Me

My battle with my skin has been a constant in my life since I was a wee lass of eight. Anyone who's had chronic acne can tell you that it sucks. There's nothing like waking up to a giant puss volcano erupting on your nose to make you feel like staying in bed all day.

Naturally, when I was old enough to venture into the world of foundations, powders, and eyeshadows, I rushed right for the concealer. I still remember my first day of high school, standing self-consciously in front of the mirror and slathering my face in whatever CoverGirl foundation was the latest at the time. I wanted desperately to make friends with the girl in the mirror, but she was so difficult to accept because she looked like this:

Actual photo from 9th grade. It's worth noting that I was wearing platform flip-flops, a kimono shirt, and jean capris. Bless my heart.

When I firmly believed she should look like this:

Yes, T-Swift's Love Story was at the height of its popularity when I was a freshman in high school.

I was even more desperately trying to make actual real friends and get attention from actual real boys (oh foolish girl) and it seemed to me that covering my pubescent skin with thick, ill-pigmented sludge (and getting a push-up bra) was the way to do it. Little did I know, the sludge may have actually been making my skin worse.

But I persisted. My first foray into the world of womanhood was characterized by globs of CoverGirl concealer, chunky maxi pads, and crippling insecurity.

As I grew older, I experimented with all kinds of drug store foundations, cycling through Revlon, Maybelline, Alamay, and even the late-blooming Neutragena line. I lined my brown eyes with thick layers of black pencil, sometimes only lining the bottom, and brushing on clumpy, crumbly mascara, all the while praying to the beauty gods that I would someday wake up to a face more like a model's and less like my own. I tried different fashion trends-- Uggs with jeans, sweats with tight t's, converse sneakers. I wore bad perfume, complained about being "fat", and developed a habit of saying "like" far too often.

Homecoming 2008

And my hair-- goodness gracious, my hair. I wore it long, long, long until the summer after 10th grade when I chopped it to my shoulders and layered it like crazy. My boyfriend at the time told me he didn't care about my hair or make-up. He told me he loved me for me, and I tried to believe him when I finally sheared my long hair for a short pixie cut the day before my junior prom. A few months later, when my parents announced their divorce, I shaved my head completely. I was in the midst of what I would later believe was a mild mental breakdown, a la 2007-Britney Spears.

Pics or it didn't happen? It happened. 

Gradually, through all my radical changes, I started to accept the girl in the mirror. She wasn't perfect. She had acne. She had too-small ears. Her eyebrows never cooperated. But she was all I was going to get.

By the time I started college, I was fed up with being fed up with myself. My makeup routine was set in stone by this point and I executed it religiously every single day with precision. I struggled to find friends because I struggled to feel good enough to be someone's friend. But a dear friend of mine finally convinced me to be her model for her photography project. I relented reluctantly because I almost never liked pictures of myself.

I waited to see the pictures anxiously. When they finally appeared on facebook, I considered not even looking at them, afraid that they would confirm that I should never ever be photographed. I finally got up the never to look."I look... pretty," I quietly admitted to myself, alone in my dorm room. Because, sure, the photos were a little edited, and yes, my friend was an expert at framing me in amazing light, but darnit if I didn't look good. It was the first time I'd ever considered that I wasn't some kind of terrible freak of nature who needed to be covered in make up constantly to maintain the image of averageness. It was a turning point. It gave me the push I needed to realize that the bigger problem with how I looked was my own perception, not my reflection.

One of the pictures. Yeah, girl. Work it.

It's been about a year since the fateful photo shoot and I think I've made enormous strides on the path to self-acceptance, and, ultimately, self love.

And yes, I still fight with my skin, but it's gotten better. And yes, I still wear makeup. And yes, I still have days when I feel insecure or unattractive or bloated, but I work through them. I can afford nicer makeup now, the kind that's smooth and looks more natural. I enjoy my makeup rituals, painting my face more like an artist embellishing their artwork and less like a 13-year-old trying to mask her entire existence in gray foundation. I still change my hair, but less frequently and radically, and it's gotten longer as I've gotten healthier.

But the girl in the mirror, I love her more these days. Her eyes are sharp and clear and her lips are pink and soft from 19 and a half years of laughing, kissing, yelling, and being gnawed on when she's stressed. I see much more in her than a lack or surplus of certain features. I see strength and courage and heart. I see a survivor and a friend and an artist. I see her for her.

And she's me. I'm me. And that's a good thing.

The Greatest Fear

There's that quote that's thrown around all the time.

Something about how what we fear most in not failure, but, in fact, our own majestic, glowing potential to do good and be good and vanquish our own weaknesses.

And yes, perhaps that is valid for some people. Maybe one of you harbors a deep-rooted terror of your own excellence. If that is your cross to bear, your own brand of hamartia, then it is real to you. I'm not trying to discount that.

But for me, my shining potential is a million miles away from my greatest fear. More pressing fears include spiders (and any possible spider mutations allowing them to fly), tight, crowded, and/or loud spaces, enduring a Russian prison sentence, accidentally joining a gang, the candiru and the myths surrounding it, getting lost in a city at night, sharks, riptides, people who lurk, any situation that would cause me to be portrayed as a victim on an episode of Law & Order: SVU (which is a great show, but also kind of terrifying), and having to repeat high school.* 

In the grand scheme of things, I think fear of greatness falls somewhere between my fear of choking on a mini-marshmallow while drinking hot cocoa and contracting rabies from a rabbit bite. 

So, no, not a big fear of mine. 

My biggest fears are the stuff of cliches, yet I wonder sometimes if things become cliche and over-used and mocked because they're actually essential human truths that we're too scared to admit plague us because they're embarrassing. Because they reveal too much of our gooey centers and put dents in our glossy, scared-of-our-own-perfection topcoats. 

Isn't everyone scared of being alone? Scared of turning out to be tragically insignificant? Scared of losing what they have?

Hasn't everyone, at some point, laid in bed contemplating how small they are and how infinite the universe is and how totally unfathomably minuscule they are in the grand scheme of things?

Regardless of religion or level of devoutness, we all, at some point, allow ourselves to wonder what happens when we die. What if, by some tragic turn of events, this really is all there is and death is really the end? What if we all end, with the crisp finality of a lobbed-off ponytail, and end up 6-feet-under with no way out?

These are the fears of madmen and heretics, the fears of kings and soliders... the fears of the human condition.

We want to matter. We want to be relevant. We want to be unforgettable. We want, we want, we want. We spend our lives, from our first breath to our last, wanting.

My greatest fear, I suppose, is that no one will be willing to look up from their wanting long enough to see me, really see me, and say, "I see you. I need you. And you're enough."

And I guess I'm also scared that I'll be too consumed in my own wanting to do that to someone else.

I do not fear my potential to be great. I fear my potential to love and be loved. We all do.

So we face that fear everyday.

We learn to look past wants as we decide to see others as we so desperately need to be seen. We love, not because it is easy, gentle, or painless, but because it is something we need. We love because we know the glittering paradoxes of the human condition and know that acceptance is the one thing that cause ease the nausea when the glitter goes to our heads. We love because we are human and because we know we must face our fears.

We love because we are scared, but also because it is the one thing that seems to make us feel safe.

We love, we love, we love. 

Stuff and Things on My Brain

1. I am so over fair-weather friends. Suffice it to say, my feelings have been hurt a few times this week/year by people who choose to only be my friend when I'm doing well, but who will literally pretend I don't exist when I'm not.

People, hear me. It's better to just not be friends with someone than to only be that kind of friend. I can deal with someone not liking me/not wanting to be my friend, but the feeling of hurt and betrayal that comes with having a fair-weather friend is absolutely horrid.

Please, please, please take that into consideration in your day-to-day life. Thanks.

2. Here are some songs I really like these days, for your listening pleasure.

Don't You Worry Child cover by Madilyn Bailey

Keep Your Eyes Open by NEEDTOBREATHE

How to Be a Heartbreaker by Marina and the Diamonds

Landslide by Fleetwood Mac

Bluebird by Sara Bareilles

3. I have decided to take a semester off school for reasons. I am so blessed to have a family that supports me in this decision! So yes, when school wraps up at the end of April, I will be returning home. And staying there for eight months. Whaaaat?!

Goals for my time "off" include geting my license, geting a job, and getting appropriate amounts of sleep most nights. Also hanging out with some amazing friends that I've missed like crazy, and possibly going running everyday...?

4. I'm allergic to Utah. The weather was amazing today, but so are the magnitude of the allergy symptoms I'm having. To be fair, I'm a little bit allergic to Pennsylvania, but not nearly as allergic as I am to Utah. Time to break out the Zyrtec...

5. My hair is long now. Not long long, but longer than it's been in two years. Wanna see a picture?

Boom. Super long. I can get 70% of it into a ponytail, so that's exciting. I'm trying to get used to having it down, though, because when I used to have it long long, it was always in a bun, like so:

(Apparently, 16-year-old me knew I would need a bun-pic for my future blog.)

Anyway, hope you survived your Wednesday. I did. Just barely.

x,

   g

The Weight of Your Opinion

In January I decided to start going by my middle name, Grace, rather than my first name, Micaela. And, yes, a lot of people had a lot of opinions about my decision because people have opinions.

I was expecting some confusion when I decided to use my middle name in my everyday dealings. When I posted on Facebook about choosing to go by my middle name, the first comment was, "I like Micaela better."

I've dealt with this kind of thing before, mostly in the context of my love for changing my hair up dramatically and often. There were several occasions in high school where people I hardly knew took it upon themselves to inform me that they liked my hair better red, or it looked dumb short, or (after a particularly bad hair decision) that I looked like a boy.

When strangers or people I didn't know very well would inform me of my shortcomings, I took it to heart. A good friend noticed this and imparted some life-altering wisdom: These people didn't know me. They didn't know I was funny under pressure, or that I cried twice the first time I saw Tangled, or that I make a mean spaghetti sauce, or that I was an extremely loyal friend. They didn't know who I was as a person. Why was I letting the opinion of people who only knew me by my appearance have weight in my life?

There are people in this world whose opinions I care about and ask for frequently. I take what they say very seriously. Even when I don't ask, they are willing to take time out of their day to inform me that I'm being stupid, or that I need to change X aspect of my life. Their feedbacks is a valuable compass in my life, and I love them for caring about me so much.

So, back to my name change. When I first realized that not everyone was going to be on board with my decision, I was a little hurt. It never occurred to me that people would feel strongly enough about it to publicly share their opinion. I guess I figured it was a personal decision I got to make. I wasn't trying to change anyone else's name, after all. Just mine.

After stewing on my situation for a few minutes, I realized that I didn't need to let one person's opinion make me feel bad about a choice I'd made for myself. Heck, this person probably didn't even realize that their comment would hurt my feelings.

My point here is twofold:
1. Wield your opinion of people appropriately. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Unless they ask you directly, in which case you can either white-lie or be tactfully honest.
2. Don't let other people's opinions dictate what you do in life. Know whose advice you value. Give yourself permission to disregard comments from people who don't have the authority to inform you of your issues.

Sorry if this is a bit disjointed. I'm tired. Better end now before it gets worse.

x,
   g

I Am Not a Pterodactyl

Okay, this is another pre-pubescent me story. You're welcome.

I went to private school until half-way through second grade. That was when my parents decided to main-stream me. The adorable little charter school I was attending was in serious financial trouble, so I guess they figured it was high time to move me from one failing system to another (we'll talk about my views on the educational system some other time.).

I learned pretty quickly that public school was serious business. We sat at assigned seats, which were grouped into "pods" with other students. We ate lunch at the same time every day. We had to ask to use the bathroom. But the weirdest thing for me was that we had units. Like, for a set number of weeks we would all learn about a certain topic. It would permeate every aspect of our day. When we learned about pioneers, we wrote pioneer journals and did word problems about how many oxen Jeb would have if he gave four to Sally because all of Sally's oxen were brutally murdered. Stuff like that. We also moved seats every unit. Boy, was that exciting.

One fateful day, it was announced that our next unit would be dinosaurs. The boys in the class rejoiced. All the girls pretended to scoff. It wasn't cool to like dinosaurs if you were a girl. Everyone knew that. My teacher, Ms. Foley (who was as close to Ms. Frizzle as any teacher could get), told us to all stand up so we could get our new seats. I was put at a pod with two other girls (I forget who-- they were irrelevant) and two boys. I was new to boys.*

One of the boys had been at my old pod. His name was James. James, even durring other units, loved to talk about dinosaurs. He knew everything about velociraptors. Seven-year-old-me found that wildly sexy. I recently ran across an old journal I wrote in around that time. The first page says (I'm not even kidding), "I love James. He is cut. He nows abut velosoraptors." And then there are a million deformed hearts.**

The other boy was different. His name was Bert. Bert had a reputation for being the class know-it-all, and also for being kind of a jerk. Now, I was new to the public school system, so I often found myself competing with Bert for the position of teacher's pet and class brain. He had the advantage of having two anthropology professors as parents. It was so not fair.***

One day, durring recess, Bert approached me. I immediately sensed that something was afoot. He'd breeched the Cootie Line. 

