I don't understand . . . but I guess that's okay.

Sorry, nothing really funny today. Today I'm feeling more . . . introspective.

So, the thing is, I've always considered myself to be a pretty ambitious person. This is coming from the person who really, genuinely wanted to be the first female President of the United States when she was 6. As I got older, my ambitions got a little smaller, a little more realistic. I wanted to get straight A's. I wanted to star in the school musical. I wanted to make it to BYU, and then to law school. And I wanted to practice corporate law for 15-20 years before becoming a judge.

The thing is, life kind of gets in the way. A lot of those things happened. And a lot of them didn't. Disappointment hit me hard, I remember, every year that I tried out for the school musical and every year I was put in the chorus. It was still fun, but it wasn't what I wanted, and I was used to getting my way. I was headstrong and demanding and independent and, let's face it, really smart. That helped me succeed in school, which to me was all that mattered. I was a really talented musician, too, at least with piano. I had a lot of good talents, and I had a great family, and my upbringing was solid and relatively painless.

I was confident about college. I was ready to go. High school was fun, and college was going to be better. That's what I always figured, anyway. It was better, in some ways, but in others, it was really, really hard.

Mental illness hit me like a sledgehammer my freshman year. I didn't know what it was; I thought I was just weak and stupid somehow. I didn't understand my depression; and later, I didn't understand my anxiety and anger and mood swings.

To be honest, I still don't understand. I look around me and I feel like all I see are happy, healthy, well-adjusted people. I'm jealous of them, so jealous it makes me feel sick sometimes, when I see people in happy relationships or when I want to go to a friend's party but I just can't. The social anxiety is too bad.

I have a good public face. No one, not even my family, knows what's going on inside my head if I don't want them to. If I ever tell anyone that I struggle with mental illness, they're always surprised.

I don't understand this, still. My life is so different from what I thought it would be. It's not bad. It's not a bad life. But it is different, and I feel like I'm still reaching for something above me that turned to dust and blew away a long time ago.

I guess I'm just wondering . . . is this it? I've graduated college with a good, solid degree in advertising, I have a good, solid job. I have debts to pay off, but overall I'm doing okay.

Is okay all I ask for? I used to demand excellent. But after the past few years of falling and falling and never knowing when the bottom was going to drop out on me, maybe I should just be content to stay still.

It's weird, being an adult. But I guess it's not so bad. Most of my friends have grown up and moved away, but I'll be staying close to family for the next few years. They've been my rock, and I'm not quite ready to leave them yet. I think I feel a little left behind. A little bit forgotten.

And I still don't understand why some things are so hard for me. I don't understand why my social phobias about dating are so bad that they cripple me. I don't know why God gave me these weaknesses, or why they stop me from doing exactly what He wants me to do: have a family.

I don't understand, but . . . I'm doing okay, and maybe okay is going to have to substitute for extraordinary for now. Maybe forever.

I guess I just have to wait and see.

Weekly Song Breakdown: Katy Perry's "Last Friday Night"

Let me first start by saying that while last week I was writing about a song that I had initially liked but had been ruined by mainstream media, this week I am writing about a total abomination that makes baby alpacas cry and if you like it then you are probably a terrible person.

P.S. I hate Alpacas, but that's neither here nor there, really.

Anyway. I hate Katy Perry in general; I think she's a skanky, talentless attention whore with awful style and worse taste in men. And I hate her music in general. So when she came out with this new song, "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F)" I figured it would be pretty ugly.

I had no idea.

Quite apart from the rampant immorality and lack of any reality whatsoever, this song lauds and encourages property damage, alcoholism, and spending addictions.

It is the property damage and total costs of the activities in this song that I want to address primarily.

Let's begin.

Here's the first verse:

There's a stranger in my bed
There's a pounding in my head
Glitter all over the room
Pink flamingos in the pool
I smell like a mini-bar
DJ's passed out in the yard
Barbies on the barbeque
Is this a hickey or a bruise?

