I swear, there's an "interview gene" and I don't have it. I can be perfectly personable, and make some facsimile of witty, intelligent conversation when I'm talking to Joe Shmoe coming through my line at Wegmans, but during one of the few times in my life when someone's actually judging me on the basis of my ability to conduct such a conversation, my vocabulary shrinks to that, charitably, of an mildly illiterate 12-year old. Normally, words take the freeway out of my mouth, zooming off my tongue so quickly that they cause some head-on collisions on the way out, but during my interview, they seemed to be content with dawdling along on the back roads. Apparently they had better things to do than help me in my time of need...traitorous little things, they are.
But if you think a few errant words are bad, then you should see the state of so-called ideas! When they're entirely unnecessary and gratuitous (i.e. my contemplating what a great reality show could be made out of an on-campus scholarship competition...I mean, really, bring that many type-A personalities together, offer money and academic opportunity, and watch the sparks fly) and those mischievous little buggers are the equivalent of mental weeds -- they pop up everywhere. During interviews, however, I guess they decided to spite me, hiding just beneath the soil with only their googling eyes tantalizing me from above the ground- giggling at my floundering misfortune.
If I start sleuthing around in search of a silver lining, I suppose I could find one in just how SPECTACULARLY I bombed the interview...at least I went down with a full-throated laugh line in the back ground. Within the first 60 seconds, I somehow managed to misunderstand the stock market, mispronounce one of the interviewer's names, and unintentionally misconstrue the benefactor of the scholarship as deceased, when he's still very much alive and kicking (probably in my direction, not that I blame him) at 72.
Next week, I have a series of interviews, these ones on-campus, at a school I absolutely love and would give (almost) anything to be able to attend. Maybe another silver lining of this cringe-worthy experience was that now I know my own weaknesses, and, hopefully, can avoid these rookie pitfalls next time.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Inescapable Affliction (or "What I Do Instead of My Lit Essay")
Even as a staunch advocate of comprehensive health care reform, I realize there some contagious and startlingly pervasive diseases that even a publicly proctored insurance option can't help to treat.
Diseases like senioritis.
Yes, I know, it's a cliche. But take it from the horse's mouth here, people (despite my distaste of having to fit into that particular equine metaphor): it's real, and it's threatening the work ethic and productivity of previously top-notch students all across this great nation.
Once, we were the proud nerds of the school, the ones who looked to be in training for some sadistic marathon that would necessitate our dragging 30 pounds of dead weight across distances ranging from 100 feet to 1/2 a mile, and still get to class in under 6 minutes.
Once, we regarded the most minuscule, meaningless tests as no less than a defining moment within our academic careers, our own personal Waterloos, as it were. I swear I occasionally caught bars of epic John Williams music tinkling in the background.
Once, we didn't just get papers done on time, we got them done a week ahead of time, and spent countless hours fiddling with sentence structure, as our half-closed eyes flitted between the 5-page word document flickering in our eyeline and the red digital clock proclaiming it to be "1:34 AM" taunting us from our bedside table.
Once, we were snotty little juniors who proclaimed that only slackers got senioritis, and that it would, of course, NEVER happen to perfect students like us.
I have watched the greatest minds of my generation fall waste to indulging in beloved childrens literature, and semi-legally watching 90's era television. But, you know what? Maybe that's not such a bad thing. After all, we've worked our collective ass off spilling our souls into college essays, and in 7 months or so, we'll doubtless be back to our old, slightly anal-retentive selves. So, for awhile, let's just prop our feet up on our pile of barely touched textbooks and relax.
Diseases like senioritis.
Yes, I know, it's a cliche. But take it from the horse's mouth here, people (despite my distaste of having to fit into that particular equine metaphor): it's real, and it's threatening the work ethic and productivity of previously top-notch students all across this great nation.
Once, we were the proud nerds of the school, the ones who looked to be in training for some sadistic marathon that would necessitate our dragging 30 pounds of dead weight across distances ranging from 100 feet to 1/2 a mile, and still get to class in under 6 minutes.
