Original Content.

Before I die, I want to have one original thought.
Not inspired by anything, not the product of anything, not similar to or synonomous with anything that has ever been thought before.

Just for a moment, I want to know that out of the six billion people on earth right now, I am the only one that ever has thought one particular thought. I want to set the record, not break it.

My Mother Taught Me How To Lie.

When I was in seventh grade and unruly and angry, my mother and stepfather took everything out of my room but my bed. My beloved computer, my books, notebooks and paper, stereo, everything. They also briefly considered taking my door off it's hinges, but compromised to just keep it propped open until it was time to go to bed. I had a strict schedule I had to adhere to that dictated everything to when I did my homework to what time my showers were to what times I was allowed to read.

My punishment was a result of my rudeness. Grady couldn't stand how rude and disrespectful I was, and my mother had long since buried her backbone somewhere too deep for my tears to reach.

I don't mean to say she didn't love me.

She was simply too tired to overrule Grady's opinion.

If I did not answer with a quiet, demure, "Yes ma'am/sir," to questions, I was heavily reprimanded and reminded of all the things I stood to gain. If I did not remember my “please and thankyou”s, I received a twenty minute lecture on manners. If I was not a Southern Belle, I was treated like a heathen.

It reminds me of Red Plan, here at MSA. Then, I resisted my parents. With everything I wanted soundly out of reach, what else could happen? What other restrictions could they place on me?

It became a sort of game; a one-sided, immature game that I strung my stepfather along in.

It was stupid of me.

Eventually, I figured out that you have to play by the rules to get what you want. You don't necessarily have to accept the system, or like authority in order to grit your teeth and squeeze out some niceity.

So I did. I was just a demure and peaceful as could be. I yes ma'amed and no sired my ass off. Somedays it was an honest attmept to better myself.

Mostly it was a lie.

If you habitually lie at home, it is very unlikely to be completely honest outside of it.

With this newfound power to make my mother smile and believe my every word, I started to wonder who else I could fool. Who else I could play with.

And you know what?

If you figure out how to let just one lock of hair fall into your eyes, how to smile with just the corners of your mouth, how to cave into yourself, how to speak quietly and aticulately, how to be the picture-perfect definition of "vulnerable," everyone will believe you.

No one will turn you away.

Everyone will tuck you under their wing and protect you.

It took my mother a month and a half to rebuild her spine and tell my stepfather that she did not believe in his way of parenting.

It took me three years to decide that this "cute" image I had built for myself was not what I wanted out of my life.

I am still reeling, wondering how a disguise that worked for so long can be so unacceptable in the real world. In 8th grade, everyone wanted to be cute.

My graduating year, two boys have broken up with me because they feel so "responsible for me," and people are starting to see through the cracks that used to be invisible.

I don't lie anymore. At least, I try my hardest not too.

But whenever people criticize me, I remember that it was my mother that taught me how to lie.

Role-Models.

I think that mostly, we're all of us growing down. We're sinking into the floor. There's this bottomless drop-out in our lives that we can't crawl out of.
And then we look up at the one person that somehow hasn't fallen yet, and we think, "There they are. There's the person I'm always going to depend on."

So we dig our claws into the blackhole, into the drop-out, into the big gaping nothing. And bit by bit we crawl out. And bit by bit we get closer to them.
Bit by bit, we strip away the layers of us that have always made us individuals. Bit by bit, we give ourselves away.

And when we finally get to this person, this diety that we haven't yet managed to take our eyes off, we realize that the person standing in front of us isn't a person at all.
It's a cardboard cut out.
Ant at its feet is a big red 'x' that melts away as soon as we notice it, becoming another blackhole. Another drop-out. Another nothing.

We're sliding into the pits of our lives-- into our pant suits and ties; our starbucks double frappe mochachinos; our breakfast-for-diners and diner-for-lunches. We're slipping into this abyss, this drop-out, this nothing, this blackhole, and we're thinking of all the things we shouldacouldawoulda done if we'd only seen this moment coming. We're promising ourselves to do it differently next time.


