Last night in the Hope kitchens, me and my dear friends gathered around the wobbly round table to feast on birthday brownies with pink frosting, with my dear roommate's name written in loopy pink frosting. We were laughing hysterically and passing around a bottle of sparkling cider in our nice clothes, chugging it like sweet wine. We had lit the candy-stripe candles with my trusty dusty Blowtorch lighter, flamaing out as if we were making creme brulee, or more accuretly, welding something. It was a good night.
Yet when i returned to the room and attempted to illiegally light my spiced cider votive candle to celebrate fall, it was apparent that it could spew flames no more.
And so we lament your passing, Blowtorch lighter, I will miss you every day when i have to strike a match 5 times before it lights, or have to use--gasp!--a Zippo lighter like a skinhead trucker. I will miss the good old days of Freshman year, with Witch Parties and Roxana lighting my hair on fire for fun. You have been with me through the best of times, and the worst of times. You have lit sole candles on the lonliest nights, and on the happiest of occasions. You have litterally, brightened my life.
And so as I ceremoniously toss you into the big blue dumpster behind Hope, i will wipe a tear away from my soft pink cheek, and thrun my thoughts to the day that we will be reunited in heaven, me, dancing around Jesus, and you, lighting the candles that will float around on little white puffy clouds so we can see where to kick the divine ball when playing Godly Soccer at night with St. Paul and C.S Lewis.
Rest in Peace.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Mean Girls are not just a creation of Tina Fey
Here's what I discovered on this glorious, gloomy friday. I am physically incapable of being blatantly mean. I know this sounds like I'm just stroking my ego or something, but it's a serious problem.
You see, I was walking back from session and i realize that this girl who used to live on the floor last year was behind me. She hated me. She had absolutly no reason. But she did. She would hang out in our room all the time and just snarl at me and make fun of me. Pretty much, she is agreeably the most unbelieveable bitchy person I have ever met, and I have met alot of bitchy people.
Well.
So she is sauntering behind me, and I'm ready to slide my card to open the doors to Hope. I do so. Then a devious thought entered my head. What if i just let the door shut in her face, so she would have to slide her ID card to get in. It's retarded, but i hold the door open for everyone, so this little tidbit was particularly appealing. It was for all the times she glared at me at the sinks, ignored me when i would say hello to her, for all the times she let the door shut in my face and i would hear her laughing on the other side.
So the moment draws closer. She is about 10 steps behind me. I am prepared to walk without care into the lobby and let the door fall behind me, but in a moment of weakness, the edge of my finger caught the rim as i held the door for the girl who routinely belittled my existance.
In the Disney version of this story, the girl would turn to me, smile, and say thank you. We would strike up a conversation and become best friends and she would help me pick out my wedding china and possibly become my kid's godmother. Sadly, life is not Disney, to my great dissapointment, and she shoved past me.
This caused me to wonder why people are mean in the first place. You gain no pleasure out of it. You don't impress people with it or gain any more friends. You just make people feel bad and make yourself look like an ass.
So then I walked back to my room with my head down like Charlie Brown after being turned down by the little red-haired girl, except that my situation is nothing like that. I was hurt. I had rrached out, in a small, meager way, and was shot to the mud on the grounds of me just trying to be a good person. But I am not discouraged.
And so I dedicate this not-very-well-thought-out blog to this aformentioned girl. Get over yourself. That is all.
You see, I was walking back from session and i realize that this girl who used to live on the floor last year was behind me. She hated me. She had absolutly no reason. But she did. She would hang out in our room all the time and just snarl at me and make fun of me. Pretty much, she is agreeably the most unbelieveable bitchy person I have ever met, and I have met alot of bitchy people.
Well.
So she is sauntering behind me, and I'm ready to slide my card to open the doors to Hope. I do so. Then a devious thought entered my head. What if i just let the door shut in her face, so she would have to slide her ID card to get in. It's retarded, but i hold the door open for everyone, so this little tidbit was particularly appealing. It was for all the times she glared at me at the sinks, ignored me when i would say hello to her, for all the times she let the door shut in my face and i would hear her laughing on the other side.
So the moment draws closer. She is about 10 steps behind me. I am prepared to walk without care into the lobby and let the door fall behind me, but in a moment of weakness, the edge of my finger caught the rim as i held the door for the girl who routinely belittled my existance.
