In Which I Move Outside of My Expectations

Hello all, it’s been too long.  

Many things have changed since I last posted, and things are still happening in these moments.  Mainly another semester has come and gone, and I received credit for 3 out of 4 classes.  There’s no getting around it; I dropped the ball.  However, to make up for that lost credit, I received two class credits for the price of one, so perhaps nothing of value was inherently lost.  I’m registered for Fall as a full-time student once again, and one more semester closer to graduating.  It has come to my attention that I will most likely be graduating a full 10 years after my graduation from high school.  Whether this disturbs or impresses me, I have yet to find out.  For now, a cautionary biting of the lip will fit the bill as I continue the journey.

But that’s really what I feel the need to talk about today.  I went on such a different path than I had initially imagined.  As I am writing in my “College Days” series—spoilers!--  things did not turn out as I thought they would.  I had imagined myself going to college and getting an Associate’s degree in something Art-related, maybe working part-time at a bookstore or some other quiet place, and then finding someone to settle down with and marry.  To me, marriage was always the end goal.  Of course I wanted to do that.  Why wouldn’t I—a straight, white, Christian girl with modest dreams and a conservative family—get married as soon as possible?  It’s every Disney Princess movie.  It was my end game.  Also keep in mind that I definitely had Special Snowflake Syndrome with a hefty dash of Sheltered Life mixed in. 

However, I had quickly found out that my expectations for my twenties were not going as planned.  It was such a messy, roundabout method of living that I ended up having, and I’m surprised that I am where I am today.  After my first semester of Art college, I was promptly brought back home (twice technically, but that’s another story) and instead of continuing school, I was given my first job at 18 years old.  That in and of itself still blows my mind.  Nowadays there’s no such thing as anyone just “giving” me a job.  I got that position, still the best workplace I’ve had to this day, because of my mother.  I sat with my head down, in shame, as the interview was conducted.  It was the worst interview I ever had from my part, and I still got to work there for almost 2 years.  There wasn’t even a part of this story where “I learned quickly” about anything.  It was painstakingly slow.  I didn’t answer my first phone call to the front desk until I had been there two weeks.  I was too afraid.  But that job helped heal me, and for that I’m eternally grateful. 

I went back to college at the encouragement of my co-workers and boss, and she hired someone new.  I spent 2 years in a local community college, taking half gen-eds and half electives.  It was the most liberal experience I had ever had, and I blossomed greatly.  I took drawing courses, piano lessons, health and exercise, theater and voice acting, and it was wonderful.  I was glad that I had some foresight to take Psychology, Sociology, Biology, English Literature, and Western Civ as well.  Between classes, I spent time with new friends, dated around a bit, and engrossed myself in my hobbies.  Summers were spent working odd jobs at game stores or temp agencies.  I started cosplay and DDR in my free time, though not at the same time.  I attended my first convention.  I babysat to earn money on the side.  My hobbies were anything but cheap.  My manga/graphic novel collection was explosively growing, as I bought up to 7 volumes in one weekend, every weekend.  And then it happened.

I moved to Okinawa.  Being in an active military family, we were bound to move sometime.  I didn’t want the fact that I was nearly 22 to deter me from going.  It had been a huge goal of mine to live in Japan.  I moved there in July of ’09, left behind many friends and a few broken hearts, and started attending school on base as soon as I could.  I was determined to get an Associate’s degree in Japanese Language, which the university offered.  To this day, it still surprises me at how cheap that place was.  As opposed to paying upwards of $300 for used, rented paperbacks now, I bought my full coursework and books at less than $100, brand new.   I went to classes at night and worked at the Base Exchange during the day for 32 hours a week.  The system was brilliant and full of opportunity.  Of course it wasn’t going to last.  In August 2010 I and my family were shipped back to the States, and once again I left behind my friends and co-workers.  I went from living the dream to leaving it.  It devastated me. 

From then on, I struggled hard.  Things were not the same.  “Where had my dreams gone?” I asked myself.  I was supposed to be married by now.  I was 23 and felt so far away from those goals I had as a teen in high school.  I persevered and enrolled in another university.  For those keeping score at home, this was my 4^th college in under 6 years.  But surely I was close to finishing.  At least over halfway, right?  I found out during the enrollment that not all of my credits transferred.  The course descriptions were “too vague” and I witnessed my hard-earned money go down the drain quite literally, never to return.  I was furious and beside myself.  No matter, I’ll just pick up where I left off.  Except this university didn’t offer the Japanese degree I was working towards, not even as a Minor.  I instead settled for being an English Major, as nothing else appealed to me at the time.  Since I was experiencing a reverse-culture shock and low-grade depression, I didn’t quite care what I did in school. 

Regardless, I met up with old friends from high school and made new ones.  I tried to get back on track with the marriage goal, but decided that I wasn’t going to disappoint myself anymore and put it on the back burner.   My current situation just wouldn’t allow it to happen, because at the time, my mother, sister, and I were sleeping on the floors of a tiny, two bedroom apartment in our old stomping grounds.  Our belongings had not been shipped by the military and wouldn’t arrive until that Spring, or another 7 months.  I attended university for 2 more years, failed many courses due to depression and social anxiety, which I do not take medication for.  In Spring of 2012 I was doing wonderfully in three English courses, reached Finals week, and promptly folded my entire chances of passing.  I was overwhelmed with the coursework expected of me and frankly didn’t seek help.

That summer I went back to full-time work.  I was dating a guy I thought would maybe, possibly, probably, might, and/or be husband material, and dedicated every fiber of my being to him.  We worked at the same company and through several spats and a month-long break, it was clear that he was not happy.  We split and in a planned retaliation, I moved away from home.  I continued working my job, hoping against all hope that I would get some kind of break.  Something had to happen, right?  I wasn’t wrong.  I ended up spraining my trapezius and forced to quit work.  It wasn’t a coincidence that I also quit because the same week, my parents moved away to be 7 hours south of me in my mother’s hometown.  Although I was quite aware that it was for work-related reasons, the child side in me felt abandoned. 

