Lessons Learned

Things I've learned this year:

We can't force people to be who we want them to be. We can push and prod them into the vision we've had, the idea we've conceived, but that won't them make them the ideal. We'll just be disappointed when we realize that we've been clinging to a dream.

Dating is messy. Enough said.

I shake when I'm mad. Seriously. I physically shake. I had to pull over the car at one point. Poor Maggie can attest to that. I made her sit in the parking lot of an ice cream parlor for literally an hour, blasted the heat, and had to be talked down before I could drive again.

I have awesome friends. Dude. I had no idea how awesome they all were. I had no idea how much my team -- yes, I am a debate nerd, whatever -- means to me, and how much they can be there for me. How much I fit with the people I love. It's kind of cool.

Ice cream cannot solve everything. However, writing is like, the best therapy ever.

People are way crazier than I thought. And they aren't all like me. I based what people would do off of what I would do, and then was shocked when they did something different. When sometimes, they did scummy stuff. It's interesting. I'm not perfect, but I'm relatively grounded. It's freaky how many people really, really aren't.

When something is poison, it's always going to be poison. And pretending it might turn into nectar or gold or hell, even diet coke, is just naive.

Someone called me whimsical today. It's funny, though. I'm really not. I talk about pandas and monkeys and sparkles, but I'm fully aware of the hurt in the world. I didn't win districts by giving speeches about sequins. I think it's just about learning to cope and moving on; dwelling on the pain is just gonna make more darkness.

Books get a lot of things right. I just didn't realize how real a lot of emotions are.

But more than anything?

There's always light at the end of the tunnel. There's always green grass and shiny skies, and there's always sparkles in the future. Life is what we make it. We can't be happy unless we move on. We can't move on unless we keep our eyes on what's in front of us, and not stuck on all the crap that we've been trenched in.  Sometimes we just have to be -- well, whimsical. Jump around, listen to music, dream about tomorrow.

Closing doors opens windows. It forges new hallways and busts down walls that had been so long, we'd just grown used to the fact that they were blocking off new worlds. Worlds that are just as good and maybe better than the ones we live in.

Someday, the crap that has been this year will be a great book. And until then, it's made me stronger. It's hurt and it's sucked, but it's over -- I'm making it be over. And I'm going to relish Nationals in debate, relish writing, reading, relish my library and my friends and all of the great, great things in my life. I'm worth more than how I've been feeling. How I've let myself be treated. But the only way to write great books, I guess, is to live a little bit of crap.
So.

More later. Promise, it won't be gushy or personal. I just kinda felt like putting this out there would make it more real. Basically, you are my bouncing board. Be proud. :P
What about you? Adversity teaches us things. What have you learned?

Pick Up Your Ninja Stars and Fight (or not)

Hey, all! How are you today? Were your holidays fantastic? -waits patiently for answer- Oh, good. That's very good -- except for those that weren't. And for you, I suggest cookies. Or Starburst. Either will work wonders, I promise.
So. Christmas is over. Target is no longer a place where you might lose appendages to rabid shoppers, and there will be no more obnoxious music being blasted on the radio. (Well. No more seasonal obnoxious music, at least.) But the stories of Christmas stay around, right? The heart warming ones -- the ones that you hear in school, or occasionally on the television (when the news isn't telling us how we're all going to die, that is) or the ones you just see. This is the time of year that good things happen. That brave and strong people are highlighted in stories.
Which leads to this thought -- why don't we always highlight brave and strong? Why does it take a Christmas story?
And--what is brave? And what is strong?
In movies, it's easy to identify. Look for the red eyes. The covert-behind-the-heroine's-back nod at the not-so-clean-ally. You'll have found the bad guy.
(Most of the time. Sometimes, it could look like this, and then end up way confusing, and we all die a little on the inside.)

But think about books. And think about life. Brave is hard to identify sometimes. We can see cowards without skipping a beat -- the boy who picks the easy way out, the girl who lets herself fall apart without fighting and is too scared to stand on her own, the people who put themselves before everyone, even children, -- but seeing heroes can be harder. The boy who chose to be on his own instead of hurting the people he cares about, the girl who fights for herself, the people who give up their time and energy to take care of children -- are they brave?
I think so.
But we overlook just how brave, and just important, those moments of courage are. We admire them, but defining them as anything more than temporarily admirable is kind of rare. And figuring out brave?
Yeah. Not easy.
Very few of us look at our life and can say that we've always been courageous. That we've always fought for something, some idea, some moral, or some prospect. The only way to get stronger is to fight, but we don't always do it. It's certainly easier not to. But if we read a book a that the character didn't fight, didn't try to be their best, would we keep reading?
Probably not. I mean, we don't like cowards, right? And if someone isn't always brave, then they are indeed a coward. Right? (-insert sarcasm here-)
It's one thing to have a moment of weakness. But inherent weakness? Inherent cowardliness? We would put the book down. Wrinkle our noses.
Despite the fact that we, ourselves, are not always inherently brave. Despite the fact that we don't even acknowledge bravery when we do see it.

