Library

Yesterday I took my brother to the library. Now, this may not sound so impressive. If there were more readers of this blog, I daresay every single one would exclaim that that was nothing to be proud of. Why, hundreds of people every day take their brothers to the library. However, my brother possesses a special talent, a talent responsible for taking any hum drum excursion and turning it into, for lack of a better term, a journey.

To start off with, my brother is constantly plugged in. It is difficult to get him out of the house in the first place, for all of his favorite things are here. Quite frequently he will be found with a dog on his lap, his television on, and his face plugged into his computer like a three pronged electrical device. Within the time frame that I asked him to go to the library, my brother watched Hannah Montana, played on Neopets, and watched all three Charlie the Unicorns. As we left the house, I forced him to leave his Nintendo DS behind. I was determined that this excursion was going to end with my brother gaining a deep understanding of the love I have for books, and with him fostering one of his own.

"Do you want to look upstairs or downstairs for books? The kids section is downstairs, I used to love it when I was your age."

"I guess I'll look downstairs,"

"Ok sweetie! Find a nice chapter book. I'll be upstairs if you need me."

I proceeded to pat myself on the back, for the last time we went to the library, he had refused to look downstairs, favoring the "Prehistoric Fish" section upstairs, a section primarily devoted to books with few words and large paintings of said fish.

I looked for maybe twenty minutes around the library before he came upstairs again.

"Can you help me find this book?" Two call numbers were inscribed on a white sheet of scratch paper. With a sinking feeling, I realized that this book included large full color illustrations of fish. I guided him to the section and I could not find either call number. I told him to keep looking, and I resumed searching the non fiction section for books. Ten minutes later he came back with a big grin on his face and the book in his hand.

"That's great. I'm glad you found it. You should get a chapter book too. Go back downstairs."

He began to move in the opposite direction of the stairs.

"The stairs are that way, J."

"Oh, I know. I've been riding the elevator."

"What? Why? You know. . .never mind, just go find a chapter book, ok?"

"Ok. Maybe I'll look upstairs."

I started to become exasperated.

"The only books upstairs are ones for grown ups. What's wrong with the kid's section?"

"It's creepy down there. It's too young for me."

"J, just please, go find a book. And use the stairs."

At this point a librarian came over with a dirty look on her face. Our argument was attracting looks. J headed back downstairs. He returned ten minutes later with a book about twenty pages long.

"Can we go home yet?" He stood in front of the bookcase I was looking at. "I got a chapter book."

"That is not a chapter book. Where did you get that?"

"We read it in the fourth grade."

"It has a picture of a smiling mouse wearing a suit on the cover. That book is for second graders."

"Don't judge a book by its cover."

I gave up. I finished looking, let him put back the 'chapter book', and took him home. On our way back home, I learned exactly what I was fighting.

"You know, I bet this book has more words than any chapter book."

"How many pages is it?"

"One hundred."

I suppose a picture's worth a thousand words, but for his sake I hope the SATs are fish themed by the time he takes them.

"A mackerel is an a)Fish b)Pot c)Dog d)Cat"

Dear lord, please let him pick 'a'.

Music

I am here today to defend my music. I will say straight away that my favorite type of music is. . .Broadway. Yes, yes, I know that this can be strange to some, and believe me, I try to not force my music upon others. In fact, though it is customary for teenagers to compare MP3 players to see what others are listening to, I have come to simply withdraw my music player for fear of alienating any straight men within the 25 mile radius.

"Music player?" I ask while shoving it into my back pocket and covering it up with a conveniently long tee shirt, "You must be mistaken. I don't have a music player. . .at least one with anything you'd be interested in."

It usually works pretty well, unless I've pulled that trick with the person before.

"No, really. I want to see your Ipod. Maybe there's something I've heard of on there."

Thinking of the three Eagles songs, four Sheryl Crows, two Queens, and the Twilight soundtrack I uploaded by mistake, I hand it over. Familiarity sets in- I notice a glazed look in the eye as they skim through my albums. They hand it back as quickly as they had taken it, but their knowledge of me is now tainted. She is the quiet one, the actress, the sweet one, but she also likes. . .showtunes.

So, normally, I just enjoy them quietly and I don't get too much flack about it. I figured people just don't understand them. It never occured to me that anyone thought anything bad about them. Until today, when my mother and I went to go paint pottery at a little shop downtown. We live in a town in the upper Midwest part of the United States, and while it isn't the least urban place one could live, it's also just rural enough that people fancy themselves cowboys and cowgirls, especially when they own no farmland. Country music follows me everywhere, and, apparently to even out the fact that I was having fun painting pottery, God decided to smack incessant country music in my face to turn it into my own personal circle of hell. After the third song about how everyone should follow George W Bush's moral code when the man was clearly already two years out of office, I've had just about enough of Mr.twangy twang.

"God I hate country music. Can we make it stop somehow?"

"Good luck with that." My mother says, glaring at the woman placing items into the kiln. I glare at her too. But mind control clearly isn't working. The radio continues to blare country as loud as ever.

"It's just such awful music," I say, "You could probably replace all the words with gibberish in a Southern accent and people would still eat it up. It's garbage."

My mother snorts

"Well, at least we instilled some good music taste into you."

"What do you mean? I've always hated country."

"And thank God. Your father and I hate country too."

