The Bad, The Ugly, The Confusing

Oh relationships, how you confound me.

Why, really, are some so adamant that I should believe in love? It's just a trick, really.

Today I have had the great displeasure of learning a great deal more of my friend's woes. A friend that I care a good deal about. Some horrendously sick roller coaster of emotions that was for the most part beyond her control and (in my opinion, at least) unthinkingly cruel.

I have also spent a good portion of my day entertaining someone that I do not really know. (An end to the past few days of my being a super hermit for which, granted, I had been looking, but not exactly good for an introvert.) Why would I do such a thing? Because relationships are horrible things, full of one partner inadvertently hurting the other and sometimes one knowingly striking against the other.

I've grown up with two sisters very eager to date, it's a cycle easily figured out.

One has had a bit of a day and mimics the other. It's nothing serious, really. But the other won't stand for it. They're in the same room but only watching television, barely talking. It's not what this one wants. This one walks away.

It's absolutely ridiculous.

Although, on a slightly brighter note, I finally finished chapter two.

Words, words, words

I have heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle. I'll observe his looks,
I'll tent him to the quick. If he but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be a devil, and the devil hath power
T' assume a pleasing shape--yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds
More relative than this. The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

I love Hamlet. I own a fair amount of Shakespeare, actually, but I have to agree with the general consensus: Hamlet is the play. It is my favorite play. (Of course, there are a fair few I've read by Shakespeare that utterly disgust me, most predominately A Midsummer Night's Dream and Romeo & Juliet.)

I particularly enjoy this quote though. Others too, of course, but I delight in sharing this one. It's fun for me to read aloud and I adulate the realization many have that there is more to the quote than simply "The play's the thing." Really, just using that bit completely destroys the point of the quote in the first place.

And I love the manipulation within it. Within all of Hamlet, really. I wish, quite often, that I could plot so well, so thoroughly. To scheme, and actually learn something from my plotting, would be wonderful. Especially as there is so much that I question about the people that surround me.

I wonder, what is the purpose of asking someone to help you "hook up" with their sister if you barely know the person you're targeting? How does it make sense to not talk to and actually learn whether or not you even like the person before making such calls?

Still too lethargic to bother writing in my story, I'm afraid. However, I did over-achieve today. I added another toss to my juggling--one step closer to being successfully continuous with my juggling.

Ah, people. How strange you are.

So It Goes

Salutations, stalkers of the Internet,

Today is of no particular note--at least, none that I am aware. I'm sure that if I were to search the world round I would find countless birthdays, numerous anniversaries, a disgusting amount of deaths, and a fair few desperate hopes for the day ahead. Of course, being the selfish human creature that I am, I don't particularly care for any birthday outside my own. (Well, and also my best friend's.) I am not a fan of what people claim to be love, therefore anniversaries hold no importance with me. At a death I might stop, but I fear I would give little compassion. So it goes. I've seen too much of that. As for desperate hopes? Oh, I would smile at those.

That odd introduction aside, today I shall play the part of a person who actually updates her life. (This is a strange role, and I wonder my purpose. Do I do this because I fear I will forget? Oh, but then I could use a pen and some paper. Do I do it then in the hopes of someone finding it? That is strange hope. More studies must be done on my part. So it goes.)

If anyone has not been catching the reference, I have Kurt Vonnegut in my head. It is my friend's fault. She asked me if something was from Cat's Cradle or Slaughterhouse Five. So it goes.

As far as writing, I fear I am stuck somewhere within the second chapter. It is not, in this case, that I do not know where I am going. I simply lack the motivation to write anything. (It's a disgusting habit, I know.) However, I have found a decent spot for an excerpt. (I really do love excerpts. Even just the word itself.)

They had stopped kicking the soccer ball, most likely a while ago. Ethan was leaning against the back of her house, legs stretched out in front of him, and Lena was lying on the ground diagonal to him. It looked like they were sleeping until she saw Lena tossing a ball into the air. Sometimes she wondered why they came to these things, not that she wasn't glad to see them.

"Food," she announced when she was close enough to slide down next to them. "Sit up and eat."

Lena moaned and hugged the ball she'd been tossing to her chest, "No, no moving. Don't have the energy."

"It's strenuous activity, really," Ali mocked as Ethan reached for a plate eagerly.

Lena kicked a foot out towards her friend but missed. Alison only laughed in response and Lena pushed herself up from the ground. "Energy, please," she intoned, holding her hands out tiredly. Alison obliged her, slipping the remaining plate of food into her outstretched hands.