In school, situations go bad fast. Drama, fireworks, whispered rumors, passive aggressive Facebook posts (I'm not kidding. Facebook is a battle ground, yo, and sometimes, there be blood) and flat out meanness can come out of tiny situations. When the situation grows, so can the fallout. And the people who start bandaging problems, who start fixing things, who don't cry, scream, or proclaim that they are going to die, are viewed positively. Brave, even. But take it out of school. Take situations out in the real world. Would simply fixing conflict be brave? Or is confronting the one causing the problem braver? Is it weak to want things to fit back to normal, or would it be wrong to let life crumble?
Courage is relative. It's hard to figure out, and it's messy. Sometimes being brave sucks. When you look to Scarlet O'Hara, a character who is often very brave, but not very nice, we get a character that many people don't like. But she is almost universally admired; I mean, there's a reason that thousands of people have slogged through the hundreds of pages of Gone With The Wind, and it's not just for the corsets.

Because we like to read about heroes. In situations that we never thought we would have to face. In situations we are scared of. In situations that sometimes, aren't even possible. But we read about heroes because we can see bravery, we can figure it out. It's like those Christmas stories -- seeing bravery, seeing heroes, gives us hope and happiness and other fuzzy, sparkly stuff that would totally bake into an awesome cake.

We like making our characters infallible. But it's not brave to fight when you have nothing to lose. It's one of those things in writing that has to be addressed -- weakness is what makes us strong.
Make your characters brave, guys. Make them strong. But remember -- the best heroes are the ones who are like us. Who aren't always brave. Who aren't always strong. Who, sometimes, are scared to fight -- but ultimately, pull out their sword, their machete, or their wicked awesome ninja stars, and fight anyway. Katniss Everdeen, Harry Potter, even Bella Swan are brave, in the end, because they are scared and fight anyway.  Those are the real heroes.
 (Are you still wrinkling your nose because I called Bella brave? I feel like you are.) (Siggggh.)
More later, guys, probably in the form of reviews. I've got a lot to catch up on. I hope your holiday remainder is fan-flipping-tabulous, all, and don't have too much fun come New Years.
(Or do. I don't judge.)

Boys and Books

Relationships in high school?
Suck.
Just saying. You can be happy for like, ten seconds. Even REALLY happy for about ten seconds. And then there is crushing, awful, horrid pain. Then they are done and over. At least, my opinion right now. (And can annnnyone say 'jaded?')
However.
There is a silver lining, and it is only, only because of books. I'm not joking. Books, authors, and friends are way better than chocolate.

(Even though that would be good too.)

Every book I have ever read has been my teacher this past week. They have taught me everything to do, everything to say, and that every feeling -- every god awful, heart wrenching feeling -- is okay. Is normal. And best of all?
It'll be over. This hole in my chest will get better. The way my stomach wants to twist into circles when I see him will eventually settle. The weird mix of fury, humiliation, and sadness will fade. School won't be a battle, but something I actually enjoy; this upcoming debate tournament won't be dreaded for any reason other than the fact I am too lazy to do proper research about banking and such. I won't wake up at 3 in the morning with these awful, awful dreams and then realize -- oh wait, dude, that happened. (Well, now at least I know I can write about this truly.)
I mentioned humiliation. Well. Books. Books, books, books -- they tell me it happens, they tell me that it happens and you can survive. That the humiliation will fade. The sadness will die. The fury -- well, I hope it goes away, because part of me still really wants to stay friends with the dude.
And someday? I won't care anymore. That is the most hopeful right now. I won't care someday. (I swear to god, if it isn't soon, I am moving to London this summer.)

It's funny. Even my English teacher came up to talk to me about it -- not that she knows what boy, because I don't particularly feel the need to do that to him -- and was kind of amazing. It's proof. English people are way cool -- it's just the way it is. (Of course, she came up because I walked into the room and, literally, like some bad, bad teen flick, everyone turned to stare, and five people flooded to talk to me, so that wasn't quite as cool.)
But. Books have an answer for that too. It also goes away. Soon it will just be a grimy rumor on the circuit. And it gives me hope, because I am assuming that authors write books off their experiences. (I am so putting this in a book someday. Ahem. Is that evil? I won't mention names...) Anyway. That means that real people, awesome, amazing people, have felt this awful feeling, and they survived.
So. I'm going to survive it too.
My friends have been amazing. Books told me that, too, but I wasn't sure that I believed it. Immediately, there was a battalion of them ready. (Granted. Their way of armor? They told people. At least, I'm assuming that's how everyone seems to know. Not so great there, but hey, I've had like, seven people I've barely talked to come and tell me how sorry they are. I'm feeling kind of really bad for the guy involved, actually.) My friends, though, have really, really been there. My mom and sister too, and my sister's best friend even drove over here the night it happened because sis was at college. (My dad is just kind of like, wait, what? What?! Baha. Good to know the books got that right too.)
I don't know that I would have survived this so ... so whole .... without books. It still sucks. God, does it suck. But even if I can't bear to open one with a relationship up right now, I know that they are there. And there are ones with plenty of bombs and crap to tide me over until a week or two weeks pass, and I'm feeling more optimistic about relationships.
And best of all?
Someday, according to every book I have loved most? According to every book that right now, I'm too scared to open?
There will be at least some element of a happy ending.
And this time, the guy won't act like such an asshole.

So you wanna be a writer

I'm a writer. I want to write.
Easy enough to say? Right? I mean, dude, I've got a blog dedicated to it. Obviously I want to write. I do it a lot, more than anything else except maybe reading and incessantly jabbering at my friends/family. But despite that, admitting that I write?
Um.
No. Just . . . No.

No.

Nope.
Nuh uh.
Doesn't happen.
When a debate friend asks what I'm going to be in ten years, I don't hesitate before saying what they'd esxpect. I don't tell people I write. When someone compliments my essays, I just kind of smile. I have at least a dozen notebooks filled with random scribblings, but I don't share that. The thing is, writing is dear to me, and it's something that is -- weirdly enough -- kind of personal. Not as in 'Oh, god, no one must read this' but more of a 'I'm not going to share this with you just to get mocked.' The only time I've ever told my friends about writing was last March, during Inkpop. The reaction I got was a good one, but still, I don't like 'bragging' about my stories. It's too personal, and I don't have any degree of success to measure that I'm not wasting my time.
(I don't think I am. But still, I don't want to be all Dude, I'm Ninja Writer.)

Anyway. Maybe it's because I'm so weird about my own writing, but when someone else my age starts talking about how they ARE an author, especially at school, I'm always -- perhaps unjustly -- skeptical.
See, it seems to me that  there are two types of people who want to write.
There are the ones who write. Who sweat and cry and laugh at their own jokes and stay up till two in the morning to write something that might never meet the air.
And the ones who don't, but like to say they do.
For instance, the kid in English class that gets good grades and understands a metaphor. (This is hypothetical. I don't have a kid like this in my English class, but I know of several.) This kid wants to be a writer. They say it loudly, daily, and often with waggling eyebrows that dare you to contradict them.
And then they get a bad grade and they are PISSED. Righteously furious. Possibly on the verge of tears.
And I'm just sitting there, thinking . . . . Honey, that's not what a writer does.
Writing is the easiest part. The tears, the deep emo depression, the freaky highs and the awful lows -- that is the best part of writing. But it's the easiest. The hard part comes later. It comes when you send in a story to an agent and are told you just aren't good enough.
So you rewrite. You don't sleep. You don't do your math homework, or you slack a little at your job, and for some poor parents, they stay awake all night so not to neglect their kids. You end up cranky and falling asleep at random intervals.

But you do it. You write, because if you want to be a writer, then there is no other choice.

And you send it again.

And you still aren't good enough. The characters are wrong. The opening scene is flimsy. You're funny, and you have talent, but you don't understand how to plot. Slowly, things improve. Slowly. Very slowly. But it doesn't sparkle and grow wings without work. That is what makes someone a writer, I think. The ability to cut, abuse, smash, take a machete against and possibly someday even throw away a manuscript.

Yeppers. Your baby might end up in there. Any other world, that would be considered sick.

