(I want) total honesty and fearlessness

My Trendy Wendy notebook that I did my math homework this year and last year is no more. The spirals got all messed up and made it nearly impossible to turn the page of the notebook without ripping the page out. I retired Trendy Wendy and her brother Todd and dug through our school supplies basket for a new Algebra II/Trigonometry notebook to do my homework in. I unearthed a green College Ruled spiral notebook and packed it in my bag to take to school the next morning.

Yes, I did homework in it, but I noticed that the closely spaced lines made writing between them more inviting for me. Smaller print means more words can fit on the page – it’s a no-brainer. So, for the past couple weeks or so, I haven’t been paying attention in Trig (and I’m sure that my average has suffered a little if not immensely). Instead, I’ve been picking up my pen and getting lost in words I have written. Poetry’s always been my forte, but until a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t been writing any new material. Now, thanks to this green notebook, I haven’t been using my laptop in school as much. Instead, I’ve been distracted by the beauty a clean, white page can provide. Just knowing I can fill that blankness with words makes me want to write all over on every page. So, that’s what I’ve been doing.

The green notebook isn’t for Trig anymore. No, I unearthed a new notebook for that subject (this time it’s red!) and have been using that instead. I’m letting this plain old green notebook help me stretch my writing abilities. I’m writing everything I can (it’s all poetry, mind you) even if it ends up sucking. At least I’m getting everything out of my head.

Lately I have been trying to write beyond my comfort zone. I’ve always kind of written G-rated poetry subconsciously. Now, my most recent works hold a new, deep and hidden meaning that it will take a reader several read-throughs to figure out what it’s truly about. Some of my recent poetry could be rated R or PG-13 at least. I used to be cautious about what I wrote. Now I find myself wanting to write about everything that I hold in my mind, no matter how vulgar or inappropriate my thoughts are (and let’s face it, every mind thinks vulgar and inappropriate thoughts sometimes). One of my most favorite poems is by this poet called C.B. Trail. He obviously didn’t care what the reader thought when he wrote “Sonnet”:

This is for the afternoon we lay in the leaves
After it had been winter for half a year,
And I kissed you and unbuttoned your jeans
And touched you and made you smile, my dear.
And of all the good things that love means,
One of them is to touch you there
And make you smile, among the leaves,
And feel your wetness and your sweet short hair,
And kiss your breasts and put my tongue
Into the delirium between your soft pale thighs,
Because the winter has been much too long
And soon will come again, when this love dies.
I will hear sermons preached, and some of them be true,
But I will not regret that afternoon with you.

I love his honesty and just the truth behind this sonnet. I have had some of my friends read this poem, and their first reaction is “ew! That’s disgusting!” but me? I think it’s beautiful. I think the way it was written is beautiful. I don’t necessarily think that the act displayed in the poem is beautiful (though, what in love isn’t beautiful?), but the way it was written is just phenomenal. Total honesty. Total fearlessness. I want to write like that. I don’t want to be reserved with my writing just because I’m afraid of being obscene or inappropriate. Marilyn Manson’s song “mOBSCENE” has a line that goes “Be! Obscene! Be be obscene!” I’m going to be totally honest with everything I write to get my point across, and if it means being obscene in the process, so be it. I’m willing to take the risk. This green notebook is helping me stretch that ability and is nursing it to reach its full potential. I write how I feel instead of how I pretend I feel. I make up stories in my head and then write them down in poetic form. I create magic with my poetry.

So, I’m trying to be open-minded with everything I write. Even if I think it’s horrible, I keep it. Even if I think a subject is a little iffy to write about, I do it anyway. I’m broadening my horizons. I’m making way for the new – so, out with my old ways and techniques!

Here are samples of my random thoughts in poems from school days (I’m keeping this G-rated here):

You Don’t Know Me

I appear miserable all the time
angry, sad, never happy
to you, this appears to be quite the crime.
Oh, how you don’t know me.
I’m filled with laughter and smiles
and I know, laughter you can’t see
but even though I run miles and miles
I don’t think you know me.
You think you know all my quirks
and what I like to be
the truth is, I’m not the queen of jerks
which shows that you don’t know me.
For as long as there is air to breathe
nobody – nobody – will ever know me.

