Strange Letters

You don't know me and I don't know you. I don't know the particulars of the situation or what personal demons have taken hold of you. This lack of knowledge doesn't blunt my anger.

You don't deserve what you've been given. You were the one who brought light to her eyes; I was the one who encouraged her to bask in it. We're both guilty, but I at least acted out of love. Can you say the same?

You don't deserve her. She is kind; she is honest; she is more genuine than anyone you'll meet in this life or the next. Behind the walls she's built, there is vulnerability. You took advantage of that, and I'm disinclined to forgive you.

Second chances are rare. If you want one with me (and why would you, except that knowing you're the object of someone's passionate disgust must rankle), choose your next step carefully. I will not suffer by ensuring that you know exactly what you are. It's a testament to her gentle nature that she'll defend you to me - I do the same for the one who puts light in my eyes. Lovers forgive insults easily; friends are less kind.

Perhaps the particulars would compound my rage; perhaps they would temper it with sadness, or understanding, or regret. But know this, and know it well: I am patient. I am strong. And I defend what matters to me. She matters to me. You, I couldn't care less about.

Hurt her again, and I will end you. If you doubt me, ask what kept ten years worth of bullies at bay. Ask what brought me through suffering and hell. Ask if I can be made to do something against my will. Doubt me then. I dare you.

You don't deserve what you've been given. I understand well enough that shields can become prisons; in the end, it's her decision how to proceed.

She wouldn't have opened to you without a reason. I listened to her grapple with accepting you. I don't know if it's stupidity or arrogance or fear that had you turning her away; I don't really care. You did. In your stupidity or arrogance or fear you struck a blow that will leave a scar.

Fortunately for you, her soul is bright enough to absorb it.
WG

Exes and O's

It's a rather gray day to be thinking about exes and o's.

I suppose I shouldn't get annoyed when comments from an ex-friend or my ex-boyfriend filter through on Facebook, but it does annoy me. Still, these people are X-ed out of my life for a reason. I don't like remembering them, because it forces me to remember thoughts, moods and actions I want to forget. I've always been a forgetter rather than a keeper - it's easier for me to forget than it is to forgive.

As for the o's... I'm missing chocolate cheerios a lot. And we had a flat-bonding experience this morning that involved visiting a sex shop, something most eighteen year olds in the States do on or around their birthday. I think you can all ponder what I meant with my little pun.

WolfGrrl

What About Them?

What about those moments of absolute terror and despair that strike you from nowhere? What about those, huh? I know I'm not the only one that has them. 

When I told my mother that I didn't want to disappoint her and my father by not going to graduate school, I thought I was going to be sick. In the US, school is considered to be of the utmost importance and a good education is seen by many as a gateway to a better life - to the "American Dream." 

Folks, the American Dream has air quotes because it's a myth. It isn't the American Dream we need to be chasing, but our own.

I don't want to continue my formal education. I love to learn, but not when it comes to regimented, assessed and cemented knowledge. I like to learn from people who are passionate about what they're teaching. I like to engage with minds greater than my own. I believe that I learn all the time, whether I'm buying shoes, getting ripped off, or talking through a problem with a friend. I don't think formal education will prevent me from making mistakes: it might, in some strange way, encourage me.

American society has raised its children to be so terrified of failure that we cannot imagine a future that deviates from the most vocally advertised path. So many of my friends are beating themselves bloody trying to 'get ahead' and forge a career that will make their parents, their society, and their culture happy.

Forget them. Make yourself happy.

I suck at it too, you know. I'm completely guilty of telling myself I 'should' be this or I 'should' do that. Now I'm calling bullshit (sorry) on that technique. The rest of the world, while it has its share of societal  and cultural fuckwittage, manages to produce more confident and secure individuals than the US.

Americans, don't give me crap about this; you know it's true. You see it in our economy, our military-industrial complex and our foreign relations. We chase the American Dream to the exclusion of progress, creativity, personal growth and personal happiness. We work too damn hard to be so damn miserable.

