After J.D. Salinger’s death on Wednesday, I keep telling myself I want to revisit The Catcher in the Rye. You know, to preserve Salinger’s legacy and all that. But I can’t bring myself to do it. The Catcher in the Rye isn’t even my favorite Salinger book (that’d be Franny and Zooey. Mostly “Franny” :P), but it’s the only one of his I have.

It’s kind of killing me right now that I can’t find the article I'd read (because it was written much better than this), but it mentioned how people would go to his house, hoping to get a chance to talk to him, hoping that they’d be The One, only to realize he really meant he wanted his privacy.

And of course, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t also hoped that, but it’s not even possible now. It’s heartbreaking.

I think most of it is because I’m scared I won’t like The Catcher in the Rye as much as I did the first time around. Or that (even though I didn’t particularly identify with Holden Caulfield in the first read), I’ll identify with him even less now. Or perhaps there’ll be that one day when I pick up The Catcher in the Rye and realize I don’t understand him at all.

How terrifying.

Edit:

From "Holden at Fifty," which was published in The New Yorker in 2001, actually (it's a great article. And I totally got the “Catcher in the Rye for girls” vibe from The Bell Jar, too):

You can’t, in other words, rewrite “The Catcher in the Rye” simply by telling the story of an unhappy teen-ager and updating the cultural references, or transposing the events to a different city, or changing the sex of the protagonist. You have to reproduce the Salinger mystique, because the mystique has become part of what “The Catcher in the Rye” is. The end product of the ideal Salinger rewrite isn’t a Salinger story. It’s Salinger. To rewrite the story of Holden Caulfield you have to become a melancholy genius, too. You have to be your own sorrow king.

I would quote this entire article if I could, but here's one last one to tie everything up:

A great deal of “youth culture”—that is, the stuff that younger people actually consume, as opposed to the stuff that older people consume (like “Lord of the Flies”) in order to learn about “youth”—plays to this feeling of loss. You go to a dance where a new pop song is playing, and for the rest of your life hearing that song triggers the same emotion. It comes on the radio, and you think, That’s when things were truly fine. You want to hear it again and again. You have become addicted.Youth culture acquires its poignancy through time, and so thoroughly that you can barely see what it is in itself. It’s just, permanently, “your song,” your story.

…

It isn’t, of course. Maybe, in fact, the nostalgia of youth culture is completely spurious. Maybe it invites you to indulge in bittersweet memories of a childhood you never had, an idyll of Beach Boys songs and cheeseburgers and convertibles and teen-age crushes which has been constructed by pop songs and television shows and movies, and bears very little relation to any experience of your own. But, whether or not the emotion is spurious, people have it. It is the romantic certainty, which all these books seduce you with, that somehow, somewhere, something was taken away from you, and you cannot get it back. Once, you did ride a carrousel. It seemed as though it would last forever.

(Man, I’m so glad finals are over.)

First of all, I must extend an apology to all Mssrs. Presidents for the following content. Especially William Henry Harrison. And Category 5.

It shouldn’t take more than 5-10 listens of Janvi’s amazing presidents song.

Lyrics:

Washington and Adams, Jefferson and Madison, James Monroe and Adams J.Q.

Jackson, Van Buren, William Henry Harrison, Tyler, Polk and Taylor and Fillmore

Pierce, Buchanan, and Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Johnson and Grant and Hayes

Garfield, Arthur, and Cleveland and Harrison, Cleveland again and then McKinley

Theodore Roosevelt, Taft and Wilson, Harding and Coolidge and Hoover and Roosevelt

Truman, Eisenhower, and Kennedy

Lyndon Johnson and Nixon

Ford and Carter and Reagan and Bush

Clinton and Bush Number Two

And Obama!

After which, it’s time to head on over to the Sporcle U.S. Presidents quiz.

Got it? Good. Now onto...

I’ve tried to create some sort of twisted mnemonic for most and also separated them out into 10 basic categories:

1. The Bald
2. The Beards
3. The Chins
4. The Faces
5. The Fat
6. The Glasses
7. The Hair
8. The Widow’s Peaks
9. The Rest (alternative title: The Comb Overs)
10. The Presidents You Should Know

1. The Bald

Just Dwight D. Eisenhower, who isn’t fully bald but close enough. Imagine him as an older version of Dwight Schrute, I guess.