"I like good music! Musical theatre has good music!"

My mother rolls her eyes and gets back to painting her gravy boat. I watch her for a moment.

"I've met other people who like musical theatre!"

"Who?"

"Well. . .most of them were gay men. . ."

There is an awkward silence as we go back to painting, and all I can think of is why the fan base of the music matters at all. Punk people listen to punk music, emo people listen to emo music, Midwesterners listen to country music, and musical theatre people listen to musical theatre music. So what if the guys who listen to it often end up being as straight as an "S"? It doesn't make the music any less relatable or good. Sondheim's compositions contain some of the most complex vocal and instrumental combinations ever created. Jason Robert Brown writes constantly about harrowing, deep emotion. I simply don't understand the stigma. But I guess what it all boils down to is something my mother said when we got home.

"There's nothing wrong with it really. It's just not on the radio."

Hello Internet!

I have awoken from a seemingly never ending sleep to finally post on my blog. Yes, yes, I know, oh internet, that you have been feeling impatient. For all I know, you have been frantically checking it whilst foaming at the mouth. I became some sort of deity if you will, doling out blog posts hither and thither, never stopping to think of the good of my people, but rather shining in the golden light of the Gods, allowing you all to bask in my glow, and then sinking back into the clouds that contain whatever heaven you may imagine and leaving you to ask, similar to Job

My blogger, my blogger, why hast thou forsaken me?

Well all you non- believers, I happened to have a very good reason. My computer was confiscated because I spent too much time doing what my mother calls "Facebooking". I have come to believe that my mother has no idea how to use Facebook at all, an idea supported both by the fact that she has only been on it twice and that she thinks Facebook has functions that it has never, or will never have, including:

Chatting with people who aren't online

Knowing who other people are talking to online

Using facebook chat with my cell phone

Twittering

In reality, my Facebook is up all the time, and most of the time I'm on the computer surfing the internet, completely oblivious to anything happening on Facebook. And, when I am on Facebook, I am usually just chatting. My mother lately has seemed to have a problem with any form of non verbal communication between me and my friends.

"Honey?"

"Uh huh?"

"Why must you text in the car?"

"I'm sorry. Did you want me to talk to you instead?"

"That's not the point. It's rude to text in the car."

"Why?"

"Can't you just call them or something? How about you talk on the phone?"

"Wouldn't it be ruder if I had a loud conversation with them in the car?"

"I guess. . .I just don't like that clacky noise. . .clack clack clack."

This discussion happens every time we leave the house to go anywhere. I don't know what my mother dislikes so much about texting in the car- I can only assume that she believes I am training to be an undercover spy and she is afraid my texting noises will give me away in a moment requiring stealth.

I suppose I can live with it if it means being a spy.

The 1950's, Part One

Ah, the 1950's. A time of innocence. Romance. Sweethearts in black and white photos. Homosexual repression and sexism. Let me explain: I unearthed four public service announcement videos dating from the 1950's, two on puberty and two on sexual predators, and I was shocked at what I found. Today I will be covering the first two: As Boys Grow and Molly Grows Up.

First off, in the male puberty video, "As Boys Grow", the boys got a delightful discussion on both male and female anatomical structures from their happy go lucky gym coach and his misshapen penis diagram. The explanation of the changes their bodies go through was comprehensive and open. It even seemed to reassure Steven, a tall boy who sits in the back of the classroom and asks questions that made it seem like he had gotten an unwanted erection far too many times for his liking. The boys even learned how babies were made through the usage of his awkward genital diagrams. On the whole, I felt as though this video was quite progressive, and I was hoping the same for the video that the girls were supposed to watch.

I was wrong. From the way that "Molly Grows Up" was portrayed, getting one's period was the most complex thing ever. Whereas the boys got a ten second discussion on menstruation, just so they would know the devil they were up against when they got married, the girls got a whole fifteen minutes on how it works and lists of what one could and couldn't do when on their period. Examples:

Horseback Riding

Cold Showers

Swimming

Strenuous Exercising

Hot Showers

Square Dancing

Running

What's more, these girls were given no information on male anatomy or sex at all. They didn't even say the word sperm. I imagined a girl on her wedding night who had never had any information other than this video:

"Well honey, I suppose it's time for bed. Just think, we can share a bed now that we're married!"

"Yes. . .yes we can. In more ways than one, Natalie."

"What do you mean, Sam?"

"We have to create a child now."

"Oh, ok, Sam. I would love to. But why are you taking off your pants? What. . .what on earth is that?!"

I could only assume that they did that on purpose, as some way to not make women expect too much out of sex. But to not even mention it? It seemed like an instant way to create teenage pregnancies and misconceptions about sexually transmitted diseases and sex in general. And according to http://www.guttmacher.org/pubs/tgr/05/1/gr050107.html ,by the late 1950's, the teen pregnancy rate was over twice as much as it was in 2000. I imagined that by 1956, thousands of sweaty teenagers were in the back of pickup trucks all over the nation, feeling as invincible as teenagers do today, because, hey, who ever said no to this marvelous discovery, something of which one of two sweaty teenagers may have even believed no one on earth had ever known before that night?

