What do you get when you cross Christmas with lots of yarn and fabulous patterns?

My annual challenge has arrived: Find Christmas presents for all of my friends while staying within my (rather lacking) budget.
And in my ruminations on how exactly to attain presents for approximately twenty plus people, I realized I could (as they say) kill two birds with one stone.
Remember when I was looking for good knitting patterns, because of my surplus of super nice yarn? Well, it's okay if you don't. But now I've decided to provide for half of my christmas presents by knitting them awesome things. And by awesome, I mean awesome. And easy.

In my search for a koala bear pattern (for a friend of mine who heavily resembles a koala bear. He's also Jewish, but I'm still giving him his present on Christmas, especially since Hannukah starts today, and I haven't even started it), I found a site with a list of fun animal patterns, and I've taken a good lot of ideas from there.
So, lo and behold...
my project list for the next three weeks:

A little Koala
Probably a Tree Ornament
Finger Puppets. BEST GIFT EVER.
Probably more ornaments. Piggy?
And the best one yet: DINOS
On top of this, I'm starting a hat and a scarf so that I don't freeze this winter.
All in all, I ought to be happily knitting very soon.

Winter and Germs and Collard Greens? Oh my, oh my.

Snow has fallen
and stayed fallen
blanketing the mud and green
covering up the cracks
and filling in the potholes
of the roads we crack and curve

Dear winter,
you're here
and so am I.





Thanksgiving break brought snowfall almost everyday. It's not quite enough to make legitimate snowbanks, but it's just a slight blanket over everything. It puts me in a good Christmas mood, which is nice, because there are plenty of seasonal things to do. Friday night will be our annual Classy Christmas Shopping, where we all head downtown to buy presents for each other locally (sneakily, because we all go together...to buy gifts for each other). This year we're making it a ladies night, because we decided not only that it would work better logistically (as in, we can get our gifts for the boys without them being around), but that boys are impatient shoppers. Downtown is not only a great place to shop for Christmas because it tends to be cheaper and much much more unique, as well as local, but because our downtown is so beautiful in the snow. The sun sets super early, so even when we go right after school, the streetlights come up to deter the falling dark and cast everything into a golden orange glow, the snow glistening nearby. Shopowners put up little lights in their windows and wreaths on their doors. The bagel shop puts out a menorah, and there's eggnog and cider enough to make everyone glad.

My beautiful city in the snow

We still haven't picked our collard greens, and I suppose now it's too late. They're a really hardy vegetable, okay to eat after the first frost. But after the first three snows, I'm not so sure.
With winter (which, by the way, is defined by the temperature and snowfall in Maine, not the date) comes a whole 'nother season, one much less pleasant. The season of SICK. Everyone around me has a cold or a flu, so I know that this tickle in the back of my throat has got to be something. Hellooo throatcoat.
I'm of the conviction that all of that crap about using Germ-x or whatever to clear away germs is a load of bullshit. You need germs to live long, and Germ-x doesn't actually kill anything unless you wash your hands right before. There are little hand sanitizer dispensers at places all around my school, and I just want to knock them down with a baseball bat. I mean, some of them make sense, like in the bathroom next to the paper towels. Although, the thought that a lot of girls then bypass actual handwashing for a squirt of alcohol on the palms of their hands is a little nasty. But sometimes, the dispensers are just holstered up in the middle of a hallway. What? Hold up guys, I've just gotta smear a glob of chemicals onto my hands before I walk into Spanish class.

It is time to bid adieu to my lovely bicycle, at least until next spring. Goodbye, dear. It's been a wonderful season.

What's Happening? Well, I'll Tell Ya What's Happening...

I honestly have never been a fan of Thanksgiving. It makes me feel gluttonous, and means we have to clean.

But this year, it's not so bad. Especially since the break from school was well needed (yeah, that whole thing about Junior year being from hell was preeetty much true). Tuesday night, my friends and I partook in what will surely become a great tradition. We settled in together with cocoa and blankets, a wholesome scene, to be sure...and watched Thankskilling. Great choice guys. Really, it was classy. I recommend it to all who don't mind awful acting, bestiality, and profanity.

This was followed up by an extremely chilly game of Turkey Disc. Everyone who showed up gets an intensity medal, just for being there. It was snowing slightly, and the mud was freezing beneath our feet, but we trooped on, if only to preserve our dignity.

Tuesday, my creative writing teacher told us about the Turkey Trek happening in the City Forest. Four miles, at your own pace. Bring food for the food cupboard. Eight AM. I tentatively raised my hand to say I might show up. And for some disgustingly strange reason, I got up this morning at seven, and did it. The only reason I went was because I convinced my friend to do it with me, meaning that I couldn't back out without being a wuss. Speaking of dignity...

So I hopped on my bike, and rode to his house (coldest ride of my entire life, by the way), from where we drove out to the forest. Four miles doesnt seem like much, but I am nothing of a runner. Zilch. No running. Not since I quit track my freshman year. Once or twice a year, I'll convince my gullible self that I can run, and that it will make me a better person, but it ends with me going for a few (slow and taxing) runs, hurting my lungs or my achilles, and then calling it good. Beyond that, I disc. The. End.

So, God only knows what I was doing in the middle of the woods on Thanksgiving day at eight in the morning with running shoes on. We jogged and walked alternately, because my asthma didn't respond well to the weather, but I did it, and that's all that counts, right? [I almost have myself convinced that I'm a runner now. Becca, you champ!]

On a mostly unrelated topic, I have a cat.

Sort of.

One of my friends has a cat, who has downsyndrome. Or, at least that's what they presume, because she's really really really stupid and has crossed eyes [thanks very much, siamese inbreeding]. Her name is Squeaky [actually, it's Miko, but she only responds to Squeaky], and we were meant to be.

So, she's on loan. We've taken to calling her Squawky, because that's more what her little "MAOW MAOW"s sound like. Little Squawky thought that five thirty was an excellent time to come into my room and squawk at me for a half an hour. This means war.

Thoughts on the Beginning of Winter, as Snow Drifts Lazily By

I'm in the library, where I am dreading even this two-day week.
Soft, speckly snowflakes are traipsing by the large windows, and I am ready for christmas music.
I like Christmas music, at least in the beginning. It's all so hopeful and charming, and it's all about the times that I love. But, I refuse to start listening to it until after Thanksgiving. Some radio stations begin playing it even before Black Friday, but I won't, won't, won't turn them on. It's got to be properly cold, properly initiated, properly begun.

The world is so beautiful in snow, and I'm wondering if that's because the ugliness of the ground is covered up, and beautified in the glistening, blinding white, or if it's because the cold, hostile winter brings hope of an even more beautiful spring.
I love winter, not just for the snow and the chaos of the season, but also because it means needing to snuggle up inside, and drinking hot cocoa, and it means that we have to find adventure for ourselves and hibernate in each other's company. Maybe that's why it's beautiful.

