My life has become a Pink song

Hey, hey?  Remember me?  Rachel?  The owner of this blog?  I bet you thought I died, didn't you?  Well I haven't.  Glory be, isn't that fabulous.

So, right now, I'm sitting backstage of our opening of I Hate Hamlet.  I was assigned props assistant, and whatever, I do stuff.  They break lots of vases.  Volpi is shirtless.  If your into that kind of thing, his shirtless hugs are kind of nice.  But he's still a tool.  And he knows he's getting nothing from me.  Except disdain.  I hand that out freely.

I'm also props masta [holla] for Sweeney Todd and I do blood and I think I'm going to have to make lots of meat pies.  And that's gross, and I can't really cook and stuff, but whatever.  I think I'm going to hold a meat pie baking party and everyone can make pies while I watch Jane Eyre on repeat or something.

I'm in Pottermore too.  It's sort of become an obsession, and my life [literally] revolves around making virtual potions.  And yes, this is sad, but it's also fun and I'm earning house points for the house cup, and yes, we're leading (with the least members, mind you,) because we're the ambitious crew.

I thought I was in Gryffindor for like, ever, and I really wanted to be that, but no, I got Gryffindor's rival, Slytherin.  I was like, "there is no way I'll be that house," and then I was sorted, and what do you know, Slytherin.  And this is J.K. Rowling's quiz, so it's as legit as they come.  So, at first, I had a mild identity crisis, like, "do I know myself?!"  And then I realized, omg, I am a Slytherin, and ya'll, it was like I truly understood myself for the first time, and now I'm embracing the hippogriffs out of it, because this is my house.  You know?  It's so clear now.  I've been changed.  Or at least I truly know who I am.  I'm selfish, but ambitious, determined, cunning, traditional, etc.  It's like, WHOA, I found where I belong.

So yes, I've felt ties to my house, and yes, I'm as obsessed with it as one would be with a sports team or something.  And yes, now I have to buy a new lanyard, because my old one is Gryffindor, and that just don't go ya'll.

I've been very anti-social lately, and you know, whateves.  It's just like, I want to be alone so I can think and live in a world where there is no one but me.  It's a phase, so don't patronize me or anything.  I'm the happiest I've been in a while, and that's really something.  I thank God for that every night.

In my arts class we have to do a performing arts piece.  I'm not real picky, I just threw out three requirements as far as I'm concerned: togas, blood and food.  That's all that maters to me really.

Oh, and I'm in pottery and I cannot throw pots to save my life and I am doing a dismal job.  But I can use a kick wheel, so that's awesome.  My teacher has dubbed me her 'Special Student.'

Yeah.

So, following on that anti social path, I also have no time.  I still read a lot, but right now I can't read.  Actually, that's a lie, because I'm on Pottermore all the time, making virtual potions.  Is that sad?  Yes.  It's so sad.  But I love it, and that's all that matters.

I wish Hogwarts was real.  Then I'd have my fellow Slytherins and we would do stuff like jump on the leather couches in the common room, and I'd learn how to become invisible and stuff.  That would be cool.

I know everyone who reads this is going to think, "Oh Rachel, her life is so sad, and she's so lonely," but seriously guys, I think I'm just basking in me time.  I'm a natural hermit with an overactive imagination, and I'm really enjoying my life right now.  I like just hanging out with me and the four cups I cannot throw on a wheel.  My cylinders - they're so sad.

So, what's happening on the boy front?  Well, I like at least a dozen.  There are two guys in pottery who try and help me all the time, but they're both engaged, and it angers me.  Just on principal.  I've reached the point where I think I want to be an eternal maiden.  I would start a club for eternal maidens and we would become archers and travel the world and climb trees and stuff.  It'd be awesome.

I have 4 cats now.  I know, you all think my life's pathways are really depressing, but I seriously love it.  Although they can be annoying at times.  Such as when they attack my feet while I'm sleeping.

So blogger.  I say adieu for now.

-Me

The Parable of the Banana Sandwich

You know sometimes, you just want a banana sandwich; all you want, all you really ask out of life is for a banana sandwich.  You spend all three hours of class dreaming about when you shall get that PB and Bananas sandwich; your tummy growls in desire.  You take a risk; you go to the rarely eatery on campus just so you can get the ever so desired banana sandwich.