2. The Beards

1. John Quincy Adams, only guy from the First Ten (which means easily recognizable clothing) with a beard. And yes, I realize it’s not really a beard. Think of him as a tamer version of Van Buren (two presidents down the line), hair-wise, that is.
2. Ulysses S. Grant, the one with the shortest beard. He also has a sort of faux widow’s peak. Most weighty of them all. Not too difficult to remember.
3. Rutherford B. Hayes, Walt Whitman minus the crazy sideburns. Or a hobo.
4. Benjamin Harrison, this guy reminds me of a cross between Mr. Quirley (seventh grade math teacher) and William Daniels (Mr. Feeny of Boy Meets World), who incidentally, has played John Adams in 1776. Actually, he looks a bit like Santa Claus. Also, his beard grows straight down.
5. James A. Garfield, easily confusable with Rutherford “Walt Whitman” Hayes up there, but this guy tends to have the darker beard. Garfield’s eyes aren’t as deeply set as Hayes’. You might be on your own for these two.

3. The Chins (Cleft chins, that is)

1. William McKinley, well. I guess he kind of looks like a volcano.
2. William Henry Harrison, BIG NOSE. That is all. He also has that funky Gothic Romantic hairstyle goin’ on.
3. Herbert Hoover, he kind of reminds me of an older version of Lou Costello. Or a plumper version of Alec Baldwin. He’s also one of the least wrinkly presidents, so I suppose you can imagine a giant Hoover vacuum sucking his wrinkles out. Actually, that’s pretty gross.

4. The Faces (long ones, that is)

1. John Tyler, boring name for such a crazy face. I don’t know why, but he looks like what I imagine Johnny Appleseed to be.
2. Zachary Taylor, he reminds me of an admiral. That’s all.
3. Franklin Pierce, one of the youngest and with the darkest hair. He looks like a classic movie star, actually. Like a cross between Clark Gable and Cary Grant. And a guy out of a Brontë sister’s novel.

Okay, I realize this category isn’t particularly well put together. But they have somewhat memorable faces, don’t they?

5. The Fat (my apologies, dear sirs)

1. Millard Fillmore, I realized this guy isn’t particularly fat. Sorry about that, Mr. Fillmore. Anyway, he’s got the whole crotchety old man thing down. Otherwise, he isn’t particularly memorable. =\ I suppose his hair kind of looks like ducklings’ fuzz. Take that however you’d like.
2. Grover Cleveland, okay, this guy is seriously easily confusable with Taft down there. Most noticeable difference is that Cleveland’s mustache is a Chevron, while Taft’s is English (pointed upward). (Why yes, I did do some research on mustache/sideburn styles. Shush.) Taft’s hair also tends to be parted down the middle.
3. William Howard Taft, see above.
4. Chester A. Arthur, only guy with a “friendly mutton chop,” as in his sideburns are connected by a mustache. Man, back in the days when men could get away with doing something like that...

6. The Glasses

1. Theodore Roosevelt, easily recognizable. Looks like a brick. Also, he’s the only one with the glasses chain.
2. Woodrow Wilson, he looks most like a college professor, which is apt, I suppose, since he was once president of Princeton.
3. Harry S. Truman, um, he’s the only one who smiles out of these three (or the most natural smile out of all the presidents)? Also, his face is more square shaped.

7. The Hair

This is the fun part!

1. John Adams, oh, c’mon, this guy’s pretty easy to recognize. The plumpest out of the First Ten. Also, he seems to be perpetually blushing.
2. James K. Polk, one word: MULLET.
3. Martin Van Buren, two words: CRAZY SIDEBURNS.

8. The Widow’s Peaks (plus some fake ones)

Right: really prominent widow’s peaks
Left: Faux Widow’s Peaks OR I’m Trying To Hide My Receding Hairline

1. James Madison, the most attractive of the First Ten. I’m serious.
2. Lyndon B. Johnson, he reminds me of a radio news host. Beyond that...I’ve got nothin’.
3. James Monroe, kind of like Madison, but not as good-looking.
4. Richard Nixon, imho, he looks more like an actor than Reagan does. Like a classic gangster movie or something.
5. Ronald Reagan, not too difficult to recognize. Kind of a fleshier, hairier version of Clint Eastwood.

