So, I get into this funk, I guess, whenever I do things like listen to Sum41 or read e. e. cummings, where I want to stop everything and never ever start again, this funk where I don't want to do anything else but listen to Sum41 or read e. e. cummings.
And it's seriously a cycle, because once it starts, total apathy sets in.
Like, I'll be in the middle washing dishes or studying or something, and there will be music playing and Screaming Bloody Murder will come on - and then suddenly, I feel this compulsive urge to drop everything and listen to Sum41. It's almost instant. Everything else will cease to matter except for Sum41.
It's kind of the same thing with e. e. cummings. I'll be in french, and then suddenly everything will make way too much sense and I just want to sit in my room and do nothing but read e. e. cummings and William Carlos Williams and marvel at how something so simple and scatterbrained can be so beautifully thought provoking.
I took the ACT today. It ended at one, and literally all I've been doing since I got home is reading poetry. Lots of e. e. cummings. Lots of WCW. A little Langston Hughes. A pinch of Dickinson.
There was some Fitzgerald thrown in there too, but then he's not a poet.
It's 5:00 now, and I seriously have no desire to move off this couch.
I swear to God, the only reason I might ever get off this couch is to go to Barnes and Noble, just to go get more e. e. cummings.
You can never have too much e. e. cummings. I think the saddest part is that, unfortunately, e. e. cummings is not a renewable resource, so one day I will have read all of his works, and then there will be nothing new. But the equally beautiful part is that - since it's e. e. cummings - nothing ever loses its appeal. It's all so delightful.
This is going to turn into another one of those weekend nights where I do nothing but read classic literature, I can just feel it. And it's prom, too. If this was a year ahead from today, this would be incredibly, incredibly tragic.
So, seriously - if wasting weekends was an enterprise, I would be friggin Andrew Carnegie.
And see, this analogy is made all the more legitimate because, as I'm sure Carnegie enjoyed being a fabulous steel tycoon, I happen to immensely enjoy my empty Saturday nights.
Like, tonight for instance. I'm with Eddie, stuck keeping an eye on Jake and his friend. So no plans for me. I've resolved to spend this evening reading, drinking ice water, and listening to Fred Astaire while completely beating The Great Gatsby Game, and it's going to be delightful.
For the record, I've been trying to beat The Great Gatsby Game for the past 25 minutes, and it's really not going too well. Actually, it's pretty sad. I can't beat level two. I can get very, very close - but then I die once the glasses come, and that's that.
There are a couple things I don't understand about the Great Gatsby Game, to be honest. Like, say, when Nick Carraway went from being a mild-mannered gentleman to a cap-wielding crusader, but hey. We're all entitled to our creative liberties.
Truthfully, I don't even fully understand what the glasses that shoot laser beams have to do with Gatsby at all, but oh well. They keep killing me, and it sucks. Something must be done.
Gatsby himself also disappears at some point. This is right after we see him staring wistfully off into the distance at Daisy's little green light - the whole screen flashes white after level one, and then he's gone.
Funny. I don't remember that part.
I have this theory that maybe the glasses kidnapped Gatsby, and I'm on a mission to go save him now, while running and shooting flappers and butlers with my hat. That's how you defend yourself in this game, by throwing your hat. It works kind of like a boomerang - you see a flapper charging at you, and BAM! You throw your hat, and it hits her, and she bounces up in the air and flails her arms and then falls through the floor and off the screen. Then the hat magically comes back to you. This is pretty neat, because you can jump around and make your hat go in little squiggles just by moving. In theory, I should be able to use this to my advantage to completely dominate and get all the coins and rescue Gatsby. In theory, this should all work, and I'd be able to go save him in two minutes flat. Because, between you and me - I'm pretty sure that flash of light was no coincidence, and that something kidnapped Gatsby. That's my guess.
See, I have no proof that this theory is true though, because I can't seem to kill the goddamn glasses.
For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, live a little. I've provided a link.
I promise I'd be spending my night at least a little more productively, but then it's F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have a slightly major hero-worship-adoration of Fitzgerald; it's a full on idolization. I want to write books like his one day.
I wish he wasn't dead, so I could write him a letter. I'd very much like to write him a letter. I think I'd very much more like to get one back, and I'd like to drink tea and read that letter out loud and then die inside of utter happiness and float away on a fluffy little cumulonimbus cloud over the sea.
I'd also like to live that Midnight in Paris movie - you know, the one with Owen Wilson? Where he's like, this hopeless romantic, and he travels back in time to 1920's Paris and meets Picasso and eats dinner with Hemingway and then goes to a party with him and the Fitzgeralds and they all dance to Cole Porter - live? Yeah, that would be pretty much perfect. I mean, Cole Porter, and Fitzgerald? Those are two of my favorite dead artist guys right there, and I'm pretty fond of Hemingway as well. And Picasso too. Throw in Fred Astaire and Vonnegut, and I'm set.
Wouldn't that be nice.
There's a jar of Nutella in the cabinet. It's been there for a little over a week, and it's already over half empty. This would be totally normal in the average household, except I know for a fact that only one person has been eating this Nutella. That one person, being me. I know this because - being the sneaky/maybe a little chocolate selfish person that we all know I am - I cleverly hid the Nutella. On a shelf up high. Behind all the much larger peanut butter jars, where only the most dedicated Nutella-hunter would be able to find it.
The fact that I've singlehandedly consumed over a half a jar of Nutella all by my lonesome somewhat frightens me. I'm really not sure what angle to take on this subject.
I also have no idea what to do with my day today.
Like, no idea. At all.
The smart Sydney would study for exams. She'd spend all day with her nose stuck in a textbook, one hand clutching a pencil, the other tapping at a calculator. Except...well, yeah. The smart Sydney also has a counterpart with a life (sort of) and a very low tolerance for imaginary numbers and radical signs. So, clearly, the studying probably isn't going to happen till at least five tonight.
However, being confined to the house, alone save for Eddie, doesn't exactly mean my day doesn't
- finish that jar of Nutella.
- Watch lame Netflix movies and figure out how to work Jake's popcorn machine.
- I could invite people over, except, no, not really, because I kind of already told this one guy I'd be out of town this weekend and that wouldn't be fair, because I suppose I've got to kind of stick to that to look like a half convincing liar....my excuses to avoid him are actually getting really elaborate. He asks me out to lunch like...pretty much weekly, I guess, and it's not that he's not a nice guy - he really is - he's just...very annoying. And, to be honest, I can't even put my finger on what makes him annoying. He just...is. And I feel sort of awful about this, but I really have no desire to spend all that much time with him. So I'm usually "busy" on weekends, and "busy" during lunch...which is partially true. I do have LAAT, but I've never directly told him that, not as much because I'm not proud of being on the Language Arts Academic Team, but more so because I'm afraid he'd join. And, normally, that'd be alright. I have a deep respect for people that enjoy classic literature, especially guys. Except, he reads Jane Austin. Like, regularly. And he's proud of this. And...I dunno, man. I mean, I'm a girl, and I don't even like Jane Austin, so I don't have the slightest idea how he manages. But hey. Not judging. However, he did say he doesn't like Kafka or The Great Gatsby. (I told him this friendship was not going to work out, and he laughed. Clearly, he assumed I was kidding.)
- Decorate the Christmas Tree with our Valentines Day ornaments a month early since I think that's the next upcoming holiday.
- Or, better yet, I could make Martin Luther King Jr. Ornaments.
- Except, that's really creepy and a lot of effort so maybe not.
- I could bake.
- I could paint my nails.
- I could paint Eddie's nails.
- I could sleep.
Wow. Possibilities. Livin' it up over here.
I ordered John Green's new book today on Amazon - totally stoked. You don't even understand. It's called The Fault In Our Stars
, for those of you ignorant people who live under rocks and don't read John Green for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, and it's about a girl dying of cancer. I'm very excited. He's a personal favorite of mine...I've read all his stuff, and own most of it. Highly recommended. I'd give you a book to start with, except it really doesn't matter because they're all amazing. I guess, if I had to pick, I'd tell you to read either Looking For Alaska
or An Abundance of Katherines.
Both are amazing. I actually own two copies of Alaska,
haha. One on my Kindle, and one paperback. And, let me tell you, they're both worth it...
I really didn't mean to buy two copies, to be honest. Except I thought Tessa lost the paperback one, which is partially true. She found it eventually in a box of stuff from her kitchen when she moved, but it was missing for like, 6 months in between there haha. Hence, me rebuying it.
Go check it out right now. Seriously.
I'm just blabbering.
"What Sarah Said"
And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time
As I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409
And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself that I'd already taken too much today
As each descending peak on the LCD took you a little farther away from me
Away from me
Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines in a place where we only say goodbye
It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds
But I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all
And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground as the TV entertained itself
'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news
And then the nurse comes round and everyone will lift their heads
But I'm thinking of what Sarah said that "Love is watching someone die"
So who's going to watch you die?..
- - -
Pretty much the most beautiful thing I've heard in a while. I forgot how seriously talented these guys are.
One day, I'm going to get away.
I'm going to get a new Ipod and fill it to the brink with nothing but Mat Kearney and Snow Patrol, and I'm going to get in a car and drive.
I'd like to think you'd miss me terribly, but maybe not. Maybe I'm vain, and you wouldn't miss me at all. I was told the other day that I'm naive, since I try to see "only the good in people"; I wasn't aware that was a bad thing, but who knows. Everything's been all over the place lately. I can't tell if I'm just tired, or if it's something else. No idea what, but that's beside the point, now isn't it?
There's no more morning practice, and that makes me happy.
Today, we got to use bungee cords, and I swam the wrong way and it dragged me backwards. It was somewhere between terrifying, and apparently hilarious; when I regained myself after much hopeless flailing, I looked up to find Alyssa, Ale, Emily, and even Teri in utter hysterics. This made me laugh too. I laughed so hard I couldn't pull myself up on top of the block and had to use the ladder to get out of the water.
Swimmer talk. No one understood three words of that.
But it amused me. Day = made.
I don't know what to say.
I want to sit in a library and do absolutely nothing.
At exactly two thirty.
I also want to get into a car and drive. Or maybe a long walk would suffice, since I don't really have a car - or even the exact capability to drive, really - which complicates things. I think I just need some time to myself. To think over things.
Sometimes, it feels like people are so opinionated. I try not to base my own opinions off of other people's, but it gets tough when it feels like half the world is trying to cram their opinions down your throat.
When did I become such a Debbie Downer...Christ. Lighten up, Sydney.
My brother writes the cutest stories. I wish I could copy and paste and post them on here, but a tiny part of me suspects he'd probably freak out and break something. He was in a full blown panic attack this morning, since I wasn't out of the shower when he woke up. (It was a late start; I figured I'd sleep in). He screamed and banged on the door until Dad told him to shut up.
Things with Dad were iffy this morning. Actually, they pretty much sucked, but I won't bore you with the details. We could be here for hours, at that rate. I'd run out of Mat Kearney songs.
Jake also freaked out today, because I caught him eating one of the Luna bars I hog and save for before practice. I told him that Luna bars were for women only and reinforced with estrogen, and that if he ate too many, he'd grow breasts and never reach puberty. He didn't believe me; he laughed and said he'd been eating Luna bars for three years, and, look - no boobs. I told him the Luna bars were keeping his body from maturing, but he protested. Apparently, he has a pimple. Well then. I asked him why his voice hadn't started to change. He faltered. Tried to cover it up with some macho-talk about situps and his apparent two-pack abs. I told him he had to stop eating my Luna bars, or he would never mature, turn into a woman, and remain a soprano forever.
The was probably pretty awful of me, wasn't it?
But either way, his stories are very cute. Could use a little help in the grammar sense, but adorable all the same.
Tomorrow, I think I will straighten my hair.
That sounds nice.
I'd like to think I'm a mess you'd wear with pride
Like some empty dress on the bed you've laid out for tonight.
Maybe I'll tell you sometime.
And you were right.
You were right.
Outside by your doorstep,
In a worn out suit and tie,
For you to come down,
Where you'll find me,
Where we'll shine.