I spent the next 4 months in a very dark depression.  Nothing was worth doing anymore, not even getting out of bed.  I had enough savings to keep me.  I didn’t owe anybody a damn thing.  I considered myself lucky back then to not have the kind of friends that randomly showed up on my doorstep to drop by and chat, because what they would have seen would have horrified them.  I eventually got help, but the damage had been done.  My money was running out.  My hard earned savings was quickly dwindling away, all because my brain decided to turn itself off in some kind of rebellious aftereffect of my parents leaving the state.  I found myself thinking the same thoughts over and over again.  “If only I was married… If only I had someone that loved me to help me, I wouldn’t be in such dire straits.”  Why did I still cling to those ideals? 

Either way, I didn’t so much bounce back as force myself back in an upright position.  To do that, I re-applied to work at my most previous job.  I only lasted 3 months because of two more injuries I sustained.  I remember metaphorically throwing up my hands and saying “Screw it; I’m going back to school.”  So I did.  Luckily it wasn’t hard, as this was my 5^th time starting up the Education Route in my game of life.  And so here I stand today.  Sadly I’m back on the job hunt and there are no bites.  As of now I’ve given up the marriage goal, possibly for good.  I do not actively seek it and for all I know it has passed me by without my knowledge.  I think I have to learn to be okay with that. 

I have definitely had a different life than I ever anticipated in these past nine years.  It’s not strictly good, nor bad.  I don’t blame any one person or one event for what’s transpired, except myself.  But I’m not in such a state of self-loathing for that blame to give me guilt.  There are still very rare times where I can imagine myself in a bridal gown, saying the vows, wearing the ring, and all that jazz.  But not even in my dreams while I sleep do these images appear.  Not anymore.  If anything, I would imagine that it would be a hindrance as of now. 

I do not write this with a heavy heart, but perhaps a relieved one.  It’s the same feeling I got when I left my abuser.  It’s the same feeling I got when I left the church.  It’s a great burden that has been lifted, perhaps one that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.  Regardless, life doesn’t turn out the way I expect it to, and that’s okay. 

Until next time!

In Which I Returned to Foreign Language and Learned Something Else Entirely

I’ll begin this entry by saying something that the average person (in the United States anyway) might already know:  Learning a new language is difficult. 

That isn’t to say that it can’t be done.  However, if you want the best results, you must start young and you must learn by immersion.  I did not start young, but I began to learn Japanese in high school, I’m estimating around 15 years old.  It’s hard to really call it ‘learning’ though, because I simply wrote down a bunch of common beginner’s phrases and would practice saying them to myself out loud.  Somewhere in my old notebooks, there are pages and pages of all the words I knew and could pronounce with relative ease.  I had nothing to really help me except my own willpower, and since it was 2002, the Internet was still awkwardly blossoming, not really sure where to go or how to organize itself.  For my 16^th birthday, I asked for my first dictionary, and the first thing I did was read it cover to cover, marking words that I thought were interesting.  I thought it was funny that the entire entry for the letter ‘P’ on the Japanese side were all loan words from English (piano for piano), or onomatopoeia (pika pika suru – to glisten). 

While it wasn’t completely useless, as I eventually wrote down the phonetic alphabet of Hiragana and could start to recognize the characters on sight, it wasn’t until almost 8 years later that I got the chance to take everything I had taught myself and would put it to the test.  I moved to Okinawa with the rest of my family and stayed for a year.  The jittery happiness I felt for the 14 hour plane ride was something I’ll never forget.  And that happiness was mixed with a strange concoction of fear and nervousness when I began encountering actual Japanese people, something I had never done before.  Suddenly it felt as if those years and years of memorization and singing J-pop and recognizing phrases from different anime were all for naught.  In reality, it was true.  It’s like that with learning anything; if you don’t have direction or a solid goal, nearly anything you learn is going to be a bit… empty.  It’s kind of like wanting to be a lawyer when everything you know about lawyers is based on playing Ace Attorney.  In short, it’s not exactly ideal.

Regardless, I learned maybe 100 times there what I had learned on my own, and not only that, I got to put it to use nearly every day.  That year passed much too quickly and I returned to the States the next summer.  I spent the next 3 years away from the culture and language, and it wasn’t until 2 months ago when I started taking Japanese classes again.  While I don’t regret the decision to do so at all, I got that same jittery panic that once loomed over me back then.  Rightly so, because I realized how much I had lost in that amount of time.  While many phrases aren’t lost to me, I could barely recognize a lot of the kanji I had learned from my time in Okinawa.  Many of the phrases I had relied on to get me through the day seemed wrong or obsolete.  It was certainly a strange phenomenon to experience. 

One of the projects we had done recently was an oral presentation.  We had to give a script between 2-3 people, as if reading a play, all in Japanese of course, and bonus points for any new words or creativity.  The blue print of this presentation was Valentine’s Day, and it wasn’t until after I had written it and presented it that I had a different realization about myself.  The general script is two girls talking with each other, one chiding the other about her boyfriend not making Valentine’s Day plans with her.  Instead he breaks up with her, leaving her to find solace in her friend.  In the second and last scene, as they are about to get coffee together, the girl’s now-ex-boyfriend calls her and begs for forgiveness, wanting to start over.  Since her friend is there with her, she gets the courage to tell him no, and they leave to go play a game at her friend’s house. 

I said all that to say that foreign language is a strange thing, but it can really reveal a lot about ourselves that we didn’t know about.  I feel as if I had made this script outside of the expectations of the grade, and in doing so, took a peek at what I really wanted out of life. 

I’ve spent a lot of my years in difficult relationships, trying to find that One Special Person.  I’ve failed and failed and failed some more.  But something that I feel like I haven’t failed at is my love for this culture.  It may have not always burned brightly, but it has always been there, a dimly lit ember that has consistently glowed.  My real-life experience living in Japan will always be a testament to that love and the passion I have.  So I said all this to say that maybe the expectations that I’ve held over myself are not where my heart lies.  Perhaps it’s time to hang up the “Family” goal and go forward with the “Japan” goal instead.  

In Which it Was 2005 and I Began My College Days - Part Two

Read Part One Here!

