At Hogwarts, it’s true we ruled the school. And you can never be as cool…

Summertime, Summertime, Summertime. It’s exam week again. This exam week is much more difficult than last Spring’s because this year I actually like the people I call my friends…
I need a nap, and a glass of wine. Okay, it’s not so much that I need a glass of wine (I’m far too young to hit the bottle) its that I need the good times and camaraderie that I associate with all of my wine experiences.  Vinoooo. I will settle for hummus, Damascus bread, and Tabouli at Al-Amir though!
I’ve been listening to a lot of different music lately, thanks to Sjaan. I like when different people from my life can get along. Michael thinks Sjaan is awesome. And no doubt he knows not to mess with the warrior, or else he would get covered in tea like I almost was.
Earlier this evening, Jenn texted me and sjaan and I don’t know who else: “You you guys are on campus come to wesley basement and get some cupcakes.” Um. What? Sjaan and I were studying at the time, and we made a mad dash down 4 twisty flights of stairs. When we got to the basement kitchen we flew around the corner heading straight for the hot funfetti cupcakes, me then her. Only it was a trap! Ackbar was right! There was something slippery on the floor, and I took the turn too quickly. Down I went! Sjaan saw me take the dive and skidded to a halt before she reached the slippery spot. I quickly got up, dusted myself off, and walked eagerly to the cupcakes. Chocolate Funfetti icing too? Score. They were painfully delicious.

There are a lot of things I’d like to say but can’t, because, quite obviously, this is the internet, and I just used more commas than I should have.
I am going to miss my friends a great deal this summer. I’m hoping that there will actually be a get-together or two. Because going to HarryPotterWorld or whatnot at Universal Studios is a bit of a stretch, Morgan has settled on all of us seeing Toy Story 3 for her birthday. I think I can do that, considering I live ten minutes away from her.  She is going to Washington, D.C next semester, then Spain the next, then is traveling across Europe the following Summer. I’m jealous. Maybe I will manage to convince her to start a blog about her travels…okay it isn’t likely, but I am going to try.
My friends are starting to get wedding fever. I am too. Not really. I haven’t started to look for places, etc. but I have been thinking about the future lately. Okay I’m lying. You have no idea how many wedding blogs I’ve begun to follow this week.  How pathetic?

Happily Ever After, Until She Comes Home

Something I thought about the other day. A question I asked myself:

A girl met a boy, and a boy met a girl. They knew it was meant to be.
Ice cream dates and talking all night. They knew it was meant to be.

But deep down, they knew it couldn’t last forever. They knew they couldn’t stay together.
Their love was secret, beautiful, real, but that didn’t mean a thing.

He was called back to home, a sorrowful parting, and she kept her sadness a secret.

He returns with a ring on his hand, but this isn’t his choice nor hers.
What happens then? Is there much of a point?

Why you continue to pursue what you know is true. The point is love, of course. I’m not talking love on paper, the signing of a contract. I’m talking true love here.

But, I thought she said she’d never be the other woman? You’d be surprised at what you would do if you know that their love isn’t there and theirs is true.

It’s a terrible secret to have to carry around. Sometimes she may wonder if she will find someone else that she can be with. Sometimes she may wonder if He, who knows best, will make it all work out in the end; happily ever after.

It must kill her inside to love him so much. It must kill him inside to know he loves her and not the once he shares his life with. Love shouldn’t hurt, right? Love knows no bounds, right? That’s what we were always taught as children. Grow up, find our one true love, and live happily ever after. Happily ever after. It sounds like such an easy thing to do.

What would you do if you met the person you knew you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with, but knew it wasn’t ever going to happen?

 

AMZ

I am a Myth.

I like how I can go online, put in my email address, and start a blog. All of the sudden, I’m a writer. I’m a writer? I’m a writer!

I’m not a writer.

