Some Whinging

Why do some people spell the word "whining" as "whinging"? Is it a typo? Why have I seen it so many times?

Today I was angry. Why, you ask? Why are you angry, Marvelous Narvel? I just asked myself that question, and then I answered myself.

I don't know. I don't know why I'm in a bad mood. I don't know why I feel like punching everyone in the face. Maybe it's because everyone just needs to be punched in the face. It's more likely that I just need to be punched in the face.

I think I am having a mid-life crisis. If this was my mid-life, it would be pathetic, but I am suffering from all of the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. NOTHING INTERESTS ME ANYMORE. IT ANGERS ME. EVERYTHING ANGERS ME. Anger Bear, that's me.

Because I made the above statement (the mid-life crisis one) with almost no justification or knowledge of what the actual symptoms were, I looked them up. Thanks Google! Turns out I actually do suffer from many of the symptoms. I want to change direction. I desire free-flowing movement. I suffer from irritability and anger. I want to run away from everything. I have a desire to get in shape. I excessively look back to my childhood. A sidenote: what are they defining as childhood? Am I still a child? Aren't these supposed to be my "best years"? That sucks, it really does. All it tells me is that all the other years are worse.

WORSE? IS IT POSSIBLE?

Yeah, it probably is. When I have to be financially independent, and people realize that I actually have no real skills in anything except pretending to do work, and I don't have a job because of this, and all I really want to do is be Gabe's intern, and then be Gabe, that will probably be worse. I could never be Gabe. I'm only average (read: bad) at humor, and Gabe is definitely Above Average. Too bad, one career path down the drain.

Maybe I could be an actress, and meet people like Bradley James and make him fall in love with me. But I'm only average (read: really bad) at seduction, and probably love in general, even though I've never tried it. I probably never will try it, because I will be incapable of making anyone love me back. Whoops! Problemo! That's okay though. I think I can resign myself to a fate of admiring people from afar and never marrying anyone and being a whore. What? I didn't actually just say that.

Maybe I could be a writer. Then I could move to England and buy a country manor and write novels and meet Mr. Knightley. This would be Ideal Option Number One. It's a possibility, right? (insert laugh track here)

I just re-read this post. It made no sense and had no overall idea. It was mostly random mutterings. This is the part where I pat myself on the back for being successfully incoherent.

Hey. Hey guys. So remember that thing? Called commenting? We should start that again...that was cool...

Your Mom Got a Blog

No, my mom got a blog.

Oh dear. Oh dear. Why mom? First Facebook, now Blog?? What next, TWITTER? Will I soon be reading tweets from MY MOM?

This is...not as big of a deal as it seems. Let me blow it out of proportion for you.

My MOM is now on blogspot, blogging away about things like...ME. She is blogging about ME. No, I do not know this to be true, because she has only written one post and it is not about me, it is about Tiger Woods. I can only assume, however, that somewhere in the not-so-distant future she will be writing about things that annoy her, and that will consist of ME.

Also, I found this: www.mylifeistwilight.com
This is a travesty. This is the travesty of travesties. WHO HAS DONE THIS?? WHO HAD THE GUTS TO PROFESS THEIR DISGUSTING INSANITY AND RABIDNESS IN SUCH A WAY??

Okay, this blog clearly is not really about my writing anymore. Not my fault. The last thing I wrote was a college essay.

A Play.

Hey guys,

A quick promo on my part. I wrote a play for the YPP (Young Playwright's Program), and will be submitting it on Tuesday. The YPP is a program run through the ACT theater, and if my play is chosen, it will either be published or performed at a local theater.

I'd really appreciate it if you all could read my play, and your comments are super helpful to me. The play is posted on my Fictionpress account. It is called For the Justice. Link below:
http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2743642/1/For_the_Justice

You can either comment on Fictionpress or right here on this post.
Thanks!

EDIT:
A clarifying note, since I have gotten a few comments on this. Chris and Taylor are not hipsters. I am aware of that. The description was merely intended to describe how they are dressed, but I can see that it would be confusing. I have changed the descriptions to include exactly what they are wearing instead of saying "hipster". Also, they talk like that because they are stoned. Also, another thing that I think may be confusing if you don't understand why I did it (aka if you can't read my mind), Chris and Taylor are actually quite intelligent and well-read, as seen by knowing about Joyce, etc. However, they are also complete stoners--something that is true about a lot of today's youth (what do you know? Culture criticism is present in this play after all!).

Another clarifying note: they are talking about the particular bands that they are because those are the bands I happened to be listening to while writing most of this play. Hopefully that clears up some confusion...

In case you were wondering...

It strikes me as strange that almost none of my friends have heard me sing before. Well, no, you have heard me sing probably, but you haven't heard me sing Hindustani, which is something I actually consider a huge part of myself. It's also one of my few talents, dare I call it one.

In fact, many of you don't even know what Hindustani music is. So let me enlighten you.

http://www.kuow.org/program.php?id=18776

You should click on the link in the sidebar that says "Listen to KUOW Presents" to listen to the recording.