So a stranger in her bed. Nice. I'm assuming they had sex, and, judging by her other decision making skills, I'm assuming it was unprotected sex with an STD-ridden hobo. Now, according to CBS news, the average lifetime cost for HIV/AIDS is $618,900. So we're already off to a great start.

Next we have a DJ passed out in her yard. Good, well-known DJs cost at least $2000 for a couple of hours, so let's bump it up to $3000 (as you'll see later in the song, Katy Perry has no qualms about maxing out her credit cards).

Total costs so far: $621,900.

"Barbie's on the barbecue"? Is that like some kind of code or something? Or did they literally put a plastic Barbie doll on a barbecue? Hang on, I'll look it up.

Nope, nothin'. Does anyone know? Please tell me. Please. I need to know.

Okay, so now we move on to:

Last Friday night
Yeah, we danced on table tops
And we took too many shots
Think we kissed, but I forgot
Last Friday night
Yeah, we maxxed our credit cards
And got kicked out of the bars
So we hit the boulevard
Last Friday night
We went streaking in the park
Skinny-dipping in the dark
Then had a ménage à trois
Last Friday night
Yeah, I think we broke the law
Always say we're gonna stop, a-woah
This Friday night, do it all again (do it all again)

So they "took too many shots." I don't drink, so I don't know how many is "too many," but judging by the number of people die from alcohol poisoning on their 21st birthday for doing 21 shots, I'll just go with that number. I am given to understand that shots at an upscale L.A. bar cost about $15 each, so let's give this little section a total of $315, and that's assuming that Katy Perry paid only for her own shots. Let's go with that, because $315 is about how much I pay for rent every month and it sickens me that she'd spend that in one night on alcohol.

Okay, now we come to one of the clinchers that made this song the next one I broke down. She "maxxed out her credit card." Oh. My. Heck. Do you know how ridiculously high a credit limit someone like Katy Perry would have? According to my research, it'd be something like ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS. Even if she could pay that off within a few months, the interest would be INSANE, something like $24,093.

This brings our total up to $646,308. Appalling.

But wait! There's more!

Next we've got: they went "streaking in the park, skinny dipping in the dark." She says "I think we broke the law." You THINK? Try, you DID. Streaking is a class B misdemeanor, and if she didn't get jail time, she'd be paying at least $3000 for bail and the fine.

And finally, we have another one of the main reasons this song is an affront to decency everywhere: she's going to "do it all again" next Friday. All. Again. Next. Week.

Even with the exception of contracting yet another STD, that means she'll still be paying about $30,408 every week, and that's assuming she doesn't have to get treated for alcohol poisoning or go into rehab or pay successively more and more for public streaking until it's 15 in prison.

Okay, this is getting emotionally exhausting, so here's the last verse:

Trying to connect the dotsDon't know what to tell my bossThink the city towed my carChandelier is on the floorRipped my favorite party dressWarrants out for my arrestThink I need a ginger aleThat was such an epic fail
"Don't know what to tell my boss." So, she lost her job. She has no source of income to pay off this horrendous amount of wasted money. Fine.
The city towed her car. That's at least $150. It's CA and they're desperate for cash, so we'll double it. $300. The chandelier is on the floor. IF she replaces it, that will probably cost like $4000. And she ripped her favorite party dress. Judging by celebrities' wardrobe costs, let's chalk that up to another $4000, and that's being kind.
Warrants out for her arrest. Probably for streaking. I'm not even going to get into that.
She needs a ginger ale. That's pretty acceptable. $1.50.
Total: $657,609.50.
One-time AIDS cost: $618,900.
Costs per week: $38,709.50.
I don't . . . I don't even know what to say to that. ESPECIALLY since she's apparently lost her job and has no way of paying for all this. I'm disgusted.
And that's why I'll throw a party when Katy Perry eventually goes the way of Lindsey Lohan and Britney Spears and winds up in rehab and prison. Good riddance.

The Weekly Breakdown: Adele

Okay, guys, I've been doing some out of the box thinking lately, and I thought that I'd share my powerful and poignant insights with all of you, because that's what I do. I'm a giver.

Anyway, I was listening to the radio the other day when Adele's "Someone Like You" came on. My first thought, of course, was, "Oh for #&$*%'s sake, not this again." I started out really liking it, but I unfortunately made the mistake of liking a song before mainstream media got ahold of it, so by the time I got sick of it, the radio people decided it was cool enough to play 3 times an hour, every hour.

At any rate, I didn't change the station because I was seriously just that lazy, plus I was merging and you know how Utah drivers are (if you don't, count your many blessings). So I listened to it, and as I did, a disturbing trend emerged, resulting in the following insight:

Adele is a creepy, psycho stalker.

Let's break this thing down, shall we?

Start with the first couple of stanzas:

I heard that you're settled down
That you found a girl and you're married now.
I heard that your dreams came true.
Guess she gave you things I didn't give to you.

So far so good. She's reminiscing, presumably to her audience (us), or maybe is, like, facebooking the guy. It's a little accusatory with the "guess she gave you things I didn't give to you," but it's still acceptable. Then we move on to:

Old friend, why are you so shy?
Ain't like you to hold back or hide from the light.

I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited
But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it.
I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded
That for me it isn't over.

Wait, wait, wait. Seriously? She just told us, just above, that this guy is married now. So we can probably assume that they've been broken up for quite some time now. And in response to that, Adele is actually surprised that this guy is "so shy"? When she's showing up "out of the blue uninvited"?

So let me get this straight. She and this guy date, they break up (who knows why) (probably because she's a creepy stalker), and he moves on like a normal person. So he gets married, and they lose communication. So then, probably years later, maybe this guy even has a kid (see "she gave you things I couldn't give to you" line above), Adele shows up out of freaking nowhere because she, and I quote, "couldn't stay away, couldn't fight it." The whole purpose of her visit is to get him to "see [her] face and be reminded that for [her] it isn't over."

I've got news for you, Adele. This guy has a family now. He's moved on, it's probably been years since he's even thought about you. And you decide to show up (maybe ambushing him at work?) (or stalking him to his car?) (with a rag of chloroform and a nightstick?), uninvited and tell him that it isn't over?

Oh, honey, it's over. Way over. Like, a judge with a restraining order over.

And this is all bad enough, but then she has the gall to say, and I quote:

Never mind, I'll find someone like you
I wish nothing but the best for you too
Don't forget me, I begged
I remember you said,

"Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead.

So she came all this way just to tell him that she's moving on? That's pretty sad. It screams of a desperate need to be approved of. And she tells him that she wishes nothing but the best for him? After he's already forgotten about her? I promise that he doesn't care what you say, Adele. And yeah, I bet he won't forget about you now. You come to his door after years of absence and beg him to take you back. He's not likely to forget that. He's more likely to need therapy after you tracked him down like a wild animal to first beg and then imperiously inform him that you're going to move on.

So that's why I think that Adele is a freaky stalker who writes music that must haunt her exes. (And yes, it's "exes," not "ex's," since the apostrophe s implies ownership and even though I bet Adele would love implied ownership in this case, unfortunately for her, it still doesn't make much sense."

There you go. One beloved song crushed AND a grammar lesson all in one. You're welcome.

I love pickles and probably am pregnant because of it

Okay, you guys, there's some serious sh- stuff going on here. I will now enumerate said stuff in an easy-to-read bulleted list:

1. Okay, first of all, I lied. The list isn't bulleted because I can't figure out how to do that on Blogger. Whatever, stop yelling at me, it's gonna be fine, everybody, I'll just use NUMBERS now, IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU?

B. Lied again! Geez, you guys are so gullible. It's sad, really. I'm almost inclined to take pity on you.

. . .

But that's not how I roll.

2. Apparently, "how i roll" includes bizarre (super hard-to-spell word, btw) (btw means "by the way," for the poor souls reading this blog who don't know that acronym) (I'm talking to YOU, mom) and outdated phrases like "how I roll." I apologize for this.

