Sylvia Says

As usual, John Green got me thinking about something.

Quotes. I love quotes. But it's kind of a weird thing if you think about it. Why do we love quotes so much? We're just stealing other people's thoughts and ideas and putting them on tshirts, car bumpers, motivational posters, our master's thesis. It's like an acceptable form of plagiarism. We can say exactly what we want to say, but we don't have to own up to it completely because Ghandi said it first. But I love quotes nonetheless, giving me the opportunity to steal from the smart ones and use their brilliance for my own personal gain.

Anyway, John was talking about how the quotes we love, when quoted, lose their original context and enter a whole new one- the context of our lives.

I keep a real, paper journal and in it I often copy down quotes from things I read that I like. Sometimes I go back and read them later and whatnot. But I've never really looked at them as a whole, and wondered why I liked them. So here I go.

From The Bell Jar:

I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should anymore. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, and this made even sadder and more tired.

Well, my first instinct is to simply say, "that's true." It seems like, most of the time, I simply do what I have to, not what I should or even shouldn't. Some people live their lives in defiance, doing whatever it is they think somebody doesn't want them to do. I think that's silly. Some people do absolutely whatever it takes, whatever the rules dictate, to put themselves in good standing. I don't really do that either. That sort of begs the question, what am I doing then? I live somewhere in the middle, doing what I need to do to get by, with no extremes and no excitement. Usually, I'm the highest advocate of moderation, but in this case, it only makes me "sadder and more tired."

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

I just thought this was funny, and probably true. I don't have the experience to back that up, but I do believe there are just some experiences that two people cannot go through without growing closer. This quote always reminds me of a line in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, something about how fighting the troll in the bathroom cemented Harry, Hermione, and Ron's friendship. While that sounds horribly childish and all, there's definitely some truth to the concept and it's something I rather like the idea of.

It mightn't make make me any happier, but it would be one more little pebble of efficiency among all the other pebbles.

I really liked this originally because it hit upon a concept that I'd always been subconsciously aware of but hadn't articulated. There's a certain feeling of accomplishment, maybe superficial or maybe not, of completing some sort of task that was assigned to you. Busywork, if the term must be used. Perhaps it's just knowing you've done something that somebody else wanted you to; you're that pebble of efficiency, flowing with the current instead of against it.

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.

If Sylvia had any wits about her and this statement has any truth to it, then I should be locked up in the funny farm immediately. My life is but a series of wanting mutually exclusive things at once. I'm horrible at making decisions- perhaps I'm just neurotic. Please, give me an excuse. I'd love to know why I agonize over things, sometimes wanting two completely opposite things all at once. I think this might be a universal experience, human nature to want it all, but when you're standing there weighing the options, however big or small, you feel horribly alone. Like a neurotic person in a padded cell.

Well, I could go through the oh so many other quotes I've pilfered, but it would be so long and even more boring than this already is. So I'll leave it at quotes pulled from this one, beloved work, and maybe analyze myself further at a later date.

Career Counselling at VIP Menswear

Yesterday, I glimpsed into my friend's future. It was unsettling.

Perhaps I'm just too ideological (see: title) or perhaps I'm too cynical, or perhaps a little of both. But at the age of 18, he has mapped out his entire life, pushing mundane wares and living for the next promotion, that comes with some small impressive-sounding vacation.

But my problem is, that vacation lasts a day or two or maybe even a week. You work for it the other 362 days a year.

He kept saying, "I'm not having as much fun now, but I can retire when I'm 40 and have all the fun I could ever want."

In theory, that sounds pretty good. But when you think about it, is that really the best approach? What makes life "fun"?

People. Family and friends. They're a necessity. Where do people make lifelong friendships that carry into adulthood? College and work. Where will he be spending his college and first few working years? Selling himself into oblivion for a week-long vacation and a fluffy title. By the time he's 40, he might have all the money he needs or wants. But who is going to have the fun with? His precious knives?

This guy in a tux shop was reinforcing my friend's plans. "There aren't many young people like yourself these days. It's a shame. No ambition, no opening of opportunities." I'm thinking," dude, you sell suit coats in a mall store. " His 18-year-old ambition worked out for him...