I would tell you how the sun rose
but I’ve never seen its birth.
I know that the light slowly grows
and gradually heats the Earth.

All I know is when I wake
her silky rays reach my eyes
I know there is no mistake -
I’m in the right place when I rise.

I would tell you how the sun rose
but you’re asking the wrong girl.
This secret, nobody but her knows.
We’re both little girls in a big world.

Alone,
hated,
discombobulated.
She’s alone,
hated
and discombobulated.
I…
I’m alone,
hated
and discombobulated.

Surrounded by millions, thousands, billions
she smiles for the camera constantly.
She’s mocked and her popularity’s docked
all around her, bodies are flocked.
She looks in the mirror, but cannot see.
The flashes blind her temporarily.

She faults in her footing, cameras still shooting
capturing a moment that lives on forever.
She’s harassed and so embarrassed…
never did she ask for this.
She looks for her shoe, but cannot see
the flashes blind her temporarily.

She never has that moment, the missing component
to calm herself down completely.
Not missing a beat, she’s again up and on her feet.
She struggles, but won’t admit defeat.
She walks on, but cannot see…
the flashes blind her permanently.

Sleepy Hollow(een)

Things are only a big deal if you make them into one. This applies to certain days, too. They’re only a big deal if you make them one. Kind of like today. Happy Halloween. Big whoop.

It was fun when we were little. My mom made our costumes (I don’t think she EVER bought one) and we went out to gather up pillowcase-loads of candy. We came back, turned our bags upside down to empty them of their contents and then sorted into piles based on the kind of candy. Trading ensued, but we never ever traded a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. That was part of our Unwritten Constitution (<-APUSH reference).

Seventh grade was the last time I went trick-or-treating. That was five years ago. Last year we ran around as our XC team, but that was in celebration of the team’s victory that day and we  only stopped at a few places along the way because we were on our way to our coach’s house to get candy out of him.

My brother, Trevor, went trick-or-treating up until his senior year in high school. At the time, it seemed like he was too old for it and I figured he must have been the only kid his age who went around with his friends. Now I’ve realized that a lot more do it than I thought. Everyone’s facebook statuses said something about going trick-or-treating, and that definitely surprised me. Trick-or-treating strikes me as something for kids in elementary or middle school; not high school. I’m not trying to be a stick in the mud or anything, I just feel that I’m too old to go parading around in a stupid costume just to get some candy off of people.

It sure is sad, though. That I feel too old to go trick-or-treating, I mean. I probably would have gone in ninth grade if I had not have had musical rehearsal that night (damn you, stupid musical). I opted not to go in eighth grade because I wasn’t allowed to go with friends and it seemed lame for me to go around with my dad.

I never wanted to grow up. I did, though.

Tonight I stayed in. My boyfriend came over and we carved pumpkins, passed out candy when my parents weren’t home (to our grand total of 9 trick-or-treaters) and then watched Sleepy Hollow with the ‘rents. We ate candy, listened to music, baked cookies and admired our pumpkins after the movie. It was fun. The only thing that made me feel festive was the Emily shirt I chose to wear that has a mummy cat on it. Other than that, it was just another day in the life. It was just another movie night with my boyfriend. It was just another fun time.

Holidays are only a big deal if you make them into one. Happy Halloween. Big whoop.

Pumpkin eaters

Yesterday morning, I walked into homeroom and found three of my classmates rushing to get their AP History homework. Oh, and did I mention that the majority of them were copying the homework of another classmate of mine who wasn’t even in the room? Yeah, I didn’t think so. The sad thing? Two out of the three are ahead of me in class ranking, even though they can’t seem to find the time to do their homework. It made me sick when we passed our homework up to the front of the classroom in AP History the next period. The girls that had copied nonchalantly passed theirs up and then struck up a conversation with their neighbor. They didn’t notice the smoke coming out of my ears due to the rage building up in my head.

Even though I did the homework, those two that are ahead of me will still beat me on the test we take on the homework. That’s just how it works. They get by by copying and cheating, and then when the time comes to take the test, they try their best and guess here and there, and somehow nearly always beat me.

