One of the saddest things I witness is people eating alone.
Young, old... okay, especially old... but really, anyone eating alone just tears my heart right out and allows me to bid adieu to my appetite. I feel so bad that I want to stroll right up and sit across from the person, but I won't because society tells me that's creepy.
I might ask about the wispy haired man in the corner's favorite grandchild and hear how she got top marks on her latest Economics exam. But this would be wishful thinking on his part: in actuality, he won't have spoken to his granddaughter in years because of a fault line in the family tree that had nothing to do with him.
Maybe Grandpa missed her so much he started fabricating stories about her, like I am right now about a man I've never met. But I'm sure I've seen him. He's one of the souls that eats alone, appearing genuine and kind yet with the potential to be a sociopath or some other form of deviant. For me, eating alone sets my nerves on fire and injects angry bubbles into my tummy. I get so worked up wondering what people think of me that I can't really enjoy my food. Oh my god, she's adorable. Look at her cute friends. I better stare at my food or else she'll think I'm a creeper. There's no way I can speak.
And even when I'm not by myself, I find myself tuning out of the conversation of my table-mates so I can observe what others are up to. What are they eating? Do they look happy? Why did they choose this school? Where are they going after they're done with dinner?
In a way I suppose these questions are exciting. It's wondrous knowing that I could actually ask these things and not be looked at as a total weirdo - or at least that's what I think. I tell some people I think this and they go, "You're such a writer!" but I think it just makes me a thinker. I think, I think, I think. Sometimes too much. Take, for instance, this blog. I started out my entry yesterday about kettle chips and ended up talking about the time I drove eight hours to meet someone off Myspace.
But that's what I love about blogs, college, and life. It's so spontaneous. Sometimes it's only that way if we make it so, but the ability is fleeting. When we catch it, maybe we won't all end up eating alone.
27 October 2011
26 October 2011
The toothpaste was disgusting
I just opened blogger.com with a few cloudy ideas of what I was going to write about, and then I clicked the link to my profile. What did I spy in my Interests section? Kettle chips.
I used to have a bit of an infatuation with kettle chips. It was partially because they tasted so fabulously salty, but mostly because my friend Ivy and I used to have a certain fascination with "Oh! Christmas Tree" by The Whomping Willows. Back in our fangirl days of 2008, we used to rap this song in public like it was our national anthem.
"Dumbledore just got here and he brought some appetizers
He's got kettle chips, some onion dip, and a plate of cocktail wieners"
Ivy and I would peruse the aisles of Giant Eagle on a safari hunt, sniffing out just these ingredients. Well, besides the plate of cocktail wieners because I'm a vegan and Ivy was vegetarian. We're too cool for that, obviously. There's even a picture of this exciting event somewhere on my Myspace... ah, and yes, I have found it.
To be honest, I forgot how much something as simple as kettle chips meant to me. I think they were more of a symbol of my friendship with Ivy than anything. Yeah, they're super tasty, but a girl with braces that got tightened once a month and sore three times as often isn't too prone to snacking on kettle chips when she's bored. So what's so great about them besides our partiality to that wizard rap?
Out of the blue one day in 2007, Ivy and I started talking about Harry Potter on Myspace. The first conversation we held in each other's Comments section was about how unrighteous Hot Topic was for not stocking Remus Lupin T-shirts. A year later I drove 7 hours and 42 minutes to her house in Middle of Nowhere, Virginia, where "Food Shitty"s are abundant, Ma and Pa's serves the best ice cream, and it's not a "pool", it's a "poe-ell."
Sometimes we'd mention the miracle of how I drove to southwest Virginia for the first time to meet a girl I'd befriended off Myspace. But what we'd truly focus on was how I jumped out of the white rental Nissan before my mom pulled it to a complete stop, how I jumped into Ivy's arms that smelled rich and floral, and how we peed in the Walmart bathroom with the creepy cold drains below our feet.
"Silly strawberry or mint?" my mom asked, pointing to the shelves of organic toothpaste without peeling her attention from Ivy's mom Debra. Who knows what they were talking about: what time their daughters usually go to bed? Where the nearest store with vegan options was?
"Strawberry," I shrugged, deciding to be spontaneous. I always chose mint. Maybe my time in Virginia would be punctuated with happy and delicious memories of Silly Strawberry toothpaste.
I think Ivy was the one who taught me that the little things like this matter. These memories do make an impact on my life. And they definitely, definitely prove that I changed while I was so close to her... even if the Silly Strawberry ended up disgusting.
"Is that Golden Girls?" Ivy's brother Isaac, who was my age, would interrogate from the computer room.
"Yep," I'd reply, a grin twisting my thin mouth. I was waiting for Ivy to get out of the shower, what else would I occupy my time with than old bickering women on a new flat screen?
Ivy and I fell out of touch for a little while, maybe six months or so. But she's one of those people that I've been confident since day one of our friendship. She'll always be hidden behind the cupboard door, maybe even under the stairs with the Dursley's spiders crawling around her Harry Potter DVDs. Wait, who am I kidding? She would never let those get anything with more than four legs near them.
Just looking at the words "kettle chips", a whole scrapbook seems to have knocked into my head like a meteor. Along with kettle chips comes this whole anthology of a rusty friendship. And now I'm hungry.
I used to have a bit of an infatuation with kettle chips. It was partially because they tasted so fabulously salty, but mostly because my friend Ivy and I used to have a certain fascination with "Oh! Christmas Tree" by The Whomping Willows. Back in our fangirl days of 2008, we used to rap this song in public like it was our national anthem.