Nano is interesting to me. However, it annoys me greatly when people start talking about how it makes them a writer. It's a tool, it's a step, and it's a way in the right direction. I was listening to some friends talk about it -- they were introduced for the first time this year -- and tried not to smile at the assumption that writing 50k is easy. Only 1600 words a day.
Right. That's an essay. A long essay.
But I didn't say anything. That lesson is one someone has to learn on their own. And learning that lesson is key to becoming a writer.
Writing takes a backbone. People don't understand just how much until they get into it. Seriously, it can suck. But I entered querying a stupid 14 year old with an ego I didn't even realize I had and not nearly as much talent as I though I possessed. I entered it at a time when things were going south for my social life -- complications with a guy, best friends changing and turning out not to be so hot, a dislike for looking in the mirror too long -- and through the bashing, the building, the machete-ing (dude, you know it's a word) I may have lost some that dumb inflated ego I had. But I've grown. And that is just one reason I love writing. Why I keep doing it, keep hacking and cutting and writing, because at the end, I've got something I love.

(I am feeling ridiculously gushy right now. Let's talk about zombies or  something.)

 Okay, I'm rambling.
The rewrites, the editing, the obsessive combing over chapter after chapter -- it's worth it. At least, I think it is. And honestly, those days when I think that no, I'm not a writer, I'll never be a writer, not until I'm published, I think about the hours and days and weeks I've poured into stories.
I'm not an author yet. But I want to write, and I do write. Maybe I write crap a lot of the time, but honestly, I don't know that it truly matters all that much. I'll get better. It's scientific fact.
And yeah. I still can't say the words out loud, but I think that maybe, just maybe, that's enough to make me a writer.
What about you? What drives you to keep doing it? Do you think that ninja penguin was cute? Seriously, I now really, really want a ninja penguin.
More later.

Bothered

I was going to post a book review. Seriously, I was. And then I got on Twitter and went to the #SpeakLoudly page. And I found an article. 

It shouldn't bug me so much. Seriously, I hear comments like this every day.

But .. . . I'm bothered.

In fact, I'm really bothered. Bothered by this. 

I am a firm believer that girls can do anything guys can. Dude, it's never even seriously occurred to me that we couldn't. And I hear comments like this every day. 'No means Yes.' Sure. Yeah. When a girl says no, she really is saying yes. Of course. Comments about rape are thrown around the classroom daily. Girls are demeaned and boys are smacked and life goes on. 

Debate rounds lost? The people were 'raped.'

A girl gets pregnant? 'Slut.'

And if a guy gets a girl pregnant? Player.

It's not news. It's a double standard, blah, blah, feminist crap, whatever. Right? That's what a teacher said once. Feminist crap. Double standard -- just means women need to work harder to prove it wrong.

And don't get me wrong.

Girls can do everything guys can. Working hard will reverse a double standard; I believe that fully. Maybe I'm naive or young or whatever you want to call it, but I believe that girls have every opportunity in the world. 

That doesn't, however, mean that they should be treated like that. A double standard is one thing, but this? This is blatant disrespect, flagrant idiocy.  At Yale, of all places. A place where the smartest are cultivated to be smarter. Right? 

What crap.

A slap on the wrist. Is that really what those boys deserve? No. But they don't deserve expulsion either, because come on -- what would that fix? It's not their fault we live in a society where movies, musics and television tell us this sort of thing is okay.

 No. Let them read Speak, The Mockingbirds, let them go to sessions where crushed and hurt girls tell their stories. Let them talk to their closest female friends, their sisters, their girlfriends. 

Not just these particular boys. 

All of them. Hell, all of the girls too. Because we don't get how dumb we are sometimes. We've trivialized something that should never been made littler than it is. 

Ack. 

More book stuff later. 