I quickly found that out when I attended college for the first time.  It was a knock-off, over-priced art school where I would be educated in ‘Graphic Design’.  There were two things that they, the head teachers of the school that screened future students, were interested in:  Artwork and money.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Right around those last couple weeks of my Senior year – the ones where you just stop caring and kick back with a smug expression on your face because you’ve done the math and you know that you don’t have to turn in any more homework and you can still pass all your classes with a C+ – there were some after-school college fairs set up in the school gym.  Ours looked like a slightly more polished Science fair.  Every table had tri-folded posters glued with information, a bowl full of key chains or lanyards, and matching pamphlets spread in a fan pattern.  Of course I was only there to scope out what was going to be offered, and coupled with my outlandish ideas of how college was going to be, I didn’t think I would be so quickly reeled in. 

It wasn’t by any big name university either.  While so many of the tables of UK and UC were surrounded by dozens of my peers, I was observing from afar.  I had an agenda, after all.  Was I going to fall into the masses and choose to be content with the ‘normal’ path?   Or was I going to go with ‘the road less travelled’ and find something just for me.  Since I had that “Special Snowflake” syndrome, of course I felt like I was capable of going to a specialized school, custom-tailored to my every fantastical whim that, in my ever-so-innocent mind, was the answer to all my problems.

I should take this time to briefly note that this was the time in my life where I was heavily into art, and thus I carried a sketchbook with me at all times.  And I mean at ALL times.  Unless explicitly stated by my parents, it was my answer to ‘grab your purse’ or ‘put on your shoes’.  I never left without it, as well as a good pink eraser and a mechanical pencil filled with plenty of .05 mm lead.  And so armed with my trusty sketchpad and at least two pencils, I meandered lazily around the small table that held the representatives for the Art Institutes.  Sadly, this was not in the same vein as the Graphic Design schools that got advertised on television; rather they seemed like a cheap knock-off.  Oh, and by ‘cheap’ I mean ‘soul-suckingly expensive’.  It was a large chunk of change to attend just one semester, made even more outlandish by the fact that the entire student body consisted of roughly 30 people. 

Regardless, I was hooked from the very moment the rep started complimenting me on my art work.  The sketchpad I brought with me was opened to a page with a particularly detailed, shaded drawing, held close to my chest and yet those with a trained eye could spot it a mile away.  Before I could stop myself, I was taking home the pamphlets, application, and whatever other little table samples I could gather.  Probably Post-It notes or something.  I announced my desire to enroll into this “Art Institute” to my mother that evening.  I would like to think that my parents were supportive of me; after all, they paid for the major portion of my tuition that year.  My father had other plans, and his ultimatum was that I had to obtain my driver’s license if I was going to attend this school.  But first, we had an appointment to tour the school and speak with the Head teacher.

Upon arrival, I felt as if I were in a contemporary Art museum, narrow but pristine hallways lined with perfectly measured frames full of paintings and different crafts.  I was instructed to bring my portfolio, of which I had no idea how to put together.  I didn’t name my drawings, nor did I keep them safely laminated and separated.  They were all drawn on computer paper, haphazardly thrown into the same manila folder.  Some corners were bent, some of the more heavily shaded drawings were slightly smeared, but it was all I had.  The teacher, named Sandy*, took a slow, pensive look through all my work, noting all of their qualities and strengths, and making sure to throw in a “We can help you improve this part” every now and then.  Strangely enough, it didn’t occur to 17 year old me that I was being buttered up.  Instead I was drawn like a moth to a flame.  A very expensive flame with no use.  But again, I tend to get ahead of myself. 

All summer I practiced driving, and it’s worth mentioning that I and my family moved 14 hours south from this school I so badly wanted to be in.  It didn’t occur to me that going back up there would mean living up there, as obvious as it is to any onlooker with a quart of sense.  It never occurred to me that I wanted to enroll in a college that didn’t have any dorms, and that I was too poor to rent a place of my own.  Lest we not forget my previous entry in Part One, money was not a forthcoming issue to me.  Back then, I had nearly no concept of it, sad as it is to type.  I was truly living in a bubble my whole life, and so when this entire incident happened, it was like culture shock.  In the end, I felt stubborn and called it ‘dedication’, and I passed my driving test.  And soon it was the last week in August and my dad and I were making the trip to Cincinnati, Ohio, with all my belongings packed up.  I was to live with my cousin and her husband in their spare bedroom.  Finally, my dad left his treasured car with me to use as transportation for school, so long as I took care of it and maintained it, it was virtually mine. 

The days counting down to the first day of class were maddening, and I was experiencing something very strange.  It was homesickness, and yet I was basically in the same area I had grown up in for the last 7 years.  It didn’t take me long to figure out that it wasn’t only homesickness that I was experiencing, but a wild freedom.  This was not necessarily a good thing for a 17-turned-18 year old.  I drove around to pass the time, thinking that I could perhaps learn some of the roads and get some practice in driving more, because what could that hurt?  It didn’t take me long to hit my first vehicle at a stop light.  It was barely a tap, but the visible shake of the SUV in front of me, accompanied by the driver’s side door opening and a very pissed off looking man emerging within seconds, knocking on my window with one hand while his other held a smartphone, left me in tears.  I’m not sure if I had ever been yelled at by a complete stranger up until then, but I won’t ever forget his tone of voice and how angry he looked.  From then on I drove with more caution than ever, even on my own driving test. 

Unfortunately, getting into scuffs with other drivers wasn’t my biggest issue on the road.  It was getting lost.  I had no smartphone back then, and wouldn’t have a GPS for another 6 years.  I spent afternoons driving endlessly, not because I wanted to, or because I had extra gas to burn, but because I had no idea where I was.  I would get off exits and park at gas stations to ask for directions, and I even recall asking a middle-aged woman how to get back to Fairfield, and she looked at me as if I had grown another head.  Fairfield was literally one exit away, but I was literally going in circles at that point, doubting my sense of direction, and for good reason too.  I also recall trying to find some kind of logical way of memorizing the numbered roads around me.  “Surely,” I thought to myself, “If 74 leads to 75 eventually, then 176 will lead to 177 and so on.”  With this awful theory in mind, I set out to test it.  2 hours later, I ended up in Indiana.  But I think the most shameful part was the fact that I called my mother, who was 800 miles south of me, and when I told her I was lost, she spent another hour on the phone with me, with the help of Google Maps, leading me back to my cousin’s house.  Overall, driving in general was a nightmare.  I cringe just thinking about all the gas money wasted and all the needless fear I felt. 