"Dumbledore just got here and he brought some appetizers
He's got kettle chips, some onion dip, and a plate of cocktail wieners"
Ivy and I would peruse the aisles of Giant Eagle on a safari hunt, sniffing out just these ingredients. Well, besides the plate of cocktail wieners because I'm a vegan and Ivy was vegetarian. We're too cool for that, obviously. There's even a picture of this exciting event somewhere on my Myspace... ah, and yes, I have found it.
To be honest, I forgot how much something as simple as kettle chips meant to me. I think they were more of a symbol of my friendship with Ivy than anything. Yeah, they're super tasty, but a girl with braces that got tightened once a month and sore three times as often isn't too prone to snacking on kettle chips when she's bored. So what's so great about them besides our partiality to that wizard rap?
Out of the blue one day in 2007, Ivy and I started talking about Harry Potter on Myspace. The first conversation we held in each other's Comments section was about how unrighteous Hot Topic was for not stocking Remus Lupin T-shirts. A year later I drove 7 hours and 42 minutes to her house in Middle of Nowhere, Virginia, where "Food Shitty"s are abundant, Ma and Pa's serves the best ice cream, and it's not a "pool", it's a "poe-ell."
Sometimes we'd mention the miracle of how I drove to southwest Virginia for the first time to meet a girl I'd befriended off Myspace. But what we'd truly focus on was how I jumped out of the white rental Nissan before my mom pulled it to a complete stop, how I jumped into Ivy's arms that smelled rich and floral, and how we peed in the Walmart bathroom with the creepy cold drains below our feet.
"Silly strawberry or mint?" my mom asked, pointing to the shelves of organic toothpaste without peeling her attention from Ivy's mom Debra. Who knows what they were talking about: what time their daughters usually go to bed? Where the nearest store with vegan options was?
"Strawberry," I shrugged, deciding to be spontaneous. I always chose mint. Maybe my time in Virginia would be punctuated with happy and delicious memories of Silly Strawberry toothpaste.
I think Ivy was the one who taught me that the little things like this matter. These memories do make an impact on my life. And they definitely, definitely prove that I changed while I was so close to her... even if the Silly Strawberry ended up disgusting.
"Is that Golden Girls?" Ivy's brother Isaac, who was my age, would interrogate from the computer room.
"Yep," I'd reply, a grin twisting my thin mouth. I was waiting for Ivy to get out of the shower, what else would I occupy my time with than old bickering women on a new flat screen?
Ivy and I fell out of touch for a little while, maybe six months or so. But she's one of those people that I've been confident since day one of our friendship. She'll always be hidden behind the cupboard door, maybe even under the stairs with the Dursley's spiders crawling around her Harry Potter DVDs. Wait, who am I kidding? She would never let those get anything with more than four legs near them.
Just looking at the words "kettle chips", a whole scrapbook seems to have knocked into my head like a meteor. Along with kettle chips comes this whole anthology of a rusty friendship. And now I'm hungry.
24 October 2011
Of Wagner and Beacons
Three washers, sisters of the trade, hum against one another. A few feet down the hallway, I snuggle up to a turquoise washboard of a chair and carpet that reminds me of the brown shag from my childhood basement. Since then my basement has been remodeled, but something tells me this room won't change anytime soon. Maybe the flip flops, sneakers, and Converse strewn across the floor will make a few invisible steps. Maybe the swirling wall art will unstick from the cinder blocks. Maybe they will cascade to the ground and swallow the soft Febreze scent. Maybe they already have, for today it smells of pumpkin pie and cinnamon apple.
It is fall and my friends are raving. Spice has snuck its way into every imaginable nook and cranny. For the first hour it smells intoxicating, but soon it leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. I close my woozy eyes as Alison Sudol coos sweet words through my earbuds. I focus on breathing in and out, my raincoat crinkling against my ribcage. This room, where my head laid on her warm lap, where I extracted my soul onto the table, has no remnants of the beetle we caught in here weeks ago. It's clean despite the open boxes, tossed blankets, and forgotten, fuzzy pink socks under the bed. It's empty: the box of kitchen appliances I'm using as an elbow rest is irrelevant.
They say there's a first for everything, and that's no exception in here.
"How was school?" "Okay." "What did you learn?" "Nothing."
"How are you?" "Good." "What do you want for dinner?" "I don't care."
"You look tired." "Yep."
These pathetic excuses for conversation from my Monroeville life creep up on me sometimes, brushing against the thin hair on my arms just enough to tickle. I swat at them, telling myself that I've improved. I've gotten past small talk just like I told myself I would, or at least I'm getting at it. I never thought about cutting more than a slice or two of my soul out at a time. There wasn't anyone who had enough of an appetite for it, anyway.
Now, the I regurgitate the whole pie. All of me is out there, every piece, no matter how fragile or intricate. I've shrugged the snow and dandruff from last year from my shoulders, and it's bare. It's cold. It's fall, and you're ready.
I can be too. I sit and wait for the warm to embrace me, but it won't do any good. I need the cold, the whipping winter winds of Mother Nature. Maybe the beacons of a distant white mountain will dial me, leave me a flickering voicemail. Maybe this heartache is for good - maybe I only miss home for my eager to please mother and my furry, purry cats - but where's the fault in that?
As I rise to pass the washers, I will be pulled forth by their synchronization. My legs will do high kicks in my mind and I won't have to watch her hurt anymore. Everything will turn cold and dry soon, and I won't hide my arms inside my polyester.
