Lexiconology

Soi-disant

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 05:59:00 +0000

I am in purgatory, perpetually waiting to be flung into whatever awaits me. This is what college is beginning to feel like.

Well into my fifth year, I suppose I only have myself to blame. Though I've never failed a class, I have been cursed with chronic indecision. I call myself a musician, a writer, and a teacher, when in fact the world sees me as none of these things.

The world sees only my most superficial title, my generic nameplate. A classification I have long outgrown:

Student.

It seems "student" involves lacking a few things: skills, experience, and money. Though these are all somewhat true in varying degrees, I feel my super-senior status must entitle me some small amount of respect. After all, I have taken a lot of classes. My GPA is notable. (Ok...I guess that does sound like something a student would say).

My current major does not help with this annoyance. As an education major, "student" gets tagged on to nearly everything I do: student teacher, for example. In the classroom, "student teacher" is code for "fuck up waiting to happen."

This time next year, I will be preparing to end my tenure as student-anything. Scary, I guess. But it's about damn time.

Antiquarian

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 04:51:00 +0000

Sometimes I think the concept of home exists only in the past. I left, in search of different people and traditions to call home. Pick up a friend here, a new tradition there. I keep my life in boxes, ready to move at a moment’s notice. I hang my hat at a temporary address.

It’s a quiet night. I went to the grocery store to buy pasta for dinner, because all we have in the house is cookies and hard liquor. Rain had fallen, making the air swollen and dreary. I wandered into the frozen food aisle to find something to snack on, and ended up trailing the path of a scrawny, middle-aged man with long dirty hair an empty shopping cart. I caught the humid scent of pot in my nostrils, and it took me somewhere else. Back to high school, sitting next to the mysterious stoner in class I knew only by his French name (Pierre). Kissing my first boyfriend, who wouldn’t stop smoking even when I begged. Sprawled out on the lawn at a summer concert, reveling in the crowd’s collective lack of responsibility.

I watched the man struggle between Stouffer’s TV dinners and Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks and lost my taste for pizza rolls. I wondered what home was for him. Maybe a trailer in the park on the edge of town, or maybe the old underground railroad house near the square. Maybe he works in one of the factories. He might be one of the owners of that left-wing vintage clothing store with walls covered in lyrics of The Rolling Stones songs and heavy hemp ponchos and posters with the president’s face pasted onto the head of a chimp. I know this town. I’m not sure it knows me.

We’re not really looking for new homes, I guess. We’re looking for old ones. We sift through memories of our childhood like miners panning for gold, filtering out dull pieces and pocketing the ones that still gleam brightly. And then we spend our whole lives looking for people to share it with, people who have precious metals lining their pockets, too. Because that’s home: shaking hands with someone who knows what you’re carrying. Someone who knows how to love you.

I paid for my pasta with quarters and offered a sheepish shrug to the clerk before re-entering the night, wet and silent and still. I allowed my mind a vague and fleeting fear of being assaulted as I shoved the key into the lock to my apartment and heard it click open. Carpet, lights, television. Sparsely decorated walls.

Home is where I boil my pasta.

Corsucate

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Sat, 28 Jul 2007 06:12:00 +0000

Night signals the end of another cycle, and no night ends the same. Last night, one of my final thoughts was "I need to prepare a speech for the mayor tomorrow." Tonight, one of my last thoughts was "I'm glad that guy dropped me off before he went to buy drugs."

And nights bring lights. Headlights, starlights, tea lights and cigarette lights. If you drive long enough, the shine on wet pavement and the reflections in the river are the same. You could fall right into either of them if you aren't careful.

I still wish on stars. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, grant the wish I wish tonight." I make my silent request. And I thank the star, out loud, because that seems polite.

It doesn't matter if it's the brightest star, the closest star, the star with the name you know. All that counts is if you saw it first. It feels both innocent and poetic to pin a hope to a speck of light, a tiny dot you caught sight of when your eyes turned skyward. It watches you. It is your only God, because you don't believe in God. A poem and a wish made on a star is as close as you get.

Tonight was headlight, cigarette light, narrowly avoided drug deals and uncomfortable conversation. Tomorrow might be tea lights and laughter. If you can't be happy, if you can't pray to God, put faith in the lights.

Trenchant

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 05:31:00 +0000

The key to life must be hard work.

I know that isn't true. I know plenty of lazy, complacent people who seem to have everything they want, and plenty of hardworking folk who can't get what they need.

