ALSO. An informative entry

P.S.

I am really enjoying reading everyone's (Robby and Janelle's, basically) blogs, after being away for like, a month. I will leave a thousand comments in the morning. Well. Later this morning. I need to go to bed, it is after 2 in the morning and I have to get up earlier than noon to say goodbye to family leaving after Christmas.

Just so you know.

Struggle and Change

A lot of life exhausts me, and the most annoying thing is that most of it is my fault because I am a neurotic person. A dislike of being out of control coupled with indecisiveness and social anxiety does not make for a person with great confidence who is at ease with the world. To make up for this inner chaos, I try to project a sense of quiet confidence, to make people think that even if I don't have it all figured out, I am certain that I will stumble upon it eventually. I would like to be humble and competent. What I am, I fear, is self-centered and avoidance prone; this should be clear from this blog. But then we are all struggling somewhere, I suppose.

I used to identify with super confident female literary characters, but as I grew older I wasn't sure if this was just because people, namely my mom, said I should. I also because extremely introverted in middle school, so maybe that played a part in my sudden alienation from the characters I had thought I was so like. Jo, from Little Women, was one of these characters. I was Jo, because she liked books and writing, and I loved books and writing three line entries in my journal, and my sister was Amy, because she liked art and was the youngest. And I was Scout Finch, because I didn't like stereotypically girly stuff all that much and was outspoken, Elizabeth Bennett because I was smart and liked books. I don't know though, those were all things my mom said, and might mostly have been wishful thinking or motherly delusion. Probably both. There isn't much call for a quiet terrified girl who mostly stays that way except for stabs at sociability by making odd juxtapositions in conversation to be funny, in literary heroines, is what I'm saying.

The good news, though, is that I have hopes for changing. Slowly but surely, in good ways. That's why I like New Year's, because I always feel hopeful. New lists, new things, just *new.* If it brings good things, then great, I need sunny days and triumphs. If it brings bad, then those things too will pass, and though any strength gained at the end won't really justify the suffering, it will still be present.

I am terrified of having to find an internship within a week, but I will find it because I have to, and I will get through it because I need to. I am terrified of graduating, more so than of anything in my life, ironically because of the myriad of choices that threaten me, but I will make some choice, and I will deal with what happens next because that is how life works. I have nightmares about losing touch with some of the people I've met in college, but then I did the same thing about the people in high school. Well, that might not be such a good comparison, since growing apart from some of those people still hurts. But I will do my best to prevent it this time, and if it happens, it won't be due to me.

The point is, I will do better in 2011, I think. Realistically, I won't be hugely better off by the start of 2012, but I will be better in some ways. A bit more disciplined, in writing, exercising, praying, keeping up with people, everything in general. I'm not really an optimist, but neither am I a pessimist. I just have faith that things will change, I guess.

High School: Not That Bad

I don't know if it's just because I'm naturally introverted, very cautious, terrified beyond words of the unknown, and generally grateful for authority and rules, but high school was not such a bad time for me. My overall goal was to get good grades and fly beneath the radar, for the most part. These traits seemed to help me stay clear of the stereotypical high school problems you hear about or see in movies: teenage love/heartbreak, rebelliousness, drug taking and alcohol drinking, bullying, crushing isolation, what have you, to the point where the high school the media keeps moaning about doesn't even seem like a real thing. High school for me was kind of nice, really; a place to organize your time around, that gives you an excuse to read a lot.

I realize that I am probably incredibly fortunate to have had this experience, because I do know of people that had a rougher time of it, but then they had a rougher time in general life; family problems are a big part of it. If you think high school messes you up, girl please, try a dysfunctional family. Anyway, I kept pretty quiet and didn't have much drama because people make me nervous and I dislike intensely problems of any kind, social especially, so I didn't have too many friends and didn't talk much to people who weren't my friends.

Except there was this one girl in my gym and shop classes. I'll call her Erin. I'd known Erin since grade school, because everyone knew her. Well, everyone knew her sisters and her cousins, because they were all brilliant. Extroverted, friendly, genuinely talented at everything. And then there was Erin. Absolutely nuts she was, a pothead, drank alcohol every night, whatever else it was she wanted me to believe, and alarmingly, seemed to like me quite a lot.

She would slouch around the field with me while we were warming up for soccer or whatever the hell in gym, and tell me how hung over she was from the intense partying she had done the night before. I never knew what to say, so I'd just offer obvious advice, like "Well, maybe you shouldn't party on a school night." Erin would look at me for a long time, and laugh, hard, before wincing because hangover. Or she and her similarly potheaded boyfriend would sit and watch me struggle with screwdrivers in shop class while telling me about the awesomeness of marijuana.

That was a weird time. I don't know why Erin talked to me so, except I guess she knew I wouldn't tell anyone and didn't seem to judge her.

Miniature Courage

I hate making phone calls. You might think I'm talking about phone calls to report tragedy, or something, but no, I just hate phone calls in general. There is the physical discomfort that comes from holding a cell phone directly against my ear, where it slowly heats until it feels like the side of my head is just going to sweat off. There is also the social awkwardness.

Besides a brief glory days period of extroversion in preschool and early grade school, where I remember loving all the people and genuinely assuming that everyone loved me back, I Do Not Like Talking to Strangers Much At All. It has gotten better, and on good days and even regular days I feel like I can get past this with more confident appearing body language. Look directly at the person, smile at regular intervals, that sort of thing. But on the phone, this all goes away, and the person on the other end of the line is stuck with 14 Year Old Caitlin. Frequently I write out exactly what I'm going to say, then I pare it down to an outline so it doesn't sound like I'm reading a conversation I've written ahead of time, and THEN call. Even ordering food is a trial.

The point of this all is that I've been stressed for the past week about all the details of arranging various standardized tests I suddenly have to take this semester and next, and cannot for the life of me seem to get it together satisfactorily.

I don't know, life is really a chore sometimes, when the littlest stupid things take such a ridiculous amount of personal courage. It's not like they're these huge tasks I mean, but really, it doesn't seem fair that daily interactions take up so much mental and emotional energy. Couple that with the fact that several of my friends and family members have had a truly rough few weeks, and I am exhausted with no real right to be so. My surprising energy and drive to get things done that began the semester is slowly but surely wearing down and just leaving me tried. I really need Fall Break, even though I suspect I'll need it to gear up for the semester's end and the next one's beginning instead of rest.