In the Disney version of this story, the girl would turn to me, smile, and say thank you. We would strike up a conversation and become best friends and she would help me pick out my wedding china and possibly become my kid's godmother. Sadly, life is not Disney, to my great dissapointment, and she shoved past me.
This caused me to wonder why people are mean in the first place. You gain no pleasure out of it. You don't impress people with it or gain any more friends. You just make people feel bad and make yourself look like an ass.
So then I walked back to my room with my head down like Charlie Brown after being turned down by the little red-haired girl, except that my situation is nothing like that. I was hurt. I had rrached out, in a small, meager way, and was shot to the mud on the grounds of me just trying to be a good person. But I am not discouraged.
And so I dedicate this not-very-well-thought-out blog to this aformentioned girl. Get over yourself. That is all.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The funniest thing that's happened to me so far today
Okay. So Roxana and Frances and I were spooning on the futon with it's beige mat deal sliding with every move watching Titanic, as we had bveen planning for two weeks as Fran had never seen it. It was an emotional, gratifying experience. It was however, sidetracked when Sydney, my ever loving roommate walked in, whining about how she wished she had an excuse to get out of session today, and asked if i would get her sick. Immediatly after this, a full water bottle hit her square in the ear with the force of four lumberjacks. It was, of course, thrown by Fran, who got caught up in the moment and felt the need to lend a hand. Upon questioning her on why she felt it was necessary, after pausing the movie and laughing hysterically for about seven minutes and perhaps crying a little in the process, she said she had no idea why she did it. Remorse soon followed. So Sydney went to a Llizo session with an aching ear she can't really hear out of, and we held each other on the futon and wished that we had boyfriends and that they looked like Jack Dawson, except not dead.
That's really about it. I guess you had to be there.
That's really about it. I guess you had to be there.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Cheerio...bah.
So tonight I went over to the Reynold's and sat on the edge of their warm pool letting my feet dangle, watching me and my friend's faces projected on the side of the wall. I nibbled crumpets with strawberry preserves and sipped my piping hot earl gray. We played classical music and laughed as we reminisced about the sensational time we all had in England beginning of the summer. We made fun of Miss Shubert and sang "Jerusalem" and planned the next battle between Jason and Fatigati. And for a fleeting moment it was like we were all back there.
Just as soon as it started, the party was over and I found myself clutching my ID card standing outside the lower campus gate wishing that more than anything, despite the fact that I was starving, sick, wearing dirty clothes, walking dozens of miles a day and sleeping less than 4 hours a night, that I could just go back for one day.
It's kind of pathetic, but you would too if you romped around the English countryside for a good portion of the summer and how found yourself contained within 4 walls with your nose in Thomas Aquinas for 7 hours.
Just as soon as it started, the party was over and I found myself clutching my ID card standing outside the lower campus gate wishing that more than anything, despite the fact that I was starving, sick, wearing dirty clothes, walking dozens of miles a day and sleeping less than 4 hours a night, that I could just go back for one day.
It's kind of pathetic, but you would too if you romped around the English countryside for a good portion of the summer and how found yourself contained within 4 walls with your nose in Thomas Aquinas for 7 hours.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Tne Golden Spoon Story
Today while Roxana and I were trying to find the Golden Spoon on Birch Street we saw this guy on a bike get hit by a car. Life is short. That's all I have to say.
The guy lived, but that's besides the point.
The guy lived, but that's besides the point.
My Empty Room
My doting roommate left me for the weekend to take care of myself while she watches her skin fry in Palm Springs and learns how to converse with middle school children, something I have personally never achieved. It’s outrageous really how little I accomplish on my own. I am rather convinced as of this current time that were I not bunking with a hyper-anal film major who has more things to do at any given time of the day than hairs on her head, that I would in all probability sit at my sullied desk watching Arrested Development re-runs and touch up my toenails for the five-trillionth time. Which I do anyways, irregardless if she’s in the room or not, but when her presence is here, I usually get something hurled at me when I slack off, sadly quite often. Books and shoes, generally. The books are killer, especially the hardback ones. Thank God we finished Plato last year, I might have an aneurysm.
