Pretty slow times at Ridgemont High

T-minus four days until I'm back in Evanston. A few weeks of doing LITERALLY nothing have been absolutely amazing. And to tell you the truth, I'm not exactly looking forward to heading back to the Chicago winters. (I remember being almost excited for it back in freshman year, naive little shit that I was.)

Anyhoodle. Take all that and mix it with the reflectiveness that you're supposed to wallow in at the end of every year, and you get this: a post about high school. In the words of Mr. Mogge, my infamously cracked-out AP World History teacher, strap on your strap-ons. Let's get this hormone-fest started.

Thesis/general idea I'm trying to convey: I am infinitely more comfortable with myself now than I was back in high school. Biiiiig shocker, because I know that high schoolers are known for their high self-esteem and their self-awareness.

It's just kind of a relief/a shock to know that, despite all the quipping and the pretentiousness that I surrounded myself with back then, I was not even a little bit different than those fellow high schoolers that I looked down upon. We were all in the same boat, emotionally speaking. It didn't matter what class, what race, what social group. Jock, trophy-case-kid, drama dork, nerd--we were all the lowest of the low.

I finally understand the high school movies. Thank god?

I started high school in a program that was a total 180-degree move from what I'd studied all through middle school with a group of friends who I'd either a.) not spent any time with in four years or b.) never met before. It was...not the most comfortable of experiences, not because anyone was particularly unfriendly, but because I'm not someone to put herself out there in social situations NOW--certainly not back in high school.

Now, though, on the other side of insecurities (generally speaking--of course I'm still insecure, because anyone who isn't is not tolerable to be around) and lots and lots of shit, I actually feel like I have people that I can spend time with when I come home. This sentiment got cemented this summer, and is still in place months later. For someone who didn't often feel socially comfortable for four years, it's almost heaven.

So, friends-from-home, here at the end of the year, this one goes out to you. You guys have shaped me, given me new experiences and shown me that that shit from high school doesn't have to stick around forever. You've shown me what support looks like, and you've shown me what jealousy looks like, and you've shown me what childishness looks like and you've shown me what maturity looks like. You've given me options of who I want to be and allowed me to pick and choose without pressure.

Most of all, you've given me quotes. I'm not sure if you realize how important quotes seem to be to our friends, but everyone seems to have one that will always be their trademark. From "lick it up, bitches..." to "what's wrong with this party?" they've followed us--me for the past 6+ years, you guys for longer. In the last week alone, we've been treated to such gems as "I hate magic," "Incest. That's the breaks," and "If Dumbledore asked you to ride a shark with him, you would do it."

One viewing of How to Train Your Dragon alone yielded:
-"Have you ever seen an eel? They're fucked."
-A discussion of the imperialist vs. colonial subtexts of the movie
-Someone calling bullshit on the main character's quick recovery from an injury, demanding "months of intensive Viking physical therapy."

So here, in the midst of my junior year of college, I am finally declaring that I have had the whole high school experience: I have a group that I can let myself feel like I can be a part of. You guys have been there the whole time, but six years after meeting, I'm done testing the water. Happy holidays, everyone. Have a great new year.

SNOW.

It's snowing outside! It's all very exciting. Mostly because I am sitting in my warm, cozy house in front of my Christmas tree and I don't actually have to battle the snow to get anywhere, like I do when I'm at school. Hooray! (and yes, I did take a picture. That is how excited I am.)

I've been home for over a week and I haven't done a damned thing. Actually that's not true--I decorated many, many cookies at a cookie party that was 90% of all the employees of NPR. And I watched "Love Actually," which is an important Christmas ritual. I mainlined 2 seasons of "Mad Men" and developed even more of a girl-crush on Christina Hendricks.

Aside from that, though, I have been going stir-crazy. Cabin fever. Like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7Nb4voFm30

The quarter system sucks. It's probably the second-worst thing about Northwestern (the worst thing being the winters. Not looking forward to going back to that). I got back for break at the beginning of December, and the first day of winter quarter is January 3rd. I would happily take an extra week of fall quarter if we could have the first week of January off. Our spring break doesn't match up with anyone else's, and we get out of school more than a month after anyone else, which makes finding an internship incredibly difficult. Whine, whine, bitch, moan.

But really, it's snowing and I shouldn't be complaining. My parents got each other skis for Christmas--I don't know why, we don't go skiing--so they'll probably toss around the idea of taking them out for a spin, and then end up drinking half a bottle of wine and falling asleep instead. Cheers, parents.

Please enjoy this picture of my dog, who is the only creature I see for most of the day. Yes, I did force him to stand outside so I could take this.

I am going to end this random post with the worst Christmas song ever made. Please also enjoy the amateur music video it goes with: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91rBsza7bI0&feature=related

How many chicks can YOU pick up wearing a monocle?

I'm a sucker for passages from old books that sound like they could be from today. Like this one bit from Busman's Honeymoon, a Lord Peter Wimsey mystery from the 1930s. Peter is trying to get his new bride, Harriet, to sit on his lap and he says "That's better. No, you are not too heavy--you needn't insult me."

I love that. I love that she protests that she will be too heavy to sit on his lap, because it's something that I myself have done. And that's great.

A little further down the page is the cheeky passage: "Women had found paradise in his arms before now--and told him so, with considerable emphasis and eloquence. He had accepted the assurance cheerfully, because he had not really cared whether they found paradise, or only the Champs Elysees, so long as the place was a pleasant one."

Again, I love that. Dorothy Sayers was writing at a time of, yes, sexual awakening. But she was also British. Things didn't really loosen up there until much later. I mean, a major point of Strong Poison was public outcry because Harriet had taken a lover and lived with him without being married. SCANDAL. And here Sayers is mentioning about Peter's sexploits in an offhand and dismissive manner. In Strong Poison, when Peter initially proposes and Harriet turns him down, she reminds him that she's had a lover. Peter comes right back with, "So have I. Several, in fact. It's the sort of thing that might happen to anyone."

Again, the dismissiveness. Who knew that a guy who wears a monocle would get so much play? It's fantastic. It's the way someone might talk in 2010, and there Sayers was, eighty years ago, beating the curve. Go, Dorothy!

I made a list of things that I want out of life because I was bored out of my mind at Phonathon yesterday. I'm going to write it here, because otherwise I feel like this entry is too short.

THINGS I WOULD LIKE OUT OF LIFE

1. A job that doesn't make me want to slit my wrists.
2. A do-over button (or just plain old time travel would be good, too)
3. Someone to tell me when I'm doing something stupid. Like, a tiny gnome who lives in my hat.
4. A hat.
5. Fortune, with or without fame.
6. Happiness?
7. Happiness.
8. Happiness!
9. Happyness. No, nevermind. Not even for Will Smith will I knowingly sacrifice spelling and grammar.
10. To like where I live.
11. To live out of the country for a year or so. Peter Jackson, I'm still waiting on that invitation to work on The Hobbit.
12. The power to conjure up the perfect sandwich whenever I want one.
13. Magic.
14. For my children to have the opportunity I never had...to attend Hogwarts.
15. Self-control.
16. My own TV show. One that I can point to and say, "I made this," like the kid's voice at the end of each episode of The X-Files when the Thirteen production company logo comes up.
17. A nice, big, sloppy dog.
18. A skirt, like the one I can see in my head but can never find in stores.
19. Free laundry.
20. Never to have to go through anything that makes me find/lose religion. I'm good with the amount of religion I've got right now, thanks very much.
    

I am a curmudgeon

THINGS THAT SUCK:

1.) When you're crossing the street against the light and then the light turns to the walk sign when you're already in the crosswalk, robbing you of your badassery. This is one of the main blights of my life (what does that say about my life?) because jaywalking is how I express the rebel aspect of my personality. HOW am I expected to show everyone that I am an untamed, wild, crazy girl if the crosswalk lights keep undermining me?

Fuck you, crosswalk lights.

2.) Having to hiccup with some sort of beverage in your mouth. I will probably die this way.

3.) Having vague acquaintances. My mom assures me that one day I will mature out of the "do I say hi to you or do I ignore you?" debate, but until that day, I am going to keep up that sort of looking-out-of-the-corner-of-the-eye-for-any-sign-of-recognition charade. Let me make some shout-outs right now.

