On Luck And CTY

On Luck and CTY

in which I don't write about the end of the year really or how much I miss the seniors and instead ramble about people in English and me and my awesome life

[tl;dr I'm really, really, lucky and haven't really had anything happen in my life, as opposed to a lot of the people at my school and such. But, my life is still pretty seriously defined by cty. This may or may not be a problem.]

No but seriously. I'm not being facetious. Our last assignment in English was to compile a college essay portfolio, comsisting of a few essays written to admission prompts, plus a tree metaphor about ourself and anything else we choose to decorate it with, really. One of the essays was just a broad personal statement, one was on a prompt of our choice, one was in response to "What do you carry?" a la The Things They Carried, and so on. The last thing we had to do is pick one essay from our portfolio to be graded on, polish it, then read it to the class. So here's the thing.

People have some seriously heavy things they're carrying.

Almost everyone's essays are really good. But some of them almost have no option other than being good, because of the stories people have behind them. I already knew the mother of one of my close friends had passed away when she was nine, and I had heard about a couple of other people, but what everyone revealed was astounding. We heard about two parents dying, we heard about the pain of divorce, we learned about a favorite horse being murdered, we heard about living with a father diagnosed as mentally insane, and we heard about rape. We're not even done. People broke down reading their essays, our teacher cried multiple times, and people cried listening to them.

It was amazing to hear because sometimes I just don't realize, at all, how much the people around me have to deal with, every single day. I am honestly blessed (knock on wood). Honestly the only pressure I deal with is that of high expectations and ambitious dreams, but even those are all mine. My parents are more supportive than I could ever imagine, and the expectations I deal with are entirely mine, not theirs or anyone elses. But listening to some of these people's essays I've been forced to think that honestly, what I am is lucky. I don't know that kind of pain. I don't know what it's like to be truly depressed, not just upset. I don't know what it's like to deal with the death of a family member closer than a grandparent. I don't know what it's like to think I'm fat (kind of independent of my weight). I don't know what it's like to hate myself. I don't know what it's like to really, really hate my parents. I don't know what it's like to live paycheck to paycheck. I don't know what it's like to starve. So I wrote my essay on my personal vernacular and how I talk kind of messily and people laughed and it was good an stuff. It's just that I thought, I just don't have that kind of emotional or painful connection to anything. I can't point to what changed me forever. I can't name a day that changed my life.

But then I realized, Oh yes. I can. 08.07.09, the Day the Music Died, actually might be the most defining single day of my life I can remember. Or, if not that day than one within those three weeks. I mean, people get carried away with pctyd and I know that and I know it's seriously time to move on (come on it's been two years), but the thing is, CTY actually was that important of a part of my life. I like to think I'm not as unrealistic as to look back on everything with rosy glasses and assume everything was perfect, because it wasn't. But even raging and crying and about life and Life with a best froommate (friend + roommate. heheh) was fantastic. I can't really talk about how CTY made my life better. Like how it made me confident. How I suddenly got to be proud for loving my country and its history. How discussions became my favorite thing in the world. How I learned how to swear. How I learned that being good at school and being proud of it isn't a bad thing. How I met the most brilliant people I know. How I got good at trench and great at ratscrew. How I met my first boyfriend. How I got to rap like a pro. How I felt mainstream for once in my life. How I lived in a dorm. How I've never associated as much emotion with any song or inanimate object as I do with canon. How all the clearest memory-pictures that I take in my head when I know I need to remember something are all from cty. How I ran faster than I ever had before at the End of the World As We Know it.

So, awesome. I love my life, don't get me wrong. I'll just have to figure out how to define my life by something other than two years of nerd camp. Also on my to-so list is figuring out how I can share my luck and happiness and luck because there are people who deserve it a hell of a lot more than I do.

mystudyroom:

I’m sure most people on Earth are, if God isn’t.

Reblog if you see it.

On Numerical Interpretation

Or, I Desperately Need To Know If and Hope That I Am Not the Only One Who Does This

So, sometimes I get numbers-numbers and clock-numbers messed up. What this means is essentially that sometimes I forget there are numbers between 60 and 100. I don't know if it's because of running and how much of my life is based on specific times, but I really have trouble switching. This sounds confusing, I know. Look at it this way- sometimes, when I'm watching something count up from 0 to a much larger number, I expect the digit in the ones place to turn from a 0 to a 1 as soon as the numbers pass 59. Because 59 is the last number before a new hour/hundred/whatever, right? Turns out no, it doesn't work that way. For another example, I was trying to cut words for a paper that had to be a maximum of 650 words, and I realized I had cut it to 630 words instead because I just knew the max was the number between 700 and 600, and 30 is always halfway for me.

I think this might be a problem.

please tell me this isn't just me/won't be an actual problem ever?

bluecatsredsox:

The Gömböc, a mono-monostatic object that is able to right itself no matter how you place it.  It does not work like a weebl— its weight is evenly distributed.  It is the mathematically-determined precise shape that allows it to always end up in its upright position.

If its main job is to remain rightside up, this thing is the ultimate in form following from function.

(uncredited photo via Wired)

Do want

Super, super badlylike

On Caffeine

I have severely underestimated the value of my caffeine intolerance.

I knew it would come in handy, but still.

Two diet cokes over eight hours should not be enough to keep me up literally all night.

In other news, WHOO SENIORS 2012!!!1!

On Portland

I am back from Portlandia, again.

Two things to know about Portland:

Portland is a beautiful city. Really.

Portland is just about as deathly full of hipsters as you're probably imagining. The only way to tell the artistically impoverished from the actual homeless is their iPhones.

Also, they sell shirts that say "Recycle or I'll kick your ass. Love, Portland." That's a thing.

People also should shut the fuck up about Seattle. We're the city that's too nice for it's own good? Portland cars stop for you when there's no crosswalk. I passed no less than three people on street corners with free hug signs. Everything in Portland that isn't a bar closes at 9. If Portland was an elementary school student it would be that girl who's really nice but not the brightest, with large metal headgear who offers to help the teacher with everything. Detroit would use her as a bankroll.

[Also, I feel a little ridiculous, sitting on tumblr on a mac looking at my cheap wayfarer knockoffs and writing about another one night trip to Portland. PRETENSION YES.]