And then we look up, and at the edge of the hole is someone that hasn't managed to fall in.

SIGN!

I can't imagine this sign being posted anywhere on our campus.
I used to not cry very often, but this year I've cried in a variety of locations for a variety of reasons. Crying on campus makes me feel awkward and embarrassed. There's not really any private space, and I'm not generally a public-cryer.
It's difficult to find some space that's comfortable enough to just let loose a sob or three hundred. I feel like MSA has made me one big walking vagina (pussy.) It's ridiculous how much of my time is devoted to tearing up, crying, or desperately trying not to.

I've had some fun times, I'll admit.
But, for the most part, I feel like I've regressed into my 9th grade maturity-- or like of thereof-- rather than "blossoming" into a high school senior.

My Laptop background

Is extremely cute.
It's a picture I found while stumbling.
(stumbleupon.com, for the naive and confused.)
It's this old, Tibetan monk with tattoos running up and down his arms, neck, chest and belly. He has a dragon that can't really be seen because his belly roll distorts it a little. He's wearing this coppery-fabric toga and wire-rimmed glasses, and he holds a wooden staff close to his body with one hand.
With the other hand, he's hugging a tiger.

Let me reiterate that for you: A TIGER.
TIIIIIIIIIII-GER.

This beast of an animal has its head resting on the monk's knee, and the monk's arm is wrapped around its neck, pulling it closer. The tigers eyes are shut, and the monk's are closing.
It's like this man hugs tigers every day.
I want to describe it as "intimate," but I don't want to make it seem like some life-changing experience for the tiger or the monk.
They're not in love. They might not even love each other. But one of them needed a hug that the other was willing to provide.

I guess I just like hugs. I like hugging people, I like being hugged. Hugs are something everyone knows how to do, and they don't require a longstanding history or relationship. You can hug a stranger, you can hug your boyfriend, you can hug your parents and you can hug a tiger.
Maybe tiger like hugs too.
Maybe when I grow up, I'll be a tiger.

Ashlyn

Leaves me oodles of comments where she describes in detail her river-deep love for me.
I appreciate her and her love so much, I decided to write a blog about it.

I like it when things are short, sweet, and to the point.
Just like Ashlyn is.


She's pretty much perfect.
And if she's not, she's at least three steps higher than anyone else I know.

Next time

I will stand in the doorway and hold my breath.
And when I let it all out in a rush of carbon dioxide and dead skin cells, it will be a proclamation that this is my home.

Reading.

I have this horrible problem.

Hello everyone. My name is Jordan and I read cliche teenager books.

I tend to judge books by their covers and by their names.
If it looks or sound the teeniest bit okay-ish, I'll pick it up.
And boom, I'm sold. No matter how much I hate it, I have to see it through.
Because, at any given moment, it could get better. You know?
If I jsut read to the end of the next page, literary greatness will spring out at me and I'll be glad I took the time to find it.


Anyways, I'm bring this up because right now I'm reading this horrible book called "Peace Love & Baby Ducks." Only, on the cover, the words aren't mentioned. It's a picture of a blue peace sign over a red heart over the & symbol over three rubber duckies.
Cute, right?

So I'm on page 170, trying my hardest to read it all today and get it over with, and I stumble upon the chapter about religion (the main charater attends a Christian private school in Atlanta.)
Towards the end of the page, I spot the word "Rastafarianism." Being the curious youngster I am, I google the word.
According to the religion's wikipedia page and several other google sources, the Rastafarians take the word "rastafarianism" into offense, because they don't like being labeled as an "ism."
I check again. Page 170, paragraph 10, line 1: Rastafarianism.

I'm not really getting self righteous about the author's error. Lauren Myracle isn't any less of a person to me for not having done basic research.
I guess I just enjoy spotting other people's errors. They remind me that I'm not the only person in the whole wide universe that screws up.