7. Okay, I'm gonna get started on the real stuff now. Promise.

3. So I hate to say it, but I'm like 82% positive I might be probably am definitely-am-not-but-it-seems-like-a plausible-explanation-except-for-the-fact-that-I-would-have-had-to-have-sex-first pregnant. I have, like, half the symptoms. And YES, I did research on this, because I am an educated college student and I like to have SOURCES, people, before I just randomly start spouting crap all over the internet. That's just the kind of person I AM. You're welcome.

So, let's examine:

1. Fatigue: YES. ALL THE TIME. Now, some of you uneducated cretins might say things like "Oh, Marissa, that's just because you're staying up till all hours of the night looking at funny pictures of cats or catering to your histrionic tendencies or writing crap like this blog" but to those people I would respond, "No, I really don't think so," except knowing me it would be more like, "SHUT UP you don't KNOW me--NO ME CONOCES, AY MAMA CHIMARITO TAQUITO LA GRAPELADORA" which pretty much concludes my Spanish vocabulary.
2. Okay, I just looked it up and "grapeladora" is not a real Spanish word. Crud. I think I meant "grapadora," which means stapler. This is the sort of vocab that you're gonna need when you're stranded in Tijuana with just a sombrero, some pens, and a bottle of tequila for company.
3. Back to the list: Nausea. So this one is a resounding YES. I'm nauseous all the time. Like, at least 30% of the time. Is some of that time when I'm on a bus in traffic while doing crossword puzzles and possibly getting a contact high from that smelly hobo leering at me in the corner? Sure. Is the other percentage of the time when I'm having a panic attack and hyperventilating? Okay, yeah. And maybe the rest of the time it's when I'm on a boat in the middle of a choppy sea hunting down the white whale that took off me leg, ye scalawags? Arr. Regardless. Nausea. Yes.
4. Mood swings and irritability: NO. NEVER. I am the friggin' picture of amiability and stability. HA. Ha Ha. Yes.
5. Weird food cravings: Oh, yeah. Like, just now, I had to stop writing in order to get some food, which included two baby dill pickles and three of the peanut butter chocolate chip cookies I made today instead of doing my homework and whatnot.
6. A positive pregnancy test: Really? Like, this list really had to include THAT? You'd think that if anyone had the brains to take a pregnancy test instead of looking this crap up on the internet, they wouldn't NEED any other verification beyond that little plus sign.

So, there you have it world, I have, like, four of the symptoms (out of the 12 that were mentioned on the website) (not all symptoms are mentioned) of the pregnancy disease, as we like to call it here in Utah. (Note: we to not actually call it that in Utah.) (I think that the term that is most frequently used is "Compunction Junction.") (No, it's really not.)

I really wish that I had something clever to say that would wrap up this whole post, but I'm already only going to get, like 4 hours of sleep, which is going to wreak havoc on my mental illness and, consequently, anyone who gets near me within the next 24 hours, so I'll just leave you with this.

And then my dad high-fived the president

Hey, losers! Welp, I've been wanting to write a post for a while, but I've been all whiny, like, "Bleh, I don't have enough to write about, my life is a constant string of neuroses, which actually get kinda commonplace since they stick around for a while, meh . . ."

But! I think I finally have enough that I can talk about to make this an actual post, not just a status update on my horrifically uninteresting life. Plus, I figure I gotta start somewhere, even if I don't have much to work with--mostly because I really do love writing, but also because my therapist recommended (read: threatened) that I get a blog or exercise or do SOMETHING other than curling up in the fetal position and weeping softly or running around stabbing people arbitrarily. Because apparently that's not "constructive" or 'healthy" or "legal." Well, whatever, therapist. Screw you, now you're getting all kinds of crap from my blog. So there.

Anyway.

Okay, so you know how when you get a new puppy and it's all cute and lovable (sp?) and then the minute you turn your back on it, it starts tearing up the house and ruining your carpets and breaking that nice vase (pronounced "VAH-SE") that your great-something-or-other left you? And you're running through your house trying to catch the little hellion and your mom or whoever is screaming at you to "GET THAT THING UNDER CONTROL, THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE PETS, THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS." And when you finally do catch the dog doing something wrong, it looks so innocent and little that you can't possibly be mad at it.

