Chloe’s Weblog

Written as a children’s picture book. Each paragraph is where I imagine another page would start.

Wrapping paper littered the floor, and cake crumbs lined the edges of the table, but Jeremy knew his birthday party wasn’t over yet. Every year, his Uncle came to visit. He always arrived after all of the other guests had gone home. The last guest had left twenty minutes ago, and Jeremy was now watching the clock with anticipation.

It took Jeremy a full minute to calculate the time on the clock, as he was only five years old. It always bothered him that by the time he figured out exactly what time it is, or rather was, it was always another minute past. Just as Jeremy finished his latest calculation (seven, twenty-seven), he heard the door click open behind him. Out of the swirling greys of the rainstorm his Uncle appeared.

He slid off his pale rain jacket as Jeremy ran to hug him around the knees. His Uncle smiled silently and patted Jeremy on the head. Jeremy pulled at his hand and began to tell him all about the toys he’d received.

His Uncle smiled and nodded as Jeremy babbled on. Eventually his attention was directed to the large black leather case his Uncle was holding. When he asked about it, his Uncle merely smiled and pulled out a beautiful acoustic guitar. It was old and used, with a few scuffs and dents, but it was sparkling clean and trimmed especially for the occasion. Jeremy had never seen anything like it.

His Uncle held the guitar across his lap and began to hum to himself.  Despite his timid personality, his fingers plucked at the strings boldly. The antique beauty sang a delicate melody.

Jeremy couldn’t take his eyes off the source of the beautiful song. When his Uncle was finished, he let Jeremy try. He stroked his small fingers down the long red wood of the neck, and traced the soundhole gently. But when he tried to play it, he couldn’t make any music come out. His tiny fingers could hardly make any noise at all, and the rough strings tore at his delicate skin. “Why don’t you keep it?” His Uncle asked. “If you practice, someday you’ll be able to play it like a master.”

Jeremy was thrilled. He insisted that his uncle start to teach him to play it right away. But his uncle was already putting on his coat. “I really have to be going, ” he said, “The next time I see you, though, I want you to play this for me.” He handed Jeremy a beginner’s guitar lesson book and pointed to one of the songs in it. He told him his mother would be able to help him when he needed it. She smiled at her Brother with a question in her eyes. Jeremy promised he would learn to play it perfectly before he came back, and his Uncle smiled with a look in his eyes that Jeremy didn’t notice and buttoned his jacket and left.

At Jeremy’s next birthday, his Uncle returned. As soon as Jeremy noticed his arrival he ran to get his guitar, leaving all of his other gifts behind. He pulled his Uncle by the hand as he struggled to take off his coat, and led him to the living room sofa. Jeremy dragged a kitchen chair into the middle of the room and prepared himself to play the song his Uncle had asked him to a year before.

He played slowly, picking at only one string at a time and changing his fingering carefully. He never looked up; he seemed to be glaring down at the strings, as if reminding them to play the song correctly. He played smoothly; he’d practiced this song every day for the past month, but there was one note where he hesitated. He stuck his tongue out as he tried to remember what came next. It didn’t take him long to remember, and he finished the short song with a short bow. Nearly perfect.

His Uncle applauded. “Very nice,” he said. “But make sure you learn that note in the middle there. It’s an important note.” Jeremy nodded. “After that,” Jeremy asked, “Will I be a master?” His Uncle knew he meant  when he learned that last note. He smiled with that same look in his eyes. This time Jeremy noticed, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. “Not quite,” he said. “After you learn that note, will you learn to play this for me?” His Uncle handed him a new book and pointed out a new song. Jeremy looked up at his Uncle and nodded. Soon his Uncle was gone again.

Jeremy’s Uncle returned again the same time the next year. Jeremy smiled at him as he unbuttoned his coat and went straight to his room to get his guitar. He set up in the living room the same way he had the year before and waited for his Uncle to get comfortable.

This year the song consisted of a few simple chords. Jeremy played it proudly, though he still bent his head toward the strings. He was seven now, and he felt he was ready for something more.  He could play every chord; he’d been practicing for three months (He skipped a few of the earlier songs in the book to give him a little extra time for this special song). Still, though, there was one chord  he couldn’t quite remember. He hesitated for only a moment, and then guessed. The mistake was barely noticeable when evaluating the song as a whole. He smiled triumphantly as he finished the last note and his one member audience began to applaud. Nearly perfect.