It is fall and my friends are raving. Spice has snuck its way into every imaginable nook and cranny. For the first hour it smells intoxicating, but soon it leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. I close my woozy eyes as Alison Sudol coos sweet words through my earbuds. I focus on breathing in and out, my raincoat crinkling against my ribcage. This room, where my head laid on her warm lap, where I extracted my soul onto the table, has no remnants of the beetle we caught in here weeks ago. It's clean despite the open boxes, tossed blankets, and forgotten, fuzzy pink socks under the bed. It's empty: the box of kitchen appliances I'm using as an elbow rest is irrelevant.
They say there's a first for everything, and that's no exception in here.
"How was school?" "Okay." "What did you learn?" "Nothing."
"How are you?" "Good." "What do you want for dinner?" "I don't care."
"You look tired." "Yep."
These pathetic excuses for conversation from my Monroeville life creep up on me sometimes, brushing against the thin hair on my arms just enough to tickle. I swat at them, telling myself that I've improved. I've gotten past small talk just like I told myself I would, or at least I'm getting at it. I never thought about cutting more than a slice or two of my soul out at a time. There wasn't anyone who had enough of an appetite for it, anyway.
Now, the I regurgitate the whole pie. All of me is out there, every piece, no matter how fragile or intricate. I've shrugged the snow and dandruff from last year from my shoulders, and it's bare. It's cold. It's fall, and you're ready.
I can be too. I sit and wait for the warm to embrace me, but it won't do any good. I need the cold, the whipping winter winds of Mother Nature. Maybe the beacons of a distant white mountain will dial me, leave me a flickering voicemail. Maybe this heartache is for good - maybe I only miss home for my eager to please mother and my furry, purry cats - but where's the fault in that?
As I rise to pass the washers, I will be pulled forth by their synchronization. My legs will do high kicks in my mind and I won't have to watch her hurt anymore. Everything will turn cold and dry soon, and I won't hide my arms inside my polyester.
25 July 2011
liar, liar
both of us, caught in the act,
one of noble deceit, thinly veiled honesty -
where were you when my stomach
ate itself
from the inside out?
your gaze, so shallow, so shy,
your grin, so rare, so earned,
so secretive, lax, controlled, punish me.
a game of empty threats, a house of wax.
one blow from the hunt,
I spilled; and when you listened, crumbled.
“good job, I’m proud of you, you can do better.”
but could you ever know, how can you, you never will,
the speed with which my fingers,
the feelers of a bookworm,
ached to shake your knees, reach for the wheel,
wave in your face, I’m right here.
breathless, as you hit me through his eyes,
full force, to your gaze I bid adieu
a dozen times a day.
baby, bliss wasn’t cut out for liars.
one of noble deceit, thinly veiled honesty -
where were you when my stomach
ate itself
from the inside out?
your gaze, so shallow, so shy,
your grin, so rare, so earned,
so secretive, lax, controlled, punish me.
a game of empty threats, a house of wax.
one blow from the hunt,
I spilled; and when you listened, crumbled.
“good job, I’m proud of you, you can do better.”
but could you ever know, how can you, you never will,
the speed with which my fingers,
the feelers of a bookworm,
ached to shake your knees, reach for the wheel,
wave in your face, I’m right here.
breathless, as you hit me through his eyes,
full force, to your gaze I bid adieu
a dozen times a day.
baby, bliss wasn’t cut out for liars.
13 July 2011
July 13th: A.M. Ramblings.
Well, it's 4:36 a.m. It's any old Wednesday. It's another sleepless night. It's nothing new.
Except I'm seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 tomorrow at midnight.
Except this is the second time this summer I've pulled an all nighter whilst awaiting the arrival of a friend.
Except I wouldn't do this for anyone else, and so I can't take this for granted.
Except this is my last summer here before I'm college bound.
My pile of emotions is stacked so precariously high that if one more feeling was added on top, the tower would crumble and my brain would become mush. I can actually already feel it leaking. Okay, that's gross.
I can't imagine what my life would be without Harry Potter. Not even that though - just the revisiting of my love for the series. I heard it read to me and I read it myself countless times, but I became slightly disenchanted when I began hanging out with a friend who didn't really "get it." Because our friendship ended and because I got into the fandom, my life is a completely different story than it would have been.
I'm trying to prepare myself not to be disappointed, and also not to be too utterly depressed after the movie is over. It's hard. I remember when the Deathly Hallows book came out, people were saying "Don't worry! We still have the movies!" and now we don't have those. It seems our resources are dwindling, but in reality, I believe our creative outlets in which to showcase our love for this series are only growing.
All I have to say is that 1.) My tissues are already packed, 2.) My friends had better be ready to be groped when I need a hand during the movie, and 3.) My Winky the House Elf costume better win first prize at the Barnes & Noble party. Boo yah.
In other news, I just signed my best friend Bobby and I up to be extras in The Dark Knight Rises which they're filming in Pittsburgh this summer. BTW, that's where I live. They apparently need to fill a stadium with the fervor of Steeler pride. Which I don't have. But whatever. I mean, it's cool that we get to be in the same general vicinity as Gary Oldman, Anne Hathaway, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Christian Bale, and Marion Cotillard, I guess. But like, all day free food? Come on. You know I'm there! Also, it's the day before my eighteenth birthday. What more could I want? (Well, a lot, but shut up.)