"Hey, guess what?"

I looked at him suspiciously. "What?"

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "My dad told me that all humans are turning into dinosaurs."

"No they're not." Wait, are they? What?! This was not discussed in Unit Time.

"Yeah they are. My dad said. And guess what else?" His pale, smug face glowed with the light of knowledge I did not posses. I considered driving him away with a nice round of Kissy Face, but I thought better of it. 

"What?"

He leaned in close. I could smell the peanut butter on his breath. "I'm turning into a pterodactyl and so are you. We're going to be the only pterodactyls on Earth." Bert paused, presumably for dramatic effect. "We're going to have to mate."

Mate. Mate. Mate. It echoed in my head. I didn't exactly know what "mate" was, only that it meant that I would have to be Bert's wife. My life was over. I would never marry James. 

Ms. Foley blew the whistle, signaling the end of recess. The rest of the day was torture, sitting across from James, just knowing that I'd never have him. Every time Bert spoke, I cringed more than usual.

By the end of the day, I was so fed up that the first thing I said to my mom when she picked me up was, "I have to mate with Bert." And then I burst into tears. Through sobs and gasps I recounted what Bert had told me. My mother called Ms. Foley that night. 

The next day, Ms. Foley sat us down in a circle and explained that people do not turn into dinosaurs.

Nope, we don't. But these days, I find that more and more unfortunate. 

x,

   g

* My first and second grade classes at my little Montessori school were comprised of me and five other girls. This was probably due to the fact that I made out with every boy in my kindergarden class.

** My taste in men has changed surprisingly little since second grade. I mean, I like people my own age, but the sexiness of velociraptor knowledge has yet to fade. 

*** Looking back, I think this whole thing was just a plan to sabotage me so that he could steal the title right from under my nose. It was probably also driven by his inability to properly express his affection for me. Which I totally get. I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about trying this.

I Thought of You

I thought about you yesterday, for the first time in weeks.

I woke up like I usually do, head clouded with nightmares. It took me a minute to gather my strength and sit up, but I did, and when I looked out my window, I could have sworn I heard someone say your name.

It surprised me, to say the least, to have you suddenly brought to my mind so soon after waking. The pain's been fading, after all. What started as the sharp, stinging missing of you has slowly sunk deeper and deeper into my consciousness. After the stinging was the dull ache of a missing piece, followed by a lighter (yet always present) yearning for what I couldn't have.

And then you became like a bruise at the back of my mind, painful when bumped. Sometimes, I'd take a finger and poke it, just to see if it still hurt, because there was something so comfortable about missing you. Missing you filled the space previously occupied by loving you, and God knows I'm terrible at having holes.

But yesterday, when I thought of you, it didn't hurt. I tried to make it hurt, banged at the spot where my bruise had been, tried to force tears, but all I felt was a whisper of nostalgia.

It scared me that I could be so fond of having a sore spot.

And then I got up and showered and blew my hair dry (it's longer now, you know) and put on a pair of jeans that you wouldn't have liked. I watched an episode of that TV show you were always trying to get me to watch and decided, almost without realizing, that you had good taste in TV after all.

But then I realized that I was thinking of you again, and tried to recoil, but there was no reason to because you weren't really there anymore, making me hurt and wonder what if.

Then I found myself in front of the mirror, thinking about thinking of you, and realizing how much I've changed since February. If we met now, you wouldn't know me. You wouldn't love me. And that no longer scares me.

If you should ever see this, I'd want you to know how grateful I am to you for being the beautiful boy with the green eyes who took a broken thing and taught her to trust herself.

But now, I lay this ache to rest, and welcome you, my sweet nostalgic memory, into the realm of my distant thoughts. I have learned how to live.

I haven't the time for ghosts, you know.

x,
   g

Hide and Seek

As a kid, I never much enjoyed playing Hide-'n-go-Seek. The way I saw it, it was terrifying and humiliating no matter what role I ended up playing.

There's the Seeker, who counts to ten and then looks for everyone. The Seeker has to walk around alone looking for other kids. I always had this nagging worry in the back of my mind that I wouldn't be able to find anyone, thereby ending up humiliated and alone. Or worse, that the other kids had all abandoned me, leaving me to look for people that simply weren't there while they all went off to play somewhere else.

And when you're not seeking, you're a Hider. Hiders are simply supposed to hide as best they can and wait to be found. Being a hider was, for me, just as bad as being the Seeker. Finding the right hiding place was a serious business. I never wanted to be found first because that meant my hiding spot was lame, but I also never wanted to be found last. Last meant sitting alone the longest, unable to do anything to change my situation. Last meant having a tiny, irrational moment of terror, contemplating the consequences of never being found and remaining hidden forever. Last meant people were impatient with finding you, prone to giving up.

No matter what I did, I was charged with isolation, told that I could either be seeking or sought but never both.

As I grew up, I began to realize how precarious the balance of the Seekers to the Sought really was. In middle school, I had trouble making friends, and was told that the less available I made myself, the more people would want to be with me. High school brought the same advice, but in relation to boys. This is what I heard: 

Be yourself, but if being yourself means being straightforward and assertive, expect to die alone, because people like to seek. They like the game. They like to feel like they're winning. And if you make it too easy for someone to find you, you're lame.  

But don't play too hard to get. No one likes a tease. Be complicated until the other person gets bored. Surprise! You were winning all along.

Honestly, I have no patience for games. I don't like the "pretend you're busy" nuances of new friendships or the "keep him guessing" culture of dating. When someone likes me, as a friend or otherwise, I appreciate them letting me know. You don't have to be clingy about it. Embrace the awkward.

I don't enjoy feeling like I have to hide in just the right place and wait to be found. And I don't like this mentality of hiding or seeking. It's hiding, because we're all a little hidden inherently, with our flaws and secrets, while seeking, because no one has to ever be alone.

It's realizing that Sardines is maybe the better game, because, after all, we're all playing the game of life as a team, learning that hiding and seeking should always end with everyone smiling because no one is ever alone.