Life is about risks; unfortunately, you never know where they are going to lead.

You walk into said sandwich shop and say "I would like a peanut butter and banana sandwich, please."

Sadly, they have no bananas.

This throws a wrench in your plan.

What are you to do?

You could settle with a PB&J.  Or go and buy your own bananas and make your own sandwich.

OR, you can wait.

See the thing is; perhaps you weren't meant to have a banana sandwich right now.  Perhaps that banana sandwich wouldn't be appreciated right now.  Maybe if you had it right now it would end in a weird rash or in the toilet, thus soiling your chances of ever wanting a banana sandwich again.

Friday; they have no bananas.  Today they did.  I'm glad I waited, because this is the best banana [peanut butter/cinnamon,/honey] sandwich I have ever had.  Although it is also the messiest sandwich I've ever had and typing while eating isn't the brightest thing I've ever done, NO MATTER, because it is totally worth it.

Because I believe God can work in something as uninteresting as banana sandwiches:
Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the Lord.
Psalms 27:14

-Me

Justin Bieber asks: "Be Mine?"

Sitting hear eating some fries from Chic-Fil-A.  Overall, a fairly stressful day.  But, it's Valentine's day.

As for me I like Valentines day.  Little cheesy slips of paper with Justin Bieber's face on them, fun stuffed animals, angry Facebook status, i.e. "Guess I'll just be alone for Valentine's day.  It's a stupid concept anyway." And, namely the limited edition chocolate.  [See:  Little Debby Cherry Cordials, and Marshmallow Hearts.]  I mean, come on, the candy is fabulous.  Although, those little heart boxes of chocolate are horrid as well as those chalky conversation hearts.  For future reference, to my future lover, I like neither.  And I know, future lover, that's exactly what you'll do.  Jerk.

If you are single and you are reading this with tears in your eyes, sniffling over being alone, I say but one thing: get over yourself.  You're your own person, and Valentines day is just another day that you're alone, just like yesterday, and maybe like tomorrow.  There are worst things in the world than not getting married, or having babies, or not having a boyfriend/girlfriend.  Namely cancer, or having no legs or something.  I don't have the patience for you cry babies.

Cry baby.

If you're upset about being single, why?  I mean, I know there are boys I'd really like to date [okay, one, but I find many attractive], but I'm not going to wallow all over the couch and watch sad romance movies about being sad because I'm alone or something.  Firstly, you're not alone.  You have Jesus.  Secondly, you're still not alone, because surely you have parents or friends, or something...?  Look, being single isn't that bad.  It's a good thing, because you don't have to worry about people being happy and stuff.  And compromising.  Ew, compromising.  Embrace your singleness; not to mention, by the time you're done whining and you accept your life and find happiness in it, you'll probably get with whomever you want.  See if I'm not right.

If you are one of those people who is like, "Valentines day is so stupid," um, I'm sorry?  Look, it is a Hallmark holiday, but what is more wonderful than love?  I'm serious, I love love.  I've written papers on the stuff.  If you can't appreciate the feeling, look at the science of it.  Why do people feel love; what makes them think that they are 'in love.'  Why do sooo many people confuse infatuation with love?  Why does society seem to press on us the importance of falling in love?

These are intellectual conversations to have with yourself, and use Valentines day as a breading ground for sociological observances.

If none of this appeals to you, then remember, you can always Facebook stalk visibly mushy couples, and then relish when they go splitzy doodle.  Is this cruel?  Oh, certainly.

NOW if you're not single, then you may be one of those goons that all the single people hate because you make them feel miserable with all your, "I love my Valentine ;) <3 ;)"  And somewhere a single person cries.  But don't let that distract you; as I stated before, they need to get over themselves and quit being a dramatic bag of tears.  

BUT, realize, that you may be making an idiot of yourself.  After all, no one really cares how much you love your boyfriend/girlfriend/lover/lovers so, instead of being self proclaiming and feeling glee from making others jealous of your in-clandestine happiness, remember, no one really cares.  In fact they probably talk behind your back about what an idiot you are and how you're going to probably end up pregnant because you're so stupid over a boy.