One last funny note on that data: I noticed there was a correlation graph to how many of those teenagers were married when they got pregnant, and quite predictably, most of the teenagers in the 50's were said to be married when they had their children. I couldn't help but think of the grooms at the altar, watching their slightly pale, dizzy looking brides make their way down the aisle. I imagined these grooms saying "I do" with exuberance as they lifted their brides off their feet, kissed them, and whispered in their ears,

"No one will ever know."

The Future, Part Two

Today I was planning to tell an amusing anecdote about how I spent forty five minutes at a practice that I had no need to be at. I was going to explain in detail about how much I enjoyed learning simple ballet warmups with Aili Smith and how excited I was getting for the show. . .when Aili pulled out a list of dancing partners and I was left standing alone in a corner, perplexed. I eventually went home, after being informed that I wasn't needed at practice until next Thursday. But I actually have a little bit of seriousness that I need to talk about today. You may recall in my last post about the future, that I discussed wanting to be an actress for my career. Well, today I learned that my dream was very tangible. My mother told me when I got home from a play tonight that the audition guidelines for the Guthrie Internship were online. I immediately went to my computer and gazed at the facts before me. My response?

Breathe. Breathe! BREATHE!

Twenty people chosen out of a nationwide audition search. Four and a half minute audition and that's it. My mind started to run through every play I'd ever heard of ever for audition material. My back tensed up. I didn't know why I felt in such a state of shock. I wanted to get in, didn't I? Then I realized: this tension, this wasn't from auditions. This tension was from having to make a decision right now on what I want to do for the rest of my life. Honestly, right now, I wish I was five and still able to say:

"Rawr! I want to be a dinosaur when I grow up!" And then I could promptly bite the nearest adult who dared to contradict me.

The Second Coming Of Christ

Today the anticlimax was the bane of my existence. I came home around nine today, only to be informed of a tornado warning in the area. I didn't really listen until around nine thirty, when my brother started freaking out in the living room like he had seen the eyes of God piercing through the darkened heavens.

"We need to get downstairs! The weather is scary outside."

"We will be fine sweetie."

From down the hall, I heard the news anchor on TV declare his forecast of the weather:

We interrupt your worrying to bring you another thing to worry about. The tornado warning has been put in effect in Ward county. Cower in your basements puny mortals!

"Mom. . .where do we live?"

"Ward County."

"Mom, I don't want to die!"

Five minutes later, my parents shouted down the hall to unplug everything and head downstairs. At the foot of the stairs stood my incredibly wired brother, clutching our dog as if she was his last lifeline on earth.

"Hurry and get down here! It's not safe upstairs!"

"J, it's just a tornado. We're not going to die."

"How do you know that? You know what? Just leave me alone."

"J, just calm down. Give me the dog." The poor dog by now was gazing longingly at the floor, as if visualizing her escape from the terrified eleven year old who was noticeably keeping at least three feet from the window downstairs.

"I will not give you the dog! She's terrified!"

Before I could retort that this was clearly projection onto the dog, my mother came downstairs, cleared out the laundry closet and told us to get inside. I went upstairs to get our other dog, a notebook, and my brother's gameboy, for in the course of roughly three minutes the storm had transformed from the second coming of Christ to something only almost as interesting as his video game.

Nearly as soon as I reentered the closet, the warning passed, leaving me highly angry at mother nature for not giving the just retribution to Minot that she had promised. It had appeared that mother nature was trying to appease me, for fifteen minutes later she promised a return of the tornado from earlier. Once again I trudged down to the closet, hoping for some sort of climax to all this buildup. And. . .nothing. I spent fifteen minutes in a closet with my brother and our dogs, who were making abominable noises and smells, and I didn't even get to say it was for any reason.

Incidentally, my brother was the last to leave the closet. He wanted to sleep in it, but my mother wouldn't let him.

"Everything that's important to me is in here," he said, pointing at his videogames. "Oh, except you guys I guess. You're kind of important too."

Celebrity

I do not understand celebrity culture. Sure I enjoy seeing actors and actresses and singers and performers do their thing, and I enjoy interviews of them explaining how they did it etc. But I simply do not understand this mindset that somehow celebrity=GOD. There are magazines and websites devoted entirely to the lives of people I will never meet. If I wanted, right now I could probably search Taylor Swift's Favorite Color and come up with an accurate answer in a matter of seconds.

Answer: White

When would this information ever be useful? Even if I met Taylor Swift, how many times in

our day to day lives do I actually need to know someone else's favorite color? Favorite colors

were invented as conversation fillers for boring people. Example:

"Damn. . .been waiting in this movie line forever Jim."

"I know Jerry. Hey you know what's funny?"

"What, Jim?"

"We've known each other, what, twenty years?"

"Yup. And?"

"I still don't know your favorite color Jerry."

"Oh. . .it's blue, Jim. What's yours?"

"Orange."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's nice. How about them Yankees?"

What's more, now if I ever meet Taylor Swift, I have one less point of conversation. I

already know her favorite color. No wonder celebrities usually go out with other celebrities-I

can't imagine liking someone who already knew everything about me. In celebrity culture, these

people are called 'fans'. In real life, these people are called stalkers. If someone came up to me

right now and told me that they knew everything about me and always read the paper looking

for news about me and had pictures of me all over their walls, I would call the police. A girl saying

they are obsessed with Robert Pattinson is 'adorable'. A girl exhibiting the same behavior to a

real boy is creepy.