The Acadia Challenge, or, We'll Just Butt-Slide Down This One

This past Sunday, I went with a few friends to Acadia. Acadia national park is probably the best known park in Maine, besides Baxter (but that's only because of Katahdin). In the summer months, Mount Desert Island (where the park is housed) is swamped with nature-going tourists. It's a really lovely park, mostly wild, with trails and bike paths and natural wonders scattered throughout.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend about how we ought to go hiking more, as we both want to someday thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. But it's getting late in the season for hiking. The air has turned cold and harsh, and mountains will be crusted over with ice. So we took this as our last opportunity for hiking before we'll have to switch to winter gear.

Mission: The Acadia Challenge

-Hike as many mountains in Acadia as we can in one day.

So, the three of us set out wicked wicked early to get to Acadia in time for the daylight. We could see our breath as we began, and I hadn't bothered to take off my pajamas- I just put the fleece pants on over my hiking shorts. We started out on Bald mountain, then, over the course of five hours, peaked at Parkman, Sargent, Penobscot, North and South Bubbles, Pemetic, and the Triad. There was another peak somewhere around Bald, Parkman and Sargent, but it wasn't expected and isn't on the map. Nine mountains, in just under five hours. We only covered about (with finger guesstimation and a map) ten miles total, but a lot of those miles were steep uphill or leaf-covered, cliff-side downhill. Around Sargent and Penobscot, we had to choose between a steep, watery trail, and another one that featured iron rungs down a cliff face ( we opted for the steep one. Iron rungs in cold weather could be disasterous). On another ( Pemetic, maybe?), the choice was between the ravine trail and the ledge, a series of near vertical, smooth granite patches that we had to scramble up. The scariest part though, was going down steep boulder-ridden mountain sides covered in leaves. They've been left, since pretty much no one is going to be out hiking by now, and they'll disintegrate over the winter. But they make it very difficult to know where to put your feet, and it's tricky walking over them, because it's easy to lose your footing.

After our ninth mountain, we went down a side trail towards Jordan Pond House, where we were meeting our ride, and ignoring the signs about wading and swimming and no body contact, we hopped out to a large boulder off the shore of Jordan Pond on smaller rocks, and sat, drinking in the sight of all of the mountains we had just cruised over. It was a good feeling, despite the aches in my ankles and knees, knowing that I had just climbed all that, and been able to keep up with my significantly taller friends.

Next Mission: Winter Hiking in Virginia

Confidence level: Non-existent.

Our path, but on the trails, of course.

Squashing Squirrels, or, My Weird Love For Roadkill Poetry, or, I've Been Too Sarcastic Lately.

In Response to a Comment About My Talent For Reciting Poems About Roadkill, And My Realization That I Would Probably Die If I Ever Ran A Squirrel Over...

On my bicycle one day
whipping through the wilderness
of outer Essex street
I squashed
a squirrel
under my skinny street tire.
I have always wondered
what might happen to
the acorns
stashed in the squirrels
cheeks
when it is flattened along the road.
I found my answer
and with rain dripping from my eyeballs,
I peddled on
with acorn bits on my tires.

This is Just to Say

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

- William Carlos Williams

This is Just to Say

I had injected

those plums,

which you had expected

to delight

your stomach,

with arsenic.

Forgive me,

but my

immunity has been built,

and you should

have known better

to leave someone else's plums

well enough alone.

---

This is just to say

just in case

those plums were a metaphor,

I too have eaten

The Plums.

Your two plums,

to be precise,

which you were

probably hoping

to indulge in

in the near future.

Sorry.

[In case you have failed to understand

the subtleties of my metaphorical sarcasm

in this note to you...]

I must tell you frankly.

Forgive me:

But you should take

better care of your Plums.

They were so rotten

and so bitter.

---

This is Just to Say

I stole your heart

last Friday night

even though

you were probably

trying to keep it

until you could

steal mine.

Forgive me.

It was so warm

and so flattering.

---

This is Just to Say

I stuck a marshmallow

on your back

in second grade.

Your mother was

probably mad

[definitely perplexed]

when the sticky goo

held on tight

to the fibers of your teeshirt.

So sorry.

But the look

on your face

when you found it later that night

was so sweet

and so gooey.

---

This is Just to Say

I redug the hole

in the middle of the park

after you had

filled it up,

probably because

you were scared

of being swallowed in

by its immense girth.

I am

so very sorry.

But forgive me,

because

I like that hole,

and I look at my feet

when I walk.

---

This is Just to Say

I found your note

concerning the plums.

Forgive me.

I cannot marry you.

And They Wonder Why My Hands Are Always Cold, or, Sometimes I Wish I Could Fly. I mean drive.

At some point, biking becomes inconvenient.
Up he'uh in Maine, yahknow, it getsah bit chilleh.
I know I haven't talked too much about biking since this summer, but I assure you, I'm still peddling around like a little girl on training wheels.
My house is conveniently located near, well, everything. I can easily access the grocery store, my thrift store, several outlets and little touristy cafes with just a ten minute bike ride. Which is cool and all. But it means my parents can hold out on my driver's license and not feel guilty.
Because biking around is good for me, right? Sure.
And I like it, right? Welll...
There are definitely times (i.e., this entire week) when I'd rather just have a car, no matter how awesome my bicycle is. It gets cold. Very cold. If any of you are from here, or have been up here, it really does get cold. It's not too bad yet, but it's been storming, and the wind has been enormous. Add onto that preexisting windchill the wind whipping past me as ride downhill to downtown, and it's a bit colder than one might enjoy.
Which is why I'm making a new invention. I'm going to call it the pope-icicle. The Popicle. Nope. The Popsicle.
It's modeled after the pope mobile, and involves a bell of warmth sheilding the bike rider from the outside world, so that one may bike ride in all of the comforts of summer. It comes complete with a synthesized springtime scene portrayed onto the surroundings. Tired of snow? Hop in your Popsicle and your winter woes will be cured!

Oh, I wish. Until then, I'll invest in a set of gloves so that my fingers will stop getting stuck to my frozen brake handles.

Updates on everything:
I am sitting here in my studly hall, the hall of studs (or, not so much. The hall of duds), and I am surrounded here, in the library, by level two science kids doing a project on atomic energy. One of them, two to my right, is incessantly smack, smack, smacking his gum, his lips, his mouth, his keyboard, and I just want to smack smack smack him in the head. CUT IT OUT!

Okay. Now that that's done with. I had my meeting with the superintendent last week. The issue about fundraising was a...misunderstanding. If I understood. As far as having our coach attend nationals, I got shut down. She basically just said no, because it's taxpayer money. Even if we paid for the substitute teacher. She said no.
Witch.
But not really. It's a difficult situation to be in as an administrator, and I get that. I'm just being a big baby, because I didn't get the answer I wanted, and want to just pound my fists on the floor.

Mr. Thirsty, or, why I hate the Dentist's Office.