I want to be a person that makes other people happy (and makes a decent living). Is that such an impossible dream? SERIOUSLY? I want to watch my kids become happy, well-adjusted and mature individuals with a sense of communitas. Is that such an impossible dream? I want to love my husband, be there for my friends and herd my family together when we scatter.

Pooh Bear is a bear of very little brain, but often there's wisdom in that little brain. What makes his adventures so comforting is that he manages to learn and grow without losing himself. WE DON'T WANT TO LOSE OURSELVES, yet everything we do drives us further and further from who we think we are. A person can only make so many compromises before the deal loses meaning (mixing my metaphors; oops).

Listen to Christopher Robin, who, with the wisdom of childhood and the affection of an honest friend, told Pooh:

You're braver than you believe
Stronger than you seem and
Smarter than you think

So am I. So are you. So are the dreams you nurture in the shadow of the "American Dream."
Chase those dreams, dammit. Life's too short to spend time on cultural fuckwittage.

WolfGrrl

Mmmm... Oops

It's been too long.

I haven't any excuses except the usual: I'm busy with classes and exploring New Zealand.

However, my flatmate and I collaborated to make a very delicious and very New Zealand dinner, so I thought I'd share the recipe with you, readers! It's very easy to make and takes a total of twenty minutes (ten if you're a person who can use a can opener properly).

Recipe for the Preparation of CORN FRITTERS and FRUIT SALAD

Corn Fritters

ingredients: 1 egg, 1 tsp. baking powder, 1 cup plain flour, 1 can (creamed) corn, a pinch of salt and pepper, 1-2 tablespoons of water to thin and some oil for frying.

preparation: in medium bowl mix egg, baking powder, flour and seasonings with water. This should form a thick paste (about the consistency of pancakes, maybe a bit thicker). Add corn and mix well.

In pan on stove heat 1-2 tablespoons vegetable oil (on low or medium heat). Add dropped spoonfuls of batter to oil. The fritters cook depending on size; for silver-dollar fritters wait 1-2 minutes before flipping them. Generally, follow the rules for making thick pancakes. Fritters should be browned on the outside and fluffy on the inside.

Eat with toppings of choice, and feel free to add extras like vegetables, bacon, or other ingredients to the batter!

Fruit Salad

Even special people like me can make fruit salad (excepting the use of a can opener). After mangling your can of peaches/pineapple/pears/whatever open, pour off juice and transfer fruit chunks to bowl. Add chopped banana, apple squares, grapes, and other fresh fruits to taste. Eat messily and with gusto.

Bon appetit, mes amis!
WolfGrrl

The Countdown

It's that time of year, folks. (Yeah, it's the holiday season, but it's also the countdown until study abroad). I know I've been posting a lot about my imminent departure, so if you're bored just skip this post.

Today is the 18th of December, where we wish a very happy birthday to my saintly mother and buy our Christmas tree. Then in another week it's New Years', and I count down four days more until I leave the country.

To sum up: I'm in the US for another eighteen days.

My days have been a bit slow since school finished, but things will zoom by faster than I can keep track. My eighteen days are full of friendly visits, doctor's appointments, packing, tracking, and counting.

It's difficult to imagine leaving my friends for a semester and not being there for the crises, the tears, the laughter and the inside-jokes. It's difficult to imagine leaving them at all, actually. I love them; I'll miss them. But I'll see them in six months. WOW!

To those I didn't get to say goodbye to: I love you guys. I'll post pictures (here and on Facebook) and write letters and Skype. (Oh Skype, the current bane of my existence.)

Today is day eighteen.
WolfGrrl

November Thoughts

There is something in my mind today, rather as there is a taste of winter in the air when I open the window. My dreams were anxious despite what I would describe as a relatively peaceful setting. As I called my boyfriend for our early morning/late night Skype date, my roommate roused herself and left to make an anxious doctor's appointment. My thoughts are on her now, as I sit and write this post in our empty room. I hope your mother isn't driving you insane, sweetie. But she can't help it, you know that. Mothers are...another breed entirely.