His Uncle smiled and reminded him of the chord he missed, saying it was important that he practice that shift. Jeremy blushed and said it was “just so hard,” but promised he would get it. His Uncle gave him another book, and picked out another song. Jeremy nodded, but his thoughts were spinning dizzily with questions. As his Uncle stepped out the door again, he waved goodbye one last time and Jeremy noticed that same look in his eye that made him wonder.

Year after year his Uncle arrived late on Jeremy’s birthday. Year after year he slid off the same coat while Jeremy fetched his guitar. Year after year he listened intently and year after year he pointed out his mistakes. One year it was hesitating between chords. Then, it was being sure to get a clean song. Then it was reminding him not to look at his fingers.

At Jeremy’s twelfth birthday party, his headful of building questions finally overflowed. “I never will be a master, will I? Every year, I try so hard, but I’m just never good enough. There’s always something I do wrong.”

His Uncle gave his same curioius smile. This only made Jeremy more upset. Did his failure amuse him? His Uncle put his arm around him and said simply, “Your songs will never be perfect.” Jeremy found no comfort with his and waited for his Uncle to say more. Eventually he said, “Every year, you do try hard, and you do make mistakes, but you also improve. When you were six and you were playing your first song, I didn’t bother to mention anything to you about looking at your audience or being careful not to hesitate. Back then, it was enough for you to remember all the notes. Now you’re playing like a pro. You’re not quite a master, but I’m sure you’re the best guitar player at your school. Even better than the older kids. I only mention your mistakes so you can improve. If you were always satisfied with simply playing all the notes right, how would you ever become a master? The secret is, the closer you come to becoming a master, the more you notice your little mistakes. That’s how you know you’re getting there.”

Jeremy thought about it. He remembered just starting out, trying to press the strings down hard enough. He had been playing for seven years now. He was the best guitar player in his school, and probably even in the neighborhood. His Uncle was right.

As his Uncle pulled his coat sleeve back into place, he smiled down at Jeremy, but something about his smile was different this year. Jeremy wasn’t sure why. It didn’t look different. But the mysterious twinkle in his eye was gone. Instead there was simply a wisdom reflecting in the greys of his eyes. That was the difference. Now Jeremy shared the knowldege of the matser’s secret.

The trees buzz by becoming a thick green line dividing earth and sky. The young man watches. He wears a tan jacket and a fedora hat. His eyes drift upward from trees to sky. What a contrast. The sky moves slowly, clouds swirling and morphing into new shapes. The train begins to slow and the trees become individual points of green once again. The man looks around aimlessly, almost in a trance, as the other passengers gather their belongings and the conductor announces the stop. The doors open to St. Albans, a small town in Vermont. The man peers out. The cold breeze rushes at him, and he pulls his tan jacket tighter around his neck. He takes a deep breath through his mouth and the cold air feels like knives going down. But he doesn’t really mind. He’s from a suburb near New Orleans, and if the air here burns your throat then he’ll let it. If that’s Vermont. He stumbles out the door and to a coffe shop up the road to get his first cup of coffee in Vermont.

About fifteen minutes later while again boarding the train, he notices a girl to his left, about seventeen, he guesses. Mascara stains her cheeks. She clings to a small tote, holding it tight into her chest. She walks straight to the end of the train, and outside on to the ledge on the back of the caboose. As the wheels begin to turn, she watches the station become farther and farther away. The movement of the train leaves her tears flying behind her, sparklinas they float to the ground far behind, a path between her and where she wishes she still was.

The man in the fedora sits back into his seat and watches the sky again. The sun was just beginning to set. He pulls out a book and begins to read, every once in a while glancing back at the sky with a smile.

In the seat across from him sit a little girl and her father. The father looks content and the girl is grinning ear to ear. “Where are we going, Daddy? Tell me!” The father smiles and shakes his head saying it is a surprise. The girl presses her cheek against her window trying to peer ahead to the tip of the train as if the answer would be just ahead of them.

A man in a suit sat in the row ahead of them. He had a briefcase at his side and a handful of bills and a calculator in his arms. He read over the bills and punched numbers again and again all the while looking at the setting sun or his watch and sighing.

By now the man in the fedora is laying back with his eyes closed, the same smile on his face. The train begins to slow and the conductor announces that they would be a little late on reaching their destination because of a problem with the tracks.

The man with the briefcase sighs again, his hand clenched in a fist. The little girl pouts and asks, “Daddy, why did we stop?” The girl in back is leaning over the railing, still crying. The man in the fedora is asleep, still smiling.

