The Moth

Yesterday, after getting coffee with my friend, Molly, I began my long drive home. Soon after I got onto the highway, a large moth struck my car. He was about the size of a hotwheel. I watched him fly towards me--a leaf, a piece of paper, a cloth--and disappear under my car. Or so I thought.

As I continued to drive, I saw him. He had struck my windshield low, at its base, and was now caught beneath the wiper. Half of him was on each side, his wings flapping frantically on both sides of the wiper.

I gasped, and started to press my toes on the break. Maybe if I stopped he could escape. But I was on the highway, in the middle lane. The cars surrounding me were moving 65 mph and up. Stopping would put me in danger, put the other drives in the road on danger, and I doubt that moth would've survived a fiery crash. So I speeded back up.

From the time I first noticed him to the time I exited the highway, I periodically looked in his direction. Wondering if he died upon impact, wondering if he was still alive, wondering if the wind hitting the hood of my car would rip him apart before he had a chance to escape. The exit that leads from the highway to my hometown ends, as many exits do, with a street and a stoplight. As soon as I stopped, he started moving.

Not the wind flapping his wings, but his own damn determination. He crawled, pivoting his body, and now I could see his tiny eyes and mothy eyebrows. But part of his body was stilled pinned down by the wiper and the light turned green.

As I drove the final five minutes of my commute I spoke to comfort or encourage him. "Don't worry, the drive will be over soon. Hold on, little guy."

But by the time we reached my house, he had stopped moving without the assistance of the wind. When I parked and switched the car off, his body stopped moving all together. I tapped the glass nearby him, just to see if he'd move. Maybe a bit of him was still living. He had seemed determined to hold onto life. In my mind, he was the Aron Ralston of moths, and maybe he'd be trapped under my windshield wiper for 127 moth-hours and have to amputate part of his own wing, but he'd survive it.

But he didn't move, not even when I exited the car and tapped the glass closer to his head. He was dead. And my heart kind of hurt.

It's times like these, when I'm sad about dead moths or people losing their stuffed animals or learning someone's colorblind, that I think my fear of becoming a monster is absurd. Nobody cries when reading a post about a young boy asking Santa for his sister's relief from bullies and then, in a decade, starts taking advantage of people. That's an aside.

I went into my house hoping that a bird would eat the moth. Then at least the moth's death would have some purpose. But when I came out to my car this morning, he was still there.

Dew had covered my windshield, but I didn't want to flip on my wiper. I didn't want to destroy his corpse, and I didn't want part of him--liquid or ripped up wings--to remain on my windshield.

I had to get gas before heading to school. The gas station was close to my house. As soon as I started pumping gas, I grabbed a paper towel and walked to the front of my car. I lifted up the windshield wiper that he was stuck under, and immediately he started moving.

He'd survived the night. My first thought was that I should've lifted the wiper last night when I got home. Maybe he'd still have enough in him to survive. He was moving, but he couldn't quite pull himself out, so I used the paper towel to push him free.

His body was broken. There was no survival in his future. It would've been merciful if I had squashed his body, but I couldn't do it. I'm always rooting for an underdog. He fell into the crevice by my hood, and I sat the wiper down. "Don't go there either," I muttered. Logically, I knew that he wouldn't make it. His body--moths' bodies are furry, did you know that?--was bent, he no longer had control of one of his wings. And I stared with a whimper.

"Do you know how to do that?" A man asked from behind me.
"Huh?" I replied, half dazed.
"To put the wiper back on?" He was in his thirties, attractive, hispanic, wearing a Chiefs sweatshirt.
"Oh, no, there was a moth stuck in the wiper," I kind of pointed at it.
"Oh, an animal."
"I kind of don't want to touch it."

He--the man--used his keys to push the moth into an opening. He took the paper towel from me, and picked it up.

"I'd kind've assumed it was dead," I explained.
"Yeah, I think it's dead," he said.
"Thank you," I replied, as he carried the moth away.

I wonder if he thought I was too squeamish to touch it. Or maybe he thought I viewed myself as "too good" to remove moth corpses from my windshield. Or maybe he could see that I just didn't was to desecrate the body. Maybe he realized that I felt guilty about the moth's death. Maybe he just wanted to help a quiet girl with galactic tights at a gas station.

I looked around and he was gone--the man and the moth. I thought to myself, "There's no way he knows how much I appreciate what he just did for me."

Today in Principles of Acting

For those of you who don't know, I dropped my education minor because I don't particularly want to be a teacher at this point in my life. Plus, this way I get to take a handful of classes for the sake of interest and self discovery.

That's how I, an English major with a History minor, ended up in Principles of Acting. As a brief overview, the class is populated primarily with freshmen Theater students. The professor asked me my name and my major in the hallway before class the first day. After I replied, he asked why I took the class and I just kind of shrugged. Fair enough. Since then, he occasionally points out the fact that I'm an Odd Duck in a class full of odd ducks.

"A lot of you are doing these exercises because you're in theater and like, fuck it I have to. But," focuses his attention to me, "Are you looking around like, why the fuck are we doing this?"

Sometimes he even refers to me as "The English Major." I don't take offense, though, because he doesn't mean it offensively. Why would he? I've won the school's literary magazine's "playwright award" for the past two consecutive years.

A lot of the exercises are biz-zarre, though. But I don't typically question them, and I'm usually all gung-ho about doing them. Or gung-ho-ish, at least.

Today, we were supposed to have observed an animal and then we would be embodying that animal. And it wasn't supposed to be, like, a vague "dog" or "cat" animal. It was supposed to be a specific animal, like, "my dog, Jubilee" or "my Grandma's cat, Tilly." So I observed my brother's bird, Kiwi.

Kiwi is a pretty handsome bird, if you ask me. And he's so sweet... when he's with Nash. Otherwise...

Kiwi is abrasive. He's protective of his cage, my brother, and my brother's room. He paces a lot. With the exception of my brother, with whom he usually has no bubble, Kiwi needs you to be as far away from his as is humanly possible. Right now, for instance, I am a couple of rooms away from him, and I bet I'm still too close to him for his comfort. Kiwi charges at people (me) when they (I) enter the room and squawks angrily at them (me).

So the character I portrayed was angry and hostile. It wasn't exactly, like, "Hey be a turtle or a parrot or whatever." The idea was that we were people with the characters of this specific animal. And we started off by walking around, then interacting with our peers, then making sounds, then using words... During this section, my friend Emily came up to me and I, as Kiwi would, charged at her, stomped, and let out a glottal yell. Except, I accidentally stomped on her foot, and had to look at her not as Kiwi (who, let's be honest, would've been pleased with himself) but as myself, who feels terrible when I bump into chairs. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" I gasped quietly (we weren't supposed to break character) but pretty soon we were giggling and hugging and getting scolded for breaking character.

I went back to pacing around the back of the room, and Emily went back to walking laps. The professor came up to me, "Hi," he said, and I took two stomping steps towards him and let out another glottal cry. "Good" he said, and I half-giggled. I can't take my angry self seriously. "...If you could only keep breathing and quit breaking character."