But, damn, at least my mistakes can't be read all over the country.

I'm trying really hard to Bee the Best Bee I can Bee, but I'm less like one of those small, fast Bees and more like a big ol' honey bee that just drifts around without accomplishing anything at all. This school sucks the energy out of me. I've got nothing to offer. Getting out of bed is such a chore.

We went to New Orleans this weekend. We had to wake up at 3 am in order to make it there before noon, and I drove all the way because guest don't drive. That would be rude.
Anyways, it was Michael and I, and we both hit our peak at about 10 am, so everything after that just got a little crazy. I was scared that when we walked into UNO we'd still be cackling and screeching "WANNA PLAY CHECKERSSSSSSS????" But, thankfully, we pulled it together long enough to give the impression of very mature young people.

I don't want to be mature.
I just want to be young.

I hate when people say that they're mature for their age. I feel like they're selling their childhood. They're letting go of a limited time offer.

I wish everyone acted their ages 24/7. I wish it was something we couldn't fight against. I wish being old and wrinkly was acceptable, that we didn't have surgies and creams to stop you from aging.
I want to be old and wrinkly. I want to be crazy as hell at whatever age it is allowed.
I want to have a million greatdanes running around my house, so that all the mothers in the neighborhood bring their toddlers over to "ride" the dogs, and then sit in the fron yard with me and tell me what an inspiration to the community I am.
I want to be an inspiration to the community.

I want to own a coffee shop someday. I want to wake up at 4 am every morning except Sunday, when we won't open until noon, so that I can start making coffee at 5 and be serving by 6. And eventually I'll hire someone to run the coffee shop downstairs and I will do yoga classes upstairs and make $10 a person.

I hate when people put the dollar sign behind the numeral amount. When they type money they way they would say it. Seeing 10$ grinds my gears.

My coffee shop will not make much money. We will make just enough to pay the bills and to put some into a savings account. I will take all of those savings and buy a Texas ranch house, sitting on a couple of acres and a fenced in yard. And then I'll get a bunch of dogs and be an inspiration to the neighborhood.

Hmph.

Dinner doesn't taste so great when you eat it alone.

My Weekend:

Thrusday: (Yes, my weekend begins on Thursday, when I decide against packing in advanced so as to cause myself more of a headache later.) Bathe. Wonder if I should bring my own shampoo and shit to Michael's house. Decide yes, just in case he thinks it's rude not to (is it customary to bring along your own soap? Or is your host expected to provide? Things I need to know that no one will ever teach me number 1.)

Friday: Jon screeches in the cafeteria at lunch. I screech back. I win. Drink my last red bull before noon. Pack my clothes. Unpack them, repack my face wash and shit, then clothes. Unpack all of it, repack my make up, face wash, then clothes. Unpack AGAIN, repack makeup, face wash, toothbrush and paste, and clothes. Stuff some candy and camera into my purse, almost forget stuffed dog, DO forget an extra pair of pants, grab laptop I know I won't use all weekend. Ride to Gulfport in the backseat with Danielle. Stop at a gas station in Godknowswhere? that has a one stall, unisex bathroom (that we all need to use.) Man in front of me walks in, audibly walks door, audibly buys condom from condom dispenser, hurridly leaves. Decide that future boy friend (anyone interested???) is not allowed to buy condoms from gas station dispenser. They're nasty and they probably have lots of holes in them and they only cost 75 cents (wtf, where is the 'cent' sign on this keyboard?!). I am a cheap date, admitably, but not that cheap. Go to wal mart. Forget groceries at wal mart. Go back. There is a lady slumped over in her car. When asked, she replies that she was waiting for someone, and drives away. Wtf, Gulfport?