Happy Saturday!

x,
   g

The Year of Grace

For the first time in an exceptionally long time, I'm in control of my life. Kids, I cannot put into words how good that feels.

I've taken to calling this the Year of Grace because, goshdarnit, this is going to be my year. Come hell or high-water, I am going to enjoy 2013 because I say so. I'm finally beginning the process of transforming from victim to survivor. I'm ready to stop letting my past define my present and future. I'm ready to be me.

What will the Year of Grace entail, you ask?

I can tell you that there will be a lot of resisting the temptation to get my hair cut short again. Yes, this will be the year I finally grow my hair back out. I may even consider going back to my natural color, but let's be real-- changing up my hair color is one of the most fun things I do.

There will be a lot of studying and learning. I'd really like to settle on a major this year so I know what I'm doing with my life. I feel like I should probably get serious about this growing up business.

There will also be some money-earning. Besides babysitting and helping my dad with his software company, I have never been gainfully employed. That's really embarrassing to admit, but my health hasn't always allowed me the option of working. In light of finally having resources to get that stuff under control, I'm confident a job is in my cards this year.

As well as getting my driver's license. That's even more embarrassing, but it was delayed for the same reason a job was. I'm ready to check driving off my list of to-do's.

There will be healthy food and more exercise. College sent me into a downward spiral when it comes to nutrition, but I really really really need to get that under control. And I will. This year. I hope. Probably.

My last goal is probably the most embarrassing, so bare with me. I want to learn how to dance. I'm not talking ballet or hip-hop (though that would be nice.) I'm talking about basic social dancing. I am probably the whitest person you will ever encounter, and as such, I have little to no ability to move gracefully. My idea of dancing is jumping up and down and moving my arms. You're probably thinking that there's no way I suck as badly as I think I do, but believe me, there is.

So yeah, that's what up. Happy New Year!

x,
   g

The Plan

I'm at the age where people ask me a lot about my "plans" for the "future." And I'm like, "Well, I'll probably have grilled cheese for dinner, unless I change my mind and want a ham sandwich instead." (For some reason, they don't find that as amusing as I do.)

I think not having a plan comes across as lazy to some people. I get that. There are people that have The Plan from career day in kindergarden, who dressed up like a doctor for Halloween every year, and worked their butts off with an eye single to the glory of doctor-dom. That's great. 

There are other people that at least kind of think they know where their life is heading. They can rattle off the facts of their current plan with no problem. Usually, they're still trying to decide what kind of engineer they want to be or if they want to teach middle or high school. 

And then there's me. I can tell you with 100% honesty that I have regressed plan-wise since kindergarden. Like, seriously, intensely regressed. 

When I was five-to-nine-ish, my plan was solid. I was going to marry a prince named Derek (like in The Swan Princess), thus becoming a princess myself, but never a queen because "queen" sounded old. Simple, stream-line, and impressive. This charmed adults. 

Sometime around my 10th birthday, I decided that it would be pretty sweet to be in the air force or be an astronaut  This was probably because I had a little brother who was finally old enough to have interests, and his interests were planes. My family spent a lot of time talking about, researching, and looking at fighter jets and such. Combine that with my intense love of all things Star Wars (Original Trilogy only.) and you got a dorky little kid who pretended that the playground swings were pilot seats. I'm pretty sure this phase replaced what would have been my horse phase. This both impressed and alarmed adults. 

Enter middle school guidance counselors. One day, in the middle of November, our excessively cheery carer counselor visited my 6th grade class. We were forced to take a quiz online that would supposedly suggest viable career options. My top three were dramatics teacher, ice skater, and ambassador. By 12, I was smart enough to know that money was important (and I didn't know how to ice skate) so I decided that ambassador was probably my best bet. By 8th grade, I had fallen in love with Spanish. I decided that I would become the US's ambassador to Spain. This impressed adults. 

In 10th grade, I realized I didn't really love Spanish as much as I thought I did, and decided I would be a biologist. Don't remember why. This also impressed adults.

By junior year, I had entered a stage of rebellion and discovered my love of writing. My parents had always told me that they would support my career choices, but tened to steer me away from the Education field. So naturally, I started telling people that I wanted to be an English teacher. I still think about being an English teacher, but only when I'm sitting by myself in dark rooms. I continued telling people my English teacher plan for the rest of high school and for some of college. This caused adults to fake a smile and say, "Good for you, dear."

 

These days, I cycle through plans hour by hour. I've watched enough Law & Order: SVU to think that being a police detective would be an interesting job. I've thought about learning Arabic and working for the State Department. My current major is psychology (I'll roll my eyes for you). Working for the FBI sounds like a sweet gig. So does writing a best-seller out of my dad's attic (sorry dad). 

So, yeah, I have no plan. Maybe I'll have one tomorrow, or in a month, or a year, or a decade. I don't know. Things will happen.

And Prince Harry is still single so I've still got time to be a princess. 

x,

    m

Dragon Pictures and "Banoo"s

I remember it like it was yesterday. 

8th grade band practice had just ended. I was struggling to get my metal folding chair onto the chair racks without dropping my baritone (which was about the same size as me, since I hadn't yet grown) when he approached me, scrawny body clinging to his tuba (which was much bigger than him), glasses falling down his face. 

(He needs a name. Let's call him Jeff.) 

Jeff had long been a thorn in my side. His behavior in 7th grade Spanish had nearly driven me to screaming several times. For, you see, Jeff had three of the most annoying habits anyone can ever have, ever: drawing detailed and sometimes sexually explicit pictures of dragons (think Napoleon Dynamite) and showing them to everyone, correcting everyone every time anyone bothered to open their mouth, and pronouncing "baño" (the spanish word for bathroom) as "banoo."  

Seriously. Banoo. 

Since I was a good student and kinda on the shy side, teachers tended to seat me next to their "problem" students. I think the assumption there was that I'd rub off on them, which everyone knows never happens. * Jeff was a problem student. Guess who sat next to him in Spanish, band, and (briefly) social studies? 

Yup. Me. 

And I was a nice kid. I didn't make fun of him like the other kids. I listened when he explained why his 34th dragon picture was different than all the others, tolerated his mispronounced Spanish in silence, and didn't punch him in the face when he said, "Actually, Ms. Rose, that's wrong" for the 5 millionth time. I didn't think much of it. We weren't friends, and as long as he never talked to me outside of class, there wasn't a problem. Sure, he was weird, but he didn't seem to be contagious. I had been raised to be nice to other people, even when they were a little bit creepy. And he was one person I was actually taller than, so he wasn't threatening.  