9. The Rest (or The Comb Overs)

All right, this might be a bit difficult.

1. Gerald Ford, (snickers) his name used to be Leslie. He’s almost reached Eisenhower's level of baldness but not quite. I honestly have no way of remembering this guy’s face.
2. Franklin D. Roosevelt, not too difficult to recognize; honestly, it’s FDR. Spacious face.
3. James Buchanan, could be a crossover with the Hair category since he’s got that kind-of-pouf goin’ on. Yes, I suppose, you could imagine his hair being hit by a cannon.
4. Warren G. Harding, HARDING. Okay, how does his face not scream HARDING to you?
5. Jimmy Carter, the guy who always has a cheesy smile
6. Andrew Johnson, the guy who succeeded Lincoln and always looks like a pissed-off six-year-old
7. Calvin Coolidge, could compete against Hoover in a wrinkle-free battle. But something about this guy is pretty calm, don’t you think?
8. George H.W. Bush, the guy who shouldn’t smile because it’s just scary, okay.

10. The Presidents You Should Know

Or, you know, you could just pull out a few bills. ;) Just kidding, guys. Cough.

1. Bill Clinton
2. George W. Bush
3. Barack Obama
4. Abraham Lincoln
5. Thomas Jefferson
6. George Washington
7. Andrew Jackson
8. John F. Kennedy

And finally, it’s time to head on over to the Sporcle U.S. Presidents by Picture quiz.

Final Note: So, um, I haven’t actually tried this method...haah.

Happy studying!

Sure, I write these little wishful resolutions about wanting to become a better person and all that, but who am I to give myself these goals when I don't know who I is am oh, I don't know. [Author's Note: That period is supposed to be a question mark, but it looks better as a period. And a good day to you, grammar sticklers!] I make these pretty empty promises to myself and then crush my pathetic little heart when I've stood myself up. And then I sit at home, watch Audrey Hepburn movies, and eat tear-soaked strawberry ice cream.

(I don't even know what that metaphor was supposed to mean. I think I've been watching too much Ugly Betty.)

But, um, let's just go all the way back and review Resolutions 2008, shall we?

Resolutions listed: 11
Resolutions accomplished as of January 2, 2010: 0

Let me take a minute and bask in my two years of productivity.

How wonderfully satisfying.

Right about now would be the time for me to list that one single resolution that I'm so determined to keep and, in the first few days of the new year, believe I might actually accomplish. So here it is:

Try/do new things.

Except I think I've heard that before somewhere. And how'd that go? I think the only new things I've tried in the past year is fill my schedule up with television shows.

But enough with the sarcasm. It's getting disgusting. Like kitchen sink water soaking its way up through my moldy slice of writing. Also, enough with the metaphors. I can't be Sylvia Plath. But I love her, I love her, I love her. Or her writing. Can't tell which.

But I'll just get to the point now because I can feel my mind drifting off again and trying to invent clever and adorable but off-topic little quips to secretly insert in my writing and impress you all. Hah. I'm hilarious.

So here it goes: maybe this year, I'll just wing it; that is, focus on the task at hand instead of looking off dreamily into the future. And, sure, I might not even keep this non-resolution. But it's not like I have much of a reputation for keeping resolutions anyway. So:

ONWARD, 2010!

(By the way, Ugly Betty is not helping this whole "stop looking off dreamily into the future" thing, but damn it. Christopher Gorham.)

But here's some text disguised as an image to tide you over in case I don't:

her city reeks of industrialization and hooded sunsets
gas pumps churn blood into the hearts of metal,
and it courses—
courses through cracks in the sidewalk,
through the tips of her polished fingers,
through the holes in her Brand Name Sneakers.

doesn’t make much of a difference, she supposes,
the way you can’t tell skin from denim.
that’s how it is in this city.

she can’t say she blames them.

she props her bike up on the hill
and wonders
if she’s ever seen a sunset
not framed by lonely hearts and telephone wires.