I considered raising my hand and informing the teacher about the cheating that had taken place. I thought about getting in their faces and screaming. But, I never act on these thoughts. It’s extremely likely that the teacher wouldn’t do anything about it; people cheat all the time. People cheat all the time and get away with it. Even if I had raised this problem I’ve been facing now for YEARS to the attention of the administrators at my school, I doubt they would even give it a second glance.

My friend that is currently ranked 3rd in my class is smarter than our so-called Valedictorian. Our Valedictorian (at the moment) always asks my friend what answers she put for questions on homework, and her text messages to my friend are constantly about schoolwork.

I’m not saying I’m perfect, but I don’t blatantly ask someone for their homework so I can copy it word-for-word. That, to me, is not called rightfully earning what you have. I’m ranked eighth. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I’m not arguing with it, and I plan on staying up there. It just sucks knowing that the people ahead of me are going to stay up there by cheating their way through.

Even an inkling

Sometimes I wonder whether or not people possess even an inkling of common sense. The problem is, most don’t.

I’m sick of the Facebook statuses friends of mine are leaving for all to see. They are now in college to prepare for the career that they will probably lead from the time they step out of college to the time they decide they’ve had enough and retire. Do they not realize that leaving the statuses that they do could screw them and everything they’ve worked and paid for over in a matter of minutes? Future employers can access anything on a computer. What you thought you deleted can be brought up again and viewed by someone you might have had the chance to work for otherwise.

I guess my point is, why would someone get drunk and then reach for a computer to check their Facebook?  And why would they then leave a status that they will eventually see when they’re sober and slap themselves for leaving? Oh wait, the people that leave the stupid statuses don’t have enough common sense to realize that leaving a status like that is stupid. Silly me.

I’m sick of seeing someone I once was/am close with being stupid. If you want to go off and get drunk illegally, by all means, be my guest. I honestly couldn’t give a shit. It’s when you gloat about it and try to be cool about it that bugs me. That’s when I wonder if you know what you’re doing. That’s when I wonder if you know that you could be screwing yourself over completely.

From death and funerals to stem cell research and abortion

Cross country season picked back up again. On Monday morning I was awakened by a song coming out of my iHome speaker at 7:30 (which is much too early to meet my approval, I’ll let you know). I got up, showered, grabbed some Cinnamon Toast Crunch and put it in my bag, and then was out the door and on my bike, heading for the high school.

We started running. That’s what you do in cross country, if you didn’t know. We ran up prison hill. Some were encouraged to go on and run around the entire prison (the prison that Lindsay Lohan’s dad was kept, oddly enough), and I was one of those encouraged. I felt great. I had started out in the way back with a couple of my fellow teammates on the girls’ team, but little by little I had inched all the way up to the people that had fallen behind from the leading pack. I passed two newly instated runners and then fell into pace with the smartest kid in our entire school. My plan was to catch up to the leading pack which consisted of my best friend, my boyfriend, and another friend, but instead, he (being the smartest kid) and I started talking. We started talking about stuff that really mattered. Important issues, problems, and beliefs. It was nice to have an intelligent conversation, and it distracted me so much that I didn’t even notice when we passed another kid that had fallen behind from that same leading pack.

Our discussions ranged from death and funerals to stem cell research and abortion. It was like we went through the entire endless cycle of life during that one discussion we had during our run. I told him about the funeral I had had to go to recently and the unfortunate situation it had to be under, and then he shared how once when he was younger he had two funerals in one day to go to. We discussed how we both are not sure if there is a God up there and the hypocritical actions that are associated with members of the Church.

Then came the abortion topic, which then lead to a conversation chock-full of stem cell research. I had heard about it, but wasn’t exactly sure what it was all about. He informed me of everything about it (seeing as how it had been the topic he’d chosen for the recent research paper he’d had to do). What I don’t understand is why people are against it. And, it ties in with the abortion thing. I think that women should be allowed to make the decision of whether or not they want to abort their pregnancy. Let people frown upon a mother’s decision to abort her pregnancy, but if that mother is not ready to be a mother, then why not? If that girl is carrying the baby as the result of a rape she doesn’t want to be reminded of, why not let her make the decision to rid her body of that growing embryo? And, if every woman or girl that decides to have an abortion also donates the stem cells within them, that could initially save lives. You go from “killing” something that doesn’t quite exist yet to saving someone whose liver is failing or is in vital need of a heart transplant and just needs a donor.

Let stem cell research carry on! Let it save lives despite the many frowns of disgust it is receiving! We were put on this earth somehow and are now being plagued by disease left and right. If we’ve discovered a way we can cure, why not carry on and finish it? It means having one less child to feed, sure, but it also means one less person hanging out in an isolation room in the hospital just waiting for that heart or liver or lung or whatever to come. I say that science makes more sense than God. Science can save lives when God obviously can’t.

An artist out at sea

I just saw a commercial for some stupid new reality TV show. Here I am, trying to escape my little sliver of the universe by turning on the tube and devouring some humor from The Big Bang Theory (I love nerds), and I get interrupted from doing so when all of these stupid commercials come on that are advertising some new reality TV show. It was something about a neighborhood that had a wall up around it. I didn’t catch the name. I was instantly bombarded by thoughts concerning how stupid TV has gotten that I was too sidetracked to remember the damn name.

There are too many of these shows to name. VH1 and MTV are chock full of ‘em. They come up with a new one each week starring someone who lost on a different reality TV show. (Ex: I Love New York, Megan Wants A Millionaire, Daisy of Love, That’s Amore etc.) They start as one tiny twig and then branch off into a million other shows. And what about those Laguna Beach shows? As if the world’s population wants to watch spoiled little rich kids running around in the California sunshine. Unfortunately, these shows have viewers. I can assure you that I am not among them.

Sure, it might be fun to forget about your life and get a peek into someone else’s who is more privileged than you are, but is it really that fun? Fun enough to watch the show religiously and worship the people on it? Do the viewers know that probably half of the stuff isn’t even reality? And that in real life NO ONE looks like those people? I guess not.

When I watch TV (which isn’t often), it’s to be entertained by something that isn’t real. Something that could never happen. (Ex: SpongeBob draws with a pencil an artist out at sea dropped and the doodle comes to life.) It’s that kind of thing. I’m too busy trying to live my life to pause everything and watch someone else live theirs.

Dear old friends,

Yep, that’s what you are, old. You’re not the shiny new car with that new car smell. You’re the old rustmobile that needs several air fresheners to keep the air inside bearable to even breathe in. What’s my problem, exactly? The fact that you’re old. Now I’m ready for some shiny new friends that won’t be stupid like you.

When I kissed the last person I kissed, I was completely sober. Were you for yours? Do you even know who you kissed? Were you certain that it was a person of the gender opposite you? Do you know how completely stupid you probably act and sound when you have vile substances in your body? Probably not. So, why do you insist on continuing? Since you most likely do not have an answer that meets my high standards for any of these questions, I would like to say adieu to you.

I feel sorry for you. I’m sorry that you think you need alcohol in your body to have fun. I’m sorry that that has become the only way you can ever have any fun. I’m not planning on inviting you to anymore of my movie nights or anything I have with friends in the future. There won’t be any alcohol involved, so you probably won’t want to come anyway. I suppose I could slip some beer into the Jell-O to please you, but that’s not me. I’m sorry that that’s you.

I have morals. I’m not about to fuck myself over for life because I got drunk one night. One mistake is all it takes. I hope you have fun washing your beer-stained clothes the next morning and attempting to hide the fun you’re having from your parents. Sounds like a bitchin’ time. I’m sorry that I don’t feel right being a part of it. I’ll have fun drinking when I’m at or close to the right age. And when that time comes, I’m sure I’ll want something more sophisticated in my body. No beer for me. I don’t need to be drunk to have a fun time with my “friends.” Have fun at those parties in the future. I won’t be around to “enjoy” them with you. I’m choosing not to. And yeah, I may be a stick in the mud, but it’s because I know what I want. Maybe you should figure out what you want. The next time you’re wandering around drunk and stupid, I’ll be sober enjoying the company of a good book or my boyfriend. Sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than what you’re doing.

Sincerely,

Emily

The Lollipop

I was little. I was stupid. That’s all I can say to defend myself on this subject.

We were at the Cracker Barrel years and years ago when there was one near us, and before or after going in to eat (I can’t remember), we were looking around at all of the cool things hanging out at the gift shop. My mom and I were looking at the stand of huge, colorful lollipops and she lifted one out of its socket and asked if I wanted it.

I stupidly shook my head no. I was little. I was stupid.

I had this strange idea in my mind that little kids like myself weren’t allowed to have those giant lollipops. I must have thought there was alcohol in them or something. I couldn’t believe that my mother was offering me a lollipop – I shook my head to diminish what I thought to be her “bad” parenting.

Ever since then, I have been kicking myself for not accepting that lollipop.

So, after watching my friend Kevin run at the New York State track meet at Syracuse, we saw a sign for the Cracker Barrel. Since they have become sort of extinct in our secluded neck of the woods in Western New York, his parents decided it was a good idea to stop there for some ice cream. Instantly I exclaimed: “yes! I can finally get me a giant lollipop!” And then, of course, I had to tell them the story of The Lollipop. Well, instead of getting only ice cream we ended up having a whole huge meal (which I was totally okay with). Then Kevin and I were lollygagging around the candy section of the gift shop (with me singing “I’ll take you to the candy shop. I’ll let you lick the lollipop.“) and I picked out the identical twin to the lollipop my mom held up to me so long ago.

Two dollars and seventy-nine cents later, it became mine. I had this crazy idea that I would lick it once a day everyday to see how long it would last, but I have since decided not to do that (“then it would get all nasty,” said Kevin). Instead, it is sitting on the shelf of my desk, waiting for my tongue to begin its process of withering away into my mouth in a sugar-coated frenzy. I have yet to remove its wrapper and taste the sugary goodness within. Maybe I’ll never taste it. Who knows? Maybe I will just keep it for its sentimental value.

I’m sorry…

I have found that though “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” some people don’t live by that. Words hurt some people. Those who don’t live by what I live by get hurt whenever someone says something about them that is intentionally hurtful. I never really realized that because that wasn’t a problem for me. But now it’s my problem that words I say hurt people.

Sometimes when I’m joking around about something people take it too literally and then they are hurt by what I said. It doesn’t matter if I was joking, I still said it, right? I guess that’s how other people feel about what I say.

When I go off on a rant or a heated tangent I don’t think about what I’m saying. When I’m not ranting, I think before I speak. When I’m in full-on Rant Mode, you’d better watch out because mean things are going to erupt out of my stupid volcano of a mouth. I’m sorry if you were part of one of my rants. I’m sorry if I said something I didn’t mean. I’m sorry if I hurt you.

Your promise was such a waste

You said that you would never do it,
you said you could resist.
Now I see you lift that can
and press it to your lips.

You have ranted on and on about its dangers,
but there you stand
talking to everyone else,
holding it in your hand.

Occasionally taking a sip or two,
then glancing around to see who saw.
Hoping someone caught you being bad,
hoping someone saw you break the law.

You pour the rest into six cups
and begin to play the game.
By the end, everything reeks of beer,
and you are the one to blame.

Your shirt is soaked
and your hands are sticky.
No longer are you not branded
by the beer drinker hickey.

The stale scent is on your breath,
accompanied by its horrible taste.
You fall over as you faint;
your promise was such a waste.

~EMS

5/4/08

1:42 AM

This never happened. I let my imagination run away with me for this one. For this poem, it’s my conscience talking about me. I’m the one who is drinking, even though that has never occurred and I have always promised myself that I wouldn’t let that substance enter my body. But, like most promises, eventually this one will break, so I wrote this poem to myself as a reminder. I don’t exactly approve of underage drinking, or even drinking in general for that matter. People tell me that I can’t judge it until I’ve tried it, but to be perfectly honest, I have no desire to even take a sip. This poison that people gulp down makes them act so stupid, and I am beyond that. They can have fun killing their livers; I’ll be with my real friends that don’t need alcohol to have fun.