So, now that my emotions are in danger of teetering over the edge with copious amounts of anxiety, excitement, and a dash of nausea, I must embark for the retrieval of my friend Daniel who has experienced yet another trauma in his life this morning. In case you're curious, his bus driver got arrested at the airport and then the bus broke down about an hour later. Also, I feel terrible for recommending the MegaBus to him. Somehow, it was a lot classier when I rode it in New York last summer.
Weasley girl, out.
PS: Yes, it's possible to be a Weasley and a Slytherin.
Except I'm seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 tomorrow at midnight.
Except this is the second time this summer I've pulled an all nighter whilst awaiting the arrival of a friend.
Except I wouldn't do this for anyone else, and so I can't take this for granted.
Except this is my last summer here before I'm college bound.
My pile of emotions is stacked so precariously high that if one more feeling was added on top, the tower would crumble and my brain would become mush. I can actually already feel it leaking. Okay, that's gross.
I can't imagine what my life would be without Harry Potter. Not even that though - just the revisiting of my love for the series. I heard it read to me and I read it myself countless times, but I became slightly disenchanted when I began hanging out with a friend who didn't really "get it." Because our friendship ended and because I got into the fandom, my life is a completely different story than it would have been.
I'm trying to prepare myself not to be disappointed, and also not to be too utterly depressed after the movie is over. It's hard. I remember when the Deathly Hallows book came out, people were saying "Don't worry! We still have the movies!" and now we don't have those. It seems our resources are dwindling, but in reality, I believe our creative outlets in which to showcase our love for this series are only growing.
All I have to say is that 1.) My tissues are already packed, 2.) My friends had better be ready to be groped when I need a hand during the movie, and 3.) My Winky the House Elf costume better win first prize at the Barnes & Noble party. Boo yah.
In other news, I just signed my best friend Bobby and I up to be extras in The Dark Knight Rises which they're filming in Pittsburgh this summer. BTW, that's where I live. They apparently need to fill a stadium with the fervor of Steeler pride. Which I don't have. But whatever. I mean, it's cool that we get to be in the same general vicinity as Gary Oldman, Anne Hathaway, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Christian Bale, and Marion Cotillard, I guess. But like, all day free food? Come on. You know I'm there! Also, it's the day before my eighteenth birthday. What more could I want? (Well, a lot, but shut up.)
So, now that my emotions are in danger of teetering over the edge with copious amounts of anxiety, excitement, and a dash of nausea, I must embark for the retrieval of my friend Daniel who has experienced yet another trauma in his life this morning. In case you're curious, his bus driver got arrested at the airport and then the bus broke down about an hour later. Also, I feel terrible for recommending the MegaBus to him. Somehow, it was a lot classier when I rode it in New York last summer.
Weasley girl, out.
PS: Yes, it's possible to be a Weasley and a Slytherin.
23 June 2011
The Sociology of Internet Haters
From the moment I copied the definition for “tabula rasa” into my notebook for my Psych class, I knew it was what I believed about the way humankind is born. According to Wikipedia, tabula rasa is “the epistemological theory that individuals are born without built-in mental content and that their knowledge comes from experience and perception.” Or, in other words, nurture influences us far greater than nature. Our experiences make us who we are.
I can definitely make the claim that this is true for me. There are many factors that influence who I am today: my dad walking out on my family when I was ten years old, my sister making bad decisions that has led to years of excommunication, and my best friend of five years declaring I simply wasn’t good enough one day. My brain tells me that I would never have become the person I am today if it weren’t for those situations. The level of trauma they induced, the amount of tampering they did with my feeling of self worth, the flooding memories that accompany even the ringing of an alarm clock - those things prove that occurrences in my life shaped who I am.
Who I am is strong. I am a young woman who values perseverance above all other things. Ambition, creativity, and passion are three characteristics that I would say define me. But there’s no way the intensity of those traits would exist or that I’d be as proud of them as I am if it were not for the negative events that have happened to me or that I have witnessed.
I am aware that not everyone is like me. There are those who would disagree that nurture has the biggest impact on us, and to them, I say: how is living a delusional life treating you? Honestly, I can’t think of one person who hasn’t been affected by their experiences. Which is why it troubles me so much to write about what I’m about to share with you.
When I started writing this, I was extremely infuriated. It was five in the morning. My blood was boiling and there was no comprehension in my mind regarding the logic of this specific human being’s statements. And yes, they’re human. They’re not just “Internet trolls.” Yeah, they’re total assholes. But they’re people just like us, and they are how they are for a reason. By now, 6 pm the next day, I am more contemplative about how this even happened and why something I can’t change angers me so much. I don’t believe that things happen for a reason, and maybe that’s why I’m a bit more on the pessimist side most of the time - and what bothers me is that clearly, haters don’t think that way either.
Since 2007, I have been making “fandom friends.” These people live anywhere from four hours away to across the country – and sometimes, not even within the USA. It’s become clearer to me now that they are just average people like the rest of us. However, back when I first started making close friends with people who lived as far as they do, I didn’t think that anyone who lived close could compare. Not a single soul. There would never be anyone who understood me and my passion for Harry Potter like these fantastic “foreigners” did.
Little did I know, there were people just like that in my own city. In July 2010, I was introduced to a very close friend of mine, Erika. I had to think for a while about when we actually met, because it seems like it’s been so much longer than it has. When I talk to her, I feel as if she has known me since birth – since toddlerhood, at least. The first time we hung out was with a mutual friend at her house about fifteen minutes away. We had a Lord of the Rings marathon and sat in her basement from 10am until almostmidnight, watching all three extended editions of the films, making jokes, and generally having a great time.
