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The above is a recent picture from a visit I had with my eye doctor last week. Unless you live under a rock (which seems like a very simple and viable option for living; I commend you if you do in fact) you’ve probably heard about the crazy things Amanda Bynes, my eye doctor’s niece, has been up to. When I saw said photo in the office, I had to try extremely hard not to laugh and make a scene in such a place of business. No one else seemed to pay any mind to it, though, so maybe they had just come there from their rock-home. 

Anyway, Amanda Bynes. She’s had several run-ins with the law (that part of her Wikipedia page is overwhelming) like driving under the influence and an alleged hit-and-run. Of course now things like being on the phone while driving is less common the the most recent throwing a bong out a 36 story window. She has decided that the best way to deal with the eviction for this incident is to sue the police for, and I quote, slapping her vagina. I have no opinion on whether or not that actually happened. 

If you have been keeping up with the child star like I have (through social media, obviously) you may or may not have come to the conclusion that not only is she partially insane, but hilarious. She had some pretty… vulgar tweets, so if you are under the age of twelve I would advise against looking into it until you’re older. She posts a lot of pictures of herself in her underwear (causing Alex Gaskarth to do the same in mockery) and has actually admitted to having an eating disorder. 

That wasn’t expected, was it? The pang of sympathy you just felt for this obviously crazy person who’s actually on the other end of this. It’s weird to think about, that someone who seems like such an entertaining “I don’t care” character is struggling. I don’t know, this isn’t a public service announcement, I do too many of those, this is just a thought. 

It’s insane that this is the same girl from “The Amanda Show” and “She’s The Man”, but it is. How do you wrap your mind around something like that? It’s like when celebrity dies, you didn’t know them, but you know who they were and now that’s just gone. And I’m not saying who she was before isn’t there anymore, it’s just… distorted. It’s a new faze in her life that doesn’t revolve around dancing lobsters, I guess. 

The Summer In Limbo

After the school year ended, I kind of forgot about this blog, kinda ditched it, but now I am here to reek more havoc (and opinions) on the tumblr world. 

Except not today, because I haven’t an interesting topic to talk about. Just summer. Summer is nice. 

Before my homeschool experience summer vacation was quite the relief. Out of school, not much to worry about other than not getting sunburnt, but this year has been… different to say the least. You see, my beach house, the place I’ve spent every one of my summer vacations at for my entire life, is destroyed. Washed away by sand and storm. So naturally, this summer was bound to be different without that luxury I had. In the past, summer vacation was a way to get away from all the kids at school, having not enjoyed them the way that they enjoyed each other. Now, of course, I have been thrown back into the summer social game, and it’s quite intimidating. I can’t just call up the kids I left behind and never contacted again and ask them if they want to go to the beach together, they have their own friends that are far more interested in their day to day lives than I am. 

This summer just feels like a lot of waiting around. Because the transition into summer vacation this year was so easy going and not drastic at all, I’m constantly bored. I’m sick of not doing anything and not having any structure in my life. I think a lot of kids I know are jealous because I get to sleep in and I don’t have to wake up and go anywhere, but after a while its feels so lazy and useless that I just really want to go back to school. I’m stuck in a two month period of waiting for something to happen. Waiting for some kind of responsibility or purpose to keep me interested. I have missed the social aspect a little, I mean constantly hanging out with your mom can get… tedious, at least at school I could choose from a hundred weirdos versus just one. I love my mom by the way. 

Not to mention that summer isn’t really my thing. I mean I’ve grown up a beach kid, and I love it, but the heat and the weather isn’t particularly favorable to me. I never noticed it before, but now that things aren’t too much different from the school year I’m starting to realize I definitely prefer winter to summer. The fact that you can strip down until you’re naked and still be boiling hot in the summer is highly uncomfortable versus bundling up and getting cozy in the winter until you’re warm. Like, everything is sticky and gross and don’t even get me started on waking up with itchy eyes every morning because of my horrible allergies. 

All in all this summer is going to be weird, but I’ll manage. Yeah, I’ll power through summer vacation like the soldier I am. 

Also I got new glasses and got my braces off but that was a while ago.