• CHICK WHO WORKS AT CROSSROADS: I know you. We worked at Phonathon together, and that is a trial by fire.

• MOLLY-SOMETHING: We keep avoiding each others' eyes because we have tons of friends in common, but I know you. We know each other. Let's embrace this.

• TINA FEY: Our souls know one another. Let's stop pretending.
  

4.) All the parents all over the fucking place: Listen, I love that you're here, checking out the bits of your kids' college lives that they're willing to let you see. It's an important ritual. But I am selfish and, most importantly, missing my own parents. STOP REMINDING ME THAT PARENTS EXIST. YOU ARE NOT HELPING.

Also, stop distracting me from procrastinating.

Eh.

Things that are actually okay:

1.) Watching TV alone on a Friday night.

2.) The BBC series "Sherlock" (goddammit, I wish there were more than three episodes) (yes, this may be linked to number 1)

3.) Plex's pizza, if you're hungry enough

4.) Procrastinating on essays, with the right, positive, can-eventually-do attitude

5.) The El ride from Merchandise Mart to Davis while it is sleeting, given the following factors:

• The El is packed and there is literally no room for anyone else to get on
• Everyone just wants to go home
• Everyone has the same, "Oh, FML" look on his or her face
• It is freezing outside
• There is a sense of watery camaraderie, especially with Crocheting Lady, ZZ-Top Homeless Man, and Mr. Yuppie.

6.) Llamas (but we knew this already)

7.) Making double-entendres out of historical events. SEE: Streseman's Salami tactic, any sort of Putsch.

Thank you for your time.

Across the pond

I watch a lot of British television. I honestly don't know how it happened this way--it's not like I dislike American TV, it's just that...well, sometimes it feels like there's something different about British TV. Like, it's goofier. Sillier. Less determined to take itself seriously.

I'm going to blame this one mostly on my dad. An early childhood of the Marx Brothers and Monty Python left me with a desire for the ridiculous that American TV (which, incidentally, I wasn't allowed to watch) couldn't fulfill.

My current obsession with British TV I can pretty much blame on my high school friends. I've been lucky enough to have friends who have a good appreciation for the fantastic. It's resulted in a sort of downward spiral of involvement. An EXCELLENT downward spiral of involvement.

So, because I am avoiding the hundreds of pages of reading that I have to do, I'm going to list a few BBC shows that I love. HURRAH.

1.) "Blackadder": It was only a natural progression from Monty Python to "Blackadder". When I think about this now, it's a bit odd that a man would introduce his ten-year-old daughter to a show that was crass while not exactly offering the best moral guidelines for a young girl. The main character, played by Rowan Atkinson (for whom I will always have a soft spot), lied, cheated, swindled, and murdered his way to hilarious fame and fortune. It was fantastic. And it helped that he had 80's-Stephen Fry and 80's-Hugh Laurie to bumble around him like idiots.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgbF2kChUMc

2.) "Doctor Who": I'm going to come right out and say that I have never seen any of the hundreds of original episodes of this show. My involvement with it starts with Christopher Eccleston and extends to Matt Smith, the current Doctor.

But even though my understanding of the series is so limited, it's apparent to me that if you are going to reboot a franchise, this is how you do it. You get the fantastic writer with the vision--Russell T. Davies--and add an intense actor (Christopher Eccleston) who, while he might not be in it for the long haul, brings enough energy and drive to the legendary character that he gives the show the momentum it needs to take off. Then you bring on-board the looker, the high-strung, frenetic handsome guy (David Tennant) to take the reins, and turn it into the long-standing tradition that it once was. And perhaps most importantly, you revamp the title sequence so that it kicks some serious ass. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVUhp1t6ZHE)

"Doctor Who" is so notable for me because it's a series that you can do literally anything with. The Doctor can be played by anyone, which means it can go on forever. They can go to any planet, any time period, so there's no end of potential settings.

3.) "Torchwood": I'm going to go out on a limb and compare this to a very-much-tamer version of "True Blood." There are no vampires or werewolves--just aliens--but the show was about as fearless about sexuality and violence as could be gotten in the non-cable, post-watershed timeslot that it was allotted.

Also, in the same way that "Doctor Who" was the ideal reboot, I think that "Torchwood" is a good example of an ideal spinoff. The main character, Jack Harkness (John Barrowman), was big and brassy enough to make the leap from his original "Doctor Who" to a television show of his very own. It helped as well that Barrowman pretty much was Jack Harkness in real life.

"Torchwood" also was one of the BBC shows that I first encountered who succeeded in ruling its audience through fear. The show got through its entire first season without any major casualties, but then--KABOOM. Season 2 finale rolls around, and two of the five main characters drop like flies. Then, the final special fells another main character, leaving only two characters standing. Again, shows like "True Blood" or "Lost" are comparable here. They're also rare in that respect--most American shows are petrified of killing their main characters.

4.) "Robin Hood": Fuck "Robin Hood," man.

Okay, so there's killing off main characters in a show like "Torchwood," and then there's fucking KILLING OFF MAID MARIAN.

DON'T DO THAT.

I mean, I loved the show BEFORE they did that, anachronisms and all. But seriously dudes? Do not mess with Maid Marian.

5.) "Merlin": Yes, I have saved one of the best for last.

What's not to love about "Merlin"? I mean, yes, occasionally the show dips into the ridiculously goofy end of the spectrum (troll-two-parter, anyone?). And yes, Arthur's obtuseness is getting hilarious. And yes, I sometimes legitimately fear that Colin Morgan's ears are going to catch the wind and he is going to be blown away.

But.

IT IS SO GOOD.

As I said before, I often think that what American television lacks is joy. You get it occasionally on shows like "How I Met Your Mother"--shows that aren't afraid to go silly. But most of the time, TV over here is all about the technical. The acting, the writing, the cinematography, the directing, it's all controlled and patrolled, down to the last word.

With "Merlin," we've already got a ridiculous premise. Magic is real, legendary characters are in their late teens and early 20s, being ruled by hormones as well as enchantments. This is a show that answers the question of "What was the bromance of the ages?" with a resounding "MERLIN AND ARTHUR, OF COURSE!"

There's also a talking dragon.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

zomg mah fave

It's so easy to get carried away when you're in college. Everything is "now," including the future. You feel like if you take the time to catch your breath, you'll fall by the side of the road and never be able to catch up.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The more you take the time to catch your breath, the more you realize what matters and what doesn't. The more time you take to smell the roses, to take a look around, the better a person you'll be in the long run. Of course, everything will still feel as though it's "now," but that doesn't mean that it IS.

So in my effort to stop and take a breather during a crazy week, I am going to stop for a moment and think about the...

THINGS I AM ENJOYING RIGHT NOW:

1.) Nazi Germany.

I am enjoying the hell out of Nazi Germany. Anyone who has tried to have a conversation with me anytime recently has probably been treated to an uncontrollable outflow of information on the subject. I'm sorry, guys. No-one likes being the recipient of an info-dump, but seriously. Fucking awesome subject.

Like, did you know that Hitler totally wasn't a homophobe at all? I mean, he probably didn't love people who were gay, but the leader of the SA, his primary paramilitary organization for years, was gay. He knew this all along, and didn't really care...until the SA got too big for its boots and Hitler needed the guy taken out. THEN it was a big deal.

Dude. Fucking Hitler, man.

2.) Merlin.

I don't know what it is about British television, but it always just seems so much more...gleeful than American TV. Like the entire production team had so much more fun making it than any show on in the US. And Merlin is the best example, I think. The show has many, many flaws, but it's usually just so watchable. This may have a lot to do with the level of attractiveness of Bradley James and the cuteness of Colin Morgan. Whatever it is, Saturday nights are one of the bright spots of my week.

3.) Epic soundtracks.

As I write this, the Jurassic Park theme song is playing on Pandora. Consequently, I feel as though I am battling orcs, journeying through jungles, and flying on the back of a dragon while simultaneously writing.

It is the best.

4.) An excellent cup of tea.

Who doesn't?

5.) Rallying to restore sanity.

I will of course also be keeping fear alive, mostly out of solidarity with Northwestern.