Next we did these couple of improv scenes with our characters. In the first one, we did an interview set. For the first handful of interviewees, I was the interviewer.

"WHY DO YOU WANT THIS JOB?" I spat.
"WHAT QUALIFIES YOU?"
"LEAVE."

I interviewed Ariana, who was portraying a timid, pregnant, kangaroo lady. And a couple of other people. But retrospectively, I feel really guilty for how cruel my angry parrot lady was to her timid kangaroo lady.

Next, we did an improv set where four of us (me, Ariana, horse-Ricky, and cat-Emily) were waiting for a bus that was 20 minutes late. The bus stop only had three seats. I glowered at Ariana until she gave me her seat. Poor pregnant, timid, kangaroo Ariana. From that point on, the professor would give one of the other students a direction and send them into the scene. Dog-Paige had to come apologize for the bus's tardiness. The first time I spoke was to scold her for her apology. Elephant-Alex had to try and sell us drugs. Ariana screamed at her, "Get away from my baby!" When Alex bumped my shoulder, hey can I interest y--, I barked, "DON'T TOUCH ME. GET AWAY FROM ME." And Ariana nodded in agreement. As more and more people arrived, the original four of us responded to each of them with anger, annoyance, and frustration.

It was like a bonding experience.

Every now and then, Ariana would look at me, and when I would shoot a glare in her direction, she would start back and whimper. Finally I stood up, "JUST TAKE THE SEAT." "No, it's... You have it." She insisted. Ricky (being the pretentious horse he was) decided that if neither of us would take the seat, he put his feet up.

"SHE'S PREGNANT." I hissed, stomping towards him, pulling his feet up, and spinning him forward. "SIT." I commanded to Ariana, who did so anxiously.

And that was the end of the exercise. Afterwards, we got to laugh and talk about how much we liked Katie's Turtle person--Katie, during the interview, said, "Well--I don't--move--very quickly--but--I--make up--for--it--in my--work ethic." It was probably my favorite moment of the entire exercise. We got to finally relax our shoulders, or break into smiles.

And then we reflected. And here's the thing--I didn't just dislike the fact that I was grumpy and mean to everyone, it physically disturbed me. When we finished, my heart was anxiously thumping. And not, like, "I'm nervous" heart thumping. But, like, angry thumping.

I can't imagine what life is like for those people who just walk around angry and hostile. It's such a weight on your heart, man, such a weight. As soon as we got to break character, and I got a chance to laugh, it was such a relief.

Discomfort and Laughter

Sometimes, others will laugh at your discomfort. I don't know why they do it. Maybe your discomfort causes them discomfort and then they involuntarily release uncomfortable chuckles. Maybe they do it in hopes of placating your discomfort. Maybe they're just ass-hats. Or maybe it's something else entirely. But it has never sat right with me--people laughing at my discomfort. Even if it's well intended. Even if they don't realize that I'm uncomfortable. In fact, the laughter often causes a greater upset than the initial reason for discomfort.

Lots of things make me uncomfortable. And I don't care if it's the presence of cotton balls that's making me uncomfortable: my feelings are valid and no one should laugh at them.

Now, I have a couple of stories to share with you.

First. Two summers ago, I started two jobs, both in retail. I worked in a bra shop and a bookstore. And, at both jobs, I started having a lot of panic and anxiety attacks. At the bra shop, I would be working in the back room, unpacking boxes of lingerie, when I would hear a pair of heels stomping towards me. Immediately, I would feel a very genuine fear--almost a panicky certainty--that I was about to be beaten. Similarly, when a mistake would be brought to my attention at the bookstore, I was genuinely scared that I would be hurt. In fact, I worked at the bookstore for about 16 months and, even during my last week there, if I made a mistake I was nervous that I would be yelled at. And none of these fears were grounded. None of my bosses gave off a particularly violent vibe and only one manager ever even raised his voice at me.

I'm not sure why, but I mentioned this anxiety to a counselor at one point. She asked, understandably, if there was any trauma from my childhood that might explain these panic attacks. No. There wasn't anything I could think of. My parents are some of the kindest people in the world! But the next time I was home, I asked my parents if there was anything that might have happened when I was a child that could have caused my anxiety about being beaten. I wondered if, perhaps, I was scream-scolded at by a stranger or left with a mean babysitter. My mother just replied a confused "No" but my father asked, dumbfounded, "You were scared of being beaten?" And I nodded. For months I'd been struck with a sincere fear of being hurt. And my father, my kind well-meaning father, laughed.

"That's crazy!" He said, and then quickly clasped a hand over his mouth and giggled an apology.

Now, I don't mean this story to mean about my dad. My dad is awesome. He's funny and talented and, like I said, my parents are some of the kindest people on the planet. So, why am I telling basically anyone who has access to the internet and the capability to stumble upon my blog that my father one time laughed at my trauma? Here's why: if someone is going through something that doesn't make sense to you, it's very easy to view that experience as a work of fiction. Being cat-called might seem like a silly nuisance when you've never been cat-called, when in reality it can be intensely frightening and frustrating. Being scared of the grocery store might seem like an absurd overreaction, when in reality the individual has frequently found it difficult to breathe when looking at a wall full of cereal. It's easy to not understand someone else's anxiety, depression, fear, or anger. But, maybe the ideal is understanding. And if you can't understand, you can at least acknowledge that what they're going through sucks, and, even if you don't understand it, that it's a valid experience.

Second. I don't like being touched. If I have warning, I might enjoy a hug. But that's about it. My body will shudder away when someone places their hand on my back and I feel angry repulsion when I'm grabbed without warning. Now, I tell you this because I want you to know that even when people are touching me with in attempts to comfort me or show me affection, I can be extremely uncomfortable. My body is my own, don't touch, okay?

Not too long ago, someone pinched my butt. This individual is someone I care about and I'm sure he didn't mean it in a pervy-boss inappropriate sort of way. I tell you this not to justify his action, but to justify my own. Had someone on the street grabbed my ass, I would have flipped around a punched him. But instead, I jumped up--startled--and was flooded with uncomfortable and anxious thoughts. Another person (who I care about) was standing right by me when it happened, and she giggled, "What happened?"

I froze. In a very childlike I-don't-want-to-get-anyone-in-trouble I-just-want-to-pretend-nothing-happened I-am-so-uncomfortable what-am-I-supposed-to-do sort of way. I remember thinking, "This is why people have such a hard time telling someone when they've been assaulted." At 22, I had difficulty talking about the fact that my butt had been pinched--I cannot imagine how anyone (especially children) ever musters the courage to tell someone when they've been seriously abused. But man am I proud of those who do.

Back to my story, as I am frozen in discomfort, both people I'm with are laughing. The woman asks, "Did he pinch your bottom!" and I say an irritated, "Yes" which just makes them both laugh more. And now, some time later, I'm still sick about the whole exchange. First because the initial incident bothered me, but then also because my embarrassment, anxiety, and anger were laughed at by these people who "care about" me. So there are two morals here. First, don't touch people. Unless you ask them and they say you can. And if you're not comfortable asking them "Hey can I pinch your butt?" maybe it's because you fucking shouldn't be pinching their butt. Second, if someone is embarrassed, uncomfortable, and angry about something, don't laugh at them. Giggling about the fact that you made them uncomfortable will not make them comfortable. If you do something and you can see that it's upset someone, apologize. I don't care why you did what you did or how you think they should respond to your actions. You caused them to be upset, so you owe them an apology.