At the time, I had literally forgotten it was possible to be that happy. Erika taught me that not everything that happens to us must be taken seriously – and sometimes, it works out in our favor to not care too much. That way, we don’t worry. From that movie marathon on, whenever I hung out with Erika, I felt carefree, like nothing else mattered. Maybe it’s because she’s a Hufflepuff – she has this light in her eyes that doesn’t really go out, ever. This is why it was so shocking to learn, several months later, that she was a suicide survivor. I could not imagine Erika having any relation with depression; she was just a big ball of light that never stopped giggling or pointing out things that appealed to my sense of humor like no one else could.
Only a month later, Erika was headed to college downtown and I was a senior in high school thirty minutes away. We only managed to see each other a couple times while on break, and times were stressful. I got wrapped up in drama and I gave my heart away too easily. It hurt. I can still feel it hurting. Sometimes I couldn’t even find a reason to get out of bed. I skipped school because I felt too worthless to carry on. I confided in her when I needed someone, and she would share with me personal stories that made my jaw drop. How anyone could think of her as anything but an angel was far beyond my comprehension. She’s just too sweet to ever have been hurting the way I was hurting. But still, it gave me strength to persevere – if she could move past dark times, maybe, just maybe I could as well.
Yesterday, one of my favorite YouTubers, Tyler Oakley, reblogged a post from another Tumblr user. The topic was how much this guy hated Pride parades. Apparently he’s gay as well, because he stated something along the lines of “I am the only good gay.” I would return to his page and retrieve the exact quotation, but simply thinking about the amount of hatred on his blog makes me sick. It fills my veins with venom. Not only does this statement breed misrepresentation toward the entire gay community, but this guy was completely unopened to discussion. He would not accept any of the rebuttals he got, which made me wonder – why post it in the first place? Is the point of a blog not to share your ideas? Why, then, would you block others’ out in the process if you simultaneously want your voice heard?
Erika, being her funny, opinionated self, went to go write in this jerk’s ask box. Granted, I wouldn’t have done this, but I admire her courage, or as some would say, ~lady balls~. She didn’t explode and definitely didn’t waste her time on a three page rant about how wrong this guy was for hating pride parades. She simply wrote a parody of Cee Lo Green and said “I see you postin’ dumb shit / Bout the gay pride parades / And I’m like / Fuck youuuu.”
Within minutes I believe, she got a response in the form of a graphic that told her to go kill herself, calling her “a giant faggot to some intellegent gays” – exact spelling. Minutes later, another graphic was produced reading “Suicide – you’re doing it wrong.” Of course, this was meant to enrage not only Erika, but her close friends and the rest of the Internet in possession of a functioning brain that feels rational emotions. Whether the likes and reblogs were mostly people who agreed or disagreed with this sentiment, it still made me sick to my stomach. How could anyone, anyone, think that they had the right to tell someone so sweet, so dear, someone who had helped light the truth for me over and over again, to kill herself? After all she’d been through? Just because she is a suicide surviver doesn’t mean that it’s all peachy now. She carries those scars like the rest of us carry our past, and it’s simply not humane to humiliate and degrade what once hurt us beyond reason, or what still may continue to haunt us.
You never know how someone may be affected by what you said.
As John Green stated, “What a treacherous thing to believe a person is more than a person.” Sure, Erika is strong, and that’s what I admire about her – but she’s not a Superwoman. She’s not a goddess. She is just a girl, who feels and reacts and loves and hurts just like the rest of us. And the same goes for everyone else who is a victim of cyber bullying. Whether they’re strong and mighty is irrelevant.
My close friends – and even those not so close – can attest to the fact that I am rather fierce, fiery, and sometimes mean when I get angry and riled up. But even someone like me, who has a complete lack of regard for others’ feelings at times, would never order someone to end their own life. It’s sick. It’s wrong. It’s not something that would even pop into my mind. And it gets me to wondering…
What has happened to this tortured soul, this random blogger, this member of the gay community, thishuman, to make them so hostile? How detached, how disenchanted do you have to be before you begin making demands on the Internet for a total stranger to end their life? It happens every day. How can you be so pompous, so arrogant, that you take pride in being a total asshole? Does it make you feel important? Do you think you have a badass “dark sense of humor”? Is there power in dehumanizing someone just because they exist on a blog and not in front of your face? Would you say that to someone in real life?Because if you would, man, let me tell you something. You’re the one who will end up forever alone.
Throughout this blog entry, I have written and backspaced on the following question: “What if she did?” What if Erika wasn’t here for me, for her family, for her friends, for the Internet to appreciate and laugh with, but most importantly, for herself? All the time I see her sticking up for suicide survivors and people struggling with depression – myself being one of them. There is no one alive today and no one who ever lived who deserved to be told to end their lives. No matter how rich, poor, evil, horrible, or cruel of a person they are or were – everyone alive deserves a shot at life. Life is for the alive, and I’ll be damned if during that time I’m going to sit here and watch my very best friend be ridiculed by someone who’s never even laid eyes on her shining face.