6.) Extreme wind warnings

Only in Chicago. Who's ready for 20-foot waves on Lake Michigan? I will break out my snorkling gear, because Evanston is definitely going to land underwater.

YOU'RE A POOPFACE.

Shaking my funk in a funky way. Here's Caitlin over-analyzing television in a way she hasn't done in a while.

Recently there was an article in the New York Times about how many 20-somethings aren't reaching emotional or economic maturity with the speed and grace they used to. I also saw an Ask-Amy letter in the Washington Post a few weeks ago from a woman who was frustrated with the 20-somethings in her office who referred to themselves as "kids." The overall message that these overblown newspapers are giving us? We, as college students and recent grads, have the emotional maturity of a three-year-old turtle.

And because the goal of many, many television networks is to cater to our own screaming demographic, the representation of emotionally and economically stunted characters has skyrocketed in the past few years. Sure, there are a few Don Drapers out there, but we don't regard them as People We Know. Don Draper is the Superman. He's Awesome. Above all, he's Not One Of Us.

No, I'm talking about the J.D.s, the Chuck Bartowskis, the Jim Halperts of television. These are the characters--yes, they're mostly men--who for some reason, have just managed to avoid growing up. J.D. exists in his ridiculous dream world where he works out fantastical, childish resolutions to the serious problems that crop up in his life as a doctor. Seriously, think about it. Would you want J.D. to be your doctor?

Chuck lives at home with his older sister and her boyfriend/fiance/husband, who pretty much exists to show by contrast just how much Chuck needs to get his fucking act together. And in Chuck's defense, he does. Same for Jim--the man-child who begins the series just playing pranks on an obnoxious co-worker is currently a caring father and husband.

Even British television, historically filled with old men in tweed jackets, is taking a turn for the adolescent. The Doctor, an experienced time-traveler with the weight of the universe on his shoulders, is now a 27-year-old who fears commitment (as opposed to the first Doctor, who was lofty and wise and in his 60s.) He bums around from one end of the galaxy to the next, skittering through time and past dangers, running from his past, only facing it when he is forced. The Doctor as a 20-something avoiding his student loans. (I'm over-simplifying, of course. Don't hate me.)

The legendary and myth-infused characters of Merlin, King Arthur and Guinevere have had their ages ratcheted down as well. Now instead of being a white-bearded ancient, Merlin is a beaky 19-year-old who can't keep his magic in his pants. Arthur is a spoiled twot, possibly the most unperceptive person on the fact of the earth. Don Draper he isn't.

The point of this reduction of maturity appears to be to show how these characters grow over the course of the series. The Doctor takes on his companions again (the show kept a doctor and a companion together through a series finale FOR THE FIRST TIME). Merlin and Arthur begin by increments to see eye-to-eye. Chuck 'fesses up to the spy game and begins a real relationship with a real woman that he really loves. J.D., like Jim, becomes a loving father and husband.

It's like the TV is fulfilling it's public-service requirement by pointing out how--see? SEE?--we should be living our lives. "You're like this now," it says, "but look how you COULD be!"

I'm not surprised. TV has always been about showing us the ideal, even though that ideal is frequently unrealistic. Chuck may be able to get the unbelievably hot, blond CIA agent, but for the rest of us, that's probably going to be an unreachable goal. So for now, I'm gonna sit on the sofa with the rest of the kids and watch 10 Things I Hate About You. And if that doesn't sound like a plan for you, then you don't know what fun is.

Stupidbutt.

How are the kids?

Oh hey, Norbucks. Hey, iced coffee, hey gross purple sofa, hey bewildered freshmen. Hey girl giving me funny looks from the opposite sofa because I am humming off-key to myself in a way that's even getting on my nerves. Hey.

Part of me is thinking that it's like I was never gone. This all feels so familiar, mostly because I spent a depressingly large amount of time here last year, scrabbling to finish up screenplays that had no right to be finished. The man at Norbucks knew me and I knew my way around and I knew what the lakefill looked like exactly because when words escaped me, I could avoid looking for them by staring out the window and pretending to be pretentiously pensive.

(I just tried to spell "pensive" like "Pensieve". What hath Harry Potter wrought?)

But a larger part of me knows perfectly well that I've been away for three and a half months. It's that part of me that keeps reminding me that, all things considered, it's been a pretty crappy summer. Everything that's happened--cancer, car crash, concussion, criminal assault (got the alliteration, at least)--is so overwhelming that I am still having a hard time wrapping my head around it. Charlotte gave me a trophy that tells me that I beat "Summer level 10" but sometimes it feels like summer level 10 beat me.

So yeah, getting back to school is the-same-yet-different, but isn't that how it always is? We experience things over the summer, good or bad, but then when we get back among our peers in the fall or the winter or the spring or whenever, it's like someone hit the reset button a little. You're back a few months ago, when things were different, and you kind of have to wait for things to catch up to you. And it's weird. But interesting. But good, but bad, but relative.

This is not to say that I'm sad to be back at school, although of course, I was sad to leave home. Most college students (who don't hate their parents) have this problem, I guess. You like both places, you want to be both places, but of course going somewhere means leaving somewhere. Saying hello means saying goodbye. Life becomes more bittersweet, but also more exciting because saying goodbye makes the hello worth more. And when you have to say goodbye to someone, that person, their relationship to you, their personalities, their jokes, their insights, mean more to you because they have a deadline. You fit as much of them into your life as possible because of that goodbye that is on the horizon, because you don't want to say it.

So now I'm at Northwestern and I've said my goodbyes, for now. It's wonderful to be here among people I care about, in a place that I love. Soon I'll be saying goodbye again, though, saying hello to people at home. And that's okay. That's the ping-pong life of a college student. And as Mark Ruffalo wants us to know, the kids are alright.

SPACE ARTIST FROM MARS!!!!

My sister just did a major clean-up of her room. This is always a bit of an adventure, and this time around she found 1.) a toy lightsaber, 2.) a small music box that plays a weird song none of us can place and 3.) an old journal of mine from when I was 7.

It's this last find that had the most entertainment value (despite the fact that my dog hates the lightsaber and will scurry around in hilarious ways if you turn it on around him). THE THINGS I WROTE. It's like a small composition book full of WONDER. It reflects very strongly my 2nd grade obsession with Mars, aliens, and space--or more specifically, my desire to become something I called a "space artist".

On the off chance that you were wondering, no, there is no such thing as a space artist.

I am going to now write up a list of highlights because I can't afford to forget any of this. Please excuse the poor spelling, but I think that the bad spelling is the maraschino cherry on top of the Shirley Temple that is this journal.

1.) "Tomarow is rousasona. I do not slabret rousasona. I am lucky. No school for nothing!"

2.) "Dinosors were extingct 65 million years ago [such science, mini-Caitlin! Good work.] Not all dinosors were big. Some were very small. Some ate plants. Some ate meat. Some were gross looking."

3.) "Pretty soon I am going to Mars! I will see a lot of stuff. I will go to sleep now. zzz. Today is the big day! Wow! Our rockit ship is cool! 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0, blastoff! Outer space is very pretty. I see mars! IT is red! We are landing. Hey! I see sines of life here! Yikes! Aliens at 2:00! Don't go. We are the frist people to see aliens. We are even the frist people to land on Mars. Beep, beep, come with us. Wow! You live here! Back to erath."

4.) "This is a space creecher. A space creecher gets arond on a speeder bike. If the space creechers are in danger and can't get away, they use the force. If a persin (wich they call humins) is smart enaf they can understand the talk of the space creechers."

5.) "Tomarow is my sister's birthday. I am not glad. She is going to be one year older and one year annoyinger. She is not going to invite any of my friends."

6.) "I am going to be an outer space artist when I grow up. Today I am going to go to our space ship. Come on Mike. Mike is my robot. He steers the ship. We are takeing off. Wow! We are high." [end of entry]

7.) "Hello, my name is Caitlin. My bouet is called the Oshin Oxtra [why? No idea.] We explore outer space. My crew is men and wemin. Our ship is made of tinetaneum. We eat things that look like eyeballs. We find aliens."

So you see, 7-year-old Caitlin had very few things on her mind besides her promising career as a space artist (even though--and this is an important point--I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT DRAW) and her annoying little sister. I spent this evening reading parts of this book aloud to my parents and laughing myself into tears.

