Shoe Carnival is Basically My After School High School

I was at work tonight, organizing boxes for minimum wage, and I found myself struck with a thought: I really do not want to be the Shoe Carnival kid's department girl for the rest of my life. Not as though this is super surprising, I'm not sure many people aspire to work their days at a shoe store (especially one as drama-ridden as this one), but there are people I work with who have been with the company for longer than I've been alive. I don't put myself on a pedestal in comparison to them, they've made a good life out of their job, but I really do not want that. At all.

But anyway, I added this into my imaginary jar of thoughts I keep stored in my brain that gives my reasons of wanting to go to college. I don't want my life to become a shoe store and petty drama with nineteen year-olds when I'm thirty-five. Hell, I don't want my life to be a shoe store and petty drama with nineteen year-olds now (fortunately it's just the former). The amount of talking about people behind their backs, then talking about how people are talking behind their backs reminds me of... High school. Except rather than 2000 students, there are fifteen employees, plus a GM who plays the role of a dad who attempts at disciplining his kids, but falls flat when it comes to actual punishments. Nice guy, though. I really don't want to be in high school for the rest of my life. Because, as good as high school can sometimes be, I am so ready to move on to greener pastures with tons of individualistic cows.

So as I find my time with high school ending in the next few weeks, I also see that my time with Shoe Carnival is not permanent. I'll work this summer and get some cash, but the shoe industry is not for me. Too damn backstabby and gossipy. Granted, I've heard every place is like that.

Maybe that's why I don't want a real job.

Last Make-Up Blog

This photo is a metaphor for my make-up work: it's over the top, interesting to stare at, but requires too much to actually consider doing myself. Also, first image to come up when typing "make-up work" into Google.

I was on the phone with my friend Rachel earlier, and we were talking about our procrastination woes (we were those girls in Algebra II who talked about making t-shirts with the legend "Procrastination Club", but never actually got around to it). We both find that we get home and realize, hey, there's a good eight hours before we need to go to bed, no reason to start homework now. We do other things, listen to music or watch TV or something, saying it will last only half an hour or so, and then we'll tackle that make-up work.

Four hours later, these things are still happening.

I don't even like TV, to be perfectly honest. I like some TV shows, and Netflix is incredible, but sitting down and channel surfing, watching snippets of random episodes of some rerun doesn't entertain me in the slightest (okay, if it's Maury, I may watch...). I actually like to DO things. So why do I find myself tempted to turn on the TV, rather than type this blog?

Self-sabotage.

But I made some coffee, got off the phone, and began working at my make-up blogs. And, hey, this is my last one! Maybe after a run and a shower I'll feel even more motivated to finish up my poetry responses. Hopefully, I'd love to get all my make-up work out of the way before I have to start working this week...

Poet Laureate Stuff

So, you all know how there's a Poet Laureate at graduation each year?

I'M ONE OF THE TOP FOUR IN THE COMPETITION!!!

I debated posting this, because people who are all like, "look how cool I am, I did this, compliment me," are borderline tacky, but I'm pretty damn stoked. Especially considering the fact I wrote my poem two hours before the official deadline...

Two of my creative writing buddies are also in the top four, and weirdly enough I'd be happy to lose to either of them because they're both so talented. I don't know, this post is really having no purpose, I'm just excited and happy, and all of those other emotions with words.

So maybe I'll read a poem at graduation. Maybe I won't. Who knows, I'm just happy!

Sestina

Even though it was rushed through lunch/in between presentations, I had a lot of fun writing my extra credit sestina today (also, the internet is telling me that's not a real word). Maybe it had to do with the challenge I had created for myself to finish it during third block, or perhaps the subject matter (gender, with a hint of Morrissey), but I think I may have found a structure of poetry I actually enjoy creating. The majority of the time when I write poems they tend to be free verse because:
1. They're easier
2. More freedom
3. I like the flow sooooooo much better
But sestinas aren't too murderous of the creative process that is writing a poem. Granted, I wouldn't say what I wrote was good by any means; I mention an eighties singer like seven times. But it was fun, and I may try out writing a sestina again.

Senioritis Does Exist, Mr. Mullins

And to prove that, let's take into account the fact this is a make-up blog.

To be honest, I never really bought senioritis as a realistic mental state until I actually became a senior. Something about being free in only a month combined with going out into the world in the fall makes for an incredibly lazy Monty. There is so much I want to do right now, but high school strangles that. I'm still here, but I want to be there.

On a personal note, I've always had an "anywhere but here" complex to some degree. I guess that could be blamed on moving at awkward ages as a kid so I've never really felt truly at home, or my lack of satisfaction teenage angst , but whatever reason, it's present, especially this past month or so. I'm doing my best to combat it, but, like many of my fellow peers, I would rather stare at a wall for several hours than actually do homework.