Taking it one step further, not only do these magazines exhibit trivial facts about these stars,

but they constantly dissect their love lives, parenting, and secret photos taken of them.

Sometimes all three at once- Cosmo magazine does a special every month on photos taken of

celebrities so they can determine everything from how close the celebrity couple's bonds are

to how happy the celebrities themselves are. And people eat it up. They send in letters praising

the segments on their 'accurate analysis'. It's like some cosmic form of high school gossip.

"So I hear Jane and Thomas are on the way out."

"Oh yeah. Look at them walk down the hallway together. You can totes see that they aren't

into being seen together anymore."

"Not only that Veronica, look at this pic on my phone."

"Omg! Is that. . ."

"Thomas and Ruby making out at my party last night? Yup. You wanna make this pic viral?"

"Love to."

Only instead of being humiliated over Facebook, Thomas and Ruby and Jane are splashed

across the cover of every magazine in the United States. Goodbye To Celebrity Couple types

the gleeful demon responsible for these blown up headlines. Facebook pictures can be erased,

relationships can be saved, but those headlines, those are forever.

At least until we get bored and move onto juicier gossip.

The Future

Ah yes oh internet, it's time to talk about a teenager's favorite point of conversation-the future! Since I could speak I have been bombarded with this age old question:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

And when one was four, it was quite acceptable to tell the adult in question that one wanted to be a dinosaur. Dinosaurs were the greatest- they could eat things and lay eggs and according to The Land Before Time they could even speak! Once one reaches the age of 17, however, it is no longer acceptable to say that one wants to be a dinosaur. If that is one's true heart's desire, one often says:

"I want to be a paleontologist."

"I want to be an archaeologist."

"I want to be a museum curator."

or if one wants to pretend to be a dinosaur in their free time at college by engaging in illicit activities

"I dunno."

So what does this say for me? Well I wanted to be a vet or doctor until I was 14. I thought:

"Gee helping people and animals sounds so much fun! I can pet all the pets and cure diseases from people and I can make the whole world turn into one big happy sparkling rainbow!"

Then I realized that vets have to euthanize pets, and doctors have to deal with bleeding, vomiting, dying people every day. EVERY DAY. These are not rainbow jobs. These dreams became non-dreams pretty quickly.

At fifteen, I decided I wanted to be an actress. This dream has stayed in the back of my mind since then. And it never exits my mouth in serious company. Because I imagine the exchange would go something like this:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"An actress."

Conversation partner proceeds to snort drink up nose during ensuing laughter

So the conversation usually goes:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Well, I'm looking into rehabilitational therapy of some kind. I'm looking into going to the University of Minnesota: Twin Cities and majoring in some pre-rehabilitational therapy program. There's also a program at the Guthrie Theater where I could intern and possibly double major with Acting."

Which really means:

"I want to be an actress, but this program is a long shot and I'm using rehabilitational therapy as a backup plan so no one will call me a failure if acting doesn't work out."

Because what other career involves potentially being paid to pretend you're a dinosaur anyway?

Commitment Issues

I have, you have, we all have commitment issues! Yay! From my studies on the human species I have determined there are types of communication issues:

Clingers: Those who latch on like octopi. Telltale signs include saying "I love you" too early, being unable to end relationships at appropriate times, and showing more affection than a bundle of puppies frolicking with four year old children to someone who is clearly put off. This relationship ends when the significant other can't take all the attention anymore.

Detachers: The opposite of Clingers. Telltale signs include never saying "I love you", keeping relationships strictly unromantic, closing up when there's problems, expecting sex to keep things casual, and becoming terrified when they realize they're falling in love. This relationship ends when the detacher can't deal with the fact that they or their significant other are in love.

Physicals: Those who believe physicality is the answer to everything. Tired? Cuddle. Fighting? Cuddle. Not sure if you like the person? A nice makeout session will convince you. Relationship usually ends when the other person figures out physicality doesn't fix anything.

Who am I? Well, I'm a physical. I take things too far, too fast constantly. I cuddle with people when I am blue and I attempt to when I'm mad at them. . .which is counterintuitive. But for some reason it makes sense to me that being physical with someone is easy. You don't have to talk to them or figure out what's wrong. Cuddling is always enjoyable, and it makes one feel loved.

Because who is ever blunt with anyone nowadays anyway? That is so 1990.

Kissing Three:Guyman

As you may have guessed from previous posts, Guyman and I had a long, sordid history. Example:

Grace: Let's get engaged over Facebook!

Guyman: Let's pretend it was real!

Both: Yay!

Grace: People are yelling at me! We should call it off.

Guyman: I don't wanna.

Grace: Too effing bad.

After our ordeal, something just felt wrong between us. We had a fight that Thursday- he told me he didn't want to be close friends anymore. I didn't understand. That night I cried harder than I had in a long time. I thought Guyman was different. And then he turned around the next day and told me he was sorry for acting the way he did. I was wary of him until that weekend, when we participated in Read Across America at the library together. We had spent Friday night together and we had talked some on Saturday, but during the lulls when kids weren't making elephant birds out of cotton balls, he told me some of his darkest secrets, secrets he had never told anyone else. All of a sudden, I trusted him more than anyone else. After we were finished helping kids, we headed upstairs in the library and found a secluded corner where we could continue to talk, and actually say what we wanted away from prying ears. A non awkward silence happened somewhere in the course of the hour we were upstairs. I thought back to our engagement, and how eager he was to kiss me, how I was still confused exactly how I felt about him, and how he had brought up that he was still curious about it earlier that day. I broke the silence.

