For some reason, when I like a boy, there is no length I will spare to impress him. Maybe if I'm pretty enough, I tell myself, he might just like me. And I always do just this. Whether I will be seeing him for a few hours, or just might happen to pass him in the hall. I contemplate why I feel such a need to be perfect for someone else.
I stand, shaking, in front of my bathroom mirror. I scrupulously examine my face. I pry various tools of beautification from the corresponding cabinet, and on my clean face, begin to go to work. I apply, remove, and re-apply, going over my eyeliner 3 or 4 times. I run a comb and product through my hair. I spend 20 minutes trying on clothes-choosing the perfect pieces, matching them together with accessories, neatly returning the rejects to their proper folded places. I brush my teeth, examining my appearance, contemplating any improvements; do I look thin enough? am I wearing enough make-up? should I pull my hair back? do I look too nice? too casual? I run all possible scenarios of the next few hours over in my head, cross-referencing them with previous conversations, experience, and Seventeen magazine articles. I come up with a few witty things to say at key moments-the first hello, the goodbye. With one last look over, I slip a lip gloss into my bag, and head out.
This stressful disposition is not aided by my natural response to unpleasant circumstance. Growing up, whenever anything went wrong, it was my fault-this pattern seems to have followed me into my attempts at love. I try to control as much of the relationship as I can, knowing that when it's all over, I will blame myself.
Consider a recent example: I have been talking to a guy I am quite smitten with. I really could end up just being friends with him and would be fine with that, but there seemed to be inklings on either sides of our conversations that indicated there was a mutual interest in perusing more. After several weeks of broad-based communication, we agreed to meet up. One afternoon we hung out at Starbucks and then walked around the mall. Much like our previous conversations, we didn't run out of things to talk about. And though in the secondhand, the concept of wandering aimlessly around a shopping center for a few hours might sound somewhat lame, at the time there seemed to be no feelings as such. Any awkward was devoured in laughter, witisicm, and pleasantry. It was cutesy and nerdy and perfect. We parted ways on a positive note and he asked to see me again. We talked again for several weeks and then agreed to meet up again. I left the itinerary up to him, yet come the date and time we were set to meet up, I hear nothing. It is presently Monday, we were suppose to hang out Saturday, I have not heard from him since Friday-not a phone call, text message, or carrier pigeon. And somehow, even though all signs point to the fact that I have done absolutely nothing wrong in this circumstance, I have been, for the last 3 days, thoroughly beating myself up over it. (Did I say or do something?, Was I not pretty enough?, Too awkward?, Maybe he just found someone better, etc, etc)
In recent times (ironically the evening following this little stand up of which she has no idea), my mother has told me that the fact of the matter is, any non-whore of a teenage girl must simply accept the fact that she is going to be alone. ...Although, on the other hand, my mothers idea of a harlot is someone who kisses on the first date... so perhaps I should not take this particular bit of wisdom quite so personally... *coughs*
In any sense, she did propose a trinket of wisdom among her unconventionally Amish-valued little lecture. The fact of the matter is, most 17-year-old's have quite a bit more romantic experience then me. They've lived the "baby-steps"; things like awkward middle school dances and first kisses at camp and so on and so forth. When one meets me, they assume me to be quite a bit more experienced then I am. They see that I'm not a shy dresser, listen to my "that's what she said" jokes, and see my maturity, and assume (well, as one lovely Cherub put it bluntly) that I'm kind of a whore. The fact of the matter is, that unless you count this "hanging out" coffee debachal, or one lovely but unconvential cafeteria lunch at leadership camp, I've never so much as been on a date (*gushes shyly and juvenalistically as means of defense and self-justification* I did hold a hands with a boy one time though). And as my mother rather Hallmarkly pointed out, because of the fact that I've never lived those baby-steps, things like hanging out, dates, the concept of kissing, and things that other teenagers find so rhudementary, mean so much more to me because for me, I'm doing all of it for the first time. (So basically I have to awkwardly point out to any guy I like that I'm like 13 on the inside...yeah mom, cause they were all just lining up when they thought I was normal *eye roll*).