Finally, a week had passed and it was time for school to begin.  I was finally living the dream.  I had all my art supplies ready, packed up in a big tackle box, and I was ready to prove myself to everyone.  Because I wasn't a 2^nd year, I had to park across the 4 lane intersection at Costco, so carrying all my supplies was a bit unruly.  On the first day, I called my mom to let her know that I had made it to the school in one piece.  I tried throwing in a joke about landing in a ditch somewhere, but she was not amused.  But I digress.  

Attendance was taken electronically, by inputting our personal code.  Sometimes I imagined that I was actually working for the CIA or the government, like in a futuristic film or sci-fi novel.  The first floor of the school was the art museum section, where student works were displayed.  The second floor held the classroom, which didn't feel like a classroom at all, since everyone not only had their own desks, but they were angled at such a way to make them like modified easels.  They were also sectioned off into their own cubicles.  Mac computers lined the back walls.  A huge copy machine was also on the opposite wall, but inside its own room.  The entire room smelled like wood, and paint, and eraser shavings. 

There were three teachers total, who all taught at the same time in the main room.  I say “taught”, but it was more like we were given a specific project, shown an example of a previous student’s work, and then told to make our own.  We were given 5 days for each of these projects.  The entire week, the three teachers milled around slowly, giving suggestions or comments.  Frankly, I remember loving every minute of it.  Everything was leisurely, and if I drew something that they didn’t quite agree with for whatever reason, I could always use the old “Art is subjective” card and they’d give in.  We would break for lunch, and as the weeks passed, I found myself clocking out and just skipping the second half of the school day.  I never got reprimanded, and as long as I was showing progress at my desk, showing the instructors my improvements, they didn’t seem to care in the slightest. 

Strictly speaking, I was happy in that environment.  I felt that at the time, creating art work was what I was meant to do in life.  I worked on my projects at my own pace, had as much help as I could ask for, and I could leave early with no penalty if I so desired.  What could possibly go wrong with that?  

Stay tuned for Part 3 if it intrigues you.  

In Which I Return to College and Accept My Depression

Free-thought Ramblings ahead.  You have been warned.  

Before I start, I'll apologize for being away.  Not that I've been missed, mind you.  It's plain to see that this blog gets peanut reviews, but I don't mind.  In a way I like it better like this; this way I can write anything and nobody really knows.  It's wonderful to have something that I can write freely in.  My last blog on Adventure Time was a spur-of-the-moment fun blog, and it's ironic that as soon as I wrote it, I considered writing more like that on the same show, and then Doug Walker of Nostalgia Critic fame starts a video blog with his site.  Needless to say, I continued watching the show and tuned in to see his impressions instead of jotting down my own.  Ah well, like sand in an hour glass...

It's difficult for me to start writing nowadays.  Even the little fanfic blurbs I write in private, never to see the light of day until their imminent perfection, are hard to continue.  What's the hold up?  Nobody will see them.  I haven't posted them online like I used to do years ago.  I don't carry around the hard copies in my school folder, dozens of typed pages stapled together like an important research paper.  The font is so small and the margins narrow, clearly to show that I had an epic novel on my hands, when in reality I only wanted to pair Main character 1 with Side character 2 instead of his love interest on the show.  And now, in 2014, they all sit on my hard drive, waiting to be clicked on and edited, waiting to be added to the Recently Opened category in Word.  So many stories found with fleeting inspirations in the wee hours of weekday nights when I should be asleep.  So many stories where creating drama was not only necessary, but fun!  Because who wants to have a cast of characters that love each other's flaws and are accepting of their mistakes and shortcomings?  Of course, I must be cautious in that this doesn't bleed over into my actual life.

With all this said, I have returned to college.  I haven't been enrolled in a semester since Spring 2012, where in a disastrous turn of events of my own doing, I failed 3 of my 4 courses.  Oh why, you may ask.  Why would such a thing happen?  Did someone in your family pass?  Did you develop a terrible disease, or did all of your belongings catch fire?  Were you kidnapped and whisked away and by the time the police found you, it was too late to turn in your Final assignments?  Sadly, the answer is no to all of the above.  It is here that I will reveal the answer twofold.

While I took all of my courses in stride, trying to take as many notes as possible and conferencing with professors outside of class, I remember the problem started with one small thing.  For my British Lit class, I had ordered the wrong book from Amazon.  It was 2,000 pages long, a monstrous tome of Chaucer and Shakespeare and... oh who am I kidding.  I couldn't even tell you.  But I found it impossible to use, as it did take a little extra time for proper citation and reading along in class.  Especially Beowulf.  I don't think I've come across anything more frustrating than Beowulf.  Regardless, I fell behind in my work and eventually dropped the class.  No matter, I've got 3 classes left.  It was completely doable, no problem.

Poetry was fairly simple, right?  I really enjoyed it for the most part.  Of course, poetry can be very subjective, and I just so happened to have a professor that strongly disapproved or perhaps just disliked rhyming schemes.  I really liked writing poems, even though the methods I had were rather... rigid, let's say.  I found iambs and trochees and certain meters to be appealing more than the watery, flowing, "let's put full-stops in the middle of a line" kind of poetry that she encouraged.  And yet I knew that to get the grade and to prevent harsh criticism, I would have to play the game.  And while I did just that, it was a matter of the final itself.  We were supposed to make poetry booklets, sewn by hand and decorated with art.  A book of poetry?  How could I possibly do that, when in class I had only written 4 poems.  A book with 4 poems is barely a pamphlet.  Clearly I needed to pump out at least 6 more, but I was overwhelmed with the prospect.  I remember sitting in my bedroom, all electronics off, an empty notebook, the sun shining through my window, and not a single inspiring muse came for me.  I felt locked up mentally.  While she found the prospect of iambic pentameter and AABB rhyme schemes to be constricting and lacking freedom, I found them secure and comforting, leading my thoughts on exactly what to say.  This was the only class I did not fail; however, I received a D and therefore did not receive any credit for the course.