Lately, I've been agonizing over my choice of major, of career path. Money, job security, everything like that truly does matter. My friend has plenty of financial security right now, and it will probably carry him through college. My financial future is uncertain.

But I don't want to be tied to some mundane career path because I *might* be an executive by the time I'm 23. When I'm 23, I want to be 23, not 40 years old. I want to be a college student, not a college student on the side. I want to experience each stage of life when I'm standing on that stage. I don't want to miss any more than I already have.

What is financial security when you're miserable? He's already coordinating his life around his high school job. I want my life to be my main priority. I want to seek happiness, not a paycheck.

That experience helped me to realize my true priorities. It's easy to get caught up in the numbers of things, like my friend. He's so taken in by the brainwashing of his bosses who just want somebody to run the footwork for them. I'm not going to settle for the work in front of me. I'm going to find the work I want to do. I might not be rich by the time I'm 23, but I won't be doling out life advice to teenagers in tux shops when I'm 40.

It doesn't feel like a blog entry

It doesn't feel like late at night unless I only have my desk lamp on.

It doesn't feel like morning unless I hear weird bluegrass music from my muffled alarm clock.

It doesn't feel like precalc unless I'm eating vending machine junk.

It doesn't feel like Tuesday or Thursday unless I'm hiking across campus with 20 detours.

It doesn't feel like the afternoon unless I'm falling asleep under my book until Zack's doorbell wakes me up.

It doesn't feel like summertime without the freshly uncovered pool water glittering outside my window.

It doesn't feel like riding home without getting stuck behind some farm apparatus.

It doesn't feel like tv night without fighting over the couch seat.

It doesn't feel like music without those familiar notes.

It doesn't feel like reading without that fresh papery smell.

It doesn't feel like I have anything important to say tonight.

Idiosyncrasy

I enjoy that word.
And the concept it evokes.

Before one of my professors went absolutely nuts today (including choking himself, beating his defenseless gradebook, coffee cup, textbook, and pen on the table, and having a Cajun conversation with himself), he was talking about the concept of just how freakin' weird everybody is. (Ironically...)

Anyhow, that set my mind into a fury of thought. We are all extremely weird. We all have these little quirks and things that would be totally impossible to explain to somebody else and have it make sense. Except that is what I try to do a lot on this blog. Make my idiosyncrasy make sense.

And I supposed they all do make sense, if you trace them back to whenever I started doing/having/exhibiting them. Some of them I'd never be able to trace. But since I'm the only person that's been me for 18 years, I'm the only person with the ability to fully understand myself and my own personal brand of weird.

Besides, what exactly are all these things that make up me, and the personality and traits and characteristics that have come together to create a bundle of person that is Samantha? It's different to everyone.

To the government, I'm my name, my birthday, my social security number. A string of numbers that make up me, the statistics I just bubbled on the census form--Caucasian, biological daughter, dependent.

To my family, I'm a daughter, a sister, of keeper of the cat treats. The bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. The doer of dishes and the hater of the restaurant you love. I'm a joke whether you feel like one or not and a hug when you get home, whether you want it or not. I'm the spender of too much money and the source of debate. The occupier of the first (and best) couch cushion on tv night.

To my school, I'm rank number seven, Journalism major, newspaper person, rule obeyer, test score achiever. Secretary, keeper of the notification emails, annoyer of the general populous. I'm the same seat every other day, occupier of the couches. I'm a question about grades, an attendance screw-up, the person that knows where the Easter eggs are at any given moment.

To my friends, I'm always up until one, willing to discuss the banal and profound. To some, I'm a religious debate and debacle, to others a mere form of entertainment. Something to bounce ideas off or or somebody to tell your troubles to. I'm last night's homework assignment or a person to show a youtube clip. Words on a screen, a contact in a phone, an address on a street. Maybe I'm just a warm body so you don't feel alone.