It doesn't really tell you much about the story itself, but I like this snippit. I'm not sure why.

I was intending to say more, but I can't recall what it was. . .

A Disgusting Misnomer

I'm sorry, I lost interest in your message after the first paragraph and couldn't be bothered to finish it. No doubt it was very clever and devastating and if it makes you feel good, please consider me abashed or chagrined or whatever it was that you intended me to feel after reading your brilliant, scintillating words. In the meantime, allow me to congratulate you on your decision not to breed, as clearly a person of your qualities represents a full stop on the genetic paragraph; the evolution of your line need go no further. Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded

With a spiel like that on the cover, it was really no wonder that I was immediately enamored with the book currently sitting on my floor beside me. Not only did it use the word scintillating (which I'm fairly certain most Americans have blocked from their memories if they ever knew it and tore from their dictionaries, along with any other remotely intelligent word in the English language) but it is delightful bashing of word-vomiting people. On the cover no less! Surely, with a title like Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded, this book is destined for greatness.

The title is a misnomer. I feel great regret for having bought it for my friend and, while it has occasional wit, am having great difficulty reading the endless words of the hautain man who wrote it myself.

However, I remain in high spirits for today was a successful day. From a girl who has never won a game of Monopoly in her life--forever playing against a brother and generally a cousin who get very frightening when they play--winning is a delightful turn. For economics--as I'm taking it in summer school to open up my schedule for as much English as I can possibly take during the school year--we had a Monopoly tournament today. Winning the preliminaries was exciting. Winning the show down made me ecstatic. And they say Friday the thirteenth is unlucky? Fools, they are.

I've also been able to talk to a former teacher a lot lately. I call him "Lillipution Man" as he's so small, and he's wonderful. Talking to him, and the teacher he shares a room with (another former teacher of mine) always makes me ridiculously happy. Is it strange to consider teachers friends?

Actually, how about finding joy in editing another's work? When the more I learn about the English language the crueler I become in editing. And it's ever so fun. Alas, as I am helping, I will never be yelled at. (It helps that the person whose work I'm editing is quite nice.)

Editing and bit of writing taken into consideration, today might actually be considered productive. Shocking, isn't it? Although, I am sad that I can not light paint with my friends.

Perhaps I shan't be sharing any of my story. (Wise, perhaps, as I've only just finished the first chapter and I have a disgusting habit of not finishing my stories. . .) Sans Sarah, of course, as I sent her the first scene of it in the hopes of unrelenting, harsh, I'll-gut-you-now-and-feel-guilty-about-it-later criticism. (Although, she's always nice to me, so I may have gone to the wrong person. Oops? Too late now.) Anyhow, instead, since I need to do something that might be misconstrued as productive with my time, is anyone in the mood for some poems?

I'm not quite sure the story behind this one. Some cross between people often not hearing me, or else not understanding me. Which, of course, leads to my happy regurgitation of words even my English teachers can't decipher (tilly-vally, avatrol, scevity. . .) or, even better, actual gibberish.

He speaks in whispers
Well I speak in tongues
You wish for a translation
But I can offer none
It's in the inflection
Can't you hear?
The wavering?
The rise? The fall?
The fear?
The funny little giggles?
The creeping gasps?
It lurks in the eyes
It dances in hand gestures
But what's in a translation?
Those petty, simple things
What is so complex that could not be seen?
He likes English
That I can tell
But could you not grasp exasperation?
Italian, German, or Gibberish.

This one is simply because people yelling freaks me out.

Oh, so sudden, her demeanor changes
From laughter to anger
All that has been long suppressed blurted,
A spiel uncomfortable for all to hear.
Tension crawls into the air
Unwanted but unsuppressable
Some stand about awkwardly
Unsure of what to do,
Where to go.
Others cannot take it.
It is dark, it is gloomy
They walk away.

Ah, but look, they are together again.

Another of my friend's glorious "drawing" parties has passed--this one I think with no drawing at all. Although, there was a great deal of picture taking and I did at one point write some poems, so it was not a loss in the world of the arts. In fact, it falls under my list of successes.

What is this list of successes of which I speak? Well, it's how I pre-formulate a blog in times of pure boredom. Shall we?

Successes:

• Along with the brilliance that always comes with a "drawing" party, there has been an exciting turn. After three "drawing" parties the introverts have triumphed! Which is to say, some introverts and a redhead they like were horrible people and abandoned the others so that they could be more comfortable. It was decided that these glorious events would be far more exclusive in the future, so that those invited might not abuse it and invite enough people to cover the state.

