Boys (Or a Very Vague Title)

One of my guy friends said this morning, “I don’t usually consider myself a male.” Then, almost immediately (or immediately after I started cracking up), he said, “I mean I don’t want to be considered the typical stupid male!” And this started me thinking…. Girls are always saying things like, “Guys just don’t get it!” Well, what about girls? What do guys instinctively understand that girls just don’t get? What are we missing?

So, if you are a male, and you are reading this…. Please, for the sakes of us beautiful, wonderful girls (haha), answer the question.

A Few Mentionable Links

First of all, I found a WordPress poem today that I actually liked.  For those of you who know me, I’m an unashamed word-snob, so when I find something that actually gains my approval, I feel like it’s worth sharing. So here’s the link: For Grey.

Also, I’m sure a lot of you have heard of PostSecret, but I’m posting (haha) the link anyway, because, for one, I’m slightly addicted, and two, I think it’s important for us to see that the rest of the world has just as many flaws and screwed-up parts of them as each of us do.  So here’s the link to the official PostSecret website.  (And just in case you don’t know what PostSecret is, here’s a link explaining the project: What It Be.)

Lastly, in 1962, two psychologists released what has come to be known as the Myers-Briggs personality test, based on the research and theories of eminent early-1900s Carl Jung, a student of Sigmund Freud. (Yeah, you know that sentence sounded fancy and academic.  Don’t deny it.)  The results are extremely accurate as the test is both valid (measuring what it is designed to measure) and reliable (producing the same results every time; I’ve taken it three different times with about six months in between each time, and I’ve always gotten the same answer).  (Am I frantically trying to memorize terms for my psychology test tomorrow by using vocabulary words in my blog?  No…. of course not….  And I’m certainly not using too many parentheses.)  So, take the test and then post your results here!  

I’m an INFJ, in case anyone was wondering.  You can read the personality synopsis here.  It’s actually pretty accurate, strangely enough, as I usually don’t set a lot of store into those tests.  But if you want to get a quick glimpse into my personality, abandon all hope ye who enter here then that’s a good way to do so without (hopefully) being terrified beyond all chance of regaining sanity. Kinda like reading the back cover of a book, I suppose.

I Wanted to Give this Post a Cool Title But I Couldn’t Think of One

I’m officially a poet now.

Why?  Well, let us consider a particular list of poets, including Dante, Yeats, Petrarch, and certainly innumerable other less well-known names.  What do all of these diverse writers have in common?  

They loved from afar.

Haha, dramatic, right?  And obviously I’m being over-dramatic, something I consider to be a personal skill—that’s why you should never believe my Facebook statuses if they say anything more incredible than “I love ultimate frisbee” or “I am sore all over from ultimate frisbee” or “I just played three hours of ultimate frisbee in the pouring rain.”  And “love” is such a dramatic word, too, and even I don’t want to be that dramatic….  What I am trying to get at, though, is that I think the boy at ultimate frisbee has beautiful eyes, is very cute, and… and… like I’ve said before, I can’t discover in me the ovarian fortitude to speak to him.

So, I am officially a poet, because I’m hiding behind a veneer of words typed up on a screen rather than actually doing anything.  Yes!

Oh, and I’ve been thinking a lot about the question what is poetry the last few days, somewhat in conjunction with my Communications and Critical Thinking class—thanks to Michael Wright (Professor Wright?  Mr. Wright?  Wait…. hey!), now I’m thinking critically all the freaking time.  *brain dies*  Ah-hem… anyway, I didn’t come up with much on my own, but I did find this quote on the Internet that I thought was quite pointful.  (And no, “pointful” is not a word, but I’ve been using it for several years now because I don’t know what word should actually go there.)

Most people ignore most poetry

because

most poetry ignores most people.

-Adrian Mitchell

Although I’m still trying to get to the bottom of the meaning of this quote—and don’t most quotes have oceans of meaning behind them, anyway?—I think the basic bare-bones interpretation of this could lie in the fact that poetry makes sense to so few people, and that so few people really have time to dig their fingernails and teeth and burrow down into poems, therefore the poems never really speak to them.  I myself can’t say that I do this very much—but what would the result be if every morning, everyone had to read a poem?  Really read it, I mean.  Interesting thought, anyway.

Funnily enough, the post I made several weeks ago about not being able to write a poem to finish my trilogy of summer poems has gotten the most search engine hits.  Apparently everyone wants to read poems about the end of the summer.  Ironically, I didn’t post the poem because I haven’t written it—I was just talking about how I wanted to—and even if I had, it wouldn’t have had anything to do with summer, because the other two don’t either.  Anyway, I at least have a vague idea of what I want to do for it.  So that’s exciting… to me, anyway.