Next was my English Studies class, which the department had just recently added at the time and made it mandatory for English Majors to take.  Out of nowhere you had a class that was meant for sophomores, and yet it was filled with Seniors in their last or next-to-last semesters.  It was terribly unbalanced and the professor that taught the course was a near-clone of my Brit Lit professor, at least in personality and class expectation.  Although I tried to keep up with her, she had me re-write my papers until they were to her satisfaction.  My final paper was supposed to be on Nabokov, yet another author that made my head spin with how confusing everything was.  I think it's a common phenomenon that these types of books are better read outside of classroom reading lists, because otherwise you get someone like me:  a person who feels very lost and confused at exactly what themes are presented, because the particular book we were reading was wrapped in layer after layer of "the meta" of itself.  I managed to finish the rough draft summary and the citation page, but never finished the final draft in the end.  I failed the course.

Finally there was Novel Writing.  This one I was looking the most forward to.  How could I not?  Isn't this what writers dream of?  It was a 400 level course that met once a week and we all took turns writing two chapters of our original ideas and by the end of the semester they would be honed into novel form and graded as such.  Arguably the easiest and most creative of my four classes.  It was extremely satisfying giving my classmates positive feedback as well as criticisms of the constructive type.  When it came down to Finals week, I had a set schedule for everything.  I had written down that my Novel Writing Final was my very last final, and therefore I had plenty of time to take everyone's suggestions and fix up my chapters to turn in.  No problem right?  Well it would have been, except that I had written down the wrong day entirely.  It was to be turned in the first day of Finals, not the last.  And like the procrastinator I am, I didn't realize this until 2 days beforehand.  I had nothing ready.  I remember being hunched over my laptop, desperately editing and backspacing and typing until 4 AM, when my final was due at noon, but I hadn't slept for 18 hours and then some.  I hadn't even touched the other half of my final, where we had to write a 3 page review of a non-fiction book.  And in the end, I gave up, turned off my computer and went to bed.  Naturally I woke up at 11:50 AM and said "Screw it.  Just... screw it."

Ultimately not my finest hours.  I'll also be sure to mention that I was seeing someone during that same week, and I used that time to forget about all the school work that I had half-assed or skipped over.  A week after Finals, I outright told him that I had royally screwed up and failed everything.  I thought for sure he would be angry, but how could he be when he hadn't even finished college himself?  Water under the bridge, but nonetheless I at least made it known that I had messed up, partially because of my stress, and partially because I was distracted by him.

Things are different nowadays.  It's been almost 2 years since that entire incident.  I've worked for most of that break at an Amazon warehouse, and that's an entirely different story for another day.  Basically it wasn't satisfying working there, and so I knew I had to go back to school.  I didn't come to that conclusion on my own though.  From last May until the present, I had been seeing a therapist every 2 weeks.   It was around the end of September that I started to really miss the prospect of school again.  I was so unsatisfied with my job, not to mention that I had what is classified as "Suicidal ideation" or just thinking about suicide because of that job and my situation.  I told my therapist that I needed some kind of guidance in life, something bigger than myself.  So I decided that I wanted to graduate.  It's something that I've been needing to do.  I spent 3 months jumping around, filling out paperwork, making appointments, writing appeal letters, and corresponding with the Dean of Students, all to get me enrolled and taken care of.

My depression has taken over my life.  I feel as if it's been deeply rooted and the only thing that I can do is move around when I need to, such as for school or for survival.  For now it's just a matter of living with this heavy shadow on my back and a dark weight on my chest.  I'm not on any medication, and although I've continued therapy, I'm not seeking help from anyone else.  I don't believe it's any secret to my friends, and it's extremely easy to use my crippled financial situation as an excuse to not leave my apartment.  Too easy, in fact.  All I know is that when I do finally get this thing off my back and out of my mind, I think I'll finally be able to enjoy life.  I'll be able to let go of my insecurities and fears.  I'll be able to find purpose in life.

So until then, I'll be down, but not out.  I may take the convenient paths, but at least I'm on them.  And I'm still alive and still making attempts for a better life.  Because every now and then, I feel like I could live without worry.  Wouldn't that be wonderful?

In Which I Watch the First Episode of Adventure Time

Adventure Time:  Slumber Party Panic

Pre-Viewing thoughts:

I consider myself at least a part-time aficionado of American animation, beginning with the early to mid-90’s and up to the present.  The cartoon shows that I’ve followed are much too numerous to count, but even in my late teens and early 20’s, I would eagerly watch cartoons over live-action television any day.  Luckily, I’m not alone in this and many cartoons are made with young adults in mind, as well as children. 

One such cartoon is called Adventure Time.  Now for me, Adventure Time came at a period in my life where Cartoon Network was starting to get a bit ‘silly’, for lack of a better word.  It was introduced among other animated shows like The Misadventures of Flapjack, Chowder, Regular Show, and The Amazing World of Gumball.  I’ll say that as of writing this, I am 3 weeks from being 26 years old, so these particular cartoons were just past my radar, especially because of life-changing circumstances, one of which is not having access to cable.  Luckily, Netflix is a glorious oasis and I find that paying $7.95 for decent saturation of different animated shows and films is quite satisfying. 

My first, initial gut impression of Adventure Time in particular was something akin to “What is with these derpy faces?”  It’s not to say that this particular animation style is not prevalent in other shows I grew up with, such as later seasons of Spongebob.  The strange, rubbery way that the characters in Adventure Time waved their arms like spaghetti was very reminiscent of Excel Saga, a well-known Japanese anime where body physics were over the top and unnoticed in-universe.  These wobbly movements were often coupled with wavering voice techniques to lay on the comedic drama of a ‘revealed truth’ or ‘dramatic tension’.  Even Avatar: The Last Airbender has shown this a few times. 

But these are just things that I’ve gleaned from the very few trailers I’ve seen, or from a doctor’s waiting room, where the TV *clearly * meant for children was on a low volume, and general society prevents me from sitting in a tiny, powder-blue chair to observe a blatantly meant-for-children TV show.  From what I could observe, the animation seemed clean and sleek, and if any of the character designs went ‘off-model’, it was clearly for laughs.  

The other half preventing me from watching the show was the same thing that prevented me from watching the famed My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.  In a word?  Fans.   Now this is not to say that Adventure Time’s fans are a group of less than positive.  In fact, I have only run into a very small fraction of people who outwardly showed that they loved Adventure Time.  This was at a convention, so it’s even more negligible.  However, I’ve been in the thick of groups called “The Fans”, whatever that group may be, and sometimes it can be overwhelmingly negative.  Luckily, this does not seem the case, and so I queued up the first episode of Adventure Time and began watching.

The Viewing:

The first thing that was really quite pleasant was the opening theme song.  A mere 30 seconds long, it’s a very lightly sung jingle, backed with a simple tune of what sounds like a ukulele.  Already, I can tell that if this song is going to be used with every episode, it’s short and quaint enough that it can easily be memorized.  It also seems so accessible that it’s timeless.  Though I’ve only listened to it twice, so that opinion may be subject to change.  The visuals are a fast sweeping pan of a colorful land, allowing the viewer to see different characters, such as an old man with a vast, white beard, a vivid town full of walking, talking desserts, a pink haired girl on a rainbow dragon, a (admittedly startling) depiction of a raven-haired vampire, and finally what I assume will be the main two characters, Finn the Human and Jake the Dog, giving each other hugs and riding off into the mountains together.  Cue the title screen. 

As the episode starts, called Slumber Party Panic, I feel like I’m bombarded with a lot of things in a very short amount of time.  An overhead view of a circular town is visible, and Jake the Dog is chasing after the Rainbow Dragon seen in the opening theme song.  Then two things happen very quickly:  Jake seems to grow to a massive size, his four spindly legs elongating to a dozen times his body length, and the Rainbow Dragon seems to let out a babble of speech that, if my closed-captions were not active, I would not have recognized them as Korean.  

They run off screen and then the scene pans down into a graveyard just outside of the city, where Finn the Human and the pink-haired girl, Princess Bubblegum, are doing a science experiment.  While she calmly explains that she is creating a serum to raise the dead back to life, Finn begin asking inane questions and his arms are given that previously mentioned ‘wavy-noodle- appearance as he speaks or bangs on his chest.  It’s very clear that Princess Bubblegum is quite used to his silly behavior, and answers his questions kindly.  This is not to say that Princess Bubblegum isn’t a bit off her rocker as well, because as Finn presents a silver platter at her request, he uncovers it to reveal “Old Mr. Creampuff?” and Princess Bubblegum answers wistfully “We used to date”. 

Before I could fathom what that really meant, or at least come to the conclusion that it does not mean anything except perhaps a throwaway joke, she takes the syringe of serum and sticks it straight into Mr. Creampuff.  As expected, he begins to move and gurgle.  As Finn cheers, Princess Bubblegum is horrified and says that her experiment went wrong.  Mr. Creampuff jumps up and lands into a large vial of the remaining serum, and then spills it all over the tombstones.  As the once-dead creatures reanimate, Finn tries to help by attempting to shove them back into their graves.  In stereotypical fashion, the undead yell for satiation.  But instead of “Braaaaains”, they yell for “Sugar!” Upon hearing this, Princess Bubblegum insists that they rush to the city, known as Candy Kingdom, and declares that they must protect the citizens.  They both run back and Princess Bubblegum climbs to the top of the palace tower and calls for everyone to get inside. 

When everyone is present and accounted for, thanks to the hanging piñata Manfried, she makes the announcement of… a slumber party.  As the citizens cheer, Finn tries to butt in and ask about the zombies, but she covers his mouth and drags him into a closet.  Princess Bubblegum quickly explains that the citizens can’t find out about the zombies, or else they would “flip out”.  Finn asks her to elaborate, but she only repeats herself, widening her eyes for emphasis. 

We cut to the next scene with a small, brownish gumball of a character, known as Starchie the Gravedigger, out in the graveyard.  In a very blatant set-up, where even Starchie acknowledges that his defenses are lowered and he’s all alone, one of the zombie creatures comes up and moans “Sugar!” causing Starchie to scream, and then finally explode into nothingness.  The scene cuts right back to Finn and Princess Bubblegum, and she further explains that by “flip out”, she means that the candy people of Candy Kingdom literally explode when they get scared.  So the real danger is that they will not die from being eaten, but out of reaction to pure fear.  I’ll admit, I didn’t quite see that one coming, as the set-up of the zombie trope and the Candy people being made of pure sugar was too good of an assumption, that when it was subverted, I was pleasantly surprised. 

Continuing on, Princess Bubblegum makes Finn commit to a Royal Promise, that he will not under any circumstances tell the candy people about the zombies.  Her words are emphasized once again by waving her noodley arms in front of her, and Finn agrees.  She leaves to go complete the unfinished formula, leaving Finn to keep the citizens happy and ignorant.  Unfortunately, he really wants to tell his best friend, Jake the Dog, about the outbreak, but cannot.  Jake suspects that something is up, but Finn bounds away and denies that anything is going on with him and Princess Bubblegum. 

As Royally Promised, Finn keeps the citizens distracted by playing Truth or Dare with them.  As the game goes on, Jake gets more and more suspicious, and keeps drilling him for answers, all while Finn is desperately trying to keep his cool.  After a spewing of dodgy explanation (while a zombie tries getting through an open window), Finn declares a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven and shoves Jake and Lady Raincorn, the aforementioned rainbow dragon from the very beginning, into a closet. 

As soon as the door shuts, Finn runs to another open window and sees that all of the zombies have surrounded the palace and they begin banging on the front door.  Again, Finn tries distracting the Candy people by playing loud music to drown out the banging and groaning from outside, but the zombies began coming through the back door.  In another desperate attempt to keep his promise, he grabs a bench and hammers it to the door, declaring that it’s a game of barricades and that everyone should join in.  Not surprisingly, they do. 