Are they jealous of you?  Maybe.  But then again, chances are, they won't be working at Yankee Candle.

As I sit here in History of Theatre, Dr. Beam [BFF FOR LIFE.] is going on about German Realism and stuff, and I sit here rereading on what I wrote yesterday, I'm going to tell you that my Valentines day ended up being overwhelmingly awesome.  Although I just finished belittling those who openly discuss the happiness in their lives, this is my blog and not Facebook, so I feel fully comfortable doing it.  And if you don't care, then stop reading moron. [This option is not available on Facebook.  Aren't you lucky that I blogged it instead?]

I was going to go to a Vanessa Carlton concert, but instead I went to Seuss rehearsals.  Why I would I do this...?  I dunno.  But I went to rehearsals, and sat with Chris and we gossiped about everything. I know gossiping is wrong, but we have to tell our menagerie of secrets to someone so we've become each others vessel of secrets.

...?

After we got done talking about everyone and everything, I asked him to be my Valentine via note, and he circled "No." Then he drew a cat.  But not Zombie Smudge, because Zombie Smudge is going to get him.  And eat him. Nom nom nom.

Seuss was fun to watch [I only read about half a page in the The Subtle Knife so it captivated me enough.  -To the jerk who threw my book] and I recognized a lot.  Such as shimmies.  I 

After rehearsals, Alex, Chase, TJ, Chris and I went to Fatz and Alex ate all the rolls.  But they brought us more, and Chris let me share his butter, so I ate a role.  Chris then ordered a salad, and I ate it.  Then he ordered chicken, and I ate some of it.  Then I ordered cheese fries, and I ate them.  Do you see why we are friends?  He feeds me.  Chris then put my fries in my box for me because I was doing it wrong.  I think I may have to take my BFFL charm from Dr. Beamz and give it to Chris.  He wouldn't take it though, because he pretends to dislike me.  Deep down he loves me.  Like my cats.

I wish there was such thing as a hero charm, because I would give it to Uncle Scotty.

I have more stuff to talk about, but right now, I'm just going to make this a Valentine entry.  Hope yours was great with lots of Marshmallow Hearts and cheese fries.

-Me

Jesus take the wheel.

...Thanks Jesus.

List of 'To-Do Accomplishments'

I'm making some New Years resolutions, RIGHT NOW, and although I don't really believe in New Years resolutions because, first of all, I'm bad at promising to do things and, second of all, I don't like the concept of 'New Years,' because it is sad and depressing to think that 2010 will never be again.  I enjoy very much spending New Year's Eve by sleeping through it, because I think, "Ha, I am doing what I shouldn't do." It's like the only small piece of rebellion I ever do.
I don't like to make resolutions though because I think, "why not just start now?  Why wait until 'New Years?"

If I haven't started NOW then I probably don't want to start in the first place.  But, I suppose I'll make list of things I want to accomplish in this year, so, here goes it.

1. Learn how to bake something.  Probably fudge, because I really like fudge.
2. Do not gain weight from said fudge.
3. Learn at least one song on the piano so I kind of dont forget to play it.
4. Look into traveling abroad to England either next semester or next year, so I can learn theatre and go to Hogwarts some elegant acting school, but I do not want to be like Magic Ben, so get that notion out of your head.
5. I've never talked about Magic Ben, have I?  A little creepy, he does magic tricks, salsa dancing, hypnotising, pick-pockteing, and he went to England.  He also flirts a lot and in jazz class he would pick me up and swing me and it was slightly creepy and I would ask with my eyes for Chris to save me and he'd usually just push me into him.
6. Here is Magic Ben on Brittan's Got Talent.  He's the one with the cucumber in his mouth.
7. Become a better actress, discover the secret of acting, grow some confidence, and essentially be awesome.  And get up the nerve to have Chris help me, because I know I could learn a lot, although it's scary to think doing your monologues in front of him.  He's graduated now though, so he'll enjoy the challenge.
8. Participate in more French tables so I can become gifted at speaking it and thus woo my French-Canadian not yet lover.
9. Um, VISIT HARRY POTTER WORLD and secretly live there forever.
10. Serve up some Jesus and fries to more people, but God guide me and do not let me be that creepy girl people dread seeing who are like Jesus, and they make everyone cringe.
11. Stop whining.
12. Buy more outfits for my cats.
13. Get my bedroom suite, and bask in an organized room and get rid of that other bed, and possibly the wardrobe and definitely the litter box.
14. Write more meaningless blogs.
15. Read more classics and less teenage vampire books. (Shame.)
16. Buy a new iPod.
17. Become more proficient at dancing.
18. Organize blog and make it the Kingdom of Blog.
19. And lastly, bask in Scotty's glory.  Everyday.