It's a funny old world.

Not long now before my boyfriend joins me here; I miss him every day, the kind of ache like an old bruise that you accustom yourself to feeling. It's new for me, finding solace in others. I've always been, for better or for worse, a singular person. How incredibly strange and different it is to ask for - to actively solicit - affection. Help. Love.

I am better with words. I can write reams and reams of words where I hesitate to make a gesture. But I've learned something, in this funny old world. Making gestures gives me more satisfaction that I ever thought it would. I find a deep, humming peace in wrapping my mother or best friend in a hug. I desperately want to be able to put my head on my boyfriend's shoulder.

Don't get me wrong, words are still important to me. But they aren't as cheap as they used to be. When I leave a comment on another's art memorial, I feel the comment. I think I'm beginning to see that gestures and words aren't opposites, as I always assumed, but rather aspects of a greater whole. Ha, that sounds so pretentious. What I mean is, gestures deepen the words on a page. Knowing what a hug feels like adds depth to reading a description of one. Understanding longing and desire makes sympathizing with desirous characters easier.

Time is moving so slowly this morning. We changed our clocks yesterday, much later than we have in the past. I have ten minutes before I need to leave for class, but I woke this morning panicked that I'd missed my roommate's wedding and my class.

I wish I could remember these peaceful, quiet days of introspection when I'm feeling scattered and afraid. Now there's a useful skill. But I am only human, bound to make mistakes, to judge, and to turn my face away.

Oh, one more thing. I have chocolate chip cookies for all my friends.
WolfGrrl

So Close, So Far

I understand how it feels to be powerless. Sometimes, the hurts aren't things you can fix. Sometimes, the reasons your loved ones suffer are unknown. I am so close to my friends, my sisters of the heart, that holding out my hand to them feels like everything I can do, and yet not enough. These girls, these women, are so strong; the strongest people, after all, are those who can smile at the little things, and whose hearts haven't been hardened by the big, tough things.

I wish I knew the words to let them know that the tunnel, the darkness, the sadness and defeat and confusion doesn't last forever. But we struggle in different ways; we come from different places, different worlds and views. The common ground we've built is strong enough to weather any storm, but our storms are unique.

I know I love them both, and that I would bleed if I thought blood would save them. But that's not helpful. That's just words.

I remember how it feels. I don't remember how it feels for them, but I remember feeling worthless and beaten down, a pawn of the world - and an unimportant pawn at that. I remember feeling like a failure. I still sometimes feel like a failure.

Those memories bring me close to them; so close, and yet so far. Everyone always pretends (and I'm guilty of this myself) that nothing takes any effort. That's a lie. Do you hear me, you two? That. Is. A. Lie. It all takes effort. Living takes effort. Failing takes effort. Overcoming the sense that you're failing takes incredible effort. It's up to you to decide if what you have, or what you can have, is worth expending that effort.

No one can tell you to expend that effort. Not me, not the school, not your parents, not the president or the military or God. No one but you can tell you to live, love, laugh, cry, do or die. I promise you that. It's terrifying to realize you are in control. It sucks sometimes when you screw up and you want to blame someone, but it's only you.

Do not blame yourself. Stop it right now, both of you. Stop, pause, rewind, listen. Listen to yourselves.

I had to hurt myself before I learned that it's ok to cry. I had to cry in the dark for years before I learned that it's ok to cry in the light. Cry, loves. Eventually you'll start to laugh. Let it go. Let it out. Scream. Throw something. Sob. Swear. Run. I tried running from my problems. I tried screaming. I tried the most passive form of action: dying. You can absolutely do what I did; I'm not sure that I would have listened if someone told me what I'm trying to tell you. But I'll never know. I'll never remember.