Once, we regarded the most minuscule, meaningless tests as no less than a defining moment within our academic careers, our own personal Waterloos, as it were. I swear I occasionally caught bars of epic John Williams music tinkling in the background.
Once, we didn't just get papers done on time, we got them done a week ahead of time, and spent countless hours fiddling with sentence structure, as our half-closed eyes flitted between the 5-page word document flickering in our eyeline and the red digital clock proclaiming it to be "1:34 AM" taunting us from our bedside table.
Once, we were snotty little juniors who proclaimed that only slackers got senioritis, and that it would, of course, NEVER happen to perfect students like us.
I have watched the greatest minds of my generation fall waste to indulging in beloved childrens literature, and semi-legally watching 90's era television. But, you know what? Maybe that's not such a bad thing. After all, we've worked our collective ass off spilling our souls into college essays, and in 7 months or so, we'll doubtless be back to our old, slightly anal-retentive selves. So, for awhile, let's just prop our feet up on our pile of barely touched textbooks and relax.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Cuteness Decreases Worldsuck
I am bad at doing things. Yes, I know this is vague, but it’s intentionally so. When I’m around people, I put on a pretty good show of being this whirlwind of activity who always has things to occupy my time. But when I actually get handed huge heaping dollops of time…all of those wonderfully productive activities I’d been jotting down on my mental list for hours or days beforehand suddenly get wiped off by the giant eraser hiding in my subconscious and I can think of nothing worthwhile to do. Therefore, I usually end up spending my snow days/time-on-weekends-when-not-working doing one of the following things:
-Sleeping. This generally occurs in my bed, but can also spontaneously occur on that devastatingly comfortable leather couch with a view of the television or own the ripped sheepskin rug directly in front of the wood-fire (aka the only source of heat since I swear our central heating system is BROKEN. Ugh. I can haz April now?).
-Reading. When I feel like being intellectual, I’ll dig my way into a book and stay there for awhile. The annoying thing about my current reading habits (or, sadly, lack thereof) is that whenever I try to read my body decides to start sending me signals that it would be rather doing the above activity^. The last book I read cover to cover (something I’m trying to get myself to do more often, Resolution-style) was As The Great World Spins by Colum McCann. I’m still a little bit overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the novel, which, not to spoil anything, paints intimate portraits of 12 subtly interconnected people living out their radically different lives in NYC circa 1974(3?), unaware of the webs that bind them together, all while a spontaneous cross-Manhattan tightrope walk unites the city in a more visible way. These people range from a computer hacker using the new ARPAnet to reverse connections and call pay phones to hear the latest news about the rumored aerial stunt, to a tripped-out artist trying to put the pieces of her life back into some semblance of meaning, to a rich housewife trying (with varying degrees of success) to cross class lines to mourn her son’s death with other surviving mothers. I’ll stop, since I realize I’m starting to sound like a dust-jacket summary, but this was a delicious book with utterly gorgeous prose that tied together different voices in one of my favorite literary strategies of all time.
-Eating. I know, I know, not a good habit. But honestly, whichever of you HASN’T ever grabbed a tub of Edy’s from the fridge and proceeded to attack it with a spoon while vegging on the couch can throw the first stone. Anyone? That’s what I thought
-Listening to podcasts. Since I’m a nerd, this usually consists of political shows (which make me feel informed, suicidal, and homicidal by turns), history shows (Of course I didn’t once listen to a 7-part podcast that retold and analyzed the history of the British Empire for a straight week..), and random culture/literature/conversation shows. Occasionally, I listen to one of Slate.com’s several podcasts, which I enjoy except for the fact that every single one of those hosts has a vocabulary that Merriam Webster would commit assault with a deadly dictionary for, and enjoys flaunting that fact, so when I listen to too many of those consecutively the underlying elitist condescension can start to clog my mental arteries with annoyance.