Anyways, as I wrestled my chair, I hear him say my name. "Mici!" I turned around to find him right behind me. "Um, hi, Jeff..." I said. I subtly glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed us talking. Safe for now. 

He cleared his throat and looked me dead in the eyes. "If I asked you out, would you say yes?"

"Um, no." I felt my cheeks go hot. Sure that someone must have noticed us by now, I turned to go.

"Will you go out with me?"

I looked back at him. "No." And I walked (ran?) away, leaving him and his tuba standing by the chair rack. I never talked to him again, preferring to ignore him. 

I told my friends about it later and we all shared a good laugh. After all, Jeff had asked me on a date, and, even though I wasn't exactly a prime catch, I was too good for Jeff... 

Right?

Well, years went by, and I didn't have him in any of my classes until Senior year. He walked into my math class. Nothing had changed. He still had the same annoying hobbies. I was still assigned to sit by him. We all made fun of him. 

But then, one day, he disappeared from school and never came back. Different stories circulated-- his father beat him up really bad, he tried to hurt himself, his mom left his dad-- but all anyone could confirm was that he wasn't dead. Even his girlfriend, who I knew from Marching Band, didn't know much. One thing was sure, though-- his abrupt disappearance wasn't a positive thing. Something bad had happened.

I still don't know what happened to him, and I don't think I ever will. I don't have many regrets in life, but one of them is making fun of Jeff. I don't feel bad about not dating him, I feel bad about ignoring him, laughing when other people made cruel remarks, and letting sarcasm ooze into all my comments to him. I'm not delusional-- I know we never would have been friends-- but I regret the little things that I did that helped make his life harder. 

As someone who's suffered quietly, I know what it's like to have to put on a brave face and pretend nothing's wrong, and I know how much little acts of kindness help. I also know how even the smallest comment can take a horrible day and make it worse. 

Here's to noticing the Jeffs of the world, the underdogs, the lonely, the bizarre, and the broken. Here's to making the extra effort to smile at someone just because, to not rolling your eyes at a comment you think is stupid, and to tolerating other people's quirks. You never know what they're going through. 

Happy weekend, dear Snarkites!

x, 

   m

*Actual result- I was well-versed in lock-picking theory, cuss words, half the school's sex life, and the soccer team's drug habits by the time I graduated from high school. 

Enjoy the Ride

This morning, my dear grandmother passed away. She battled cancer for 8 years, fighting the disease with more grace, bravery, and elegance than I ever thought possible. Everyone who knew her was blessed by her love.

Last week, she expressed her desire to live until Thanksgiving, but her rate of decline made it clear that she had days, not months, to live. So we gathered together to celebrate our own Thanksgiving. The meal was not traditional Thanksgiving fare-- We feasted on ham, toss salad, squash, scalloped potatoes, and two types of Jell-o salad. Everyone agreed that it was the best Thanksgiving meal they'd ever had.

After dinner, we gathered in Grandma's room. She had been bedridden for about a month, and unable to stay awake longer than a few minutes. We talked to her, and though she couldn't respond, I know she heard us. Her bedroom felt sacred. I felt the presence of angels in the room. She woke up to take a few bites, then fell back asleep.

Throughout the night, we all took turns sitting with her and holding her hand, having our private moments with Grandma. My dad, who was in Pennsylvania, talked to her on the phone. My cousins and I sang to her. Being there with her and my dear family was the most sacred experience I've ever had.

This morning, Grandma passed away. She was with my grandfather, her eternal companion. I got the call from my aunt at 9:28. Our family gathered once again to comfort each other and make some final arrangements. The love and support of family is a tender mercy of the Lord. Though this is a time of deep sadness, I can't help but thank God for all the many blessings He's given me and my family. It is beautiful and right that my dear grandmother's death should bring us all together.


Life is challenging and heart-breaking, but it is also sweet. In the turmoil of living, it's easy to forget that each person has the ability to create beauty in their own unique way. Our family, drawn closer by greif-- beauty, created from impossible circumstances.

I know I've said that the last two years have been tough, but they've also been filled with the most tender and radient experiences. The feeling you get when you find joy-- even briefly - in the midst of pain is the purest and most sacred feeling. Living, really living, isn't meant to be easy and smooth. It's meant to take you to the lowest of lows, so you can fully appreciate the soaring joys you're destined to experience.

Gordon B. Hinkley, former president of the LDS church, included the following quote in a devotiona he gave at BYU:

Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he's been robbed. The fact is that most putts don't drop. Most beef is tough...Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise...
Life is like an old-time rail journey—delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride.

And I do. Grandma, it was a blessing and a privilege to be your granddaughter. Thank you for your love of beauty, faith in God, and your always-inspiring example of what it means to be a strong, dedicated wife, mother, and grandmother. I miss you terribly, but I know you're no longer suffering, and that your parents and old friends are so excited to have you with them again. I'll see you in about 80 yeas. I love you.

Grandma, Dad, and Me

Here's to enjoying the ride, cinders, ashes, and all.

x,
   m

Micaela's Handy Guide to Grieving

I know I've been absent from the blog-o-sphere lately. I've tried to write about ten times, but I haven't been able to force my ideas into something coherent. When I have to force the words, I'm usually not comfortable publishing them on my blog. It's too embarrassing.

I realized that if I don't just write what's on my mind, I'll never get back to blogging, and I really, really like blogging. So forgive me if this isn't my usual sarcastic commentary on human existence.

Pretty much, I have been sad. So incredibly sad that I've had trouble talking, let alone writing.

"But, Micaela, why are you sad?"

You know how some days everything seems to go horribly wrong? You wake up late, can't find your other shoe, staple your finger to your report, stub your toe twice, and before you know it you're in a bathroom stall taking deep breaths and willing yourself not to dissolve into tears.

That, my friends, has pretty much been the last two years of my life. Except instead of stapling myself or stubbing my toe, my parents split up, I had random fainting spells, I moved across the country, and my grandmother is dying. And a lot of other stuff happened that I don't need to talk about. And right now I'm in the proverbial bathroom stall, holding back very literal tears.