This is an excellent piece that was on the radio today. It's about 13 minutes long, and it is a good explanation of Hindustani music, along with some of the music itself played in the background. They are interviewing a local artist, who is actually a friend of our family's.

Someday I may post a recording of my own singing here, but today is not the day. Honestly, I'd rather you heard it live, because in my opinion my voice sounds way better like that, and there tends to be less scrutiny of a live performance.

In which I reveal deep-rooted hatred.

No, not racism. Hatred.

A quote:
Ingrid: "I realized that I actually hate a lot of my friends."

Me too, Ingrid, me too. Why is this? Maybe I'm too nice of a person. Maybe if I was meaner, people would get the hint that I really don't like them/talking to them, and they would leave me alone, leaving me to wallow with those few people I do like.

Warning: The rest of this post is confusing, because I keep mixing up my tenses and pronouns and am too tired and lazy to fix it or write properly.

In my mind, there are two categories of hate for friends/people.
1. You hate them always.
This is the kind of hatred that is self explanatory. You cannot stand this person. You hate being around them at any time. They insist on following you around. You wish they would leave you alone. They can NEVER take a hint. You really hate this person.

2. You hate them sometimes.
This kind of hatred is more subtle, and difficult to deal with. There are certain people in my life whom I hate at seemingly random intervals. These intervals are not random, if you happen to be one of the people on the receiving end of this hatred, and have noticed it. This is the person that is sometimes amusing and fun to be around, but more often than not, they are more annoying than amusing. This is unfortunate. Why can't this person just be better? Then you feel bad about hating them, because really, they just remind you of yourself.

Those are the two main categories. There is a third, somewhat related category, and it is called jealousy.

3. Jealousy
This is not truly hatred, but sometimes you really wish you were this person, so painfully that you end up disliking their presence somewhat, because they remind you of how much you suck. Then they do something majorly awesome, making you want to be around them all the time. Then you are worried about whether you are annoying or not, and in the process end up being even more annoying. This person probably hates you. You are probably the second type of hated person on their list. Maybe even the first (if you're lucky!).

When reading this post, you may have been thinking, whose blog is this? Am I in the wrong place? No, dear reader, you are not in the wrong place. I am simply revealing that in reality, I am in fact not a nice person at all. On the contrary, I can be quite a vile and repulsive person if I put my head to it. Why have I revealed this? Do I want you to hate me too? No, I just want validation that I am not the only person who hates people, and more validation that people read this blog. Maybe. Sometimes.

Some Trips for You

Oh hey guys, remember how I used to post things that weren't school related? Lies. Now I can only write trippy essays that have everything and nothing to do with Modernism. Here is my latest "short" (aka miniscule) essay: some tripping on freedom.

I may have been free all of my life, yet I can only see myself in captivity. What is freedom in the end? Not a soul on this earth may be truly free, for they will always see themselves in the cage of someone else. One may suggest that I was free when I pulled on the coat that I decided to wear today, and yet it was not entirely my decision. My father paid for the coat, therefore it is his. My mother likes the coat, therefore it is hers. The weather is cold today, requiring me to wear the coat, therefore the coat belongs to the weather as well. Finally the decision I made in putting my arms through the sleeves of said coat was only fractionally my choice, only in part a decision made by me—and therefore how can I be free?

Yet, there may have been one time in my life when I was free; a time when the decision I made was influenced by my thoughts, and only mine. There may have been a decision I have made in my life that was completely mine, belonging to me and nobody else. When was this time that I was free? Certainly not now, when my life’s every movement is determined by the forces and wills of my parents, my teachers, whatever colleges I may be applying to. Even this, what college I will go to, is not determined by me, when in reality it should be entirely my choice, for it is I who will go there. And yet, I must consider where my parents want me to go, I must consider which colleges will accept me, and I must consider above all else, what people will think of me. A constant consideration in every decision I make—what will everyone else say?

This suggests that perhaps the only time I did not worry about this was when I was only a child, who knew nothing of the world, and nothing of the thoughts of others. There is only one time in one’s life when one is truly free, and that is when one has just entered into life, into being—this is the only freedom I know of. When I opened my eyes into the bright lights of a universe tangential to what I had known previously, and yet somehow completely different, then I may have been free.

When I was brought into the world by a nurse in a hospital, somewhere on the earth, in the moment just after I entered consciousness and the moment just before I was placed into the arms of my mother, I was free. For just before this, I was in the captivity of another being who was feeding me, allowing me to live, in fact granting life to me, and as soon as I was put into my mother’s arms, I was entirely dependent on her. I was dependent for food, for water, for anything that was not immediately on my being. But in that exact moment between the two, I belonged to no one but myself, I knew of nothing but myself, and that was freedom enough for me.

A/N: Unsure what to think of this essay (WOAH, THAT'S NEW!). Thoughts? Good? Bad? Disgusting? Offensive? You don't care? Too bad, leave a comment anyway.

"I wish I had a boyfriend...": A response to Ingrid

This is your boyfriend:























This is your boyfriend:























This is MY boyfriend: