In a recent video posted by my favorite vloggers, one of them brought up the concept of "silverbacked gorillas." I have no idea why he termed them this, but I do like the concept behind it.
He was trying to explain why people seek fame. One of the oft-referenced explanations is that we want attention. Not just any attention, but attention from people we consider important to us.
He also said that this attention-seeking behavior is not inherently destructive, but only destructive if we're looking towards the wrong "silverbacked gorillas." This, in turn, caused me to evaluate my own gorillas. Who do I want attention and respect from?
My thoughts first lie on my father. All my life, I've pretty much been a classic case of "Daddy's girl." His approval is what I seek above all else. But as I grow older, I see more and more that he is not infallible. Though I don't consider his opinion entirely absolute anymore, I still value it so highly that he is the only person in my life who can make me cry. Just knowing he is unhappy with me in any way shakes me. Is this healthy? I'm guessing no.
Reaching out from my family, I want the respect of my teachers. I just want to prove that I am competent and trustworthy. Many events recently have jeopardized this image of myself I wish to project. I know they do not even begin to know the true me, the real me, the me that my friends and family know. Why should I let these people judge me when they simply do not have the time to evaluate fairly? Why should I care?
On a broader scale, I want approval as a writer. I want somebody out there to tell me (somebody that doesn't have to, and somebody with real experience and authority) that I'm not crazy in wanting to be a writer. I want to be considered good on my own merit, not in comparison to anybody else or for the circumstances under which I am writing. I want to be deemed worthy and justified in all my endeavors. Perhaps this is actually a positive gorilla.
I'm sure there are more people from whom I desire attention, and maybe there are some people from whom I should and don't currently. One pointed difference between me and my peers is that I seem not to care so much about approval from the opposite sex. This renders me at a disadvantage in the dating game that's supposed to be so important to me at this stage in my life, but it's not. Just a distant bleep on the radar. Does this make me deficient in some capacity? Many view it at some sort of immaturity, but I don't buy into this logic. I've yet to see a mature high school relationship.
There's so many people out there, all seeking the approval of somebody else. Today in psychology, my professor said that there are no true "human instincts" because there isn't one universal behavior all humans adhere to. If there ever was one, I think the need of attention is a pretty good candidate.
My "silverbacked gorillas" are sure to change many times throughout my life, and hopefully I will learn to discern the positive ones from the negative.
Oct 26, 2009
Oct 24, 2009
Crossing the Line
The Campus Y on the UNC-Chapel Hill campus is rapidly becoming my favorite place on earth. It appears only good things happen there.
Many months ago, I attended a conference there, designed to instill values of social change in high school kids. Social change... a broad term, possibly meaningless.
Perhaps no values of social change were instilled in me that weekend. I pretty much hold the same values of social change as I did before. But I did manage to find some personal change.
I sort of wrote about it previously and thought I might should post it here:
I live in a place where the only things more closed than all the shops on Sunday mornings are the minds of the citizens inhabiting the streets.
Intolerance is baked into every homemade apple pie and everybody’s welcome to a second helping of old-fashioned ignorance. It sounds mean of me to say, but I guess I’m a little bitter from all the years their attitudes have locked me within myself, bound me with my beliefs, and constricted me with my own convictions. Unable to see around what they know, they block everything else out.
It’s demoralizing to second guess yourself constantly. It’s unsettling to feel alone in your perceptions. It’s terrifying to face a world where everybody thinks you’re wrong. But I did, every day. I went to school and pretended to be something I’m not because the fear of being hated by everyone was greater than the fear of destroying myself from the inside out. Something had to give.
Finally, a beautiful beacon of hope landed in my mailbox one morning in the from of an acceptance letter to a youth conference at a nearby college. This conference was supposed to be all about tolerance in various forms and about being an active part of changing the world you live in for the better. This was what I needed. At the time, I had no idea how much.