-Youtube hopping (v)- The act or practice of going to Youtube intending to watch one video, and then proceeding to while away huge swaths of time by clicking on the “Related videos” or “More from ____” playlists. This consumes startling amounts of my time if I’m not careful…
One funny story about the last of these wretchedly wonderful time-wasters: Just now, I was youtube hopping from the Vlogbrothers, and Sophie (adorable 16-week old kitten) perched herself on my shoulder and started watching John Green talk through a box on my screen. Also, when I first picked her up from her former home, Sophie wouldn’t stop crying, and so in my frantic efforts to make the ball of fuzz in the carrier stop making me feel like a sadist, I started singing “The Weapon” by Harry and the Potters…and she stopped mewing pitifully.
The conclusion of this highly disjointed blog: My cat is a Nerdfighter, and I’m a lazy bum.
I’m going to go get dressed for work, so I can check out drunken college students at the grocery store for 6.5 hours minus a state-mandated half-hour lunch.
Peace. Love. Happiness. Kittens.
Cody
-Sleeping. This generally occurs in my bed, but can also spontaneously occur on that devastatingly comfortable leather couch with a view of the television or own the ripped sheepskin rug directly in front of the wood-fire (aka the only source of heat since I swear our central heating system is BROKEN. Ugh. I can haz April now?).
-Reading. When I feel like being intellectual, I’ll dig my way into a book and stay there for awhile. The annoying thing about my current reading habits (or, sadly, lack thereof) is that whenever I try to read my body decides to start sending me signals that it would be rather doing the above activity^. The last book I read cover to cover (something I’m trying to get myself to do more often, Resolution-style) was As The Great World Spins by Colum McCann. I’m still a little bit overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the novel, which, not to spoil anything, paints intimate portraits of 12 subtly interconnected people living out their radically different lives in NYC circa 1974(3?), unaware of the webs that bind them together, all while a spontaneous cross-Manhattan tightrope walk unites the city in a more visible way. These people range from a computer hacker using the new ARPAnet to reverse connections and call pay phones to hear the latest news about the rumored aerial stunt, to a tripped-out artist trying to put the pieces of her life back into some semblance of meaning, to a rich housewife trying (with varying degrees of success) to cross class lines to mourn her son’s death with other surviving mothers. I’ll stop, since I realize I’m starting to sound like a dust-jacket summary, but this was a delicious book with utterly gorgeous prose that tied together different voices in one of my favorite literary strategies of all time.
-Eating. I know, I know, not a good habit. But honestly, whichever of you HASN’T ever grabbed a tub of Edy’s from the fridge and proceeded to attack it with a spoon while vegging on the couch can throw the first stone. Anyone? That’s what I thought
-Listening to podcasts. Since I’m a nerd, this usually consists of political shows (which make me feel informed, suicidal, and homicidal by turns), history shows (Of course I didn’t once listen to a 7-part podcast that retold and analyzed the history of the British Empire for a straight week..), and random culture/literature/conversation shows. Occasionally, I listen to one of Slate.com’s several podcasts, which I enjoy except for the fact that every single one of those hosts has a vocabulary that Merriam Webster would commit assault with a deadly dictionary for, and enjoys flaunting that fact, so when I listen to too many of those consecutively the underlying elitist condescension can start to clog my mental arteries with annoyance.
-Youtube hopping (v)- The act or practice of going to Youtube intending to watch one video, and then proceeding to while away huge swaths of time by clicking on the “Related videos” or “More from ____” playlists. This consumes startling amounts of my time if I’m not careful…
One funny story about the last of these wretchedly wonderful time-wasters: Just now, I was youtube hopping from the Vlogbrothers, and Sophie (adorable 16-week old kitten) perched herself on my shoulder and started watching John Green talk through a box on my screen. Also, when I first picked her up from her former home, Sophie wouldn’t stop crying, and so in my frantic efforts to make the ball of fuzz in the carrier stop making me feel like a sadist, I started singing “The Weapon” by Harry and the Potters…and she stopped mewing pitifully.
The conclusion of this highly disjointed blog: My cat is a Nerdfighter, and I’m a lazy bum.
I’m going to go get dressed for work, so I can check out drunken college students at the grocery store for 6.5 hours minus a state-mandated half-hour lunch.