Today, my dear Readers, I am going to tell you a fantastic story that does not make any sense to me at all. It is entitled “The Dream Sarah Had Last Night.” But first, an introduction:

You see, I don’t get very many chances to dream. (Curse you, sleep deprivation!) Or if I do, I tend not to remember them. But Thanksgiving break, oh, how I love thee! So much sleep! And thus so many dreams!

Anyway, this is the most vivid one I’ve had all break, erm, because it’s the only one I’ve managed to remember. And because it plays out like some horribly cheesy action-adventure movie. And because it’s just weird.

I forgot the details of the beginning, but it involved some dispute (with my family?), which led me into an underground mall place and then up to a snowy mountainous area. There were a bunch of people there, and I was offered a coffee. I don’t remember if I drank it or not, but for some reason, I poured it off the side of the cliff.

Then this warning came that we had to get into the ship immediately, which was when I realized that the “underground mall” was actually a, um, lava ship. O_o Right. More on that later. By then, it had transformed into a sort of submarine, and all the stores were gone. We all dashed inside, but then this guy came in and said he wanted all the men to be up front to help row and help out. He was also about to close the door to the first chamber for a reason that went along the lines of “If we don’t make it out of here alive, women and children will be the last to be melted by the lava.”

Or some such thing.

Anyway, before he closed the door, I rushed through to the second chamber, and I found my mom there. She hugged me, and I looked out the windows and saw lava rising up the side of the ship/submarine, which was when I realized we were in a mountain cavern and had to make it out before the lava rose too high and melted us. What was really weird, I guess, was how terrified I felt. O_o I felt as if I were actually going to die, and I imagined being melted by lava, and it was TERRIFYING, OKAY.

So a bunch of us in that chamber then decided to go out and help the men. We went into the third chamber, which was a huge cafeteria area (think Hogwarts’ Great Hall), which is when I realized I had a love interest in this dream.

And he was a married man.

And yes, I did wake up and think, “Oh, my god. I was [GOSSIP GIRL SPOILER ALERT!] Serena Van Der Woodsen.” Except I was me and not blonde. Also, he was dark-haired and reminded me of Arthur Dimmesdale.

But I digress. The “love” was sort of like an I-don’t-want-to-feel-attracted-to-this-guy-and-I’m-not-going-to-admit-it-because-it’s-wrong-and-also-gross-but-I-can’t-help-it. Also, his wife was on the ship. So that was great. :X

I do believe some people (or maybe it was only my mother) knew I was attracted to the guy, but they/she told me it was wrong or some such thing. Nothing I didn't know. >_> But, of course, I went up to the guy’s table and proceeded to prepare his food for him. And by “prepare,” I mean chop this gigantic rainbow sponge cake (it looked so delicious and pretty, but I didn’t eat any ;_;) he was eating into little pieces with a gigantic cleaver.

After a while, some of us gave up and decided to just go out and help row the boat because this whole food preparation/let’s-help-you-eat-faster thing was pretty pathetic. But as I was about to go out, we’d already reached the exit, which appeared to be these two gigantic Roman arches.

I stepped out onto the rowing platform, which protruded from the bottom of the ship and had a raised captain’s platform at the very end. We’d arrived at this sort of calm Zen water pond garden area. (Yeah, I know, what happened to the lava, right?) To get out of the pond, we had to step on an oil droplet pod thing and float to the edge of the pond. I remember being at the edge of the pond with a bunch of other people (my mother and the guy’s wife included) and watching the guy try to work his way off the pond. He struggled. It was amusing, I guess.

[And then there was a huge chunk of dream here that I forgot, but it was another scene, and I feel as though I’ve had this dream before, or at least, in the same setting. Anyway, it led into the last scene, where…]

I was in a room (that looked a lot like my parents’ bedroom) with a bunch of other people—people I think I knew, MSJ people, perhaps. A few of them and I decided that we had to move to the windows because it was part of some super secret plan or something. I...I don’t know. ;_;

So in this scene, I had another love interest. (Man, why am I so fickle in this dream? ;( ) Except this other girl was also interested in him. The girl was one of those shy, she-might-be-a-crazy-stalker kind of girls (Glee’s getting to me). I think I knew who the guy was, but I don’t remember. D: He was tall and had dark hair and an oval-ish face. I feel as though he’s reminiscent of my ex. Except better built. Hah. And just better altogether. Also, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him. Thank goodness. >_> ANYWAY…

Also, he had some connection to Phoenix, I think, because then people started coming in through the windows and dropping into his lap, and Pegah dropped in and started talking to him about their families and friends and things, so I think he might’ve been a younger brother of someone who was in Phoenix?

