:^) (PB)

I had some troubles trying to figure this blog out.  Not just the usual troubles where I struggle to find a unique topic that I haven't already somehow mentioned to anyone in this class or even outside of this class, because I do enjoy trying to make these posts pure and down to the lurking depths of the bottom of the barrel as possible.  The barrel being my brain, of course.  But with the added pressure of the deadline of this blog inevitably creeping along, and also, the fact that this is the last post that I will have to write this school year, it was wiggin me out a bit.  I hate death, and the end of the school year just screams "YOU ARE OLD!  OLD MORGAN!  HAHAHA SOON ALL OF YOUR WORST FEARS** WILL COME TRUE AND YOU WILL BE SURROUNDED BY OLD ADULT MEN AND LADIES AND YOU WILL HAVE NO REAL FRIENDS JUST YOUR CHURCH FRIENDS THAT YOU EAT HALF A CHOCOLATE MUFFIN WITH ON SUNDAY MORNINGS AT TEN O CLOCK WITH AND COUNT DOWN ALL OF YOUR ALREADY DEAD EX BEST FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES WITH THE SAME ENTHUSIASM YOU USED TO HAVE WHEN YOU WERE FIVE AND WOULD CROSS OUT THE DAYS OF DECEMBER, BECAUSE EVENTUALLY YOU WILL DECIDE GOD IS REAL, AND WITH IT, YOUR NORMALITY WILL SLOWLY CREEP IN, AND WITH IT, WRINKLES, AND WITH IT, BAD JUDGEMENT IN ROUGH TRAFFIC, AND WITH IT, DEATH.  ALWAYS DEATH ! !  !".  Now the uncomfortable aching in my gut is starting to sweep in, so I am going to move on because I'd rather not spend tonight thinking about my inevitable doom.  Mwa ha ha. 

 

So I have decided to write it about things that make me happy.  Y'all sit down for a spell and drink up some of this home brewed peach iced tea that I suckled up for ya and make yourself comfortable.  

 

 

One. 

I love my dad's pasta salad.  At every picnic, dinner, lunch, date with my dog, ( I don't have a dog who am I kidding sheesh) and outing that I have outed to, if there is some sort of salad involving pasta, commonly known as pasta salad, I will try that baby.  But.  Butt.  No one has ever touched my dad's pasta salad with a ten foot pole.  I don't get it.  I have watched him make it.  He just piles squishy multicolored snail noodles with italian dressing and little infant cherry tomatoes and pepperoni and various cheeses and celery and boom.  Delicioso.  Today marked a day that coincidentally fell on when three and a half weeks have passed, and my family provides me nutrition, so he made pasta salad and boy I ate that up. 

 

Two. 

Not to sound like a nasty person, but I am going to sound like a nasty person.  But the prospect of attainable money from summer jobs has my toes itchin'.  I'm serious, I'm so giddy about maybe being able to buy myself some LUSH products and maybe some quality ice cream.  I hear that intro song to Celebrity Apprentice, I think, the one where it's like " Money money money, MONEY!" just looping around in my head like a pretty merry go round. 

 

Three. 

THE PROSPECT OF HAVING THE HORRIBLY OPPRESSIVE CHAINS THAT HAVE BEEN LACERATING AT MY RAW AND BLOODIED FLESH FOR ALMOST 180 DAYS BEING RIPPED AWAY IN THE MOST GLORIOUS FASHION BY MY BEAUTIFUL GLOWING SAVIOR SUMMER. THE CHAINS, OBVIOUSLY BEING THE INTENSELY GROTESQUE AND INVADING PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION THAT I HAVE BEEN SUBJECTED TO BY EVERY TEENAGE COUPLE IN EVERY HALLWAY IN EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY. 

 

Four. 

Those peaches mangos and limes. 

 

 

Okay, that's good enough for me, hope you guys have a super great summer and realize that everything is temporary so you should just accept that you want Nicki to be your mom and flow with it jeesh.