To me, what am I? Am I simply a collection of what everyone thinks I am or do I have a personal identity all of my own, selfishly hoarded in my own brain? Am I all the thoughts I don't voice? Am I every book I've ever read, song I've listened to, movie I've seen, tv show I've watched? Am I every piece of information that's passed through my brain, every place my feet have walked?

Am I the words I choose to string together at this very moment? Am I the inexplicable things, the way my legs are shaking for no reason at this very moment? The way I sit when I type, the way I always sleep with my arms under my pillow? My messy desktop or the things pinned to my bulletin board? What I drink, what I eat, the air I breathe?

Or am I simply a page of rhetorical questions sprawled across a page?

Zacky-Poo

The other day I arrived at what I thought was a startling revelation: my brother is the only person that I've known for their entire life.

I remember when he made a grand entrance into this word; I remember his first steps; I remember the first time he careened over the side of his crib; I remember him crying with pure anger on his first day of school; I remember his first video game (that was actually mine); I remember more of his life than he does.

I know every nuance of his existence, simply because I've spent more time with him than any other human on this earth. I know all his favorite foods (even the crap, fake pizza from Golden Coral) and how he doesn't eat the grape Sweetarts (gives them to me). I know how he never sleeps at the same angle is his bed every night. I know how he never picks up a drink until he finishes his entire meal. I know how his hair won't lay flat in some places and how it reacts the exact same way mine does to sun, chlorine, and rain.

Even though we're about as different as two siblings we can be, there are certain experiences that link us intricately and uniquely. I didn't teach anyone else how to play every board game on the planet or the good seats on the bus or the finer points of surviving school lunches. I didn't invent games (such as the infamous "zzz zzz" that annoyed mom to no end and the ever-pleasant "Toss the Rufum") that only we know the rules to with very many other people. I didn't ride in the backseat of a mini-van, fighting over which VHS to watch or what course to play on Mario Kart ("NOT Rainbow Road!" "But you picked last time!" "But I'm older!" " But I'm winning!"), or making up extensive stories with stuffed animals (who occasionally broke into vigorous dance to whatever was on the radio) so he wouldn't ask "are we there yet?" with anyone else.

Some of my favorite weekends have been spent holed up in his room, playing massive video game marathons all day, only breaking to eat and fight. We would laugh and laugh and laugh until mom came in to see what was so funny, but neither of us could explain it adequately.

Sometimes, when I begin to feel overwhelmed, I retreat back to that place. Our marathons have grown scarce since we've both grown into teenhood, but this Saturday, we left our cell-phone-facebook-teenager clogged worlds behind, and lost ourselves to Raving Rabids, Blow Pops, and our patented "That's-what-she-said" wars.

Every morning as he exits the (debatable) safe shelter of my car and hurries into worlds unknown, in his 13-year-old boy standard-issue hobo uniform, I want to grab the handle of his bookbag and pull him back in with all the pseudo-motherly strength of an older sister. I know what happens in that place and he's morphing into a new human being, one that I don't know. One I can't watch grow up as closely from the confines of a play pen.

But I don't have to be scared, because as different as we may be, we come from the same foundation. Two people made of the same substance growing in different directions. He can never grow too far away from me. After all, we'll always have "Toss the Rufum."

Summer

I cannot express how much I wish it were summer right now, but I'll try anyway.

I long for the ability to step outside in minimal clothing-- no ten buttons to clasp, scarves to wrap, bundle, bundle, bundle. No searching for viable socks in the laundry basket; just throw on some flip flops and run out the door.

No dreading going outside every day, the short trek from the porch to the car enough to make me want to go back to bed. The coldness of the steering wheel, like gripping a block of ice and the heat never kicking in until I reach my destination.

No facing the on-coming bitter wind running from building to building. By the time feeling returns to all my appendages, it's time to once more brave the outdoors.

This dramatic account is product of a winter already too long.

I long for lazy evenings spend swimming laps in the pool, then laying beside it, soaking in Jane Austen and the sun, eventually falling asleep and being awoken by a curious cat's pokey paw.

For the piling into the van, both dreading and anticipating the long journey to a land unknown. For the vacation-y feel of a different surrounding, the exciting and unfamiliar buzz in the air, telling you something great is about to happen.