Anyway, Dustin (O_o whom I haven’t seen, much less talked to, in years and whom I barely know) was sitting there, too. He started handing out these limited edition Cheetos. And I offered some to the crazy-stalker-girl, but she didn’t want any. And I looked on the package, and it was a Tom Felton edition! And the cheetah on the package had this crazy blond Draco Malfoy wig.

Then, I glanced up and saw Tom Felton lying on my parents’ bed.

And then my dad woke me up. :( (AUGHHHHHHHH. WHYYYYYY.)

The end.

So it was confusing. But exciting! And I don’t really feel much of anything about it. Which is odd because usually vivid dreams like this make me moody and contemplative and whatever.

It was fun, I guess.

Happy Black Friday, GUYZ. Also, here is a belated Thanksgiving announcement: I’m thankful for you and you and you and you and my cat.

And fanfiction, which I might be lost without and which I am off to read right now!

--

Edit: Maybe my subconscious was trying to put me in Serena Van Der Woodsen's extremely expensive shoes and make me realize why it's so difficult for Serena to keep her extremely expensive pants on. Or her dress. Whatever. Or maybe just make me stop calling Serena an idiot.

Or maybe I just watch too much TV. :(

--

Her ragged brown hair claws at the base of her neck as she runs down the street. She wants to tell him she's not ready for this. She wants to tell him she doesn't deserve to be alone. She wants to tell him that his hair smells of peanut butter and floristry.

She wants to tell him a lot of things.

--

He’s standing on the railing of the bridge contemplating death.

Well, no, not quite. He’s thinking about it, thinking about what death is, what it would be like. He raises his arms and screams, “I’m on top of the world!”

And he believes it if for only just a moment.

He’s thinking about this ability he has to toy with his own life, thinking about how powerful he is. No, he doesn’t really want to die. He’s curious. Curious to a fault, she used to say. It’s your own damned fault your life turned out like this, she also used to say.

What she used to say.

He’s thought too many times about what she used to say. She also used to tell him he dressed too nicely. He chuckled to himself. Wasn’t it Wilde who said that you can never be overdressed or overeducated? He wasn’t too sure about the latter, but he sure as hell agreed with the former. What else would you do with a fortune? Donate it to charity?

Don’t make me laugh, he grins dangerously. He wasn’t that guy.

She used to go out with him on autumn weekends. He'd watch that brown hair bounce, watch the click-clack of those sensible Mary Janes, watch her. Out on a whim, he’d told her. Like you’ve got the whole world balanced on your shoulders.

“Really?” she'd laughed. Laughed. “I don’t even notice it.”

She'd laughed again and told him he’d never make it as a poet.

“Well, look at me now!” he raises his head to the wind and howls.

“Hey.”

He sees her: blue lips, scarlet cheeks, narrowed eyes and all. It’s cold, he realizes.

And he doesn’t look before he leaps.

“Hey!”

--

“You’re lucky to be alive, you know.”

He doesn’t need her to tell him that. He never wanted to die. He wanted to prove a point. Oh, the things he’d do to prove her wrong. He tries to tell her this, but he realizes he can’t feel a thing.

“They gave something to you. I don’t know what. It’ll wear off after a while.”

It’ll wear off. What’ll wear off? The pain? The restlessness? The curiosity? The curiosity’ll never wear off. They can’t do a damned thing about that.

He comes to a dangerous conclusion in this somewhat-non-physical state he’s in. Can’t feel a thing. He realizes how unrestrained his thoughts are when isolated, when his shell is removed, and all that’s left is this intangible something-nothing.