I wasted plenty of time last spring trying to learn how to accurately pretend to be British. I watched movies with British accents (and some stupid you tube videos and plenty of House special features), I tried to get some friends to practice with me (though I should probably emphasize the word “tried” in that sentence), and looked up British slang on the internet (and consequently found a half a million ways to cuss in Britain). I was determined, but my British accent didn’t get any better, although I did start calling trucks lorries for a while.

My goal was to learn how to convincingly fake a British accent by the time I left for church camp. I knew I wasn’t going to know anyone there except for my one best friend, and I figured it’d make things a little more interesting. But my mom thought it was quite frankly a stupid idea.

“What if you meet someone?” She’d say. I had met a boy when I went to camp the summer before sophomore year, and we kept in touch for a few months afterwards. I had a little bit of a crush on him, but when I started to get over him, I realized he had no intentions of getting over me. It got to be a little overwhelming, so I stopped returning phone calls. It wasn’t something I was proud of. And for that reason, my mom liked to tease me about it. This year, I was determined not to meet  anyone. My mom only laughed at that.

The week before camp though, I still couldn’t feign a British background adequately. In fact, my British accent sucked. I wasn’t giving up though. I continued to practice even in the car on the way to camp. But in my excitement and without even realizing it, I spoke my first word at camp in my natural American accent. After that I knew it was too late. I gave up on the prank.

And thank goodness for that. I possibly made more friends at camp that year than I had at school at the time. I still keep in touch with a few of them. Since then, we’ve even flown back and forth across states to visit each other during breaks from school. And then my mom pointed it out. “Good thing you didn’t do the British accent thing. It would have been hard to do keep it up all this time,” she teased. But she was right. She’s always right.

Her wild hair clung to the back of the love seat, but her body lay relaxed across the width of the cushion. She stared down the intimidating blank page of graph paper (a page in her green notebook, her favorite place for writing, though she knew the graph paper was to be saved for math class), but her tired eyes were starting to betray her. 9:54… no ideas. 9:59, had it only been five minutes? And Daylight Savings required her to “spring forward” in the morning. It was only an optimistic way of saying she was losing yet another hour of sleep.

Her mind wandered to thoughts of old children’s movies she still adored, the phone that sat beside her that she wished would ring… and without warning (as is the way with most thoughts) the line “visions of sugar plums danced in their heads” seemed to dance right through hers itself, leading a chain of more disjointed visions dancing by, including one of Christopher Robin and his quest for the North Pole, all concluding with a vague thought that she was still no more than a child. Somewhere intertwined were the topics that seemed always to be in the back of her mind: the trip to Utah in November, the last church dance… But her memories were specific: Walking outside with the scent of snow still on the breeze in the middle of the night without any shoes on. And then hopping around in one of Erick’s (both of her feet fit almost comfortably in one of his shoes) because they’d decided to stand out in the cold for a half hour in stead of just the five minutes she’d predicted (Wasn’t that always the way things seemed to go for her now?). Then the role play with Brandon, Hil, Tyler, and Trent. Brandon was a dinosaur, Tyler was an angry middle aged man, Trent unofficially a kickboxer, she and Hil crazy women drivers. The batch of self proclaimed roles had created the most hilarious adlibbed skit in history, and all in the middle of the dance floor. And then today, a little boy in red and gold pajama pants without a shirt on breaking out his kung fu moves on a toy shopping cart (the size for a three year old play-mother and her baby doll daughter) in the middle of the church building she’d been cleaning. And the friend of hers who had pointed the adorable little boy out. But why should that friend cross her mind? He wasn’t significant to the memory, was he? She rejected that thought and turned to the memory of her adventure to Krispy Kreme that morning, in which she had also been wearing pj pants, though not red and gold. And again her thoughts turned to the “insignificant” friend, and what he would have said if he’d seen her at Krispy Kreme in her pj pants. It made her want to smile, but again she rejected the thought. Almost.

She subconciously tried to touch the back of her pen to her lips in thought, but in the confusion of some prior twirling of the pen in her hands, she accidentally turned the pen with the wrong end up and startled herself by marking her upper lip. She sighed and checked her reflection in the mirror. The mark was obvious to her, but she figured it could pass as one of the thousand freckles that littered her face, and lay (she thought that might be the wrong word, but she liked the sound of it best) back into her armchair built for two. She glanced back at the phone lying next to her. This pseudo pair didn’t do the seat justice. She lay across the cushions again, unafraid of feet on furniture, trying to fill the space a little more comfortably.