Last night, I went to the Josh Gracin and Lady Antebellum concert in the Benson.  Right, a COUNTRY MUSIC CONCERT.  Oh, the horror!  Yeah… my thoughts, too.  But it actually wasn’t that bad.  The first band that played—what do they call those, openers?—were pretty awful, but I really liked Lady Antebellum and Josh Gracin was at least decent.  I went to expand my horizons, and I think I succeeded, at least partly.  I’ll never be a country music fa-reak, but maybe I don’t have to hate it.

Also, I wanted to post THIS LINK because I thought it was pretty random and creative—hopefully you guys will like it too.

As a last note, Charlene found a funny, slightly offensive quote that I wanted to share with the world:

Girls are like parking spaces.  All the good ones are taken, and the rest are handicapped.

Well, I’m not sure what I think about being considered handicapped, but considering some of the dumb things I do (all of which, I am pretty sure, Miguel knows about and was probably hiding in the bushes to see), it’s probably true.

And now I’m off… to throw frisbee.  Imagine that.

Birmingham is in Arkansas, and Other Moments of Sheer Stupidity

Last night, Charlene and I attended the social club open house over at the Ganus building (yes, it’s pronounced gay-ness, and yes, I laugh immaturely every time I say it too).  We had a good time, it was overwhelming, I’m excited to be in a social club and be a total college dork, blah, blah, blah.  The point is that we met another Princess Club—potentially even worse than the original Princess Club.

To go back in time to Saturday, Charlene and I went to the meet-the-officers club thing-a-ma-bobber on the front lawn, and one of the clubs we looked at was Ju Go Ju (whatever that means, whatever language that is—undoubtedly something from a land where the only colors are shades of pink).  Anyway, all of the girls were so girly and so happy and so, well, blonde (even though there were brunettes and redheads too) that I was seriously counting down the seconds until a unicorn jumped down out of the tree and shot a rainbow out of its butt.  So we designated it the Princess Club.

Back to yesterday night.  It turns out that Ju Go Ju had an illegitimate child named Ko Jo Chi that it raised in a field of pink grass and aforementioned rainbow-butt unicorns, despite the fact that the girl we met during the officers’ session seemed fairly normal and well-balanced (a.k.a. not seriously overdosed on happy pills).  While we were talking to them (and getting more freaked out by the second, I might add), one of them asked me the typical where-are-you-from question.  Conversation proceeded as follows:

Kellum: Birmingham.

Princess 1: Hmm… That’s in Arkansas, right?

Righto, smart one.  If only I had had the presence of mind to say, “Yes, of course it is.”

As if that wasn’t bad enough, they continued to talk, getting more high-pitched and giggly as time went on (seriously, did they convert insulin pumps to straight-up sugar pumps?), conversing about their own social-club-choosing process and the various mixers they attended.  One was a Mexican-themed party….

Princess 2: Yeah, we had to wear like, so-ray-ros or something.  Like I can afford a so-ray-ro.

In case you aren’t fluent in Blondese, she was talking about a sombrero, a traditional Mexican hat, like any reasonably clued-in person would know.  

How did these girls get into college?  The same way the Harding mascot got to be “Bisons” although any reasonably clued-in person knows that it should be “Bison.”  The same way the girl from my kinesiology class got into college:

Professor:  Women tend to live longer lives because estrogen is a heart-protecting hormone.

Girl in the back: Does that mean that feminine guys live longer?

Aye.  Love the moron, hate the moron-osity.  (I guess….)

Also: sad day.  The boy with the beautiful eyes was at the ultimate frisbee game again today, but I couldn’t get up the guts to talk to him.  One day, I’m going to grow some ovaries and actually do the things I think about doing.

The Midnight Sun Debacle

I feel a little dead inside, honestly.

Yes, I understand that the Twilight series really doesn’t have just mountains of literary merit.  The likelihood that people will be reading them centuries from now is slim and none.  But for my generation, the books have provided a fantasy world into which teenagers and adults alike can escape from the boring drag of everyday life.  Twilight has given us a way to be extraordinary even when, at the core, each of us is very much like the next person; just like Bella in the story, we’ve been given the opportunity to obsess over something much bigger than ourselves, just for the sake of light-and-easy fun.  Twilight has given us conversation pieces, incredible dreams (or is it just me that wakes up in the morning having spent all her sleeping hours with Jacob Black?), a way to connect to random strangers, and sometimes (for the few and the proud), something to hate just as passionately as the rest of us love it.