What was this person thinking? Did he grow up in an abusive childhood? Did he have bullies in elementary school? Did he get sharp objects thrown at him one too many times in a past relationship? Really, who broke his heart? I’d like to know. I’ve been harassed online too – from hateful anonymous messages to spam on my Dailybooth pictures telling me I resembled a man. From Myspace and Youtube comments telling me I was ugly and a slut to Facebook messages telling me my chin was too big. It’s degrading, no matter how much we like to claim otherwise, but it’s even worse when it’s directed at friends we truly care about and hate, hate, to see upset.
In retrospect, I realize that some people may look at this post and think “What the hell? Internet hate is not that serious. Who cares if some random jerk said that? Shrug it the hell off.” And yeah, maybe that’s the argument that pops into your head first. But sometimes, I find it fascinating to crawl inside the demented head of Internet villains and just wonder what they were thinking. Because cyber bullying is not something to shrug off, it’s a serious issue, I’m going to keep wondering. And keep making people aware that yes, it is happening to innocent people, to children, to adults, and to my best friend and I.
In August, I’ll be headed to college four hours away and Erika will still be here. Thinking about how much I’ll miss her hurts too much, so I normally don’t do it. But when my mind strays to thoughts of the future, I know that she’ll always have a place with me. For her courage, her never-ending, fantastic sense of humor, and her strength, I thank her for showing me that you can make life what you want to make it. As much as it feels like it, I was not born with this girl in my contact list or my address book. Because I was introduced to Erika, I know that nature is important, but nurture wins out in the end.
I can definitely make the claim that this is true for me. There are many factors that influence who I am today: my dad walking out on my family when I was ten years old, my sister making bad decisions that has led to years of excommunication, and my best friend of five years declaring I simply wasn’t good enough one day. My brain tells me that I would never have become the person I am today if it weren’t for those situations. The level of trauma they induced, the amount of tampering they did with my feeling of self worth, the flooding memories that accompany even the ringing of an alarm clock - those things prove that occurrences in my life shaped who I am.
Who I am is strong. I am a young woman who values perseverance above all other things. Ambition, creativity, and passion are three characteristics that I would say define me. But there’s no way the intensity of those traits would exist or that I’d be as proud of them as I am if it were not for the negative events that have happened to me or that I have witnessed.
I am aware that not everyone is like me. There are those who would disagree that nurture has the biggest impact on us, and to them, I say: how is living a delusional life treating you? Honestly, I can’t think of one person who hasn’t been affected by their experiences. Which is why it troubles me so much to write about what I’m about to share with you.
When I started writing this, I was extremely infuriated. It was five in the morning. My blood was boiling and there was no comprehension in my mind regarding the logic of this specific human being’s statements. And yes, they’re human. They’re not just “Internet trolls.” Yeah, they’re total assholes. But they’re people just like us, and they are how they are for a reason. By now, 6 pm the next day, I am more contemplative about how this even happened and why something I can’t change angers me so much. I don’t believe that things happen for a reason, and maybe that’s why I’m a bit more on the pessimist side most of the time - and what bothers me is that clearly, haters don’t think that way either.
Since 2007, I have been making “fandom friends.” These people live anywhere from four hours away to across the country – and sometimes, not even within the USA. It’s become clearer to me now that they are just average people like the rest of us. However, back when I first started making close friends with people who lived as far as they do, I didn’t think that anyone who lived close could compare. Not a single soul. There would never be anyone who understood me and my passion for Harry Potter like these fantastic “foreigners” did.
Little did I know, there were people just like that in my own city. In July 2010, I was introduced to a very close friend of mine, Erika. I had to think for a while about when we actually met, because it seems like it’s been so much longer than it has. When I talk to her, I feel as if she has known me since birth – since toddlerhood, at least. The first time we hung out was with a mutual friend at her house about fifteen minutes away. We had a Lord of the Rings marathon and sat in her basement from 10am until almostmidnight, watching all three extended editions of the films, making jokes, and generally having a great time.
At the time, I had literally forgotten it was possible to be that happy. Erika taught me that not everything that happens to us must be taken seriously – and sometimes, it works out in our favor to not care too much. That way, we don’t worry. From that movie marathon on, whenever I hung out with Erika, I felt carefree, like nothing else mattered. Maybe it’s because she’s a Hufflepuff – she has this light in her eyes that doesn’t really go out, ever. This is why it was so shocking to learn, several months later, that she was a suicide survivor. I could not imagine Erika having any relation with depression; she was just a big ball of light that never stopped giggling or pointing out things that appealed to my sense of humor like no one else could.
Only a month later, Erika was headed to college downtown and I was a senior in high school thirty minutes away. We only managed to see each other a couple times while on break, and times were stressful. I got wrapped up in drama and I gave my heart away too easily. It hurt. I can still feel it hurting. Sometimes I couldn’t even find a reason to get out of bed. I skipped school because I felt too worthless to carry on. I confided in her when I needed someone, and she would share with me personal stories that made my jaw drop. How anyone could think of her as anything but an angel was far beyond my comprehension. She’s just too sweet to ever have been hurting the way I was hurting. But still, it gave me strength to persevere – if she could move past dark times, maybe, just maybe I could as well.
Yesterday, one of my favorite YouTubers, Tyler Oakley, reblogged a post from another Tumblr user. The topic was how much this guy hated Pride parades. Apparently he’s gay as well, because he stated something along the lines of “I am the only good gay.” I would return to his page and retrieve the exact quotation, but simply thinking about the amount of hatred on his blog makes me sick. It fills my veins with venom. Not only does this statement breed misrepresentation toward the entire gay community, but this guy was completely unopened to discussion. He would not accept any of the rebuttals he got, which made me wonder – why post it in the first place? Is the point of a blog not to share your ideas? Why, then, would you block others’ out in the process if you simultaneously want your voice heard?