How My Life Has Become A Goddam Movie

I don’t regret choosing homeschool over traditional eighth grade this year, I really don’t. I don’t honestly feel like I missed out on too much. Apparently, the trip to Gettysburg was gross and roachy, and that was one of the only two exciting things the eighth graders really do, and I am thankful for that, as selfish as it sounds.

The other semi-exciting thing that the eighth graders get to do is go to the Eighth Grade Dinner Dance. School dances aren’t a rarity in my little town, if St Dennis school isn’t throwing their monthly sending district chaotic thrasher, Brielle school is throwing a lame seasonal formal, and that’s just the way it is, but the Dinner Dance is different. For the Dinner Dance you have to bring a date.

Dating is a foreign concept to our little town. Sure, a two week relationship is expected of everyone at least between fifth and eighth grade, but actually going out to places, alone? Oh no, no one in the entire school is mature enough for that. Well, that is, until the last weeks of school.

These last few days in eighth grade are (apparently) something so special, everyone’s maturity level skyrockets and suddenly, we’re so grown up that we’re bringing dates to dances.

I have never been much of a party person, as you may or may not have guessed. Seeing posters advertising this “magical” night of shitty pop music and being forced to dance with some sweaty, hormonal teenage boy definitely built up some hype, though. Every girl talks about it one way or another between fifth and seventh grade and then boom you’re in eighth grade and nothing has changed and all the boys are still morons and you realize at least one of them is going to ask you to this dance. There is no chance of getting out of this because it’s basically mandatory and the ratio of boys to girls is two to one so they will literally ask everyone until they get a date. That’s how I view it anyway.

But then there’s that tiny little piece of my mind that thinks like every other girl in my school and is constantly and annoyingly whispering “Oooh boys!” Her voice is high pitched and she only wears Pink brand sweatpants and she straightens her hair every day and I hate her, but she wants to dress up pretty and dance with a boy, ergo I want to dress up pretty and dance with a boy.

Keep in mind that is a very small part of my brain and that I had a perfectly good time watching “The Bad News Bears” on Netflix last night, but I hadn’t really thought about the dance until earlier that day.

Lily (who is a seventh grader who goes to a different school so she didn’t go) and I had just finished making cookies out of boredom when my mom asked us what was going on outside. Naturally, we walked out my front door to see what was the matter, and I nearly laughed out loud out of fifty parts amusement and fifty parts awkwardness. My entire narrow street had shiny, expensive cars parked up and down either side of it and in the small space between them was a mass of preadolescent kids, boys is suits and girls in tight dresses, walking towards the river. The entire eighth grade was parading down my street. Well, in retrospect, the boys were parading and the girls were stumbling, having not spent a lot of time in heels in the past.

My elderly neighbor was standing out in his yard, watching the kids take their picture in front of the river. He had to stand to the right, though, because someone had parked a limo in front of his house. A limo. To a middle school dance. That’s a perfect example of why these children confuse me. A limo? Really?

I, being who I am, was more focused on the irony of it all than I was on the fact that I was missing out on this “night of all nights.” I mean, the one thing other than actually graduating that I was shamefully disappointed about was taking place on my street. It honestly seemed like something out of a movie. There are plenty of other places to take a picture in front of the river, but you choose the one on my street? It was insane. I wasn’t that upset, I promise, I mean it’s a stupid dance where a on of people I don’t like all that much come together to celebrate what? The end of the year? Being old enough to take a boyfriend or a girlfriend seriously? I don’t know.

I wasn’t going to write about this at first, but I simply can’t ignore the fact that this was my street where I was safe from all the jocks and assholes at that school, but somehow they manage to barge in and infiltrate my safe haven; parading in their sunday clothes and linking arms with their date.

While this entire ordeal was happening Lily and I are standing there watching them in shorts and t shirts and I had grease all over my leg because of my bike and it was all just so funny that I didn’t know what to do with myself but go to the park. And we just left. And it was so ironic and surreal that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was weird, instead of feeling excluded, which in retrospect would’ve been my own fault, I felt empowered. I mean, they looked ridiculous and it was my own choice not to be a part of their charade. 