Last semester of high school just makes for an awkward limbo phase. Most everyone knows their status on whether they will graduate or not, as well as what college/where they will be in the fall. It's just playing the waiting game for the diploma. I'm not sure if I've actually been taught anything in any of my classes recently, either. Well, maybe if I paid attention in math...

So yes, it's a thing.

Emily Dickinson: A Blog Post

So, I'm going to share I secret: I really cannot stand Emily Dickinson. What? You all knew?! I made that perfectly clear in class?!

Perhaps I should explain.

(LOOK DEEP INTO MY EYES...)

I'd heard Emily Dickinson's name before, but hadn't ever read a word of her work until last year in English. This may be due to the fact that I didn't care for poetry too much until my Sophomore year, and I'm not the type to go looking for poet's works (except Allen Ginsberg--he's a cool dude). So my class got a brief synopsis on Emily, and then we were thrown to her works! Oh, the sing-song horror of it all! So many damn words arranged in the whiniest and bounciest rhythm possible. I really couldn't look past that.

AND THEN. Her poems had deeper meaning. She takes this nursery-rhyme tune and makes poetry that on the surface seems obnoxious, but beneath has a ton of messages. Don't get me wrong, that's really cool. But it makes me enraged! I can't figure out why, but it really gets to me... I guess it stems from NOT UNDERSTANDING WHAT THE @#$% THIS GIRL IS SAYING. And then when I figure out it's really interesting, it's annoying. Any other poet, I don't really care if it's a hunt to find out what they are trying to say. But hiding something incredibly fabulous under a ton of rhymes (I don't dig on rhyme schemes--far too forced) and occasional whiny gibberish is cruel. I don't like the way her writing sounds.

Okay, that's basically the gist of it. Perhaps I just don't appreciate "great poetry".

In Defense of My 72% in AP English

Yes, I'm admitting it: I have a D in this class. But it's super close to a C. And some missing work/essays haven't even been put in yet. So it really isn't the end of the world.

Why is it I have a D? Well, the short answer could be that I haven't done my work on time. But I'll just give the long answer because, you know, why not?

English is absolutely my favorite subject, because it takes all the nerdy, questioning philosophical stuff and shoves it into novels and writing. THREE THINGS I CANNOT HAVE ENOUGH OF. But it's also a lot of work. And if I didn't have a manager and a teacher conspiring together to make sure I don't have an inch of time to do work, then maybe I'd get it done in a timely manor and not spend my nights off doing a major works data sheet, three Beloved reading journals, a AP-style quiz on Beloved, and a blog. But all in all, I can be exceptionally lazy. As much as I'd love to be a seventh grader and blame everything on anyone who isn't me, I've got to own up to it and accept my grade as my own doing. And you know what? I love my grade. I'm going to keep working at it, and maybe my grade will become a little prettier, therefore more accepting by society. Then I may have something that won't make colleges ask why they accepted me as an English major in the first place.

But if I resent my grade, I know I won't make it any better. So why not love it and own up to it? I HAVE A D.

Hey, at least I'm not failing. (This post was incredibly useless)

The Bell Jar

(Line from the book, possibly my favorite)

So rather than spam this page with three blog posts, I'll just do one each evening this week--hopefully I'll remember.

Okay, well my second independent reading book was The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I didn't dig it as much as I did my first book, but this one definitely wasn't bad. First off, Sylvia Plath really knew how to craft some sentences. It's strange how she writes such a depressing novel and it ends up sounding sooooo pretty. The imagery for fig trees and bell jars were both beautiful and terrible. Granted, she killed herself a month after this book's publication, so I'll just assume she wasn't in the best of places when it was written.

I really loved the first two hundred pages. Its very much my kind of book, mostly because it focuses on character development rather than plot. Then the last forty-four were... rushed. A good four major life events happen to tie the ends up to this book, but they feel so fast when compared to the rest of the novel. Only a good two pages are devoted to her friend's suicide. Really? Granted, the main character is a little bit self-absorbed, but not so much that a suicide would mean nothing. Quite possibly Sylvia Plath was trying to wrap everything up rather quickly with hopes of everything just ending. What I found annoying about that mindset was that she didn't explain what caused Esther to get better. Instead, the reader is told everything is all good, and the bell jar has lifted, but the depression was a crucial part of her life and she wouldn't be willing to ignore it.

What I find most depressing about this book is how positive the future is for Esther, but terrible for Plath. It almost feels like she wrote everything down to get better, but it didn't work...

Beloved Reaction

I might as well post this before I forget; every day BUT Thursday, I remember I have a blog due, but I put it off. I'm not sure how to change that...

I'll be honest, I've yet to finish Beloved. Don't get me wrong, I do plan to, it just hasn't happened yet. My reaction so far has been the following, however. (In cronilogical order):
-This is dumb
-Okay...
-Not interesting
-I lied, kind of interesting
-What the #%$*?
-If I read "sweet and sticky brest milk" one more time...
-I think I just reread the same sentence a good four times
-This is really only written for a certain audience. That audience is not named Monty.