Peace. Love. Happiness. Kittens.
Cody
Friday, February 26, 2010
West Wing Wishfulness
Loath though I am to support Laura Mallory’s detestably idiotic conclusion that children and young adults can’t see the line between fantasy and reality, I will admit that the politico side of me practically salivates sometimes when I watch West Wing. Not because I have a nerd-crush on Bradley Whitford (okay, okay, not ONLY because of that…) but because it was a large part of what inspired and amplified my interest in politics to begin with. The sight of people willing to stand up and fight was, I’ll admit it, a bit starry-eyed and overly-optimistic for today’s politics, but I guess I was bamboozled by the insane idea that the Democrats I worked my ass off to get into office would actually do anything once they got there. Don’t get me wrong, I mostly agree with the Democrats…at least, on the issues they say they stand for. But standing for something and being willing standing UP for it seem to be two entirely different things. Out of curiosity, I decided to download the PDF file of the Democratic party platform, formally accepted in August 2008. Snappily titled “Renewing America’s Promise,” the fourth sentence of the Preamble reads: “We believe that quality and affordable health care is a basic right.” In small print, in a copy of a document few people ever take the time to read, then, Democrats can speak in absolutes. Not “We think that health care should be well-regulated, sometime, maybe,” not “we’d like to support the radical idea that companies shouldn’t be able to drop a newborn child for a ‘pre-existing condition,’ if that’s not too much to ask.”
No. Unless I’m losing my ability to interpret the English language, that says health care is a basic RIGHT. Not a responsibility the state should uphold for the sake of morals or the sake of keeping up with the industrialized world, although those are both perfectly valid reasons. That language specifies that the right of Americans to live without being crushed by ever-mounting premiums and discriminatory insurers only concerned with their own bottom line is just that: a Right. Up there with all the others, the right to freedom of speech, and of religion, is the freedom of life. Life is what you make of it, but if at the very least you should have the opportunity to live it, and the extent that we, as a collective, can provide that for each-other, we’ve done our duty is the extent that we have done our duty to the champions of the past who have died with their dreams unfulfilled and to the children growing up today who will one day lose their insurance and waste away in a hospital room because they’ve run out their savings on deductibles, or because they happened to be cursed with a condition over which they have no control.
I believe that structuring the provision of health care exclusively through a for-profit system will always leave the unprofitable bleeding in the dust, which is why I wish Democrats would live up to the substance of what they pledged to believe in 6 long months ago, on August 25, 2008.
If you disagree with that, that’s fine: stand up and say so. Let’s start a conversation, and I place only two caveats on the freedom of it: that everyone speaks based on facts, not based on fear. And second, that everyone supports what they truly believe, not what they’re being encouraged by others to disingenuously support.
You can probably guess my level of confidence that what I just hoped for will ever see the light of day in the conversations of most Congressmen and women, much less Senators.
Thank goodness, at least, for the few courageous Congress-people like Anthony Weiner, who, despite a slightly unfortunate last name isn’t too in love with his name plate and cushy chair to waste the two years we gave him tacking to the right and giving away our hopes to the black hole of a party that demands no less than total agreement, and makes no concessions despite being largely in the minority.
And people wonder why I’m becoming a cynic.
I’m tired, and I’m depressing myself. I’m going to go read, watch Glee, and play with my adorable kitten, not necessarily in that order. Existentialism will have to wait for tomorrow, or potentially tonight. Enjoy your day, everyone (and for fellow Little Lions, enjoy your snow day…although I will admit a bit of disappointment; I was looking forward to Yellow Sweatshirt Friday!)
No. Unless I’m losing my ability to interpret the English language, that says health care is a basic RIGHT. Not a responsibility the state should uphold for the sake of morals or the sake of keeping up with the industrialized world, although those are both perfectly valid reasons. That language specifies that the right of Americans to live without being crushed by ever-mounting premiums and discriminatory insurers only concerned with their own bottom line is just that: a Right. Up there with all the others, the right to freedom of speech, and of religion, is the freedom of life. Life is what you make of it, but if at the very least you should have the opportunity to live it, and the extent that we, as a collective, can provide that for each-other, we’ve done our duty is the extent that we have done our duty to the champions of the past who have died with their dreams unfulfilled and to the children growing up today who will one day lose their insurance and waste away in a hospital room because they’ve run out their savings on deductibles, or because they happened to be cursed with a condition over which they have no control.