You know how that goes, yes?

Well, that is more or less how I feel about my new roommate (and I pray to all things holy that she never reads this). She is an incredibly sweet girl and she's quite clean, and so far she's beat out a lot of other roommates I've had. We just have a few . . . cultural differences to work out.

Actually, now i just feel guilty writing about this because, like the metaphorical puppy, she has no idea that what's she's doing is wrong or even vaguely irritating. I mean, I have no problem chewing people out for beings jerks when they're doing it on purpose, but when someone is just genuinely oblivious? Even I'm not gonna tear someone down for that.

However, one step out of line and all her dirty laundry is gonna be aired out ALLLLLL over this blog, for all my (6) readers to see.

Moving on.

The only other thing I can think of that is interesting to writing about (besides my cripplingly difficult internship which may or may not cause me to commit a gruesome homicide at some point during the semester) is my next door neighbors.

Before I explain anything else about them, let me just say this: I love babies. I think they are pretty much the cutest things I've ever freakin' seen. Nothing compares to the feeling of just . . . whole-ness that I feel when I'm holding a baby. And I could look at them and play with them pretty much all day.



See, look at that! That is super freakishly cute. (That is also my newest cousin, thanks to my aunt, Brie.) (I hope you don't mind me using the picture, Brie!) (I love you.)

However, there are limitations to my baby-obsession. I found that out just last night, actually, when I discovered around 1 a.m. that the east-most wall in my bedroom (the wall my bed is pressed up against) is shared by the wall of my next door neighbor's baby. Their screaming baby. It took me a full hour to go to sleep (I can only imagine that the baby must have been sick or something to have cried so long.

And THEN. To make things worse, I jolted awake at 4:30 this morning, with the sounds of baby-sobs ringing in my ears. At first I was just irritated. Surely, I thought, surely the parents will come get their child and all this can just be an early morning nightmare.

But the crying went on. And on. AND ON.

I tried experiments. I plugged my ears, put a pillow over my head, moved to sleep on the floor, turned on some white noise. And after trying all of this, I realized something. The baby's cries were consistent, even, repetitive. And, more importantly, when I did these things, like plugging my ears, etc., it made no difference.

I was hearing these sounds inside my head.

Crap, I thought. Crap, I'm too young to be developing dementia. This must be some sort of stress-induced hallucination. And the sad part is, I think I really might have been right. We'll see, tonight, if the crying continues. If it does, I cannot promise that there will be no repercussions. See you on the evening news!

P.S. I am such an adult. Look at what I made myself for dinner:

Yep, that is a plate of nachos with pre-cooked sausage, a glass of milk, aaaaand an entire jar of pickles. Yep.

P.P.S. I just realized that I never explained the title of this post. WELL. Actually it was just a dream my dad (Hugh) had. He and Barack Obama (whom he does not like) were out in the backyard playing a little football. Like, "Oh, hey, Barack, go long!!" and "Sweet catch, Hugh, you sure you never played pro?" And at the end of their little playdate, Obama was like, "Sorry, I got to go. Presidential stuff to do," and my dad was like, "Yeah, it's cool." And they high-fived. And my dad woke up laughing.

Um, hi.

Well, I always feel silly coming back to my blog after a long absence. And this has been the longest one yet. So . . . sorry about that, you guys. And I always feel like I owe everybody an explanation, or at least a synopsis of my life up until this point. I'll just get those two out of the way, shall I?

First, the reason I haven't posted in a while: honestly, I forgot about this blog for the most part. Writing is not as big a part of my life as it used to be--in fact, for a while now, the only thing I write is the occasional fiction and essays for school. It took me a while to adjust to this change, but here's why I think it changed: for a long time, writing was the only way for me to express how I felt. It was an outlet, and a very good one, but over the past few years, I've finally learned how to actually talk to people, instead of keeping everything to myself. And believe me, it was not an easy lesson to learn. Therapy helped with that. And with a lot of other things. But that's neither here nor there.

Actually, wait. I do want to talk about that a little bit. I know there is still a big stigma against mental illness and therapy and all of that (spoken with the derision that is typical when dealing with this subject). But I'm tired of pretending that I'm absolutely perfect and completely confident and totally whole. I have my moments, you guys, where I feel like that. But those are few and far between. Therapy, for me, has been a life-saver, as has been some medication. And you know what? I'm not ashamed of it. At all. If I had diabetes (like my little brother, Mckay), no one would begrudge me my medicine and even some therapy sessions. But because I'm sick in a different way? Well, that's often treated with hesitancy and condescension. Even as I write this, I'm nervous that friends or potential employers or whoever is going to see this and that it's going to impact me in a negative way. But I guess I'm just tired of hiding who I am--I want to show people my good and my bad parts, and I hope they'll accept all of me.

I'm not out to change the world, here, but I'm definitely not going to hide anymore.

That feels good to say.

The point, I guess, is that I struggle. I don't just lie down and take it. I don't give up and hide. I struggle, and it's hard. But I have hope that one day, it's going to be worth it.

Anyway, that's the reason I've been missing for so long. I've been . . . recovering, I guess. And that's part of the reason I'd like to start writing here again. Writing has always been a great bookmark for my life--it's like a place-marker that let's me see where I'm going and where I've been.

So, here's to more blog posts in the future, and here's to a future that's better than what I've had so far. I'm feeling hopeful, guys, and frankly, that's all I ask for.

A sordid assortment of synopses

Kay, so I have decided that one thing this blog needs more of is Twilight and its affiliates. More specifically to this blogpost: New Moon.

I watched it for the second time last night (or night before last or . . . something . . . time sorta blends together when you avoid doing homework as fastidiously as I am wont to do . . .), and I will be watching it again on Saturday.

Before I move on to my overall critique, I feel like I should stress that I in no way really support these movies/books. I just . . . and this is hard for me to say . . . I just have an addiction to really crappy entertainment. Crappentainment, I call it.

No I don't. I've never used that word before. But should start.

So. Keeping the above in mind, I have to say that New Moon was an excellent movie, all things considered. And by "all things," I mean compared to Twilight and in light of the fact that they still had to follow Stephenie Meyer's plotline to some degree. Jacob Black, played by that Indian kid with a girl's name, was absurdedly hot, even if he was a little . . . femmy. Great abs, but the perfect tan and the bashful batting eyelashes were a bit much. But that's just me.

Bella was herself. Which I think about covers it. No, never mind. I need to talk about this.

Okay, so her voice. IT IS A MAN'S VOICE WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT? It's at least one octave too low, and so monotone that I have to stare carefully at the screen in certain scenes to make sure that she is, in fact, human and not some poorly-reanimated corpse.

Now, don't get mad at me for this, but her voice also makes her sound mildly retarded. Yes, I just went there. BUT IT DOES, YOU GUYS. IT DOES. At the very least, it's like she has been deaf her entire life and has had to learn to speak through watching people's lips move. Rewatch it with this in mind, and I promise that it will all make sense.

Holy hannah, I bet that she's Helen Keller's poorly-reanimated corpse.

Also, she is just a pathetic creature. Not the kind of pathetic where you're like, "oh, poor baby, come here, I'll take care of you." It's like the same kind of pathetic as Jerry, that alcoholic deadbeat dad who can't pay his child support because he's too busy paying off the loan sharks for the XBox and series of Halo games he bought. It's like, it's sad that Jerry's getting his face carved up and getting hunted down by The Law, but you can't waste your sympathy.

Finally, we come to Edward, who is, mercifully, not there. I freaking love this part. The parts that he is in generally involve hallucinations, screaming, and also Italy. I'm sure you're familiar with the story, so I won't go into too great of detail. Suffice to say that at one point of the movie, Robert Pattinson (who plays Edward) must have gotten jealous of the screen time the Jacob's abs get because he, for no discernible reason, goes shirtless for way too long at the end of the movie.