She noticed a small tan stain near the knee of her jeans. She didn’t know what had caused it, but it bothered her. She wore a hair tie on her right wrist, the only place she wouldn’t lose it (and briefly contemplated the spelling of wrist, and how related the choice of “wr” over “r” was to the choice of “wh” versus “w”). Her left was shackled by a small blue elastic. She’d been its captive since July. Another memory. Though the bondage sometimes grew tiring, a little frustrating, a little confusing (and this was now becoming one of those times), it was not quite painful. She had not desire to be released, and though the elastic was old and ugly now she couldn’t imagine taking it off, not even for Prom.

Prom. And now she was day dreaming. But she tried not to let those thoughts take root too deep. They often led only to more confusion. She’d let a few roam a little too freely recently and now had difficulty deciphering between reality and her imagination whenever she thought of – well, the reason the phone sat by her side. But she wouldn’t dare say a name. She wouldn’t admit to it, though now she was sure there would be plenty of speculation if anyone knew these thoughts, and most of those speculations would be wrong. She knew because now even she was speculating. The owner of the name she wouldn’t say wasn’t the same “insignificant” friend she’d been thinking of earlier. But should he be? Oh, stupid Prom. Stupid day dreams and questions and confusions. So many more important and more interesting and more pleasant thoughts that could be filling her head, though few as enticing.

Her back began to itch and as she stretched to reach it she accidentally slid her pen down her leg leaving a small (but more noticeable than her lip’s had been) mark next to the first stain on her knee. She cursed herself for being so clumsy, but absentmindedly scratched her shoulder immediately after leaving another mark on the cover of the sofa. She cursed herself again, this time adding a line wondering why she was so itchy.

She was then reminded of favorite books and old friends and more memories and day dreams and soon she was swimming in them (just then adding a quote from It’s a Wonderful Life about swimming to the chain of connecting thoughts, this leading to another memory of a good friend). So many memories and quotes and stories and yet no muse. Nothing worth writing. Nothing to build a coherent paragraph with. Just a sea of memories and dreams she’d die to drown in (She dismissed the contradiction with a smile.). Some of the smaller thoughts pulled themselves together into thin threads, where one thought connected to another. Some seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Some hid, sometimes for moments, sometimes for hours at a time, but always returned and skipped mischievously through her mind until they grew tired and returned to their hiding places. And still there were some barely realized, but that must have been there all along, the foundation, the ones she knew must have began somewhere, but that she couldn’t imagine ever being without. But as she sat there dreaming, and wishing, thinking, remembering (Now a flash of Dr. Seuss (the bee watcher watcher, and “Do you know how lucky you are?”), now her brother’s green eggs and ham, now her sister’s silly, “Barbeque sauce, I say, I say” at the dinner table) she accidentally marked her arm by the same stupid mistake she’d fallen for so many times before. And suddenly there was a spark, and she began to write.

Computer literacy is definitely essential in communicating in the world today. The internet is a much more convenient means of communication than most traditional methods. Email replaces snail mail, powerpoint presentations replace many visual aids that may be heavy or awkward to transport. Webcams and blogs have even made traditional meetings a thing of the past. A business can have employees all over the world who network rather than one office centered in one area. People can run businesses from home rather than deal with a long commute everyday. But in order for any of these conveniences to happen, one must be computer literate. Otherwise these “conveniences” quickly become frustrations. And besides that, a man who is computer literate will be more desirable than one who is not. He will be better at communicating with others who turn to these conveniences. And technology will only move forward. If you can’t keep up, you’re falling farther behind. Thus computer literacy is most definitely a gateway to power.

However, I hate to say verbal literacy is becoming a thing of the past. Though it may not be the most practical means of communication there’s still something more personal about receiving a letter the old fashioned way than receiving an email. It takes more time and effort to write, and so you’ll almost always get a more meaningful message out of it. Besides that, it’s written in that person’s own handwriting. You can tell so much more about how someone is feeling when you can see the way there hand was moving across the paper, than when you read typed characters on a screen. More so, I think the traditional speech is something that can never be replaced. No form of communication can replace that of the tongue. I doubt technology will ever be able to portray the amount of emotion a traditional speech with a real voice and facial expressions and hand gestures has. Even as technology progresses, it can do nothing to replace this, only to enhance it. And if reading books has become nothing more than a leisure activity for the elite, so be it, but let it at least stay at that. If the old fashioned forms of communication are not realistic, at least let them be an artistic alternative.