Speak Loudly

I live in Southwest Missouri. I love books. I love reading. I have never believed in banning books and I think it is the epitome of stupid to attempt to censor thoughts. And I love Missouri, too.
Lately, though? My state is making itself look stupid.
(Oh, goodness. My career in politics is gonna be soooo wonderful.)
First, there's this. Guess what? Stockton has an amazing lake. It's school is small, and there's some really pretty houses out there. One July, we set fireworks off on the shore. But guess what? No one knows that about Stockton. They just know that it banned a book. It was a stupid move. But that is not Missouri.
And now there is some asshat who wants to ban Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak. Here's Ms. Anderson's post on it. 
And guess where he lives?
Not so far from me. The place has a great pizza parlor. It has a goat in its school yard and a really good debate tournament. The Ruby Tuesday is like, the center of the town.
He works at MSU. I know MSU. One of my parents went there. One of my best friend's sister goes there.
And my paper posted his comment about how Speak is basically 'soft pornography'.
So.
Missouri.
What the freak?
My newspaper. Mine. Mine and hundreds of other readers. People who love books. This isn't okay, okay? This isn't what the community thinks. He wants to talk soft pornography? Okay, then don't let your kids watch Titanic, Avatar, Twilight -- after all, they deal with relationships.
You wanna talk about Speak? We aren't talking relationships. We aren't talking pornography. We are talking rape. We are talking about a book that is strong and true and honest.
Ms. Anderson mentioned on her blog that no one in the community responded. And I'm so sorry. I know that it's probably true, at least when it comes to the paper. This is me, responding; he's an idiot.He talked about Twenty Boy Summer, too. Slaughterhouse Five.
But please. Don't think Missouri is a bunch of nuts and crazies and book banners. We aren't. We just have some stupid people, but I'm sure South Carolina, Georgia, Oregon and Montana do too. For that matter, so does England, Japan, and probably Iceland. The comments  on the article are true and honest and brave. But please don't stereotype us.
That said . . . This guy is ridiculous. But you know what'll be more ridiculous?
If his voice is heard more than the rest of ours. It's not okay. It's not all right. Reading about rape isn't going to make me lose my morals -- it's ridiculous and insulting to say that. Reading about drugs or alcohol isn't gonna make me go get smashed. Saying this is 'Christian' is such an insult to the entire faith.
So this is me, adding my voice to everyone else's.
This can't happen. If it does get banned, I can promise you this, though -- the uproar won't only be that of the literary world. It will come from this community as well.
Show your support. Banned Books week comes next week, so I suppose it couldn't have happened at a better time.
You've seen the hashtag on Twitter, I'm sure, but it's more than true.
 #Speakloudly. 

Go jump in a volcano

There's a boy I know. We used to be friends -- good friends, actually. And then came sophomore year. I discovered, in this time, something I'd only read about. When someone with talent realizes they have talent, an ego develops.
Wait. Cross that out. Develops? Who am I kidding -- it explodes.
We all like to think that we are awesome and fantastic. That's because we all are part awesome and fantastic. But you know what the fastest way to mute that is?
Develop a massive, oozing ego.
At the Cassandra Clare signing, there was a woman a couple of rows over. Whenever someone asked a not-so-wonderful question, she would sigh loudly, or declare that it was online. I heard her discussing her blog at one point with a random woman; at another point in time, when Cassandra Clare made a comment about inkpop, the woman proceeded to pat herself on the back and inform the random woman -- now looking a bit scared -- that she knew what inkpop was.
Here's the thing.
I have a blog.
I know what inkpop is. I pretty much killed myself staying in the Top Five last March. And yeah, I started to bounce quietly when Ms. Clare mentioned inkpop. I didn't really feel the need to announce it.
And guess what?
No one in the audience was impressed by the knowledge.
The ego needs to be cut. In a bad way. It's like the boy I used to be friends with -- it's hard to be around him anymore, because he just so filled with ego that I find myself inching away as conversations drag on.
This experience seems to illustrate something I've noticed about some of the people in the blogging community; the ones who have discovered some kind of talent. As a community, there tends to be -- well, a little bit of an ego.
I'm not talking about anyone in particular, and I'm not talking, quite frankly, about blogs that have really, honestly 'made it big,' For instance, the best-most-awesome-librarian-ever has a wonderful blog. But she doesn't get puffy and pompous about it. (That's okay. I'll do the gushing for her.)
Blogs are kind of egotistical tools as it is. I mean, we write for other people to read. We assume someone cares what we say. And obviously that assumption is right, otherwise blogs wouldn't be so successful. But it's still annoying when people shout their accomplishments from the rooftops. Or the plastic seats.
Ack. I'm not doing very well describing my agitation. I guess it comes down to this;
People who talk just to hear their voice generally aren't all that entertaining. We've all read books like that.
I seriously hope my blog isn't like that; if it is, tell me, and I'll go jump in a volcano do my best to fix it.

-blinks-
-realizes I just wasted your time reading a post -- by me -- on ego-
Aw, crap.

More later. Or maybe not.

Freak out? Me? Pft.

You know those girls who randomly freak out over stupid stuff? The drama queens?