I used to fear my heart would explode. I used to think it would beat out of my chest. I limited myself. One day, I stopped paying attention to that beating muscle and just pushed myself, hard. I did it the next day, and the next. My heart hasn't exploded yet.

There is no reason to hold back.

Dolorous

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Sun, 24 Jun 2007 06:15:00 +0000

Can we, just for one minute, talk about depression?

I don't like to talk about it. I don't like to think about it..and believe me, I like to think.

I started exhibiting symptoms when I was 11. It showed its face as anxiety. I had a very specific trigger, and when that trigger was pulled, I couldn't leave the house. My parents didn't know what to do with me. But, like all childhood fears, it eventually went away. When I got over that trigger, the depression started showing.

It isn't dramatic, especially not now, after 11 years of dealing with it. It comes and goes. I never feel like throwing myself off a bridge or listening to Dashboard Confessional. I've been to therapy, but I find it unhelpful, and when the discussion turns to medication (and it usually does), I know my time is up.

Because the fact is, I don't need meds. I'm pretty sure this is just who I am. Most of the time I am more than fine, capable of having a blast and maintaining my life. Some of the time I am weighed down, still functioning but quieter and more withdrawn. Occasionally I shut down a little...but then I have my writing and my music and my own head.

There are still triggers, yes. New ones all the time. But there is kind of a cathartic cleansing to the whole process, sinking to the bottom and rising back up. As for relationships...well, it can be hard to find people who understand this kind of thing. I am getting used to this, just as I got used to the depression in general. Sometimes I want to open up, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I love people, sometimes I just want to be with myself.

Depression hits the creative, the sensitive, the thinkers. Those three things are three of my best character traits. I'll take the mild depression if it comes with the territory. I just wish it was something more people understood.

Rejoinder

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 18:45:00 +0000

The wrong end of a fascinating conversation

(ring ring)

Hello?
(pause)
Oh yes, hi.
(pause)
No.
(pause)
No, no. That isn't what I meant at all, I --
(pause)
What?? Why the hell would she say that?
(pause)
No, listen, do NOT do that.
(pause)
Don't you remember last time you tried that? You couldn't sit down for days!
(pause)
She's just going to have to do the thing with the bees on her own. You have enough on your hands with the lawsuit, and --
(pause)
Cream cheese?!?
(pause)
How did it get in the cream cheese???
(pause)
No no no, I just don't believe that. There is no way the mayor is that stupid.
(pause)
Ok, I'm sorry, say that one more time?
(pause)
Uh
(long pause)
Well...I've never heard anything quite like that.
(pause)
I think I'm blushing.
(pause)
Ok, I'm on my way. Don't let him leave before I get there.
(pause)
Stop, this is just crazy.
(pause)
No, NO, no more bees! Good lord, what is it with you and --
(pause)
Stay there! I'm coming!

(click)

Disquisition

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 02:35:00 +0000

Why is everyone in their twenties, as Tom Paxton said, vaguely unhappy?

I have spent more time thinking on this than I care to admit, and I have come to the conclusion it is absolutely true. Here we are, as sexy and full of life as we'll ever be, and we're all looking for something more. We have great times, make memories, love our lives...but we are vaguely unhappy. I believe there are several universal reasons for this.

Location, Location, Location
When you hit the age of 18, you begin what is to become a long journey of partings. By the time you're 21, you can barely count on two hands all the people you miss at a given moment. You wander from place to place, home to home, and you are never with all the people you want to be with at once. You are forced to face the reality that you may never be in the same place as the person, or people, you want to be with. You realize the home you grew up in doesn't hold you anymore. You are in purgatory.

You say you want a revolution? No one cares.
At some point you realize all the youthful idealism in the world isn't going to pay the bills. And let's face it: At the end of the day, watching The Office and having a stiff drink sounds more appealing than changing the world.

Don't be a fool, stay in school
I'm still in college, going into my fifth year of college, and I can already acknowledge life doesn't really get any better. Yes, there are perks to being a full-fledged grown up, but on the whole, college is the place to be. Once you're out, people expect you to know things. And do things. But we can't stay here forever, because a bird with all its feathers looks like a total loser if it hangs around the nest.

Life is beautiful
I have a nice tan and no blemishes. I am free of wrinkles and crows feet, I have time to do my nails, I can get by with next to no makeup and I have yet to discover a gray hair. I can go for a jog without aching for days. Things are holding up. Still, I don't know a girl (or guy) on the planet who loves his or her body. We're not going to get any younger, but we just can't love ourselves. How silly.