"So you said you were curious about kissing me. . ."

"Should we?" His trademark lopsided grin arrived on his face.

"I don't know. Do you want to?" I was a bit nervous. I had never kissed a guy with an open mouth before. And for the umpteenth time that week, my life was reminding me of a romantic comedy. In romantic comedies, the moment where the girl and the guy kiss is when they figure out whether they like each other or not. I was scared of what I would find out when his lips met mine.

It was wet. He was standing and I was sitting and I had no clue where to put my hands or what to do with my mouth. I opened it like I had seen people in the movies kiss, and my lips became encased in a thin layer of saliva. We kissed two or three times, and then he backed away, leaving me to wipe my mouth of foreign liquids.

"I didn't expect kissing to involve so much spit. I don't think I like kissing much. Maybe that's because I was sitting though. Do you want to try it standing up?"

"Why not?"

To be honest, it wasn't much different. There wasn't quite so much spit, but I still didn't really know what to do and it wasn't particularly enjoyable. I made a mental note to not do it again when he suggested afterwards that the extra spit was on purpose. I determined I was not falling for Guyman because I didn't enjoy kissing him, blinded by my unwillingness to suggest to myself that he was bad at anything, including kissing. This realization put a grin on my face for days.

Or maybe it was the kiss. . .even if it was like kissing a snail.

A Slight Interruption To My Kissing Anecdotes

Before any of you nonexistent readers become up in arms that I am postponing my post on kissing Guyman, please understand that there is a gun to my head and a bomb strapped to my chest, and I may die if this post is not completed first. I kid, but I have something I need to write about first. Due, once again, to recent upheavals in my life, I find myself utterly single. Why? Well, I don't know. In truth, the guys who break up with me never seem to have a decent answer. And I'm sorry if I hear relenting from any of them over this post, but "It's not you, it's me." is not a decent answer. It would be unacceptable to use that answer if you used that on any other occasion. Don't believe me? Some examples:

"Did you forget to feed my dog while I was away?"

"It's not you, it's me."

"Of course it's you! My dog is hungry you idiot! You forgot to feed him! Now give me a decent answer as to why!"

Questions should not be case-sensitive and I refuse to treat them as such. Which is why I was slightly miffed this afternoon when Mr. Weston texted me telling me that he wasn't ready for a relationship and 'it's not you, it's me.'

"Is there another girl?"

"No."

"Did I go too far too fast?"

"No."

"We can't just go on a few casual dates and see where it leads? I'm not asking for something serious here, Mr. Weston."

"I don't know. I'm just very confused."

So was I. I couldn't fathom what I had done wrong. Two rejections in two months. . .I didn't expect to be hurt again so soon. This cut wasn't so deep, it's true, but it made me wish as I drove home from All Shook Up that Guyman had been there to hold me and tell me it really was going to be okay. This wish made no sense as:

1. Guyman completely shattered my heart a month ago.

2.Guyman would have likely been jealous of Mr. Weston, causing me tears anyway.

3.Guyman was unlikely to ever genuinely hug me again.

4.Half the reason Mr. Weston and I spent so much time together was because Guyman left me.

5.I've spent decent chunks of time brainstorming creative ways to kick Guyman in the face.

Nevertheless, that wish just made me upset, because that was the immediate response when I realized I wasn't going to change Mr. Weston's mind. I was a little bird who was pushed out of the nest, thankfully with a friend. The friend fell to the ground because his wings were weak and when I struggled my way back home, I realized it was no longer there. What is a little bird to do?

Please God, don't let me get eaten on the forest floor.

Kissing Part Two: Safe

On my fifteenth birthday I had my then boyfriend over to my house. At present we will call him "Safe". Indeed, I only ever remember him referring to a girl's looks once, and it sounded quite strange coming out of his mouth. This boy had had some severe medical problems in the past which affected his immune system and caused him to become very Christian. It had also inspired in him a liking for the musical Rent, a taste that seemed oftentimes to be in direct violation of his conservativeness. On our first date we only hugged. I met his dogs and his dad. I figured that kissing was out of the question for a while, at least until his immune system was completely in order again.

We spent two hours on my birthday playing board games and talking in my basement. A pleasant lull in the conversation occurred. Safe was the first to break the silence.

"Do you want to kiss?" he asked sweetly.

"I. . .yes, of course." I was a little put off. I hadn't expected someone to ask, and suddenly I couldn't even remember if I knew how to kiss. "I've never kissed anyone before."

"Me neither. Should we try?"

"Yeah," I said with a nervous smile. We were both sitting Indian style on my floor, and we had to move closer. Our knees were touching each other and we leaned in. I closed my eyes. . .and missed. My mouth had grazed the very right corner of his, but other than that it was a definite mouth miss. I opened my eyes.
"I think we missed. Should we try again?"

Safe just smiled. This time, our unpuckered lips met, in what was only a kiss in the broadest scientific definition. Nevertheless, I had received my first kiss, and I was walking on air through to the next morning.

It's funny the things people will say as a joke. Earlier that week I had been discussing first kisses with a friend of mine, Harley. He had proclaimed that his first kiss had gone very smoothly. I responded that I guessed that it had been awkward, whether he had wanted to admit it or not. His response?