 

 

 

**Why this pig so HD someone tell me.

I am so SORRY for the inconvenience (PB)

I have had a stupidly difficult time for the last few months trying to stabilize my body in a way so as that I do not raptor screech my way up to the high heavens, nor do I take a sharp kitchen knife and plunge it deep into the squishy folds of my stomach in order to combat the seemingly endless parade of worm wiggling that never ever lets up.  Ya see, I would rather not have another episode that would give me an excuse to abstractly refer to a subject matter that literally no one cares to hear about, besides Pepe over here, and she knows that I know that she knows I talk way too much about that and everything in my life anyways, and she knows that I know that she knows that I wish so desperately I could just shut my mouth. 

 

So I've been trying to keep my head screwed on straight and my calve muscles loose and my spaghetti just as noodley.  But those damn worms are having a frickin field day, it must be..... I don't know, Denver in '98, when the Broncos defeated the Packers to win the Super Bowl XXXII.  Yeah, those wormies are not happy.  Haha. 

 

But anyways, I'm not sure why I feel so strange.  There are so many possible factors for the jigglies. 

Lists.  Yay! 

1. Everyone is driving me nuts because it's the end of the year, (ever heard of spring fever?).  I'm starting to realize maybe it isn't a good idea to want to be friends with everyone.  Some people you just need to not hang with.  At all. 

2. The Human Centipede is a thing that was recently watched with my eyeballs. 

3. Baumbach is a thing that was recently watched with my eyeballs. 

4. There is so much sketchy sexual vibed out relationships between the students and teachers of BAHS.  This is not a reference to the number above, just so you know.  Observe, and you will understand. 

5. The PDA levels are off the charts.  Once again, observe. Hint: Swing by Digel's at the end of the day.  You'll know what I mean. 

6. Prom.  I mean, jeez, what's the big deal anyway?  I mean, really?  Ugh I don't even want to go.  I hate people who have fun.  Ugh.  Pizza > Prom 2k15.  Ugh.  Ugh.  Ugh.  Or this stuff, yeah.

 

            Lolz.

7. No one is hydrating enough.  Or getting any sleep.  Stop bragging about how ever since you were born, you have only drank Coke Vanilla, and go guzzle some H2O, baby.  Go to bed.  Just take care of yourself, jeez, didn't think I had to spell that out for you. 

8. Everyone is squishing 54954040% knowledge into my brain capacity super duper fast before finals. 

9. The salt levels are way to unbalanced at the moment. 

10. I haven't taken a shower and I miss certain children in my life. 

 

BONUS:  Swim practice, every night, two hours straight, plus dryland, plus I hate every single atom in the chemical formula to make chlorine water.  Extra bonus, my sister is playing her flute. 

 

On the bright side, I just went grocery shopping and I purchased so many beautiful items.  I am a proud hen mother. 

There is too much proof that bigfoot exists (PB)

"Invisible threads are the strongest ties." -Friedrich Nietzsche
 

 

One time I read this creepypasta story.  It was about this girl who woke up to one day to find that everything in her life was connected by strings.  Small, little, tiny, translucent strings binding everything from her cat to the books in her room to her friends.  Everyone was completely oblivious to her existence, ignoring her until she pulled the strings away from their body.  Then they woke up from a stupor, confused and disoriented.  She soon discovered that the world, and therefore her life had always been controlled by an unknown being.  Her thoughts were not hers.  Her actions were of another's.  Her life had been one carefully constructed lie, a game for someone else to play.  While she had been attached by those strings, she was a pawn to whatever was controlling her. 
 

Sometimes I feel like that story is true.  Like I have no control over my life and all of this is some bigger picture.  And that's scary.  To think that I'm being controlled with no choice but to do as instructed, never having free will, is absolutely terrifying.  There's so much proof to back the concept up, too.  Coincidences.  Miracles births.  Natural disasters.  Love at first sight.  All of those unexplainable moments that add up to one big question mark hanging ominously over your head at night.  Death.  Happening for no known reason, yet not one person truly and completely questions it.  We all just accept it and go along with those bonds by routine.  It's like when you were little and you still believed in the tooth fairy.  You would wonder, why is no one intrigued by this idea?  A fairy?  That sneaks into my room and steals my tooth and then gives me money?  How come mom doesn't think that's weird? 
 