We all just want to get some
Show me a twentysomething who doesn't think about sex roughly half the day and I'll show you a twentysomething in a coma. Almost everything we do is somehow motivated by that possibility of having sex. And don't you DARE say that isn't true for girls, because it absolutely is. It is how we are programmed at this stage of life. And while that can be great fun, it is also greatly troubling. It's like wearing those drunk goggles 24/7...it becomes very difficult to see a given situation in the correct light.

I can tell you this, though: I am not looking forward to 30.

Palliate

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Fri, 08 Jun 2007 20:09:00 +0000

I think there are few things harder to cope with than feeling alone.

By this I do not mean actually BEING alone; as a girl who has spent much of her life in a small house with two younger brothers, I value alone time as much as anyone. Recently I've even taken up running just to give myself an hour or so of Julie and ipod time...if you know me, you know that is a desperate measure.

But that feeling of being alone, of having no one to identify with, know your soul --it can be a rough place to be.

I find it difficult to say these kinds of things without sounding emo. One of the reasons I love writing is I'm so much more able to say what I actually feel...for example, never in a million trillion years would I actually say the words "know your soul." It's just not my style.

It's not that I really feel alone, per sae. I don't feel "misunderstood." I guess what I'm missing is connection. I'm pushing messages through my circuits and the currents are spinning off into nowhere...no one is picking them up.

I would like to have somewhere to hook up my circuits.

Fiat

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Fri, 25 May 2007 21:14:00 +0000

Mr. President: You are no longer permitted to speak in public. Most people seem to think you're an incompetent moron, and lets face it, every time you open your mouth in an open forum you seem to justify that popular opinion. Since we are apparently stuck with you in the captain's chair for some time yet, you are hereby ordered to keep your presidential yap shut, for the good of the country.

Community theatre zealots: Effective immediately, there is to be a moratorium on all references -- spoken, written, sung, or mimed -- to the movie "Waiting for Guffman." Everyone knows it is a funny movie. Everyone knows it is a parody. By walking around on the day of the show saying "It's the day of the show, y'all," all you are doing is making those around you aware of the fact you have spent at least 2 hours of your life watching this movie when you could have been learning lines or taking an acting class or learning how to wait tables to support a true career in theatre. Basically, just, no more. Please.

Writers of "Scrubs": Consider this your official final warning. Once upon a time, you said the show was not meant to be a "will they or won't they," concerning Eliot and J.D. ending up together. Well, tough noogies, because that is what the show is about. Everyone wants them together, so you are ordered to clear this matter up sometime in the first four episodes of the new season. Enough already with pregnancies and weddings and deaths...just give us Eliot and J.D.

Middle East: This is an immediate cease and desist order on all fighting. This includes terrorism, civil war, foreign war, thumb war, sibling rivalry, video game boxing: no more, period.

Moms of toddlers: For the love of God, you MUST stop wearing fanny packs. While we're at it, let's also cross off the list elastic-waist jeans and anything with Mickey Mouse or Pooh Bear on it. I don't care what practical purpose you think they serve. You look ridiculous and you are scaring young, fertile women everywhere away from ever having children. The madness must end.

Furtive

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 21 May 2007 01:54:00 +0000

Spring and summer have got to be my favorite seasons. The sun, the leisure time, the improving attitudes of everyone as winter is forgotten...seriously, what's not to love?

I'll tell you what. Bugs. Specifically, spiders and cicadas. Two very different creatures, but equally disturbing.

The spider works with stealth. She goes unnoticed, either by laying low in a corner or quietly skittering along the underside of a table. She makes no sound, and freezes up at the first sign of action, and she's quick. Even her web is whisper-soft and discreet. She probably means no harm. Nevertheless, the sight of her makes me scream and the fight-or-flight adrenaline kicks in. I wish I didn't hate her so much, because I think if she were human, we could be friends. But she terrifies me, so I usually swallow whatever pangs of guilt I'm feeling long enough to destroy her.

The cicada, or as I like to call him "God's practical joke gone too far," is entirely different. He is loud, he makes his presence known, and there is absolutely nothing subtle about him. He has ugly red eyes, prehistoric filmy wings, and a body that resembles a cross between a helicopter and Frankenstein's monster. And that sound...oh the sound. He buzzes, chirps, groans. Thankfully, this horrifying creature - at least, the worst of his kind - only comes around every 17 years. The bad news? This is his year. I feel no guilt about hating cicadas. They are disgusting.