The first night of the conference, I distinctly remember walking with the 100-member group across the sizable campus. The night air was the perfect temperature, and the campus streets were no longer cluttered by college students running late or cars circling around, lost and aimless. To be there after dark, it was like I was already an enrolled student.
In addition to the depiction of my collegiate fantasies, I was surrounded by people, for the first time in a long time, that I could’ve voiced my ecstatic appreciation to and they would’ve understood. On my right, two girls were engaged in a deep discussion about the theory of evolution. A pair ahead of me was comparing notes on their different religions, one Muslim and the other Christian. I overhead snippets of an openly gay boy chronicling his childhood and when he first recognized he was different. These discussions would never take place in the town listed on my nametag as “home.”
I could write for days about the many wonderful experiences that ensued, one stands out clearly as a turning point in my personal ideology.
In the run-of-the-mill feel good story of a movie “Freedom Writers,” the students participate in an activity in which the teacher reads a statement to the diverse group of psuedo-delinquents with hearts of gold, and they pass over a line taped to the floor if the statement applies to them. Watching the movie, I considered this just a passé plot device, designed to pull tears from the eyes of mushy viewers.
This was until I was asked to cross that line myself.
They marched all 100 of us into a room that looked like a shrunken gymnasium and lined us up against the wall, explaining the rules. At first, as they read the easier questions, to get us accustomed to the format, having to remind us every few seconds to remain completely silent. But as the questions delved deeper into the most personal aspects of our existence, the silence became voluntary.
In the beginning, I stayed mostly on the right side of the wall. I live a mostly untroubled life and the statements applying to depression, feeling unloved, drugs, alcohol, eating disorders just didn’t effect me.
Then came the religion questions. First she called, “Cross the line if you classify yourself as agnostic.” I wavered on the spot. I didn’t really consider myself agnostic, but people were more receptive to the word… They’d never know…
A handful of students walked across the room and turned to face their peers. I looked up at them, trying to arrange my face into an accepting expression. I felt for them.
Then I heard the words I had been dreading.
“Cross the line if you classify yourself as an atheist.” For a second, I hesitated. Nobody would ever know I was lying by staying safely on the right side. Then one brave girl slipped over the line and turned around. I couldn’t let her stand there alone. I couldn’t lie to myself. I walked.
With each step, I grew bolder. These were my beliefs. I should own them. I shouldn’t care about the judgmental thoughts I could see the 98 pairs of eyes trying to suppress. I faced them all defiantly. Where I thought I would be afraid, being in such a minority, I was emboldened. Empowered. In my thoughts, I dared them all to challenge me.
Then I slipped back into the group, and all the eyes watching me fell away.
Suddenly, I saw the kids on the other side of the room in a whole new light. I imagined the internal struggle they were probably undergoing and how heavy their feet seemed as they propelled themselves across the room, lining up to face judgment, themselves, their lives.
I greatly underestimated the value of this exercise. It’s hard to examine yourself and it’s hard to acknowledge that every person has a problem you will probably never know about. All of the people I’d formally seen as 2D were now real people, with real struggles.
I carry that feeling of standing on the other side of the line with me everywhere, every day. I try to cross that line at every opportunity. Instead of being scared of judgment, I try to face the crowd and own myself.
And, hopefully, I appreciate those who are also simply trying to do the same that much more.
Well, I meant to also write about the second Campus Y experience, but I think that is more than enough for now.
Many months ago, I attended a conference there, designed to instill values of social change in high school kids. Social change... a broad term, possibly meaningless.
Perhaps no values of social change were instilled in me that weekend. I pretty much hold the same values of social change as I did before. But I did manage to find some personal change.
I sort of wrote about it previously and thought I might should post it here:
I live in a place where the only things more closed than all the shops on Sunday mornings are the minds of the citizens inhabiting the streets.
Intolerance is baked into every homemade apple pie and everybody’s welcome to a second helping of old-fashioned ignorance. It sounds mean of me to say, but I guess I’m a little bitter from all the years their attitudes have locked me within myself, bound me with my beliefs, and constricted me with my own convictions. Unable to see around what they know, they block everything else out.