• Also a success, I've finally finished chapter one. (Yes, I took my sweet time, didn't I?) I've really only been writing a few paragraphs a day. I find it's calmer that way and I, hopefully, have less a chance of completely mutilating it. (I tell you, I love this idea.) I really want to share an excerpt, but I can't find a decent spot.

And, unfortunately, to counter every list of successes, there is a list of Introvert Woes:

• Tip? If you're an introvert, never, ever do more than one social outing in a day. Or a week.

• I am now covered in itchiness (I curse mosquitoes. I hate that because of them my ankle is swollen. I wish for a trained dragonfly so that I might not have to worry about them.) and I may have done something to my toe? Really, you go without wearing a pair of sneakers for a month or two. . .

In other news, the mole I had removed was a wonderful benign mole, of no harm to me. Just in a very annoying spot. Alas, I'm still under command to watch another one closely.
. . . And I just burned through three layers of sunscreen. Good thing I don't see my dermatologist again until September? Yes, she would bite my head off.

Which is to say, in short, I am fairly happy while posting this. (An odd occurrence, isn't it?) And so, because I do enjoy asking questions, what makes you happy?

Things That Make Me Smile

Being home alone.
Nearly completing chapter one of what I think is a brilliant idea.
Being an apparently fantastic salesperson.
And this:

Sarah makes me smile.

Often.

Typical Teenage Rant

Ooh, is it that time already? I wish I were more prepared.

What, then? Shall we be adventurously cliche? Ah, but what fits the bill? Shall we speak of the pleasures moving out promises? Although, not having someone threatening bodily harm for switching off the air conditioner is rather enticing. . .

Less Than Human

Humans are born hardwired to connect with their parents, so they usually adapt to whatever family situation in which they find themselves. Introverts who are raised in a home where everyone else is extroverted, or one in which the parents are introverted but feel as if they shouldn't be, the child can feel lots of pressure to be "outgoing." The introverted child may be criticized or shamed or made to feel guilty for needing or enjoying solitude. Cara, a teacher, told me, "My mother would walk into my room, take the book I was reading out of my hands, and make me come out and be with the family. I never could rest by myself. I wondered why I was so tired and overwhelmed so much of the time. I needed seclusion, but my family thought I was avoiding or withdrawing." Care, like many innies, was influenced by her parents into concluding that she shouldn't want to be alone, she should want to be around people. She didn't understand or connect her low energy to her lack of private time.

Children who don't feel accepted go one of two ways. They decide to ignore their own feelings and let others influence them too much, constantly molding and reshaping themselves to other people's wants and needs, like the shape-shifter character on the television show Deep Space Nine. Or they decide to pretend their family didn't influence them at all. Since adults learned these coping mechanisms as young children, they are not aware of them--they are just unconscious reactions.

The Introvert Advantage

If you haven't noticed by now, I'm more than a bit of an introvert. Actually, the test conveniently located in that book called me "pretty darn introverted." Of course, it only provided three options--I was deep within the highest. I will not typically speak in class unless my best and longest friend has the same class with me. I could be doing the same exact thing as you, watching the same show on television, but I will want to be in a separate room. If someone enters the room in which I am resting or doing something I will likely leave in a few moments. The list goes on. And, yes, I consider simply being around people in school a draining social activity.

This friend of mine, though, asked me recently if I ever feel inadequate. Well, I fell into the second group the excerpt mentioned. I do not like to think that my family shaped me. In fact, I hold a great deal of hatred for most members of my family. However, they still make me feel horribly less than perfect on a day to day basis.

My father will not rip a book out of my hands, but I am often yelled at for how often I enjoy the seclusion of my room. In fact, I am accused of many things. My staying hidden away is suspicious activity, bad, incorrigible--what could possibly be going through my mind? Well, I certainly don't want to know what's going through his.

Also apparently tied to my being an introvert is how slowly I like to undertake things. I will teach myself something--such as juggling, but I do it very slowly. I procrastinate inbetween feats and I have to work up both the energy and the courage to continue. It's far worse with cooking as I've injured myself quite a few times. My father does not understand this. He complains, scolds, and yells at me for not knowing how to make something complicated enough to suit him.

Of course, I know I am not the first to feel such. There's mention in a book as introverts are such predictable creatures. And I know that this is hardly the only way to feel less than adequate. It's not the most pleasant subject to think about, but what bothers you? What makes you feel less than human? And how do you beat it?