Today, I went to the dentist. Now, let me start out by telling you that I pretty much detest going to the dentist. I hate having someone tug around the bottom of my teeth for an hour, poking and prodding and making my gums bleed. I abhor the way hygienists ask questions about school and life, and you either have to talk around their hands and tools, or hold up the proceedings to say, "I'm taking French four, Honors English, the lowest math class possible, chem-friggingstry, acting, music, and everything else". Yeah. The dentist's stopped being awesome after the treasure chest was closed to me, when I turned thirteen.

I've also had general bad luck when it comes to my dentists, as in the people. Multiple, because they tend to die or succumb to a similar fate. Maybe I'm being dramatic, but the first one did die, of being ancient, and the last one just had a stroke, so couldn't be a dentist anymore.
The situation is actually very tragic. He was a very sweet old man with big glasses and a balding head. At the end of every visit, he would shuffle into the room, and peer down into my mouth. I always liked the fact that I was able to see a clear reflection of the inside of my mouth in his glasses. It is far more entertaining to actually watch someone prodding and poking and stabbing around in your mouth than to just experience it. "Bite and smile", he would command. I chomped my teeth together and grinned for him. "Perfect. Beautiful teeth. You're so lucky." He said the same thing every time, unfailingly finding my dentures perfect and beautiful.
Well, then he stroked, and now I have a new dentist. Two new dentists actually. As opposed to my old dentist's office, which was just a team of one dentist and four hygienists, located in a little house, now I go to an office, with two dentists and God knows how many hygienists.
The first thing I noticed walking in was the smell of the office, sterile and rubbery, like latex lathered in hand sanitizer. The waiting room was uniform and neat. I filled out my forms, waited, and was scooted into a room.
I almost wish I could be a dentist someday so that I could fix one of the biggest issues present to mankind: Decor in doctor's and dentist's offices. Without fail, there's always one of the following:
-A mass produced Georgia O'Keefe print. Of a flower, obviously.
- Norman Rockwell. Clever and mildly entertaining.
-Other floral/scenic/quaint paintings. Always stomach-innards wretchingly boring.

My point is this: When you're sitting in the dentist or doctor's office for an hour, an hour and a half, there's never anything interesting to look at. This problem must be fixed, because I think it clearly causes depression (Fun fact: Dentists have the highest suicide rate of any occupation, closely followed by psychiatrists). The hygienist gave me a pair of HUGE, ugly sunglasses as I sat in the big victim's chair, telling me that they were for my eyes, so they didn't hurt in the bright light. Oh. Okay. The last time I had been handed sunglasses in the dentists office, I was eleven. Great.
But there was nowhere to put the sunglasses to reject them, and no polite way to put them aside without betraying what I was thinking, which was something along the lines of "I'm sixteen. I don't want these. I don't even want to be here. Please don't poke and prod, metaphorically and literally. Kay, thanks, bye."
She poked and prodded and scraped my teeth and gums for about thirty minutes. It was unbearable. By far, this is one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world. I especially hate it when they take that little hook and get it between your two middle bottom teeth, and tug. I'm always scared that they'll pull it out.
This new hygienist also didn't tell me to rinse when she polished my teeth. Instead, she used that sucky thing that pretty much sucks out your soul, and all the moisture in your mouth. It got me thinking- When you're younger, they tell you that it's called Mr. Thirsty. Obviously that's not actually what it's called. You're supposed to use it or ask for it for different procedures in the dentists office, but they never tell you it's real name, and no adult is going to say, "Can I use Mr. thirsty?"
I hate the dentists.

Halloween! BOO!

I thought I'd be waiting a lot longer to say this. Hoooboy, here it goes...

It snowed yesterday. That's right, a snowy halloween! I woke up, and looking out my window, the first thingI saw was slanted white flakes drilling by. I was so confused that I had to open up the window and stick my head out to make myself believe and understand it.
I was expecting it to continue snowing for about a half an hour, but it just snowed..and snowed and snowed and snowed.
Not much of it stuck, and it stopped snowing around twelve thirty. The aftermath was a wet, muddy ground and a chill in the air.
But did that stop us? Of course not!

Halloween was met with a day full of costume disc (frisbee, but in ridiculous costumes. Most of us opted to keep our shoes on today, considering the risks of hypothermia) and (sort of) scary movies.
When I was growing up, I had a friend whose family didn't celebrate halloween. I think we all know a family like this, someone who's religious and believes that participating in the traditions of such a pagan holiday would be sacreligious. I always felt sort of bad for her, because while we were out getting candy, they were out at the bowling alley, in normal clothes instead of costumes. And the costumes are the best part. Sometimes, I wish I could just dress in weird clothes whenever I feel like it. I should.
I'm pretty sure I'd just look like a freak every day.

On a completely separate note: Nanowrimo has begun. No more blogging, no more fun.
I'll probably be gone for awhile, because I'll be using this study hall for my nanowrimo project, which will hopefully go over better than last year.

On another completely different note, today is my dad's birthday! Happy...47th? Dad!

Recap of the Gubernatorial Forum

The debate last night was a success, at least on our end of the spectrum. We had been told by our administration to make the presentation as professional as possible. Their goal for the night: Make the school look good. They didn't care so much about the candidates, just so long as we looked good. Well, I for one cared about the candidates.
The forum focused mostly on the education issues that will be facing the next governor, whoever that may be.
For those of you not familiar with the Maine elections, Here are the candidates, listed in order of poll results, highest to lowest.
Paul Lepage
Libby Mitchell
Eliot Cutler
Shawn Moody
Kevin Scott

Out of all of the candidates many speeches last night, I got the most of of Cutler's, Lepage's, and Scott's speeches. Moody and Mitchell fell short. I like most of Scott's ideas, but he does need a little bit more substance. His speaking skills were phenominal, and I went up to him after the forum and told him so. He thanked me, and we launched into a ten minute discussion. One thing Scott has emphasized throughout the entire campaign process is that he isn't really a politician. He doesn't come from a political background, and he uses this as an advantage. I think it's a unique way to go about campaigning, and I love some of his ideas for how to run the state and fix our problems, but he's the lowest in the polls, and needs some more umph in his campaign. I can't remember if it was he or Moody who didn't take their public campaigning money, but if it was Scott, hoooboy, he should have.
I have a Cutler sign outside of my house, and I support him the most out of all of the candidates. One thing I noted last night was the manner in which the candidates answered the questions that we, the students, presented. Going from left to right from my point of view, Scott made a point to use your name and look at you and only sometimes at the audience or the camera. Moody looked mostly at the camera, and a little bit at you, and also made sure to use your name, Mitchell... well, heaven only knows where she was looking. I think she was aiming at the camera, but from my angle, it looked more like she was talking to a fly on the ceiling of the auditorium, head held high like a day dreamer. She didn't look at me even once. Lepage gave the camera and the questioner equal attention, used names, but mostly talked about policy. It was an efficient way to deal with the questions- I was impressed, despite my general dislike for the man. Cutler, however, really impressed me. Perhaps he had an advantage, because he was closest to the questioner, but he made it a point to look directly at you the entire time he was answering the question. For him, it was about answering YOUR question, not turning every question into a chance to campaign. I felt like all of his answers were honest and down to earth, and I respect him for that.
I was also incredibly impressed when, after the debate, both Cutler and Scott remembered not only my name, but the names of all of the other students around me. There's something to be said for charisma.
Lepage's answers, I think, had the most information in them. His plans do make a good deal of sense, and I like some of his positions quite a lot. However, he's shown a lack of diplomatic ability- something that's very important to have as governor of Maine, or any state. I'm not just talking about his "get the hell out of my state" comment, but his entire campaign. He was well behaved last night, though, so he gets a brownie for that.
All of this having been said, I have to admit that I'm not the most politically minded person on the planet. I am swayed sometimes by emotion, and am not always well read on the issues. But I do think it's important that the voice of youth be heard before the elections. Your decision affects us too. Most of all, everyone needs to vote, and understand what they're voting on before they go. I know, I sound like a nagging public service announcement, but it's true and you know it. Just do it.