I believe that structuring the provision of health care exclusively through a for-profit system will always leave the unprofitable bleeding in the dust, which is why I wish Democrats would live up to the substance of what they pledged to believe in 6 long months ago, on August 25, 2008.
If you disagree with that, that’s fine: stand up and say so. Let’s start a conversation, and I place only two caveats on the freedom of it: that everyone speaks based on facts, not based on fear. And second, that everyone supports what they truly believe, not what they’re being encouraged by others to disingenuously support.
You can probably guess my level of confidence that what I just hoped for will ever see the light of day in the conversations of most Congressmen and women, much less Senators.
Thank goodness, at least, for the few courageous Congress-people like Anthony Weiner, who, despite a slightly unfortunate last name isn’t too in love with his name plate and cushy chair to waste the two years we gave him tacking to the right and giving away our hopes to the black hole of a party that demands no less than total agreement, and makes no concessions despite being largely in the minority.
And people wonder why I’m becoming a cynic.
I’m tired, and I’m depressing myself. I’m going to go read, watch Glee, and play with my adorable kitten, not necessarily in that order. Existentialism will have to wait for tomorrow, or potentially tonight. Enjoy your day, everyone (and for fellow Little Lions, enjoy your snow day…although I will admit a bit of disappointment; I was looking forward to Yellow Sweatshirt Friday!)
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A Steaming Cup of Late-Night Existentialism
At school recently, I've been reading a good deal of Existentialist literature, from Sartre (Les Jeux Sont Faits, or "The Chips are Down," roughly translated) in French class, to Camus's The Stranger (thankfully in English) in my AP Lit course. My initial reaction to Existentialism was primarily groaning resentment: not only did I see existentialist ideas as a annoying stain on the already dreary trial of February, but they also scared me just a bit, like some gaping abyss howling into endless darkness, threatening to consume whatever pitiful strains of happiness had managed to survive endless college apps and months of subfreezing temperatures.
However, even though I wouldn't quite say I was surprised, I would say that all this deep thinking about the core of existentialism has left me with a new respect with the mentality, even if I don't agree with all its pillars (and, to be honest, even existentialists don't always agree with existentialists; this seems, from my minimal experience, like one of the vaster school of thought in philosophy and literary criticism).
I don't have the time or the mental stamina at the moment to give the entire backstory for the forthcoming rant, but just know it was...inspired by The Stranger, and also the frightening imminent notion of having to write a formal essay on said novel. Nothing like an 3-day essay assignment out of nowhere to encourage critical thinking...anywho, here goes...
One of the main ideas of existentialism I've really come to embrace (at least one I've personally picked up, even if it wasn't intentionally inserted by the author(s))is that of scarringly gorgeous, blisteringly blindingly overwhelmingly raw truth, and how often we humans hide from it. Whether it's the truth within our own (small, petty, meaningless *cough* sorry, channeling Sartre) lives, or the grander and more terrifying truths about the universe, we as a species construct so many fictions to spruce up the bare humongity of this world into bite-size pieces we can pretend to understand.
Truth can be scary sometimes, especially when that truth bares its fangs and snaps wildly at the house of straw our lives are sometimes based on. If we don't build our lives around a foundation of truth, we're sacrificing the possibility of a strong, sturdy (if more difficult to build) "brick house" of a life.
Paradoxically, if we don't embrace truth, then we condemn ourselves to a life of fear.
When we deceive ourselves, even if we lie to ourselves well,we never manage to fully suppress those devilish fears lingering, grinning nastily below the surface of what we so frantically tell ourselves is true. Unless we face these demons of doubt head-on once and for all and accept whatever bitter pills they make us swallow, then we will always remain like the foolish little big who builds a straw house, with no foundation to hold it when floods, earthquakes, and big Bad Wolves--metaphoric and otherwise--come knocking at the door.