Now, while the societal prospects on Biola’s campus are infinite, sometimes the Holly Homemaker gene kicks in and there is absolutely nothing I desire more than to stand over one of the six communal bathroom sinks with a glistening pool of soapy suds before me overflowing onto the power-washed tile. I am the type of person who pays the extra 30 cents to have my dish soap smell like lavender rather than the lemony perversion of Pine Sol. I am not snobby. I just would like to remember my dishwashing experience as one that was enriching rather than dreadfully mundane. Sadly, I have not at this point fashioned a proficient and engaging way to dispose of the garbage, which is why there are currently three pleasantly plump trash bags seated pitifully by the door.
While we are on the subject of all things domestic with a little What-I-Did-Today, I feel an obligation to mention that I am the happiest person alive when I’m grocery shopping. First of all, I have to do it alone or it doesn’t count. Second of all, I like baskets more than carts. I enjoy walking down every single aisle, even the motor parts and Spanish seasonings ones. I enjoy contrasting prices of milk, fat content of peanut butter, how many minutes it actually takes to microwave the pasta-in-a-bag, and what fruits are on sale. I like feeling which peaches are the firmest, smelling the $2.99 flowers (I actually bought some today. They’re the same color as sunsets in back of my house.), reading the headlines on the tabloids (apparently Angelina wants to get knocked up again and it’s really affecting her relationship with Brad…), seriously consider buying a cake (I always think about it and even pick one out, but I never purchase one.) and smiling at the cashier. Going grocery shopping is a Zen experience for me. No matter what it always makes me feel grown up. I can remember when I first got my driver’s license, the first thing I wanted to do was go grocery shopping for my mom. I never actually did, I went to the movies. But it was a nice idea.
So I come home from the grocery store, painful red lines on my hands from carrying the flat of spring water, put my milk on the fridge, set my new indoor/outdoor chrysanthemums on the already crowded windowsill, and take a look around me. I see dozens of schoolwork related projects around, stacks of books with post-it tabs sticking out indiscriminately, binders containing guidelines for an assortment of projects, and of course the mischievous sprite that is my planner, glaring at me from my desk. Come to me, it beckons. Come glance inside at the color coded goodness that are my dated pages. See how much you have sold your soul to your homework, it taunts. I stick in a drawer, and then pick yesterday’s underwear off the floor and entertain. After all, Man Hours only come around a few times a week, and I have a dear friend who needed convincing that Hope is far more agreeable than Stewart. We had a fair chat, I bid him adieu, and turn again to the room.
While I could still vaguely hear the stifled bleats of my spiraled planner, I honed one of my many secret borderline-maniacal skills: the art of being tidy. There are many different degrees of this lunacy, the more mild side being picking up clothes and actually putting them in my hamper—a feat—the more severe being on my hands and knees under my desk with the vacuum and some Clorox wipes. I’m afraid this latest attack tended to lean more to the severe.
It was then that I chose to indulge my feminine side, meaning I stripped down to my underwear, put on the most depressing and sappiest movies Syd and I collectively own, and had a good cleansing cry. People underestimate the power of a cleansing cry. It takes the edge off, much like a stiff drink, with the exception that this is perfectly holistic. So I sit in my little nest on the futon, pillows lumped far and wide, quilt swathed around me like a baby-blue cocoon, damp tissues littering the ground as I sniff and choke a little bit on my tears. Again, good cry. Especially when you haven’t cried for ages. It’s great because at first you’re weeping for the characters, then you realize it isn’t about the characters at all, in fact, you don’t know what it’s about at all, but it feels too healthy to stop. And then you do, and everything just seems cleaner. Not you of course, you look a fright what with the fact that your mascara has changed from a solid to a liquid and made its way down your neck in an unseemly fashion.
It is then time for tea. It’s a most comforting tradition for me to make tea. I like to stand in the middle of my room just stirring the teabag around, making sure the sugar dissolves. I sip and survey my domain. And what I see is good, because it is mine.