Third. Now, I've already told you that I don't particularly enjoy being touched. This is important to my third story, too. This past weekend, my grandparents were in town. When they were leaving, my grandmother came into my room to tell me goodbye. (This in its own right bothered me. I had already told her that my room was crowded and messy because there's just not enough room in it so I didn't want her to go into my room. But it's okay, she was telling me goodbye, so I let it slide.) So, I stood up to give her a hug.

Now, my grandmother is a kisser. You know in movies when you see that kooky old woman who insists on kissing the uncomfortable children? So then, like, the little boy in the striped shirt is like, "Aw, man, Aunt Vern is coming to visit? But she always kisses me and pinches my cheeks!"? I'm pretty sure they modeled that character after my grandmother.

So, my grandmother goes to kiss my cheek. And, normally, I would let her. But I'm feeling a little uncomfortable and I'm well past socially exhausted at this point so I tell my grandmother, "Oh, no, I have ointment on my face." Which isn't a lie. I did have ointment on my face, the sort of ointment that does some good but means I need to use loads of chapstick so my lips don't flake off. And she goes, "Oh well I don't care!" And goes to kiss my cheek again. And I say, "No you should," I dodge her kiss, and I give her a hug. In the process, she steps on my foot. And it really hurt.

Anyway, I follow my grandmother out to the kitchen so I can tell my grandfather goodbye and she announces, "Don't kiss Katrina she's got ointment on her face and DON'T step on her foot" in a mocking laugh-filled way. Sure. Maybe it seemed silly to her that I didn't want her to kiss me, and maybe it seemed silly to her that I reacted to a little old woman stepping on my foot. (Regarding the latter, it's now three days later and I still have a bruise from where she stepped on my foot. She might be a little old woman but she is far from frail.)

But that moment of mockery, has me frustrated still. In part, I want to say there isn't really a moral to this last story. That it's mostly just complaining. But I think that, maybe there is a moral here. Don't mock the people that you love. This is one that I'm going to expand upon a lot in a later blog post. I've started thinking about it, writing it, and trying to piece together what I want to say. But, in short, when someone is acting a little off, they're probably easy targets for annoyed mockery. But also, they're probably acting a little off because they are a little off. If someone isn't acting like themselves, it's likely that they are going through something internally. And maybe, if you care about them, you should lay off.

Trips to the Coffee Shop

I love going to coffee shops. Partially because it's easier to do work on a large table that doesn't contain a stack of books that you want to read and boxes of makeup and all of your crafting supplies. But, what I really love about trips to the coffee shop is that, after you've read that article you were assigned or when you need a break from your book, or if you're just bored with your homework, you can look around and watch people.

I've said before that I like looking around coffee shops and seeing how beautiful people are. And that's true. Today, for example, there is a slender woman with brown hair pulled into a slender ponytail, there's a man with short hair and a beard and the most shapely booty I've ever seen on a dude, and there's a quiet woman with beautiful carmel-colored skin who is engrossed in her book. Seriously, man, people are so beautiful.

But I also play internal games as I people watch. For example, on any given trip to the coffee shop, you can find a person enter, sit down, and fidget until they are joined by another person. Whenever I see these pairs I play a little game with myself. "Is this an internet dating meet-up? Is this an interview? Or is this a religious mentoring pair/prayer buddies?" You eavesdrop a bit--are they talking about their jobs? their families? their schooling? our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ? You kind of inspect them--are they about the same age? do either of them have wedding/engagement rings? how/do they touch one another?

Similarly, whenever I see two attractive men I play a game called "Are they boyfriends or brothers?"

I like watching the way people wait for other people. Today, for example, a man sat down at a nearby table and got out a little book. At first I thought said book was a bible--that would have played a factor into my "what sort of pair is this pair?" game--but it turned out to be a planner. He wrote down a couple of things and then shut the book. For a moment I wondered if he, like me, was avoiding his work. He had two different beverages--one that he guzzled down pretty quickly. Eventually, a woman showed up and said, "Can I get you anything?" to which he responded, "No! I've already got a drink," as he cleaned off the tabletop.

Around the same time fella #1 sat down, fella #2 was sitting down across the room. He spread out, maybe because he was nervous. His feet seemed to repel one another and his arms hung loosely, widening his body. A friend told me, once, that if you need to feel braver you should try to take up more space. I guess it's a psychological thing. Maybe that's what he was trying to do. Or maybe he was just bored and adopting the posture of an adolescent male. Eventually, a small woman with curly brown hair arrived. She looked at least ten years his seior. As soon as she arrived, the man straightened up and narrowed his posture. More polite? Less intimidating?

I like watching the way people work, too. Some of them work with such dedication. Today, there's a girl in a striped hoodie who hasn't looked up from her work. Her pen has not ceased dancing across a piece of paper. Then there's a business man--sports jacket and button down shirt--working on a laptop with a glower. So far, I've only seen him get distracted by the mother and daughter pair to his left. And then there's a man--about in his thirties--who works the same way I do. His laptop is open, his book is out, but he's reading a news paper and checking his phone.

That's the thing about people. Sometimes they're just doing boring things, but they're still so interesting to watch. And sometimes, when I sit here, watching people around the coffee shop, I wonder if there's anyone watching me. And I wonder what they think about my movements, my clothes, and my focus (or lack there of). I wonder if I look lonely--like I've been stood up, or maybe I'm new to the area. Maybe I look like I'm waiting for someone, because I keep watching the line in front of the cash register grow and dwindle and grow again. Maybe I look nervous, or tired, or like I'm avoiding work. Which I am.

I Found These Questions On Tumblr and I Like Talking About Myself

1. Last kiss: "But now I'll go sit on the floor wearing yooooour clothes, all that I know is I don't know how to be something you miss... I never thought we'd have a laaaast kiss..." 