However, it’s not enough and Finn makes a last attempt to protect everyone from exploding by blindfolding everyone with taffy, courtesy of Taffy Girl, and he makes a game out of beating the zombies as if they were piñatas.  Luckily Manfried was not harmed, being the only real piñata there.  Every zombie is defeated just as Jake emerges from the closet, his Seven Minutes in Heaven having ended.  Jake is startled to see the Candy People eating the zombies insides as if they were candy – though to be fair, their insides ARE candy – and he demands that Finn explain what happened.  Finn tells Jake without missing a beat, and then suddenly the entire room turns a cold, icy blue and all the citizens, including Jake the Dog, are frozen in time.  Princess Bubblegum emerges from her laboratory and chastises Finn for breaking his Royal Promise.  Finn doesn’t see the problem, since all the zombies have been defeated.  “What’s the big deal?” he asks. 

The room shakes and tilts sideways, and Princess Bubblegum says “The Guardians of the Royal Promise are coming for us!”  Sure enough, a large purple hand bursts through the ceiling and scoops both Finn and the princess up into the sky.  The Guardians are elongated bubblegum machines with ice cream cones on their glass heads.  They are about to dole out punishment on Finn for breaking his Royal Promise, but Princess Bubblegum begs them to reconsider.  They do, and decide that he just has to answer math questions instead of the normal punishment, trial by fire.  The princess is worried, because Finn is terrible at math, but luckily the question presented is only “2+2” and he answers correctly. 

The Gumball Guardians reset time and Finn and Princess Bubblegum reappear inside her laboratory.  Finn is overjoyed that he got the right answer, which triggers Princess Bubblegum to realize that the same number was the answer to her problem with the reanimation serum.  She was just too smart to see it.  With that, she makes the correct serum and cures all the zombies in the palace.  Jake talks to Finn and says that he didn’t have to be so secretive, he just had to say that it was a Royal Promise and he would have understood.  Princess Bubblegum then says that she hopes that Finn has learned his lesson and grasps the consequences of breaking promises.  Finn naturally seems to miss the point and declares that breaking promises means that he basically gets to save her and do other cool things. 

End of Episode

And there you have it, folks.  I’ll say that I honestly had to watch it again to catch a couple of the details, but I enjoyed it even more the second time around.  Adventure Time seems to have all the right things for both younger and older viewers, male and female.  Some of the more bizarre characters, such as Lady Raincorn seem unusual at first, but are strangely charming enough to maybe make more appearances.  This 10 minute episode was a concentrated formula of what good cartoons are all about, and yet the little twists and extras felt right and in their place.  I even felt like the standard PSA was well said enough to not grate on my nerves.  In conclusion, I’ll take a quote from Jake the Dog to sum up what I thought of this first episode viewing:

“This is messed up… but sweet!”

I suppose I should give it some kind of star rating, which only seems appropriate.  However, I’m too eager to watch the next episodes.  I’ll let that speak for itself! 

Adventure Time!  Go!

In Which it was 2005 and I Began my College Days: Part One

Disclaimer:  These are my personal memories, and the details may be slightly hazy.  However, I will do my best to recount the days of my past as accurately as possible.  Please enjoy!

It was my senior year in high school, Class of 2005, and arguably my laziest to date.  I had completed the necessary courses for my standard diploma and filled the rest of my school schedule with “easy A’s”.  Drama, choir, English, and a strange class called “Teacher’s Assistant”.  I liked to call that one “Free Art Class” because that’s what I did the entire semester.  It was just an empty space in my schedule, but it had to be filled because I couldn’t graduate early, so I at least made it worth my time. 

One morning, I was reminded, along with the entire Senior student body, that we needed to set up an appointment with the Guidance Counselor to talk about our ‘future careers’ and ‘college plans’.  I had a vague idea of what to expect, and by vague I really mean “College is somehow free, I can skip class as much as I want, go whenever I want, and live on campus, and come out with a degree that guarantees me a career for the rest of my life” vague.  Needless to say, my naiveté was vast and relentless.  To my credit, however, my high school teachers and staff were not very clear on what exactly college life entails, so I was haphazardly left to my own devices to figure out what exactly I would be experiencing.   

I would ride the bus home and think about all the good things that college would be.  It was rumored that college was nothing like high school.  It was much more laid back.  Nobody really picked on you for your lack of fashion sense or if your hair was dyed, because it was a place filled with students that had multi-colored hair, who went to class in their pajamas, and sat in the back of the room as they either caught up on sleep or fiddled with their cellphones.  There would be no point in even taking notes because the teachers would just post it online to the class website.  You only needed to show up for attendance. 

When class was over for the day, you wouldn't have to leave!  You could just walk around on campus, drinking coffee or getting free meals from the cafeteria; clearly pre-paid by the vast amounts of Grants and Scholarships that had no bounds and were available to everybody who ‘opted in’ to this whole college thing.  You’d probably just show them a card or something at every store and they’d swipe it, all while wearing a “Welcome to your Brand-New, Pristine, College Life” smile as 50’s style elevator music played from the ceiling speakers.  Do you need to buy your books for class?  Look no further than the Book Store located right on campus.  Just walk in, hand them your class schedule, and your books will be given to you absolutely free!  That’s right, no charge!  This isn’t the grim ‘outside’ world, after all.  Here, you are taken care of.  Here, you are successful. 

Do you want to call it a day and head on to get some sleep for the night?  Well you absolutely can!  Just walk over to the luxurious and spacious college dorms, offer your name to the RA in the front hallway, and they will guide you to your new living quarters.  Whether you’re an early riser or a night owl, they’ve got you covered.  Are you an anti-social hermit, or a party animal?  It doesn’t matter; they have everything to accommodate your specific style of living!  Enjoy your brand new furniture, TV, mini-fridge, and daily meals brought to your room right on time.  And for those students who are especially studious, you’ll be offered a free, top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art, computer of your choice!  It comes complete with the fastest and most reliable internet in the country! 