I'm in the grieving process right now. About twenty times a day, I have to step back and say, "Be gentle with yourself, Micaela." So I am. I sleep more than usual. I don't worry about my pants size. I've stopped trying to force myself to smile. If someone makes me feel "less than," I just avoid spending time with them. I bought sweaters that are both extremely comfortable and mildly fashionable that I wear almost all the time. You guys, I've even started watching Gossip Girl again, marathon style, on Netflix. It's ridiculously therapeutic to watch TV that requires zero brain function. (And, let's be honest, in my head I'm totally dating Nate Archibald.)

But grief is dangerous. Sadness easily morphs into anger, and anger is impulsive, boundless, and self-destructive. When I get mad, I have to sit down and remind myself that I'm grieving, and that anger is just a crude mask for sadness.

I'm learning to ask for help. A hug does wonders, as does a Jell-O cup, going for walks, listening to hymns, talking to my dad on the phone, singing along to Le Mis, doing laundry, wearing sweatpants...

I guess my point here is that it's okay to be sad if you do it in the right way. And you realize when it's gone too far. And you ask for help. And you remember to put on pants and stuff.

Thanks for your understanding. I've gotten so much good feedback from my blog thus far, and seriously, it means so much when people tell me they read/like/acknowledge The Epitome of Snark. If you have any ideas of things I should blog about, hit me up.

x,
   m

p.s.- My readers are seriously the best. <3

The Time I Fell Down A Hill Wearing Hiking Boots

I'm pretty much the queen of hormone-based developmental disproportion. It's almost amazing to me that I can function in a semi-typical way because of the trauma I suffered in puberty. Like I've said before, I didn't hit my growth spurt until the summer before high school. I guess I should admit that I did hit a growth spurt or two before then but they weren't height related. By the tender age of 10, both my nose and my feet had both reached their full adult sizes. The nose thing didn't effect anything but my self-esteem, but the feet... the feet turned out to be an issue.

I was 4'3" (shorter than most 10-year-olds) with size 7.5 feet (that's 9.5 inches of foot). It would be an understatement to say that I had trouble moving. I'm sure I tried not to look like a skinny baby elephant, but at some point I gave up. Other kids played sports durring recess. I spent most of my time on the balance beam because my gigantic feet actually helped me stay on. I quit dance class around this time because I could hardly take 4 steps without falling over, and heaven knows that's not a good basis for dancing.

I think if I'd have hit my growth spurt earlier, I probably would have adjusted to walking and moving normally, but four years of being severely clumsy took their toll. I spent so much time at the nurse's office in middle school that she always kept a bed open for me.

When I started high school, I had pretty much grown into my feet (and almost my nose), but I was still adjusting to being 5 feet tall. I should also mention that all my growth had been solely vertical. I weighed all of 100 pounds and looked like a twig. My movement patterns had not changed since middle school, but now I had longer legs and farther to fall. 

And fall I did. I remember it like it was yesterday. 

It was the first week of high school. I over-slept and had to pack my gym bag at hyper-speed and run to school. I didn't really think anything of it until 6th period rolled around and I had to dress down for gym. I didn't know anyone in my class, and given my track record in past gym classes, I was completely dreading the new level of torture I was sure high school gym teachers would inflict.

In typical Micaela fashion, I got totally lost on the way to class. By the time I found the locker room, only a handful of girls were still changing. I threw my shirt and shorts on in a flurry, but when I reached into my bag to get my sneakers, I found... hiking boots. I had accidentally packed my gigantic, beige hiking boots instead of my sneakers. I was the only person in the room by then, so I put on my boots and trotted myself out into the gym...to find that most of the class was already outside. 

I could see the last group of laggers disappearing out the far door, towards the soccer field. I tried to fast walk and catch up to them, but my huge boots made embarrassing clomping noises on the wood floor. I trailed the group at a safe distance, figuring I could catch up just before we joined the rest of the class. I'd forgotten, however, that the soccer field was at the bottom of an incredibly steep hill.* The rest of the class was already there. One of the gym teachers blew her whistle and shouted at us to hurry up. The group in front of me started to run, menuvering the steep hill at incredible speeds, and looking exceedingly cool while doing it. "I can do that," I thought. 

I coached myself to a light jog, boots pounding the ground, and began to descend the hill. 

"This isn't too hard," I thought. "I look cool," I thought. "These boots give me traction," I thought. And then...

"I'm flying." The weight of my boots made me forget to lift one of my feet. My body suddenly called on it's years of dance training, coaxing my feet into a perfect 5th position, which turned out to not be conducive to running. I contorted like some kind of human pretzel, head over heels, as I tumbled the remaining 10 feet down the hill. I swear, at one point I had about three feet of air. 

Finally, the falling stopped. A teacher rushed over to make sure I was okay. I was, until I realized that I had just fallen down a hill wearing comedically large shoes in front of at least 30 people. Everyone was staring at me. Someone laughed, someone else laughed, then a lot of people laughed. I wanted to melt, like the Wicked Witch of the West, leaving only the cursed boots. I had a good cry about it when I got home. 

I like to think I've gotten a little more coordinated since 9th grade, but the truth is I've learned to take myself less seriously. I still fall down all the time. I trip getting onto the shuttle at least twice a week. I'm constantly banging my knees against everything. I got a second-degree burn making a grilled cheese sandwich. Heck, I walked straight into a tree today! This stuff is funny. And if I think it' funny, I can only hope someone else is thinking, "Dang, that girl walked into a tree. That's hilarious." and not, "What on earth is wrong with that spaz-machine?"Because if walking into a tree made someone else smile, even at my expense, it wasn't all bad, was it?

People say learning to love yourself is one of the most important things you should do in life. And, yeah, that's fine and all, but learning to laugh at yourself... I find that more important. Laughing at yourself means you forgive yourself for being a total idiot, and if that isn't love, I don't know what is. 

Here's to another week of hurting myself in humorous ways.

x,

   m

*To those of you who will argue that the hill wasn't that steep: This is MY blog, MY story, and MY injured pride. So shush. 

I Kissed the Backstreet Boys (And Why I Miss Being Five)

I can remember being five surprisingly clearly. I woke up at 7am, just because I wanted to. I went to bed at 8 just because Mom said that was bedtime. I was told what to wear, given food on demand, and never had to worry what I looked like in a bathing suit. School consisted of doing elaborate finger-paintings and learning the difference between the letter "r" and the letter "f" (I still struggle with that) and, in my case, being all five of the Backstreet Boys' girlfriend (more on that later).