Sure, there's those people that devote their whole lives to finding what the purpose of dreams are, or if love is an actual concept.  But doesn't it seem like we should be getting some answers by now?  Doesn't it seem as though they are trying just enough to be able to say they did?  So they could just give up, and stop looking?  Like they don't want to know the answers?  Like they are scared to find them out? 

I'm Sick (PB)

I think I used to be a better person. 

 

Perhaps in the way that all humans are as children, young and innocent, full of life, have yet to experience heartbreak, incapable of being essentially, an analytical bastard.  I remember thinking the most simple solutions to every problem imaginable, not understanding what the big fuss was with all of these dumb adults and old people complaining about silly things.  For example, if a girl and a boy are together (yuck!), then when they don't like each other, or the boy is mean, they should break up.  Poof!  Problem gone!  Or if some stinky old man doesn't like his job as a librarian and wants to be a tightrope walker, then he should nicely quit and go run off with the circus.  Poof!  Problem gone! 

 

Everything was so easy.  Any problem was a little pebble that I kicked while skipping in the park wearing my pink raincoat and muddy rainbow sneakers, with my long long long golden braid swinging behind me.  The problems that I thought were unconquerable were long division and how to emotionally handle the boy next to me at lunch accidentally spilling his chocolate milk all over my lap.  Or how the heck am I going to get this stupid button on my corduroys fastened?  It's so tiny!  The material of my pants is too tight!  Agh!  What if I have to go back to class and ask my teacher to do it for me?  I'm starting to get sweaty!  How lame! 

 

It's like the roles have switched.  I can handle those problems easy.  Here, you bring the five down next to the two.  Don't cry, you're mom works at the school.  She'll wash your pants for you.  And I don't know what to tell you about that button, man.  I still can't get those. 

 

Sometimes I wish I could trade off my problems to that little girl with the sideways teeth and chubby little belly.  She knew what was up.  She was the girl who, when surrounded by a bunch of brats talking about a girl who wore weird clothes, said in the meanest voice she could muster, "Hey guys!  You should stop talking about her, because she's nice, and you guys are being mean!"  She tried so hard on everything and cared so much about her homework, tests, worksheets.  She loved to color and her dad.  Sometimes I think about that little girl and of what she would say if she knew what she had turned out to be when she got to be older.  Would she be disappointed?  Am I becoming that person she would have locked her blue eyes on and called out at the playground?  Maybe, probably.  But I do know one thing.  I have learned some stuff that little me had not quite grasped yet.  That boys can like boys and girls can like girls and it's not gross.  That kissing is more than a spit sharing session.  That music is flippin amazing.  That just because you read books instead of having fun doesn't make you cool, it makes you very uncool, the opposite of cool.  And that life sort of sucks, but then it doesn't, not really.  Not at all.

Trajedy is the Most Ridiculous Thing (PB)

"She's the one with the unibrow, right?" 

 

Yeah, she is.  But for today, let's focus on everything else about this wonderful and incredible woman. 

 

I recently watched the Oscar winning film called Frida, obviously about the late painter Frida Kahlo.  I hadn't realized that although I have always admired her work, there was so much I did not know about her fascinating life story.  I had known that she had been in an accident that had damaged her spine and had caused her to be crippled for the rest of her life, in extreme levels of pain almost constantly.  I had known that she had to wear braces and casts and squeeze into wheelchairs, and eventually be bed ridden, (still painting of course).  I knew the difficulties she faced because of this experience influenced her work, as her illness isolated her through the years.  I also knew that a bizarre hatred of New York was introduced after she moved from her native location, and that most of her paintings were self portraits.  What I hadn't known was..... well, many things. 

 

I am ashamed to admit that I had not yet made the connection from Frida to the wildly celebrated artist Diego Rivera.  The two were married, and that important detail somehow managed to escape my mind.  The paired painters had one of the most interesting relationships I have ever observed.  Both partners consistently had affairs, and while it was mostly on Diego's side, Frida participated as well.  Two notable interactions that had caused major strain on the relationship were first Diego's sexual relations with Frida's sister, and then later, Frida's surprising affair with Leon Trotsky, the Marxist revolutionary that Frida had helped take refuge while being sought out by the government.  She was presumed bisexual, if you are into labels, and had flings with multiple women.  Frida and Diego were always fighting and on the edge.  Despite all of this, they had a passionate love that carried on to the end, and were loyal the whole way through. 