It’s demoralizing to second guess yourself constantly. It’s unsettling to feel alone in your perceptions. It’s terrifying to face a world where everybody thinks you’re wrong. But I did, every day. I went to school and pretended to be something I’m not because the fear of being hated by everyone was greater than the fear of destroying myself from the inside out. Something had to give.
Finally, a beautiful beacon of hope landed in my mailbox one morning in the from of an acceptance letter to a youth conference at a nearby college. This conference was supposed to be all about tolerance in various forms and about being an active part of changing the world you live in for the better. This was what I needed. At the time, I had no idea how much.
The first night of the conference, I distinctly remember walking with the 100-member group across the sizable campus. The night air was the perfect temperature, and the campus streets were no longer cluttered by college students running late or cars circling around, lost and aimless. To be there after dark, it was like I was already an enrolled student.
In addition to the depiction of my collegiate fantasies, I was surrounded by people, for the first time in a long time, that I could’ve voiced my ecstatic appreciation to and they would’ve understood. On my right, two girls were engaged in a deep discussion about the theory of evolution. A pair ahead of me was comparing notes on their different religions, one Muslim and the other Christian. I overhead snippets of an openly gay boy chronicling his childhood and when he first recognized he was different. These discussions would never take place in the town listed on my nametag as “home.”
I could write for days about the many wonderful experiences that ensued, one stands out clearly as a turning point in my personal ideology.
In the run-of-the-mill feel good story of a movie “Freedom Writers,” the students participate in an activity in which the teacher reads a statement to the diverse group of psuedo-delinquents with hearts of gold, and they pass over a line taped to the floor if the statement applies to them. Watching the movie, I considered this just a passé plot device, designed to pull tears from the eyes of mushy viewers.
This was until I was asked to cross that line myself.
They marched all 100 of us into a room that looked like a shrunken gymnasium and lined us up against the wall, explaining the rules. At first, as they read the easier questions, to get us accustomed to the format, having to remind us every few seconds to remain completely silent. But as the questions delved deeper into the most personal aspects of our existence, the silence became voluntary.
In the beginning, I stayed mostly on the right side of the wall. I live a mostly untroubled life and the statements applying to depression, feeling unloved, drugs, alcohol, eating disorders just didn’t effect me.
Then came the religion questions. First she called, “Cross the line if you classify yourself as agnostic.” I wavered on the spot. I didn’t really consider myself agnostic, but people were more receptive to the word… They’d never know…
A handful of students walked across the room and turned to face their peers. I looked up at them, trying to arrange my face into an accepting expression. I felt for them.
Then I heard the words I had been dreading.
“Cross the line if you classify yourself as an atheist.” For a second, I hesitated. Nobody would ever know I was lying by staying safely on the right side. Then one brave girl slipped over the line and turned around. I couldn’t let her stand there alone. I couldn’t lie to myself. I walked.
With each step, I grew bolder. These were my beliefs. I should own them. I shouldn’t care about the judgmental thoughts I could see the 98 pairs of eyes trying to suppress. I faced them all defiantly. Where I thought I would be afraid, being in such a minority, I was emboldened. Empowered. In my thoughts, I dared them all to challenge me.
Then I slipped back into the group, and all the eyes watching me fell away.
Suddenly, I saw the kids on the other side of the room in a whole new light. I imagined the internal struggle they were probably undergoing and how heavy their feet seemed as they propelled themselves across the room, lining up to face judgment, themselves, their lives.
I greatly underestimated the value of this exercise. It’s hard to examine yourself and it’s hard to acknowledge that every person has a problem you will probably never know about. All of the people I’d formally seen as 2D were now real people, with real struggles.
I carry that feeling of standing on the other side of the line with me everywhere, every day. I try to cross that line at every opportunity. Instead of being scared of judgment, I try to face the crowd and own myself.