I left the best part out, though, because I never, ever, ever want anyone ever to read it. It is basically Star Wars-Animorphs crossover-fanfiction. It is...amazing? Priceless, in an uncomfortable way. Just imagine the Animorphs using the force and having adventures with Han and Leia's kids and you've got the glory.

Jousting the air

There are some things I would like to write about, but I can't get my head completely around them yet.

Instead, I am going to try to do one of the most insufferable things in the world and write about writing. Sit back and enjoy! Or leave. I'll never know who you are...(that was for Charlotte and Rachel. Anyone listening?)

So it has been established that I am a total geek. Seriously, I love it all--I stayed home on Friday nights and watched Battlestar Galactica, I will marathon LOTR or Star Wars any day of the week, and yes, I sat through and enjoyed that lovely eight-hour epic The Tenth Kingdom (cheers, Nina and Kirsten and that bottle of cheap whiskey that got us through).

It all traces back to a childhood spent with Bruce Coville, Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett and most importantly, Tamora Pierce. That was my shit. It still is. Those fantastical plots, the slightly off characters, the dramatic and implausible twists--they rock my world.

So because I am naive and impressionable, most of the things that I've written have followed this pattern: reluctant character in an odd situation/world must deal with strange events. Of course, that might be the formula for every single book, but whatever. The first novella-length thing that I ever wrote (embarrassingly titled "Princess of Thieves," god help me) was pretty much exactly stolen from Tamora Pierce. Then again, I wrote it--all 50 pages of it--when I was in 6th grade, so maybe I can be excused? But then the second thing that I wrote, about aliens who landed on Earth during the Middle Ages, cribbed liberally from Douglas Adams, so maybe things don't change much.

There's probably some psychological analysis to be done here, most likely by a very, very bored psychologist with nothing else to do. I'm someone who very frequently feels stuck in neutral, so I write about dramatic events full of exciting people doing exciting things and working towards exciting goals. I like to envision myself in the center of some conflict, Sir Caitlin, Lady Knight, swinging a sword and casting spells and shooting the shit out of things with a bow and arrow. It's my fucking DREAM. I would kick ass SO HARD.

So yeah, despite the fact that I am a mature 20 years old, I still have romantic visions of myself on a large horse, jousting or some shit (have I ever been on a horse? No. No, I have not). I don't think there's anything wrong with that, though. I wrote about life-threatening peril because, up until a couple weeks ago, it wasn't really a part of my life. And it's not really anymore, but for one horrible moment those couple of weeks ago, it was. And it wasn't something that my delusional image of myself could fight off with a sword or a crossbow or even magic. It was nasty and evil and dirty and intangible.

I'm sorry if this seems disjointed. My mind only seems to work one way these days, and it's a way that even I'm having trouble keeping up with. I don't know what my point is--I'm just trying to sort through some thoughts, some of which have been chasing each other in my head for a year now, and some of which are really recent additions to this tangled game of thought-tag. Give it a moment, it'll all sort itself out?

No need to call me "sir," Professor

I have a month and a half left of summer, and I've finally figured out what I should do with it. Get ready, guys. Hold onto your undershorts. This is creative, out-of-left-field, and totally never been done before.

I am going to reread all of the Harry Potter books.

Yes. Fine. It's not original, but does that make it any less necessary? We are approaching the end of an era, people! In one year, the last incarnation of a beloved character that we have literally grown up with will trot off the silver screen into his happily-ever-after! And not just any happily-ever-after! Oh no! We don't leave him as a 17-year-old with the whole universe in front of him. We leave him as a middle-aged man with a wife and kids and probably a mortgage and responsibilities. What's the fun in that?

Like I said, it's the end of an era, and that era is our entire childhoods. I was 8 when I first read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I waited for my letter from Hogwarts with every other 11-year-old. I was 13 when Harry lost Sirius and 15 when he lost Dumbledore--and despite my advanced teenage years and maturity, I cried like a tiny, tiny baby both times.

Most importantly, though, I was 17 years old when Harry finally accomplished the goal he'd been moving towards his entire life. I was Harry's age when he killed Voldemort, and for some reason, that means a lot to me.

I'm not sure if you realize it, but I fucking love Harry Potter. I love the world, I love the characters, I love the story. I love that the plot-lines grew darker and more dramatic as the characters aged. I even love that J.K. took out half the cast in the last book (probably just because she could) because it showed that the tiny skirmishes that had been introduced in the first book had transformed into a full-blown war that even protagonist status couldn't save you from.

(I will, of course, never forgive J.K. for killing Fred. Too far, lady. Too far.)

My point here is that I was 8 when I first met Harry and Ron and Hermione and Draco, and I'll be 21 when I have to let them go. The obvious solution is to drown my sorrows in vats of alcohol immediately following the second 7th movie (which I will be doing, believe me). But I'm not someone who easily lets go of the past. For example, as I write this I am wearing a Tintin t-shirt that I have had since I was 9. It is threadbare and I cannot wear it in public because I will be laughed at. But I fell in love with this fictional character when I was 9, and I can't let him go, even at 20. I fell in love with Harry and his entire world when I was 7, and I can't let him go.

So I'll read all the books again. And again. And again. Why should I stop? If you're going to try to hold onto your childhood, I think reading is a pretty healthy way to do it.

And my kids had better love these books as much as I do because they are going to be hearing me read them over and over and over again.

A Moment of Vacation

I stand in the kitchen, flyswatter raised, eyes darting. It's not our house--my mother found it on Craigslist three years ago, and for one week every summer since, we make it our own. Lake Champlain becomes our backyard, the magnificent sunsets become our sunsets, and the flies become our flies.

Currently, those flies have invaded our kitchen/living room/dining room space. At first, I tried to practice a live-and-let-live policy, but after brushing away an inquisitive insect from my totally-not-an-old-Tamora-Pierce novel for the umpteenth time, I realized that it was time to go to war.

And so, lady knight that I am, I am standing in the kitchen, prepared to do battle. I hear a buzz. My eyes narrow. My grip on the flyswatter tightens, but I don't make a move. I've been at this a while, and I've started being haunted by phantom flies--they're driving me insane. I feel like Ahab, pursuing a billion buzzing Moby Dicks. (For a second I think of a man in white, flying across a stage on rollerskates..."Ahabbb...AHABBB..." But it's an inside joke with people who aren't here, so I can't share the moment.)

THERE. A fly by the teapot. I bring the swatter down too late and the insect buzzes away. I curse. My mother, seated by the window, laughs at me. She doesn't ask me to keep it down, even though she's tearing through The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo at her usual breakneck pace. One of those damn flies got in her tea this morning. She understands that means war, and she'd probably be okay with the total annihilation of flies everywhere.

Willa is bent over a puzzle on the edge of the room. She's been working on the 450-piece monstrosity for over a day, and the image--unda' the sea--is nearly assembled. She angrily swats at a fly with her hand, getting visibly frustrated. "There's another swatter under the stairs," I suggest. She goes to rummage for it.

Through the glass sliding door, I can see my dad struggling with the grill. He has demanded that we all call him "Grillmaster" for tonight at least, as he will be preparing Steak (which demands the capital letter since we only eat once a year when we're on vacation). Beside the Grillmaster is the Grilldog. Bryce is obviously torn between two difficult alternatives: he could stay outside with my dad and scrounge up a treat, or he could come inside and hunt the flies he hates so much.

I should take a moment to note that Bryce doesn't hate many things in this world. When it comes to flies, though, his is genocidal in his rage. The problem is that he is absolutely terrible at hunting them. He begins by stalking them like a lioness on the grassy plains of Africa, peering around couches and other furniture. He invariably ends up twitching around in galumphing circles as the cruel fly taunts him.

Outside, Bryce makes up his mind. He moves the the door and stares inside, yellow eyes not quite pointing in the same direction, tongue spilling out of his mouth, pink against golden fur.

My mother lets him in just as Willa rejoins me with the other flyswatter. All three of us--lethal, fly-killing ninjas--patrol the space. The Grillmaster watches us through the glass, holding back laughter.

