Say what?!?

I got my degrees!  And I got no Cs!

Now if I could only get a decent job. 

gradjeeatchun

5 weeks are all that stand between me and my two college degrees.

And that is a verifiable fact.

Those summer girls are bright, shiny.

Legs showing, short sleeves, tennis tans.

They smile, baby-whites beneath the

Oh So Blue of their eyes.

Those winter girls are darker, more sure.

Cigarette smoke clouds around the bars and clubs

and their tattoos are the only sleeves they need, though they ask

Santa Baby Leave My Presents Under the Tree.

cinemaphilia

I just saw The Debt today with Jessica Chastain and Sam Worthington, written by Matthew Vaughan. And I absolutely loved it, though it was a bit slow--mainly, I loved it because it's made me think.

There are so many things that influence who we are and what we do. It's difficult to name just one event that led up to the next: it's not a linear progression. Rather, everything is intrinsic upon everything else.

When we deny ourselves what we want out of fear, is this because of who we are? Is this because of the series of choices and decisions, some our own but mostly those of other people, that have contributed to causing that fear?

At Nathan's funeral, the preacher, a man whose wife had suffered two miscarriages twenty years ago, told his parents, "You're lucky, at least you had twenty years with him." Did he say that because of his own hurt and pain, or did he say that to put things in perspective? I don't particularly believe that you can make your grief a lower portion of your life just because you're lucky you aren't worse off.

I've written so many short stories, from 2 to 20 pages. I can't focus on anything after that 20th page, like I have a block. I write poetry, mostly just angry lines. But I hope that anything I write can be as powerful and thought-provoking as some of these movies that I watch. They have this element of something being withheld from the main character--not as some plot device, but because sometimes, that's just what happens. Something just holds us back.

senior year: take one

Just started my senior year...filled with 19 hours of classes, long waits for overcrowded buses, and an insane amount of hours at work.

Ahh, this is the life.

Other than that...there really is no other than that. I've come to treasure my alone time, so getting me out of the apartment seems to be a bit of a trick. There's a party tomorrow night that I'll probably be coerced into attending, but I always feel so damn awkward at those things. But still, it's better than looking at the ugly gray carpet in my living room.

Wow, this is sounding bleak. Which isn't new, I suppose. But it's really not all that bad. I really enjoy the classes I'm in--they're all about language and how we use it and how we learn it. It's fascinating and philosophical. And I do love to work, because I love the people, and it forces me to interact with everyone who comes into the dining hall (even if they are all functional idiots). I just dislike the fact that I don't get home until 11, and then I've got homework to do.

So, in short, I'm overworked, overtired, and under-funned. Yeah. I said funned. But it's my last year, so woot woot!

two more days

I just keep telling myself it's only two more days until I'm done with this class, so all I need to do is suck it up and edit my portfolio to turn it in Wednesday. But editing is always the hardest part, because I have to look back over all of the crap I was thinking and reason it out again. I hate that.

Also, I'm really bad with comma splices and split infinitives.

But, such is life.

writing is something i do when i'm breathing

I found out last night at about 11 that a good friend of mine in high school died earlier on Wednesday with his younger girlfriend after hydroplaning into a tree on the interstate. I received a text from another friend, telling me, but groggy with sleep as I was, I didn't really process it. When I woke up again a few hours later, she had written back, "This is real." And after that, I realized I'd been dreaming about him. And then I couldn't go back to sleep.

I haven't talked to him regularly since we left high school, but I'd see him every now and again, keep up with his song writing and creative writing on Facebook. It'd always inspire me to want to write something, whenever I would see him post something. His writing is some of the most beautiful stuff I've ever read, and it always made me want to just sit and wonder about how he could have written it.

In high school, he was part of the party/stoner crowd, but he was so damn sweet and funny and handsome that I still liked to sit next to him in our Creative Writing class. He never did his work unless the assignment appealed to him, instead telling us his stories about his most recent drug use and how that worked out for him. If I misspoke, he'd repeat it back and make fun of me. We agreed that if we weren't married by the time we were 34, we'd have a kid together because it'd be the smartest and most good-looking child on the planet. But that's not going to happen.

I've been crying, sobbing really, on and off since 3 o'clock, when I got on the computer and found an actual news article confirming what I was hoping was just a joke gone too far. I can't seem to focus on anything for more than a few minutes, and immediately after I eat something I want to throw it up. There's going to be a double funeral on Saturday for him and his girlfriend, who was only 17 years old and one of the most caring individuals I've ever met. I can't even think the words double funeral without reacting, it's such a heinous idea.

And even though I knew him, I still feel like my grief pales in comparison to his friends, the people who really knew him--I can only imagine that whatever I'm feeling, they're feeling times a thousand. But even without that kind of bond, I do know that I love him, and I took for granted that there was a ray of such goodness and light in the world. It just breaks my heart.