But there is something to be said about the home and a life of domesticity. While I may have set myself upon a track whose prize is a lofty position in a career that snugly suits me, I frequently wonder what it would be like to simply keep a home. What would it be like to throw out my apprehensions for the future and basically downsize my life to fit within four walls? As a feminist and career-oriented individual, I regret to inform you that it is relatively tempting. With a society so driven by those monsters of money and fame, a-two-for-one-make-a-buck world, where the road to success is extensive and tricky, with no guarantee of security, living off a husband’s paycheck where I spend the day concerning myself with the care of my family and home sounds, if not idyllic, at least cushy. I don’t actually believe that the life of a homemaker is effortless; I’m simply saying that I understand the appeal. Finding joy in routine and having a place to maintain and call your own, even if it is a pitiful little box you’re attempting to home-i-fy by means of convoluted coffee makers, translucent dish sets from Target, and lively throw pillows may actually be just as important as venturing out and making your mark. I didn’t mean this so be sappy and inspirational, I’m just obviously feeling domestic and I use this as a justification for not doing pull-questions and reading Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. So…there’s that. I’m going to clean out the fridge now, I think.
Now, while the societal prospects on Biola’s campus are infinite, sometimes the Holly Homemaker gene kicks in and there is absolutely nothing I desire more than to stand over one of the six communal bathroom sinks with a glistening pool of soapy suds before me overflowing onto the power-washed tile. I am the type of person who pays the extra 30 cents to have my dish soap smell like lavender rather than the lemony perversion of Pine Sol. I am not snobby. I just would like to remember my dishwashing experience as one that was enriching rather than dreadfully mundane. Sadly, I have not at this point fashioned a proficient and engaging way to dispose of the garbage, which is why there are currently three pleasantly plump trash bags seated pitifully by the door.
While we are on the subject of all things domestic with a little What-I-Did-Today, I feel an obligation to mention that I am the happiest person alive when I’m grocery shopping. First of all, I have to do it alone or it doesn’t count. Second of all, I like baskets more than carts. I enjoy walking down every single aisle, even the motor parts and Spanish seasonings ones. I enjoy contrasting prices of milk, fat content of peanut butter, how many minutes it actually takes to microwave the pasta-in-a-bag, and what fruits are on sale. I like feeling which peaches are the firmest, smelling the $2.99 flowers (I actually bought some today. They’re the same color as sunsets in back of my house.), reading the headlines on the tabloids (apparently Angelina wants to get knocked up again and it’s really affecting her relationship with Brad…), seriously consider buying a cake (I always think about it and even pick one out, but I never purchase one.) and smiling at the cashier. Going grocery shopping is a Zen experience for me. No matter what it always makes me feel grown up. I can remember when I first got my driver’s license, the first thing I wanted to do was go grocery shopping for my mom. I never actually did, I went to the movies. But it was a nice idea.
So I come home from the grocery store, painful red lines on my hands from carrying the flat of spring water, put my milk on the fridge, set my new indoor/outdoor chrysanthemums on the already crowded windowsill, and take a look around me. I see dozens of schoolwork related projects around, stacks of books with post-it tabs sticking out indiscriminately, binders containing guidelines for an assortment of projects, and of course the mischievous sprite that is my planner, glaring at me from my desk. Come to me, it beckons. Come glance inside at the color coded goodness that are my dated pages. See how much you have sold your soul to your homework, it taunts. I stick in a drawer, and then pick yesterday’s underwear off the floor and entertain. After all, Man Hours only come around a few times a week, and I have a dear friend who needed convincing that Hope is far more agreeable than Stewart. We had a fair chat, I bid him adieu, and turn again to the room.
While I could still vaguely hear the stifled bleats of my spiraled planner, I honed one of my many secret borderline-maniacal skills: the art of being tidy. There are many different degrees of this lunacy, the more mild side being picking up clothes and actually putting them in my hamper—a feat—the more severe being on my hands and knees under my desk with the vacuum and some Clorox wipes. I’m afraid this latest attack tended to lean more to the severe.
It was then that I chose to indulge my feminine side, meaning I stripped down to my underwear, put on the most depressing and sappiest movies Syd and I collectively own, and had a good cleansing cry. People underestimate the power of a cleansing cry. It takes the edge off, much like a stiff drink, with the exception that this is perfectly holistic. So I sit in my little nest on the futon, pillows lumped far and wide, quilt swathed around me like a baby-blue cocoon, damp tissues littering the ground as I sniff and choke a little bit on my tears. Again, good cry. Especially when you haven’t cried for ages. It’s great because at first you’re weeping for the characters, then you realize it isn’t about the characters at all, in fact, you don’t know what it’s about at all, but it feels too healthy to stop. And then you do, and everything just seems cleaner. Not you of course, you look a fright what with the fact that your mascara has changed from a solid to a liquid and made its way down your neck in an unseemly fashion.