A cry--Willa lunges at the dining room table, flailing. "I got it!" A moment later, I pound an insect into oblivion on the couch. The canine third member of our team jumps for a (possibly imaginary) fly and ends up on his back, tongue lolling. My mother rubs his stomach as a consolation prize, and he contents himself with eating the fly I killed.

Willa and I, who have possibly been watching too much Lord of the Rings lately (because Willa is determined to see them with "a woman's eyes") do a many forearm-handshake of victory.

A buzz by my ear. Both our flyswatters stand at the ready. We set off patrolling again. There is no rest for the fly-killing ninjas.

It.

It's here again. It knocked on my brain's door while I was watching "Zombieland" and officially handed me its card, but I've felt it hanging around for weeks now. I hate it and I wish that it would go away, but it's stubborn. It knows that it's had fun chilling in my head before, and it's ready to give it another shot.

"It" in this pretentiously ambiguously case, is a sort of crippling sense of frustration and self-doubt. Whenever I make the mistake of comparing my life to someone elses', of comparing my choices to someone elses', I get to spend some time with this emotion. It makes me want to scream at myself, to say mean things like "WHY THE FUCK AREN'T YOU IN LOS ANGELES RIGHT NOW? WHAT GOOD DO YOU THINK THIS SUMMER IS GOING TO GET YOU? YOU COULD BE TOURING THE WORLD OR GETTING REAL LIFE EXPERIENCE, BUT INSTEAD YOU'RE SITTING ON YOUR ASS IN YOUR HOMETOWN DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING."

This, rather understandably, makes me feel uncomfortable. I don't like screaming at myself, as a rule. But it's gotten worse this summer--worse than it's ever been before. I wake up in the middle of the night and I know that I've just had a weird or stressful dream, but I can't for the life of me remember what that dream was. I go through the day with a headache throbbing behind my temples and I feel like I am continually on the verge of snapping at whoever approaches me. I mutter to myself and mock my dog--which I do normally, actually, so nevermind that.

I love being home, and I love my family and my friends, but I feel...I don't know. Not tied-down, because let's face it, I CHOSE to come home for the summer. It's more of a sensation of frustration, like I'm the viewer when I want to be a participant. Actually, that's exactly what it is. More and more people I know are graduated and off to start their big, important lives in the real world, and I'm stuck here...worrying about myself, about my relationships with my friends, about the goddamn future. Things are changing and I'm not changing fast enough to keep up.

This is just what my mother calls "future anxiety," I know. I'll find a job, somehow. It might not be a job that I like or want, but I'll get by. I'll get an apartment, I'll buy food, I'll make my way. But it's all so big and scary right now, and I know for a fact that I'm not ready.

Ack.

Cows on 'Shrooms

This post is dedicated to Charlotte Melbinger for being bored and pushy, and also for being in all likelihood, the only person who reads this piece of crap.

So, for one of my summer internships, I'm working for a small documentary filmmaker. What she does is put together documentaries about her clients' lifestories. What I do is menial tasks on FCP. But hey--it's an internship. It keeps me off the streets. It doesn't mean that I have to be mentally stimulated.

The point here is that, through my menial tasks on FCP, I have learned minute details about the lives of people I will never, ever meet--people who don't even know I exist! I cut together photo montages set to Michael Buble songs and learn the beats of a stranger's history to "Come Fly With Me". I know about Mansukh Shah and the loss of his wife back in the early 90s. I know how the Berman's disagree on everything except religion. I know how Reggie escaped from the Nazi invasions of Poland during WWII by hiding in a burned-out shed. I am OMNISCIENT.

It's kind of creepy. Can you imagine the extreme levels of awkwardness that would ensue if I ever met any of these people? I am an awkward beast (phrase brought to you by your sponsor, Charlotte Melbinger) to begin with. This is just ripe for disaster.

Just think about it. We've all been in this situation before. Clear your mind. Think back to a time when you were told something very personal about someone who has never even met you. When you are finally introduced, do you 1.) pretend you know absolutely nothing about them? 2.) Do you try to work that detail into the conversation to provide friendship-fodder? 3.) Or do you blurt it out like some kind of cow on 'shrooms? (I've never seen a cow on 'shrooms, but I think that if they were, and if they could talk, they would act like that.)

Because I secretly imagine myself to be some kind of lady-American-20-year-old James Bond, I usually try to do choice 1. Then that becomes to hard because in my head is a little voice that's jumping up and down and screaming something like "SHE KNOWS YOUR FRIEND! SHE KNOWS YOUR FRIEND!" or "HE'S ALSO A HUGE FAN OF THAT TV SHOW YOU LIKE!" or "HER ROOMMATE ALWAYS HEARS HER HAVING LOUD SEX THROUGH THE WALL!"

The voice and the jumping works me up like that one time I got pumped at a Spirit Rally back in 9th grade. I start diving into the conversation with far too much eagerness, and I try for choice 2--trying to gently steer the topic towards that thing I know about them. Of course, I am not subtle, so I end up stumbling into choice 3 without intending it. We may have been discussing world events (horrifying), or the state of Northwestern's laundry machines (horrifying), or Gary Busey (mother-of-God-pants-shitting-terrifying)--it doesn't matter. With no segue, no tact, I will say something like "SO DO YOU KNOW ALPHONSE?!" And the person will stare at me for a second because I am suddenly wayyyy too close to their face and my eyes are wide and I am not blinking and I am grinning too much.

If the unlucky person is kind, then they'll do their best to carry on the conversation and I may even make a new friend! (Good for Caitlin).

And THAT'S just meeting new people in college! Imagine succumbing to this while talking to real adults! "SO HOW ABOUT THAT WORLD WAR II, HUH? THOSE NAZIS SUCK OR WHAT?"

That's Gary-Busey levels of horrifying.

News Bulletin

TODAY ALONE I HAVE:
-Banged my head against a cabinet. Twice.
-Bruised my knee
-Sprained my ankle
-Accidentally hit my sister in the face

Obviously my sense of spatial awareness is reliant on my being in the Midwest.

Taking this into account, over the next three months I will probably:
-Break every bone in my body
-Blow up my house
-Inadvertently cause the nuclear holocaust

Keep an eye on the news, folks.

I'm leaving on a jet plane!

Everyone I know is packing today.

It's actually kind of fun. I can wander into any one of my friend's rooms and scream the words "I FUCKING HATE PACKING," and they will understand me with the deepest depths of their souls. Because they, too, fucking hate packing.

This is another one of the myriad ways that going to school so far away sucks. Not only is it pretty near impossible to see my family with any sort of frequency, but getting shit back and forth from Chicago to DC is SUCH a pain in the ass! I see parents helping their kids move out, loading things into cars and driving away--cramped, maybe, but much, much more flexible--and I want to hijack the cars. Hey, I have a passable sense of direction (that is a lie). I could probably find my way back to DC in a car (also a lie. I would be killed and eaten by hill-people).

But car or no car, packing sucks. For me, it's basically the way I am forced to admit to myself that my life is made up of two behemoth suitcases, a backpack, and a mini-fridge that is possibly older than I am. And then all that extra crap that I am currently tearing my hair out over fitting into my bags (how did I get TWO toy llamas? Where the hell do I put this goblet? WHAT IS MY LIFE?)

There are, of course, ways to make packing less awful. Most of them involve alcohol, and I'm not brave enough to attempt drunk packing. I'd probably end up decorating my room with underwear and keeping only one out of every pair of shoes to save space.

No, I'm keeping my sanity by doing what I'm best at--mainlining television shows. Old episodes of "Bones," to be specific. Gotta love that Netflix instant-play. But the problem is that television can incapacitate me as much as alcohol. I just caught myself taking things OUT of my suitcase and putting them in my drawers because I was distracted by Zack (oh no, Zack!) That is not how packing works. That is the opposite of how packing works.

Or I could kill time by doing what I'm doing right now: messing around on the computer while surrounded by suitcases instead of thinking about what I'm supposed to do with all my hangars (I'm thinking a modern-art sculpture, but that might be the "Bones" talking).

OH HAI.

Like many people, I keep a running to-do list in my head. Also like many people, it's just a thing that I tell myself I do, because whenever I make a note to add something to the list, I forget the whole damn thing a second later.