And by "for way too long," I mean, "for longer than it takes for my occipital lobe to interpret the images I am seeing." Did you know that they actually put makeup on Edward's chest and abdomen to make it look like has muscles??!

I mean, at least Jacob has even a superficial reason for not wearing a shirt: he's a werewolf and his clothes tear off whenever he transforms. Okay. Yes. That makes sense.

But Edward. Shame on him for putting me through that. Haven't my corneas already suffered enough?

And, finally, here's a tidbit of news that is directly related to the Twilight series: Stephenie Meyer is now apparently writing her own fanfiction. It seems like Mrs. Meyer is rewriting her third book, Eclipse, from the point of view from--get this--Bree.

Oh, what's that you say? You don't remember who Bree is? That's okay, no one else does either. FYI, she's the girl who Victoria turns into a vampire. We meet her for like three pages and then the Volturi say something like "Nits breed lice," and snap her friggin' head off. And that's it. That's all we get from Bree.

My roommate, Rachel, suggested that they make a movie from this new version of the book. She also suggested that the only speaking part Bree (who is crazed from bloodlust for the duration of the period we see her and who is, presumably, even crazier when she's first turned) could reasonably be expected to have would go something like this:

"Om nom nom."

She could say it forcefully or bashfully or whatever. But since she's a new vampire, the only thing she's really concerned with is eating people.

And, after reading all this, I really hope that you'll go out and watch New Moon and/or write some Twilight fanfiction. Let me know how that goes.

On posting and bathrooms

Hey, wow. It's been awhile, yes? I keep meaning to blog because funny crap keeps happening to me over here, but then I get busy and . . . yes . . .

Lame excuses aside, I'm going to try to get back into this. I make no promises, but if people actually want to read it, then I'm going to try to blog. I think that blogging has become less of a priority because, frankly, I don't need it as much. Before, writing was an integral part of my life because it was the only way I felt I could honestly express my emotions. But now that I'm doing better and feeling healthier, I really don't write as much period, let alone on this blog.

But. This is not what you are here for, yes? That is why I give you this piece of advice:

If you are living with someone--be it roommates, family, or "Tim," that scary hobo on West Temple and 4th that leers at you as you walk by--always (that means every single time) lock the bathroom door when you are taking a dump.

Because I will walk in on you.

I'm sorry if I should be knocking; but as far as I'm concerned, the bathroom is publicly owned by all the residents of the house/apartment. I will knock on your bedroom door, but knocking on the bathroom door is akin to knocking on the front door when I walk in. I will not do that.

I will, however, open the door and take two strides into the room, then freeze in abject horror as irreversible harm is done to my poor, unsuspecting corneas.

And then tomorrow, I will do it again, because apparently neither you nor I have learned our lesson.

Take it from me, you guys. You don't want to have to learn this the hard way. Take my experience and make it your own.

Lock the door. Because if you don't, I will find you. And I will walk in on you while you crap. And then we will spend the next week meticulously avoiding one another's eyes.

Or, y'know. Just knock.

There's the ocean behind us. It's me and Lauren in this pic, and I don't know if you can tell, but there were some monster waves. We tried to go body surfing, and the ocean would just pick us up and toss us around and around. I felt like a tumbleweed.

This is when we all paid for a cab to go to Tel Aviv for the day! It was the most gorgeous beach I've ever been to! The water was totally warm, the sand was soft and white, and we had the best time playing in the water.

This is from a little field trip we all took to King Herod's tomb. The landscaping there was really pretty--it almost felt like we were back home!


This is part of the ramparts walk we took around the Old City. You can actually walk around the top of the wall that surrounds the city, and it took us about an hour or so. The building with the gold dome is the Dome of the Rock, a Muslim mosque.



The picture above is the view from my room's balcony. That's part of East Jerusalem, and you're looking at a Palestinian neighborhood. The kids are little punks. They throw rocks at you when you pass them.