Aside from my unusual boyfriend situation, life was simple. But, like most kids, I spent a good amount of time trying to act like a grown-up. I remember thinking that the best day of my life would be when I got my first pair of high heels to wear to church, but now that I have heels, I hate wearing them. Like most things we dream about doing as kids, they hurt more than expected. People see you and think, "Huh, she looks taller than usual," but never really notice why, because high heels are something everyone wears. You don't get a medal for not falling down, you don't get a certificate of maturity, you just get new shoes to hobble around in. They're awkward and uncomfortable and make you feel stupid for a while. Eventually, wearing heels is standard, and you never think anything about it.

I also spent a good deal of my time planning my wedding. When I was five, I was pretty convinced that I was going to marry one of the five boys who made up our schools "Backstreet Boys." I once asked if I, too, could be a Backstreet Boy, but I was turned down on account of being a girl. They instead offered me the position of "girlfriend." I realize now that I was more of a skanky groupie than anyone's girlfriend, but I enjoyed the position immensely. I'm pretty sure that I at least hugged all five of them, and I know for a fact that I kissed at least two of them.* I was so excited to grow up and have real boyfriends and get married.

Well, in Mormon tradition, you're supposed to wait until you're 16 before you start dating. While I may or may not have breached that rule, I was 16 when I got my first real boyfriend (let's call him A). The first month we were dating, I found a way to work "boyfriend" into almost every conversation. I'm pretty sure my friends were all ready to kill me.

It was everything I hoped it would be-- going to the movies, making cookies, getting ice cream- and we were together for two years. It was a fairytale, until it came time for us to decide on colleges. Our plan was to go to school together, continue dating, and maybe eventually get married. But fate had other plans. I woke up one morning with the distinct impression that I needed to go to Brigham Young University. We broke up that day. Much like the afore mentioned high heels, I had underestimated the amount of pain that a "grown-up" relationship could cause. It sucked. He was my best friend, and I was suddenly alone.

But what I failed to realize at the time (and what no one thinks about when they're five) is that life goes on. When you're five, it seems like everything's a straight shot. Growing up is complicated, painful, and dangerous. But it is also exciting, beautiful, and natural. It's a good thing. It is right. I made one of my best friends after breaking up with A. I moved across the country. I met new people. I changed more in the course of three months than I ever have in my life.

So yeah, sometimes I miss the simplicity of being five, but when it comes right down to it, I'm so blessed to have these chances to grow and learn about myself.

Also, my roommate and I regularly build pillow forts and give ourselves fake tattoos. So really, you can act like a kid at any age. Keep that in mind.

x,
   m


*In fact, I remember my "first" kiss in almost disgusting detail. I won't go into specifics, but I vividly remember thinking, "This is so gross. I'm never kissing anyone again." But then I kissed another boy the next week. I sure was a skank.

Hurricanes

I remember a church dance I attended shortly after turning 14. It was the kind of dance where boys asked girls to dance, and the girls were always supposed to say yes the first time a boy asked them.

I was having a great time dancing with my friends to Livin' on a Prayer, but as the song ended a familiar tune began to fade in. The piano into to You and Me by Life House started to play, the cue for all the girls to scatter so they could look lonely enough to get asked to dance. I did just that. Much to my delight, an older boy wandered over to me and offered his arm. He was at least a full foot taller than me, so once we began to dance, my neck was craned up to him at an uncomfortable angle. We started to chat bout who knows what, blowing through the easy topics quickly. We ran out of things to talk about before the second chorus. As we swayed in uncomfortable silence, I wracked my brain for things to say.

"I like your tie," I said. I'm pretty sure my voice cracked. He graciously avoided laughing.

"Thanks... So... if you were weather... what would you be?"

We looked at each other. What a stupid question, we thought in unison.

"I'd be... a spring day?" That seemed safe. Everyone loves spring.

"Cool, me too."

Then, mercifully, the song ended. I never talked to him again, but I wish I could. I need to change my answer.

You may have heard of heard me talk about John Green before. He is my favorite author, hands down. His novel Looking for Alaska, literally changed my life (I'll tell that story someday). There's a quote in the book that replays in my brain at least once a day:

If people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

I've learned a lot since I was 14. I've learned how to cook, clean a bathroom in less than 20 minutes, break-up with someone, fill awkward silences, and properly apply eyeliner. I've learned that I actually enjoy action movies, and that Mean Girls may be the best movie of all time.

But more than that, I've learned that normal is boring. When I was 14, I thought that being "normal" or "average" was somehow the key to being happy. I tourtured myself over that for years, changing my clothes, my hair, the way I talked, my sense of humor, all to meet some imaginary standard of what a "normal person" would do.

Drizzle is average and boring. No one writes news stories about drizzle. There is nothing at all spectacular about drizzle. It almost seems apologetic as it falls.

But hurricanes... Hurricanes demand attention. They are big and powerful and do whatever they want. Never has a hurricane apologized for itself, never has a hurricane held itself back simply to appease other people. Much like the proverbial honey badger, hurricanes don't care. You know when a hurricane has been somewhere because it changes things, rips things to shreds, turns things upside down.

Now, I know that hurricanes are serious business and I'm not trying to make light of the damage and casualties they can cause. I'm just saying... if people were rain, I'd rather be a hurricane than drizzle any day.

Especially now, when someone I love dearly is fighting for her life against cancer, I can't help but think of the mark I'm leaving on the world. My dear grandma is the greatest hurricane I know. When she enters a room, you know. You can see her path through the world because it's marked with the beauty that she imparts on everything she touches. Grandma turns things upside down because they are better that way-- it's just that no one else would have had the good sense to change it.

I want to honor my grandmother by being a hurricane myself. Maybe I'll get there someday. Today I feel like a heavy, no-nonsense downpour, and that's good enough. But because of Grandma's example, I won't be going back to being a drizzle.

Please keep my family in your prayers in this difficult time.

x,
   m

You're Doing It Wrong: Flirting

Okay, it's the moment you've all been waiting for... I'm going to talk about my love life. Let me preface this by saying two things: 1. I won't talk about anything that actually matters (so stop being so nosey) and 2. About 60% of the time, I'm still convinced I look like this:

So I'm always a little surprised when I get any male attention. (On a related note, the shoes in this picture are the famous shoes I wore when I fell down the hill durring that fateful first high school gym class.)