"Oh yeah? I bet you anything you miss the first time."

Kissing

As of last Tuesday, I have kissed four boys. Looking back, I seem to have a pattern of interesting first kisses. Safe, Guyman, Kissboy, and Mr. Weston were all interesting experiences, and in time, I would like to document them all. For now, I will cover the first two in hopes that you, my nonexistent readers, will delight in my awkward adolescence.

My Day Has Been Boring.

What can I say, vast spaces of the blogosphere? I am relatively emotionally stable today and I had a good day at work. Why, the only interesting part of my day at all happens to be:

THE LAKE THAT HAS TAKEN RESIDENCE IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE

That's right, a lake. I got off of work today around three and noticed a text message from my mother on my phone.

Bad storm coming in next short while. You need to get home now. Hail and high winds.

Sure enough, the apocalypse looked imminent as I left the restaurant where I worked. Clouds the color of smoke furled across the sky. I began to feel as though this was a race against time. Get home or you die. It seemed curious to me that people weren’t screaming in the streets, waiting for the Good Lord to send a sign of safety. Then I remembered that it was 2010 and not 1300, and it made much more sense. I got home just on cue for the thunder to go off.

RAAAAARGRUMBLETHUNDER

My mother was watching the news in our living room, and at that moment I gained the highest respect for weathermen. Without a hint of terror he spoke the words:

Quarter sized hail is a definite, thought we may be looking at some hail the size of ping pong balls.

If I had read that on my idiot card, I would not be speaking those words directly or calmly. I would hang a sign around my neck that proclaimed the apocalypse was nigh and shout:

The End is nigh!

Which probably explains why I’ve never been interested in a career as a weatherperson : it would be hard to convince myself each day that the world was not ending. I don’t think my heart could take it.

Facebook

I am blogging to preserve my willpower and sanity. Tonight I logged on to Facebook and surfed a while, and then I thought of Guyman. I felt the need to watch over him itch at the back of my mind.

Was he safe?!

Was he happy?!

Was he sane?!

The urge grew and grew. I then remembered that for a school project I had created several fake Facebook profiles. "Aha!" I thought, "I won't be able to see everything, but I can see if he is ok."

An icky feeling rose inside of me, but for a moment I ignored it, looking for the journal in which I had created the fake page account passwords. The icky feeling grew and grew as my search quickly became futile. I realized I didn't really want to know what Guyman was up to. Not like that. I realized it was wrong, so I pulled up my blog and distracted myself. And now I no longer care.

Because we all know that people post whether they are sane or not on their Facebook pages.

Glee

I was a little miffed with Glee this season for one main reason : Jesse St. James. Yes, I know, it was Johnathan Groff. I too thought he was delicious. But out of all the plotlines, his was the one that was the most frustrating this season. Jesse St James's storyline:

-Secretly dates Rachel

-Switches to her school so they don't have to be a couple in secret anymore

-Breaks up with her because she tries to appear promiscuous in a school project

-Leaves for "Spring Break"

-Comes back and automatically loves her again, and tells her adopted mother that he cares about her very much

-Doesn't show up in an episode

-Goes back to Vocal Adrenaline and breaks up with her in the most heartwrenching way possible

I figured out why I didn't like this storyline when I was talking to my friend, Dancer.

Boys on TV aren't supposed to act like real boys.

I don't want a boy on TV to remind me of my personal life. At all. In real life, some boys are this erratic. Because of this, this invokes irrational anger from me toward a fictional character. When Jesse St James broke egg on Rachel's face and told her that he loved her, I wanted to punch him in the face.

"How dare you treat Rachel that way?" I screamed at the screen full of pixels that lacked the ability to hear me at all, "I, I mean, SHE, really loved you Guyman. . .I mean Jesse. . ."

The end of Glee coinciding my breakup with Guyman had no small effect on my hatred of the character. Jesse was Guyman times four- four times as showy in his anger, four times as hyperbolic, four times as musical (which was no surprise as Groff was much older). I empathized with Rachel far too much, and began to hate this character irrationally.

It's not my fault that Jesse's no Prince Charming. Clean up your act Jesse. Act like a boy on TV. I have enough real boys in my life.

My Morning

Well this morning has already been chock full of excitement, and it's only ten. For some reason, last night I assumed my shift at The Rolling Pin was at nine. Due to only having had the schedule written on my hand in faint pen several days previously, I had no way to check the schedule without exerting effort, ie, either calling or going down there. So I did what any lazy person would do. I set my alarm clock for seven and hoped I was right. Then, of course, I didn't get up until eight fifteen, at which point I started to hurredly get ready for my supposed nine o clock shift. I left the house hair unbrushed and hungry and prayed I wouldn't be late. Halfway there, a thought registered in my mind:

God I hope I'm going at the right time.

I ended up being two hours early for my shift. I left, a bit dejected that I had hurried there for nothing. But I learned something on my way home- God helped the human race invent iced coffee because He loves us. Starbucks is a magical fairy place in the morning. I had never had iced coffee in the morning before today. It felt like liquid power crystals were flooding my brain. It tasted like joy on a hammock. It was the best thing I have ever had for breakfast.

This must be what crack addicts feel like after their first hit.

