I wouldn't know how much weight that one girl lost and how many calories my cake was. If it weren't for the internet, I might not still be friends with that one girl.

So. Do we love or do we hate technology? I mean, Casette tapes were cool, but nothing compares to getting your first iPod and naming it "Oomfufu."

Namaste.

The Writing Process: As Told By Jenna Marbles Gifs

So, as it turns out, I do write more than on this blog. Begrudgingly. In an attempt to finish a story before I'm eighty years old (I'm working on it, guys), I set out an entire day to write.

The Facebook to Writing ratio is not a healthy one when free time happens.

Fortunately, I have 3 more days off from work, so I'll keep telling myself I'm going to write then making some coffee instead working at it. But just to give a little insight into a "writer's day," I present to you, my day in Jenna Marbles Gifs.

(Note: This was inspired by an awesome blogger I found. Graceless Lady. Check her out)

10:00 A.M. I'm inspired to write. I've got some scene ideas and some witty dialogue stored up in my head. Coffee helps, too.

10:30 A.M.
I'm looking at pictures of cats on Tumblr.

11:00
Okay. Focus. Everybody, quiet.

11:15

Everybody needs some ab workouts in their life, am I right?
Unfortunately, when you're "righting" you're not writing.

11:30

I deserved a snack, after burning...50 calories. Plus two.

12:00--2:00

Oh, Photobooth...

3:00--5:00
Writing stuff I'll delete tomorrow

5:00--Forever
I'm never gonna be a writer.

Aaaand, repeat for the next year.

Namaste.

The YA Formula

Today was somewhat of a rite of passage for me. I know I've been harping on the "oh my God, I'm so old" syndrome, but when you can no longer blame everything on teen angst, shit happens.

Anyway.

Recently, a new Sarah Dessen novel has come out. Ever since reading Just Listen (quality book--I definitely recommend it), I've been following her new releases like a kid waiting for dessert. I enjoyed reading as a child, but no book in my mind could bring the same thrill as Dessen's words could--not even the Clique series (which brought about the wretched time, when, every time I thought something was cool, I called it ah. mazing.). I read and re-read The Truth About Forever about a billion times, even though it's pretty easy to catch on that the truth about forever is that *gasp* it lasts a really, really long time.

So, last time a new Dessen novel appeared, it was 2009. Enter 2013, when The Moon and More comes out. I didn't exactly rush to the bookstore (well, I did, but that was to buy $70 worth of other books). I suppose this could be "book breakups, part II" because I've noticed the un-flattering truth about YA novels: they follow a rather specific formula.

Sarah Dessen, for instance, follows this plot: Girl comes from broken family. Girl moves around a lot. Girl feels out of place and insecure. Girl has academically pressuring parent(s). Girl gets job, girl meets reclusive yet socially smooth boy. Girl has talk with self that she shouldn't fall for boy. Girl falls for boy anyway. Girl has grand epiphany about self. 

And with that, I had to admit the inevitable: Yes, John Green follows a formula. He does so with more literary merit, symbolism, and round characters, but there are obvious patterns amongst his characters. Oftentimes, his main character is a nerdy and quirky boy who has a small yet vivacious group of friends. This boy falls for a pretentious/adventurous girl who makes him take risks he wouldn't otherwise take. That being said, The Fault in Our Stars was the definite outlier. But once you create a character, it's easy to stick to that comfortable voice.

But we see this outside of the YA world as well. Even as writers found their voice and differ in plot, the characterization and voice is often similar. I look forward to reading Daniel Handler because I know he will feature somewhat isolated characters and some sarcastically witty observations about the world. Anne Lamott's hysterical descriptions about a dismal fate bring me back to her memoirs. I don't want to read the same thing, but at the same time, if a writer drastically changed her voice, I would feel deterred, betrayed even.

What do you guys think? Does the formulaic characterization/plot bother you? Or would a drastic shift in book-type keep you from enjoying a certain author?

Namaste.

Why You Shouldn't Like to Be in an Octopus' Garden

So when your friend group is the size of Vatican City (although a very charismatic Vatican city), it's kind of expected that you know each other and date each other and promise that you will never change your mind--the sanest of promises for every 16 year old, I'm sure. But what really blows your mind is when you venture outside of the pre-determined clique to date someone, and hey, funnily enough, someone in said group knows that outside person and worlds collide.

This is what I call the love octopus' garden.

Wait. What?

Allow me to explain.

Once there was a young hopeful named Esmeralda. She had the finest hair in all the land, and had to swing it down from a tower in order to let her suitors climb up and kiss her and end the spell that turned her into a frog.

Okay. That's not right.

Once upon a time there was young hopeful named Esmeralda. She had the frizziest hair in all the land, and the tendency to switch schools whenever she got bored. So there she was, mingling between two high schools, when she met a young suitor named Pluto. I don't know why his name was Pluto. It just was. Well. Pluto was enticed by Esmeralda, and took to holding hands and watching awkward movies for two whole weeks, which is like an eternity in high school world. Esmeralda felt safe from all the other desperate pick up lines in the world, because clearly, every girl in a relationship has "taken" stamped on her forehead. That is just how the world works.

But she was not safe from one suitor. His name was Alphonso, and he was British. Despite that teeth issue, you just can't resist that sexy British accent.

Okay, okay. So he was a second generation Brit and didn't have an accent. Details, people.

So Alphonso, in between Esmeralda's romps with Pluto, would court Esmeralda with such sophisticated pleasentries as "you're kinda weird" and "you know, your hair looked so much better long." And Esmeralda would laugh and blush, as naive teenagers tend to do.

But, she was taken. So our friend Alphonso devised a plan. Little do we know, Alphonso was part of Pluto's friend group. And he had tried to court Rita, one of Pluto's friends, with little success. He had resented Pluto's outshining abilities (especially with the latest news about his namesake...not even a planet anymore, and still getting girls! Gosh), so he scoured for Mignonelle, the infamous ex of Pluto.

Well, it turns out that Mignonelle was in love with her adorableness, Esmeralda was still being courted by Alphonso, and Pluto was still pining after his loss of planet status. And everyone died, the end.

Okay, no one died. But do you see? Do you see when friend groups intermingle? It becomes a love octagon (Alphonso and Pluto's first ex, Alphonso and Pluto's second ex, Alphonso and Pluto's current girlfriend, and Alphonso and Pluto, those who wish for the other's ultimate demise), which everyone knows ultimately turns into a love octopus!

Which begs the question: In this tangled up garden, why on Earth would John, Paul, George and Ringo wish to be there with us?

My only answer is they're attracted to the tortured artist syndrome. Because this is not a very pleasant garden.

Plus, Octopi can eat you. Look it up.

Namaste.