It feels like work and the world control your lives; don't let them. Give work and the world faces and personalities. Are they bullies? Control freaks? Parents? Overachieving classmates? Overly helpful friends? If they have faces, they have personalities, and they have something you can push against. Work and the world do not own you. You own them. You walk them beside you like well-heeled dogs. You look them in the eye and say, "This is my life. I understand my choices and what they mean. You won't make me feel guilty for choosing myself over you. I am Me, and I want to know Me without you."

It sounds silly. It sounds childish. It might even sound impossible. Pick something easy. Boss your cat around. Make your stuffed animal into a Homework Nazi. Practice saying No. Sing it in the shower. Run to its rhythm. Beat a pillow, kick a ball. Crumple up piece after piece of paper. Throw the squishy. Talk at someone. (Not to someone, but AT someone.)

It will be ok. I promise. I promise you that. The only way it won't be ok is if you give in.
Just remember: giving in isn't giving up or changing course. Giving in is doing nothing at all.

WolfGrrl

La-Da-Da-Da-Daaaaaaa

I have no idea why that came up. Perhaps because I just finished baking. With, erm, chocolate.

Today is Friday, readers, and we all know what that means. No homework is being done tonight, I assure you! I am off with some friends to welcome the weekend and avoid the assignments that come with Monday morning. We're young and free and living off our benevolent parents; we can goof off now and then.

So, let me celebrate off my extra cookie-weight by dancing around at midnight in the (possible thunderstorm) or staying up until dawn for a chatter-session with friends and too many movies. We've got The Hunger Games and Beauty and the Beast lined up for tonight.

It's gonna be awesome.
Have yourself a happy Friday.

WolfGrrl

The Little Engine That Did

Yesterday afternoon, as I was vegetating, I happened upon a graduation speech given by two men whose comedic work I've admired for the past year. They mentioned, among other things, the arrival of the graduates in a world called "Reality."

Their speech got me thinking and, (typically), I had an epiphany about eighteen hours later as I was lying in bed letting my thoughts wander.

I feel that I have found my place in the world. Despite my recent worry that I don't know what I'm doing (it's normal, but that doesn't make it less terrifying), I do think that I've found what most people set out into the world looking for. I have arrived.

My arrival is rooted in the love I have for my boyfriend; the laughter I share with my friends; the support I seek from all of them and the lessons we teach one another. I am more open; I share more of myself with the world. I try. Trying is 99% of arriving, folks. This little engine finally made it over the top of the mountain.

It's interesting for me as an anthropologist to be studying the social constructs of 'Self' and 'Other' and realize just how definite my thoughts on those are. I am a 'Self.' I see 'Otherness' as the interactions between selves. Bumping into others, learning from or about others, causes one to define a view of oneself as A or B or X.

I am a 'Self.' For a long time I was an 'Other' even to myself (there's a metaphysical tangle for ya). But this Little Engine chugged along, not very fast and not very smoothly, until magically it arrived at the top of the mountain and found a nice, gently curving line of track.

The hard part is over, everyone. I hope you'll celebrate with me. I have found a family that will stay with me for as long as possible. I have found people to love, who love me undeservedly and unreservedly.

I did. You can too. I hope this realization gives you as much lift as it's given me.

Adios,
WolfGrrl

Week of Welcome

Week of Welcome is a tradition at my university honoring the freshmen (or first-year) students. Events, speakers, games and prizes are all part of the WoW agenda, but I rarely attend given how much I dislike crowds.

This year, my WoW experience is turned more onto my dear friends, some of whom I haven't seen in person for three or four months! I want to welcome my lovely roommate Giggles back to campus, and welcome all the new friends we're sure to find in our (eek!) grown-up classes. I guess I should welcome my classes, otherwise they'll put a curse on me for excluding them from my anticipatory joy. Yes, even you, scary PWAD 350 course. Welcome.

And that's really all. I'm late for my bus (yup, definitely back at school).

Adios, all!
I'll update when I can.