I hear from quite a few people that I’m an old soul, and I guess I agree, although I feel like saying something like that is very vague and confusing. Anyway, I’m assuming they mean a bit older than 80’s high school movies, but I think it applies just the same. 
I just finished watching “Heathers”, and it is officially one of my favorite movies of all time (please keep in mind I do not want to murder my entire school.) I feel like I sound like an annoying hipster when I say this, but they just don’t make movies the same anymore. I’m a sucker for animated movies, and they are definitely in their prime right now, but real movies seem to be lacking as of late. It’s like there’s no new ideas and that practically everything is based off a book. I love books, and I don’t disagree with them becoming movies, but it feels like there’s nothing new anymore. 
So back to the point, I have fallen in love with eighties movies. I am part of the small percentage of teenage girls that is completely done with “Mean Girls”, I personally think it’s not funny anymore because it’s so overworked, but “Heathers”… that’s quite the underrated quotable movie. My favorite, personally, is “our love is God, let’s go get a slushy.” I mean that just really speaks to my soul, man. 
And “The Breakfast Club” is obviously not underrated, maybe just by my generation, but definitely not ignored. I guess I’m really into the whole kids-that-screw-each-other-over- and-then-make-out-in-the-broom-closet thing, or maybe it’s the fact that I relate to the basket cases (I’m not psychotic, pinky swear) and everything ends up going well for them. Well, usually. 

I hear from quite a few people that I’m an old soul, and I guess I agree, although I feel like saying something like that is very vague and confusing. Anyway, I’m assuming they mean a bit older than 80’s high school movies, but I think it applies just the same. 

I just finished watching “Heathers”, and it is officially one of my favorite movies of all time (please keep in mind I do not want to murder my entire school.) I feel like I sound like an annoying hipster when I say this, but they just don’t make movies the same anymore. I’m a sucker for animated movies, and they are definitely in their prime right now, but real movies seem to be lacking as of late. It’s like there’s no new ideas and that practically everything is based off a book. I love books, and I don’t disagree with them becoming movies, but it feels like there’s nothing new anymore. 

So back to the point, I have fallen in love with eighties movies. I am part of the small percentage of teenage girls that is completely done with “Mean Girls”, I personally think it’s not funny anymore because it’s so overworked, but “Heathers”… that’s quite the underrated quotable movie. My favorite, personally, is “our love is God, let’s go get a slushy.” I mean that just really speaks to my soul, man. 

And “The Breakfast Club” is obviously not underrated, maybe just by my generation, but definitely not ignored. I guess I’m really into the whole kids-that-screw-each-other-over- and-then-make-out-in-the-broom-closet thing, or maybe it’s the fact that I relate to the basket cases (I’m not psychotic, pinky swear) and everything ends up going well for them. Well, usually. 

Respect False Icons

Would you like to know what it’s like to be a realist who is virtually obsessed with nonexistent characters? It sounds like a painful life, I know, and it is, but all the more room for imagining when hope is thrown out the window. 

Ah, the fictional character, we all have a soft spot for one, weather it’s Cinderella or Peeta Mellark, but that isn’t so wrong. They’re just like real people, they have emotions, personalities, physical appearances, and to be honest, the thought that they only live inside the book or movie or whatever really isn’t true. After the book closes, the characters don’t really disappear, they live on in the reader. They manifest in the attributes of the people who genuinely care about and believe in that character. The reader who so desperately wants to belong to The Half-blood Camp has pieces of Percy inside of them now. The wizard who’s letter to Hogwarts got lost in the mail will never forget the great Harry Potter. Why is caring for fictional people seen as such a crime as you get older? 

I genuinely have role models who never have and never will exist. This might be escapism considering the fact that I view myself as a realist, but I don’t care. You’re never alone when these amazing characters exist. The stories become your life and the characters your best friends. You don’t have to crave adventure all the time because the adventure is right in front of you and you and your best friends are living it out right there on the coffee table. 

Whoops a girl did a thing

I’ve been seeing a lot of this lately, and it’s really starting to confuse me. Why can’t women be successful the same way a man is successful? Sure, women and men get cast in awesome movies and write killer books and are amazing scientists, but why can’t women get the same amount of respect out of that?

The main thing that called this to my attention was a gif set I saw literally five minutes ago of the questions Scarlett Johansen was asked when being interviewed about The Avengers.  She played a kick-ass female character and still much of the media only paid attention to her dieting and such for the role. Compared to her male costars, she got what she called “rabbit-food questions” about underwear and her weight. How come, because she’s a woman, she was asked questions that treated her like she had a lower IQ and wouldn’t be able o handle the big boy questions? Because she has boobs?