Erika, being her funny, opinionated self, went to go write in this jerk’s ask box. Granted, I wouldn’t have done this, but I admire her courage, or as some would say, ~lady balls~. She didn’t explode and definitely didn’t waste her time on a three page rant about how wrong this guy was for hating pride parades. She simply wrote a parody of Cee Lo Green and said “I see you postin’ dumb shit / Bout the gay pride parades / And I’m like / Fuck youuuu.”
Within minutes I believe, she got a response in the form of a graphic that told her to go kill herself, calling her “a giant faggot to some intellegent gays” – exact spelling. Minutes later, another graphic was produced reading “Suicide – you’re doing it wrong.” Of course, this was meant to enrage not only Erika, but her close friends and the rest of the Internet in possession of a functioning brain that feels rational emotions. Whether the likes and reblogs were mostly people who agreed or disagreed with this sentiment, it still made me sick to my stomach. How could anyone, anyone, think that they had the right to tell someone so sweet, so dear, someone who had helped light the truth for me over and over again, to kill herself? After all she’d been through? Just because she is a suicide surviver doesn’t mean that it’s all peachy now. She carries those scars like the rest of us carry our past, and it’s simply not humane to humiliate and degrade what once hurt us beyond reason, or what still may continue to haunt us.
You never know how someone may be affected by what you said.
As John Green stated, “What a treacherous thing to believe a person is more than a person.” Sure, Erika is strong, and that’s what I admire about her – but she’s not a Superwoman. She’s not a goddess. She is just a girl, who feels and reacts and loves and hurts just like the rest of us. And the same goes for everyone else who is a victim of cyber bullying. Whether they’re strong and mighty is irrelevant.
My close friends – and even those not so close – can attest to the fact that I am rather fierce, fiery, and sometimes mean when I get angry and riled up. But even someone like me, who has a complete lack of regard for others’ feelings at times, would never order someone to end their own life. It’s sick. It’s wrong. It’s not something that would even pop into my mind. And it gets me to wondering…
What has happened to this tortured soul, this random blogger, this member of the gay community, thishuman, to make them so hostile? How detached, how disenchanted do you have to be before you begin making demands on the Internet for a total stranger to end their life? It happens every day. How can you be so pompous, so arrogant, that you take pride in being a total asshole? Does it make you feel important? Do you think you have a badass “dark sense of humor”? Is there power in dehumanizing someone just because they exist on a blog and not in front of your face? Would you say that to someone in real life?Because if you would, man, let me tell you something. You’re the one who will end up forever alone.
Throughout this blog entry, I have written and backspaced on the following question: “What if she did?” What if Erika wasn’t here for me, for her family, for her friends, for the Internet to appreciate and laugh with, but most importantly, for herself? All the time I see her sticking up for suicide survivors and people struggling with depression – myself being one of them. There is no one alive today and no one who ever lived who deserved to be told to end their lives. No matter how rich, poor, evil, horrible, or cruel of a person they are or were – everyone alive deserves a shot at life. Life is for the alive, and I’ll be damned if during that time I’m going to sit here and watch my very best friend be ridiculed by someone who’s never even laid eyes on her shining face.
What was this person thinking? Did he grow up in an abusive childhood? Did he have bullies in elementary school? Did he get sharp objects thrown at him one too many times in a past relationship? Really, who broke his heart? I’d like to know. I’ve been harassed online too – from hateful anonymous messages to spam on my Dailybooth pictures telling me I resembled a man. From Myspace and Youtube comments telling me I was ugly and a slut to Facebook messages telling me my chin was too big. It’s degrading, no matter how much we like to claim otherwise, but it’s even worse when it’s directed at friends we truly care about and hate, hate, to see upset.
In retrospect, I realize that some people may look at this post and think “What the hell? Internet hate is not that serious. Who cares if some random jerk said that? Shrug it the hell off.” And yeah, maybe that’s the argument that pops into your head first. But sometimes, I find it fascinating to crawl inside the demented head of Internet villains and just wonder what they were thinking. Because cyber bullying is not something to shrug off, it’s a serious issue, I’m going to keep wondering. And keep making people aware that yes, it is happening to innocent people, to children, to adults, and to my best friend and I.
In August, I’ll be headed to college four hours away and Erika will still be here. Thinking about how much I’ll miss her hurts too much, so I normally don’t do it. But when my mind strays to thoughts of the future, I know that she’ll always have a place with me. For her courage, her never-ending, fantastic sense of humor, and her strength, I thank her for showing me that you can make life what you want to make it. As much as it feels like it, I was not born with this girl in my contact list or my address book. Because I was introduced to Erika, I know that nature is important, but nurture wins out in the end.
08 May 2011
Something that utterly confuses me
is people that are scared of love. They refuse to let themselves care about another person so strongly. They think that if they make themselves vulnerable to another human being, then they’ll get hurt. It just makes me wonder what “risk” means to them. If we consult Webster, “love” is “to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for.” Obviously, love cannot be summed up as a simple definition in a book of countless words, but if it had to be, this would be the closest thing to it.
What buries itself inside your mind that makes you afraid to be passionate about something? If you can love books, music, fashion, and sports, why can’t you love people? What makes it so difficult or different about them? Is it because they can have a reaction? Because “music can’t let you down”, or “books will always be there”? Personally I’d rather rely on a real living being. Even though so often my refuge lies in smelly old pages or my iTunes or whatnot, my immediate stress relievers are my friends.