WolfGrrl

Words with Friends

Not your standard mobile app.

Basically, this is a transcript of a few humorous conversations with a friend. Pseudonyms are used (duh) for privacy reasons. Gasybeans is also on Blogger; her thoughts are awesome, so check her out here --> Thoughts Out Loud

***Some comments have been spliced together. Sorry; I'm a writer. Can't stop embellishing. We do have this conversation a lot though.

Gasybeans: What have you been up to, darling?
WolfGrrl: I changed my clothes a lot this morning.
GB: Hahaha, really?
WG: Truth.
GB: Girl problems.
WG: More like first world problems for girls. Help, I have too many clothes!
GB: Nahhh, you don't. I have more.
WG: *rude face*
GB: Well, it's true.
WG: ...
WG: Good thing we're too cheap to buy stuff at the mall.
GB: Says you! 
WG: Wait, I'm not cheap.
GB: I hope not.
WG: Thanks, dear.
GB: *staggers from sarcasm fumes*
GB: I love you.
WG: *pouts*
WG: Daaaaaa, I can never be annoyed at you. Do you think I should go back for that jacket?
GB: Yes!
WG: That's like asking if I should have more dessert, isn't it?
GB: *huge grin*
WG: Car keys, car keys... We are hopeless shopaholics.
GB: Amen, sister.
WG: Lol
GB: ...
GB: ...
GB: Can you pick me up? I really want that shirt.
WG: Hahahahaha... Yes.
GB: <3
WG: Hopeless
GB: ...and proud of it!

the Sims

I once heard it said that the only people who play the Sims are control freaks, voyeurs, and sadists.
Yeah...
Let's revise that list a bit.

One of the things that my friends and I share is an organizing mentality. We all love the Sims because it allows us to tinker with lives - whether they be our lives (in the game), or just lives in general. Maybe this makes us control freaks. But we all have different styles of playing.

I love to create things. I'm nowhere near my boyfriend's league (he's an architect) and I may build the same basic house design, but I love love LOVE decorating them. I used to drive my sister nuts when we were small and playing Barbies, because I'd spend hours setting up my house only to get bored when we actually began playing.

My boyfriend builds actual houses, but that's what he's learning in school, so I suck up my jealousy and forgive him for being so much more patient than I am. I use the Sims for wish-fulfillment: pets, apartments, prviate mansions, swimming pools...whatever I want. Does that sound control-freakish? (I promise, my Sims lead extremely boring, well-organized lives. The most exciting thing that's ever happened is one of them burned the house down.)

My three best friends at school play the Sims to alternately amuse themselves, torture people they don't like, or satisfy their nesting instincts. We're all so similar it's like HAHAHA Fate.

I love patterns and puzzles; it's why I'm much better at Logic than straight-up mathematics. In the world of the Sims I have the opportunity to design people (down to their clothes) and pets (down to height, weight, fur color) and houses (everything). This makes it a huuuuge time sink, and yet it's absolutely worth the carpal tunnel and eye strain.

Part of the reason I write is to give myself a vacation from reality. Playing the Sims is a bit like taking a mini-vacation: I'm still in a "real-world" (no fairies, dragons, or rocket ships) but I am all-powerful. I get to do whatever the heck I want with these little people and they live and die according to my wishes. *insert evil laugh here*

So... I guess I am a control freak. Awww.
(Although, really, is that news to anyone?)

WolfGrrl

Sweet and Sour

Yes, I do like (American) Chinese food. But that's not what this post is about.

Lately, when my mother comes upstairs to tidy and make her bed in the mornings, she finds me lying on my bed, usually covered by a blanket, either asleep or near to it. Her standard question is "Do you feel all right?"

Today we were trying to remember the last time I was this relaxed. I think it's been at least a decade, if not longer. That's more than half my life, Reader. More than half.