2. Last phone call: I would tell you, but I'd have to look it up, and I don't know where my phone is. 

3. Last text message: Yeah, same story. 

4. Last song you listened to: Uhm, I was just singing "Last Kiss" so does that count?

5. Last time you cried: I probably cried sometime earlier this week. I cry all the frakkin' time, yo.

• HAVE YOU EVER:
• 6. Dated someone twice: I have gone on two dates with one person, so there's that.
• 7. Been cheated on: Nope.
• 8. Kissed someone and regretted it: Nope.
• 9. Lost someone special: One time I lost a teddy bear, and that really broke my heart. As for losing people, I don't think you really lose anyone you love.
• 10. Been depressed: Yeah, maybe, but don't misuse that term, okay?
• 11. Been drunk and threw up: Nope.
• THIS YEAR HAVE YOU:
• 15. Made a new friend: Yeah! Tons! Thanks to Renee.
• 17. Laughed until you cried: Maybe? I've definitely laughed while crying.
• 18. Met someone who changed you: I don't know, I've met people and I've changed but I don't know about the overlap.
• 19. Found out who your true friends were: I mean I've realized that some people aren't as good of friends as I thought they were. But that having been said, I still think it's important to care for them and treat them in a good, kind way.
• 20. Found out someone was talking about you: Ha, yes. 
• 26. What did you do for your last Birthday: Oooh, maybe I should have read these questions before I got all gung-ho about answering them. Well, my dad had surgery on my birthday, so... Before my birthday, I went out to dinner with my aunts, one of my cousins, and my brother. My parents couldn't come because my father wasn't feeling well. Then, on my actual birthday, my brother and I drove up to the hospital to see my parents, and then in the evening I went to dinner with a friend of mine. It was mostly just stressful, to be honest.
• 27. What time did you wake up today: 7:30, maybe?
• 29. Name something you CANNOT wait for: Hm, I don't know? I'm pretty excited for the third Divergent book to be released.
• 30. Last time you saw your all of your siblings at the same time: Earlier today? I only have one, it's not to see him "all at the same time."
• 31. What is one thing you wish you could change about your life: I wish I was less anxious and more confident. 
• 32. What are you listening to right now: General Hospital. 
• 34. Who's getting on your nerves right now: Myself. Seriously, I have a headache and a sore throat and I feel drowsy and I can't get any of my work done. 
• 35. Most visited webpage: Tumblr, probably.
• 36. Favorite colour: Gray!
• 37. Nicknames: Kat. 
• 38. Relationship Status: "Perpetually Single."
• 39. Zodiac sign: Leo, you can tell by my crazy wild hair.
• 40. Male or female: Female. 
• 41. Primary school: I "faked" sick a lot. Not that I was intentionally, like, skipping school, but school made me nervous and I wouldn't want to go and so I would have headaches and stomachaches a lot and my parents would let me stay home.
• 42. Secondary School: I was separated from all of the friends I had in elementary school, so that sucked. I started having a lot of anxiety attacks.
• 43. High school/college: In high school, I had a lot of anxiety and depression, and for awhile I would go to school even when I was really sick. Then, when I got to my senior year, I went back to skipping school a lot. This time it wasn't like I was feeling sick or anything, but whenever I got overwhelmed I would cut out for part of the day.
• 44. Eye color: Grayish BLueish Prettyish. 
• 46. Height: 5'7"
• 47. Do you have a crush on someone: I'm trying really hard to not...
• 48. What do you like about yourself: My freaking awesome 80's sci-fi alien goddess hair.
• 49. Piercings: Ears
• 50. Tattoos: No
• 51. Righty or lefty: Righty
• FIRSTS:
• 53. First piercing: Ears
• 54. First best friend: Eli Shipley
• 55. First hookup: None?
• 56. First Bestfriend: Wait, why was there a "first best friend" and a "first bestfriend"? Um, right, well... Becky Hand.
• RIGHT NOW:
• 59. Eating: Nothing
• 60. Drinking: Nothing
• 61. I'm about to: Pack up some stuff and take my makeup off
• 62. Listening to: General Hospital, didn't I already answer this one?
• 63. Waiting for: Who knows
• YOUR FUTURE:
• 64. Want kids?: No. 
• 65. Get married?: Yes.
• 66. Career: Standup Comedian! Seriously, how awesome would that be?
• WHICH IS BETTER:
• 67. Lips or eyes: Eyes...
• 68. Hugs or kisses: Hugs...
• 69. Shorter or taller: Taller...
• 70. Older or Younger: Older...
• 71. Romantic or spontaneous: Romantic?
• 72. Nice stomach or nice arms: Eh.
• 73. Sensitive or loud: Sensitive
• 74. Hook-up or relationship: Relationship
• HAVE YOU EVER:
• 76. Kissed a stranger: Nope
• 77. Drank hard liquor: Nope
• 78. Lost glasses/contacts: Nope
• 79. Had sex: Nope
• 80. Broken someone's heart: I doubt it
• 82. Been arrested: Nope
• 83. Turned someone down: Hah. No one has ever pursued me. Wait! That's not true. One time this guy looped around the block three times and shouted at me three times from his car before blocking my path, at which point I went, "Do you need some help?" And he goes, "I was just wondering, if you're a single, young lady, if I could take you to lunch or..." and I was like, "No." And then put my earbud back in and walked off. 
• 84. Cried when someone died: Yes.
• 85. Fallen for a friend: "Fallen"? I've definitely had feelings for friends before. But "fallen"? Pfft.
• DO YOU BELIEVE IN:
• 86. Yourself: Sure. Sometimes.
• 87. Miracles: Yes.
• 88. Love at first sight: Who knows? Some people fall in love that quickly, I suppose.
• 89. Heaven: Well, I believe in God, and I believe in an after life. But I don't really have a clue what that looks like.
• 90. Santa Clause: Sure, he's a spirit. 
• 91. Kiss on the first date: Eh, whatever both individuals are comfortable with.
• 92. Angels: Yeah, sure, I guess. I don't really know.
• 93. How would you label yourself? "Adorable"
• 94. Someone You Pray Everyday For: Basically everyone in my family.
• 95. Did you sing today: Yup. "I NEVER THOUGHT WE'D HAVE A LAAAAST KISS..."
• 96. Who From All Your Ex's have You Cared The Most About: Matt. By which I mean, "Matt is my only Ex, so he's the one I cared the most about, even though we were only in seventh grade and so it's not like it was heartbreaking when that ended."
• 97. If you could go back in time, how far would you go? Em, I'd go back to the 80's and meet John Cusack when he was my age.
• 98. Out Of Everything In The World What Do You Wish For: That I'd be a good person who brings others joy rather than pain. 
• 99. Are you afraid of falling in love?: Pft. Who knows?
• 100. Do you like the way you look?: Fuck yeah! I'm adorable. 

Things I Really Enjoy Doing

1. Reading an entire book in one day and then bragging about it flippantly when I talk to other people about it. "You're reading And Then There Were None? That's such a good book! I read it all in just one night. Lol." 
2. Masochistically reading Edith Wharton novels and then complaining to everyone with ears about how much they suck. "It's, like, every single time she tricks me! I start off feeling like it's an Austen-esque romance and then she twists everything around and it's just shit for all the characters!" Honestly, the only fun thing about reading Edith Wharton novels is complaining about reading Edith Wharton novels. 
3. Doing dramatic recitations of songs--particularly pop songs, country songs, or rap songs. For other people, obviously. Just look at your friend and then really dramatically say: "He's ill. He's real. He might have a deal. He pops bottles and he's got the right kind of build. He's cold, he's dope, and he might sell coke." Trust me. It's fun.
4. Collaging. Collaging is seriously the most fun thing in the universe. This is my problem. I misread "College" as "Collage" on my college applications. If I had known it was more school, I probably wouldn't have signed up. For the past four years, I just show up to class with a stack of magazines, scissors, and glue and I am *constantly* disappointed. 
5. Taking pictures of myself. Especially when I have a good hair day. See, here, look: 
   
   Aw, man, I'm so cute.
6. Going to coffee shops, sitting down with a pile of work to do, and then just looking at how beautiful in the world is. Seriously. Yesterday, at the coffee shop, there was a man who was tall and slender with well sculpted eyebrows and high cheekbones. Today, there's a woman who is average height, with bundles of curves, curly black hair, and a turquoise shirt that perfectly compliments her carmel-colored skin. Earlier, there was a slender African American woman with black, braided hair pulled back into a bun, whose cheeks sat up high and full. It's just, like, everyone in the world is so beautiful and you just have to open your eyes and look at them, man. 
7. Starting to write something and then absolutely never finishing it. I had this one poem in my tumblr drafts for so long, that I just decided, "Welp, it's never getting finished" so I published it undone.
   We built a bridge
   Out of popsicle sticks and Elmers glue
   And we ran across it
   Several times
   Without so much as a snap
   So we declared it’d last forever
   But our glue was water soluble
   And maybe if we knew
   We might’ve factored in the weather. 
   