He wonders what it would be like to stand atop that bridge in his current state, wonders if the same thoughts would be running through his head.

“This isn’t what I meant when I told you you’re incapable of feeling, you know.”

He knows.

“I don’t mean to be the way I am, you know.”

He knows.

He sees the faintest whisper of a lonely smile as she says, “Let’s go home.”

She takes his hand, and he’s there.

But most of all she wants to tell him the bottom of the Thames is the worst place to end up.

Now back to writing I go!

Restarted my novel for the third time last night because I'd finally figured out why it was so difficult for me to write. The first draft got to around two thousand words before I decided it was too boring, and the second draft got to around 1,500 words before I decided I had no idea what I was writing.

And it was all because I was writing from the perspective of the wrong character.

Initially, I had wanted to write from the perspective of a peripheral character, but then I realized she was boring me. :( A lot.

So here goes my third draft, which has a word count of a little over one thousand now...which means I'm still about 10.5k behind. Yay, me.

Grr. Here is an exciting excerpt (i.e. the first two paragraphs of chapter one)!:

She stared off the side of the ship and watched the whales and their calves turn gently above her head. “Move us eastward, Lil. They’re looking mischievous today,” she called out, the waves carrying her voice upward. Within moments, she felt the ship glide away from the whales. Looking defeated, they sought out a school of dolphins to entertain themselves with and huffily dove away from the ship.

Leaning against the railing, she pondered how she’d gotten herself into this mess. Never in the fifteen years that she’d captained this ship had she been so blatantly taken advantage of like this. It almost made her want to laugh. In fact, she was pretty sure that if she weren’t the person in her current predicament, she’d be laughing at herself. C’est la vie, I guess, she sighed, brushing her fingers through a forest of seaweed they’d passed by.

:( I have had so many things I want to write about, but then I remember I must must must NaNo.

And that is all.

I'm feeling particularly meh today.

Meh.

--

Edit: By the way, here's actual good writing you should read instead of my hastily churned out undeveloped fetus of a novel: "Nothing Hitler Did Was Illegal". Via Meredith, who e-mailed it to me a few days ago. :)

I wonder what the plural of "fetus" is. I also wonder if twins are referred to as one fetus or two. I also wonder the same about Siamese twins.

Edit 2: It is "fetuses."

--

But first, an introduction:

MSJ's Homecoming Week involves each class putting on a skit, coordinating airbands (actually, I don't know if other schools even use this term. :X Think America's Best Dance Crew), and organizing a school service project. Each day of the week is dedicated to a class (freshmen starting on Monday) and culminates on Friday with Green & White day, which is supposed to represent school unity and to cheer our (pitiful) football team on to winning their homecoming game yet another hopefully-not-so-pathetic loss.

Pessimistic, I know. But our football team is, quite frankly, the butt of jokes at MSJ. (Can you imagine how terribly they're made fun of at other schools?) Take this year's game, for example. My Facebook news feed exploded with people excitedly declaring MSJ's three-touchdown score at the homecoming game.

Of course, they neglected to mention the rival team's 62-point score.

But I digress.

The amount of string-pulling that occurs during Homecoming Week is crazy. Supreme Soul's appearance in Class of '09's performance last year? Johnny Depp's dedication kicking off our Class of '11's performance this year?

Definitely makes for one heck of a week.

So, again, the drama should come as no surprise. At the end of it all, classes are ranked by their overall performance, and usually, rank comes in order of class (seniors down to freshmen). However, this year, juniors were awarded third place, while the sophomores pulled ahead of us into second.

As a result, people are absolutely outraged, and through Facebook, some sort of rally/protest has been organized in which we're supposed to wear black (juniors' color) tomorrow (seniors and freshmen have jumped on the bandwagon, as well).

--

Second, a disclaimer:

I was not involved in homecoming at all aside from co-writing the soon-to-be-published Smoke Signal review for the sophomore performance and cheering on my own class.

--

Third, a clarification:

I really don't believe the sophomores outperformed us. Their skit was undoubtedly more creative and definitely less confusing, but honestly, I'm not quite sure what else was that much better. In terms of inappropriateness, their boys' booty dances certainly made up for the gross conduct of the sophomore character in our skit. And the sophomores' whole "juniors stole our props" claim is entirely baseless.