This is the sweetness of my life. I am not depressed, I am not drugged to the point of being gaga. I am peaceful. I have found a place where I can be both social and calm, extroverted and introverted. I go out with friends, I make sponanteous trips to the mall or the library or the animal shelter. I go to work; I go to school. I go (endlessly, haha) to the doctor. My life is full but not bursting; it is sweet and has enough sour to give it vigour.

I am happy. I've lost weight, but not too much. I eat and don't worry about when, how much, or what. I laugh often and love more openly. I am sad, but it doesn't last as long, nor is it as strong. I bounce. I am so bouncy I probably annoy everyone around me - except they tell me no, they like to see me like this.

Who is this person? This wonderful, incredible, intelligent, resilient person? Has she always been in me, buried under layers and layers of dead skin, depression and darkness?

I have cast off my darkness at last; I have bloomed; I am not a catepiller (ugh) but a butterfly. (A humble one, admittedly, but hey, that's me.) It's summer where I am, and summer used to be the time I hated most. Now I shrug off the heat and snooze in the sun. I look forward to wearing shorts and flipflops and dresses. I con my friends into taking pictures of me (OHMYGAWD, that has NEVER happened before!) and let them dress me up and take me out.

Maybe I should have said this post was simply sweet.
WolfGrrl

Helping Hands

Instead of lying in bed listening to my heartbeat and not sleeping, I think I'll write a post about hands.

I, like most people, take my hands for granted. I expect them to function properly and become very upset and anxious when they don't. There are many hands in my life, both real and metaphorical, but they all have something in common: I need them.

I need the hands that are my family and friends as much as I need the apprendages on the ends of my arms. Friends and family are things I take for granted; failsafes I depend on without really stopping to consider how often, or even why.

While I was lying here not sleeping, I was imagining moving into my apartment. Independence is something that comes to everyone at some point in life; some of us grab it, others of us have it foisted upon us. I am slowly and carefully grasping the reins of my individual life, and finding that (no surprises here) I like having the power to direct my little bit of the world. But back to apartments. As I imagined where I would put my table and chairs, if I would get a cat or a dog, where guests would sleep and what kind of food I'd keep in the pantry, it occurred to me that all of those things involved someone else. A helping hand. A friend or family member.

My hands are necessary for daily life. I am a writer; I need my hands, and I protect them the same way a surgeon or a musician does. I draw. I drive. I cook and hold things and lift children. I had to have someone point out to me how much I use my hands when I talk to help mimic the flow of my thoughts. Without my hands, I would be crippled. Without my friends and family, I would be crippled.

Helping hands are a part of life. In my post An Angel on My Shoulder I talked about how I believe in angels because I feel protected. Some of my angels are very, very close to me: they may not always know who they are, but I do. I love them and need them, as I need my hands.

This post is slightly incoherent; apologies, it's been a busy day. But these are some of my thoughts, incoherent though they might be, and what else is a blog for but to receive (and maybe organize?) the thoughts of its author.

Et maintenant, Bonne Nuit
WolfGrrl

For Max

Those of you who read my posts know that I like words. Sometimes I like them too much. But today...today words are escaping me. Those of you who read my posts know that I also don't talk directly to you. Or not very often. But today...today I will. Today I will find the words to speak to someone.

Hello, Max.

You have stolen my words, silly person, but that's all right because I don't need them to talk to you. You understand. We think similar thoughts; we say things the other was thinking. You make me laugh. I make you laugh. You told me that I made you very happy. I'm telling you, right now, that I might be glowing. I have been all week.

You make me happy, Max. And that's not something I take for granted.

I haven't got impressive, writerly thoughts I can give you. I haven't got fancy words to clutter up my head and make me clumsy.

I do like you. Very much. It took courage for you to write me that, and I want to be equal to your courage. Friends or something more, I am so grateful, so humbled, so happy to have met you. Out of all the people in the world, I met you.

Ich sehe auch eine große Zukunft.
Je vois aussi un grand avenir.
Io vedo anche un grande futuro.
I also see a great future.