   
8. Putting together outfits, wearing said outfits, and then making fashion blog posts with them. Fictitious fashion blog posts, of course, but none the less. See, I have this whole series of fashion blog posts: right here.
9. Hanging out with my brother, listening to him talk about weird scientific theories he's been reading about on Wikipedia and then reciting the little bits of information that I pick up and kind of sort of understand when I'm in social settings. Here it is, my big secret, I am not actually all that smart. I just have a very, very smart older brother.
   
   
10. Hanging out with my family. Look, I know, this is super sickeningly sweet, but: I honestly have one of the best families. Last night, my mother, one of my aunts, one of my cousins, and I went out to dinner. We sat there talking long after our meals were finished, and it was just so nice. I love nights when my nuclear family hangs out and watches TV shows, I love when a bunch of my extended family gets together and plays card games, I love when my family goes out to dinner, and I love when a bunch of our family gets together at our grandparents' house. Basically, I just love getting to see my family. 
11. Absolutely anything related to comedy. I enjoy writing comedy, listening to comedy, watching, reading, and learning about comedy. I like comedians and comedic tweets and when I see kind of funny signs. 
12. Answering questions about myself. Really, I'm a lot more vain that I let on--and if you guys know me at all, you probably know that I profess to be pretty vain in the first place. So talking about myself is basically one of my favorite things. And since I really enjoy writing, as well, then I get quite a thrill out of filling out questionaires. I even like filling out forms. You know: "Name: Katrina High; Date: Yes, Please; Gender: F; Occupation: Student..."
13. Talking about Renee. Honestly, I feel so bad for a lot of Renee and I's shared friends, because I talk their EARS off about Renee. And why wouldn't I? She's so cute and kind. She's one of the only people who doesn't get offended by my bad moods. And I used to spend ALL OF MY TIME with her, so basically anything that happens will remind me of something that happened when I was hanging out with Renee. "You like coffee? Oh, man, Renee and I used to get coffee all the time." "You like this book? Renee was a lit major. She really liked gothic literature, I think, and feminist literature, and oh my goodness so much theory." "This is our dog Snowy, one time, Renee was here and Snowy really liked Renee, which is cool because Snowy basically doesn't like anyone." "You breathe? OHMYGOODNESS, RENEE USED TO BE SO GOOD AT BREATHING."
    
    
14. Writing lists of things rather than doing my homework. Don't get me wrong, I love my homework (lies), but sometimes, I feel like not doing my homework (truths). And, instead, I like to write lists. About anything, really. Things That I Like, Things About Myself, Good Movies, 90s TV Shows, anything and everything. Right now, for example, I'm making this list of Things I Really Enjoy Doing when I could (and maybe should) be reading articles for my senior thesis, spelling words phonetically, and doing readings for my History of the Soviet Union class. 

I'm so Tired of Shit-Talk

You know that scene in Mean Girls when Rachel McAdams compliments some girl's skirt and then, as soon as the girl leaves, she looks over to Lindsay Lohan and goes, "That is the ugliest f-ing skirt I've ever seen," after which, Lindsay Lohan has a flashback to Rachel McAdams complimenting her bracelet in the same manner, and wondering about the authenticity of that compliment?

The thing about that scene, about that movie and stories like it, is that it's so easy to feel like you're on the "right" side. Rachel McAdams is the other. The tall, pretty, blonde bitch who tricked the Love of Your Life into dating her rich, adulterous self and makes your high school career a living hell. You would never call your friend a "whore" behind her back. You would buddy up with Damian and Janis, go to art fairs, and be super nice and sweet. You're either even better than Cady--you would never lose sight of your real friends--or you're just like her--you might let your head get a little clouded, but in the end you would restore equilibrium, and peace and tranquility would rule the school.

And maybe you are, I don't know you.

But I do know me. And I am the sort of person who sits silently with trash-talking friends as a knot builds in my stomach. Maybe most of us are either talking shit or enabling someone else's shit-talking tendencies. But here's the thing: I'm sick of it.

First and foremost, I'm not an innocent bystander. I complain about people a lot, and sometimes my complaints can be harsh, judgmental, and riddled with low-blows. But I don't usually gripe about how Ginny is dating Paul but I heard she's still hung up on Johnny. Usually, when I gripe about people, I gripe about things that at least relate to me. Not to make excuses for myself, I really need to work on not talking about other people. Like, ever.

I don't mean, I need to "not ever mention another person ever" because sometimes I will be having problems with Katie and I may talk to Ned about it just to work out how I feel and how I should respond. What I mean is: I need to work on not complaining to Ned about Katie, or gossiping about Katie to Ned. See the difference?

But I'm not just talking about how I don't want to complain about people to other people. I don't want to be a part of shit-talk any more. I don't want to perpetuate it, and that has a simple enough solution: just not doing it. But I also don't want to absorb it. I don't want to sit in a room, listening to trash talk and gossip. And that's less easy to deal with.

So, Ned, help me out with Katie, here.

I have friends who seem to love to trash-talk. Let me set up another scene for you:

Say I'm hanging out with a friend--let's call her "Annie"--she'll spew out loads of garbage about someone--"Jessica"--and then we'll run into Jessica and Annie will be, like, "OH MY GOODNESS JESSICA IT'S SO GOOD TO SEE YOU! Haha I love you! Lol." Or whatever. Anyway, then I walk around picturing Annie running into me and being, like, "OH MY GOODNESS KAT IT'S SO GOOD TO SEE YOU! Haha I love you! Lol" and I really, really wonder what kind of shit she talks on me.

Which is part one of my I don't want to be privy to anymore slanderous and gossipy conversation. Because, honestly, if Annie talks crap about me behind my back, she's not that good of a friend. And if she's not that good of a friend, then I don't care what she says about me. So I don't need to wonder if she's talking crap about me. Either she is and I don't care, or she isn't and I don't need to worry.