I have to admit to some jealousy toward my parents and grandparents’ generations. I’ve always loved the fashions and music and traditions of the past. My favorite is probably the 1940’s. But the fashions and the music of today, well, to be honest, some of them suck, but for the most part, they aren’t so bad. So that jealousy subsides a little. But when I remember my grandma’s stories of the old barn transforming into
a crowded dance floor of couples swing dancing to a live jazz band
every Saturday night I can’t help but envy. No one dances like that anymore! Hardly anyone dances at all! Besides Homecoming and Prom, the school hardly holds any dances, and when they do, hardly anyone comes. And then most of the people who do come don’t dance! And can you even call what everyone else is doing dancing? I’ve heard some people call “dancing” today “hugging put to music” and “sex with your clothes on.” Anyone who’s seen a clip of a dance in the 1940’s knows the dancing then and “dancing” now are not nearly the same. Dancing back then was a way to met new people, and a way to get exercise, a simple, safe, inexpensive way to have fun. What is it now?

But who’s fault is it? How many times have we heard some one say, “I don’t know how to dance” and laughed? But maybe it’s true. Even I, who would love to really dance, barely know the waltz. That used to be common knowledge. In the 1940’s most everyone at a dance knew the jitterbug and the Charleston, too. Back in the days of Jane Austen, everyone who wanted to attend a ball was expected to know a series of complicated line dances, and be able to recognize by the song which of the dances it was. But someone must have taught them. Who’s teaching the dancing now?

This is just one example of how our world is changing. I remember playing cops and robbers outside as the sun was setting when I was little. But it was a rare occurence. And it seems to get rarer still. Now we have playstations and wiis to keep us busy. I remember playing with the girls my age on my block. Thank goodness my little sisters still do that. But I know a lot of people who don’t. I know plenty of families who don’t even know the names of their neighbors. How much truth is there to the line from Train’s song, “Calling All Angels,” “children have to play inside so they don’t disappear”? And if anyone brought homemade treats to the new family on the block, would they be afraid to eat them? Most girls don’t know how to sew anymore. Is that unnecessary now, with the maxim of modern American life, “If it’s broken, buy a new one”? And what of family meals? I’m lucky to still have those in my life.

I’m afraid of where we’ll be when I’m a mother trying to raise my own children. How hard will it be to fight for these values by then? Will they be completely forgotten? For now, this is my advice for anyone who wants to keep these values alive. Get out and dance.

Not being able to shop without being asked if you need help finding anything at least fifty times,

Having every hour of your day planned for you,

Trying to avoid paparazzi while you walk your dog,

Having the entire country gossiping about whether you’re pregnant, or you’ve just gained weight,

Finding a poll in a magazine where 70% think someone else looks better than you in your favorite dress,

Finding websites with galleries of your worst pictures,

Finding your bikinied butt on the front cover of a magazine,

Saying something stupid once and offending an entire demographic of people,

Having to have an agent to write out an apology for you,

Hearing radio host scold you for having been in so many bad relationships,

Having to even discuss “taking it all off,”

Trying to shield your first child from the life of flashing lights you got yourself into,

Being sick of the red carpet, but not knowing what you’ll do when you become a has-been.

This is something I’ve thought about a lot recently. It started a few months ago when I saw a friend looking at a photo collage in People magazine titled “They’re People Too.” The collage showed pictures of celebrities performing everyday tasks caught on film. They had captions like, “Jennifer Aniston walks her dog,”and “Brad takes out the trash.” I was shocked. I couldn’t think of a greater contradiction. Yeah, they’re people too, but by the fact that other people are entertained in looking at pictures of them doing the things so boring that we don’t like to do them ourselves, there’s obviously not “just people.” I’ve never liked to follow celebrities’ stories. I honestly don’t care if someone I’ve never met is getting married or breaking up or said something stupid. There are millions of people everyday getting married and breaking up and saying stupid things. But they don’t have to answer to the entire country about them. I heard on the radio on the way to school one day a host talking about Jennifer Aniston and John Mayer breaking up (I hadn’t known they were together). She said something about how Jennifer needed to make up her mind and stop being in so many lousy relationships, or something to that affect. I didn’t listen long. But it struck me. If I’d been in a bunch of bad relationships, I think that’d be enough of a heartbreak for me. I wouldn’t need people who didn’t even know me scolding me about it too. I also heard another host gossiping about whether or not Mrs. Obama is pregnant. They had analyzed the heack out of her dress at the inauguration. I’m surprised people can even be so interested! Honestly, when there are people dying in other countries, how can you read an article about which type of dog the Obama’s are going to get? And don’t you think it would get a little bit annoying for the Obama’s to have to update for the entire country the status of their dog? Celebrities are just people. Too bad no one ever treats them like it.