I am a myth. Or at least that was my dream as a child. I had always wanted to be what other people couldn’t. I wanted to be the protagonist of our favorite books. Maybe for a little while I wanted to be the character with wings. Maybe for a while I wanted to be the super saiyan. I wanted to be unique. I wanted to be talked about. I wanted to be magic. I’m probably not the only one who felt that way during childhood, but for the sake of selfishness and that desire to be unique, I wanted to be the only one who felt that way.

I am packing up to move out of my dorm. It is a slow process because I have to wait until weekends to bring things home. I pack things in order of importance. All of the crap I didn’t really need at school went first. All that is left is some things that I don’t need there, and some things that I do.
I have some posters hung up. Half of them are of the artsy, black & white, grown-up sort. You know a shot of the Eiffel Tower, Wars End Kiss, etc. Then I have some random posters that I will have to let go of eventually. Avatar: The Last Airbender, Kingdom Hearts II. I am trying to figure out when I have to throw them away. That sounds like a stupid thing to talk about, I know. If that’s how you feel, then whatever. But I mean when do I have to throw these childhood posters away? Are they going to be Dining Room conversation pieces? Themes for the nursery? When I throw them away, will I be a grown up?

There isn’t anything on the walls anymore. It is just a boring, concrete box. I don’t wanna be in it anymore.

TGIF. Thank God Its Finals. Well, it will be next week.  But I don’t have much work left to do this week but exam reviews, so I am trying to relax a little. After I move out I am going straight to work for mom.

I want to be a grown up. I mean I know I’m grown up, but I’m not a grown up.

Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,

AMZ

The Pickles Show!

Friday, after gorging ourselves on all you can eat barbequed pork and other southern classics, We arrived home to hear this sound. It was an odd sound, like a little girl saying “Ow, ow, ow.” Mom said its the kitten she tried to save the other day, but got away from her.
After meowing at it for ten minutes, and it meowing back, I discovered it was inside of my neighbor’s shed. What a good time to meet my neighbor for the first time! Michael and I managed to grab it and bring it inside.
  Her name is Pickles. Though my friend Sjaan never got to meet Pickles, she decided this awesome name.
Pickles cries like a baby, probably because she still is a baby. Apparently her voice box is messed up, because her cute kitten meow is silent, though she still tries. And her scared, abandoned meow is loud and sad. You can’t leave her alone, or she will cry. In the short 24 hours that I had Pickles in my home, she went from deathly scared of people, to loving us dearly. She went from starving and skinny to fat and happy. She went from orphan to adopted. She followed us around the house and the yard because she knew we were her family. She would climb up my shirt and nuzzle me, and I’d nuzzle back as a good mom should. It is a sign of love.
Pickles left us, the foster family, to live with Leslie and Mona. Leslie is a dear friend of the family, and Mona is her kitty. It was kitty love at first sight when Leslie came to get Pickles. I knew she was going to a good home and a good family.
 
Even now, two days after Pickles “moved,” I am sad that she is gone. I know she would have been lonely in our house during the day. I know we would have a hard time with buying food and such, but boy is she a great kitty. She learned to use a litter box in two days! I guess I feel this way because I don’t have any pets other than my Betta Fish, Sgt. Pepper. You can’t hold a fish, and they’re just using you for food. Fish are jerks.
I know I want a cat when I have my own place, I just want to make sure it’s special. Not some mean cat. That’s what I liked about Pickles. She was rescued, and she was thankful.
I am happy because Pickles is happy in her new home, and Leslie is happy to have her. My own special kitty is out there when I am ready for it.

Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,
AMZ

Superfeminist!…to the Rescue?