But also, I feel gross when I'm around a friend who is bad-mouthing someone. (I feel like a horrible, disgusting bully when I bad-mouth someone, but we've already addressed that I'm trying to stop doing that.) I feel guilty and sad and wounded and sick when I'm around bad-mouthers. And I don't think that "bad-mouthers" are "bad people," but that doesn't mean I want to be around them when they're doing it. I don't like hearing from Chet about Kathy cheating on Andrew, because that doesn't involve Chet at all, and I particularly don't like finding out Chet got his information from Megan. And I don't like when Rachel calls Julie a "bitch" completely out of context and when Julie isn't around to defend herself.

I'm just tired of it.

A few weeks ago, I decided that I would just excuse myself from such conversations in the future. When trash talk begins, I would just say, "I'm sorry, I don't want to talk about this," and either the conversation would cease or I would leave.

But then I was hanging out with Britney when announced, "Ugh! Rebecca's a skank!" And I didn't feel like I was in the position to stop the conversation or leave. Which is especially unfortunate, because I also feel nauseous when people are slut-shaming. So I was sitting, silently, on two levels of discomfort. Three if you factor in the fact that Rebecca's my friend.

What is that? Is that how little my resolve is? Even talking about it now I'm overcome with shame. I know right from wrong, and I should have stuck up for Rebecca.

Anyway, I'm asking for advice here. Ned! I need help with Kathy!

What should I do? Should I talk a blunt, "I can't deal with all this trash talk, so I need you to cut it out or we can't keep hanging out" approach? Or, should I change conversation every time someone starts trash talking?


Also, protection of the innocent here: I made up some of the situations. Like, I've had friends tell me about problems other people are facing that they are in no way a part of, and I've had friends bad mouth people only to be fake-nice to them ten minutes later, but the specific examples are, for the most part, lies. Also, I changed names. So, this isn't really about any Ginnys, Pauls, Johnnys, Neds, Katies, Annies, Jessicas, Chets, Kathys, Andrews, Megans, Rachels, Julies, Britneys, or Rebeccas.

Sweater Weather

It is a truth universally recognized that a young woman in possession of a good sweater collection must be in want of a chai tea latte.

Okay, so here's the deal, I am one of those girls who gets really excited about the fall. And here's why:

1. The temperature. Seriously, there is nothing more exciting the first day that you can walk outside without being burned alive by the dutch oven God has set up over the entire midwest. 
2. Music. Okay, yes, technically you can listen to any music you want whenever you want. Sometimes I listen to "Baby It's Cold Outside" in the middle of August. But that having been said, I associate music and seasons really closely, and so I spend most of the summer listening to 90s pop songs and country music. Which I enjoy, don't get me wrong. But I just love the acoustic, heartbroken, "I'm so misunderstood," bands I really get into listening to in the autumn. 
3. The colors. Autumn is awesome because it's so fast visually. One day, it's all green, and then boom! it's all yellow and orange and red! And then right away, all the leaves fall down turn brown and the world has died. It's awesome. 
4. Tights. I fucking love tights. I have an awesome and extensive tight collection. And for the last four months, they've just been hanging out in my sock drawer because it's way too hot to even be wearing clothes, let alone wearing layers and layers of clothes. 
5. Fall fashion in general. Boots? Tights? Sweaters? SWEATERS. Especially because, over the summer, I usually buy a lot of fall clothes, thanks to seasonal sales. (I got some really cute sweaters this summer that I'm super excited about wearing...)
6. Men's Fashion. Okay, so, I love men. They're super handsome with their existence. But here's the thing: I hate the clothes men wear in the summer. I hate lame, oversized, graphic tees, and I hate shorts that show off their knobby knees. I like sweaters and button down shirts and cardigans and jackets and suits and the way men's jeans fit them. And am I sad that they'll be putting their shirts back on? Of course. But it's worth the sacrifice. (Now, as for you guys who insist on wearing shorts all year long? That's fine. Wear what you want. But don't talk to me.) (Just kidding.) (But seriously.)
7. Hot beverages. During the summer, I drink loads of iced tea. Iced tea is delicious. But do you know what I *really* like? HOT TEA. Hot tea, chai tea lattes, hot chocolate.
8. Keeping my face. Seriously, during the summer, I spend all this time getting ready in the morning, only to sweat off all my make up, frizz out my hair, and plaster my skirt to my thighs on the way to my car. It's bullshit. In the fall, I get to look on point 24/7, bitches.
9. Fall TV. Yes, the summer has Pretty Little Liars and Rookie Blue and Teen Wolf and ABC Family is always trying out some new show. And, yes, I'm going to miss all those shows for the next 3-6-9 months or whatever. But, you know what the fall has? Castle and Revenge and Once Upon a Time and The Mindy Project. 
10. Costumes. The fall has Halloween and Halloween means costumes and costumes mean fun. It's just, like, extra fun fashion. 
11. Holidays. Halloween is funny, and Thanksgiving is family, and so autumn holds its own on the holiday front, if you ask me. Plus, a lot of men do "No Shave November" which means more beards. I just like boys with beards, yo.
12. Optimism. I told you in my very first blog post: I am always excited about new things. And, yes, maybe I wasn't so optimistic about the start of the school year, but I am feeling very optimistic about the new season. So there's that. 

P.S. I really wasn't joking about the new sweaters. Check this one out: 

...I'm really excited for my new sweaters to make their debuts on my totally fictitious fashion blog.

Kristina Luprie

When I found Kristina Luprie in the summer of ‘96, she was sixteen and pissed drunk. She used to tie her blonde hair in a loose bun at the top of her head so you couldn’t tell that it would naturally fall to her lower back. She used to chew double-bubble bubblegum, piece after piece, with the teeth in the back, right corner of her mouth. She littered my car with thousands of those yellow and blue gum wrappers. She would toss the chewed up, pink wads out of the window as we drove, yelling “Yahtzee!” when a piece hit another car or a pedestrian that we passed by. Her parents were in a constant state of intoxication, too. That’s probably why they never noticed the hundreds of bottles of Mikes Hard Lemonade that she swiped from their booze fridge.

We would meet on Tuesday evenings and Saturday middays. There used to be a park in our hometown: pretty basic, a swing set and a slide in a mound of pebbles, a couple of benches for concerned moms to supervise and depressed high schoolers to score acid or ‘shrooms. We’d meet up on the trail, half way between her house and mine. “Hello, Kristina Luprie,” I’d smile. “Hey-ya, Joan of Arc,” she’d laugh.

I don’t know why she started calling me Joan of Arc. I’m not much into history or Jesus, but the way I understand it, Joan of Arc was a young girl, alive with the Spirit. I was twenty-three at the time, four years older than Ms. Arc was when they set her ablaze, bearded, and dressed in black, head to toe. People like naming other people, is what I’ve learned throughout my years. My parents named me James. My peers named me Jimmy. My eleventh grade math teacher, barely thirty and completely in love with me, named me Mr. Stewart. “Mr. Stewart,” she’d coo, “There’s a chivalry in your features that has long been thought to have died with Old Hollywood.” And that’s what she told Annabell Peters when the girl turned me down for the homecoming dance. In college the girls named me “Cocoa” because, as they used to say, they’d like to have a cup of me on a cold night. Wasn’t true, though. The girls were all my friends and I never got any tail. But that was fine. The only tail I wanted was that of Erica Johnson’s, and she named me “Jake,” though, I figure she thought that’s what my parents named me, too.