Go Fight City Hall, or At Least the Superintendent.

Tonight is the night of the gubernatorial debate, and it's going to be a long day. Tune in, if any of you get ABC.

Yesterday, Dad got an e-mail from our superintendent, concerning the letter I sent her. As far as I know, it said nothing besides requesting an "audience" (her word, not mine. It's an interesting choice of words, and it indicates and ego complex, if you ask me..) with myself, dad, and our principal (Mr. N). It took her three weeks to get back to me, and she didn't even get back to ME. I'm sorry, but if someone takes the time and trouble to send you a carefully planned letter, you ought to do your best to return the favor. It's not like she's celebrity status or anything. I'm sure she has more important things to worry about, but...really? I have to be a little offended that after proving that I am capable of thinking for myself and acting like an adult, I deserve to be treated like an adult.
So, the way I figure, this could go one of two ways:
1. Oh, shniekie, I'm in trouble. The superintendent wants us to drop the issue and just keep our heads down and do as we're told. Bad dog! Sit!
If this happens, of course, dad, as an employee, has to say "yes, ma'am". I think he's under the impression that that's what I'd say, too. But I'm not obligated to say "yes, ma'am". I'll say ma'am, of course, but I think it'll be more along the lines of "No, thanks very much, ma'am. I'm right, and you know it".
2. She actually wants to discuss her reasoning and why she is or is not planning on changing her policies.

I'm almost hoping for the first option, because this one is a whole lot more fun, even if we do get in trouble. The more difficulty we have getting what we want, the more people can get involved. I was telling my fellow debaters about the situation, at one of our tournaments, and they got very fired up. They're ready to go to a school board meeting and (respectfully) speak their minds. It makes a captain proud. Either way, I got the meeting, and that does say something. I suppose I shouldn't be too offended that they contacted dad rather than me- I have to pick my battles. But by George, I'm going to win the ones that I do pick.

Growing Intolerance

My family used to go strawberry picking every spring or summer. There are several different farms around that produce whole fields of the bright red berries, and depending on the prices, we'd go to a different one every year. My parents always warned me about pesticides, but I would sneak a few of the juicy red fruits into my mouth when they weren't looking. After we finished picking, the old man at the gate who ran the strawberry field would jokingly tell me that he was going to do a tongue check to make sure I didn't eat any. He must have known by my bright red tongue, but he always laughed and then just let my parents pay for the ones we picked.
We'd return home with arms full of the little green cartons filled to the brim with big, triangular, deeply rouged berries, and I would hurry for them, enjoying every ripe bite with sugar or without. We never cooked with them, really. We just ate them, plain and simple, sometimes with whipped cream and other times with cereal.
They were my favorite food, but I never really realized. One year, we brought home even more than usual, a bumper crop of strawberries in our hands. And I ate them. Probably more than my little body could hold. I don't think I realized I was eating so many strawberries, but since they were going fast, I must have been. Strawberries with breakfast, strawberries for lunch and after dinner. If I was going out into the yard, I brought a handful, just in case I was out there for a long time and got hungry. I rode my bicycle with a handful of them, I'd sneak out of bed to grab a few, I'd bring them to my room when I was playing with my dolls. They must have disappeared in just a few days. And then, one morning, I woke up, and I scratched.
My stomach. My arms. My neck. All bright pink with spots and scratches. My mom took a glance at them, and concluded that I must be allergic to strawberries. When I shouted my dismay, she admitted that it could also be the pesticides. She returned to her reading, and sulking, I walked away.
It wasn't the pesticides, unfortunately for me. Since then, I have lusted after strawberries. For awhile after my diagnosis, I would still eat everything strawberry. Since I grew into the allergy, and it wasn't severe at first, my parents still kept the fruit in the house. I distinctly remember a night when my father had bought a container of strawberry ice cream, and thinking that just a little bit wouldn't hurt me, I helped myself to a few scoops. But after that helping, I still wasn't satisfied, and I thought, " Just one more scoop." And before I knew it, just a small serving must have turned into half of the box. And I was just fine, pleased with myself for having defeated my allergy. Little did I know that the fruit residing in my stomach was plotting its revenge for when I least expected it. I threw up the contents of my stomach that night, and woke in a puddle of pink, melted, half digested strawberry ice cream. I never tried that again.
As the allergy has grown worse, I've become almost afraid of strawberries. I can't even touch them anymore, and I obsessively check ingredients lists on the backs of cartons and wrappers, just in case. Just the sweet, tart smell makes me cringe.
We discovered, a few years back, that my allergy was caused by a chemical in the strawberry, called Salicylic Acid. Apparently, Salicylic acid is in everything- acne medications, lotions, oranges, kiwis, tomatoes, asprin.
So I live my life in paranoid fear, and find my allergies one by one.

Exciting stuff and things! Stuff and things! Excitement!

It's a gubernatorial election year. Woooohoooo.
Yeah, I know, not super exciting. But! It does allow some exciting things to happen. For example, last week, a "debate" (more like a Q&A. Not a single one of these candidates would stand a second in a real debate round) was held at my school for the candidates.
Debate team kids got free tickets. I don't really remember why, but I think their line of thinking was that the geeks are also politically minded. Oh. 'Kay then.
That's not that exciting though.
What's exciting is that next week, we're hosting another one. But the students are running it! And, because geeks are politically minded, the debate team is heading it up. We'll be moderating online chat rooms, where people can discuss the issues and send in questions, greeting people and candidates, helping some with press, and moderating the debate.
Yup. Geeks are politically minded.
So, I'll be moderating the debate. The hardest part will be refraining from asking pointed and sarcastic questions.

Spirit Week. Rah, Rah... raaaaaah.