More Childhood Diaries

Janelle asked me to do a happy post to negate the bad feelings from the last one (THE FEELINGS ARE MERELY IMPASSIONED), and I can't think of anything in particular to write about, so have some diary entries from my ~*youth*~.

My youth being 8 or 9 years old.

Clarification, I honestly think I invented this whole drama with Tyler. We were friends, but I don't really remember having a crush on him? I think I said I did, because I didn't have a crush on him, and everyone else had a crush on somebody, so I pretended I had one too. But I didn't tell anybody about it. So what was the point? YOUNG PRETEND LOVE.

Another weird thing I noticed was a tendency towards multiple rhetorical questions. Like, I'd ask the diary questions, and then answer them. I have no answers for this. Also lists. Lists were big.

____________________

March 8, 1999

I just learned about the new 1999 quarter. I'm trying to find one for my coin collection. I absolutely like Tyler. As a boyfriend too! But there's a problem. He doesn't like me. As a girlfriend, anyway. He likes Kelsey. She is the most snooty girl in the universe, I don't see how Tyler likes HER!!! Anyway, Mrs. P had a new granddaughter a few days ago named Andrea. I think. We looked at Amethyst and Rose Quartz and all sorts of other rocks today. It was cool. My favorite was the Amethyst.

_____________________

February 9, 1997

We went to 3 parties and in them all we had sweet tasting food. Like cake and ice cream. I got a stomach ache. Meghan moved, but I saw her at Kaitlyn's party! I went to American Girls Club. And ate sweet tasting food. We went to Charlie's party. And ate food. We went to Kaitlyn's party. And ate food.

_____________________

June 1, 1997

One June 5 the school is letting school out. Yesterday and part of today Bailey and I made a tent and played in it till Bailey's mommy came. Bailey also spent the night at my house and watched the Magic School Bus, Fantasia and Wishbone. I think Bailey liked all of them.

____________________

August 17, 1997

At church, they gave me a present. It was two things in one. The things on the outside are a tiny flashlight and the pen I'm writing with on the inside. There was a Bible, called Uncle Arthur's Bible Book.

____________________

May 12, 1997

I got a year book today. Almost everyone put their autograph in my book. I checked out Where the Read Fern Grows. And we moved our desks anywhere we wanted in school today. I chose to sit by Coleman.

____________________

December 2, 1996

I have some kids in my class. Here are their names. Patrick, Shane, Cody C, Meghan, Tyler, Gary, Joey, me, Michael, Holly, Amanda, Ashley, Blake, Cody O, Kelsey, Rickey, Jacob, Casey, Katy, Savannah, Coleman, Kimberly, Nera. Do those kids sound nice? Well they are! How do I know? I'm in their class! That's how I know! And they all know me. They're in my class. You know that, don't you? Yes you do.

Facts and Fairy Tales

Ugh, this weekend wasn't The Worst, but it was grating in many ways. Battering at my confidence, continuing uncertainty about What I'm Doing, and continued sleep-deprivation, it's not as if it was even close to anything resembling The Best. Mostly it involved struggles with my major, which is unrewarding work and just downright disheartening a lot of the time.

If there's ever been a major with students both more smug about itself while being supremely self-conscious and defensive than English, I have not come across it. There may be, I don't know, but I do know that for all the praise that's bestowed upon people that are able to articulate themselves well, the skill of writing it down is apparently not as admired. So English majors' attitudes aren't entirely unprecedented. Unless you're planning on being a teacher (itself not a terribly admired profession) or I guess, going into law school (at least it's well-paying), then people are at a loss as to how you're going to survive.

To be fair to many people I've met in my college career, I haven't felt attacked or scorned upon for being in English. But I and some other English majors have been looked down upon I feel, even by fellow devotees of the humanities, which is incredibly irritating. I do not like when me or my fellow English majors are looked upon as children who haven't outgrown a preoccupation with fairy tales, like people who don't know how to work with facts because we're not practical enough to create conclusions based on evidence, rather than writing poetry or whatever. Like fiction and stories in general aren't utterly necessary, for English and non-English majors alike.

As if wisdom was never gained from fairy tales.

Dynamic Duos (which devolves into fan-tarding)

Even though I am perfectly fond of stories that have a solitary protagonist, I am even more fond of the team. It reminds me a bit of this interview I either read or heard with Wes Anderson, in which he said that he liked writing about teams of people, having them work together and meshing personalities to get things done. The three person team is notable for its presence in some things I love, like Black Books and others I'm forgetting at the moment, but I have a special soft spot for teams of two.

Maybe it's because I tend to only have one close friend at a time, who knows, but man, the dynamic duo gets me every time. The sorts of double acts, where the characters seem wildly different at first glance, but who have deeper and stronger characteristics in common that hold them together. The Doctor & companion(s), Vince & Howard, Jemaine & Bret. It extends to real life as well, I love both The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. So it is no mystery (HA!) how I got sucked into Holmes & Watson.

Always the late bloomer, I only read the actual stories this summer, whereas literally everyone who's heard I'm reading them read them between the ages of 11-14. I guess I was too busy with James Herriot, or Julie's Wolf Pack, I don't know, but it's ridiculous, like a fifth grader just discovering Sesame Street, or something.

"OH MAN, YOU GUYS, HAVE YOU SEEN THAT SHOW WITH THE PUPPETS, ABOUT LETTERS AND NUMBERS?!"
"Sesame Street? Yeah....we got over that like, three grades ago."
"SO GOOD. IT IS SO GOOD."

It gets me in the same place as Doctor Who, really, with the largely socially isolated super-smart hero with the badass sidekick/equal who brings the normalcy and decency that's sorely needed in the whole endeavor. I am especially partial to the latter, I cannot resist adventurous sidekicks, good Lord.

AND THEY SOLVE CRIME/SAVE THE WORLD. I am always about adventure (in books)!

Anyway, I barely know what else to say about it, except to throw a bunch of recommendations your way, all of which you've probably heard if you know me in real life (Russian TV Holmes, Granada, new BBC Sherlock show, the 2009 RDJ one). This entry seems to have gone slightly awry, coherence-wise, as things usually do when I try and write about something I'm currently rather passionate about.

I could swear to you this is the last time I obsess about this, but it would probably be a lie. Usually I keep intense loves like this on the down-low in real life, because I will go on and on and frighten people.

P.S. Janelle told me to write something, and I wrote this lol she should be proud.

BUT IT'S THE SOLAR SYSTEM

It's a frightening day when you realize that you can sing perfectly, with all the lyrics and everything, an NSYNC B-side song that you haven't heard in at least 6 or 7 years. Is this why I have trouble remembering math formulas and the rules of biological cellular functions? Because they aren't in story/song format sung by NSYNC?! WHAT ELSE IS CLOGGING UP MY BRAIN LIKE A DISEASED COMPUTER HARD DRIVE.

I'm thinking most of school should just be in song format from now on, because that's apparently all I can handle. My brain hasn't progressed beyond the need to be entertained to learn, it's like a moody 6 year old. Good lord.

Jumbled Thoughts on Cake and "Mad Men"

Some things I have thought about a great deal today instead of homework:
1. Cake
2. Watching Mad Men with my mom

I cannot organize my thoughts into one coherent entry until I finish this Capstone essay, but I need to jump-start my writing muscles, so here we are.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wanted to do homework this afternoon, I really did, but I was hungry, so I ate supper, then I took a nap because I was tired and my head hurt, and then I woke up with an insatiable craving for cake.

If I had to choose a favorite cake, it would be a three-way tie between my mom's chocolate sheet cake, my paternal grandmother's coconut cake, and my maternal grandmother's caramel cake (when she doesn't try to substitute something in it to "make it healthier", most memorably angel food cake instead of yellow cake. this resulted in chaos and unhappiness.) Although the latter's lemon cake is also mind-blowingly excellent.

Pies are a good thing too, (I think in particular of my maternal grandmother's pecan pie and blueberry pie) but there is nothing like a really good slice of cake. It is fluffy, usually mixes well with milk and ice cream, and there is the issue of decoration to consider. All pies have to offer beside the filling is the crust, whereas cakes have flavored icing, in the shape of things; maybe flowers.

HAVE A RECIPE:

My Grandmother's Lemon Cake
Ingredients
Cake:
2 cups flour
2 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable Crisco
6 eggs
1 tablespoon milk
2 tablespoons lemon juice

Icing:
1 box confectioner's sugar
juice from two lemons
1/2 cup milk

Steps
1. Preheat oven to 275 deg. F
2. Mix sugar and Crisco thoroughly
3. Add eggs and flour little by little; 2 eggs and 1/2 cup flour at a time.
4. Add lemon juice and milk
5. Mix well and bake
6. Mix icing ingredients well and pour over warm cake

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mom: Omgomgomg ~*Jon Hamm*~ you are so attractive.
Me: I KNOW RIGHT. JUST. Don Draper is such an awful awful person that I would loathe in real life and kind of hate in TV life, but hot damn JON HAMM.
Mom: STOP CURSING, I raised you better than that.
Me: MRS. BLANKENSHIP IS ON SCREEN, EVERYONE BE QUIET.

The favorite character on Mad Men of both myself and my mom is Mrs. Blankenship, definitely, full on, all the way across the sky. Because she is clearly the refreshing fount of no-nonsense I-dislike-you-and-am-in-no-way-attracted-to-you-Don that none of his other secretaries have been. Also she has maybe the best lines, especially considering that they're all uttered in this extremely loud, passive-aggressive, monotone growl.

"MR. DRAPER, YOUR CHILD'S PSYCHOLOGIST CALLED."
"MR. DRAPER, SOMEONE CALLED WHEN YOU WERE IN THE TOILET, I DON'T REMEMBER HIS NAME, HE WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT LUNCH."

Every single time she is on screen, we just collapse with laughter. Maybe this is a thing that will only be understood by those who watch this show. Probably. It always makes me laugh, though.

Discouraged

Ever since middle school, when I started attending the Adventist private school system, I've listened to pastors wail about the number of "young people" growing up in the church and then drifting or leaving in their twenties and never coming back. They wrung their hands, and scowled around but mostly just looked sad and mystified, before looking determined and hopeful out at us young time bombs, who would maybe explode in a fury of rejection or acceptance of Jesus and the church, but more likely quietly fizzle out. But for then, we were still good, still safe, still working through puberty with the roil of emotions that would at least move us along in our search for God. Before our twenties, when we were in great danger of becoming lazy, tired, sedentary in our spiritual lives.

I always felt mostly normal throughout my life and have mostly felt conflicted about it. I'm not drawn towards chaos or instability, and never envied brilliant unbalanced people like some do. I'm mostly all right with being intelligent without genius and hard working without being incredibly driven. But sometimes I feel like I should be the exception, even if I'm not sure I can be. And this is one of those instances. As much as I'd like to be the time bomb that explodes, I don't think I am. I fear I may be the one, the 70% or whatever the statistic is now, that just fizzles.

It's not that I don't respect Christianity, and Adventism in particular, it's just that I am so tired. I'm not leaving the church, but I do feel dead in the water, just treading and not really going anywhere. I accept responsibility for this, no one is to blame directly for my relationship with God, and the state of mine is probably the way it is because I am very often cowardly, only forced into forward motion at the very last second when I have no choice.

But I also feel tired by all the events this school makes me attend. All the worships, vespers, convocations, in which they exhort us to make time for personal devotions and find meaning for ourselves, and I want to scream back at them "PLEASE LET ME, YOU ARE WEARING ME OUT." Because I do not have time, and it kills me that they blame me for that. Yes, I could probably cut back on the time I spend reading books for entertainment, or watching TV or whatever, but I could also be spending the time that you're taking to tell me to go pray TO ACTUALLY PRAY.

Religion and God and spirituality is such a viscerally personal thing, I am so discouraged by this whole situation. It kills me that I can't seem to retain Christianity and I'm just sitting there a lot of the time. I know what to do and don't know what to do. I am both terrified to ask what to do, lest the answer be terrifying, and tired of just sitting around.

Mostly though, I want the personal space from this infuriating institution to work it out, without them worrying over me, without them howling about the young people leaving and then being unable to fathom why being over-parented would lead to the parents being resented.

Southern Adventist University, please calm down and leave me alone for a bit. I hope everything will be fine with me, but I fear that I definitely will not be fine if something about this doesn't change.

Playground Detectives

I don't know that I had a terribly vivid imagination as a kid, but I was a highly suspicious and somewhat paranoid kid. I liked knowing exactly what to expect and having explanations for things I didn't understand. That being said, I was shy of adults and didn't particularly like to ask questions that I thought might be obvious. Which left me with little else to do when I discovered a mystery during recess but speculate and think about maybe investigating.