I am so not one of them. I mean, even though they do apparently sparkle, I would never sink that low.
Not even in the face of massive homework piles and high school drama. Pft. I'm much cooler than that.
...
For example. Look at my perfectly reasonable conversations from just within the last hour.
Such as:

Me: I hate school. I hate homework. I'm never going to get this done. Never. Not ever. I'm becoming a hobo and dropping out of school. I AM GOING TO DIE.
Maggie: .... Sam. Breathe. You'll be fine.

Ten minutes later....

Me: Mooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm. I don't get my homework. It's not working. I'm dropping out of school and becoming a hobo.
Mother: *fixes problem in under five minutes*

Five minutes later...

Me: MAGGIE. It's not working again. I ruined it. I'm doomed. I am feeling horrified. Horror, I say. HORROR.
Maggie: ..........*sigh*............

Yeah. Drama Queen? Me? No. Not at all.
....Sigh....

Oddly enough, my English homework of Evil is still not done.
Funny how that works, huh?

A Worthy Cause

*SCREECH!*
So. That was the sound of me hitting the brakes on my usual blogginess. No book recommendation today. No long, rambling writing advice. Nope. Today gets to be about the fun stuff! You ready? Okay, good. Today I'm talking about .... Self confidence!!
...
*Cricket.*
Yeah, right. I agree. I despise that topic. Why? Well, as a teenage girl with uncontrollable hair and not enough willpower in the morning to correctly apply makeup, sometimes my level of self confidence can be pretty dismal. Ahem. Right. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Besides that, especially in winter, I tend to dress in hoodies and jeans and that's about it. And lemme just tell you...I don't look like this.

But there's this website. (Isn't there always?) It's called Operation Beautiful.
How often do you feel grungy? Nasty? Not good enough? How often do you glance at your friend and wish you had her hair, or smile, or just something? Maybe you're one of the lucky ones who doesn't do that. If you are, then I'm glad. Seriously, I am. That would be nice. I think most of us do though. Personally, I could rattle off twenty different things I hate about my appearance at the drop of a hat. Most people could. I like Operation Beautiful for just this reason, though. It isn't about caring whether or not you're perfect. This site is about confidence. It's about feeling better about youself.
Bleh. I feel like I'm muddling this.
Well, here's the mission statement;
The mission of Operation Beautiful is to post anonymous notes in public places for other women to find. The point is that WE ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL. You are enough... just the way
you are!
Is it cheesy? Maybe. Who cares though? How often do kids feel that way? I'd bet...Oh, basically never. The site is for everyone, but it seems particularly pertinent to young girls.
We all feel ugly at some point, and it's dumb. I mean, come on, society! One of my friends dances. She's great at it. Another is probably the funniest person I've ever met. Yet another takes joy from long and complex math problems; weird, but someday, she'll be taking over the world. (Ahem. I mean, she'll be using her power wisely to help everyone. Yeah. That.)
All three could tell you the extensive things wrong with them. I don't see it though. I think we just like seeing it in ourselves. We dig ourselves into dark, deep little holes of emo and then don't know how to get out.
I like Operation Beautiful. It's kind of like a hand that can go into the nasty little hole and help pull you out.
Anyway. Go check out the site.

What's wrong with mature?

People that like to write--especially the like to write fiction--don't tend to be boring. It's kind of hard to have 'no imagination' when you spend all day writing about imagined worlds.
Yet for the past three weeks, I have been fending off comments about being 'too mature' 'too sensible' and 'just way unimaginative'.
Yes, because I don't turn my mind to dream up new 'Your Face' jokes, I now have no imagination.
Gah. I've never been told maturity is a bad thing, and yet now I've got a friend who, to quote, thinks I was born thirty and grow more middle aged every day; who says I don't take risks.
I have fun. I enjoy myself; I go to parties, I hang out with friends, I dream about selling my sister to the circus and I spend all Geometry talking about cute boys. (You may notice a recurring pattern. I don't speak math.)
Bleh. I don't understand why being mature and not wanting to lie and act stupid ALL THE TIME is a bad thing.
My apologies. So, I know this has nothing to do about writing, and that's what I meant this blog for . . . but quite honestly, it's bugging me and I was interested to see if anyone else had opinions.
Mature is bad, now? Not just bad, but utterly taboo?


See? Look how mature the baby panda is, petting its mom. Or whatever it's doing. No one tells HER(Him? It?) that she/he/it is too sensible . . .