This part of the Old City--that's the walled area that was around during Jesus' time. It has a Christian, Muslim, Jewish, and Armenian quarter. I really like the Christian quarter (which is what you're seeing right here), since it's a lot cleaner than the Muslim quarter and the people are friendlier than in the Jewish or Armenian quarters.


Here's me and some friends--from left to right, it's me, Lauren, Victoria, and Ali. Just behind us on that big hill is the Jerusalem Center! We're headed home right here after a really long, hot day shopping.

Yeah, so I snuck into Hebrew U and totally stole their internet for, like, an hour to give you this. I know it's not much, but if you wanna see more, I'm posting a ginormous photo album on ye olde Facebook, so the rest of my pics are there!

Field trips galore!

It's been another eventful couple of days. For the most part, it's been pretty hot and horribly humid. We sweat all the time. And I mean it, too. Some people just say that, but when it comes to us . . . Well, we all carry around a liter and a half of water every day that we're going to out in the city. And I usually drink all of mine in about six hours. Not that big of a deal--but then I don't have to go to the bathroom. For, like, all day. I just sweat all the water out. It is disgusting. I no longer like my clothes.

On the upside, I'm staying hydrated.

Today we went on a field trip, though, and it was actually some really nice weather. Probably eighties with clouds and a pretty strong wind. We all enjoyed ourselves a lot and showed off the horrible tan lines we're getting because we have to wear missionary-standard clothes (although jeans are allowed).

Field trip today was fun. We didn't go to as many biblical sites, but we went to a bunch of different vantage points where we could see everything. We got to look down on Bethlehem, which is in a restricted area, since it's inside the West Bank. And when I say restricted, I mean it. There's this huge wall that surrounds the west bank to deter suicide bombers. Our class gets to go to Bethlehem, but that's about it--we can't go any further in.

We went to the burial place of Soloman, as well as to this absolutely amazing Protestant church that was built in the 1500s for this German Emperor. It had gold and marble and huge ceilings with mosaics and paintings of Christ. It was one of the prettiest things I've ever seen. We also climbed to the top of the bell tower in that church, and because the elevator was broken, I had to haul myself up 10 flights of stairs. I wanted to die, you guys.

But I lived to see another day--and to see another amazing view of the Holy City from the top of the belltower.

We also visited the Mount of Olives, where Christ ascended to heaven. It was absolutely incredible. Many of these bibical sites have been paved over or people live there now. But this had been kept pretty sacred, although there was a large cemetery along the hillside.

I really liked today's field trip, since it was more what I was expecting when I came to Jerusalem. When we have historical sites in the U.S., we usually protect them and don't let people live there. The same goes for Europe, for the most part. But the people of Jerusalem had just grown and taken over some of the most sacred parts of the city, living there and building new monuments and structures until a lot of the history was lost. I had imagined coming to a somewhat more modern version of the quiet city we read about in the Bible.

Today, though, on all of the sites we visited, there were a lot less people. I didn't even fear for my life once. There was some vegetation, and nothing was paved. The air even smelled clean for the first time since I left Utah. It was really nice, and the field trip was a lot less stressful for me than many others have been.

One thing that really surprised me was how small this place is. I mean, now it's this huge urban center, but the Old City, where Jerusalem was located is only a few square miles. It was bigger during the time of Christ, but not by much. I remember reading things talking about how they had to cross the Kidron Valley or how they traveled all the way to Bethlehem. Well, guess what? I crossed the Kidron Valley today on foot and it took, like, twenty minutes. And that was just because the hill was pretty steep on one side. It's so not impressive. And Bethlehem? Yeah, it's just five miles away from Jerusalem. And yeah, I know that they only had donkeys and they had to walk everywhere, but seriously. The Bible makes it seem like it's this big trek when really it's more like a day trip.

Anyways, I'm having lots of fun and I miss you all! My classes are really starting to pick up, so now I actually have to study and not have as much fun. Bleh.... Still no pics because Jerusalem Center gives me no bandwidth. Oh well, back to work!