Eh. Can't bring myself to care. Things work out one way or another eventually. Either I'll remember it at the last minute, or I won't remember and then I'll be faced with that icy feeling of "CRAP!" when I realize that essay was due an hour ago and there's nothing I can really do about it.

I turned 20 a couple of days ago. I feel like somewhere inside of me there's a post about that, but I'm having trouble getting in touch. I think I haven't really accepted it yet. Maybe for the rest of my life, I'll think of myself as a teenager (and turn into Amy Poehler from "Mean Girls"? Horrible thought). Maybe one morning I'll wake up with that same icy feeling of "CRAP!" and then have a midlife crisis at 20.

Don't you just kind of feel like those first 10 years of your existence were kind of wasted, though? I barely remember anything about them. And yeah, I realize that physical, psychological, emotional growth and development, blah, blah, blah, whatever. But where are the stories? You can't be like "This one time, when I was 7, I was at this party and this dude was so DRUNK..." This is partly because whoever you're talking to will call child protective services, and your parents will be taken away. It is also partly because I don't remember anything (I went to a lot of CRAZY parties when I was 7).

Wasted years! Am I wasting my life right now, sitting in deserted Norbucks while thunder and lightening and rain all clash and erupt just outside of the thin windows? Is staring at a Celtx document for hours on end wasting my life? Is it working towards something bigger? The Future? A job? Junior year? What counts as something bigger?

This isn't a freak-out. This is pretentious contemplation, but most of all, this is procrastination because I don't want to have to START the process of staring at that Celtx document.

I wonder what TV I can find to watch on Netflix?

The awkward years

I'm always absolutely shocked when I see middle- and high-schoolers around downtown Evanston. To me, it's such a college town. Everyone I know here is connected to the university, and it's jarring to be reminded that there is life outside Northwestern in Evanston. And then I start getting bitter, partly because I sometimes miss having a life outside of school, but mostly because I hate middle-schoolers.

I'm sitting here in Panera (at 8pm on a Friday night...I lead an exciting existence), glaring at a group of middle-schoolers across the room and trying to drown their chatter out with Queen. It's not working, but god bless Pandora and classic rock for doing their darndest.

Was I ever that obnoxious? Hell, yes. I mean, I am DAMN obnoxious now, but the self-importance and the shrillness were multiplied about ten billion times over back in middle school. I guess it's because that's the time when you're turning into an actual person (and that's kind of a mind-blowing process--just like what Kirsten was saying the other night about having the realization that all babies are actually future PEOPLE), so you try to compensate for the weirdness by being as many people as possible, sometimes all at once. And when you have all of those personas clamoring for attention, I guess you kind of have to shout to be heard over yourself.

Back in middle school, I guess I was undergoing the struggle between Goody Two Shoes and Drama Dork and BAMF. The BAMF didn't really stand a chance, but I was friends--best friends, in one case--with people who had serious shit going on in their lives and did drugs and wrote poetry. I wasn't. I'm still not. But it made me feel important to be friends with people who were, so I kept my own personal BAMF in a little cage on a shelf and sort of taunted it with my choices to do homework and spend time with my family and get good grades.

My BAMF hated that. I laughed the laugh of the evil in its face.

But in all seriousness, middle school sucks. I don't think that I'm saying anything too revolutionary when I say that. It's a festering wasteland of pre-hormone hormones, and if you get out of there with one single personality, you are the luckiest bastard of them all. So maybe I should be feeling sorry for those kids across the room instead of glaring at them. After all, they're going through something you could not PAY me to do over again.

In a certain way, though, college is kind of middle school-y. You get here with no established personality. You can try on different people and do different things until you find something that works for you which, god willing, you will. You have to fight it out with yourself to find a level of comfort that doesn't reduce you to a total shut-in (guilty), but at the same time doesn't result in you partying every night and sleeping with every douchebag on campus.

Oh god, now they're all singing "Staying Alive" in their cracking, weedy voices. Screw solidarity. I'm going to glare at them until I kill them with my eyes.

I blame the spider.

I recently conquered a spider.

It was a major victory, at least in my mind. There I was, bleary-eyed at 7:30 in the morning, pissed that I had to wake up for load-in (I know, I'm an ideal film student. I actually ATTENDED load-in that time!)

My alarm clock goes off. I sit up. I can't see anything because I am practically legally blind without my glasses or contacts. I grope for my glasses. I shove them on my face. I start to drag myself out of bed when...

SPIDER.

BIG, BLACK SPIDER.

ON THE WALL.

RIGHT NEXT TO MY HEAD.

I speed out of bed like a fucking speedy speedster and press myself against the far wall, breathing heavily. I eye the spider like it's some sort of alien parasite that's about to latch itself to my face (and now I have that image in my head and it won't go away and I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight, am I?) It completely disregards me and scuttles along my wall.

Okay, I think. Caitlin. You are a humanitarian. You're from fucking Takoma Park, Maryland, for god's sake. You do not need to kill this spider. Perhaps you and the spider could co-exist?

The spider makes a sudden move. I jump about a foot. It is obvious that there will be no co-existing here. Still, I figure that I don't have to kill the spider! I considered trying to reason with it, but then I remembered that it was a spider and that weird thought was probably just 7:30 in the morning talking. I reconsidered.

All I have to do is get the spider out of my room! I realized in a brilliant stroke of genius. That's all! So what do I need? Some sort of cup? And paper? Book? Something?

I grab a piece of printer paper and the cap from my laundry detergent and set about chasing the spider around my room on my hands and knees. Please keep in mind that, at this time, I am still wearing my pajamas. Now, unlike girls in all movies and TV shows ever, I do not wear sexy pajamas. I do not own sexy pajamas. The pajamas that I am wearing during all of this consist of a baggy white t-shirt with a big picture of the cartoon character Tintin on it (which I've had since I was eight or nine, when I had a big crush on Tintin), and a pair of vast, tomato-red pajama bottoms. I am also sporting incredible birds-nest-hair, which I always have when I wake up (seriously, it achieves a life of its own. I have very little control over my hair.), and my glasses are askew.

I am super-attractive.

In my travails, I finally realize that the paper isn't stiff enough--it wasn't working. Whenever the spider scuttles onto it, the paper bends, the spider scurries off again, and I leap backwards a foot, sort of frantically brushing at myself and whimpering quietly. I've also kind of accidentally maimed it with the detergent cup. Oopsie.

So, humanitarian that I am, I decide to put it out of it's misery the way that any normal person would: with a shoe. Unfortunately, I am too much of a chicken to get all up-close-and-personal with my spider-murder, so I stand a the other side of the room and throw my sneaker at the spider. I'm not sure if it actually worked and killed it, or if the spider just passed out from its previous wounds, because it stopped moving.

I'll...clean that up later, I think. I then get dressed and go to Louis.

But. BUT. When I got back a couple of hours later, the SPIDER WAS GONE. I DON'T KNOW WHERE IT WENT. I hope it crawled off and died somewhere, but WHERE WOULD IT GO? My room isn't that large. I can't find it! I just know that I am either going to be killed in my sleep by a pain-enraged arachnid, or by its vengeful family.

This isn't going to end well.

A picture's worth a personality

I like today. Today is a good day. Today is a FREE day, which is a total novelty. I haven't had a free day in weeks! And the best thing about today is that it's rainy and gross outside, so I am completely justified in staying inside and watching television and writing! Plus, I already forced myself to go to the gym this morning. NO OBLIGATIONS.

I just put Rachel's Tri-Om posters on my walls, which essentially means that I'm almost out of wall space for posters! This is incredibly exciting. I, like many college students, subscribe to the belief that posters = personality. The more posters, the more personality. I have a lot of posters. I am so fucking interesting.

Of course, when I actually consider the posters, I realize that they make me seem like a film snob and a geek. But I don't care! Because I have posters! And personality! But I can't escape that forever. I'm going to go through my posters now and figure out what they really say about me. I will spare no feelings. I will take no prisoners. This will be ruthless, bloody, and probably not very serious.