Saturday: Go to Bay St. with Michael. Eat Mediterranean food for the first time. Fall in love with hummus. Walk to the beach. On the way, hear name SCCCCCREECHED from across the street. Get Jackson Weldon's cellphone number. Unintentionally insult his girlfriend. Check facebook. Forrest King posts that the 'n' word and "faggot" mean the same thing. Argue over facebook. Win :D. Drive back to Michael's, meet Geoffrey for the first time. He's pretty cool. Climb a tree on an "Unstable Dam!!" Film project starting at 9, ending at 4 on

Sunday: Wake up at noon to Michael decompressing my lungs (he thinks it's funny to watch me gasp for air.) Watch him fiddle with the film footage from Saturday. Go to art festival in the pass with Mears. Forget shoes. (shit, it's an art festival, right? They don't care.) Meet some of Mear's friends. They are intricately more interesting than I. I'm not sure that's proper grammar. Go back to Michael's. Sit around with the dogs for a while. ThrowMear's a surprise birthday bash. Watch scary House episode. Shit it was scary. Go to bed at 11. Wake up at 3 on

Monday: Get in car. Go to gas station, see Lion/Dog (I swear to Jesus.) Pick up Mears very quietly. Hallucinate that we're running away. Hallucinate a lot in general. Sleep. Bell just rang. Time for 30 minute break.





Shit I'm sleepy.

A- Age: Seventeen


B- Bed size: Twin. Loooooong twin.


C- Chore you hate: All of them.


D- Dog's name: Maxamutt.


E- Essential "Start Your Day": Check texts, then facebook, then myspace.


F- Favorite color(s): Purple and blue

G - Gold or Silver: Silver.

H - Height: 5'2".....

I - Instrument you play: I'm trying to learn the piano... or guitar... or anything, really.

J - Job titles: Slacker

K - Kids: Are messy.

L - Liquor, Beer or Wine: None. Ick.

M - Mom's name: Alicia Anne. Isn't it cute?

N – Nicknames: Mostly a barage of endearing insults.

O - Outie or Innie: Innie!

P - Pet Peeve: Nick Fountain

Q - Quote from a movie: "I!! killed Mufasa!"

R - Right or left handed: Righty

S - Sibling(s): Five Brothers.

T- Time to get up: 7:40

U - Underwear: Are itchy, and are constantly on the look out for ways to crawl up your butt.

V - Vegetable you dislike: All of them. If it isn't made out of sugar, I don't eat it.

W - What makes you run late: Being so sleepy all the time.

X - X-rays you've had: Arm, in 2nd grade.

Y - Yummy food you make: Pies. I'm a pie-making BEAST.

Z - Zoo animal favorite: The big cats. And the wolf, if they have one.





This blog is rapidly becoming a collection of all the myspace bulletins I would post if myspace were still any fun. The relization is a huge disappointment.

Chronic.

I cannot stop pooping. I don't know why. It's bad, you guys. It's BAAAAD.
deadwhale.com isn't loading on my computer. This is the saddest day of my life.

LOST/FOUND

I lost something very important to me. I don't know when. It was one of those "losses" where I looked around to find it and then sat in the middle of my floor and cried because I realized it was gone.
I will never find another one quite like it, because an exact replica wouldn't have the memories and character it had all bunched up inside.
That's what makes me saddest. I feel like by losing the item, I've lost the memories as well.

But, at the same time, I'm almost happy it's gone.
Don't get me wrong, if someone threw it into my lap and said, "Look what I found!" I'd be perfectly happy.
But I feel like with the misplacement of something special, I'm ending an era. A phase.

Now I'm moving on to something bigger and, hopefully, better.

Still, I'm sorry I'll never be able to return it.

College.....?

THAT'S RIGHT MOTHERFUCKERS.

I'M A UNO STUDENT!!!!!

I've been accepted and all that good shit, now I just have to worry about orientation testing, paying for all this bullcrap, and housing...

OH WAIT!!

I already have a roommate!

Welcome to the blog, Grace Mears Teel!!

I don't have pictures of you, but everyone knows what you look like. Just picture her face here--------------->

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^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Enough with the arrows and huge font.

I'm oober excited to have gotten into college at all, and I'm extremely pleased to be going with one of my closest friends.