Let’s talk about feminism. Let’s talk about the fight for a woman to be on the same level as a man. That’s what feminism is, in case you didn’t already know that. Its a bit of an odd word. That ism, makes it seem so negative. Racism, colorism, sexism—All are so negative. But feminism, that’s a word that runs against the pack, I guess. Antifeminism fits into that trend of isms and negativity more than the word itself. Maybe we should consider changing it.
The word is pretty serious, from what I’ve learned. No it doesn’t mean I burn bras. No, it doesn’t mean I hate men because they are pigs. Nope, none of that. I love men. Most of them are pretty cool guys. Now, a few bad apples have tried to spoil the bunch, in both cases. There are some men out there that really are pigs. And there are some women out there, waving the flag of feminism, that push back the cause instead of further it. “Equality for women!…and punishment for men, for everything they’ve done to us.”
As a student at a woman’s college, this superfeminism is an idea that is taken far too seriously by a few of the students. These students preach about women’s oppression in the history of, well, forever, and turn around and oppress their male counterparts. They say a man has no right to a pregnant woman’s child, because he isn’t carrying it for nine months. Well ladies, there are plenty of men that would carry their child themselves (if it were biologically possible, of course) if it meant that that child would be healthy. That’s such a terrible thing to say. Boohoo, I carried a baby for nine months, I went through this pain and suffering, he will never see that child because I went through it and he doesn’t know what it is like. Boohoo my body is ruined because of him.
Aww, isn’t that so sad. You were put through that whole long nine months, poor you. But your selfish decision will keep a capable father from having a relationship with his child because you are mad that he couldn’t carry it instead. I propose that we have a nation-wide tube tying. Some women just aren’t fit to have kids because even if they are responsible for this small life, they will still think that everything is about themselves.
My point is, despite the digressions...that just because your predecessors of the same sex have been put through hell and back, doesn’t mean you make it your mission in life to take revenge on the opposite sex. I believe the proper definition that these people would fit is: Stank. Don’t be stank, people.

Ice Cream Drama Queen

I have decided that I will no longer call people my friends. You see, whenever I call someone close to me a (good, best, awesome, you get the picture) friend, the forces of the universe decide to take my words, my simple expression, and make me pay. Friends will become develop assorted tensions, relationships will begin and end, drama will ensue! Crash! It will almost be as bad as the remake of “Clash of the Titans.” (There I said it, it’s out there now. That movie was terrible.)
The point is, I guess, that we all change. For the good or bad, that depends on the individual. But sometimes we change whether we know it or not. Maybe a silent parting and a summer break will fix the relationship and make it whole again, like day one. Maybe that has been tried before. Maybe there have already been so many summer breaks and there will only be so many more before the final parting…
I heard the suggestion of something along the lines of an ice-cream-I-hate-you-party. Where we, the cluster of feuding friends in question, chow down on our favorite ice creams and let loose the dormant feelings that we have hidden. Personally, I would go into that with an attitude. You would all have your giant Edy’s to share (spit, spoons, and swear words), and I would have one of those personal Ben and Jerry’s ice creams that only cost a buck. Yes, the one with the little spoon. Partly because my family is from Vermont, as are Ben and Jerry, so whenever I can show some pride for the Green Mountain State I will. Partly it is because I want my favorite flavor to myself, so the rest of you can suck moose tracks. It wouldn’t be the best attitude to go into a group intervention with.
Does anybody have some Ben and Jerry’s? I think it’s about damn time.
There is this sickening, winded feeling. Deep in my gut. It shortens my breath and makes me panic. I am looking side to side and everything appears to be normal, but that feeling remains. I feel like I am back in high school. Mumbling under your breath. Talking about her. Scoff. Ignore. Interrupt. I would like to go one day. No, I would love to go one day- where everyone I know feels like September. The newness of the fall semester, but the old comfort like your favorite pair of jeans that you know won’t let you down. But it is still only Spring, and we have blossomed a new boldness and contempt. We have to wait for the heat of Summer for the contempt to wither.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what not to day. According to John Mayer, I should say what I need to say. But saying what you need to say is easier said than done.
Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,
AMZ

What’s That You’re Drinking? Why This? This is Mud.