This week is spirit week at my school.
Spirit week is only four days, apparently because it always used to fall in the week of Columbus day. I think it's just because the administration doesn't want to put up with it any more than they have to.
So, technically the festivities start tomorrow. But today was declared, by the underground of the student body, to be Zombie day.
It's one of those things when you think to yourself "I know I shouldn't care what other people will think, but I'm not going to do it, because I know no one else is going to do it."
Yup. Two of my friends dressed up. I'm personally in favor of doing one of those full out zombie vs. Human games, like the ones that colleges sometimes do.

I think the whole spirit of spirit week is lost. Which is fine by me. The whole idea is that we celebrate how awesome our football team is and sing the school song and chant things, or whatever. It's how I imagine Spartans must have spent their Sundays. Our school system certainly makes an effort to have it center around football. We have mandatory pep rallies (which I usually hide from, in the library), and the band at some point will march through the halls of the school, playing the school song. By the way, I can't think of a single person in this school who isn't a cheerleader who knows the lyrics of the school song.
The idealized spirit week and homecoming...is totally barbaric. So I like to think of it as just a week where I get to dress up in awesome costumes and shoot zombies with a nerf gun.

**An update on my taking down the system:
My letter went out early last week, and I still haven't received a reply from our superintendent. I'm giving it two more days, and then I'm looking into a schoolboard meeting.

SOOOO Much Yarn.

I am drowning in yarn.

No, seriously, whatever sheep were shorn meant business.

My cousin came up for the long weekend (she lives in Boston, where she does fabulous things. She really deserves a whole post for all of her stories), and, taking advantage of our dual power, my aunt invited the two of us over to paw through a bunch of her old yarn. As I understand it, she just has a huge back up of yarn that was intended, upon its purchase, to become something. But she just doesn't have the time to knit anymore, so she gave it all to us.

Fine by me.

Because she buys really, really nice yarn. Not the "nice" stuff from AC Moore, but the nice stuff from the local knitting holes.

We split the yarn evenly between us, which, if you can believe it, left each of us with overflowing extra-large shopping bags.

Some of it's sock yarn (I'll be learning to knit socks soon, which is good, since my feet are constantly the temperature of a dead body left in Alaska), some of it's for felting (destined to become finger puppets, probably), there's a little bit of hemp, and then a bunch of the types of yarn that sort of fall in the middle.

WHAT DO I DO?

I would like all of your suggestions, please.

Bathroom Graffiti, Pt. 1

I like graffiti in bathroom stalls.

it's real

melodramatic,

poised and ineloquent,

extending beyond

the constraints of time,

"JL

+

SM

4EVR"

Rough gouges

and permanent

marks by

permanent markers

and minds

2-dimensioned and dark

on grimy, scratched barriers

vehicles of the words

that I'm pretty sure

no one would actually say...

"I was here"

Stalls clean

and shining

proud of their no-graffiti status

I'm to good for that crap

Barren worlds of

the deaf and dumb

populations of potty-goers

happy to expel

reluctant to express.

Fight, Fight for Victory Today, or, I Thought My Principal Would Kill Me, or, Flubber Neck.

Yesterday, I was privy to a conversation between my father and another teacher.
It concerned several policies that our superintendent imposed involving the debate team and the specifics of how we get to the NFL national competition. I'd heard about them before, but I'd forgotten about them entirely until they were brought up yesterday. The policies are as follows:

-Coaches who are also staff members of the school system cannot attend a regional or national competition with a qualifying student if that competition falls within the school year (Relatively reasonable. But our competition falls in finals week. A robot could give an exam). Parents will attend the competition with the child (At a national debate tournament, we must provide a qualified judge for our qualifiers. A parent doesn't meet those requirements).

-As a team, we cannot fundraise for nationals. We also are not allowed to use our budgeted funds to sponsor our trip to the national competition. So, these two policies combined means that the full burden of paying the fees of a national trip falls on the parents, which creates a hierarchy among the qualifiers: Those who are wealthy get to debate at a higher level.

*I need to make it clear that by changing these policies, the debate team, or any other club or team, would not recieve any more money than they already do from the administration and taxpayers.

Well, hearing about the injustices again fired up my passion against our superintendent, who I disagree with on most things, and who strikes me as prime material for the role of Scummy Politician. I'm sure that she's a nice person. But I don't get along with most anyone who's got their fake smile plastered on 24/7 and speaks with the oral skills of Hillary Clinton. So, I resolved to send a letter to the superintendent, presenting my entirely logical arguments, and starting up a campaign to change these policies. If she doesn't explain any valid reasoning behind her decisions, or doesn't respond to the letter, then I'm going to attend a school board meeting to present a speech about the issue. I think it's important. Maybe it's not the top priority, but it's still important, and ought to be changed.

So, I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon writing my letter. I've never written a formal letter before, and I had to google it to make sure I was doing it right. I wore my Harvard baseball hat, because it made me feel smarter. Dad helped me some by offering objective information about how we funded our trip (Dad is a teacher and the debate coach. Sooo, a little bit of bias, but what can you do?), and proper protocol in a situation like this. He pointed out that it would be proper to run this by my principal before sending the letter. Woah, woah, woah. Stop right there.
Run it by the principal? I almost ran and hid under my bed at this suggestion. It's not like I was doing anything wrong, but then again, you probably haven't heard my principal's reputation. I go to a big school, and have seen him around maybe once or twice.
You have to know a few things about the man I will hereafter refer to as Mr. N.
Mr. N is old. Very old. He's pretty much been here forever.
Mr. N likes to glare. A lot.
He has a lot of liverspots, and those liver spots glare too.
Last year he had his picture on the front page of the paper. He glared in that picture too. I think he wanted to look special for such an occasion, so he folded his arms over his chest to accessorize the look.
A few years ago, he rolled his lawnmower, and broke a leg, four ribs, and punctured a lung. He was going to retire after that, but no one wanted the job. That's because no one in their right mind would want to be principal of a high school. I've always been convinced that Mr. N took the job and keeps the job because he's strict and militant enough to get away with doing it without being terribly involved.
I knew that to make sure that all of the administration knows I mean business, I had to bring the letter to Mr. N. So, I printed off two copies. One to give to him, and a back up in case the lasers that beam from his eyes toasted the first when he tried to read it. I went to the office today, and asked if he was in, and they told me to go check, hardly looking up from their Very Important Business. So I peered into Mr. N's office, which I have never been in. Somehow, I always thought it was between the offices of the two assistant principals, which are on the edge by the hallway, and have an outermost wall made of bulletproof glass (my freshman year, some kid threw a stapler at one of the assistant principals through the bulletproof glass. I guess it's not staplerproof). But instead, it's tucked in a corner in the innards of the main office. The only reasoning I can think of behind this floorplan is that the principal can make a quick escape out the window if someone snaps and starts shooting the school. The room seemed larger than the other office, and Mr. N's desk was in the middle. The first thing I noticed was the jar of M&M's in front of his computer. They seemed to contradict everything I had heard about him, and so I straightened up, ready to deliver my Very Important Letter. The setup seemed similar to that of the Oval office, and Mr. N ruled supreme in his own little office. His bloodhound's eyes glared up at me from underneath liverspotted overhanging eyebrows, and his mouth seemed to be permanently droopy. I was concerned that it would just...slide off his face. I handed him my letter, briefly explaining its contents, and sat in one of the simple, assembly line chairs lined up a good five and a half feet from his desk. They were in a perfect row, not touching the wall, and far enough away from Mr. N that he could probably tell when students (or staff) tried to text in his presence. He leaned his soft, jello body back into his office chair, and commenced in reading my letter, which I had handed to him before sitting. As he read through, his head moved with his eyes, looking like a short pendulum, as if to say, "Yes, I am reading this. One. Line. At. A. Time". His jowels flabbed up and down, like he was chewing something. Possibly his tongue. Maybe he liked gum? I pondered the sorts of gum that Mr. N might favor, and decided that he was a Big Red kind of guy, because it was strong enough that his geriatric tastebuds might be able to almost taste them. As he chewed, the drooping sides of his face morphed into one fleshy ocean with his saggy chin, and then became seperate again as his teeth were brought together. The transition fascinated me, and I wondered how long the structure of his face had been able to change shape, like Flubber. Finally, after an eternity of trying to not stare too hard at the wrinkled curtains of skin, Mr. N put the letter down, sat up straight and said to me, after a pause, "Very well done".
I think I might have exploded a little bit in gratitude. I had been so nervous.
Mr. N continued on to say that he wasn't sure of what the superintendent's reaction would be, but that her decisions probably had to do with the budget cuts. I refrained from pointing out that we weren't asking for more money, and instead took my letter back (unsinged), thanked him, and went on my way.
If I get my way with this thing, I might send him a pack of M&M's.