Both classes' airbands were meh. They all started boring me (and, I assure you, not just me) after a while. You see, there seems to be an unwritten rule about what kinds of airbands will perform during each class's performance (i.e. we're teenagers):

• 1 Tahitian airband
• 1 Yoko's airband
• 1 wannabe Yoko's airband
• 1 breakdance airband
• at least 2 booty dances
• at least 3 (read as: 5 but of varying degrees of quality) hip-hop airbands
• Optional: 1 poor effort of a ballroom/tango airband

Overall, both classes were extremely repetitive regarding airbands (yes, I realize there were a handful of amazing airbands, but the more prevalent lesser-quality ones, unfortunately, undermined their awesomeness), but the juniors definitely had the coordination and energy the sophomores' lacked.

And talk about spirit and energy. The juniors definitely (oh, pardon the slang) brought it. Our performance certainly didn't include the awkward stalls and silences that punctuated the sophomores' performance, and our cheering and screaming was absolutely unbelievable.

So, no, I'm not using the quality of my class's performance to argue against the whole Let's Wear Black thing. What I'm questioning is the reason we've organized it. What exactly are we trying to accomplish? Who exactly are we protesting against? The sophomores? The panel of teacher/parent judges who decided that the sophomores performed better than we did?

I see people saying how, in our hearts and minds, these ranks mean nothing, and we know we brought it, and that's all that matters. So why are we trying to prove it? Aren't we simply dividing our school even further? What are we trying to prove anyway?

Quite frankly, the only thing that organizing this whole event proves is the lack of self-confidence our class has.

Honestly, I'm still confused as to what we're going to accomplish by doing this. All this bitter rivalry is just going to fuel an intensely violent competition next year. And if wearing black is supposed to display class unity, why are we encouraging freshmen and seniors to join us? And why do we need to prove this class unity if we supposedly know we're united?

Banding together like this against the sophomores/whomever is quite simply a display of poor sportsmanship and weakness, showing the sophomores and these rankings how much power they really have over us.

--

So in conclusion:

All the effort that's being put into alienating the sophomores and pointing fingers at a created enemy is surely misdirected. If we put all this energy and emotion into our senior performance next year, we could certainly put on one of the best performances MSJ's ever seen.

That is, only if we remember that Homecoming Week is about our bonding as both a class and a school.

Unfortunately, the way this year's homecoming is going, I don't see that happening. By antagonizing the sophomores, we've been trying to achieve "revenge" in the worst of ways, one that will certainly gain us more enemies than friends. True "revenge" would be bottling up this emotion to be focused next year into one hell of a performance instead of releasing it this year in its current, most volatile, hate-fueled form.

Why waste all this energy and emotion this year on the sophomores (after homecoming, no less) when we can channel them into something so much more positive next year?

It still strikes me as entirely disappointing that Homecoming Week, which is supposed to be all about school unity and pride, gradually spirals downward into this heated rivalry and name-calling among the classes.

So, no, I'm not "supporting" my class tomorrow. I'm not going to add fuel to this wildfire we, perhaps did not set for ourselves, but certainly have not contributed to stopping its spread. I'm not going to compromise my beliefs for something that's been organized in the heat of the moment in a weak attempt to somehow redeem ourselves (in whose eyes?).

And I'm certainly not wearing black.

But I don't know if it's homecoming or just school in general. Probably both.

I really do want to contribute to homecoming next year, though. Just because it's going to be senior year, and I'm tired of having a "just average/predictable" performance every year (though the actors this year for our skit were absolutely phenomenal. Everything else was meh).

Anyway, my cure (not recommended. Because it doesn't work.) for my pathetic/blah mood is:

• Watching How I Met Your Mother
• Fangirling over 30 Rock. Watching 30 Rock should be mandatory.
• Looking for Penny/Sheldon fanfiction
• Trolling NaNoWriMo forums
• Avoiding pre-calc homework

WHYAMISOSELF-DESTRUCTIVETHISYEAR? ;_; Despite the fact that I finished APUSH notes early (read as: before lunch) for today's test! Heehee. So proud of myself.