There were two major mysteries that existed on my grade school playground: The Mystery of the Red Colored Wood in the Mulch Pile on the upper playground and The Mystery of the Missing Fence on the lower. My team of fellow investigators included Coleman, Joey, and occasionally Kara.

Joey fancied himself an intellectual, but one who liked NASCAR and pro-wrestling. He got all A's, and the teachers were always fond of him, except for when he constantly interrupted their questions with the answers. Coleman had decided to become the class clown and my sidekick, which was great because I loved people who made me laugh and let me boss them around. The teachers were less fond of him, especially when he had a tantrum because I didn't win the class spelling bee. I was baffled by his loyalty, but he was fun to have around. Kara mostly just hung around to watch Coleman do something foolish and maybe get hurt.

I decided early on that the mulch pile mystery was definitely the inferior one. Coleman's conclusion of MURDER, because of the presence of reddish wood chips, just seemed too obvious. And frankly, his later addition of the escaped zoo gorilla seemed silly.

"There is no wood that is red! Look around! All the trees are brown! THERE HAS TO BE A BODY SOMEWHERE," and then he would furiously dig into the huge mountain of wood and dirt. Joey would scoff.

"What about REDWOOD trees?" he asked. Coleman shook his head, still digging.

"This wood is TOO red. Too red for anything but MURDER." He gave up digging soon, and we bounced around on top of the pile, until the teachers told us to get down before we hurt ourselves.

The fence mystery captured my imagination for almost two years. It was perhaps more intriguing because of its lack of evidence of foul play, unlike the red wood chips in the mulch pile. One day a panel of the chain link fence surrounding the lower playground and separating it from the patch of woods at the back of the school, was present, was there, and the next it simply wasn't. The panel beside it appeared twisted, the pole half out of the ground and the wire poking out the sides. It was all very suspicious.

"Maybe it was a wild boar. My dad read about a wild boar in North Georgia that got up to like, 100 pounds," Joey informed us as we examined the gate. This time Coleman scoffed.

"ONE HUNDRED pounds? Have you seen pigs? They are definitely not that big," he informed Joey.

Eventually interest in the gate died down, but I would glance at it every so often, with its strange gaping entrance into the woods, and wonder. Finally I decided that I would never know. A few weeks before summer after third grade, I saw the school janitor replacing the panel, and concluded that it must have been a routine maintenance thing.

OR WAS IT.

And Then All My Dreams Came True

I never talked, or even thought, much about dreams until middle school. I've always had pretty vivid nightmares, but nice or interesting dreams, no. I could remember very well the murderous evil reflected in the eyes of the skeletons that burst from the glowing green hell of my closet, but happy thoughts just seemed to dissipate in a faintly cheerful puff in the morning. If I did remember a dream that wasn't a nightmare, it was unbelievably boring, like a re-run of the particularly dull parts of my day. This was not the case for my new school's friends, who frequently had creative, fascinating dream worlds in which magical adventures with talking animals occurred, or hilarious, incongruous happenstances with schoolmates took place. They could spend entire recesses discussing their dreams, while I said little and thought resentfully about my dream closet of horrors.

In high school, we learned about lucid dreams, in which you could harness your brain to have whatever type of dream you wanted when you became aware that you were dreaming.

I. Was. Thrilled.

No more beloved family members turning to me in the car before turning into carnivorous monsters and devouring me! No more creepy strangers breaking into my bedroom at night and almost stabbing me! My nighttime horrors were over, now that I realized I could trick my brain into not being a terrifying fount of hellish imagination!

I tried for weeks to have a lucid dream, before I mostly gave up. I didn't have many nightmares any more, only the dull ones, so it wasn't really that big of a deal. And then one night. I was dreaming about walking to class at school, trying to remember the date, when I realized that the date was during fall break. So I couldn't really be at school. I MUST BE DREAMING, OMG.

What should I do what should I do what should I do? I could do anything! I could fly off into the air! I could conjure a unicorn from thin air and ride it all the way home where I would dig up buried treasure in the yard and build a castle of rainbows and laughter! I could remember all the rules of algebra and not forget them five minutes after I learned them! I was paralyzed in the courtyard with joy and indecision.

It was then that I remembered vaguely wishing I could play an instrument well. NOW I COULD, BY GOD, MY WISHES COULD BE GRANTED. So I immediately started a bluegrass band in my school chaplain's office with me on banjo, some guy I had a crush on for like, two months on guitar, and a random girl on violin. We were intense, probably the best bluegrass band that school had EVER SEEN. After we played a few songs, I drove home in my car to watch TV and take the rest of my dream day off.

Because ANYTHING WAS POSSIBLE.

The Monologist

Although I am now pretty much a nervous 21 year old senior in college with no solid life destination in mind, when I was a somewhat confident eight (?) year old second grader, I was going places. I'm not saying I was always sure of everything I did, I was still pretty nervous with anything that wasn't familiar, (even fun things like field trips could set off my panic instinct), but when Ms. B let me read to the class for the last hour or so before the last bell rang, I was THE BOSS.

I would arrange everyone on the carpet while I took the teacher's stool, and generously let them choose which one of the two chapter books I had been reading from lately; usually a Boxcar Children mystery or an abridged kiddie version of a Jack London novel. Then I would settle down to let them bask in my reading prowess. I didn't do different voices for the characters, but what I lacked in voice acting, I made up for in enthusiasm and emphasis. It was my favorite thing. When I was an adult, I thought, I would definitely make this a regular thing. Maybe even a job!

I liked being able to hold people's attention with a story, even if it wasn't my own, and even better if they laughed. Mostly I wanted people to laugh, even though I wasn't daring enough to be the class clown. Anyway, Ms. B obviously thought I had what it took, or she wouldn't ask me to read aloud so often.

A few years later I found out the reason Ms. B either let me read or showed so many movies to my class was because she was severely depressed after the death of her mother and sister earlier that year.

But I still love reading aloud. David Sedaris is my specialty, so hit me up if you're depressed, I guess.

Crybaby or An Exercise in Emotional Hyperbole

I have become the biggest crybaby as I've gotten older. Well, that sounds a bit over the top; what I mean is I am a lot more willing to cry over fictional characters now than I was before. I don't know if it's hormones or what, but I like to think it's because I'm just a more ~*deep and caring person*~ who feels things more acutely. I cried as a kid, don't get me wrong, but within the last year or so it has gotten, by my standards, out of control.