I love the outdoors; I've camped, canoed, hiked, fished and climbed for years. But spiders and cicadas...they are my downfall. I can be tough and outdoorsy as long as these creatures stay away.

But of course, they never do.

Penchant

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 16 May 2007 23:11:00 +0000

In the nearly 22 years I've spent wandering about planet earth, I have done many things of which I feel I can be proud. I learned early on not to let fear of failure stop me from doing anything, and that has had the effect of making me try -- well, everything. I always say I'll try anything twice, and that is for the most part true (the biggest exceptions being illegal substances and tobacco).

However, there is one area in which my experience is sorely lacking, and lately I have become painfully aware of it. I do not know much about sports. I played soccer for a long time, yes, and I know the game pretty-to-very well. I grew up in a house of baseball maniacs, so I know baseball decently well. After that, the facts get a little hazy...I was in band, so I watched high school and college football...I watched the Bulls during their glory years...and right about there my sports knowledge dries up and blows away in the wind.

It is not for lack of interest. I have always loved going to games, watching and participating in the competition, cheering for my team. Hell, I even enjoy watching the commentary...I used to religiously watch Baseball Tonight. But lack of time, exposure to "sports types," and my own poor hand-eye coordination all played a part in my eventual departure from team sports.

I am attempting to change that this summer. I want to be informed, and -- especially as a journalist -- I am aware of the role sports play in the lives of many. It is a kind of news, and to an extent, it is important.

My dad is going to throw me some sports stories. He is going to help me. I'll probably bug my boyfriend for advice too. I am going to learn by doing and watching.

It is amazing how quickly you can become an expert on a topic when you are forced to write about it and have that writing torn apart by editors.

Vitiate

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 15 May 2007 22:42:00 +0000

I am guilty of being self-involved. Too many of the phrases escaping my mouth and fingers affect only myself. I get lost in my own head. Does everyone? Probably everyone my age, at least.

It's the ultimate self-sabotage, isn't it? The only surefire way to lose someone else's attention is to wrap yourself up in a "Me" package, complete with colorful curled ribbons of self-esteem issues and neediness.

Of course, we can't take ourselves out of our own lives. I can't take myself out of my writing or conversation. I'm always there, no matter what, hovering over and within my words. Complete objectivity is probably an impossible goal, as I am beginning to realize.

Yesterday, I sat in the house of an old friend, half-listening to a deluded mother's rationalizations. The house is the picture-perfect suburban home. I sat on the couch - an intentionally-distressed dark teal leather piece - with my legs crossed, staring at the glass coffee table which had on it many things that had absolutely no practical value. There was a small plate holding four untouched tea cookies, a variety of useless magazines, and a menagerie of curious objects. One in particular caught my eye. It was a very large, clear green glass jug, big enough to hold water for an entire African village.

However, it held no water. It held nothing. It sat there like an enormous toad, taking up space, wallowing in its own impracticality. I felt as though it was daring me to come up with a reason for its existence: Go on, rationalize me. I've been sitting here for ages. Everyone ignores me, no one seems to notice me, despite my strange green hue and imposing size. I don't know why I'm here any better than you do.

As I effectively tuned out the words coming from my friend's mother, I became obsessed with this jug. I gave it a story, a voice, and finally, a metaphor:

My friend's family is trapped inside this ugly piece of home decor. Its ostentatious size gives them more than enough room to go about their daily lives, but when the sun begins to set, they are left with a chartreuse-tinted view of the world and a delicate family structure. They are flawed, and like the rest of us, they are limited.

I wonder how often they notice that jug. I wonder who they see trapped inside it. I wonder how much of my own brain seeped into it as I stared.

I wonder how dangerous self-involvement can be.

Internecine

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 15 May 2007 04:33:00 +0000

I have never "broken up" with a friend before. Well, never, until this weekend.

There is only so much destructive behavior a person can take before she calls it quits. My threshold for crap-taking is notoriously high for the people I care about, but even I have my limits. I believe she is a danger to herself and a danger to others. I have done what I can, and it's time to let go.

Support systems are fascinating things. They are fragile, but at the same time, they need to be so strong. The part of me that knows our relationship finds the irony of that tripod effect, that equal distribution of responsibility. If we each carry some of the load, it's not as heavy. I take the abuse today, you take it tomorrow, I'll take my apology, you'll take yours...it's a delicate balance, the three legs wobble and teeter back and forth. But if you knock two legs out at once, BAM! The tripod is down.

This is irrepairable damage. This is mental illness. This is sick, this is sad, this is pathetic. 7 years of friendship, and now it is over. She kicked the legs out from under her, and they have been beaten down too often to stand her back up again.

Good luck, dear. You'll have to stand on your own legs now.

Rivulet

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 11 Apr 2007 04:27:00 +0000

The older I get, the more I cry.

That isn't as depressing as it sounds. I think I just get more sentimental about things. I recognize life-changing moments, I appreciate significant experiences. Until I got to college, the only movie I'd ever cried at was The Lion King (when Mufasa dies, obviously). Now I occasionally cry at the end of laundry detergent commercials.

Honestly, I look forward to a good cry. It's remarkably cleansing. Even if it's just a few tears, it's like it recharges you for the next few minutes. Gives you a new perspective.

What can I say, I am a girl. I feel feelings. I cry tears.

But I make up for it by playing video games and drinking beer.

Abecedarian

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 21:20:00 +0000

What is the appropriate adjective a young lady should use to describe her life when she feels the "word of the day" people at dictionary.com have started choosing words specifically for her?

I could write this entry about elementary literacy, which I am knee-deep in at the moment. I could mention how I am getting a degree in teaching the alphabet. But you know what? I have had it up to *here* with the god damned primary literacy standards. So instead, I will write about...

Colored-letter Synaesthesia!

"What the hell is that," you ask? Allow me to explain. Synaesthesia translates, literally, into "blended senses." One who has synaesthesia experiences certain sensations from specific triggers that do not normally occur: some people see colors with music (a la "Fantasia"), other people see shapes with certain tastes, etc. The most common type, however, is the one I happen to have.

Every letter has a color. It is always the same color. A is red, B is orange, C is bright blue, D is green, etc. They never change. I think this is why I am a good speller, and why I can easily spot spelling errors. Certain color combinations just look right.

Weird, eh? Makes for a cool party trick. People have me spell their names in colors and whatnot.

Certainly more interesting than teaching the effing alphabet, anyway.

Obviate

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 21:06:00 +0000

Interesting word. I can see myself actually using this one. I am making a mental note to use it in a sentence today.

Well, it happened: Joe was elected Vice President of SGA. That is the reason I am so behind on these entries. I have taken over as Editor in Chief, it is almost the end of the semester, and I have not had a moment to myself in a week.

I was thinking not much would change. I had already been doing so much, so how could it really be that much more? Well, there is a part of the job I hadn't counted on. Being in charge (without an assistant, might I add) requires a Jedi-like ability to forsee problems and stop them before they even happen.

I am a good problem solver, but my prevention skills need work. Because of this, today's paper was riddled with stupid errors and pointless stories. The staff is frustrated. I am frustrated.

I need to learn how to catch bullets.

Toper

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 21:00:00 +0000

In college, one learns many things. It is a four-year crash course on the best and worst things that can happen in life. And, for many, it is a four-year (or five-year, six-year) drinking binge.

I have never been a big drinker, but over the past year or so I have improved. I turned 21, I loosened up a bit, I learned to enjoy beer. But my rookie status in the world of alcohol consumption still shines through from time to time.

One of those times was last Thursday. A group went out after work to have a drink. Unfortunately, the drink I chose was the Long Island Iced Tea.

Let's just say it ended very badly for me and a certain bathroom rug.

I apologize to all those affected and hereby vow to abstain from drinking Long Islands until I have improved my tolerance.

Clarion

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Fri, 06 Apr 2007 21:50:00 +0000

I played trumpet in a former life.

Ok, so maybe it was only 8 years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I was the only girl in the trumpet section. I had a bad perm and braces. I was 13th chair in the 7th grade band.

One day we had a sub - an older, unattractive woman with pudgy ankles and a darty personality. She stopped mid-rehearsal to tell us about her time in band:

"When we were picking out instruments I wanted to play trumpet but they told me girls can't play trumpet. (she glances around the trumpet section) ...no, I don't see any girls here either, they must still be telling people that!"

I was mortified. Everyone started laughing, Ryan Johnsen (7th grade heart-throb) pointed and shouted "she's a man, baby!" (Austin Powers was quite popular at the time). As if I needed help being an outcast.

"Oh, ha, didn't see you there! Well good, I'm glad you didn't listen to them, girls can do anything boys can do, right?"

Maybe not. I was 13th chair, after all. I sold my trumpet to my cousin a year later and focused on choir, which was probably the proper thing for a young lady to do. Thankfully, I'm a much better singer than trumpet player.

That sub is probably dead now. And Ryan Johnsen is probably gay.

Deign

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Fri, 06 Apr 2007 21:36:00 +0000

The masthead of yesterday's Western Courier had at its top "Editor in Chief - Julie Lord."

I have to admit, it's a pretty cool feeling.

The only thing I don't like is even though I've been working my tail off all year as managing editor, I don't feel like I earned this. I'm John Tyler, Millard Fillmore, Gerald Ford. I succeeded...I was not elected. And I am only editor for a month, until Jason takes over.

I did, however, have fun with it last night. I offered to let people kiss my ring, threatened to fire people, answered the phone as "Julie Lord, editor in chief" (but only if Joe or Rich was calling). It's fun to be in charge.

Do I have any more power? No, not really. Is it basically just a line on my resume and a few choice clips? More or less, yeah.

Still...

Tenet

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 04 Apr 2007 23:30:00 +0000

I believe in love.

That statement is about as cheesy as it gets, but it is how I honestly feel. I think I sometimes come across as a "modern" girl who aschews love and prefers cynicism, but truly, I'm not that way at all. Show me divorce rates, show me broken homes, lonely masses, suffering couples and broken hearts: I've seen them all already.

But I refuse to shake the idea that love - real, unconditional, selfless love - can conquer absolutely anything. It takes maturity and sensitivity, but it's possible. It doesn't even have to be romantic love. Once you've cared about someone as much as you possibly can, once you've felt what it's like to care about someone else more than you care about yourself, nothing else will do. Everything in your life becomes part of a quest to feel that again. It's passionate, it's intense, and it's addictive.

The funny thing is, real love isn't dramatic. It isn't about starry eyes or aching hearts. It just is. It becomes a part of you, and if it's truly unconditional, it doesn't even have to be returned. I care about so many people who don't even know it. I would do anything for them.

Because if you really care, the line between doing something for yourself and doing something for someone else is blurred beyond recognition. After awhile, it's all the same.

And it's the only thing worth living for.

Errant

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 04 Apr 2007 23:08:00 +0000

I am the most focused unfocused person I know.

I really wish I could just make some decisions about my life. I think if I could focus all my energy into one thing, just ONE thing, I would be unstoppable.

I wander into things. I work incredibly hard, but then I hit a ceiling, I run into a wall and I shatter into a million pieces that grow legs and wander in different directions.

"Sometimes I fear there is no longer a dream, but only the discontentment." - John Adams

I hear ya, Johnny. I just want to find it, something I can't live without. I want to find the dream and lose the discontentment. John Adams found fighting for America's independence; what can I fight for?

Arriviste

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 02 Apr 2007 19:21:00 +0000

Today marks the beginning of Western's SGA elections. If Joe is elected Vice President, I will officially be editor in chief for the rest of the semester.

Honestly, I've pretty much already taken over. Joe is spending a lot of time campaigning and not as much time in the office, and that's fine. But today's paper came out with a few errors and things I wish I'd thought to fix earlier. I feel like people are watching over my shoulder, they're waiting for me to screw up. Expecting me to screw up.

...am I going to screw up?

Jocular

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Sun, 01 Apr 2007 23:48:00 +0000

I strongly dislike April Fools Day.

I am extremely gullible by nature. I trust people, therefore I believe them and just about anything they tell me. I am frequently tricked.

I have not been fooled yet today...but it's only a matter of time.

Sedition

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Sun, 01 Apr 2007 23:46:00 +0000

All through school, I never got a single detention.

I don't have much to say about this...I just think it's an interesting fact. I never got into trouble. That doesn't mean I didn't do bad things; I just didn't get caught.

What can I say: I have an honest face.

Undulant

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Fri, 30 Mar 2007 21:32:00 +0000

Everything is cyclical.

Life changes in waves, there is an ebb and flow. Sometimes the tide is in and you can just lay on your back and let the rhythm of the waves kiss your feet; when it goes out you might find yourself on your knees, digging your fists into the sand, wondering what happened.

When the tide is out, you might feel like it will never come back. Likewise, when it's in, you think it will never leave.

But it does leave. And it always, always comes back.

Everything is cyclical.