But let’s not forget the true meaning of what it means to go to college.  After all, you’re here for a reason, and a thumpin’ good one at that!  It’s all about education of the next generation.  And it’s no secret either; your parents and their parents before you have been able to reach their career goals with higher education and receiving their college degrees, just like that!  When you have a college degree, anything is possible for your career goals, even achieving the American Dream!  It’s simple:  Just show up for class, receive your assignments, get along with your peers and classmates, turn in your completed homework, ace those midterms and finals, and you’ll be walking down the aisle in no time.  With our 24/7 staff and tutoring facilities, full of teachers and mentors who are ready and willing to mold and shape your pliant minds, chances of failure are at an all-time low! 

After your graduation, you can begin your path to a lifetime career right away with our daily job fairs.  You’ll be able to live worry-free, in a nice house within a nice neighborhood, and hey, go ahead and get that nice new car too!  You can afford everything with your highly paying new job, so be proud and enjoy your new life!  You’ve made your parents proud, impressed your friends, made your enemies jealous, and achieved that beautiful American Dream.  Congratulations!

So with all of that in mind, I had swallowed the sweet little lie of what it would mean to go to college and pursue higher education.  That is how I see it now, here in the end days of July 2013.  I say that simply because, even with all the over-the-top and pie-in-the-sky ideas that I had of what college life was going to be and where it was going to get me, there is still a solid grain of truth in it.  Turns out that money plays so much more of a role than what I had ever imagined.

End Part One.  Stay tuned for Part Two!

In Which it was the Mid 90’s and Jigsaw Puzzles were Better than the Internet

It was 1996 and I lived in Central Kentucky.  I lived in a little one-light town named Pleasureville, and by God it sure was.  People were generally nice and considerate, but then again I was an 8 year old and nobody paid attention to 8 year olds unless they were being loud or breaking things.  Luckily, I was neither and so nobody paid me much mind.

I quickly evolved into a silent and pensive girl, one who turned to books and puzzles for hours a day.  My personal record was putting together a 1500 piece puzzle by myself in about a week.  Cardboard soot covered my fingers as I carefully studied each shape, sorting out the corners, arguably the easiest and hardest part simultaneously, because they were unique and easy to spot, but there were only 4 a midst thousands, and therefore harder to find.  Once I found them, I moved to the next logical step, the edge pieces.  These were the most important ones, as they not only gave the puzzle structure and natural limitation, but provided a further hint to where in inner pieces were to go.  Then, depending on the kind of puzzle, I would either sort them by shape, stacking them as high as they would go against the wall, or I would sort them by color. 

It was all a matter of elimination by then.  I had made a methodological approach to jigsaw puzzles.  When they were finally finished, I would either glue the puzzle together and keep it under my bed, or I would fold the completed puzzle in half and stuff it back in its box.  My favorite kinds of puzzles were the fresh, stiff kind.  They stayed in place even after I folded them twice over.   Of course, once a puzzle has been solved, I didn’t see much use to it otherwise, and so I requested more.  I would get them for my birthday and for Christmas.  I quickly became bored of the usual jigsaws, and wanted something more challenging.  When I was 10, I got a 3D puzzle of the Empire State Building, measuring at just under a meter tall.  When I was 10 and a half, I was given a puzzle where all the inner pieces were the same exact shape and I had to truly pay attention to the pattern printed on the pieces.  And at 11, I was given another 3D puzzle, but this one was a globe that had to be carefully built from bottom to top, or else the structure would collapse.  And finally at 12, I was gifted a puzzle that not only had identical pieces, but there were no edge or corner pieces.  Each piece was also double-sided, so there was no blank cardboard to help me look at the cut of the cardboard.  On the box, this puzzle boasted “The most difficult jigsaw in the world”. 

You might want to think that took the challenge.  I can assure you that I truly wanted to.  I wanted to defeat that final puzzle and be crowned Queen of the Jigsaws and Ultimate Puzzle Solver Extraordinaire.  Nothing could ever stump me after I achieved those titles and then everything was downhill from there.  Other kids would know of my supreme skills and call me the smartest kid in the world.  I saw myself moving upwards.  I dreamed of untangling all those plastic Slinkys up in the attic and sharing them with my classmates at recess.   I wanted to do a speed challenge of every 15 block sliding puzzle I found.  But of course, those were baby toys compared to the famed legend of the Rubik’s Cube.  I searched at yard sales whenever I had the chance, but I never came across them.  My pre-teen self was convinced that they were highly rare and collectible, as well as ‘old’ and therefore not sold in stores anymore. 

I kept up with the puzzles for a few more months, satisfied that I could still find a bit more fun in the ones I already owned, barring that none of them had missing pieces.   For that time, the elusive Rubik’s Cube would remain a distant goal.  Soon, I was introduced—no, rather I was indoctrinated—into a life of technology.  The World Wide Web, where I would play on Java Applets and put together puzzles of any jpeg image I could upload.  My Gameboy Original and Color, which held so much more than Puzzle games like Tetris, as well as my Super Nintendo given to me by my uncle, where I played Tetris Attack with my sister for hours, or until one of us got frustrated and ran upstairs.  Finally, in Christmas of 2001, my sister and I got a Playstation 2 as a gift and from there… the rest is history. 

I still have many of my puzzles from my childhood and early teens, including a few that I bought myself while I was overseas.  They remain a relic of my past, never needing to be recharged nor having batteries replaced.  They aren't affected by time and don’t take a terrible amount of skill.  It’s a sort of lost art, and sadly one that even I have put away for years.  The boxes sit in my closet, neatly stacked by box length, waiting for the day when I decide that I’m utterly exhausted by technology and want to pour the pieces out on the table, prop up the box art for reference, and spend an evening transforming a jumbled mess into a work of art. 

A little confession to wrap up:  I have a Rubik’s Cube and have never legitimately solved it.  I think if I had had one as a kid, I would have done it for real.  Maybe then it would have meant something.  But perhaps it was just never meant to be.  I can just hang on to the one I have and hope that my own child can take advantage of that little cube puzzle more than I ever did. 

Anyway, until the next dawn!