Creative Writing or, Therapy, or, Goals, or, Crazy Stuff I'll Do Someday

This year, I'm taking creative writing for school. It's an elective course, and it only happens once a day. It's taught by this completely inspiring, down to earth young woman, who is one of those teachers who kids switch classes to get. I'm not sure how long she's been teaching for, but she's not new, but has escaped the waning of enthusiasm that seems to plague teachers after the ten year mark.

The class is based around free writing. We're currently in our memoir unit- which seems silly, because it's a class full of sixteen and seventeen year old kids. What could we have to remember? Oooh, y'know, back in my day, things were very different. Get this- Dial up was the newest thing to have, and if you wanted to watch a movie, VHS was how it went. Can you believe it?

So, almost every day, we're given a prompt to think on and then write about in our journals. This class is the only time I'll ever admit to owning a journal, because journals always just sort of seemed like a word to use when you didn't want to admit you kept a diary. But all the same. We've been writing about memories and learning different ways to approach a prompt. But my teacher doesn't stop there, oh no. This is one of those classes where the instructor isn't just interested in you growing as a student- she also wants us to grow as people.
Not a bad thing, no. But it's ambitious, and is absolutely the right way to approach this class. It's sort of like therapy in the middle of the day. On Monday, she told us to create our life list, which is a list of 25 total things that we want to accomplish or do before we turn thirty. 5 of them are supposed to be things that you hardly dare to say, since they're so wild or difficult or inconceivable. I thought this might be a good place to post up mine, and I'll discuss them more as the year goes on. Most of them are pretty self explanitory, but I'll explain the ones that aren't.

BECCA'S LIFE LIST
1. Join Peace Corps
2. Roadtrip to nowhere
*Drive and get lost.
3. Go raspberry picking
*We used to pick Strawberries, before I became allergic. So, I want a replacement. Crops in Maine are sort of limited, and picking potatoes just doesn't have the same appeal.
4. Sing the national anthem for something
5. Record an album. Or at least a song, or something.
6. Become a really really exceptional female Ultimate player
7. Learn 25 new veggie dishes that don't taste like crap and aren't super expensive.
*I am an extremely unhealthy vegetarian. I need to fix this.
8. Get a shot
*This sounds weird, and maybe a little bit masochistic, but my greatest fear is syringes. I can't even look at them when they show flu clinics on the news, because it makes me hyperventilate. I'm three years overdue for my tetanus booster. So, I guess, what I really want to do is proactively get a shot, which means calling and making the appointment and trying to act like a big girl. Easier said than done.
9. Make Honor roll/Make it into NHS
10. Go white water rafting
11. Model professionally
*as in get paid. It's just one of those things I've always thought would be neat to try.
12. Go to France
13. Make a difference in the homeless community
14. Make it to NFL nationals
*For those of you who don't know, the NFL isn't actually the National Football League. Although it'd be sweet if I was a Quarterback in real life, no? NFL stands for National Forensics League, the national association for Speech and Debate.
15. Get a lead role.
16. Dance again
17. Parkour, Parkour! :D
18. Give a speech at my high school graduation
19. Get an oboe scholarship for college.
20. Convince someone that I'm British, just for shits and giggles. (Bonus points if the person is from the UK)

RIDICULOUS THINGS THAT BECCA DREAMS OF DOING.
1. Hike the Appalachian Trail. Barefoot.
2. Publish my writing. And I know that when I post this, the little button I click says "publish post", and all... but that doesn't count, guys!
3. Vanquish my ADD
4. Run a Marathon
5. Do something so mindblowingly awesome that people stop and stare and then want to shake my hand and say "you, miss, are a lady and a scholar, and also quite intriguing."




Goals.

This Gets Me Through The Day.

So, I've been spending copious amounts of time not doing my homework and reading a new blog I found (thanks to my most marvelous cousin), Hyperbole and a Half I love her drawings. So. Much.

And stories.

And personalities.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that, given the opportunity, I would marry this woman.

Al Qaeda, The KKK, and America.

My dearest readers, however a small group you may be, it is time that I bring up the topic of politics, as unpleasant as it may seem.
On May 25th, the idea of building a Mosque near the sight of 9/11's ground zero was put to the vote of a community board. They voted largely in support of the plan, 29-1.
Suddenly, there is an uproar of protest, presently from 70% of the population (Examiner.com), against the building of a Mosque. Well, I'll be. I thought I lived in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Ladies and gentlemen, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I speak, of course, exclusively to those of you who generalize and deny these Muslims their right to worship in their own way.
I absolutely advocate the building of a Mosque and Muslim community center near the site of ground zero. Phew. There, I said it. So stone me.
With so many opinions and high-throttle emotions being thrown about, let's lay down some facts.
1. Yes, the attacks on 9/11 were (I'm trying to double check this, as there seems to be a lot of conspiracy theories around the origin of the attacks) coordinated and executed by Al Qaeda, an extreme, militant Islamic group.
2. The majority of Muslims condemn the actions and beliefs of Al Qaeda and other Muslim Extremist groups.
3. The first amendment to the Constitution of the United States grants all citizens freedom of Expression, Religion, and Press. So, people can believe what they want to believe.
4. There's also the idea of the Harm Principle, by John Stuart Mill. You can do what you want, so long as it's not harming another person. I suppose that's more of an opinion.
5. The Mosque would be built a few blocks from the site of ground zero. I'm currently in search for the sect of Islam that the Mosque would be built under. I'm not really sure how that works in Islam.