On the one hand this relization makes me feel like a complete freak; but on the otherhand, I like the fact that I'll get to experience all of these things now that I'm old enough to actually enjoy them and have them actually mean something (when your 12, you will most likely not whind up in a relationship with the first boy you kiss; at 17, it's a little more likely). I think I'm mostly just hoping that knowing this about myself it will help me try to control-less and stop frantically stressing in front of my poor mirror, but also that maybe if forementioned boy ever actually gives me another chance, I can use what I know to my advantage with him.
*sigh* I don't know...I'll keep you posted
Monday, November 23, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
First Date
In my mind, it's going to be perfect.
I plan every little detail in a realm I can control.
There will be no awkward moments.
I will be confident and fearless.
Everything will be perfect.
In reality, it was better.
There were unexpected twists, things I couldn't control.
The awkward moments were filled with laughter.
I was terrified, but not foolish.
Mostly, it was real.
But in retrospect, the doubt creeps in.
Am I remembering it right?
Was it more awkward then I new,
Myself, not enough?
What if it wasn't perfect?
I plan every little detail in a realm I can control.
There will be no awkward moments.
I will be confident and fearless.
Everything will be perfect.
In reality, it was better.
There were unexpected twists, things I couldn't control.
The awkward moments were filled with laughter.
I was terrified, but not foolish.
Mostly, it was real.
But in retrospect, the doubt creeps in.
Am I remembering it right?
Was it more awkward then I new,
Myself, not enough?
What if it wasn't perfect?
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Elixir (in progress)
The words flow freely
Like eloquent little trains of thought-
My conscious streaming into yours.
Without even thinking, I answer your every question.
Speech flows freely from every random burst of thought.
My mind an open window,
The concept of lying never so much as crosses my mind.
Raw, honest, unsheltered.
One of your many powers over me;
I can't hide anything from you.
You read me like a book.
I don't think I could lie even if I tried.
Your kind eyes like an elixir of truth.
Like eloquent little trains of thought-
My conscious streaming into yours.
Without even thinking, I answer your every question.
Speech flows freely from every random burst of thought.
My mind an open window,
The concept of lying never so much as crosses my mind.
Raw, honest, unsheltered.
One of your many powers over me;
I can't hide anything from you.
You read me like a book.
I don't think I could lie even if I tried.
Your kind eyes like an elixir of truth.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Mother
They're suppose to be the people who love you unconditionally. The ones who are there for you, who support you, who make you feel safe and protected because it is what instinct tells them to do.
I am envious of people who have that.
My mother is a heinous bitch. It is not momentary teen angst, or an outcry from discipline, but the pure and simple truth.
Most mothers have rough times with there teenage daughters, cracking down on them when they misbehave, arguing over moral differences, but ultimately allowing them to grow and flourish and live there separate lives. May I just say that while my views on sex and drugs and other various moral principles may vary from those of my mother, I have never once been out of line, in fact I'm so far from crossing the line that I'm rarely in view of it's existence.
I think around the time I turned 16 my mother realized something, she realized that someday very soon I was going to leave her; she realized that the physical abuse she had caused me as a young child, and the verbal abuse that has maintained my entire life meant that I may never come back. (After 16 years, it hit her that gee, maybe it's not a good idea to hassle your daughter about what a stupid fat ugly bitch she is.) When she finally came around and decided she wanted me to love her, she realized that the day that I was twelve years old and she walked into my room, cold and emotionless and told me "You know, it's not that I hate you, it's just that I don't love you. I never wanted you to begin with and I could never love something like you;you just irritate me too much," was the day she blew her last chance with me.
We can pretend it's okay. That's what she wants to do. She wants to think that by fixing my lunch everyday suddenly the black eye she gave me when I was nine and didn't understand my math homework is canceled out. That by using the excuse of "going through a hard time" it's acceptable to mask her hate for herself as hate for me. But it is not okay. It will never be accepted or forgiven.
Someday I might love her. Distance makes it easier to deal with her vapid, shallow, spiteful nature. My mother is not an evil woman after all, despite the message my memories and perception may convey; there's simply too much bad blood between us-we survived my dad together and it ruined us, we blame each other for it. The woman is in fact strong and beautiful and beholds one of the strongest moral compasses I have yet to encounter. But she suffocates me. She doesn't understand me and she never will. She doesn't understand the fact that when you are the sole adult in a household as a child, taking care of your mother in recovery from varies surgeries, helping her face her various hardships, while trying to compensate as a parental figure for your brothers while your father is out god knows where doing god knows what/who, you stop being a child. I may still be somewhat naive to the more scandalous ways of the world, but I have not been a child in a very long time and I do not appreciated being treated as one. I can clean my own room, and take care of myself, and should be trusted to not only be mature enough to do so, but to have a bit of freedom now and then.