Kristina Luprie was a kid back then, and I guess I was a kid, too, but I felt old. I mention this because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I was fresh outta college and concerned about the world. So when I stumbled upon a girl, losin’ her shit like Kristina was, that concern and idealism transferred to her. I got the idea that I could save the world by saving a skinny, blonde, miniature alcoholic. 

The first few months that I knew Kristina, we met up at that park and walked and talked in a loop. “Tell me about school, Kristina.” “School’s shit, Joan.” “Tell me about your parents, Kristina.” “My parents are shit, Joan.” “Tell me about anything, Kristina.” “Did you know they made Clueless into a TV show, Joan?” “No, tell me about Clueless, Kristina.” “Clueless is the shit, Joan.”

But time flew quickly and before we knew it, summer had gone and fall had followed suit. In November she turned seventeen and, when the first snow fell, we moved our meetings to a coffee shop downtown. She wanted to drink coffee because she wanted to be older than she was; I drank tea because I was older than I was. She’d take a sip, pucker her lips and observe, “Needs a little creamer. Needs a little sugar.” And I’d say, “Just get hot chocolate, Kristina.” And she’d say, “No. Hot chocolate’s gross, b’sides, it costs more.” And I’d tell her that you don’t outgrow chocolate beverages and two bucks difference didn’t mean much to me. She’d shrug off that comment and talk about Seventh Heaven and Mariah Carrey. 

In late December she called me. It was three in the morning and my first thought was that my mom must’ve fallen again. “What is it?” I answered, not even saying hello. “Joan?” She sobbed into the phone. “Kristina? Dear God, I thought you were my mom.” I was shaking myself awake, still not entirely convinced I wasn’t dreaming. “Joan,” she sobbed. “Kristina, what is it?” I pleaded. She told me and I listened best I could with me being half asleep and her being a stream of tears. Her father had died of alcohol poisoning and she was scared the same would happen to her mom, and the same would happen to her. “D’you drink, Joan?” “No.” “Good. I couldn’t stand to lose us all.” Two hours later she showed up at my door, spent the next few days crying on my couch. We drank a lot of hot chocolate those couple of days. 

Three weeks into January, Kristina told me she was three weeks sober. “I think I’m gonna live to be eighty,” she told me. “Oh?” I asked. “Yeah, eighty sounds good to me.” Sounded good to me, too, but she told me otherwise. “You’ve gotta live to be eighty-seven, Joan.” “Why’s that?” “Cause I can’t bare to let you die, first.” So I said I’d live to be eighty-seven, so long as she lived to be eighty. 

When she was eighteen, Kristina Luprie started dating this guy named Jason. “Jason’s great,” she’d say. “Real great, Joan, I think you’d like him.” “I hope so, Kristina, Luprie.” She started smelling like pot then, too. “I don’t smoke it, Joan, I swear. But Jason does sometimes.” “Whatever you say, Kristina.” Eight months later, I met up with her on a Monday. It was an accidental encounter. She a busted her nose, got beaten real well, and I was working in the ER. “What happened, Kristina?” “Nothin’, Joan.” The next day she still wouldn’t say. She’d just say, “Jason’s swell, Joan. Are you ever gonna find a girl? You’re twenty-five, now, Joan.” “I know, Kristina, I know.” 

I had found a girl. She was short with dark brown hair and bright green eyes. She sang renditions of rap songs; she sang acoustic and folk. Her name was Julie Jackson. Three years later, at our wedding, she sang a rendition of Outkast’s Ms. Jackson. I had begged her not to, didn’t want people to think she was knocked up, though I suppose they figured that out nine months later when there was still no baby. Point is, I had found a girl back then, just didn’t tell Kristina about her. 

Three months later, someone snapped Kristina’s arm like a twig. She never told me who, but Jason wasn’t allowed within four hundred feet of her and they were officially “done.” She also chopped off most her hair and started practicing tai chi. “I’m gonna live ‘til I’m eighty-one, Joan,” she’d say. “Eighty-one, Kristina?” “Yeah, eighty-one sounds good to me.” Eighty-one sounded good to me, too, but she told me otherwise. “No, Joan. You gotta live to be eighty-eight.” And I told her if she made it to eighty, I’d make it to eighty-eight. 

She went to college six hours away. I was happy, don’t get me wrong. I kind of thought I had saved the world; I thought I had saved that girl. She’d fly back three times a year. We’d meet up every time. She wrote me letters, proper letters. “Dear Joan, I’m majoring in writing and beer pong. Fun fact about beer pong: you don’t get drunk if you play it sober. Dating a guy named Mikey. Mikey? Isn’t that great? He sounds like a teddy bear, don’t he? Well, he is one. I’m missing you these days, Joan. Love and Such, Kristina.” I think she was kidding about the beer pong. She’d been sober since she was seventeen and I couldn’t imagine that changing. I flew out there to visit once or twice. Mikey was, as she said, a teddy bear. He was a big black man who bought her flowers and baked cupcakes. He hugged everyone. 

She came to my wedding. And I walked her down the aisle at hers. She started teaching grammar in a local high school. She’d say, “Joan, I’m gonna save some of these brats. Just like you saved me.” She was twenty-seven back in 2007. She wanted a baby but got cancer instead. “Joan,” she cried when she told me, “Do you think I’ll make it to eighty-one?” “I’m sure you will, Kristina.” And I was, too. I believed it so hard and with so much of my might. The chemo helped and remission came and in the summer of ‘08 she was laughing. “I’m gonna make it to eighty-two, Joan. And you’re gonna make it to eighty-nine.” “If you make it to eighty-two, I will, Kristina.” 

She called me crying two years later. “How old’s that daughter of yours, Joan?” “Ten,” I said. “She’s gonna outlive you, you know?” “I know.” “She’s gonna have to see you die and she’s gonna start saying, I’ll make it to older.” “And I hope she does, Kristina. I hope she makes it to ninety, at least. Maybe even ninety-three.” “I’m not gonna make it, Joan. I’m not gonna make it to eighty-two. I’m not even gonna make it to my forties. I’ll never get to live as long as my father the boozer, did. Hell, I won’t make it to thirty, Joan.” “Of course you will, Kristina.” 

But I was wrong.