For the feeling of coastal breezes sweeping across my slightly burnt skin as I sit in my favorite dolphins-in-sunglasses beach chair at the edge of the swirling waves. Fish nipping at my toes, avoiding the family with the nets just up the beach. My brother joyously getting knocked down by wave after wave, returning to the dry sand bruised, scratched, beaten, and smiling. Tossing that nameless beach game with the scoopers and wiffle ball back and forth with my dad, him ridiculing my inability to catch five in a row. Abandoning the plastic game for the nerf football, and dad once more ridiculing my inability to catch but complimenting the inexplicable spiral I somehow acquired the ability to throw.

For the obligatory trip to our favorite little amusement park, where we always ride the same rides in the same order. Spinning around and around, laughing the entire time, on the Scrambler, begging Dad to ride until he finally gives in. Handing the camera to Mom, he hops in the cart like the eleven-year-old he thinks he is, but by the end declares "I'm getting to old for this" but smiles anyway.

For sitting on the balcony late at night, watching amateurs shoot off illegal fireworks much too close to the building, applauding the exceptional ones and booing when the law rides by to shut them down.

For the summer trips to my uncle's house, always dreaded but never as bad as you think it's going to be. For exchanging glances when their family launches into an epic power struggle, for being grateful I was born to the brother I was. For riding on their boat, being pulled by the mighty forces and thrown off into the lake at speeds that makes Mom cringe, and watching their little dog wish he was anywhere but in the middle of the lake.

For the summer days when you finally reconnect with a friend you haven't seen since school, being free to talk about things outside of homework and ho-hum.

For laying sprawled on the concrete while Steve Perry sings in the background, looking up at the stars with slightly intoxicated parents as they recount the meanings the dulcet tones have to their lives. For looking up at the stars and laughing slightly at the Mike's Hard influenced interpretation of the constellations and not minding when ants launch World War 3 against my calves.

Maybe it's wrong to wish months of my life away, but oh how I long for summer.

(500) Fabricated Differences Between Men and Women

The "Battle of the Sexes" is some played out crap.
No medium has ever escaped the lure of exploring the concept. Exaggerated portraits of ultra feminists and male chauvinists battling out, and reaching a state of mutual understanding by the end (and usually making out).

But c'mon, that never happens in real life. But gender roles really are ridiculously rampant.

It still amazes me that women get paid less than men for the same jobs and nobody seems to care to do anything about it. Why doesn't it make anybody angry? Where's the picketers? Rosie the Riveters? It just quietly weaves its way into society, into culture, into children.

But this isn't about politics or a bra-burning feminist rant.

I watched (500) Days of Summer tonight. Despite the trying-to-hard-to-be-(quirky) thing it had going, there was something deep in themes that got me thinking. Well, after "Wow, Summer is a colossal bitch."

But was she? (Spoiler Alert!) She told the dude that she didn't want anything serious. That it was all for fun. He just kept ignoring that, putting all his faith into the fairy tale endings he'd been brought up to expect. She was bluffing. She'd end up loving him and they'd live happily ever after. So is it really her fault he didn't take her words at face value? Is it his fault for being naive?

Or is the fault of gender roles, forcing us to think that women can't be callous, unemotional, flippant, fickle. "Players" if I must use the word. She's supposed to fall madly in love with him, not use him for dates and sex and to impress with her absolute quirkiness.

I can't shake the feeling of "man, she's a bitch" though. And I also can't help thinking that if I were prettier (and perhaps quirkier and had a pension of wearing only things in various shades of navy and light blue), I could fall into the same brand of bitchiness. Does this mean I'm a guy? I do prefer to go the bathroom by myself.

But, no, I think we're all simply human. There are some fundamental differences between men and women, but we exaggerate them so greatly so we can have our "battle of the sexes" edition of Survivor. They're both equally capable of being the pining guy counting the days until he sees the girl again and the girl that leads him on by avoiding commitment and then gets married to somebody else.

I could probably go on forever about this, but I'm tired. And need to go do something girly.