Boys

I have a terrible, terrible track record with boys. Three official boyfriends and I still have no clue how to act around a boy I like, mainly because my relationships have been messed up. A list of my boyfriends, summarized:

-Asexual cancer survivor just out of treatment (3 months)

-Co worker who wanted to make out with me: we talked so little I was impressed he even knew my name (a week)

-Guyman, who you may remember from previous posts, only decided that he was dating me when he wanted to end it (God only knows)

Sometimes I feel like I am utterly lost in the world of boys. All of my friends tell me "You are so cute and innocent when it comes to boys." And I feel like after having three boyfriends and countless flirtations, I should have some idea of how boys work. But I don't. I have come to the conclusion that talking to boys about emotions is something like sitting down and having a chat with a dog-no offence to any boys who may be reading my blog. Once it gets into emotional territory, they recognize the tone of voice and the fact that you say their name a lot. Again, hyperbole, because I know that unlike dogs, boys eventually figure out what you said. They take their time though.

Mr. Weston, if you're reading this I hope to the heavens you are breaking the trend. I like dogs, but I'm fonder of humans to tell the truth.

Aliens

I don't think aliens would feel very threatened by the human race. I was watching Brian Regan today, and he made quick note of this fact, but then I started to wonder what a conversation between aliens regarding how much they should care about us would be like. So now we have Gnibit and Snorf, two aliens from the planet Remulon (they will be symbolized as G and S).

G: Sir, I bring information on the human race.

S: Very well then, very well. Tell me of their defenses Gnibit.

G: Well, Sir, they have no natural defenses.

S: None?

G: That I have seen. They appear entirely lacking in natural poisons or spikes of any nature. Their teeth are useless for battle. Their bones and flesh are easily breakable. Their speed is mediocre. They have weapons. . .

S: How is their weaponry?

G: Above average. But they seem intent on using it to kill each other.

S: Each other? Why?

G: Mostly over land. Sometimes over what to worship. Sometimes they kill people to stop them from killing other people. And those are just the times that the whole portions of the planet decide it's time to kill each other. They kill each other one on one too.

S: So not only do they kill each other in droves, they kill each other one on one?

G: Yes, and sometimes they even kill themselves.

S: Themselves?

G: Themselves.

S: But. . .why?

G: The human race has this thing called emotion.

S: Explain.

G: I don't quite understand it. Humans are very possessive. They are possessive of things other humans own. They are possessive of other humans. And when they don't get what they want or when a possessed object or human is lost, they exhibit strange behaviors. Often they become unproductive or unsocial or even willing to kill themselves.

S: So basically there is a whole planet wrapped up in either possessing or killing other members of the same species?

G: . . .In a nutshell.

S: *Sigh* They likely wouldn't even notice a takeover, would they?

G: Probably not Sir. Humans are very self absorbed.

S: *Sigh* Go study a useful planet then. . .I hear Grenorg 5 at least has inhabitants with spikes.

Why Sitting Home Alone is Bad for Me

Hello nonexistent readers! Ugh, today has been utterly quiet. I have decided before, and have proven it time and time again, that too much time at home has an adverse effect on my productivity and sanity. A list of things I have done today:

1.Got up by being woken up by my mother.

2.Ate an egg sandwich.

3.Took a shower.

4.Got dressed.

5. Realized large pile of clothing was stacked on my computer chair from last night when I moved it from my bed.

6.Moved clothing back to bed.

7.Booted up computer.

8.Sent Facebook message to Guyman's mother asking her to tell him to tell me when he releases information that I have been keeping secret for him.

9.Discussed movie plans with Mr. Weston (all names changed for privacy), plans were decided to not happen.

10.Hunger registered in my brain.

11.Walk to Kitchen with purpose.

12.Realize I don't wish to exert the effort to cook anything.

13.Read about sandwiches on Hyperbole and a Half.

14.Make ham and strawberry jam sandwich. Supplement with dry cereal.

15.Realize ham and strawberry tastes really weird, and that it's difficult to eat even dry cereal without a spoon.

16.Realize towel is still on my head.

17. Brush hair.

18.Shoved clothes on bed into the closet.

19.Brooded about boys.

20.Turned on TV to get away from brooding.

I'm going to write a legit post now.

This Post is Angry

Vast spaces of internet, you may remember Guyman from my last post, if you cared to read it. Guyman and I had a long history, and we fought so much that after a while, one could look on a calendar and say on any given day, whether or not Guyman and I were going to get along that day. Eventually, Guyman decided to "end it", apparently under the impression that we were dating, though we were not. The world imploded for a few weeks, because I loved Guyman very much. Eventually though, like a favorite lamp, one must either reconstruct their life with a few pieces missing and hope no one notices, unless it is to say, "Did you ever hear about the time that Guyman broke our lamp?" or one must buy a new lamp, something I had tried in the past, and something I was not willing to do again. I rebuilt my life and hoped no one noticed that Guyman was missing. I was fine for a while, truly, I was. Some new pieces of lamp arrived in the mail, and I tried to squeeze them in the hole. And they fit, a little. The Guyman shaped hole was smaller.