The worst offender is the beginning of Pixar's movie Up. It is not my favorite Pixar movie, or movie period, but I swear to God, that five minute montage at the beginning kicks me in the heart and makes me cry involuntarily every single time. I genuinely dislike watching the beginning with other people because I know I will end up bawling and embarassing myself. And while we're talking about Pixar. oh God, Toy Story 3, oh God. I guess kid movies destroy me, I don't even know. Big Fish can sneak up on me too, if I'm not careful.

Books can be just as bad for my fragile psyche as movies, though. When my mom recommended The Book Thief , I thought Here we go, another Holocaust story, because I'm basically a terrible person. The story even starts out listing the people who die, since the narrator is freaking Death itself, so it shouldn't be a big shocker when it happens, but the ending just destroyed me. Just kicked my heart around the room as I heaved these ridiculous sobs that would be more appropriate at the funeral of a loved one because of this fictional couple that would never be.

Let the Great World Spin is, I think, a collection of short stories all set in pre-9/11 New York City. I just started it a week or so ago and have only finished the first story. It was a fantastic one, but I knew I was in for it when the main characters were Irish brothers. Nothing good can come of Irish brothers in books, they are the main characters in almost every tragedy. The end, which flashes back and forth between the tortured younger brother, who was in a fatal car accident, and the older brother, who was going about his business and unaware of the accident until just before the younger brother's death, made me hold my breath and then burst into tears at the younger brother's last words. Just astonishing.

Anyway, now that I've flaunted my emotional instability, what movies or books make you cry?

A jumbled post about writing

I have this bizarre love/hate relationship with writing that I'm not sure is entirely normal. I wonder if it would be the same if I didn't have an unfortunately strong penchant both for procrastination and perfectionism, at least when it comes to starting things, but as it is most writing I do is like freaking pulling rotten teeth. It's not all that fun or easy, but I have to or my head will explode. That's kind of a dramatic way of putting it, but really, evn my journal entries tend to be a bit sporadic because I don't have the patience to write all I want to write. In the end, it's my main outlet of expression, even if I don't care for it like I should.

The most difficult for me by far is creative writing. I suppose it's because I've kept a journal about my life since I was seven, but writing fiction is ridiculously challenging for me. I remember once in third grade, we had to write and illustrate our own fictional stories and enter them in a creative writing contest at the school. I spent weeks on that thing I think, storming around, frustrated that I couldn't think of where to send my guppy main character on his epic journey through the sea next. At one point I gave him a best friend who was an angelfish, and who was this big tough fighter guy; mainly I remember this because I was thrilled at thinking of this, creating a tough angelfish! Hahaha, what wit! I think it ended with the guppy and angelfish playing checkers? I don't know.

I read once that the mark of a really intelligent and creative person is if they created and imagined living in a little world of their own and I felt slightly bad for myself. Does it count if it was a half-assed world, cobbled together from books I'd read and TV I'd seen? I was too busy exploring other people's fictional worlds to create my own, I guess. I did, and still do, far more reading than writing.

My mom is teaching a creative writing class this next year, and I'm eyeing her cirriculum warily as I help her gather it together. She's gotten a bunch of writing prompt books off Amazon.com that maybe I could try out sometime, when I gather the courage. I think the key is habit? I know that's how exercise became less daunting for me, knowing that at a certain time in the evening I was going over there, because it was that time. Maybe this school year will be the year I become more comfortable with my compulsion.

Derrrrrrp OR Summer for Lazy Nerds

I was hanging out with one of my friends who's returned from working at summer camp since May, and she asked how my summer was. I thought for a bit and then replied that I'd watched the new Doctor Who season and read the Sherlock Holmes stories whilst watching various TV series adaptations of the same. After having told me all these stories about working in the cafeteria at camp and helping supervise the kids and having all these meaningful interactions with people, my friend was like, "Really? That's...all?"

And I said, "YUP."

SUMMERTIME YOU GUYS. IT IS NOT MY MOST PRODUCTIVE TIME PERIOD.

The Regular

I went to pick up Chinese at the local Chinese place, and as I was paying, the cashier lady asked me if I was working at the front desk for the dorm again this summer. I was astonished. I do get food from the place somewhat often, a couple of times every few weeks I guess, so I guess I would be considered a regular, but I had no idea she knew I worked at the dorm. It was kind of nice to think that she remembered me so well. I can't say whether I would be able to do the same if our roles were reversed.

I'm also a regular at a nearby car repair place, run by an old man. I don't know that we've had a conversation yet that wasn't about the weather, but he always seems to be pleased that I make an effort. He confessed to me once that few people even bother rolling down the window when they come through, then shook his head and frowned at the middle distance. It made me feel inordinately proud of myself, making awkward stabs at friendliness.

Being a regular is both nice and strange. It shouldn't surprise me, I guess, that frequent exposure to another person creates familiarization and friendship, but somehow I'm always pleasantly surprised when someone remembers me. It makes me want to try harder to remember people's names and faces instead of spending so much time daydreaming about nonsense like I usually do.

The Writer's Whiny Assurance

Guys, guys, it is so hot. And it makes me tired and lazy. That is basically my excuse for writing so little in this blog and elsewhere. This is what usually happens during the summer: I think I will get so much done during summer break, I do so for like, two weeks, and then I just devolve into this Reading Machine. I would watch more TV, but I feel guilty just lying around all day like I do, and at least when I'm reading I'm exercising my brain.

The whole process this summer has been further upset by how annoyingly busy last semester was, and then the air conditioner at my house breaking upstairs. I don't think I even went through my traditional two or three week period in May of "trying," I just collapsed. So I've just been sweating and limping (after spraining my ankle like, A WEEK OR MORE ago, it is still embarrassingly and irritatingly sore) around at home with my books. It has been pretty awesome in lots of ways, I'm not going to lie. I have always been a master at escapism, and reading is the one leisure type thing I rarely or never feel guilty about indulging in.

MY POINT, is that I've got loads of blog ideas half formed in Microsoft Word floating around that I SWEAR I'm going to get around to stitching together eventually. I've been reading lots of really intelligent blogs lately that update frequently with intelligent entries, and it would be nice to try build the habit for myself.

FUTURE BLOG SUBJECTS WILL LIKELY INCLUDE:
*The book series that's at least temporarily eaten my brain that everyone knows about because they've read it in middle school, but I didn't, I read it just now, and am now carefully and self-consciously adoring it, so you'll just have to sit through it with me.
*The TV series that I adore whole-heartedly, probably above all others, and against all odds.
*My history of taking writing Too Seriously.
*Music lessons and me
*Letters
*Cheeses I have loved

Yeah, maybe not that last one. I just thought it sounded funny.