And so on. About that last comment, though: I really do see this as written for a certain target audience. It's not presented in a universal sort of way (if that makes sense). Toni Morrison is an African American who is very interested in her culture's past, and that shines through in her work. I do appreciate this very much, I'm a firm believer in writing about something one feels passion for, but the presentation is for those who feel the same way. I'm not saying I'm incapable of understanding this novel because I'm a white girl with no past of oppressed anscestors (though we could say women...). In fact, I see the pain Morrison succeeds in giving light rather well. But there is a level I'm not sure I'm able to reach with this book. Perhaps I'm wrong and have made myself look racist on the internet, but this is what I feel.

Anybody else see what I'm trying to say?

College Ventings

This post really won't serve a huge purpose except as a canvas for some venting.

College: this whole societal view that you'll amount to nothing if you don't attend a higher institution of learning is crap in my eyes. Many, many people have skipped out on attending college, and they have pretty good lives. And of course in order to get into a good college, you have to be perfect in high school. If you aren't, then you're kind of just abandoned with the dregs of people deemed unintelligent. So why even bother?

I fall into this category to a T. My GPA isn't the best, and I procrastinate a lot. I don't learn very well in the environment presented by a high school. But I really do want to go to college. Ever since I was in fifth grade, I've been really excited to go to a far off university and study something fabulous. It might sound strange, but my guess is this spawned from the fact my mother was getting her BA around this time, and I looked up to her quite a bit. There hasn't been a point since then that I haven't been intrigued by the concept of college (well, except for my freshman year, when the idea of living in the back of a van after high school seemed pretty awesome--we don't need to talk about that).

So senior year rolls around, and I get super insecure about applying anywhere; what if I don't get accepted, why did I not do work during my first three years of high school, why is this so damn stessful??? I got over it though, and took the chance of utter rejection. Now here is what triggered this post: one of the colleges I applied to said they'd let me know the final decision no later than February 1st. Guess what day it is? February 3rd. Guess who doesn't know if she got accepted or not? That's right, Monty! So now I'm annoyed and stressed out. I'm no good at this waiting game; I should probably develop a bit more patience. But maybe they're mailing something. Who knows. I'm just going to curse this whole process until it's over, and curl up in the fetal position.

The Road

I really enjoyed this book. Like, a lot. To be quite honest, I'm not sure I've ever had to read a book  for class that went by so quickly, but left an enormous impact. I love how almost each paragraph makes the reader think. It's disturbing, and therefore sickly entertaining, but that doesn't take away from the meaning.


Now here's my only problem: I know there was something I didn't care for about this book, but I cannot place my finger on it. Something was off. It could be all the religious undertones I'm never really able to catch, or the attitudes of all the characters. But neither really capture whatever it is that's bothered me. It doesn't matter too much I suppose, so I'll just let it be and focus on the awesomeness that is this story. Side note; it's not even the story that makes it awesome, it's the characters, the lack of hope, the destruction! I'm not sure there is a complete story line; to condense it is "there was a man and his son, walking on a road to the coast. The man dies, and the son is picked up by other travelers"--doesn't sound like anything great, which may be what makes this book sososo good.

Titles Are For Phonies

I typed this entire post out. And my internet went crazy on me. So now I must retype. Funfun.

I started to read my first independent reading choice yesterday. I didn't want to have one of those moments where I'm reading the last 150 pages at 2:30 in the morning the night before it's due, so it was probably best that I began it this early. I maybe got around ten pages in before I got home from school. Fascinating, no? Not really. But I'll spice it up some. This next part may sound completely unrelated, but just go with it and trust me pretty please!

I got home from school yesterday, changed into yoga pants, and laid down on my couch. I ended up taking a half-nap for around thirty minutes. No biggie. But as soon as I was more conscious than not, I decided I wanted to put on my hoodie. Problem was, my left leg was half asleep; I'm talking mid-thigh down. But, being the smarty I am, I made the decision to walk on it anyway. This subsequently resulted in me putting all my body weight onto the side of my ankle, thus spraining my foot pretty bad. It was extremely swollen and painful, and walking on it only made these conditions elevated. Therefore, I did not come to school today.

I read The Catcher in the Rye in its entirety this afternoon instead, and OHMYGOD. So. Good. Better than good. There isn't an adjective strong enough to express how I feel for this book. I already want to reread it, an I finished it less than six hours ago. Anybody know what it's like when you encounter a piece of media that states every emotion you've felt for, say, the past month or two? That's basically this book for me. Something about a character who pays for the company of a prostitute but wants to only have a conversation with her makes me far too happy. I'm so ecstatic I selected this as my outside reading book, because not only has it become one of my favorites, but it ties in beautifully to my project topic.