Over the next few days, this blog will be bouncing around from more wonderful philosophy to a medical assessment of certain metaphorical body parts of a certain political party.
I love you guys, and I love getting back into writing like this. I feel like I've got fire in my fingers again...
However, even though I wouldn't quite say I was surprised, I would say that all this deep thinking about the core of existentialism has left me with a new respect with the mentality, even if I don't agree with all its pillars (and, to be honest, even existentialists don't always agree with existentialists; this seems, from my minimal experience, like one of the vaster school of thought in philosophy and literary criticism).
I don't have the time or the mental stamina at the moment to give the entire backstory for the forthcoming rant, but just know it was...inspired by The Stranger, and also the frightening imminent notion of having to write a formal essay on said novel. Nothing like an 3-day essay assignment out of nowhere to encourage critical thinking...anywho, here goes...
One of the main ideas of existentialism I've really come to embrace (at least one I've personally picked up, even if it wasn't intentionally inserted by the author(s))is that of scarringly gorgeous, blisteringly blindingly overwhelmingly raw truth, and how often we humans hide from it. Whether it's the truth within our own (small, petty, meaningless *cough* sorry, channeling Sartre) lives, or the grander and more terrifying truths about the universe, we as a species construct so many fictions to spruce up the bare humongity of this world into bite-size pieces we can pretend to understand.
Truth can be scary sometimes, especially when that truth bares its fangs and snaps wildly at the house of straw our lives are sometimes based on. If we don't build our lives around a foundation of truth, we're sacrificing the possibility of a strong, sturdy (if more difficult to build) "brick house" of a life.
Paradoxically, if we don't embrace truth, then we condemn ourselves to a life of fear.
When we deceive ourselves, even if we lie to ourselves well,we never manage to fully suppress those devilish fears lingering, grinning nastily below the surface of what we so frantically tell ourselves is true. Unless we face these demons of doubt head-on once and for all and accept whatever bitter pills they make us swallow, then we will always remain like the foolish little big who builds a straw house, with no foundation to hold it when floods, earthquakes, and big Bad Wolves--metaphoric and otherwise--come knocking at the door.
Over the next few days, this blog will be bouncing around from more wonderful philosophy to a medical assessment of certain metaphorical body parts of a certain political party.
I love you guys, and I love getting back into writing like this. I feel like I've got fire in my fingers again...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
My Lethargic Life
Hello, world. It's been awhile, and I've missed you.
I'm not quite sure where to start in this whole confusing narrative of my life right now, so I guess I'll just leap in headfirst and hope it makes some sort of sense at some point.
Right now, I'm going through a hard point in my life. For most of the life I can remember, I've always had writing, no matter what else was frustrating me in the real or online worlds. I could always sit down, shake out the old fingers, and let creativity flow onto the page. It was something I could hold onto, something that I could turn back on and use to remind myself that I had worth, even when the rest of the world seemed to disagree. I'm reading my blog posts from last year, and I sound like such an intriguing and interesting person! I'm funny, I have a prodigious vocabulary, I have decent comic timing. I feel like I've lost that person, somehow, and it terrifies me. I'm not sure if it's because my English class has involved minimal writing this year, or because my brain is currently mutinying after being forced into months of hard labor as an essay-producing machine earlier in senior year, but I'm feeling seriously rusty. My vocabulary seems to have regressed about 10 steps, and half the time I feel like I can't even put sentences together, that I have to think way too long to find the right words, when it used to come so naturally.
I feel like the floor has fallen out from under me -- the one ability that I could always tell myself I had, no matter what, seems to be slipping away, and during a college admissions season already grating on my self-esteem...this isn't something I need.
Sometimes, I have spurts of what feels like my old self - happy, bubbly, sarcastic, involved, interested. But sometimes, I feel like that girl takes a few days off, and I'm left, scared and alone, trapped within my own skull.
