My waffle cone of life

Over a week ago now, we stopped at a place called Charbroil (a small burger joint) and got ourselves some ice cream. Mom got her chocolate and vanilla twist and I got my favorite chocolate peanut butter cup (I prefer hard ice cream) cone where I always forget that it has too much peanut butter in it before I order it.

We got back in the car where Jordan and Grady were waiting, and off we went again. They settled into the secluded driver and shotgun conversation, so I put Pandora in my ears and listened to something of my own. This whole time I was licking my ice cream and loving the extra peanut butter. I pet Grady, changed a song once or twice and licked my ice cream while staring out the window and admiring the vineyards rolling by.

I didn’t even realize that I had reached the cone until the automatic response to bite the cone overwhelmed me. That’s when I found out the sad truth. The girl who had scooped out the ice cream and placed it into my cone hadn’t shoved it down to the bottom of the cone. She just scooped it and put it on the top without bothering to push it down.

So, here I was, absolutely horrified that I had licked it leisurely thinking I still had the rest that was in the bottom of the cone to enjoy. I wolfed all of the scoops on top down because I was looking forward to what was in the bottom, which is my favorite part. Then, to find that it wasn’t there? It hit me hard. And, I realized that that is exactly how life is.

We’re all too busy living as fast as we can; trying to grow up before we actually have a chance to. We wish our lives away because, apparently, being older and responsible for ourselves is supposed to be more fun than having adult supervision all the time. The truth is, it’s not.

I ate the ice cream on top super fast because of my anxiousness to get to the bottom. But, I didn’t realize what I had until it was gone. I had to push what was left of the ice cream down to the bottom with my tongue, just so I wouldn’t be eating a dry waffle cone. My childhood went too fast…now I’m trying to push as much of it down to my waffle cone of life just to coat it enough so I can remember my childhood forever. It’s almost gone, and I’m just realizing how amazing it was.

Sorry, Dorothy

Remember my blog entry about not knowing which road to take? The pretty yellow brick one that was anything but practical versus the solid red brick one? (If not, here it is: http://blackbyrd.wordpress.com/2009/02/27/follow-the-yellow-brick-road/.) Well, I’ve chosen one. Are you curious to know which one I’ve decided to venture down?

This past week was theater camp week. I didn’t really want to go because it seemed like a waste of time. People were working their batooties off on their mud-covered houses and I was stuck inside the high school’s auditorium where it seemed like nothing was wrong. But there was something wrong. A lot of something wrong.

I had to do it, though. I needed to for my own sanity. I’ve been trying to choose what career path to take; the one full of glamour and spotlights (which isn’t even guaranteed) or the sensible one where I am behind the scenes with a pen in my hand? This past week has convinced me that the yellow brick road would not be a wise choice. It may look pretty, but looks can definitely be deceiving. What if I start on my way down it and the path breaks in half because, though the bricks are beautiful, they are cheap? The red brick seems more stable. I’m going for that one.

I enjoyed the singing immensely. It’s the acting that I can’t stand anymore. I’m beginning to think that actors and actresses act like other people because they aren’t okay with themselves. I have become so comfortable with myself and have such high self esteem that I don’t need nor do I want to act like anyone but myself. As I was getting instructed to do certain dance moves and stand in a certain spot and have a certain face on, I grew extremely tired of it. I wouldn’t last in that kind of environment where I am getting told what to look like, how to act, how to sound, and where to go. That’s not me. That doesn’t sound like a desirable future.

And so, I’ve decided that I’m done with theater. I’ll keep my part in the musical, consider taking part in the play (I’ll end up doing it, I know), but I’m not doing anything extra anymore. Sure, our performance might have cheered people up yesterday, but one way to really help them out is to get dirty and help clean up our village. All this week I was wasting my days with the learning of music and dance moves that aren’t even relevant to my future.

I’m done.

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.

No, Miley. I don’t ever wish to be a “Fly On The Wall”

I feel like ranting. Hope you’re ready for this.

I just viewed Miley Cyrus’s video for “Fly On The Wall.” Now, I didn’t mean to watch it, I was perfectly happy with the 3OH!3 video that was before it, but I cannot control the playlist on Playlist. Though I wish I could, sadly I cannot.

She is so annoying. I hate all of these pop artists that think they are hot shit and stuff. They think that absolutely everyone loves them, even though quite a few people obviously don’t. Another example is Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable.” Now, I respect Beyonce more than Miley, but the whole “I could have another you in a minute” really cheesed me off. Yes, Beyonce, now we know that you are a whore and like it. Good for you! Now shut up.

Anyway, back to Miley.

It just feels like the perfect time to rant about her again. Remember my post from over the summer? Ha… well, here’s more.

I didn’t mind her when she first appeared out of nowhere. I watched Hannah Montana every once in awhile and kind of liked it. After some time, she definitely didn’t grow on me. SpongeBob did, but she didn’t. After the whole Vanity Fair fiasco all I remember thinking is “ew.” I never was a fan of hers, but after the magazine thing, I didn’t care for her at all. Here she is, this role model on Disney Channel for all of these young kids that love and adore her, and then she has to do something like that. Gross.

Her voice is awful, I don’t think she’s that pretty, and her chipmunk teeth annoy the hell out of me. The part in the music video when the “paparazzis” start dancing really got to me. She’s just standing there with her mouth part way open and her teeth sticking out. Very attractive. She’s obviously trying to break free of “cute little Miley” and trying to be “bad ass Miley.” It’s not working. All of these Disney people seem to think they have to prove that they aren’t as “goody goody” as they seem. It’s starting to get a little annoying, to tell you the truth.