And, hopefully, I appreciate those who are also simply trying to do the same that much more.
Well, I meant to also write about the second Campus Y experience, but I think that is more than enough for now.
Oct 19, 2009
I Don't Understand
Sometimes I think I'm too caring and sometimes I think I'm too heartless. Today was a heartless day.
For some reason, I am unable to feel sympathy towards depressed or suicidal people. I know I'm supposed to and I know some of them genuinely can't help it. They're clinically depressed; their brains actually contain an abnormality that makes them lose their will to live.
But there's also the attention seeking morons who can't find self-gratification any way but faking depression.
Maybe it's because I can't tell the difference or maybe it's because I've never had to deal with it myself, but as hard as I try, I find no sympathy within myself for them.
I've seen the affects firsthand. I had an aunt who blew her brains out because she was so depressed. I remember her on her up days, when she'd flit around all sunshine and bunnies and just give and give and smile and smile. She was so happy it was unnatural. I remember her on her down days when she'd just sit at the table, slumped down, shoulders shaking with her tears.
I was staying with my grandma one summer, the summer before my aunt committed suicide. It was a down day and my grandma was trying to cheer her up. I didn't understand what was going on or that my poor grandmother was fighting a losing battle. I was scared and confused. Nobody ever took the time to explain it to me until many years later, many years after Aunt Marie was dead.
I remember that my grandma took me to my aunt's house afterwards, going through her vast array of eclectic possessions. She would break down at the sight of certain objects, then collect herself and entertain me. I was so young. I still have a few of the things I took that day, including a little ceramic Bugs Bunny that still sits on a shelf in my bedroom. I understand now what my grandma was going through, how responsible she felt for her sister's death. I sympathize with Grandma.
But I still can't sympathize with Aunt Marie.
Maybe it's because we fear what we don't understand. Maybe I really am just heartless. I want to understand, but I can't. I just can't. I guess I shouldn't try to make myself feel the "right" emotion and just feel whatever I feel. Is there such a thing as a right way to feel?
I just don't understand.
For some reason, I am unable to feel sympathy towards depressed or suicidal people. I know I'm supposed to and I know some of them genuinely can't help it. They're clinically depressed; their brains actually contain an abnormality that makes them lose their will to live.
But there's also the attention seeking morons who can't find self-gratification any way but faking depression.
Maybe it's because I can't tell the difference or maybe it's because I've never had to deal with it myself, but as hard as I try, I find no sympathy within myself for them.
I've seen the affects firsthand. I had an aunt who blew her brains out because she was so depressed. I remember her on her up days, when she'd flit around all sunshine and bunnies and just give and give and smile and smile. She was so happy it was unnatural. I remember her on her down days when she'd just sit at the table, slumped down, shoulders shaking with her tears.
I was staying with my grandma one summer, the summer before my aunt committed suicide. It was a down day and my grandma was trying to cheer her up. I didn't understand what was going on or that my poor grandmother was fighting a losing battle. I was scared and confused. Nobody ever took the time to explain it to me until many years later, many years after Aunt Marie was dead.
I remember that my grandma took me to my aunt's house afterwards, going through her vast array of eclectic possessions. She would break down at the sight of certain objects, then collect herself and entertain me. I was so young. I still have a few of the things I took that day, including a little ceramic Bugs Bunny that still sits on a shelf in my bedroom. I understand now what my grandma was going through, how responsible she felt for her sister's death. I sympathize with Grandma.
But I still can't sympathize with Aunt Marie.
Maybe it's because we fear what we don't understand. Maybe I really am just heartless. I want to understand, but I can't. I just can't. I guess I shouldn't try to make myself feel the "right" emotion and just feel whatever I feel. Is there such a thing as a right way to feel?
I just don't understand.
Oct 17, 2009
The Simple Pleasures
Since I've been in an icky mood lately, I decided I will simply write out a bunch of happy things that I love, things that invariably make me smile. Here I go!