Those are all my words, Max. You stole the rest, but you gave me something precious in return. So thank you.

Genevieve

An Angel on My Shoulder

Today, as a friend and I were talking, we somehow got on the topic of angels. Now, most of you know that I am a spiritual person and not a religious one. Religion is fine, but it doesn't suit my needs that well. I find more comfort believing in order and the power of free will than I find in knowing some all-powerful deity is out there monitoring me.

But I do believe in angels.

I have had too many near-accidents not to believe that someone, somewhere, has me safely in arms. Part of my growing up process has been recognizing those moments of grace (and sometimes intervention). I have an angel on my shoulder, whose hand keeps me from falling too fast, too far, too often. I have to fall a little, otherwise I'll never learn anything. But I have an angel who keeps me safe, and for that I will always try to live a good life. Out of gratitude.

I think that angels appear in human form - as friends, family members, or strangers on the street. They are people who share a smile with you on the bus, or who offer a helping hand just when you need it. But they can also be people who are special in other ways. I have a few friends that I suspect have hidden wings. It has been my secret wish for a long time to be someone's reason to smile; I want to change one life, a little or a lot. As I grow older, it's easier for me to be the kind of person I want to be. A good friend. A good daughter. And eventually, a good wife and mother.

But back to angels. I heard once that we are all on earth to learn to be better people. (The rest of the quote was: "Animals already know this - that's why they don't live as long.") I am learning, slowly, to be a better person. A kinder person. A more thoughtful person. I am gaining the skills which will help me be someone's angel.

I hope that my angel is happy. Whoever you are, I hope you know how grateful I am. Thank you, Angel. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your belief. Thank you for all you've done for me.

Perhaps one day, I can do the same for you.

WolfGrrl

A Toast

I propose a toast, since in ten minutes I shall begin my last final of the semester, and when that's completed, I will be a third-year (junior) in college.

Having reached this milestone, I am filled with awe and a strange humbleness - I who never envisioned making it to high school graduation am half-way done with college. Halfway to becoming an adult. The specialists aren't kidding when they say that the later years of adolescence are the most crucial ones: looking back on this year and last year, I feel that I've grown so much. I am a different person than I was in high school. I have new friends, new hopes, and definitely new dreams.

I can't ramble on and on (because my exam is about to start, haha), but I'd like to propose a toast to those of us finishing our formative years. (Or not.)

The last post was for my friends. This one is kind of a repeat, but you can all stand a little more appreciation, I'm sure. Here's to us. We made it another year!

WolfGrrl

Friends in Far Places

Hiyah!

Since I'm cheerfully procrastinating about studying for my two ugly finals, I thought I'd write a bit about friends - a subject that makes me giggle, sigh, roll my eyes, and get warm fuzzies in my tummy.

My friends come in all shapes, sizes, walks of life, and locations. But one thing remains consistent: I choose people who make me happy. My selection process is appropriately convoluted (haha - just like this blog!) but it works for me. The people I choose as friends are the people who I'm happy to be with. Seems simple enough, right? My friends, my good friends, are those whom I can run to when I'm having a bad day, or who can make me laugh over Facebook chat. Some of them you know; some of them, you are. They live all over the world, and I talk to them once a day, once a month, or a few times a year. But we have stood the test of time; that's what makes us friends.

Recently, I made a new friend through an online art forum I joined on a whim a year ago. It's rather funny (to me anyway) that the friends I've made through this forum are mostly from Eastern Europe. I knew I had a lot in common with Asians and Asian-Americans, but Eastern Europe is my favorite place to learn about and now I feel justified in my obsession.

Sorry; got sidetracked. So, my new friend is not Eastern European and is actually (shocker) a guy. Hahaha, I can see the open mouths and narrowed eyes as all of you begin to build castles in the air. Don't worry; I did it too. But, ehhhh. Whatever. It's rare that I get along with guys - they're absolutely foreign to me. But it's also rare that I spend three hours talking to anyone...and we've been writing consistently for a few days now. What makes this story interesting is that this guy is actually from New Zealand...the place I shall be studying abroad in, and the place where I'm considering living as an adult.