Even if it is only my spirit in danger, I need to get away from this place because I realize more and more that it is killing me softly.
I am envious of people who have that.
My mother is a heinous bitch. It is not momentary teen angst, or an outcry from discipline, but the pure and simple truth.
Most mothers have rough times with there teenage daughters, cracking down on them when they misbehave, arguing over moral differences, but ultimately allowing them to grow and flourish and live there separate lives. May I just say that while my views on sex and drugs and other various moral principles may vary from those of my mother, I have never once been out of line, in fact I'm so far from crossing the line that I'm rarely in view of it's existence.
I think around the time I turned 16 my mother realized something, she realized that someday very soon I was going to leave her; she realized that the physical abuse she had caused me as a young child, and the verbal abuse that has maintained my entire life meant that I may never come back. (After 16 years, it hit her that gee, maybe it's not a good idea to hassle your daughter about what a stupid fat ugly bitch she is.) When she finally came around and decided she wanted me to love her, she realized that the day that I was twelve years old and she walked into my room, cold and emotionless and told me "You know, it's not that I hate you, it's just that I don't love you. I never wanted you to begin with and I could never love something like you;you just irritate me too much," was the day she blew her last chance with me.
We can pretend it's okay. That's what she wants to do. She wants to think that by fixing my lunch everyday suddenly the black eye she gave me when I was nine and didn't understand my math homework is canceled out. That by using the excuse of "going through a hard time" it's acceptable to mask her hate for herself as hate for me. But it is not okay. It will never be accepted or forgiven.
Someday I might love her. Distance makes it easier to deal with her vapid, shallow, spiteful nature. My mother is not an evil woman after all, despite the message my memories and perception may convey; there's simply too much bad blood between us-we survived my dad together and it ruined us, we blame each other for it. The woman is in fact strong and beautiful and beholds one of the strongest moral compasses I have yet to encounter. But she suffocates me. She doesn't understand me and she never will. She doesn't understand the fact that when you are the sole adult in a household as a child, taking care of your mother in recovery from varies surgeries, helping her face her various hardships, while trying to compensate as a parental figure for your brothers while your father is out god knows where doing god knows what/who, you stop being a child. I may still be somewhat naive to the more scandalous ways of the world, but I have not been a child in a very long time and I do not appreciated being treated as one. I can clean my own room, and take care of myself, and should be trusted to not only be mature enough to do so, but to have a bit of freedom now and then.
Even if it is only my spirit in danger, I need to get away from this place because I realize more and more that it is killing me softly.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Procrastination
It's 9:38 on a Monday night and I have yet to even open my backpack to begin the monotonous volumes of homework with which it is bursting at the seams. Instead, I have spent the last 5 hours I have been home on the internet, cutting my nails, wandering around the room, staring at my USC app, pondering life, and basically just wasting time in as many ways as possible.
I don't know why it happens, but it does. Procrastination. It is a part of me. Whether something is urgent or not. It's as if I've lost all ability to be productive. Somedays I'll be interested in getting a jump start on a project, or somedays I'll know I really need to do some studying but the second I sit down to work, boredom ensues and I find myself fighting work with every fiber of my being (except for the tiny strand of logic telling me I should be working).
It's kind of scary because it feels like I can't even control it anymore. The focus, the self control, it's just not there. No matter how much I wish I could be productive. I have no power over myself...unless you count the power to waste time.
I don't know why it happens, but it does. Procrastination. It is a part of me. Whether something is urgent or not. It's as if I've lost all ability to be productive. Somedays I'll be interested in getting a jump start on a project, or somedays I'll know I really need to do some studying but the second I sit down to work, boredom ensues and I find myself fighting work with every fiber of my being (except for the tiny strand of logic telling me I should be working).
It's kind of scary because it feels like I can't even control it anymore. The focus, the self control, it's just not there. No matter how much I wish I could be productive. I have no power over myself...unless you count the power to waste time.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Jumble
I've started about five separate entries to no avail. I feel like all I do is repeat myself anymore. Writing about the same stupid emotionally dramatic nothings over and over again, my life constantly spinnning in a cycle, the same problems appear over and over, never resolved; the psycological definition of insanity. I'm tired of being so boring on here, and more, I'm tired of working so hard, methodically scrutinizing every delicate word just to be boring. I miss the days when blog writing came easy-the days I just put down what I felt and it came out as poetry-but I suppose life was easier then too.