Then today, Guyman defriended me on Facebook. For no reason. Confused, I contacted Guyman and asked him why he was being rude and trying to break my lamp again (metaphorically of course- Guyman did not actually break a lamp.) Guyman responded that the memory of his lamp-breaking excursions was painful, even though he purposefully broke my lamp and I had already gotten over the fact that he broke my lamp. Guyman wanted to forget not only the time he broke my lamp, but all the other times we ever spent together, because those were painful for him too. Then he blocked me on Facebook, without even giving me a chance to tell him to grow up and stop ignoring me at parties, because it's embarrassing.

I'm really glad he didn't actually break my favorite lamp though. I might have had to go all ninja on him if he had.

Being Engaged Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

I have an unfortunate habit, noted in my last post, of not thinking things through completely, or rather, at all. This was the case this past February when my friend, I shall call him Guyman for sake of privacy, and I decided to pretend to get engaged. How did two teenagers who weren't even dating end up faking an engagement? Ah, patience vast spaces of internet, you will see.

First off blogosphere, it must be noted that everyone thought that Guyman and I should date, or assumed we were dating. Our entire school, our parents, hell, even my dog, were encouraging me to go out with Guyman. Guyman and I took it in stride for the most part. You see, due to the stupidity of Guyman and I, a rumor began that I had done X rated things with Guyman in his hot tub. Which I had not. But Guyman and his girlfriend also broke up around this time. A lesson in high school brain math :

Guyman single+scandalacious rumors involving other girl=Guyman dating other girl!

Eventually, even Facebook told me I should date Guyman. Marriage bot told me Guyman was my best choice to marry in the future. Exasperated, I joked to Guyman that maybe we should change our relationship statuses to "Engaged". Then, somehow our brains leaped simultaneously to:

WE SHOULD FAKE IT AT SCHOOL TOO

Do you remember how my brain leaves important variables out of common sense equations? Usually this equation would go:

Lying about engagement+Faking relationship with Guyman=Awkwardness all around after the truth is revealed

But in my mind, this equation went:

Lying about engagement+Faking relationship with Guyman= It's just like those fun romantic comedies!

I need to learn how to add. It went about as well as one who was not what I would call "Under the Influence of Guyman" or "UIG" would expect. We had planned to make it last two days, but after a particularly nasty fight with his ex-girlfriend, I made him agree to help me call it off, leaving behind us a wake of awkwardness and apology.

It's funny the things one thinks that people will remember, however. While talking about April Fools Day pranks the other day with some friends, who had all been a part of this prank, I said that I had pulled mine back in February. The response?

You got engaged? I wish I'd been in on that.

Hill Rolling has Factors One Should Consider

I have an awful, awful habit of not paying attention to the right things at the right time. One of these fine moments in life happened not a few short weeks ago at the Grad party of a friend of mine. This friend in particular had a large backyard with a hill and a coolie. His basement was lined with windows so one could enjoy this spectacular view. On this day, the guests downstairs, which included myself, decided to go outside and enjoy the view from there. I zoned out for a minute there. I'm pretty sure that I was singing "The Sound of Music" to myself and spinning on the hill like Julie Andrews, if Julie Andrews only knew half the words to the song. When I came out of my Julie coma, I noticed people dusting themselves off at the bottom of the hill and going inside. "Oh, they rolled down the hill," I thought "What a charming idea. I should do it too."

I have come to the conclusion that my brain has no idea how to assess situations. Because hill rolling would have been fine if I had not been in a dress. My brain equation should have gone:

Hill rolling+dress+large window=bad idea

Instead it went something like:

Hill rolling=superhappyfuntasticfuntime!

Two important variables, we see, were left out of the second equation. What's more, once that equation had been set in my brain, I refused to let go of the notion that my equation was completely wrong.

Katie: Grace, don't do it. Bad idea.

Grace: No, no it looked like fun! I want to roll down the hill.

Katie: Grace, you're in a dress.

Grace: So?

(My other friend, Billy, was laughing silently at Katie's attempts to add these variables to my equation. I should have known then that it would end poorly.)

Katie: Grace. . .

I was already off. I laid on my back and started rolling and realized immediately that Katie was absolutely right. Dresses have an odd tendency to curl upon themselves in what I imagine is the clothing form of the fetal position when faced with gravity and centrifugal force. Dresses just don't have balls. I ended up showing the entire basement my underwear.

At least it was cute.

June 11, 2010, A Great Journey Begins

I've had a blog for a long time, and yet I have neglected to post on it at all. This is partially due to the fact that I don't honestly think anyone's going to read it, or even care that I have a blog. It used to be that if you had a blog you were special and easy to find on the internet, but somewhere along the line, the people who TaLK LiKE thiS have seemed to overtake the internet not unlike a swarm of locusts during times of great tragedy and famine. Now usually the response seems to be "Oh, she has a BloG. Glad some other know-nothing has decided to spout their undiluted thoughts on the internet." As of right now, I promise to the vast space that exists in front of me, the space that may one day be filled with readers, that my blog will not be a BloG.

Now that introductions are out of the way, on to content. You will not like all the content on my blog. By all means, vast space of internet, tell me if it sucks. I don't really know what I'm doing yet. I know some will probably be funny, some will probably be sad or angry, and the majority will just be really random, sort of like a diary. Hints at poignance, but unless it is a fake diary written by a bestselling novelist, the majority will probably be useless things that you won't care about at all. Some will be old writings, some new I guess. That's all for the introductory post. I'm going to write something legit now.