My problem is that I take things too seriously and my sleep schedule is all weird right now because of work, so I need to figure out when I write best. This confession will be a considerable relief to my, what, three readers? But anyway, I thought those three would be interested in knowing.

This has basically been a post about whining, hasn't it? It totally has. Blergghhh, I promise there won't be many others.

(Lame) Summer Secrets

I'm a pretty open person, and don't really like to have important secrets, especially from people I'm close to. But I do like to have several insignificant ones. Ones that wouldn't really even matter to my parents or my sister or my friends, if they found out, because they're seriously not even that interesting. I tend to cultivate them during the summer, since I'm most often by myself at the house, especially during May when I'm out of school and my mom and sister aren't, so few people are at the house during the day, and my friends live far enough away that I have to make specific plans to hang out with them.

For example: I was determined to learn how to play the harmonica a few years ago. I read stuff about it on the Internet, and for a few months when nobody was at the house, I would practice. I was okay at it, but abandoned it because people were at the house more often later in the summer, and I didn't love it all that much anyway.

One summer I decided to try and learn how to cook some things, since the only thing that I'm confident in making well is spaghetti, and that mainly involves heating things up in pans. I did that for about two weeks, making smallish dishes and eating them by myself before cleaning up before anyone got home, then gave up in favor of finishing several novels I'd started. It was during these weeks that I also tried to make supper a few times, but they turned out weird. I think I chose overly involved recipes.

Another common secret, is when I become obsessed with some thing, like a book or whatever, and don't want anyone to know. I guess I don't want anyone to make fun of me, but I've always been uncomfortable being too enthusiastic about something, because I always end up talking nonsense. Basically just babbling happily.

I won't (hopefully) really ever be a person who has a hideous, unspeakable secret, because I will obsess over it far too much. It already takes probably too much energy to handle these little dumb ones.

~*~*~Secrets~*~*~

A Book Friend Revisited

A few days ago, I was digging around at home in the spare room/library for a few new books to read, when I saw my old copy of All Creatures Great and Small from across the room. I actually clapped my hands in nostalgic delight, and started extracting it from the messy bookcase, when a hardback fell out and onto my foot. I yelped and picked it up and it turned out to be a copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes that I didn't even know I had.

JOHN IS THAT YOU.

(Man, I should just read the flipping stories already. BUT NOT BEFORE JAMES HERRIOT. BUT I WILL READ THEM THIS SUMMER, GOSH, I FEEL LIKE THEY'RE STALKING ME...)

My Friend Elizabeth

"I suggest that the only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.
~E.M. Forster

My experience with Jane Austen is a bit shameful for an English major student who grew up with an English Lit teacher for a mother. It wasn't for lack of trying on my mom's part, you can be sure. She started quietly recommending Pride and Prejudice when I was in middle school, and then pointedly insisting that we would read it together in the summer when we both finished up for the year. (We never quiet got around to this, because we would both be exhausted and just collapse for a few weeks, and forget our plans altogether). She would laugh loudly through the beginning of the book and then ask if I wanted to read her spare copy as she prepared to teach it to her new class in the fall.

My friend Rachael sighed in delight over it when she read it in high school and made me watch the famous BBC mini series with Colin Firth with her. With all that, I only just actually read Pride and Prejudice this past semester for my British Lit class.

It felt a bit like spending the weekend with a cousin that you've visited once a year for as long as you can remember, who's very smart and all-around wonderful according to everyone, but you don't really have a personal opinion on her because you've never really talked to her since she's so much older than you, though you've seen her from afar a lot. Then suddenly, you're both in your twenties, and the age difference doesn't seem so bad now, so you talk and just click. She definitely lives up to the hype, once she becomes a personal friend, and you have woven her into your smallish group of friends.

That is far too insane and personification-y of a metaphor to drag out for so long, but really, that book is such fun, and I quite loved it. I tend to be intimidated by classic literature, which is something I am working at changing. Talking to Janelle the other day, I compared Classics with my parents' friends, who I was very polite, very shy and a bit afraid during interactions with them, but who I'm more confident but still shy around. They are older, more talented, and more respected than me, and that makes me nervous even though I know I can learn from them.

The point is, it was wonderful experiencing the quiet, warm shift into making this Classic, so often placed on so high a pedestal, an approachable personal favorite. It took a while, but I hope it won't be a unique experience.

Boys' Books

For swearing a dislike for the outdoors when I was a kid, I read a lot of books about the outdoors. Books that are often categorized as “Boys’ Books,” because they’re about finding oneself in the wilderness, or struggling against the wilderness, or whatever.

I was all about Jack London books when I was in middle school, White Fang and The Call of the Wild especially. The third book in Jean Craighead George’s Julie of the Wolves series, Julie’s Wolf Pack, was also a favorite, even more so than the first book, because it was only about the interactions between the wolf packs in a small region of Alaska, and included few human characters.

Later, I enjoyed what were probably abridged versions of Victorian era sci-fi and adventure, like H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine, Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth, H. Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines, all that business. My grandmother tried to interest me in Little House on the Prairie by giving me a new book in the series for each special occasion, and I would thank her, read one chapter to be polite, and then set it aside to find out once again if Buck the kidnapped half-wolf dog would survive the epic battle with Spitz, the alpha of the sled dog team. My mom would edge Jane Austen novels over the table at me during the summer, and I would nod at her absently as I read of White Fang’s struggle against humanity.

People made me nervous and bored in real life and in books, when I was an adolescent; 12+ish, I mean. I was All About people when I was in preschool and grade school, but that changed really quick when I suddenly changed environments and I discovered my deep loathing of dramatic change. Maybe I’m over exaggerating my shyness at the time, but considering the energy I spent agonizing over strategies of how to win friends, I’m not that sure. Oh man, I had strategies! Anyway, I was a nervous kid, but BOOKS; So great!

Early Summer Conversations With Myself

Oh my gosh, my laziness seriously frightens me in its intensity. I am so lazy, I'm too lazy to go to sleep, which doesn't even make sense. This past year just took everything out of me, ambition, hopes and dreams....