Anyways, flirting. I can think of about a million things I would love for a guy to do in an attempt to win my affections (flowers, chocolate, flowers, serenading me, dancing with me under the fading sunset... also flowers. Let it be noted that I like flowers.) but I think in my months here at college, I've run into several flirting methods that, to be frank, freaked me the heck out. And so, without further ado, I present to you Micaela's List of Things You Should Never Do to Get a Girl to Like You.

1. Ask her complex, Duct-tape-related questions at three-minute intervals. Okay, that sounds very specific, but seriously. If you start a conversation with someone, especially if you're on the bus and can't walk away, make sure you consistently... ya know... talk. If she has time to get out her iPod, listen to most of a Neon Trees song, and text her father an oddly detailed description of her lunch, you're doing it wrong. And when you do decide to grace her with the sound of your voice again, for the love of all that's holy, make sure it's something more engaging than a monologue about how many times you've broken your left bike pedal in the last six months. And if you have to talk about that, laugh when she makes a joke about only pedaling with one foot, because she knows it wasn't funny, but seriously, dude, you're being so awkward. And if you absolutely cannot do that, do not follow with a question about how she feels about BYU Duct-tape. She knows it exists, she just doesn't think it's worth talking about, but it's okay because you'll give her another three minutes to think of a totally unfunny tape joke so you can look at her like she's an idiot. 

2. Offer to build a shrine to her in your closet*. Yeah, that happened. It was followed by the sentence, "I'll make it out of chocolate bars, then light candles around it so I can watch it melt." Strangely enough, the ladies don't really go for that. I know, right?! Women...

3. Shove a package of raw hamburger in her face and tell her it's hers if she eats it all raw*. Chocolate bar might be a good substitute for hamburger, but that's just my opinion. Also, consider the fact that you're walking around with raw hamburger. Contemplate your life. Ask yourself, "Am I trying to die young?" and if the answer is yes, hit me up and I can get you a great shrink. 

4. Dress up in a silver MorphSuit and give her prolonged hugs. If you're not familiar with MorphSuits, they look like this:

But the guy was wearing an orange jersey over it. Regardless of the jersey, it made me think of this: 

(Yeah, I'm terrified of the Slender Man. If you don't know who that is, congratulations, you've never had your pants scared off. I'd tell you to go download and play Slender, but I can't wish that kind of terror on anyone...)

Hugging random strangers is weird enough when you can see their face, but when you add in the fact that this guy a. looked like Slender Man and b. was not actually wearing any pants, you can imagine how creepy things can get. 

If you're concerned she isn't adequately impressed, try hugging her for a really long time. Like, exceed the hug time limit by about 20 seconds. While smelling her hair. Nuzzling her face. Making her a little concerned that she's actually gone crazy. She'll totally want to date you after she recovers from the mental scaring you've caused her.

...Okay, it was hilarious. Seriously one of the best things I've seen at BYU. And the guy smelled awesome and hugged like a champ (Dude, if you're reading this, we should totally cuddle sometime. You don't even need to talk to me, just show up smelling good and willing to hug me.) and seemed to have the same twisted sense of humor I have (Okay, I'm calling it, we're soul mates.), but it was creepy nonetheless. (Seriously, call me sometime?)

Life is weird...

x, 

   m

*Yes, it was the same guy. In all honesty, it was hilarious, and I'm 34.5% sure he was totally kidding... But it was horribly awkward. Nice guy, though. Mad respect for being so gutsy, bro. 

Mutual Weirdness

The fantastic thing about starting college is that no one knows who you are. I know, that's totally a cliche, but it's true. No one knows about the time you fell down a hill on the first day of high school gym, or the time you threw up in front of your locker before the morning bell even rang, or the time you had a major braces/glasses/bowl haircut going on for about 5 years. (Not that any of that ever happened to me... ever.)

My first moth of college was exceptionally suck-tastic. I gained about 5 pounds that month from laying in my bed eating peanut M&M's and hard-core moping. It seems that moping is not, as I had originally anticipated, an aerobic exercise. The few times I did get out of bed (usually because I needed to pee so badly I thought I was going to die), I would avoid the mirror at all costs. Every time I'd catch a glimpse of myself in any reflective surface, I felt like I was looking into the past. The new environment and lack of friends seemed to have thrust me back in time to Middle School Me. All the insecurities of early puberty came rushing back to me faster than I rushed to the vending machine after the peanut M&M's had been restocked. Suddenly, I was 12 again. Everyone else was older, more "developed," more mature, more blonde,  more... cool... and I was... well... me. I had never felt more out of place in my life.

I tried to make friends, I really did, but every time I would meet someone that was potential friend material, I would clam up with the horrifying realization that there was nothing interesting about me. By the end of the first month, I was completely convinced I had alienated every single person I'd met by cracking corny jokes about... well... anything... that I got to a place where I was sure I had nothing to lose.

That's when it happened. I woke up one day and for once in my life, I didn't give a crap. There was going to be a dance that night, one that I had avoided thinking about for the last two weeks. As is wont to happen in the weeks preceding a dance, the conversations of all my female acquaintances had dissolved from mild coherence to crazy, "who's taking me to the dance?" rants. I knew with 100% certainty that no one was going to ask me, so I made plans to go to my aunt's house that day. A few hours before she was supposed to pick me up, she was in a car accident (I'm not even kidding), leaving me stuck on campus for the dreaded event. I decided not to go, after all, I didn't give a crap about anything. Then someone knocked on my door. It was the girl from down the hall and she was determined that I spend the night dancing. I resisted, but she was impressively persistant.

Long story short, I went to the dance and acted like a total dork. I had fun. I made friends. I ate disgusting, room-temperature cheesecake without gagging. It wasn't until I was walking home after the dance that I realized that I had successfully functioned as a human being for like, 4 whole hours. And when I went back to my room that night, I had a new friend with me. She liked Gossip Girl. We watched that together.

When I looked in the mirror the next day, I realized that I had, in fact, gone through puberty. Some girls from down the hall wanted to sit next to me at church. I talked to a boy without making a polygamy joke. I blew my hair dry.

I realized that trying to be friends with people is pointless. Real friends can't be forced, they just happen. They see you in all your dorky-wonderfulness and think "Goshdarn, she's weird but dangit if I don't love being around her." They think that you're at least kind of cool, even when you use words like "copious"or "enthralling." Real friends are the people that you meet and fall into a sort of mutual weirdness with.

I'm so grateful that I'm blessed with such wonderful friends, both old and new. I'm also grateful for puberty.

x,
   m