Maybe this is where I’ve gone wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t rely so much on people who a) live far away, b) have realistic human tempers, and c) have hurt me in the past. But I know I can’t control where the people who care about me live, I accept that people get a little feisty with their words sometimes, and on occasion, my heart tells me to forgive even though it may be an irrational decision.
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. There’s always going to be the question of “should I?”. Because when you love someone, you give them your whole heart. That’s what love is, it’s not a whimsical feeling that strolls by hand in hand with a compliment every now and then. To quote Paramore, “Maybe I know somewhere deep in my soul that love never lasts.” It’s ridiculous to believe in everlasting love or love at first sight or ~ever ever after~, as Carrie Underwood would have you believe. Seriously, it’s not realistic at all. Of course your mom might have a story of how your neighbor’s grandmother married her high school sweetheart. But it doesn’t happen for everyone, and that’s what’s so fantastic about love.
Love prepares you for the worst. Some may scoff at this and say that it only is licensed to bring you joy and happiness or else it’s not real, but that’s not the case. If you don’t want to be afraid of love, then you need to treat it like an overly opinionated yet relentlessly passionate friend. It’s always going to be there for you, not always visible, but if you don’t believe in it then it’ll never jump out at you.
It’s like Santa Clause. Every Christmas my mom reminds me that when she was a kid, her parents wouldn’t buy her anything if she said she didn’t believe in Santa Clause. It’s something so simple, but if you don’t allow yourself to have faith in anything else but material items like books, music, sports, religion, or fashion, then you’re going to end up even more depressed than I am. And then I would pity you more than I pity myself. So don’t do that, guys.
Like Sara Quin called herself, I am an “emotional slut”. I fall very easily for all kinds of people and it doesn’t take very much for me to form an attachment to them. In no way, shape, or form would I ever suggest that everyone be accustomed to this. However, I take pride in knowing that even though I’ve been hurt in the past, I’m still open to love. If my mother, friends, and endless novels have taught me anything, it’s that love cradles you. Oh, and the Beatles. Thanks guys.
It’s just really astounding that so many of my friends admit to being terrified of something so many people chase. It makes them appear to be the bad guys because they’ll begin relationships with people and then suddenly bring them to a halt because of their fears. It makes me scratch my head, because so many of these people are involved in the Harry Potter Alliance or are just generally intense about geekdom or putting your whole heart into something… but they can’t put that much effort into caring for a person.
Stop being scared of love. Don’t be a Voldemort, be a Lily Potter.
What buries itself inside your mind that makes you afraid to be passionate about something? If you can love books, music, fashion, and sports, why can’t you love people? What makes it so difficult or different about them? Is it because they can have a reaction? Because “music can’t let you down”, or “books will always be there”? Personally I’d rather rely on a real living being. Even though so often my refuge lies in smelly old pages or my iTunes or whatnot, my immediate stress relievers are my friends.
Maybe this is where I’ve gone wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t rely so much on people who a) live far away, b) have realistic human tempers, and c) have hurt me in the past. But I know I can’t control where the people who care about me live, I accept that people get a little feisty with their words sometimes, and on occasion, my heart tells me to forgive even though it may be an irrational decision.
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. There’s always going to be the question of “should I?”. Because when you love someone, you give them your whole heart. That’s what love is, it’s not a whimsical feeling that strolls by hand in hand with a compliment every now and then. To quote Paramore, “Maybe I know somewhere deep in my soul that love never lasts.” It’s ridiculous to believe in everlasting love or love at first sight or ~ever ever after~, as Carrie Underwood would have you believe. Seriously, it’s not realistic at all. Of course your mom might have a story of how your neighbor’s grandmother married her high school sweetheart. But it doesn’t happen for everyone, and that’s what’s so fantastic about love.
Love prepares you for the worst. Some may scoff at this and say that it only is licensed to bring you joy and happiness or else it’s not real, but that’s not the case. If you don’t want to be afraid of love, then you need to treat it like an overly opinionated yet relentlessly passionate friend. It’s always going to be there for you, not always visible, but if you don’t believe in it then it’ll never jump out at you.
It’s like Santa Clause. Every Christmas my mom reminds me that when she was a kid, her parents wouldn’t buy her anything if she said she didn’t believe in Santa Clause. It’s something so simple, but if you don’t allow yourself to have faith in anything else but material items like books, music, sports, religion, or fashion, then you’re going to end up even more depressed than I am. And then I would pity you more than I pity myself. So don’t do that, guys.
Like Sara Quin called herself, I am an “emotional slut”. I fall very easily for all kinds of people and it doesn’t take very much for me to form an attachment to them. In no way, shape, or form would I ever suggest that everyone be accustomed to this. However, I take pride in knowing that even though I’ve been hurt in the past, I’m still open to love. If my mother, friends, and endless novels have taught me anything, it’s that love cradles you. Oh, and the Beatles. Thanks guys.
It’s just really astounding that so many of my friends admit to being terrified of something so many people chase. It makes them appear to be the bad guys because they’ll begin relationships with people and then suddenly bring them to a halt because of their fears. It makes me scratch my head, because so many of these people are involved in the Harry Potter Alliance or are just generally intense about geekdom or putting your whole heart into something… but they can’t put that much effort into caring for a person.
Stop being scared of love. Don’t be a Voldemort, be a Lily Potter.
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