Note: I was planning on writing some sort of fiction for the rest of my ilearns, but I’m just not in the mood today. And if I’m not in the mood for it anyday, I’ll know it’s not for me.

Something not a lot of people know about me is that I always keep a to-do list. Right now it has about 38 items on it. I say about, because somethings are half done. I keep it in my L2K folder in front of my loose leaf sheets of paper. I always write everything on it in pen. I’ve had this particular list since the beginning of the school year. I started the same list on a different piece of paper half way through last year, but I lost it and had to start over, trying to remember everything I’d written down. It had 25 “to-do’s” on it then.

I know for a lot of people to-do lists are stressful. Just the idea of having 38 items on a to-do list probably scares some people. However, my to-do list isn’t the typical to-do list. If anything, it relieves me of my stress. I am not obligated to get any item done. In fact the opposite. I want to, but generally, I never have to. I know that if I don’t get around to it, it won’t hurt anyone. But I’ll try to get around to it. I should have plenty of time.

But crossing items off my list isn’t the only reward. I’m excited everytime I put an item on my list.

My parents and I were just talking about birthdays. My little sister will be twelve. I said I didn’t like the idea of that, because that means I’ll be not-so-sweet-seventeen. My mom then said, “And I’ll get to be 43!” I laughed and sarcastically commented on how much better that’d be than being 42.

I hope I never lose this copy because I plan to keep it my entire life. Because I’ll never really be able to cross off the first item while I’m alive. That’s why my first item is number 0.

My mom then commented, “Once you get to this age it doesn’t matter. 42, 43, who cares? 40, 50? It’s the same thing. No more milestones for me.” To which my dad answered, “What do you mean? We get to have hernias and high cholestoral.”

That’s why I have my list. Everytime I write something down, I have something to look forward to. Everytime I check something off I know I’m becoming closer to what I want to be. My list makes me unique because it’s a list of everything I care about and who I want to be and what I want to change in myself and in the world. It’s the solution to fitness centers everywhere being packed as January begins and gradually declining in members. Because I can start a new goal anytime, and I never have to feel discouraged for not completing it on time. What does it matter what day it is anyway? The only rule is that being 43 is better than being 42. Because I’m always improving. It doesn’t matter how or when or by how much. And then when I’m old and grey, hopefully I won’t really be old and grey, and I’ll have more to look forward to than just hernias and high cholestoral.

Over winter break I realized how much I dislike school. Well really, it’s not that I dislike school so much as I like not being at school and dislike homework. And I thought, when is the next time I get a break from this. I realized the nearest break was spring, and in between there were lots of weekends. And Spring Break is only a week long. That doesn’t seem like nearly enough time. So now I’m looking forward to winter break, even though I haven’t hardly even been at school yet.

And then I started thinking about my goals. My number one goal for a long time was to get into a good college on a good scholarship. And over winter break I thought to myself, “That’s crazy! What were you thinking when you decided to reward yourself with something you hate? College is school too!” Wow. How stupid. There had to be a little bit more to college that I was forgetting. otherwise, what was I looking forward too? So I thought, “Well, I’ll be living on my own.” That was pretty exciting. I liked to be in charge of what I did. “And I could room with my friends.” Some of my friends who live out of state and I have a plan. Who knows if it will actually happen, but it sounds good. For now anyway. And the plan is that we all get an apartment together and I cook for all of us. And I like to cook. And I miss my friends.

But none of that is the real college in college. College should be for gaining an education. But whenever I imagine myself writing papers about biology or statistics… And then getting a job doing that? That’s where I really wasn’t thinking. I was told to do what I love. I’m pretty sure if I loved to do something, I wouldn’t hate to do it so much.

This winter break I watched a ton of movies. I love movies (or most of them). I’m definitely a movie addict. And I watched my favorite, It’s a Wonderful Life, every weekend. And then I thought again. “That’s what I want. I want to make an amazing movie like that. A movie that becomes a classic. I don’t even care if I don’t make a cent off of it until I’m dead. A lot of the movies now a days really suck. Someone needs to make some non-sucky movies. I don’t care how realistic or unrealistic it is. I want it. I want to make people think about the things that really matter. I want to tell the stories of the people who deserve to have their stories told.” So that’s the new plan. Making a movie earned a spot on my to do list. And if it makes the list, I mean it.