If you recall, the same thing happened to Jennifer Lawrence after playing Katnis in The Hunger Games. She got so many questions about her weight and diet that I know her exact weight (“a whopping” 130 ponds according to the media) but I know nothing of her newly acquired skills with a bow. 

When I was in fifth grade the entire grade had to pick a biography or an autobiography to do a report on, we then had to dress up like the person that the book was about. I did J.K. Rowling, and one part of the book has stuck with me since then; she went by J.K. instead of Joanne Kathleen because she wanted to pass as a man. The book didn’t elaborate on her motives at all, and at the time I didn’t understand it, but luckily I remember the thought now when I can appreciate it. She wanted to be seen as a man so boys would read her book. The fact that she thought that she felt the need to do that is horrible considering she wrote the Harry Potter series. The first woman millionaire author felt like she needed to be a man to be successful. 

Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin is the woman who discovered what the universe is made of, no great feat (that was sarcasm if you couldn’t tell), and rarely a science text book teaches her name. Everyone knows about all of these famous male scientists (i.e. Issac Newton, Charles Darwin, etc…) but I only found out about this extraordinary woman yesterday from a meme on Tumblr. If that’s not pathetic, I don’t know what is. 

It seems like some men, and fair few women in fact, are afraid of looking up to women. Women can be amazing, sure, but they can’t be treated like they’re as amazing as men. This is terribly confusing, but in the light I see it in, people feel threatened by girls being awesome, too. Why is that? Is there some great mysterious flaw that girls have that makes us incapable of being great at what we do? 

-A thirteen-year-old girl

You can find the Scarlett Johansen gif set here and the Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin meme here if you wish to see them for yourself. 

The State of Things

In the news recently there seems to have been one reoccurring theme; sexual assault in unconscious minors. Just this week we’ve seen the case concerning Audrie Pott and her alleged rape and suicide which brought my attention back to the case a month or so ago about the girl in Steubenville, Ohio. Both are very similar cases, and I would say normally that the young men involved in Audrie’s case may have gotten the idea from hearing of the other. The problem is, Audrie’s case happened in October, before either situation saw the surface. In my opinion, that makes things even worse. 

I know tumblr has had a lot to say about assault in Ohio, but I’m going to put my word out there anyway, because it really does need to be said. The thing most of tumblr was concerned about was how people were shaming the victim and her family by saying that they were going to ruin the boy’s aspiring football careers. Yes, I do agree that what the media did was messed up and I do agree that “”society”” needs to get their act together, but I think that in the midst of all this hatred for the media people forgot what was important; the actual case. Under the circumstances I have heard, no consent was given by the girl as she had passed out from the affects of the alcohol. According to Wikipedia rape is a type of sexual assault usually involving sexual intercourse, which is initiated by one or more persons against another person without that person’s consent. That seems to fit the description of the situation, doesn’t it?  

I haven’t heard much about the other girl, Audrie Pott, in fact, I only heard about it this morning from my mom, granted I did some research. The measures that this particular situation has come to in contrast to the other is that the girl committed suicide eight days after the alleged sexual assault. The accused young men did admit to raping Adurie as she had been drinking a passed out like the other unnamed victim, but they and their lawyers did deny that the action had anything to do with her suicide only eight days later. This claim is ridiculous in all definitions of the word.  There is proof of her saying on FaceBook that “the whole school knows” and that her life was over, and these people have the audacity to claim they have nothing to do with each other. Multiple times Audrie mentioned her life in her posts, which could be held as a red flag for a suicide alert. The only way the boys would have ever been caught was by taking pictures and, to my understanding, posting them on social media websites.  In a way, I’m grateful they did because then poor Audrie’s story would have never seen the light, and I believe she deserves that. How could these events not be linked?