Coincidence? Who knows? Lately, I've become a big believer in Fate. I choose to believe that choices and events happen when and where they are meant to, regardless of whether or not I think that time and moment are opportune. I can see my mother flipping out, her mind jumping to visions of online perverts and predators. Relax, Mama: it wasn't three messages in that I began creeping internationally, to make sure this person was who he said he was.

Guess what? He was. So now I have a new friend in a far place, and someone to call if I get in trouble in New Zealand. The world is very, very large, but at the same time my world can be shrunk by random chance. Now traveling across the international dateline and to a new country doesn't make me quite so nervous; I have a touchstone. (Sorry to be sappy; it won't last much longer, I promise.)

I like having friends in far places. It makes me feel that I am somewhat bigger than just my hometown. It gives me hope that there is a place where I belong, where I'll feel like the people there are just like me. I have found something like this with my university friends, each of whom shares something with me that I value. (Gasybeans, this is definitely a post you should read: here's your shout-out, my dear!) But it's exciting that I, I who had so much trouble connecting with people for most of my life, am finally able to do so. It feels like my epiphany (that I don't have to live the "standard" life, but rather the life that suits me) is blossoming.

It seems appropriate to end there, given it's spring here, and the world is blossoming. Here's to friends then, and the hope and laughter and hugs that they bring.

This post is for all of you. You know who you are.
WolfGrrl

Apples

This is a tribute to the game of Apples to Apples - the best invention for college students EVER. The only thing that could possibly make this game more fun (besides the relative insanity of the people playing it) is playing it drunk.

No, I don't advocate the consumption of alcohol in the amounts required to render A2A as ridiculous as it's supposed to be (something which can also be achieved via staying up waaaaay too late and playing with exteremely close friends). But you have to admit, A2A is one of the better drinking games around. I was witness to one hilarious game with several friends at a party, and it was epic.

My roommate and I held an open game in our room tonight, letting whoever wanted to join do so, and the results were... *insert big fat smile here*

It was decided that the following cards are official 'trumps' and cannot be beaten:

Helen Keller
Russia, or anything Russian
Babies
My... (bedroom, bathroom, love life, etc.)

Yup. I was also a favor for mold and meat cleavers, but was voted down.
Any recommendations from the rest of you?

Ciao
WolfGrrl

Potluck Friendship

The sign of a good friend is not, as they are finishing their last lap of a two-mile run, to stand on the sidelines and yell "Run Forest, run!" at the top of your lungs. Besides amusing everyone within hearing range and making a total fool of yourself, you also annoy the crap out of your friend by doing this.

It was pretty fun though.

My therapist is always telling me to list good things about myself, and then she gets mad at me when "friend" isn't on there. Honestly, (as the above example should illustrate) I'm not all that sure I'm a good friend.

Oh sure, I listen when someone's having a bad day and I try to understand what they need from me to feel better. I worry about my friends and I laugh with them (and when they're being stupid, at them). I am fierce in their defense and forgive them anything, but I don't see these things as being particularly special. Maybe this has to do with my terror of being a burden: in my life, I want nothing so much as to make those around me happy (obviously I don't care about making neo-Nazi plagiarists happy).

Despite all this however, I seem to have little trouble making friends. Sometimes it takes me a while and sometimes I meet people and we just click. Who can say what governs the mysterious alchemy of friendship? It's like the food in the dining hall: sometimes it's fulgy as all-get-out, and sometimes you strike pure culinary gold. (Only without the food part, obviously.)

Right. I think it's fair to say that my brain has checked out for the day. Off to fight with my computer over James Bond. I want to watch Daniel Craig shoot people, and the computer apparently has parental tendencies and thinks Bond films are bad for me. Either that, or it's a radical feminist disguised as technology.

Oh Lord...
WolfGrrl