I have realized that whenever I'm able to produce some writing I'm proud of, it makes me feel better about myself (which in turn makes me more comfortable and more able to produce good writing, etc) and keeps me out of the downward cycle of sinking into depressed lethargy, which I can assure you does no favors to my rusty old brain. So, in some proactive attempt at climbing out of this whole I've so masochistically dug for myself, I'm going to try to write, every day. I know I've said it before, but I'm really going to hold myself to it, and I really need you, as my friends, to keep me honest as well. This is one of those things that, in moments of clarity, I realize will be good for me in the long run, but which, at certain specific points, I try to wriggle my way out of for convenience's sake.
Has anyone else ever experienced something like this? Everyone keeps telling me it's senioritis, and it will pass, but I guess I'm just fishing for some confirmation.
Also, any of my friends who are reading this, I would be unspeakably, incredibly grateful if you could leave me questions/blog topics in your comments, either here on Blogspot or on Facebook. The wood of my creativity fire is a little wet, as previously described, so I need sparks to really get it going, and having something to write about makes this whole process easier than just sitting down in front of a blank screen and hoping I can blink some meaning into it.
Peace. Love. Happiness. (Hopefully soon, even if not now)
Cody
P.S. If you're wondering why this was posted during school hours, I'm home from school with dizziness and a headache.
I'm not quite sure where to start in this whole confusing narrative of my life right now, so I guess I'll just leap in headfirst and hope it makes some sort of sense at some point.
Right now, I'm going through a hard point in my life. For most of the life I can remember, I've always had writing, no matter what else was frustrating me in the real or online worlds. I could always sit down, shake out the old fingers, and let creativity flow onto the page. It was something I could hold onto, something that I could turn back on and use to remind myself that I had worth, even when the rest of the world seemed to disagree. I'm reading my blog posts from last year, and I sound like such an intriguing and interesting person! I'm funny, I have a prodigious vocabulary, I have decent comic timing. I feel like I've lost that person, somehow, and it terrifies me. I'm not sure if it's because my English class has involved minimal writing this year, or because my brain is currently mutinying after being forced into months of hard labor as an essay-producing machine earlier in senior year, but I'm feeling seriously rusty. My vocabulary seems to have regressed about 10 steps, and half the time I feel like I can't even put sentences together, that I have to think way too long to find the right words, when it used to come so naturally.
I feel like the floor has fallen out from under me -- the one ability that I could always tell myself I had, no matter what, seems to be slipping away, and during a college admissions season already grating on my self-esteem...this isn't something I need.
Sometimes, I have spurts of what feels like my old self - happy, bubbly, sarcastic, involved, interested. But sometimes, I feel like that girl takes a few days off, and I'm left, scared and alone, trapped within my own skull.
I have realized that whenever I'm able to produce some writing I'm proud of, it makes me feel better about myself (which in turn makes me more comfortable and more able to produce good writing, etc) and keeps me out of the downward cycle of sinking into depressed lethargy, which I can assure you does no favors to my rusty old brain. So, in some proactive attempt at climbing out of this whole I've so masochistically dug for myself, I'm going to try to write, every day. I know I've said it before, but I'm really going to hold myself to it, and I really need you, as my friends, to keep me honest as well. This is one of those things that, in moments of clarity, I realize will be good for me in the long run, but which, at certain specific points, I try to wriggle my way out of for convenience's sake.
Has anyone else ever experienced something like this? Everyone keeps telling me it's senioritis, and it will pass, but I guess I'm just fishing for some confirmation.
Also, any of my friends who are reading this, I would be unspeakably, incredibly grateful if you could leave me questions/blog topics in your comments, either here on Blogspot or on Facebook. The wood of my creativity fire is a little wet, as previously described, so I need sparks to really get it going, and having something to write about makes this whole process easier than just sitting down in front of a blank screen and hoping I can blink some meaning into it.
Peace. Love. Happiness. (Hopefully soon, even if not now)
Cody
P.S. If you're wondering why this was posted during school hours, I'm home from school with dizziness and a headache.
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