The warm feeling when the heat kicks on for the first time of the year and how it feels up every bit of space and even the slightly burnt smell it emits. It makes me feel safe for some reason.
And the smell of my uncles' chestnuts they send us every fall wafting through the house and eating them until our hands are sore from peeling with Mom. They're so warm and sweet and perfect.
The moment of awe just after I read a particularly gripping passage in an excellent book and the moment of appreciation that I hoard selfishly to myself because another person would ruin the personal satisfaction of it. I just turn it over and over in my head, read it again, appreciating every word, and wishing I could write something that wholly amazing.
When my mom yells for me to look out the window and I see the neighbors walking their llamas down the street, looking as normal as if there was a dog at the end of the leash.
Sitting in the living room, on the spot on the couch that is always mine, talking to my family during the commercials of a universally entertaining tv show.
The first few notes of my favorite songs and the immediate recognition of the beginning of a few minutes of complete enjoyment.
The simple pleasure of writing with a fresh pen for the first time and the strong, confident marks it makes.
Sitting in an auditorium full of people who all clap together as if they have one brain but everybody knows the true diversity that sits on the bleachers.
Genuinely proud parents and teachers gushing over their kids, all the trials of raising them forgotten, eyes glistening in the happiness of that one moment of pride.
Finally finding my remote and the relief from a silly inconvenience that I feel ashamed for being annoyed by.
Making lists so I can go back and see everything laid out perfectly, showing the many simple things that sometimes more important than what's big.
The warm feeling when the heat kicks on for the first time of the year and how it feels up every bit of space and even the slightly burnt smell it emits. It makes me feel safe for some reason.
And the smell of my uncles' chestnuts they send us every fall wafting through the house and eating them until our hands are sore from peeling with Mom. They're so warm and sweet and perfect.
The moment of awe just after I read a particularly gripping passage in an excellent book and the moment of appreciation that I hoard selfishly to myself because another person would ruin the personal satisfaction of it. I just turn it over and over in my head, read it again, appreciating every word, and wishing I could write something that wholly amazing.
When my mom yells for me to look out the window and I see the neighbors walking their llamas down the street, looking as normal as if there was a dog at the end of the leash.
Sitting in the living room, on the spot on the couch that is always mine, talking to my family during the commercials of a universally entertaining tv show.
The first few notes of my favorite songs and the immediate recognition of the beginning of a few minutes of complete enjoyment.
The simple pleasure of writing with a fresh pen for the first time and the strong, confident marks it makes.
Sitting in an auditorium full of people who all clap together as if they have one brain but everybody knows the true diversity that sits on the bleachers.
Genuinely proud parents and teachers gushing over their kids, all the trials of raising them forgotten, eyes glistening in the happiness of that one moment of pride.
Finally finding my remote and the relief from a silly inconvenience that I feel ashamed for being annoyed by.
Making lists so I can go back and see everything laid out perfectly, showing the many simple things that sometimes more important than what's big.
Oct 12, 2009
Damn Thee Uncertainty
I have so much to say and so little to write.
I'm in an awful mood. I failed my driving test... again. This time due to a lack of confidence, and lack of backing up in a straight line.
I can't take it anymore. I can't bear anymore of Dad's disappointment and disappointment in myself. This shouldn't be so hard and I can't adequately express to anyone else how hard it really is for me.
I'm tired of always feeling guilty for coming up short to everyone else's expectations. Shouldn't my own expectations come first? Heck, I don't even meet those lately. And I'm growing more and more convinced that I don't even possess the capacity to change. Try as might, fatigue or disappointment, or just sheer laziness always overcomes. I'm not sure if I can fight it. I'm doomed to this cycle of repeated failure, rebirth of hope, slight success, and then failure again. But who isn't?
I realize this sounds so overdramatic and generally stupid, but that is pretty much how I feel right now. Overdramatic and stupid. It's really the only thing I'm sure of.
I think assurance is what I need to fix every single problem I currently face. I need to be sure about something, anything. I have to learn to be decisive. It kills me constantly, my indecisiveness.
For example, today during Quiz Bowl practice, which means nothing, I knew several answers but didn't say them because I wasn't sure. But they were right. Australia, Rosenburgs, Treaty of Versailles. These aren't hard words to say and they were the right ones. Why couldn't I just spit them out? Why do I have to be indecisive and unsure and just so stupid?!
I can't get anything coherent or worthwhile posted here until I actually have something coherent and worthwhile in my brain. This could take awhile. I apologize for my uncertain self.
I'm in an awful mood. I failed my driving test... again. This time due to a lack of confidence, and lack of backing up in a straight line.
I can't take it anymore. I can't bear anymore of Dad's disappointment and disappointment in myself. This shouldn't be so hard and I can't adequately express to anyone else how hard it really is for me.
I'm tired of always feeling guilty for coming up short to everyone else's expectations. Shouldn't my own expectations come first? Heck, I don't even meet those lately. And I'm growing more and more convinced that I don't even possess the capacity to change. Try as might, fatigue or disappointment, or just sheer laziness always overcomes. I'm not sure if I can fight it. I'm doomed to this cycle of repeated failure, rebirth of hope, slight success, and then failure again. But who isn't?
I realize this sounds so overdramatic and generally stupid, but that is pretty much how I feel right now. Overdramatic and stupid. It's really the only thing I'm sure of.
I think assurance is what I need to fix every single problem I currently face. I need to be sure about something, anything. I have to learn to be decisive. It kills me constantly, my indecisiveness.
For example, today during Quiz Bowl practice, which means nothing, I knew several answers but didn't say them because I wasn't sure. But they were right. Australia, Rosenburgs, Treaty of Versailles. These aren't hard words to say and they were the right ones. Why couldn't I just spit them out? Why do I have to be indecisive and unsure and just so stupid?!
I can't get anything coherent or worthwhile posted here until I actually have something coherent and worthwhile in my brain. This could take awhile. I apologize for my uncertain self.
Oct 6, 2009
Yeah, I'm Lazy
Since I'm lazy and my brain is dead from sleep deprivation, I decided to try one of those internet meme things I see people use in their blogs occasionally. Seemed pretty fun, so here I go.
The Who, What, When, Where, Why Would You Meme
Who ....
is easy to love? Kittens. And other things that are small, furry, and trusting.
do you just wanna smack? The close-minded, FOX news, Kanye West... this list could get long.
do you trust? a select few haha
do you talk to when you're alone? Myself, since there's nobody else there... duh?
What...
dangerous things do you do while driving? Me driving in general is pretty dangerous. So... breathe.
are you allergic to? Some unidentifiable type of pollen, possibly ragweed. And algebra.
is Satan's last name? McCormick.
is the last thing that moved you? I'm not often moved, really.
is the freakiest thing in your house? my brother, probably
When.....
is it time to turn over a new leaf? It's usually always a good time to turn over a new leaf. No time like the present.
will you be all that you can be? Never.
is enough enough? When you can't take it anymore
do you go to the dark side? when they have peanut butter cookies instead of brownies
Where....
are your pants? On my legs!
is your last will and testament? non-existant. I'm too young to be that morbid.
is your junk food stash? My digestive system mostly.
is Carmen Sandiego? In my little CD holder thing
Why.....
was the Lone Ranger alone? Body odor?
was The Scarlet Letter scarlet? Don't tell my English teacher... and because red represents sin and impurity. Who came up with what colors represent anyway?
are musicians sexy and plumbers not? Music is sexier than sewage. There's nothing glamous under my sink.
are there no seat belts on school buses? Beause students would constantly be hitting each other with them, vandalizing them, and otherwise causing more harm than the occasional wreck does.