Homecoming needs a post, but then, Homecoming posts are tricky, because wording is never easy for things like this. We could talk about dresses or hair or nails. We could talk about blue and black bows, or Haley and Taylor doing my hair and makeup in thirty minutes total like professionals; or we could talk about swim meets and doing my nails on deck with Lyssa and Bridget (who didn't completely put the cover back on the acetone. Thanks). We could talk about the 80's and glowing beads. We could talk about awkward people who match when they shouldn't and say sweet things when they, again, shouldn't; we could talk about other sweet people who pull off black ties nicely and give you butterflies. We could talk chicken parmesan; we could talk webcams. Heels that hurt; glitter and low lights and dancing.
We could talk about a lot, really.
But that's Homecoming for you, isn't it?
When the ground gives way, then your world collapses.
Maybe you just need to have faith.
Maybe if life was just one giant Gray's Anatomy voiceover, the world would be a better place. We could all walk dramatically through empty hallways with stern gazes and perfectly curled hair, and no one in the world would criticize us or give us shit about anything, because we'd be doctors, man - dramatic, TV show doctors, complete with sarcasm and deep thoughts to inspire and title blog entries after.
But then again, we'd also be cutting people open on a daily basis, and that's not exactly one of my strengths in life. I'd make an awful doctor. I struggle a bit with the needles thing. Doesn't sit well with me. It kind of brings on a minor panic attack - sort of like when I hear things that sound like my alarm clock in Walmart. Scary stuff.
That's why we stick with Psych.
Not too many needles or alarm clocks in those shows.
You really gotta play it safe with television these days.
So - question? How do they do it. Like, really. These doctors - they're standing there, complaining and arguing and just screaming at each other, and yet they still manage to calmly slice these people open, and preform all these complex operations...is that...? No. Please tell me real surgeons don't do this. That's so stressful. Way too much multitasking. If I was that patient, I would so not be okay with that. However, I'd also be knocked out with all sorts of lovely sleepy-drugs (and yes, that is a medical term), so maybe, i wouldn't even know.
Actually, no maybe. I'd be asleep.
I think I say really, really stupid things when I'm tired. Just warning you.
Because, you know. It's not like you've noticed.
OH NO!!! ALEX!!! WAKE UP!!
Oh, the drama. Gray's Anatomy is too intense for me. Good night.
Today, you all should know, happens to be the wonderful birthday of my dearest friend Miss Jessica, and so I hope you all wished her a happy happy birthday at least seven times, and baked her a lovely pineapple upside down cake, complete with fluffy vanilla frosting, a spoonful of sugar, and rainbow sprinkles on top. Extra-credit for those of you who baked it in an Easy Bake oven. If not, I will have to deem you inconsiderate and therefore, judge you quite harshly.
Okay, so maybe I slacked off a bit on the cake thing, but you know. I had the seven million birthday wishes down.
Happy birthday, Jess. :) <3
What's new in my life? Well, let's think. My life, folks, isn't exactly prime writing material at the moment, seeing as it consists primarily of three things: school, swim, and AP US homework. And, of course, the scattered Psych episode here and there if I can find the time.
School is, you know, school. And really, if there wasn't the "social" aspect of school, I really don't think I'd enjoy it too much. Pretty sure that goes for any high school kid, but it's worth stating, if not for any other reason than to make clear the point that classes this year kind of...suck. A little. Well, okay. They don't suck, really, not much - I mean, I'm okay with AP US and language and even lunch, and I can live through gym, but other wise? Ahhhh I dunno, man. I'm looking forward to next semester, let's just say that.
But you didn't come here to listen to me complain, did you?
Actually, I'm supposed to try to stop doing that. Rhonda Byrne says that's not healthy. That is not letting the joy be with you.
But, you know, I like social school and best friends with birthdays and italian boys. So it's all good.
I actually really like my AP US class...it's nice, because it's really moving at a decent pace. The textbook is written at a college level - so, call me a nerd, but the hour and a half of nightly reading and notes is actually bearable. To be honest, I find it interesting. So shoot me.
This homework, though? It's only issue - time. Consuming. Oh my word. I don't mind, but...you know. I said earlier that my life consisted of school, swim, and AP US? Wasn't kidding. I wake up. I swim. I go to class. I swim. I do AP US. Then I sleep.
Bay Port meet tomorrow, by the way. Let's all smile, and pretend we're totally going to win this. Optimism, people!
I think I just said I'd stop complaining, and I'm pretty sure about 90% of that paragraph consisted of complaining. Even the sarcastic optimism sentance there. Okay. Fail. Just a bit.