I want to write about internet boy. I've tried, but I just can't find the words. I feel like I've over-discussed every aspect of that relationship with everyone from him to my cat to the extent that words have lost all value and the emotion behind them has been vanquished. With him it kind of seems like I'm just waiting for the storm. We're just on two very different pages in life; so much that I;m not even sure we're in the same book anymore. It's too much work and it shouldn't be. I kind of don't even want to be friends anymore, but I'm not quite sure that erasing him will be as easy as it sounds. I have a feeling we'll be in limbo for a while as he jumps from girl to girl with no avail and then back to me for support, so I think I've got time to figure it out. Or maybe just wing it when the moment strikes; I've wasted too much time thinking about him anyway. I'm really just apathetic at this point-like the Novocaine before they drill your teeth, I'm trying to numb myself before we get to the part that hurts.
Part of me wants to write about school and my general apathy towards life-how there's something about my house that just makes me feel as if I am fighting to hang on to my soul. When I'm out it doesn't strike so much, but at home it's just constantly painful. There's too many bad memories. The walls, the people, they make me feel hopeless. I want to feel powerful, excited, enthused, eager, the way I did all summer; but when I gaze into the foggy skies of my plexy-glass bubble, I feel nothing but trapped without even a shimmery ray of hope for escape.
I want to talk about how this bubble, this apathy is eating me alive inside-or rather how I'm eating it, burying ever negative thought or feeling inside me with any food I can get my hands on, struggling to build up a nice tasty layer of false-happiness to keep me from drowning in a sea of black. So many things, things I have repressed my entire life as well as recent issues, a myriad of thought and pain and pattern and subliminal messages that I cannot even begin to understand, let alone describe, that all seem to be cataclysmicly encroaching at the exact moment that I need them to disappear.
I finished Breaking Dawn last week, and I loved the part about Bella describing how when she became a vampire, everything became mentally clearer; like there was so much space in her head that she never knew was there before. I can't remember the last time I felt compotent. Like I felt like I knew what the hell was going on. My brain is just a jumbled slur that can't focus on anything but pleasurous activities for any given length of time. It's terribly frustrating to be so mentally unfocused all the time, it makes me understand how difficult it must be to become senal. I miss the days when life was simple enough that could at least follow along. I know what's causing the problem, what's affecting all of my problems: clinical depression. But I don't want to deal with it. I'm scared that if I try to deal with it, if I allow myself to be raw and exposed and vulnerable, that I will simply be taken advantage of as I always have by anyone I've ever trusted, and worse, that I will never get control of the pain again. It's taken me such a long time to develop control.
I want to write about internet boy. I've tried, but I just can't find the words. I feel like I've over-discussed every aspect of that relationship with everyone from him to my cat to the extent that words have lost all value and the emotion behind them has been vanquished. With him it kind of seems like I'm just waiting for the storm. We're just on two very different pages in life; so much that I;m not even sure we're in the same book anymore. It's too much work and it shouldn't be. I kind of don't even want to be friends anymore, but I'm not quite sure that erasing him will be as easy as it sounds. I have a feeling we'll be in limbo for a while as he jumps from girl to girl with no avail and then back to me for support, so I think I've got time to figure it out. Or maybe just wing it when the moment strikes; I've wasted too much time thinking about him anyway. I'm really just apathetic at this point-like the Novocaine before they drill your teeth, I'm trying to numb myself before we get to the part that hurts.
Part of me wants to write about school and my general apathy towards life-how there's something about my house that just makes me feel as if I am fighting to hang on to my soul. When I'm out it doesn't strike so much, but at home it's just constantly painful. There's too many bad memories. The walls, the people, they make me feel hopeless. I want to feel powerful, excited, enthused, eager, the way I did all summer; but when I gaze into the foggy skies of my plexy-glass bubble, I feel nothing but trapped without even a shimmery ray of hope for escape.
I want to talk about how this bubble, this apathy is eating me alive inside-or rather how I'm eating it, burying ever negative thought or feeling inside me with any food I can get my hands on, struggling to build up a nice tasty layer of false-happiness to keep me from drowning in a sea of black. So many things, things I have repressed my entire life as well as recent issues, a myriad of thought and pain and pattern and subliminal messages that I cannot even begin to understand, let alone describe, that all seem to be cataclysmicly encroaching at the exact moment that I need them to disappear.
I finished Breaking Dawn last week, and I loved the part about Bella describing how when she became a vampire, everything became mentally clearer; like there was so much space in her head that she never knew was there before. I can't remember the last time I felt compotent. Like I felt like I knew what the hell was going on. My brain is just a jumbled slur that can't focus on anything but pleasurous activities for any given length of time. It's terribly frustrating to be so mentally unfocused all the time, it makes me understand how difficult it must be to become senal. I miss the days when life was simple enough that could at least follow along. I know what's causing the problem, what's affecting all of my problems: clinical depression. But I don't want to deal with it. I'm scared that if I try to deal with it, if I allow myself to be raw and exposed and vulnerable, that I will simply be taken advantage of as I always have by anyone I've ever trusted, and worse, that I will never get control of the pain again. It's taken me such a long time to develop control.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Girl
She lives inside of me and she slips out in wavering moments-after a long day, a failed test, a broken heart.
Though sometimes quieter than others, her voice is always there. It whispers hateful nothings in my ears. Telling me I'm ugly, and stupid, and unloved.
She wants freedom. She wants to be let lose as I made the mistake of doing once before. The freedom she offers is tempting-when she is lose I have no ties with anyone, just me, just power. She claws at my insides. Sometimes I'm worried that if I lose control, she'll take over again-that I'll become someone I don't recognize.
She is wrath. Nothing more. She wants to be more, but she can't. She hates everyone, whether they do anything or not; she hates them simply because they exist. She knows it's wrong, she knows it won't make her feel better, but she can't help it. All she sees is red. She wants to make every living creature suffer as much a she does. She wants to watch them squirm in agony.
This girl is dangerous. Not just to the people who dare cross her path, but sometimes to herself. She worries that one day she's going to lose it. The way she muses about slicing her delicate wrists after a devastating day, the way she wishes she could throw up that piece of cake she shouldn't've eaten, the masochistic moments where the logic of right and wrong is the only thing holding her feet firmly to the floor.
She attempts to mask her pain as anger. She's just so hurt she doesn't know how to fix herself. She feels like Pandora's box, wanting to be released; but she's afraid-she isn't so sure there's any hope at the bottom.
I know that I can control her. I know from experience that even when she gets out, even when I hit rock bottom, I can fix it again. But it's scary to think that a part of yourself is that dark. It makes you feel like such a freak. =/
Though sometimes quieter than others, her voice is always there. It whispers hateful nothings in my ears. Telling me I'm ugly, and stupid, and unloved.
She wants freedom. She wants to be let lose as I made the mistake of doing once before. The freedom she offers is tempting-when she is lose I have no ties with anyone, just me, just power. She claws at my insides. Sometimes I'm worried that if I lose control, she'll take over again-that I'll become someone I don't recognize.
She is wrath. Nothing more. She wants to be more, but she can't. She hates everyone, whether they do anything or not; she hates them simply because they exist. She knows it's wrong, she knows it won't make her feel better, but she can't help it. All she sees is red. She wants to make every living creature suffer as much a she does. She wants to watch them squirm in agony.
This girl is dangerous. Not just to the people who dare cross her path, but sometimes to herself. She worries that one day she's going to lose it. The way she muses about slicing her delicate wrists after a devastating day, the way she wishes she could throw up that piece of cake she shouldn't've eaten, the masochistic moments where the logic of right and wrong is the only thing holding her feet firmly to the floor.
She attempts to mask her pain as anger. She's just so hurt she doesn't know how to fix herself. She feels like Pandora's box, wanting to be released; but she's afraid-she isn't so sure there's any hope at the bottom.
I know that I can control her. I know from experience that even when she gets out, even when I hit rock bottom, I can fix it again. But it's scary to think that a part of yourself is that dark. It makes you feel like such a freak. =/
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Happy
What's her name?
Is she pretty?
Is she sweet?
Is she what you want?
Is she going to make you happy?
I want you to be happy...I just kind of thought it would be with me =/
Is she pretty?
Is she sweet?
Is she what you want?
Is she going to make you happy?
I want you to be happy...I just kind of thought it would be with me =/
Friday, August 7, 2009
Box of Awesome
I have a box of awesome that I keep in my closet.
I keep it on the highest shelf,
in the very back,
where no one can see.
It's mostly just for special occasions--for liberating moments;
But I like to take it down and look through it from time to time.
I keep it on the highest shelf,
in the very back,
where no one can see.
It's mostly just for special occasions--for liberating moments;
But I like to take it down and look through it from time to time.
I don't ever really remember a time without it.
It's something that I inherited along with my blue eyes and milky skin, though I'm not really sure from whom.
I try to fill it up--the goal is to complete it, to become truly awesome--but there always seems to be something missing.
Sometimes I get discouraged.
I worry I will never be as awesome as people like Christina and Peter.
People who's awesome runs deep.
People who don't even have to try.
Sometimes I get so discouraged that I want to get rid of the box, to give it to someone that is worthy; but some how I can never part with it.
I like to take it down and look through it from time to time.
It's one of the only things I possess that reminds me of the beauty the world has to offer outside of my four walls--this box of awesome in my closet.
It's something that I inherited along with my blue eyes and milky skin, though I'm not really sure from whom.
I try to fill it up--the goal is to complete it, to become truly awesome--but there always seems to be something missing.
Sometimes I get discouraged.
I worry I will never be as awesome as people like Christina and Peter.
People who's awesome runs deep.
People who don't even have to try.
Sometimes I get so discouraged that I want to get rid of the box, to give it to someone that is worthy; but some how I can never part with it.
I like to take it down and look through it from time to time.
It's one of the only things I possess that reminds me of the beauty the world has to offer outside of my four walls--this box of awesome in my closet.
Friday, July 24, 2009
A Journalistic Bond
With just 7 short days left, I have been thinking a lot about going home. The sad thing is, I feel like I am one of the only kids here who really doesn't want to leave. In California I have a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a nice room. I have two little brothers and two cocker spaniels and a neurotic mother, and four crazy cats, all of whom are nice enough. I have a shinny silver car and a school full of girls that I love to death, but there are many things that home does not have.
Home does not have dorm rooms that I can cover in magazine collages. Home does not have cup stacking champions, baton twirlers, soft-rap bands, or crazy Asian ninjas. At home, I cannot walk to the beach in my free time, eat red mango as I please, or sit on a street-corner with four new friends as we manage to earn eight dollars singing along with the strumming of Ian's acoustic guitar. Home does not have any of the things I have discovered and fallen in love with here at Cherubs. Most importantly, home does not have 82 brilliantly minded young journalist who evoke awe, encouragement, and inspiration in me all at the same time.
When I walked into Jones hall on June 28th, sweaty and out of breath and 20 minutes late, I was not in a fabulous mood. When I glanced around the room at my fellow Cherubs with un-goggled eyes and noticed the sign that said "Welcome to the best summer of your life" I scoffed. "Psha, right." *eye roll* But looking back on it now, I can easily say these have been some of the best five weeks of my life so far. I've grown up, literally with one of the most amazing birthdays of my life, and figuratively with amazing lectures from John and Joe and Jenny and all of the staff.
(And yes, for the record, I have learned from the lectures despite an unfortunate sleeping habit that cannot go without mention that I seem to have developed which has left several people asking me if I am narcoleptic which, for the record I am not. At home I actually have trouble sleeping...but anyway, I'm just gonna hope that the instructors can forgive me and that twenty years from now that embarrassing factor of my Cherub persona will have selectively escaped all of your memories...)
Moving on,
I would love to say that all of us could be friends forever. To put it more exactly and to quote one of my favorite movies of all time, "I wish I could bake a cake out of rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat it and be happy..." but unfortunately, life just doesn't work like that. I mean, I'm going to hope that with the power of the internet we all stay friends and help each other take over the media world someday, but if ten years from now, we don't remember each other, it's ok. Because as much as I adore each of you, this experience isn't about the individuals or even necessarily the individual AP style rules *gasp*, it's about the journey and the lessons as a whole.
I now understand why the speakers we've had light up when they proudly say that they too were Cherubs, or why they still bring up there Cherub friends, or even why they give up a piece of there summer to come hang out with a bunch of high school kids.