I come from a conservative household, and the conservative talk-show station is playing on the radio a lot of the time. Yesterday, this "corruption of America" was the chosen topic of discussion on Sean Hannity's talk show. He voiced his concerns (rather loudly) and opinions (seemingly blind, but I shouldn't judge) about the plan to build this Mosque. One of his arguments included some evidence he came across that the sect of Islam that would worship at this Mosque would be the same sect that had allowed a man to get away with rape, under their laws. I think that's terrible. Really, I do. But we have to consider that in every religion, there are extremists, and people who manipulate the text of their beliefs in awful ways. I'm Catholic. I'm sure that out there somewhere, there's a person justifying murder, or rape, or polygamy by manipulating the Bible. That's not okay, but it doesn't mean that I go on killing sprees and then tell myself that it's for the good of the church and that I'm on a mission from God, just because I'm Catholic.
What we have here, dearest readers, is a classic case of an Uneducated Bullshit Misunderstanding, or Ignorant Arguing.

I truly believe that a Mosque and Islamic community center near the site of Ground Zero would be one of the best things to do to help the country and the area move on from a terrible time of fear and hatred in American history. If we can educate people to the ways of true Islam, and the peaceful practices of most Muslims- if we learn to recognize that although these people call their God "Allah", and worship differently, they are just like us, people trying to get by in a world of misunderstanding, and perhaps join them to defeat radical Islam- then, we can truly move on from a period of unrest. We need to not associate peaceful Muslims with Al Qaeda, because it would be like associating all white, Christian men with the KKK.

Lastly, I would like to offer out the note that I recognize the tragedy of 9/11. I understand the great pain and grave sadness of those who lost loved ones on 9/11. I just don't think it should get in the way of closure. That's my opinion as of now, and I'll probably keep posting on the topic.

I Go Where It Smells Interesting and On One Way Streets

Yesterday, I biked out for about an hour.Usually when I venture out, I bike around the same familiar streets, but I decided to change things up yesterday. I was curious about where Garland Street ended, so I biked there first, and then out Essex, which is a very long street which turns rural after awhile. An hour isn't very long to bike, I know, but I'm working on building my endurance for my first day-long bike trip in a few weeks.
Today, I went farther out onto Essex, and then onto a road I'd never seen, called Church Road.
It was very cute, and there was hardly any traffic, which was relaxing, since Essex street can sometimes be a scary ride. There was a small church on the end with a little graveyard attached, which I explored before heading back along Essex.

Pictures:
Where Garland Street Ends
It gets rural pretty fast
Little unattended veggie stands restore my faith in humanity.
The view from Church Road

The cemetery.

Adventures at Four AM

Summer's been flying by, and I'm not sure I'm okay with that.
Slow down, I was just getting to know you!

A couple of my friends and I took a trip to Stockton Springs to see the sunrise a few weeks back.
This involved leaving around four a.m., which we handled surprisingly well.
The way down was extremely foggy. But it was very strange, because at some points it would be so foggy you could hardly see through the windsheild, and then in a few yards, the line of vision would be almost completely clear. It's a very nice drive, though. I forget how cute rural Maine can be.
We arrived just in time to see the sun rise through the heavy fog, which made a nice effect, and we went for a dawn swim.
All-in-all, a very good time.
We also headed over to Sears Island. Half of the island is cold water, like Sandy Point, but then the other half of the island, used often for clamming, is all warm water, because it's where the Penobscot River meets the ocean. There were a few old men out clamming when we got there, but we picked our way over farther on the beach and waded into the ankle deep waters. Much to our surprise, there's a large population of hermit crabs living there! They may have been two different varieties, but I can't be sure. Some of them were large, orange and fuzzy, and then others were smaller and brown. I think though, that the orange ones may have been the males, and the brown the females, because of the way the orange ones were dragging the others around. I'm curious if this is a part of the mating process.I had also never actually seen clamming flats before, or not for a very long time. I was surprised every time I saw a spurt of water. One of them even spurted right underneath my foot! Despite my persistent attempts, I wasn't able to dig any up.
At the end of our trip, we made a pitstop into a curious attraction. We kept seeing signs for the Book Barn Used Bookstore, so we decided to detour and check it out. It's literally a barn in the back of this guy's house. When we walked in, I almost fell over. The inside of the barn resembled a labyrinth. There were shelves of books up to the ceiling, and piles of books on the floor up to my waist. The entire barn was full of it. The owner sat at his desk and made small chat with customers- but I never actually saw anything except for the smoke from his pipe, because he was obscured by the many mountains of books surrounding the desk. I encourage everyone to go to this place if they ever get the chance. I could have stayed in there forever.

Prompt: Describe Your Brain, or, I Keep My Macaroni in a Giant Plastic Teddy Bear, and I Think I'll Miss It When I Move OutT

I keep my macaroni in a giant plastic teddy bear-
That's not weird, I swear-
he opens up his brain and pours out my dinner.

I wish my brain would pour itself out
to be cooked and turned over by boiling water
tumble tumble
soften
smush.
Sometimes I think my thoughts
are macaroni in the pan
floating around
bubbling,
getting softer and
softer until they're
overcooked.
mush. But mostly
burned to the bottom of the pan,
because my hands are tied
and I can't stir.
But in the end
my mind is more like
Chop suey,
frozen vanilla,
dentures, flubber,
a million degrees above Fahrenheit,
two below Celsius,
and entirely me.
I know so, because I don't remember who I am,
and I am very forgetful.

Rooftop Jam Jars, Tip Top Stars

The much waited for arrival of summer has indeed...arrived.
There's that sort of lazy, walk-to-the-cornerstore-because-you-can feeling that you get. Although, that could be situationally specific. Miller's drug has cheap vitamin water, by the way. :]


Sometimes,
I drink water out of a wine glass, just to feel classier.
It doesn't necessarily work,
but I like to think that it makes the water taste clearer and crisper and less like chlorine.

There are times when the stars
seem brighter and clearer and crisper, too.
But those times, when I'm drinking the stars,
I'm drinking from screw-rimmed clear Mason jam jars,
and the water touching my lips is lightning.