Tomorrow I am just going to make lists and clean the house. Maybe get some food that isn't takeout and coleslaw that my dad made with like, a whole jar of mayonnaise. AND I WILL DEFINITELY NOT STAY UP UNTIL 3 IN THE MORNING LAUGHING UNTIL I CRY AT STUPID THINGS I FIND ON THE INTERNET. LIKE, A HUGE TUMBLR ACCOUNT DEDICATED TO PHOTOS OF ROBERT DOWNEY JR. WITH MAN PURSES. OR "WIZARD PEOPLE, DEAR READERS" ON YOUTUBE FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME. OR WHATEVER.

GOD HOW IS THIS MY LIFE. NINE YEAR OLD ME WOULD BE SO DISAPPOINTED.

"NINE YEAR OLD ME, IT'S FUNNY, BECAUSE PURSES."
"WHYYYYYYYYYYYY"

Movies of My Youth

I consider myself somewhat of a Night Owl now, but when I was a kid I was an Early Bird. I would kind of pass out around 8:30 or 9 PM, and then wake up at 4. Usually my parents refused to get up, which was lame, so I’d watch movies or read a book downstairs by myself. Usually read a book because I didn’t have that many movies, but the ones I did have I remember pretty vividly.

“The Lion King” was my favorite for ages, and I would roll around on the floor pretending to be a lion, or pose dramatically on the couch. God help my poor cat if he ever ambled by, because he would instantly be snatched up and hoisted into the air, as THE NEW PRINCE OF PRIDE ROCK or whatever. And when Mufasa died it would totally tear me up, I cannot even explain to you.

“Toy Story” was a big deal, too. The computer animation enthralled me, and that part when Woody finds Buzz depressed and dressed as a doll by that evil kid’s sister cracked me up EVERY TIME. “I’M MRS. NESBIT NOW.” It was not a helpful movie for packrats like me, I can tell you that. I even worried about throwing away Happy Meal toys after watching it.

If I was feeling daring, it was “The Great Mouse Detective,” which I loved but also scared the crap out of me, especially that part where they’re creeping around in the toy store (I think it was a toy store?). THAT FREAKING JACK-IN-THE-BOX AND THE PEG-LEGGED BAT, OH MY GOD. Were the toys alive? I vaguely remember that maybe they were alive, oh man. And the end battle, OH GOD DON’T DIEEEEEEEE BASILLLLLLLL WHO WILL SOLVE CRIME IF YOU DO HELP HIM DAWSON YOU FAT INCOMPETENT FOOL. SO STRESSFUL but also SO FIERCE I don’t even know.

I also liked “Fly Away Home,” because I liked to imagine being the leader of geese. We have a lot of Canada geese that live around our pond, so I guess I connected to that.

ALSO "ROCK-A-DOODLE" AND "SCAMPER THE PENGUIN" HOW COULD I FORGET THOSE THEY WERE ALSO MY FAVORITES.

Man, now that I’m thinking about it I had a lot of weird movies, who even gave them to me? I don’t even remember. I have got to get focused on school, and stop daydreaming about movies and books and other things I'd RATHER be doing.

A Book Friend

For most of my life, I've only really had a few really close friends with which I share pretty much everything. That's still the case in college, but I've also become more receptive to having more casual friends, with whom I share a few interests in common. I have a friend who has almost the same taste in music as me (handy for recs), a friend whose library I'm pretty sure is being slowly absorbed into mine, and vice versa, a friend I watch sci-fi things with, and others. These friends are loads of fun, but I tend not to keep up with them very well since they usually don't fit into my daily schedule. (they don't work with me, share classes, that sort of thing).
I was watching the recent movie adaptation of "Sherlock Holmes," when I suddenly remembered a commmon(ish) interest friend I had in sixth grade. He was a book friend.

I read a lot, all of the time, in sixth grade because I was new and didn't know how to act around people I didn't know. The teacher put the desks in little groups of four, and John and I were in a group of three, because there was an odd number, with another boy who mostly just slept. John was a nice guy, and I can't remember a whole lot about him other than the fact that he was in love with the "Sherlock Holmes" series around the time I was in love with those James Herriot "All Creatures Great and Small" series. (I was all about long, involved books when I was a kid, especially series) In break times during class, he would explain why Sherlock Holmes was totally the best ever and I would roll my eyes and tease him about it, and he would shake his head mournfully. Occasionally we would swap books, but he would NOT like the gory details of being a vet, and I would get frustrated by the mysteries and lose interest.

"LOOK. CAITLIN. SHERLOCK HOLMES IS THE BEST EVER AND CAN DO ANYTHING AND IS A LOT BETTER THAN YOUR GUY, WHO SPENDS WAY TOO MUCH TIME AROUND HORSE INNARDS."
I wonder what he thought of the recent movie, if he saw it.

It was good times in an otherwise really awful and awkward stage of my life. And in seventh grade we were put in different teachers' classes, so we didn't really ever talk again.

Projects

I've never really had lots of personal projects in my life. Or, maybe I should explain; I don't really make big projects for myself. I tend to have little goals scattered around that never seem to get quite finished, so they little my brain and worry me at night with their un-finished-ness.

This blog is one such project. I've also got letters to write to people (thank you and how are you doing), a mix CD to finish, and a thorough Spring Cleaning of my room to do. And several books to read. And maybe some form of writing that isn't in a journal. And have some form of a Christian life.

I don't know. I hate having loose ends, but in a way, I feel nervous if I don't have them. I feel like I'm not getting things done.

Basically I am sick of my neuroses.

Movies

Taking inspiration from Janelle, I'm going to try to write at least three lines a day in my blog. This will probably be the majority of my entries, but whatever.

I've watched a lot of movies, mostly in the last half decade or so. This is interesting, when you think about it. The habit started in middle school, when all my friends were watching The Lord of the Rings, and I thought it was super awesome. I can't say that I haven't watched some bad movies, but dag, I watched this one movie last night and it was total Horrorshow.

Like, so unbelievably bad that I couldn't even mock it, I was just horror-stricken at how awful the characters were. And the story was bad. I keep having flashbacks and shuddering. Yeesh. At least I stopped it halfway through or so. I do not care if the main guy was super cute, totes not worth it. I cannot even remember the name of it.

Now I am watching lots of movies by Wes Anderson and watching a lot of Friends episodes with my sister. Just so you know.