While I sat in my Social Work class, falling asleep because of the dim lighting and informative film from the 80’s, I decided to start writing a list. It was called: Things to Blog About. Among the things on this list are eating sideways, Facebook formalities, and shite coffee.
Something I scribbled on the top of the list was: When rude girls stare in the dining hall. Okay, when my friends and I are eating lunch and enjoying life, talking about bestiality and watching our friend Jenn laugh so hard that she chokes on water, do me a favor: Don’t stare. Yes, that is water coming from her nose. It’s quite obvious that you have a problem with us. You being the large group of girls openly gawking. So either say something (an adult thing to do), or get over it (also an adult thing to do). Nothing like a bunch of histrionic child-like girls openly jeering. As I have said before: If you don’t stop staring, I will start charging admission. (It’s only the capitalist thing to do).
Parenthesis are “in” in this post, as are colons.
I only have one more scoop of amazing vanilla-nut-butter-cookie flavored coffee left in my fridge, and alas, this is not enough coffee to get me through the week. In order to remedy this painful situation I woke up at 8 this morning, as usual, (and with a mean case of David Bowie morning hair) but this time I committed myself to walking to the terrace for a cup of their brew and a scone. Well. As it turns out, it doesn’t open until 8:30. Ah well, such is life. I went back up at 8:30, got my scone and cup o’ Starbucks coffee. By the smell of this foul liquid, I would be needing an assault of creams and sugars to tame the bitter. 6 sugars, 5 creams. A cautious sip. /Gag/. 2 more sugars and 2 more creams. Awful still, but I’ll take it. Count ‘em up people: 8 sugars and 7 creams to help me realize the painful truth: Starbucks coffee will still taste like cardboard and rear-end no matter what magical potions you put in it to improve the taste.
I wanted to talk about something important. Not deathly important, but still important enough. All of you do it, whether you are bold enough to admit it is up to you. You see friends, I am talking about Facebook Formalities. What exactly is a Facebook formality? Well boys and girls, a Facebook formality is the acceptance and maintenance of Facebook friends that aren’t actually based on a real friendship. This could be completely harmless, like being friends with your old boss, that cool teacher from high school you know you will never speak to once you become friends, or even those classmates from high school that you know you will never talk to once you become friends. On the other side of this it could be dangerous. That harpie ex-friend of yours that oozes so much narcissism that it makes you ill to hear their name, the classmate or coworker that gets on your last nerve, that airhead that is so full of themselves and addicted to their destructive lifestyle (sleeping around, tanning, drinking, this list goes on forever) that it makes you wonder how come they haven’t realized that their life is full of fail yet. “_____ ______ I love my life! I am so happy and I love my amazing friends so much!” Stop lying haha, we all know that just means you’re miserable and putting on a show for the Facebook Formalities. Facebook formalities are so full of bunk. Dear Friend, I hate you.
On a positive note, I guess I need to go talk to a priest. You see, I am (kinda-sorta-mostly-almost) Catholic. *Story Time* Mom was pregnant with me, while raising two children. I think they were about 5 and 3. The two of them were baptized in the Catholic Church, so mom wanted the same for me. Well being so busy with momming, she didn’t make it to church as often as she would have liked. When she took me in to be baptized, the priest said something along the lines of, “I’m not going to baptize your child because you have low attendance and will obviously not raise her in the church.” Well. Mom said he could go to hell, flipped him the bird, took me home, blessed the kitchen sink, and tossed me in! The end.*
Anyway, I am kind of Catholic, and Michael is Episcopalian, but has from a young age wanted to get married in a Catholic Church. That leaves us with two options: Either he can convert to the true Christian religion, or we (God, and priest willing) can get married in a Catholic church purely because I am Catholic and if we swear on the powers that be to raise our offspring in the Catholic Church. I am hoping for the first one, but will take the latter. This is where talking to a priest comes in. In order to convert, as I am told by ma cousine, Erin, He will have to take an adult course (which lasts about a year) in order to become part of the Church. He is a full time student with a full time job and a full time relationship—when could he possibly have time for courses? What I am wondering is whether or not he should do it before we get married (God willing) or afterward in the magical lull between college stress and the stress of kids. When our money is our own and so is our home! et cetera. Mom said he is going to be an amazing father. I’d have to agree with that.
Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,
AMZ