Things I Would Rather Do Than My Homework

1. Write a list of things I would rather do than my homework (obviously)
2. Go to a pet store, act like I'm in the market for a pet rabbit, convince them to let me hold all of their rabbits so I can find a "good fit," hold all of their rabbits, pick a couple, tell them, "I'm going to bring my husband back in so I can get his opinion" and then not return until I'm married and/or actually in the market for a pet rabbit.
3. Go thrift store shopping.
4. Read the rest of Insurgent. 
5. Make an OK Cupid account, look through the list of guys who are trying to hook up with someone, complain about the fact that all of the guys on OK Cupid are just trying to hook up with someone, and delete my account. 
6. Talk to the couple of girls with really pretty curly hair who just walked in--perhaps form a club of girls with really pretty curly hair.
7. Work up the nerve to tell the barristas that the iced tea they gave me didn't taste right and I don't think the girl who made the tea put peach flavoring in it at all
8. Collage
9. Try making sweatshirts into cardigans in the numerous ways Pinterest has assured me it is possible
10. Make vegan brownies
11. Make kale chips
12. Apologize to the guy sitting next to me for tweeting about him//the direction he looks when he spaces out
13. Take a walk because the weather is delightful today.
14. Put together cosplays and find appropriate(ish) times/places to wear them. 
15. Learn how to fold paper dresses
16. Consider my hatred of most men's shoes
17. Practice dramatic recitations of pop songs. (Specifically, I think a lot of FUN's songs would be fun to dramatic recitations of...)
18. Write. Poems and short stories and plays and comedic skits and stand up comedy and blog posts how hard it is to just "let things go" or which Faction I would choose if I was in the Divergent Dystopia. 
19. Do some vlogging. It's been so long since I've vlogged. 
20. Put together care packages/gifts for friends. I have bunch planned out... just not put together. And then send them, obviously.
21. Plan out the videos I want to film (not vlog videos, but, like, real actual videos. Short films. Whatever.)
22. Anonymously compliment people/tell them to have a good day on Tumblr
23. Make a collage of bearded men, then frame it and hang it on my wall. Except there's no space on my wall. I think I'd make it work, though. 
24. Attempt to do a lyrical analysis on "Some Nights," because, "Some Nights I wish my lips could build a castle, some nights I wish they'd just fall off..." WHAT?
25. Watch The Spectacular Now
26. Think about how much I like Shailene Woodley
27. Find a non-dairy substitute for butter other than margarine
28. Paint a self portrait

But, in all reality, if I didn't have to do homework, I would probably just marathon some show while playing Candy Crush and letting my mind go to mush. 

Let's Talk About Ezra

Okay, if you read my little blog info sheet, you know: there will not be consistency with what I post. I realize that my first few posts were personal, little bits of my life, but this one is going to be... well... about Pretty Little Liars. Don't worry. I won't frequently talk about Pretty Little Liars. I just... really, really want to today. Anyway, if you enjoy Pretty Little Liars and are all caught up on the series, keep reading, yo, because I wanna talk to *you.* But if you don't like Pretty Little Liars, don't watch Pretty Little Liars, or if you don't want the mid-season finale to be spoiled for you, go ahead and stop reading now.

Good. Now it's just you and me, my pretty little pals.

My question is this: what are your thoughts about the new Ezra plot line? See, personally, and overall, I'm in favor of it. But, here's a little bit more complete of a breakup of my thoughts:

The (very slight) reasons I'm opposed to the EzrA plot line:

• Jackie. Now, the timeline in Pretty Little Liars has always been a little wonky, but... Ezra was dating Jackie in college, and then he spent some time engaged to her... And the fact that she shows up, avidly trying to get Ezra back, gives the impression that their relationship didn't end that long ago. Alison went missing around Ezra's junior/senior year in college (we know that because Aria was in Iceland for a year after Alison disappeared, and when she returned Ezra was just out of college.) So, when exactly did Ezra have the time to not only date Alison but get so obsessed with her that he's spent years trying to stalk her down and terrorizing teenaged girls over it? But, like I said, the timeline has always been pretty wonky.
• What the hell? Okay, so, did Ezra get the whole "terrorize previously traumatized teenaged girls" from Mona? Because she was supposedly on her own in the beginning, right? Or did he just think that up and decide, "Yeah, let's also fuck with my life so it's more believable" and then enlist a bunch of high schoolers to assist him? 
• Handsome little liar. Okay, basically this: it's just really, really irritating to think that Ezra was terrorizing Aria with "Oh, Imma tell your boyfriend about ______." and then, after he finds out, he turns around terrorizes her with, "I'm your boyfriend! How could you lie to me about that!?"
• Maggie. Okay, so, you manage to know absolutely everything *four* different girls are doing, as well as enough about other teenagers (Mona, Jenna, Toby, Caleb, Lucas, to name a few) to efficiently black mail them but you have no idea that your high school girlfriend cheated on you, got pregnant, and had a child? At least not until one of the teenaged girls you're stalking tracks her down and finds out for you. OH AND YOU THOUGHT MALCOM WAS YOUR CHILD AND YOU HAD ONE OF YOUR LACKIES KIDNAP HIM BRIEFLY TO FUCK WITH ARIA. Jackass. 

The much more prevalent reasons I am in support of Ezra's A-ness:

• It's not cool for teachers to date their students. I don't care if we're talking about a college professor and his/her pupil who is actually a decade older than him/her. Studies have shown that the student always suffers emotional/psychological repercussions. And way too many fans were 100% a-okay in support of Ezra and Aria's relationship. Maybe the fact that Ezra is a super creeper who is consistently preying on younger women will get a few people to, you know, oppose that relationship. 
• Character consistency. You know, it's completely believable that Ezra would date an underaged girl. Because Ezra is currently stalking an underaged girl (even just in the "I'm going to go everywhere you like to go" kind of way, not just in the "I'm an A" kind of way) who he used to date. That having been said, basically every adult male in Pretty Little Liars is trying to date a teenager. Ian with Spencer and Alison? Wren with Spencer and Hanna? Ezra and Jason with Aria? Seriously, have you people never heard the term "statutory!?"
• Sleuth it! Okay, so, I'm (maybe?) sure the writers didn't have the "Let's make Ezra behind everything!" as their plan from the very beginning. Of course, maybe they did. Who knows? The point is, it's not as jaw-dropping what-the-actual-fuck as it may have initially seemed. Like, bro was always showing up at suspicious times. Like, on the Halloween train. Or at the dance. And we're always like, "Awe, how sweet, he's there for Aria!" but now we can look back and wonder... "Was he really just there for A duty?"
• There are plenty of reasons that he fits. Ha. Fitz fits the role of A. Sorry. What I mean is this: Ezra is in the right age group--right in there with Cici, Melissa, Jason, Ian, Wilden... that whole group of people that were way too old for Alison to hang out with but she still insisted on hanging out with. And A does a lot of the "I'm a grown ass man" shit... like, he makes literary references and drinks whisky. The only teenaged girl sort of thing he does is text girls "kisses --A." (But the playing with dolls thing is just... what?)
• Ian Harding. Ohmygoodness. Ian Harding is always saying the funniest things about A. And the fact that A is his character just makes everything really perfect. 
• Really, who else was it going to be? Cici didn't even come in until the third season, and I would throw a bitch-fit if it turned out to be Toby. There couldn't be anything more boring than having A turn out to be Jenna. 
• Thank goodness now maybe Aria can just date someone her own age and have a normal, happy relationship. Seriously.

Anyway. What are your thoughts? Are we pro-EzrA or opposed? 

...Or do you think he's not even A, but he's just stalking Aria on account of he's so madly in love with her and oh my goodness what is this A's  lair? ARIA IS STILL BEING STALKED BY A? Oh my goodness...

Like I said, I like that Ezra's "A."