Since I can't think of much else to say at the moment, here's a little random piece of sunshine to complete this whole entry, and absolutely make your day. If you haven't seen this commercial, you haven't lived.
Gets me every time.
So for those of you terribly ignorant people who don't know, yesterday, the Honda Civic tour arrived in Milwaukee. And, for those of you very-terribly ignorant people, Blink-182 and My Chemical Romance were headlining. And, for those of you who live under a rock, I WAS THERE.
Now, I would start completely spazzing out right here and now, but you see, we have a problem. If there's one thing my blog is about, it's neat, orderly appearance (right. let's go with that). Seeing as this is clearly a really big deal (and I can sometimes be a tab bit obsessive, sometimes), this is going to be a pretty long post. With a lot of scrolling down. Which does not make for neat and orderly appearance. Oh no! Dillema! But, never fear - God made cuts for a reason, so we'll just have to put in one of those.
Cuts are magical things. You click on the little blue parenthasis, right? And then - BAM! - it's like you're in another world. More text. OHMYGODMAGIC.
But real quick - a warning? Spell check is not working on here. For some reason. I don't think you realize how big of a problem this is.
Mohawks are the new shirt and tie. ( T-O-M - TOM! - that's my name, and this is how I get D-O-W-N DOWWWWWN.Collapse )Pretty much, this is one night we won't be forgetting any time soon.
I made a new friend today. His name is Wally - actually, I named him, because he didn't have a name when we first met, bless his heart. No parents either, poor guy. He was born in a factory. In truth, he wasn't even born at all; he was assembled...which is, in a way, even more harsh. That's why I took pity on Wally, and named him.
You see, Wally is a lawnmower. A very lonely red lawnmower, that kind of looks like a cross between the Pixar guy and a tricycle (except with four wheels). I'm pretty sure Wally is older than I am, which explains a lot if you ever have the great fortune of meeting him face to face.
The details about Wally? As I said - he's small, red, and old. Really old. As in, about 20 years old, give or take. He lives at The Cottage, in the garage. To start him up, you pull a little string attatched to the motor three times (kind of like the ones on those old boats in horror movies, the ones that won't start in time whenever people try to escape in them), and a cloud of smoke puffs out. Then, Wally rumbles to life, and you know you're good to go. He's very loud. The seat wobbles. And the handles you steer with creak whenever you
try to make sharp turns.
It was my job to mow the ditch...and in truth, I really don't know why we have a ditch in front of The Cottage. I'm not sure if they put that there on purpose or if for some reason, there's just naturally a giant gap in the ground between the road and the first few trees, but whatever. I was told to mow it, and so mow it I did.
Dude, I had this down to a science. I would go in a straight line along the ditch - overlapping slightly, as is custom when mowing lawns - and then I'd turn at each end. Except, the thing about Wally? He makes really, really wide turns. As in, so wide it leaves a giant teardrop of long grass behind that is next to impossible to get at. And, you know - this was okay by the side of the ditch that lead to the road, because no one really cares if I drive on the blacktop with my lawnmower to correct my uber wide turns. But on the side that lead to our neighbors' yard? Yeah, that was a problem. I kept making these super wide turns, and cutting random lines across their neatly manicured lawn.
So, being the kind person that I am, I ended up mowing half their ditch for them in an effort to hide this.
Pretty much, I was terrified the whole time that one of them was going to come out and see me, and be like "omg wtf who is this monster of a human being slowly massacreing our beautifully cut ditch that we slaved hours on last weekend to achieve utter grass perfection i hate them".
I almost tipped over a couple of times trying not to make these wide turns, and once, I nearly rolled down a hill. Apparently, at gear 2, Wally simply does not have the horsepower to mow uphill in vertical lines to get behind trees.
I learned you have to take these hills at a slant, and then we make it up just fine. A little tippy, but fine. However, from this experience, I also learned that I must have had Wally's blades set a bit lower than the ones on my dad's mower, because when I drove across what he had already cut to get a patch behind a tree that he missed, I ended up cutting a line of super short grass right across the middle of grandpa's lawn.
And then i tried to double back, and turned that line into a circle.
I stuck with the ditch after that.
So, that's what I did today.