I feel bad for all of the young kids that look up to this Miley character. Pretty soon they’ll be wearing really tight jeans and throwing their hair about in an attempt to be like Miley, who tries to be sexy. She’s a little older than I am, but she is acting like she’s in her twenties. If being a “Fly On The Wall” means having to listen to stupid gossip and hair products and clothes and shoes, well, I hope they see me and swat me. Or…I could buzz around her head and annoy the hell out of her. Yes, that sounds much better. In the meantime, I’ll stick with only ONE “Fly On The Wall.” Instead of watching Miley’s horrible video, go read the book Fly On The Wall by e. lockhart. It’s far better than any song Miley will ever sing. (Attempt to sing…)

Emily’s poetry, a history

I’ve been writing poetry for years. My mother named me after her favorite poet, so why not carry it on? I started out with a composition notebook that I decorated with stickers. Everyone just assumed it was my diary, as if it couldn’t be anything but a shallow notebook with all of my deepest secrets and fears hidden inside. Nobody gave me enough credit. Boys would steal it from me, but I managed to get it back without any harm done. They were only teasing. Teasing is harmless, right?

After that was filled, I moved onto a pink camouflage notebook that had pens attached to the front of it. It was nifty because if I had an idea I didn’t have to hunt for a pen before being able to write it down. The pens were just there. That notebook was also known as my “diary” and even a teacher asked: “why do you bring your diary to school?” To which I simply replied: “it’s not a diary.”

I poured random thoughts and whimsical dreams into those notebooks. Within about a month, the pages started ripping out of the pink camo notebook, so I saved the paper, but threw the rest of the notebook in the garbage. It was time to move on again.

I found a regular old yellow spiral notebook and plastered it with quotes, stickers, drawings, and pop-up sunflowers that I ripped off a thing I had at home. Poetry was transferred from my head onto the pages of that thing for about a year. I entered the seventh grade with the same notebook, and only showed the ones I was proud of to my then English teacher (who is now a teacher in the high school). The boys in my grade grew up a little and stopped calling it my diary, and I continued writing.

For my birthday that year, one of my best friends (we barely speak anymore…) bought me a hardcover spiral notebook with puppies on the front. Said notebook lasted me for nearly two years. That notebook taught me something important. Because I wanted the notebook to last, I only wrote poetry when I really really felt like it and had a good feeling about an idea. I decided that I didn’t have to write about everything – but there are some things that I will always wish to remember. I still have one page left in that notebook that remains empty. If I fill it in, the notebook is done forever. I always want to have the option of being able to fill it up totally. It’s amazing to go from the earlier poems in that book to the last few. It’s like traveling through two years of my life in thirty minutes.

Eventually, I took a little notebook that was a party favor at some birthday party I went to (I think it was Carin’s) and ripped out the used pages. I then covered it with duct tape, and voila! New notebook.

Using the duct tape notebook, I rewrote some of the ones I am really proud of, but I also wrote a year’s worth of new material. I am still busy filling it up with my life, so it’s a work in progress. It’s crazy to see how much I have grown in the past year. There are some poems in said book that are extremely naive and young-sounding. I know I will say the same thing in the future when I look back at what I wrote when I was fifteen (the present… for now), but I like what is exploding out of my pen at the moment. Maybe I will post some examples in the near future (which is defined as: later today).

My friend Gemma Doyle

You know what? Forget Twilight. Forget New Moon. Forget Eclipse. And FORGET Breaking Dawn.

Take those books off of your bookshelf and shove them in the nearest trash can. (Sure, I enjoyed them a little, but not as much as I thought I would.)

Now, go to the nearest Barnes & Noble or Borders and pick up copies of the Gemma Doyle trilogy. Place said trilogy on your shelf where Twilight used to take up space, and take them down one by one to devour them. Join red-headed Gemma in her travels, her curiosity, her love and her troubles. Erase Bella Swan and Edward Cullen from your mind and replace them with Gemma and Kartik. Befriend Ann, Felicity and Pippa and travel with the three of them to the realms to frolick in the garden or take a ride with Gorgon. Find out who Circe is, find out who your friends are, and who your enemies are. Ignore the Rakshana’s requests and continue employing your magic.

I finished The Sweet Far Thing last night, and was struck in awe (well, awestruck). It wasn’t the ending I was hoping for, but strangely, it fit nicely. Libba Bray is far more talented and descriptive than Stephenie Meyer is in Twilight and the other novels. C’mon! Who doesn’t love an author who puts “She has never lived in the Victorian era, is not British, and has no superpowers, though if she did they would involve being able to eat her weight in Swedish fish without feeling the urgent need to shave her tongue afterward” in the ABOUT THE AUTHOR section? Bray’s ideas are fresh and original. If you do not love her, you must be mad.

Anyway, have someone pry Twilight out of your hands and read and remember A Great and Terrible Beauty, Rebel Angels, and The Sweet Far Thing. Instead of viewing that ghastly Twilight movie, read! I get angry if somebody compares Twilight to Harry Potter, but if one were to compare Gemma Doyle to Harry Potter, I actually would not mind. Nothing will ever beat HP, but I believe that Gemma comes pretty close.