Obviously no one agrees with rape, and I am no exception, but I feel like nowadays it’s so much more about the perpetrators and less about the victim.  How it’s being handled in the media is out of hand, belittling the victims and their families because boys with good  reputations did something bad. When the case in Ohio surfaced, all they were saying was that these boys were good kids and star athletes and how their lives would never be the same because the family pressed charges, but no one seemed to touch on the fact that the girl was on the other end of this. Her life will never be the same either. As for Audrie Pott, it’s gone so far that she’s not here to tell her side of the story. Just because she’s not here doesn’t mean she never existed, it’s a shame the endeavor has turned into a match between lawyers. 

Finally, my heart goes out to the family and friends of Audrie Pott and to the victim in Ohio, and her family, as well.

Yoga

By now, if you’ve read a lot of my other posts so far, you have probably come to the conclusion that my family is basically a ragtag group of hippies. And you’re right. So of course a week or two after the raw food fasting, my mom, grandma, and I went to a yoga class. The instructors couldn’t get over the whole three-generation thing. 

The Oming was very interesting. Everyone saying the same thing at the same time was almost empowering. At the same time, though, it felt slightly unsanitary. Like everyone was just simultaneously breathing on each other, but I understand that it was supposed to make us feel one with each other (or something I don’t even know).

My grandma is basically a pro yogi, going to advanced classes nearly everyday and practically levitating on her mat. I don’t understand how someone could be so graceful and poised while sticking their butt in the air.

My mom used to be really into yoga, she would go all the time with my aunt, but she’s explained to me that she only started liking it because she was good at it and liked the praise she got for being so goddam flexible. She’s taken a Fall Out Boy-esque six year hiatus and is using me as an excuse to start up again.

I had taken a few classes before (when I was around ten) at the same place, but this was a bit different. I think before I went to a class specifically for kids, and obviously this time I didn’t. There were quite a few middle-aged butts in my face at all times. Falling over while attempting half moon pose in front of a room full of silence and strangers wasn’t fun. Luckily I caught myself, but my mat didn’t particularly mute the sound of my hands slamming into the floor. 

I liked it.  Although, I did feel like there was a lot of pressure on me to do well considering I was the youngest person in the room by probably twenty years. I’m going again tomorrow I think, which should be interesting. I could’ve gone today but my entire body feels like a piece of laffy taffy or something and I’m not in the mood to embarrass myself again, thank you very much.

So, because of my deprivation from a lot of science this past year and my mom’s love for healthy eating, two days ago my mom, sister, and I sprouted these little suckers. They’re alfalfa seeds which take very little taking care to become living sprouts, obviously because usually I kill any plant I touch. It feels good growing my own food, but I almost feel bad that I’m raising something just to be eaten. In the back of my mind I know they don’t have brains or feelings, so I shouldn’t feel guilty but I can’t help it. Even if they did I would probably eat them anyway, as long as they didn’t wiggle around or anything.


I am also aware that my last post wasn’t completely correct, but I got all of the information from wikipedia and I know how that info can be changed. Oh, please forgive me!

Chicken Fetuses and Why

I have been shining in a somewhat sarcastic and snarky light quite a bit lately so I would brace yourselves if I were you. 

As you probably know, whether you’re Christian or not, Easter is upon us. Easter never appealed to me much, I being a slightly abnormal and questioning child. Yes of course, throughout my life I’ve enjoyed the idea of an over-sized rabbit breaking into my home and leaving eggs and candy for me, but now I begin to wonder why on earth we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus by painting would-be chickens.

Why we eat eggs is baffling to me, and how people discovered they were edible is even more so. If you’re wondering what it actually is, it’s an unfertilized… egg. As in it never was a chicken, but if you see a little white mucus-y blob come out of the yolk, to my understanding it is a fetus. I know it’s okay to eat them because I’m not dead or terminally ill, but I am planning on refraining from eating those specific eggs in the future. 

Anyway, why do we dye blighted chicken ovum in the memory of Jesus Christ? Eggs are, according to Wikipedia, a “traditional symbol of fertility and rebirth” which seems to fit into the whole I-am-the-only-man-who-can-come-back-to-life thing. Also, decorated (I’m guessing painted or engraved) ostrich eggs were found in Africa and dated back to around 5,000 years ago. Dying miscarried eggs (not really, don’t get your panties in a twist) just seemed the befitting tradition to start at the time. I personally would rather have the tradition be meeting your favorite band members or something but I guess that’s a bit selfish and impractical.

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