Cherubs is kind of like a net that binds us all together. We have a common bond that bridges memory and generation. We were all here. We all climbed three flights of two sets of thirteen stairs a ridiculous number of times during the all day story. We all walked "fifteen" minutes in unruly weather to get to the fourth of July parade. And we did all of this constantly faced with the threat of the dreaded Sunday morning spit list.
And to further this analogy and continue on my overly-sappy address, I simply feel like I must note the rope in this net. A fro-yo loving Nebraskan who is kind of magic in my eyes. I mean, think about it, over the history of journalism Cherubs, he has slowly but surly been responsible for bringing each and every one of us here. It is no wonder why the biggest smile on the faces of former Cherubs seems to come at the mention of the name Roger Boye. I mean who could forget "N-H-S-I News ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch".
So to wrap this up, I think we all came here feeling like big fish...and then slowly had that beat out of us. But as we all of back to our prospective ponds, I hope we all realize that we have grown here, and that in life, when we feel like small fish we can remember looking around a Cherub-filled room 217 Fisk Hall and know that even though said binding net is no longer present in a physical sense, we are not alone.
Thank you.
Home does not have dorm rooms that I can cover in magazine collages. Home does not have cup stacking champions, baton twirlers, soft-rap bands, or crazy Asian ninjas. At home, I cannot walk to the beach in my free time, eat red mango as I please, or sit on a street-corner with four new friends as we manage to earn eight dollars singing along with the strumming of Ian's acoustic guitar. Home does not have any of the things I have discovered and fallen in love with here at Cherubs. Most importantly, home does not have 82 brilliantly minded young journalist who evoke awe, encouragement, and inspiration in me all at the same time.
When I walked into Jones hall on June 28th, sweaty and out of breath and 20 minutes late, I was not in a fabulous mood. When I glanced around the room at my fellow Cherubs with un-goggled eyes and noticed the sign that said "Welcome to the best summer of your life" I scoffed. "Psha, right." *eye roll* But looking back on it now, I can easily say these have been some of the best five weeks of my life so far. I've grown up, literally with one of the most amazing birthdays of my life, and figuratively with amazing lectures from John and Joe and Jenny and all of the staff.
(And yes, for the record, I have learned from the lectures despite an unfortunate sleeping habit that cannot go without mention that I seem to have developed which has left several people asking me if I am narcoleptic which, for the record I am not. At home I actually have trouble sleeping...but anyway, I'm just gonna hope that the instructors can forgive me and that twenty years from now that embarrassing factor of my Cherub persona will have selectively escaped all of your memories...)
Moving on,
I would love to say that all of us could be friends forever. To put it more exactly and to quote one of my favorite movies of all time, "I wish I could bake a cake out of rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat it and be happy..." but unfortunately, life just doesn't work like that. I mean, I'm going to hope that with the power of the internet we all stay friends and help each other take over the media world someday, but if ten years from now, we don't remember each other, it's ok. Because as much as I adore each of you, this experience isn't about the individuals or even necessarily the individual AP style rules *gasp*, it's about the journey and the lessons as a whole.
I now understand why the speakers we've had light up when they proudly say that they too were Cherubs, or why they still bring up there Cherub friends, or even why they give up a piece of there summer to come hang out with a bunch of high school kids.
Cherubs is kind of like a net that binds us all together. We have a common bond that bridges memory and generation. We were all here. We all climbed three flights of two sets of thirteen stairs a ridiculous number of times during the all day story. We all walked "fifteen" minutes in unruly weather to get to the fourth of July parade. And we did all of this constantly faced with the threat of the dreaded Sunday morning spit list.
And to further this analogy and continue on my overly-sappy address, I simply feel like I must note the rope in this net. A fro-yo loving Nebraskan who is kind of magic in my eyes. I mean, think about it, over the history of journalism Cherubs, he has slowly but surly been responsible for bringing each and every one of us here. It is no wonder why the biggest smile on the faces of former Cherubs seems to come at the mention of the name Roger Boye. I mean who could forget "N-H-S-I News ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch".
So to wrap this up, I think we all came here feeling like big fish...and then slowly had that beat out of us. But as we all of back to our prospective ponds, I hope we all realize that we have grown here, and that in life, when we feel like small fish we can remember looking around a Cherub-filled room 217 Fisk Hall and know that even though said binding net is no longer present in a physical sense, we are not alone.
Thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)