Would you....
swim the English Channel for a doughnut and coffee? Um, no.That's far from a fair trade.
If not that, what? peanut butter cookies maybe?
forgive someone who deliberately hurt you? Deliberately? no.
rather believe a lie if it hurt you less than the truth? No. Ignorance may be bliss, but it's also ignorance.
you still be alive if you were sucked out of an airplane window? I'm thinking not.
Would you just float around in space for while? Beats me. Stupid question. And I refuse to think about it anymore.
Well that wasn't very entertaining, was it?
Next time I'll try to find something with more interesting questions.
I picked this one because it reminded me of the essential journalisty questions, I guess.
And the original had pretty pictures that I have no idea how to post on here.
Whatever.
I will now cease this gigantic time waste.
The Who, What, When, Where, Why Would You Meme
Who ....
is easy to love? Kittens. And other things that are small, furry, and trusting.
do you just wanna smack? The close-minded, FOX news, Kanye West... this list could get long.
do you trust? a select few haha
do you talk to when you're alone? Myself, since there's nobody else there... duh?
What...
dangerous things do you do while driving? Me driving in general is pretty dangerous. So... breathe.
are you allergic to? Some unidentifiable type of pollen, possibly ragweed. And algebra.
is Satan's last name? McCormick.
is the last thing that moved you? I'm not often moved, really.
is the freakiest thing in your house? my brother, probably
When.....
is it time to turn over a new leaf? It's usually always a good time to turn over a new leaf. No time like the present.
will you be all that you can be? Never.
is enough enough? When you can't take it anymore
do you go to the dark side? when they have peanut butter cookies instead of brownies
Where....
are your pants? On my legs!
is your last will and testament? non-existant. I'm too young to be that morbid.
is your junk food stash? My digestive system mostly.
is Carmen Sandiego? In my little CD holder thing
Why.....
was the Lone Ranger alone? Body odor?
was The Scarlet Letter scarlet? Don't tell my English teacher... and because red represents sin and impurity. Who came up with what colors represent anyway?
are musicians sexy and plumbers not? Music is sexier than sewage. There's nothing glamous under my sink.
are there no seat belts on school buses? Beause students would constantly be hitting each other with them, vandalizing them, and otherwise causing more harm than the occasional wreck does.
Would you....
swim the English Channel for a doughnut and coffee? Um, no.That's far from a fair trade.
If not that, what? peanut butter cookies maybe?
forgive someone who deliberately hurt you? Deliberately? no.
rather believe a lie if it hurt you less than the truth? No. Ignorance may be bliss, but it's also ignorance.
you still be alive if you were sucked out of an airplane window? I'm thinking not.
Would you just float around in space for while? Beats me. Stupid question. And I refuse to think about it anymore.
Well that wasn't very entertaining, was it?
Next time I'll try to find something with more interesting questions.
I picked this one because it reminded me of the essential journalisty questions, I guess.
And the original had pretty pictures that I have no idea how to post on here.
Whatever.
I will now cease this gigantic time waste.
Oct 3, 2009
All the world's a stage...
We always think of the past in terms of change.
"When I was young..."
"A few years ago we didn't..."
"It hasn't always been this way..."
But last night, as I sat watching a brilliant production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, it was easy to believe that some things truly don't change.
After all, Shakespeare wrote those words hundreds of years ago, and here is a group of high schoolers forfeiting their Friday night to hear them. Though the language is old (and beautiful, depending on your tastes), much of it still lives today. We unwittingly use words Shakespeare first penned, and his plots and reproduced over and over again.
And it's no mystery why these things don't die as easily as his characters seem to do. There's a reason the lines resound as easily with teenagers as the audiences of old. There isn't a high school student in the world who hasn't felt the sting of unrequited love, that can't sympathize with Helena as she clings to Demetrius and he pulls her around the stage or with Hermia's confusion as her love Lysander suddenly has changed his mind. Or even with Puck as he expresses remorse over his misdeeds before telling the audience not to be alarmed, it's all simply a dream.