And now the saga is prematurely over because some complete git leaked an incomplete manuscript of Midnight Sun.  Of course my first reaction is to believe the rumor that dear old Robert Pattinson is the perpetrator of the crime, but I know that would be unfair as there really isn’t enough evidence—it’s simply the fact that I think he’s stupid and a horrible Edward.  But beyond that… I feel horrible for Stephenie.  Her incomplete and unedited manuscript was just thrown out there for the world to see—and these things seriously aren’t ready until they’re ready, if that makes any sense.  Having a piece of writing you haven’t finished or didn’t want to share aired for literally the entire Internet world to read is somewhat like suddenly realizing you’re naked onstage; all of your flaws are displayed for everyone and you don’t have the advantage of clothes or makeup or jewelry—editing—to cover them up.

Honestly, I think Stephenie made the right decision by not revealing the leaker.  Because fans would probably attack in hordes and rip the moron to pieces.  I might just be leading that mob, and not because I’ve been deprived of another Twilight book (though that disappoints me too).  It’s because of the complete and public destruction of the author’s trust and right to privacy. 

Stephenie posted the manuscript on her website so fans wouldn’t “have to make a sacrifice to stay honest,” but even with my undenied Twilight fanaticism, I cannot bring myself to read it.  At least, not yet.  The writer in me is still too busy sharing Stephenie’s feeling of, well, betrayal.

Anyway, just in case you do want to read it, or read Stephenie’s article (which, if you are fuming about not being able to own the actual book, you should check it out… it explains pretty well the reason behind her not publishing it), here is the link: stepheniemeyer.com.

New Music, Milo, Packing, and How-Many-Minutes-Are-In-A-Block

It’s new music Tuesday!  In honor of my new Heroes mini-obsession, I have decided that this week’s song will be “Eyes” by Rogue Wave.  (This song plays on the first few episodes of season one.) Here’s the link to the playlist.com page with the song.  And here are the lyrics:

 

Missed the last train home

Birds pass by to tell me that I’m not alone.

 

Well I’m pushing myself to finish this part,

I can handle a lot,

But one thing I’m missing is in your eyes.

 

In your eyes (x6)

 

Have you seen this film?

It reminds me of walking through the avenues.

 

Washing my hands of attachments yeah,

land on the ground,

one thing I’m missing is in your eyes.

(Cause I find love),

 

In your eyes (x6)

 

And to go along with a song, here is another picture of dearest Peter Petrelli/Milo Ventimiglia, still without the cute smile/crooked lip, but beautiful nonetheless ^_^  I’m certainly finding something in his eyes….

…………

I’m curious to know if anyone ever reads past about the first ellipsis or so in my entries.  They do tend to be kind of long…. but I generally have a lot to say.  Maybe nothing relevant to say, but lots to say nonetheless.

Packed pretty much all day today.  Word to high school seniors, if you happen to be reading this: START PACKING WEEKS BEFOREHAND.  Do NOT, I repeat, do NOT follow my example and wait until the day before you leave to begin the hardcore packing.  My brain is in little pieces all over the house, leaked out of my head from the stress and the trying-to-figure-out-where-the-crap-all-of-this-crucially-important-stuff-is-going-to-go.  And I don’t even have Michael Phelps’ beautiful body to look forward to in the evenings anymore.  Life is no longer worth living! Well, okay, that’s a bit of a hyperbole, but still.  (Woohoo, I used a literary term!  Take that, Mrs. Bice and Mrs. Griffo, I haven’t forgotten everything from a homework-less summer!)

Two more days until move-in and the beginning of my New Life.  I can’t wait.

And just in case you were wondering, I just got distracted for about a minute looking at that picture of Milo.  He really is quite gorgeous.

……….

On Saturday, Mom and I went to have lunch with Martha, my older and quite cool cousin, at the Bottletree Cafe, a trendy (though overpriced and annoyingly vegan) hole-in-the-wall in a shadier part of Birmingham.  As usual, she had plenty of stories, but she had an incredible one from her first day as an eighth-grade math teacher that I am going to share….

During one of her classes, a girl raised her hand and said, “Hey, Mrs. Teacher, how many minutes are in a block?”

Martha answered, “There are 96 minutes to a block.”

The girl sat there for a few seconds and then said, “Wow!  That’s like, almost an hour!”

I’m sure you can imagine the look on Martha’s face.  Description is kind of unnecessary.  Martha looked at her for a second, and then said, “Sweetie, how many minutes are in an hour?”

“Sixty,” the girl replied.  Again, she sat there for a second and then said, “Wow!  That’s more than an hour!”

No duh, says the fourth grader in me.  Gah….  But it gets better: Trying to turn the mishap into a lesson, Martha asked, “Well, let’s see.  How many more minutes is a block than an hour?  What is ninety-six minus sixty?”

For the third time, the girl sat there, thinking.  Then she said, “Hang on a second, let me get out a piece of paper.” And while she was working out the problem on said piece of paper, the rest of the class starting shouting out answers: “Forty-five!” “Twenty-six!”  “Thirty-three.”

As Martha would say, “What in the name?”  I love the American education system….