1.) Arrested Development: This is where that "Oh, did you know I'm in college?" undercurrent starts. I've only met one college student who DIDN'T like Arrested Development, and we shun her in public.
2.) Star Wars: A New Hope: I don't care what you say, that movie is fucking awesome.
3.) Ministry of Silly Walks/Johnny Depp: "I was raised on British TV, thanks, Dad" and "I'm a straight girl".
4.) Blues Brothers: This is where the shame comes in. I haven't actually seen this movie. The poster was Charlotte's and she offered it to me for free and...oh, God, I'm so sorry!
5.) TV poster: This is basically just a piece of white posterboard on which are taped a bunch of different pictures from TV shows and movies that I've liked. It's poorly made and juvenile and I LOVE IT. I will protect it with my life.
6.) Poster about immigration from El Salvador: "Did you know that I'm socially conscious? You should be friends with me!"
7.) GAP ad with the guys from SNL: I am a consumer. I watch television.
8.) Pictures of friends: "I AM NOT A HERMIT I DO TOO KNOW PEOPLE."
9.) postcards of Ghostbusters, the Rat Pack and The Godfather: "Damn straight I'm a film student. Allow me to take this opportunity to annoy the shit out of you." This is only helped by the fact that the Godfather postcard is in fucking ITALIAN.
10.) Picture of Neil Patrick Harris from a magazine article: "I harbor unrealistic hopes about men. I'm also possibly delusional."
11.) How I Met Your Mother and In Bruges: Like Star Wars, I have nothing to apologize for here. SUCK IT, WORLD.
12.) Humphrey Bogart: The best story about this poster is that my mother wouldn't let me put it up when I first moved in freshman year until Anna's mother left because it has the words "The whole world is about three drinks behind" on it, and she didn't want the Cosnahans thinking I was an alkie.
13.) Greatest Movie Quotes: This might be the most inexcusable one. I don't actually agree with a lot of the quotes they've got on this poster, but MOVIES!

But as much as it may seem like I'm poking fun at myself (because I AM), I'm really happy with all the posters. For one thing, the walls at Willard are stark white, and without anything to cover them, I feel like I'm in prison. For another, I think that these posters will provide good conversation pieces for when Robert Downey Jr. comes to visit me.

Yeah...maybe just a little delusional.

Cry me a fucking river

It's been established that I am secretly a romantic. I love a good chick-flick as much as the next stereotypical girl. I sigh at "Love Actually," I giggle at "While You Were Sleeping," I love me some Austen and I squeal like a tiny baby when I watch "When Harry Met Sally". (For some reason I have a hard time standing Tom Hanks, but that's a rant for another time.)

So I love a good romance. But more than that, I love a good heartbreak. It can be hard to watch and hard to accept, but ultimately, when heartbreak is done well, it's SO GOOD. So I've decided to compile a list of the top five (in my limited experience) heartbreaking scenes from TV shows.

Things to know in advance:
a.) DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE SPOILED ON ANY OF THESE SHOWS. It will be spoiler-town very, very soon. I don't want to take you to spoiler-town if you do not want to go.
b.) The BBC is obviously very okay with killing, not only it's characters, but little pieces of my soul as well. DAMN YOU, BBC. I HAVE SHED SO MANY TEARS OVER YOU.
c.) I am a nerd. This is going to read loud and clear when you look at the shows I have chosen. Feel free to mock me about it at your nearest convenience. I am a HAPPY nerd, and I enjoy what I watch, so boo-yah.

So, with that said, let the sob-fest begin!

5.) LOST "The Constant": Desmond and Penny's phone call

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qO2g1wjOjDg

I still feel like a "Lost" newbie, which is slightly odd because I've watched four seasons of it. But it was four seasons in the span of about a month--God, I need to find something better to do with my life--so maybe it doesn't count as much? Oh, well.

But "Lost" is basically made of heartbreak. It seems to me that, if you are a character on the show, the surest way to die is to tell another person that you love them. This has happened, like, a BILLION times on the show. So it's kind of impressive that the scene that broke my heart the most didn't feature anyone drowning, or getting shot or blown up or knifed or crushed or eaten by a monster made of smoke. It was just a man and a woman making contact for the first time in over three years, connecting, confessing their love, happiness, touchstones, SIGH.

Yeah, yeah, I'm such a softie. Fucking deal with it, because now we're moving on to...

4.) DOCTOR WHO "Doomsday": Rose and the Doctor say goodbye

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JvkjthzlyV8v

Aaand here's where the nerdiness makes its first appearance.

Okay, so the deal with this is that Rose is going to get locked in another dimension...FOREVER. Away from the Doctor, her life of adventure, her sense of meaning, and the awesomeness that is the TARDIS. And man, does that suck.

On a somewhat-related note, I like to measure heartbreak on the "Willa Scale," which is pretty much the amount my sister cries when watching the scene. 1 is nothing...like, a magazine article about Tiger Woods...but 10 would be, like, "Up" (and I'm not going to lie--I sobbed like a tiny, tiny baby at that movie).

This scene gets a solid 8 because the heartbreak occurs on multiple levels. Not only are Rose and the Doctor separated (and they're AWESOME together), but Rose is going back to work in a fucking SHOP. After spending months TOURING ALL OF TIME AND SPACE.

WHAT THE FUCK. RUSSELL T. DAVIES, YOU FUCKING SUCK.

3.) BONES "The Parts in the Sum of the Whole": "I'm the gambler"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kh3Y3Thdr-4

There have been many moments in my long career of watching television (almost five years now! I'm ancient) when I've just sort of had to gape at what I was watching. The thing is, that was usually because the showrunners were unexpectedly killing someone! It's very, very rare that a show takes something in a daring direction that has nothing to do with the death of a beloved character (RIP, Charlie Pace, Ianto Jones, Zach Addy--I know he's not dead, but FUCK, man.)

"Bones" did. This last episode was absolutely mind-bending. To have Booth finally confess his feelings--and it's about time, man!--and for Brennan to reject him...oof. I mean, it's the way that it has to be--"Bones" is trying to do everything that it can to avoid the "Moonlighting" and "X-Files" curse (if the will-they-won't-they characters finally "will", the show is essentially kaput). I just didn't expect them to accomplish it so WELL. They put the question out in the open. The jig is up. There's no dancing around it anymore. It opened up a lot of doors in a, yes, heartbreaking way. I mean, just LOOK at that scene! He's crying. She's crying. I'm crying. It's just so...good!

4.) ROBIN HOOD "We Are Robin Hood": Maid Marian fucking dies.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scKav5wXB0s

I mean, really, the title of this entry says it all. In this BBC (goddammit, BBC) adaption of the Robin Hood myth, they fucking KILL Maid Marian. Admittedly she dies in a fairly kickass way--sword through the stomach while protecting the King of England from the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham and Guy of Gisborne (that's how they do in Sherwood Forest)--but STILL. Damn, son. They fucking KILLED Maid Marian.

This scene registered about a 9 on the Willa Scale--she watched it while I was out of the house one day. When I came back, she refused to come downstairs until I'd watched the episode so that we could be in shock together.

I mean, COME ON. He MARRIES her as she's lying there with her guts spilling out (looking totally gorgeous because, hey, it's still television). And then she removes a sword from her own stomach so that she can bleed out in peace.

BBC, YOU ROLL HARDCORE.

5.) TORCHWOOD "Exit Wounds": Tosh and Owen die

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X6hvqIjLrE&feature=related

Oh, hey, is that more people sacrificing themselves for the good of the world and having heartbreaking death scenes? Yes. Yes it is. Only this time, Russell T. "Balls of Steel" Davies gives us TWO deaths for the price of one.

I love this scene. I love that Toshiko and Owen together even when they're apart, and how they acknowledge things that they never had a chance to do and how they're just so brave and SIGH. Excuse me, I think I've got a little something in my eye.

I know I've sort of railed against the BBC for killing people off with the subtlety and intent of a homicidal maniac in a shopping mall, especially with this show (Toshiko and Owen made up almost HALF the main cast. In the next season they would kill off Ianto, bringing the show down to two of its original five members), but in all seriousness, this is good shit, guys. A tip of the cap to you, my friends at the BBC. It can be hard to kill off characters in a way to make people care and to make them feel as though they're not being cheaply yanked around, and you did pretty well here.

Unfortunately, this scene did not score particularly highly on the Willa Scale, but that's only because she doesn't watch this gem of a show. It was off the charts on the Caitlin Scale, however. Tears forever.

Extensions on Life?