These human emotions are timeless and unchanging. Even though we'd like to turn a nostalgic eye on the past, what matters always seems to stay the same.
"When I was young..."
"A few years ago we didn't..."
"It hasn't always been this way..."
But last night, as I sat watching a brilliant production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, it was easy to believe that some things truly don't change.
After all, Shakespeare wrote those words hundreds of years ago, and here is a group of high schoolers forfeiting their Friday night to hear them. Though the language is old (and beautiful, depending on your tastes), much of it still lives today. We unwittingly use words Shakespeare first penned, and his plots and reproduced over and over again.
And it's no mystery why these things don't die as easily as his characters seem to do. There's a reason the lines resound as easily with teenagers as the audiences of old. There isn't a high school student in the world who hasn't felt the sting of unrequited love, that can't sympathize with Helena as she clings to Demetrius and he pulls her around the stage or with Hermia's confusion as her love Lysander suddenly has changed his mind. Or even with Puck as he expresses remorse over his misdeeds before telling the audience not to be alarmed, it's all simply a dream.
These human emotions are timeless and unchanging. Even though we'd like to turn a nostalgic eye on the past, what matters always seems to stay the same.
Oct 1, 2009
Zzzzzzz
I haven't posted as much lately as I'd like to. Usually, an idea will just present itself in my mind and stay firmly stuck there until I pour it out into this lovely medium. But such things, instead of lodging themselves in my cranium, are passing through as quickly as they come, not stopping long enough to bother me into writing about them.
In Psychology, my professor displayed the symptoms of sleep deprivation on his PowerPoint. I yawned, struggled to open my eyes, and saw myself in obnoxious yellow font a blue background. It's not like I don't know that I'm sleep deprived. That's pretty darn obvious to anyone. But the last symptom scared/intrigued me. Microsleeps.
Apparently, if you get so far into sleep deprivation, your body will start forcing you asleep at random two-three second intervals throughout the day, completely subconsciously. I'm a little scared. My body can just rule me incompetent and take over at any time. "Since this moron is obviously unable to sleep at the regularly scheduled hours, we'll just make her!"
Being out of control generally disturbs me. This involuntary response is definitely uncontrollable. While it's probably extremely rare and you have to stay awake for 3 days straight in order to provoke it, that doesn't stop me from constantly thinking I've just awoken from a microsleep.
When I fail my driver's test, I can simply say I was microsleeping.
When I'm not paying attention in math class, microsleeping.
When my mind wanders during conversation, microsleeping.
You get the point.
So I haven't been blogging much because... you guessed it. Microsleeping.
So there is another weirdo irrational paranoia to add to my list.
I think I should probably catch some megasleep now.
In Psychology, my professor displayed the symptoms of sleep deprivation on his PowerPoint. I yawned, struggled to open my eyes, and saw myself in obnoxious yellow font a blue background. It's not like I don't know that I'm sleep deprived. That's pretty darn obvious to anyone. But the last symptom scared/intrigued me. Microsleeps.
Apparently, if you get so far into sleep deprivation, your body will start forcing you asleep at random two-three second intervals throughout the day, completely subconsciously. I'm a little scared. My body can just rule me incompetent and take over at any time. "Since this moron is obviously unable to sleep at the regularly scheduled hours, we'll just make her!"
Being out of control generally disturbs me. This involuntary response is definitely uncontrollable. While it's probably extremely rare and you have to stay awake for 3 days straight in order to provoke it, that doesn't stop me from constantly thinking I've just awoken from a microsleep.
When I fail my driver's test, I can simply say I was microsleeping.
When I'm not paying attention in math class, microsleeping.
When my mind wanders during conversation, microsleeping.
You get the point.
So I haven't been blogging much because... you guessed it. Microsleeping.
So there is another weirdo irrational paranoia to add to my list.
I think I should probably catch some megasleep now.
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