People Helping People Makes Me Happy, or, An Ode to Wonderful People 1

Today is an ode to the unrecognized Wonderful People, Capitalized like a title, because it is.
A lot of things go into making a store, a city, a church, a world go round. I spent the morning working with the wonderful people of Grace United Methodist Church.
Over a year ago, my church's youth group got involved with Grace United's Third Saturday luncheons. Every third Saturday of the month, a team from Grace United (or from our youth group) makes a meal to serve to anyone who needs it in the community. The room is always full, and twice as full in the winter, when the weather is cold and money is scarcer. The meal is given free of charge, and all of the workers come of their own accord. I can't even begin to explain how it feels to stand serving food to a person who lives day-to-day, not knowing if they'll be able to eat or not, living in a shelter, or with a family. That's what hurts the most to see, is the families that come in with armfuls of children. There's not very much space in the basement, where the luncheon occurs. But strangers and friends willingly rub elbows, share laughs, and get a good hearty bite to eat. The courage it takes to live lives like many of these people do is incredible. The stories that they have to tell are just as incredible, and I can't explain how much I look forward to serving them that one day a week.
But that's not the only time a month that Grace United comes to life. The church, whose congregation is comprised primarily of the older generation, runs a small thrift store out of part of the basement. They get all sorts of donations, but everything is marked very low. The store sees a lot of business from the same people who come to the luncheons, who are looking for essentials like clothing or just little things to make their abode look nice. I've recently started working here, and I've met so many incredible Wonderful People. I'd encourage anyone in the Bangor area to stop by! If I'm not mistaken, a good deal of the proceeds from the shop goes to the luncheons, so it's an unstoppable loop of goodness. Everyone who works in the store is a volunteer, and they work really really hard to make it nice, and also accessible to those with low income. Even moreso, the relationships that form around the store are great. It's a bit of a nice routine. I see lots of the same people when I work, and I've begun to learn names. Just the other day, a man came in saying that he had hit a spot of trouble, and that someone from the store had said that they had some clothing for him and also some sun tan lotion. It's these interpersonal relationships that bloom that make things like the Grace United Thrift Store so wonderful.
Wonderful People. They inspire me.

*P.S. Yesterday's picnic was a wonderful success, as was night disc, which was followed by the first fire and s'mores session. All in all, a very lovely day. Posting soon.

An Abstract Post, to be Replaced by One that is More Sensical.

Today is a (hopefully) picnic in the brief burst of sunny weather.
Sun and weather.
The above is an example of Hendiadys. English finals, anyone?
Tonight, then, will be full of light up discs, and not falling in the hole in our park while we play past the sunset. There's a hole in the middle of our park, and it's something of a joke between all of us. It's a bit of a sixth sense, now, to be able to tell where the hole is in respect to yourself, without looking. Funny how being in an environment for so long will do that to you.

*Note: I made up the word "sensical". If the word "nonsensical" is proper, how come "sensical" isn't?
Also, once, during a debate round, I used the word "Genociding" by accident. It's not a verb, as the judge kindly pointed out to me.
Made up words make life more fun. Even if you're the only one who uses them.

A Bit of Biking Frustration, and Untied Shoelaces

Yesterday, biking in the wonderful downtown of Bangor in the rainy weather, I found it difficult riding behind people. My conclusion is that it would be wise for me to invest in a bell for my (already tricked out) bicycle. If I am not mistaken, the law as it exists in Maine requires bicycles to be ridden on the road. I've only recently (as in within the last year or so) begun to use my bicycle for transportation, as opposed to recreationally. Learning to ride with traffic is very difficult, especially when you are not a serious biker. I'm still not entirely sure what the law states concerning speed and where I can ride on the road. What I do know is that on many roads, there is not a wide margin to the right of the white line, which requires my riding closer to the yellow line, for safety's sake. Yesterday, riding in the road downtown, I was honked at and passed very quickly by someone (incidentally, who had their phone out texting on the steering wheel) in a car. This has happened before, and I generally hop onto the sidewalk for the rest of my ride. But see, here it gets a bit confusing. After being yelled at by someone outside of the library last year to, "Get off the sidewalk!", I decided that I ought to only ride on the roadway. Either I don't have a clear understanding of the law, or the citizens and motorists around me do not. I can't seem to find a raw wording of the law, does anyone know it?My moderately tricked out bicycle.
It used to be my grandmother's.

In any case. As I was riding (on the sidewalk, now), I found myself behind two nicely dressed young men. Later on, I realized that they were Mormons, making their routes and evangelizing. But as I tried not to run them over, one of them turned around and very kindly told his friend that I was behind him. As we waited for the light, they pointed out to me that my shoe was untied.
We wouldn't want you to crash!
I do usually crash when my shoes get untied. I just thought I'd share this. They were quite thoughtful, and it got me thinking about how we behave towards strangers. Just some food for thought.

So, the overall message for today: Make room for the bicyclists! They're people too!

Utils, and A Step Towards the Meaning of Life

I lied. I am going to tell you a bit about why I do what I do, and why I've done what I've done.
Let's start this way: I play Ultimate. It's also known as Frisbee, Ultimate Frisbee, or Disc (more often than not, it's just called disc by its fanbase.), and is by far the most badass sport on the face of the planet. Haven't heard of it? Wikithatshit.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ultimate_(sport)
If you've clicked that link, scroll on down to section six, "Spirit of the Game."
It's the idea that people ought to be fair. Players ought to have a mutual respect, and maintain a true friendliness for all other players. That's how disc is. C'est ca.
Take it one step further, up to the Eutyls level.
I have misspelled the word "Util", it seems.
A Util is a term in economics, "referring to the total satisfaction received from consuming a good or service" (Answers dot com). That's Utils.
Eutyls is Frisbee. It's the Ultimate "club" (If you'd call it that) where I play, and it's the ultimate Ultimate club, as far as I'm concerned.
The originating idea for the club was that one ought to play for the satisfaction of the game. Forget the score. Don't be afraid to lose track of points. Just play.
C'est ca.
A few weeks back, when doing a school project on Ultimate (I love it when we get to pick our own topics), I was looking at the philosophy of Spirit of the Game. And I came to the conclusion that we shouldn't just govern ourselves in such a way during games of Ultimate, but all the time.
That's part one.
Part two is a little less complicated.
Look to the little things. Every person, every single action around you, and every thing around you has a purpose, has a motive, has something miraculous about them or itself. Notice it. Marvel in it. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Learn to smile.
And find the ordinarily extraordinary things in your Everyday.
I want to spread the idea. Why not use the internet?

Today, My ADD Brain, Or, The Actual Start to an Old Blog, or, The First Post is Always Bizarre.

I've had this blog set up for a bit.
It's probably time to start posting on it, right?
No plans, no layouts, no promises to the reader. Just life. Deal?

So it's fair for me to let you know
that today is feeling like matza bread on my tongue
and rain.
Today is rainy, finally. We've gone a good few weeks with no rain, and it's making the grass rough, the ground bumpy, and the frisbee field just a bit dusty.
Today is also the start of a four day week of school. Even with just seven days left of school, summer is like a carrot being dangled over a donkey's head. I keep plugging on towards it, but somehow, it's always juuuust out of reach.
Today is a day for similes.
I've always sort of wondered what it's like to be a kid out west, like my second cousins in California, and to have school sessions so different. They get out in May, and begin in August. It seems awful strange, and a bit like a wasted summer.

Study hall is boring, and it pushes my ADD brain into full swing. So I make obscure comparisons, a blog post, and I pick my brain until I can come up with something to say.