I probably need more sleep.

I want to draw a picture.

Also, I sort of figured out my NaNoWriMo plot. Copied from my novel info on NaNoWriMo:

A story about arrogance. And people. And a hot air balloon.

Woohoo. Yes, I realize I should think this through. More.

Also, I get to co-write the Glee article for Smoke Signal's next issue! /happy dance. Also, I get to watch and review Astro Boy this weekend!

Yay, me.

Here's a picture:

WHY do I waste so much time?

Yes, dear readers, I am in this video (starting at about 0:33).

Cool.

Also, here is a picture:

I have a weird nose.

The end.

Something besides, you know, Important Things like APUSH notes and AP Bio reading. Hah.

Also, it's raining. I don't know how or why that matters, but rain is for doing things. Which means it's PICSPAMTIME, GUYS. [cue wild cheering]

Yes! I finally got around to photographing my unhealthy obsessions!

(No, unfortunately, there will be no pretty boys in this post. For pretty-boy-picspam, you'd be better off visiting my Tumblr and/or my we heart it page. Off you go now. You know you want to click. I'll wait.)

Okay, here we go!:

Yay pens! It rather astonishes me how many gross blue pens I have. :( Also, I'm down to my last 0.38mm black G-2. Noooooooooooooo......

Notebook addiction is SRS BSNS, guys.

I spent too much time making that. Also, it fell over after a few minutes.

I like to pretend I have all this time on my hands.

What pre-calc homework?

Last month, Quo Vadis offered a few Equology recycled paper planners for reviewing, and I jumped at the chance. Last year, they sent me a Trinote. I still love it.

But back to the Equology. I received a red one in Minister format. And they sent me a cute Clairefontaine notebook along with it! They are both lovely. :)

I do prefer the wider layout of the Trinote, but the Equology doesn't come in Trinote format. :(

In Minister format, Sunday is placed underneath all the other days, so the daily "Notes" section is gone. If Equology came in Trinote format, I think I would love it forever and ever. It still has all that nice space on the right, though, which I so desperately need for doodling during class. And making my lists. I need my lists.

For a general overview of the Equology Minister, it has all the nice touches that made me fall in love with Quo Vadis' planners: detachable corners, plenty of maps, and a removable address book/notes section.

But anyway! Onto the real difference between my pretty new red 2010 planner and my current 2009 planner. Quo Vadis touts the Equology as being made of completely recycled products, and it definitely feels like it. The cover's much more pliable than my vinyl Trinote cover, and it almost feels rippable.

But it's not. I tried. Oh, Quo Vadis, you are amazing.

The paper, though, has that predictable recycled-quality feel. It still maintains Quo Vadis' signature thickness, but it can't beat the smooth, pristine quality of Quo Vadis planners' normal paper.

And it doesn't hold up quite as well against fountain pens, but it still does quite well.

Overall, Quo Vadis still holds a special place in my heart as my favorite planner provider, and their Equology is another win.

If I didn't care about saving the world and all that (and thus feeling GUILTY AND TERRIBLE), I would, of course, stay with my Trinote and its pure-paper-perfection.

But alas, dear not-as-earth-friendly Trinote, the Equology Minister is guilt-free and is a lovely red and makes me feel better about myself.

Hello, my lovely new 2010 planner. I can't wait to use you.

"Hey, look, if I shake the table, the books move." "Oh?" "Yeah, look!" "Cooooooooool." "Yeaaaaaaaaah." "My desk is a mess." "I know."

Or if I were (un)fortunate enough, I'd have some fabulous song stuck in my head! Like "A Whole New World," maybe. Yes. I seem to have that on permanent repeat in my head.

I don't know why either.

Oh, but not anymore! Gone are those days! I realized a few days ago that as soon as I mentally log off now, certain words start creeping into my head.

Words like "protean".
And "obfuscate".
And "aberrant".

And I can't help but define them. Over and over. And over. In my head.

You see, there's this thing called the Tetris effect. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you:

The SAT effect

/cry. Someone kill me now.

Also, it was probably a bad idea to discover the awesome that is The Big Bang Theory four days before the SAT.

I will resist the temptation. Really.

Really really.