Soothing Winter Neuroses

I have been pleased by the snow this winter, because if it's going to be this cold and windy, it had also better be pretty. But still, I've been feeling a bit ragged. I've been victim to a seemingly never ending cold, feeling insecure about my winter ham-arms and pot-belly, and mentally taxed by college. I cannot tell you how worried it makes me feel that my success in transitioning from college to life seems to be amusing and making friends with my teachers. I am The Worst at amusing strangers! And I said more crazy things to my sister's friends because I was nervous and I never know what to say to anybody.

I was worrying these things over in my mind, sullenly tromping back to the dorm after class Friday when several of my Happy Place songs came on, I saw a quote that soothed me, took a nap, ate lunch with my mom, laughed a lot over a dumb movie, sighed happily about a cute guy with my sister, listened to a sermon at Vespers that encouraged rather than guilt-tripped me, and just felt. Better. So amazing.

Have some music!







"God doesn't call us to be extraordinary; He calls us to be faithful."

A Creature of Comforting Habits

A lot of the time when I'm feeling overwhelmed or just weepy and I don't know why, I'll sit down and talk quietly to myself (in my head, not aloud). I'll say "Okay. What is the problem, and what can I do to calm myself down to solve it?" A lot of the time it isn't anything I can deal with at that moment in time, it's just a general sense of anxiety I've created by falling slightly short at a variety of probably impossible goals I'd set for myself earlier. Finish all my homework reading for the week, clean most or all of the house, finish a project, go exercise, and then go talk to some professors that you're terrified of because they're adults and you don't know them, all in one day. And then maybe you can relax. Only of course I don't finish it all, so I don't relax and just feel bad, and guilty.

I have four(ish) main moods: Fear, Guilt, Excitement, and Hope. Most of my time lately has been spent in the first two moods, and a lot of the time I can't figure out whether that would cease to be the case if I tried harder to solve my problems and self-doubts, or if I should just continue comforting myself like I do. The things I've been doing lately to comfort myself include:

1. Making lists
2. Writing out in cursive the lyrics to songs I listen to a lot (mostly Slow Club, songs from Paul Simon's "Graceland" album, and Neutral Milk Hotel's "Holland 1945")
3. Trying to perfect my Chocolate Cake in a Cup recipe
4. Reorganizing my bookshelf
5. Watching Wes Anderson's movies, especially "Rushmore," and Sofia Coppola's "Marie Antoinette." This is partly because I love beyond reason the look of those movies, with their very determined color palettes and carefully ordered sets, and partly because I for some reason suddenly have A Thing for Jason Schwartzman.
6. Reading David Sedaris, Anne Lamott, Sarah Vowell, and other essayists I love.

Number five has been especially popular, lately. I would watch those movies again with someone in a heartbeat.

I worry a lot that I am wasting time doing these things, putting off what actually be done, but I am so worn out from worrying. I don't know.

Dear Diary

I went home to wash my laundry at my house this afternoon, like I do most Fridays, and ended up stuck here. (Maybe stuck is a bit negative sounding, but I don't mean it to be). Yes, I had heard about the forecast for a "small winter storm" or whatever, but our weathermen freak out about the smallest thing. But they were justified this time, so here I am.

I like being home, but not really at the moment, because my room and the house in general is a disaster. We got the entire inside painted and de-wallpapered, and everything's covered in a thin layer of dust. I turned on the light in my room and the click echoed, which made me uneasy. It made the place feel empty and cold, and my walls are bare. I need new furniture now, since my multicolored chest-of-drawers definitely do not fit in now.

I was putting sheets on my bed when I noticed my first diary haphazardly lying on my bookshelves. I hadn't read it in a while, so I thought I would, and it is crazy. Well, not crazy I guess, but I don't know how to explain it other than the diary of a six to ten year old girl, which is how old I was when I wrote in it. I filled it up, because I promised to when my mom bought it for me, and especially as a kid I was very big about keeping my promises. When I remembered them. I was also very intense about the whole "DIARIES HAVE TO BE PRIVATE" thing, but that was about all I was disciplined about. I've kept diaries/journals for the majority of my life, because I'd never heard rules about how they should be written, whereas I knew lots of rules about writing stories. Maybe that's why writing fiction has always made me tense. I also noticed a good number of recaps of movies I had seen. Anyway. Here's some excerpts from my ~*childhood diary*~ to amuse you. Errors uncorrected! For historical accuracy/laziness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
July 5, '96
Dear Diary...
I love to read. And I have lots of frinds. And I love this diary.
Caitlin
P.S. I WILL MAKE SURE THAT NO ONE READS THIS DIARY EXCEPT ME.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oct. 10, '96
Dear Diary...
Happy birthday to you happy birthday to you happy birthday dear diary, happy birthday to you. And many more. Diary I'm sorry but it isn't your birthday. It's Savannah's, on of my beast frinds. It's her birthday, and Katie's birthday. But I won't be able to go to them. We are going somewhere else.
Caitlin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jan. 24 '97
Dear Diary...
Today was the spelling bee. A lot of good things happed to me today. Like I got to go to Mac Donald's. And I got a letter from Gorgia. It said congrats Caitlin. Then I got a basket with candeys. And I did sand art.
Caitlin
P.S. I am alternate. (in the Spelling Bee) I didn't win.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sep. 17 '98
Dear Diary...
Today we went to the county fair and saw the play "Annie." I really liked "Annie" and the county fair. My mom, dad, sister, aunt, grandma, friend and I thought that the villen in the play "Annie" was halarious. She was pretty drunk.
Caitlin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jan. 10 '99
Dear Diary...
We just watched the Swiss Family Robinson on TV. It was really good. It was about this family that got shipwreacked on an island for 182 days! CRAZY. They built a shower in their treehouse. Next Sunday, they're going to put on a movie about Martin Luther King Jr. and how he won freedom for all black people.
Caitlin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
Mar. 8, 2000
Dear Diary...
I was just thinking. I really do like Tyler. I also just found out that I am lovesick because of him. And more thing. I wonder if he really does like Brooke, or is he just making that up? Who knows. I wish I did know. I also wonder what it's like to be really popular, like Kara. Everyone likes you, and accepts you. Boys like you. Tyler once even liked Kara as a girlfriend, and could still possibly like her!
Caitlin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mar. 29, 2000
Dear Diary...
I found out something that I should have known before. Tyler and I have totally different interests, and as you know, I like him! It's such an inconvenience. Anyway, Amber made me a thing called a Peeper! It is a puff ball creature with hearts for feet. It is so cute!
Caitlin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Masterpieces of prose, all.