 

Sadly, Frida suffered through an abortion and a miscarriage, and the despairing feelings produced from carrying the memories of her lost children around played a major part in her work.  Her disdain for the pompous New Yorkers was also evident in her self taught (!) portraits and landscapes.  The woman was a strong and important artist that produced beautiful work expressing vulnerability and depression, paired with elation and the bold happiness of a woman that loved her hard life.  She continues to connect to the world and modern women today, just as the works of Leonardo and Michelangelo do, because they all have one common factor.  They make you feel something.  And isn't that what art is supposed to do?  It's supposed to make you feel.




The post where I talk about my mom (PB)

What are you wearing? 

 

Why are you so emotional? 

 

Go do a load of laundry! 

 

If I were you... 

 

Ahh, but you aren't (gladly).  That's right, you guessed it folks, it's time to talk about those gremlins you call your rents, the ones that have given you everything that is essential to you living for fifteen plus years.  They complain and scream and freaked the freak out when you smashed your iPod screen in the sixth grade on a trip to Hershey, completely on accident, even though you paid for half of it with your hard earned money gained from a Christmas and a birthday.  We are here to talk about parents. 

 

My mom gave birth to me when she was a mere twenty-one years old.  That's pretty young for a mom; my parents wouldn't even marry until two years later.  (This confused me profusely for a large portion of my childhood.  I had not yet figured out the logistics of child birth, and would constantly prod my other into explaining how exactly I was born, because didn't you have to be married to have a baby?)  The first year of my life would be spent at my dad's mother's house.  Now, it might sound like I was a fishy mistake, right?  No house, no ring, college kids.  Sketchy.  But I know that whether I was meant to be or not, my parents thought I was the greatest thing since peanut butter in a jar, do you know how?  Here's how:  If you happened to look in any drawer in the house, or upon any surface in my parent's room, you would find thousands of pictures of me in various stages of babyhood.  There I am in a tub, at a festival, in a pile of sand, naked, laughing, wearing a monkey mask.  So many pictures.  And you can feel in every one of them the happiness and love radiating from the moment, the new parent smell.  The best part of this never ending roll of photos is that with each child, the number of pictures goes down by at least fifty percent, probably even more with the digital age we live in.  So that means when I'm old and I have thirty-seven children that look exactly like me and my husband Zayn, I will be able to show them these tokens of love, while my brother will shove a no doubt deceased iPad at his kid's face to exemplify the bond he shared with my parents. 

 

Getting back to the point, I've come to the conclusion that my parents' ages have had a huge effect on both my personality and our relationship.  For example, I have noticed with other families, the parents have almost complete control over their children.  Whatever they say goes.  If a mom tells their kid to not drink out of the dog's water bowl, they are going to stay clear of the bowl and the dog.  Maybe I'm just really skilled at weaseling out of situations, or maybe because I'm just a good kid, I can basically rid myself of any chore or unpleasant thing that my parents would like me to do.  In other words, I'm going to lick from that water bowl.  And I'm not a brat, I swear.  I do help out sometimes.  But my mom and dad are not really with the whole, "respect is the bible, if you sin, you're grounded for life" deal.  I think it's because secretly, they consider me very close to their equal.  For a while, I was going through this phase where I did not want to talk to a single person.  So my  mom took it to heart, because we usually had such a good relationship.  We constantly got into spats because when she asked a question, I would respond with the least number of syllables possible.  Then one day, I realized, other moms didn't get upset when their child had the phonetic skills of a cave man, in fact, they TOLD their kids to shut up.  My mom actually wanted to have a conversation with me, because she enjoyed what I had to say.  Now, I have free reign to say as I please.  It's fantastic.  My mom and I talk about everything, she's basically like a best friend that I live with all the time.  She has helped me through so much, and has given me advice about boys and my career choice.  So yeah, I get sick of her every once in a while, but I still love her to bits.  What about my dad, you ask?  Well, everybody has daddy issues.