Tonight at dinner, Charlotte mentioned that a friend of ours made a plan to be more spontaneous this quarter. We all had a good laugh about Northwestern students and our over-reliance on the plan, on always needing to know what comes next and when the deadline is and what we're working towards. It was funny 'cuz it hit uncomfortably close to home.

Here at Northwestern, the syllabus is king. It's the golden map of the next ten weeks. As sad as it sounds, one of my favorite moments of the quarter is taking all four syllibi from all four of my classes and copying the assignments into my planner (oh yes...my beautiful, beautiful planner). It's a favorite moment because it gives me a glimpse into my future. I get to compare workloads to film sets to Phonathon to trips home. I get to see what days I will be freaking out and staying up late. I get to see what days I will be wasting on television (hello, "Lost"...)

I love being able to see into the future.

But that's the problem, isn't it? I'm NINETEEN. At times, especially when I remember that I will be twenty years old in a little less than two months, that feels really old, but ultimately, I am still a baby. This is the time I should be taking things a little more easy, trying new things, meeting new people, slow down, smell the flowers.

But in my head--my Northwestern-centric head--those flowers are poppies. And we all know what poppies do.

I worry that if I stop to smell the flowers, I won't ever stop smelling the flowers. I'll be That Guy, working at a Wal-Mart from here until I die in my trailer, surrounded by my cats. And I fucking hate cats.

My mom read my the riot act the other day because of this. I think that she's worried that I'm becoming her, and she doesn't want that to happen (I don't know why not. She got me out of it, and I'm pretty awesome.) This all comes down to the question of study abroad. I'd like to intern in Los Angeles instead, something that contributes to me having a job after I graduate. She wants me to pump the brakes, kid, to go to another country and sample some culture, or haggis, or some shit.

Part of me really agrees with her. I would love to go to another country. But I would also like to have a job after I graduate. I don't want to bum around LA for months and months before being stuck in a PA position for some goliath production company.

I'm a Northwestern student. I need a syllabus. I have a syllabus, and it says "Age 23: become successful." I know it's not realistic, and I know that I'm destined for horrific failure, but that's what the syllabus says, and I don't think that life is too good about handing out extensions.

Pinky Swear

Welcome to spring quarter! It's the quarter when things start looking up, even if shit goes down in a massive way. BECAUSE IT'S BEAUTIFUL OUTSIDE. It's warm, birds are singing, the wind off the lake is soothing, not cutting. It's like living in a candyland of fairytales. Marvelous.

THINGS TO PROMISE MYSELF:
1.) Stop biting your fingernails. Woman. You are too old for this shit.
2.) Do your fucking applications. They're piling up. It's getting frightening.
3.) Stop it with the obsession with Robert Downey Jr. and everything that means to you. Nothing is ever going to happen there. That man may be a national treasure, but kid--you've got to pump the brakes!
4.) Spend as much time as possible outside. IT IS BEAUTIFUL.
5.) Get an internship in LA next year.
6.) Become cutthroat and ruthless. Take pirate lessons, if necessary.
7.) Fire a gun at some point in your life. I HAVE to know what that's like.
8.) Also, fire a bow and arrow. Preferably dressed as Maid Marian. (This is a dream that I've had since third grade. Some things just don't change.)
9.) Hold nightly dance parties in your room to bouncy songs. Remember to close the curtains. Chapin has gotten too much of a show already.

That's a good start to the promises, I think.

Priorities in Order.

I've made a huge mistake.

No, seriously. I went back and re-read some of my old journals. Like, sixth-grade-old. That's MANY years ago. It shows. I feel like I need to wash out my eyes, but mostly because I am so ashamed that my grammar and spelling were EVER that bad.

From what I could discern from the chicken-scratch that was my handwriting (okay, some things haven't changed), I was your typical 11-year-old girl...who was absolutely obsessed with fantasy novels and doodled medieval characters in the margins every chance she got. But in all seriousness, some of that crap is pure gold. You can totally tell that I was a total bookworm because words like "refrain" and "serendipitous" will crawl their ways onto the page in between misspellings like"schedual." The pretentiousness has been there from a very early age. I'm just glad it had years of self-importance to help foster it and allow it to grow into something truly obnoxious.

In related news, IT'S SPRING BREAK, BABY. And the beauty of being an RTVF major is that I DON'T HAVE FINALS. Which means I GET TWO WEEKS OF BREAK.

Capslock off.

This is great. I'm literally doing nothing but sitting on my ass and watching "Lost." Walls told me that my relationship with this show would be come a love-hate one, and I'm starting to understand why. It's like you can't not watch it because to skip it would be to cheat. And I can't cheat a TV show in good conscience. My morals won't allow it. I may be hazy on the ethics of a lot of situations (killing children...eh. They're sticky and annoying), but I will never cheat on a television show. Please. I have priorities. I'm not some godless animal.

(I tried to Google "chained to TV" and instead the internet gave me a picture of a man chained to a monkey. Internet, I know that people have been saying this for years but...you're weird.)

A happy spring break to all, and to all a good night!

I COME TO DRAW YOUR BLOOD! MUAH HA HA!

48 hours and I'll be home for break! God, I can't wait. Two weeks of beautiful nothing...except CWFM applications, trying to find an internship for both this summer and next year, thinking about housing...

Eh. I think we all know that I am going to blow all of this off until the last minute and watch Lost instead. "It is a truth, universally acknowledged..."

Fuck yeah, I just Pride and Prejudice-d you. SUCK IT. Or as they say in the TV-dubbed version of "The Breakfast Club," EAT MY SOCKS.

I am sitting here in Norris, wishing that the artificial fire was turned on and trying to work out an idea for a spec-script for How I Met Your Mother. God, how wannabe professional am I? If the Starbucks here were actually open right now, I'd totally be sippin' on some java (I just said that. Oh man.) But it's not a perfect world.

I can't shake the feeling, though, that no matter what fancy title they give this kind of writing, it's all just fan-fiction. Because it totally is. I'm writing about characters that I didn't create, spinning stories that feed off of relationships that I didn't dream up. It's fan-fiction. Industry-condoned fanfiction. Who'da thunk?

My mom says that I should consider a part-time career as a phlebotomist. Now before the choruses of "what the fuck?" start, I would like to head this off at the pass. I think I could be a bright and shining star in the phlebotomy field. I could draw blood like nobody's business. People wouldn't even know what hit them...or their veins.

(It would be me. With a syringe.)

I just love that this is how my mother's mind works. Concern for me and my impoverished future: totally legit. Suggestion that I find some sort of day job: yeah, sure. Idea that that day job should be in the rapidly-plateauing field of phlebotomy...

Okay, let's hear those "what the fuck?"s now.

Follow the rabbit

And here I go, down the rabbit hole...

There's something really exciting about getting into another television show. The whole realm of characters and storylines that you don't know yet, but will get to know over the next few weeks (or days, since it's me, and mainlining television is what I do), the relationships, the theories, the surprises...

Man, TV is fucking FANTASTIC.

I've gotten into Lost. Or I should say that I've watched the first five episodes of Lost, but since it's this show, I think five episodes is enough to get you hooked. I've always known that I'd like this show, being the X-Files geek that I am, but I never had the emotional strength to get into it. But here I am, a couple of days into reading week with thirteen glorious days of spring break stretching ahead of me, and YOU CAN BET that I will be wasting them trying to get through as much of this show as I can.

I'm watching an episode as I'm writing this. It makes it even more difficult than usual to concentrate but I could not care less.

Also, just a little P.S.--if you try to spoil any of this show for me, I will eviscerate you and hang your organs on the Arch. Love and kisses!

GOALS FOR THE NEXT FEW MONTHS:
-Try not to get lost too much in watching Lost. (ohhh see what I did there? Clever and innovative. I am the world's most incredible person.)
-Apply for LA internship for next year
-Write a masterpiece and get it published and make buckets and buckets of money
-Finish app for CWFM program
-Kill some of the super-annoying freshmen in this dorm. Hide the bodies with cunning.
-Promise myself to work as little as possible and actually KEEP that promise (LOLZ NO CHANCE)

If anyone is interested in becoming my fairy godmother and making all my dreams come true with a wave of your magic wand, I'm accepting applications now. KTHNXBYE.