Thursday, June 23, 2011
I have a secret to tell you.
I'm leaving to California tomorrow. And not coming back until August.
It's because I'm going to be an intern at Nickelodeon Animation Studios in big L.A.
Except, an intern with pay.
But I'll still post things and stuff. Probably. (But maybe not because I lost a follower yesterday and I'm ultra depressed now.)
Wish me luck. And wish me love.
Cal-if-or-nia gurls, they're unforgettable.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Oh my darling, clementine.
This is a how-to post about the process of eating a bag of baby oranges.
So here you go.
How to Eat a Bag of Baby Oranges
Step One: (in the grocery store) Stare at all the bags of baby oranges out there. Don't just blindly grab for the nearest bag, and don't just take the bag that you spotted one attractive orange in. You have to spend time with each bag, make sure you feel comfortable with the relationship you're getting yourself into. Because you might feel like you like a few qualities about the one bag, but if you shift around the surface oranges, the blemished innards will come up and you'll be stuck in with a half-spoiled pound of baby oranges and I'll bet the whole thing ends in tears.
Step Two: (at home) Wash the oranges, I guess. I probably wouldn't, but you can let your mom take care of that step because she worries about your health. At least, that's how we do it around here.
Step Three: Put the oranges in the refrigerator. Because everybody knows that cold fruit is just better.
Step Three-Point-Five: (before you eat) This step is a miniature how-to, because I don't want you to do it wrong. How to Peel: You have to start on the side of the orange that wasn't attached to the tree. Like, not the belly-button of the fruit. Stick a fingernail in, but if you go too far and puncture any of the actual fruity part, might as well give up and throw the whole thing away. Then you have to carefully remove the peel, and hopefully in one big piece if you can manage it. If you do get it in one, enjoy a short celebration. Next, get rid of all the white junk. And that thing that's in the middle of the orange. And the nubby things on both ends. Inspect your work and go back if you need to. Peel into sections one by one. And that's it.
Step Four: (the first few oranges) Be overly selective. If the orange is slightly misshapen, discolored, or spotted: put it back. Pick only the best orange to eat because you can.
Step Five: (half the bag is gone) Now that all the perfect baby oranges have been eaten, you're kind of like, "Hey, this is sort of flat on one side, no biggie."
Step Six: (the last few, and they're ugly) There are three baby oranges left and you've written it on the shopping list, but you're not going to the store for at least two days. Panic aside, you're going to eat whatever misshapen, dirty, bruised vaguely orange-shaped item that someone places in front of you. You tell yourself that you like it shriveled up like that. You say, "A little bit of green on the outside is good for you." You eat the suspicious orange-thing. It's fine.
Step Seven: Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
And the days were getting shorter, once again.
I've heard that every character in a book has one thing that they want more than anything. The Want. It's their goal, their drive, the thing that makes them fight or travel across the world or do stupid things in front of important people or risk their life. It's the thing that wakes them up early in the morning, and it's the thing that keeps them up late at night. The Want. And it's different for every character. Sometimes it's a person, sometimes it's justice, and maybe it's even just a glass of milk but that glass of milk is so important that the character is willing to dive off a cliff or visit Hell to get it.
Aren't people --- real, breathing, non-fiction people --- the same though? Don't we have something that drives us, that keeps us alive? And maybe it's something that we'll never, ever get: but we want it more than anything else? The Want.
I can't guess what yours is. I'm not even positive if I know my own Want. Because is this the thing that I'd kill for? That I'd be killed for?
I don't know. I was just saying.
The love and loveliness.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
And no matter how much you will your legs to soak up some UV rays, no matter how much you scold them, no matter how much you plead or say politely, "Please get a little bit tan, Legs. You look like death", they're still going to be white enough to make Edward Cullen jealous when you go to California in two weeks.
Hey, does that tanning lotion stuff work?
Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
These are a few (true) facts about my thoughts on shoes:
1. I love my shoes.
2. I wish I had more shoes.
3. You can judge a person's whole personality and likability based on their shoes.
4. There are always better shoes.
5. The best ones always cost the most.*
6. The best ones always get all dingy the fastest.*
7. The best ones always end in tragedy.*
8. Don't throw away any of your shoes, no matter how ugly you think they are now, because someday they'll come back in style and you'll feel very sad about losing them.
9. It sucks when everyone, including the cheerleaders and geeks and everyone in the world, catches onto your favorite new shoes and then it suddenly looks like you're some kind of trend-zombie.
10. Everyone deserves one pair of The Perfect Shoes. It just takes determination to find them.
*Not "always" true, per se. I should have said "usually", I guess.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
I only have one 100% guaranteed safety phrase for when you're traveling in France, and I'd like to share it with you. It's a rare, albeit life-or-death situation. So, it's really useful, is what I'm trying to tell you.
When you meet a stranger in France, say this: "Êtes-vous un extraterrestre?"
And if he says, "Non, je ne suis pas un extraterrestre", then you can be friends.
But if he says, "Oui. Je suis un extraterrestre. Bleep bloop bleeeeeeeep", then you should run for life and also call the government.
On the other hand, if you say this: "Êtes-vous un magicien?"
And the Frenchman's reply is: "Je suis un magicien!" Marry him.
And there you have it. Complete conversational French for your next trip to Paris. Au revoir!
And if the clock gets stuck on 11:03, does that mean that it's 11:03 forever?
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
I should have counted the days, because isn't this a surprise?
No more finals. No more Mondays. No more dusty trophy case and pretending to examine it because I feel bad that no one ever looks. No more pretty senior boys. No more new-red-carpet-smell. No more perfect locker #1190.
Just one last love letter in someone's yearbook, and I think they're ugly anyway.
There's summer, but that's temporary. There's senior year, but that's a joke.
I'm all grown up now. Hardly seventeen-years-old and my life seems very small and very large all at once.
I don't even know what this means. How could I forget so many days? I can't remember February. I barely remember last week.
And then I got an iPhone.