It is then time for tea. It’s a most comforting tradition for me to make tea. I like to stand in the middle of my room just stirring the teabag around, making sure the sugar dissolves. I sip and survey my domain. And what I see is good, because it is mine.
But there is something to be said about the home and a life of domesticity. While I may have set myself upon a track whose prize is a lofty position in a career that snugly suits me, I frequently wonder what it would be like to simply keep a home. What would it be like to throw out my apprehensions for the future and basically downsize my life to fit within four walls? As a feminist and career-oriented individual, I regret to inform you that it is relatively tempting. With a society so driven by those monsters of money and fame, a-two-for-one-make-a-buck world, where the road to success is extensive and tricky, with no guarantee of security, living off a husband’s paycheck where I spend the day concerning myself with the care of my family and home sounds, if not idyllic, at least cushy. I don’t actually believe that the life of a homemaker is effortless; I’m simply saying that I understand the appeal. Finding joy in routine and having a place to maintain and call your own, even if it is a pitiful little box you’re attempting to home-i-fy by means of convoluted coffee makers, translucent dish sets from Target, and lively throw pillows may actually be just as important as venturing out and making your mark. I didn’t mean this so be sappy and inspirational, I’m just obviously feeling domestic and I use this as a justification for not doing pull-questions and reading Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. So…there’s that. I’m going to clean out the fridge now, I think.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
I'm just not that into it...yet.
So obviously I don't have the whole "Look at me I have a blog" thing down yet...but in my defense I am a very busy and important person and have nay pages of Aquinas to read and practical social obligations so I'll do my freaking best, alright? Geez. But, um, don't leave. I'll give the masses what they want....writing, sometimes offensive, some quotes interspersed...maybe...but patience is an imprtant virtue that most of us haven't quite mastered yet so...yea.
Plus I'm kind of pissed off that it won't let me post the picture I want in there. Which is, needless to say, Rosie the Riveter.
Plus I'm kind of pissed off that it won't let me post the picture I want in there. Which is, needless to say, Rosie the Riveter.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Taylor Gets A Blog
So Taylor got a blog. Which is weird, as she was rather persisiant on resisting the impending tempation of the blogging world, partly due to personal ethics and respect for words she dosn't want co-opted and devalued, and partly because she is just that stubborn.
There are three reasons why she got a blog. Here they are.
Respectable Reason #1: She hates Myspace.
Respectable Reason #2: She wanted to write again.
Respectable Reason #3: She had the following conversation:
Respectable Person: "Hey Taylor, you should get a blog."
Taylor: "Um, okay."
So there's that. Hopefully I won't go all freaky obsessive but I do like to write...like, alot, so I can't promise much.
P.S. If you care, the name deal is from this British guy I know who instead of saying someone is crazy, he will say that they are as mad as a box of frogs. Why? He's British. I figure it's just like vernacular. But I think it's kind of campy, plus I know we all secretly want to open a box and find it full of frogs. That would just be cool. The URL is from a Joni Mitchell song. I highly reccommend Joni Mitchell to anyone who has any desire to feel thier feelings and be a proper, decent human being.
There are three reasons why she got a blog. Here they are.
Respectable Reason #1: She hates Myspace.
Respectable Reason #2: She wanted to write again.
Respectable Reason #3: She had the following conversation:
Respectable Person: "Hey Taylor, you should get a blog."
Taylor: "Um, okay."
So there's that. Hopefully I won't go all freaky obsessive but I do like to write...like, alot, so I can't promise much.
P.S. If you care, the name deal is from this British guy I know who instead of saying someone is crazy, he will say that they are as mad as a box of frogs. Why? He's British. I figure it's just like vernacular. But I think it's kind of campy, plus I know we all secretly want to open a box and find it full of frogs. That would just be cool. The URL is from a Joni Mitchell song. I highly reccommend Joni Mitchell to anyone who has any desire to feel thier feelings and be a proper, decent human being.
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