This is the plan.  At the end of the year, I'll review it and see how much I achieved.  If I can remember I even wrote this.

...

I suppose I should put 'Improve Character' on there so I can stop being hateful and more obliging to others and not so negative and dramatic, but I think all people ever see on my blog is my angry/awkward place.  In real life, I'm...well, still kind of awkward, but not so angry.  And definitely dramatic.

Whatever, 

20.  Improve Character.

THERE, THAT IS THE BEST RESOLUTION LIST EVER.

Although they aren't resolutions, they are a list of 'To-Do Accomplishments.'

Watch me dominate every last one ya'll.

-Me

Why I Hate Weddings

On New Year’s Eve, my cousin was married, and I attended the wedding.  She had giant balls of moss on the pews (?), but other than that, it wasn’t a bad wedding.  But, as I ate my overly lemoned peppered chicken and I observed everyone at the reception, I realized, that I may be the only girl on this earth who really doesn’t like weddings.  In fact, I kind of hate them.  And you know what that means: To the blog!

My first encounter I can remember with a wedding, and the root of all my feelings towards them, was when I was about 8.  I was a stubborn child, who, when forced to something she really didn’t want to do, would sulk her opinion and make life miserable.  It wasn’t so much that I thought I would get my way; it was more so that if you were making me miserable, then I was going to make you miserable in the process. 

This wedding was of some hygienist my mom worked with, and my mom was forcing me to go.   She had her reasons.  I had to go because Abigail was going and she might get lonely or something.  (Give me a break.)  She wanted everyone to see me, because I was her daughter or something and I was worth presenting (?).  And I knew Crystal, so I was obligated to go.  An eight year old obligated to go to a wedding.  Please.

I begged her to let me stay with grandma and play with my toys, but she insisted that I go.

The wedding was up in Bryson City, so I had to wake up early.  I was hostile and distant that morning and everything from eating my food to having my hair fixed was done with a scowl.  My mother said I better cheer up before the wedding, and I just shrugged.  I hated her for this.  Why did I have to go?

My Aunt Dale and Abigail were going, and as they all spent the entire car trip goggling over weddings and I spent the entire car trip over to Bryson City saying how much I DID NOT want to go.

Eventually, my mom said, “Rachel, if you complain anymore, I am going to set you out and you can walk home.”  I begged for this.  I asked her please, please, let me go home.  Please.  I whined some more, I think I reached a point where I was crying for freedom.  Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer and told Aunt Dale to pull over.  “Get out.” 

And I did.  I was surprised at this action, but as I watched that van drive off, and as I heard Abigail squalling for my soul, I began walking in the direction home.  I was around Mirror Lake, so, although it would be a journey, I knew the way.

But, I also knew very well that my mom was bluffing and that van would show up in just a moment.  Sure enough, after walking a few feet, I saw the van ambling up and stopping in the middle of the road.  My mom growled “get in.”  Being the intuitive child I was, I told her, “ugh, I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”

Of course, I hated the wedding just as much as I anticipated, and although I appeared cheery, I wanted nothing more than to die.  I think ever since that wedding I’ve harbored a secret hatred for them because they represent the enslavement that my mother had trapped me in.

So from then on, every time a wedding crops up and I become rather grumpy.  People always plan them at the most inconvenient times for you, and you have to cancel everything from the New Year’s Eve parties you were attending to the PLAY you were going to be in.  To this day, I whine about going and, now, at a ripe 20, my mother says, “well I’m certainly not forcing you to go.”  Well, thank you for that now.

Why I Hate Weddings

1.     The Cheese Factor

Weddings are infamous for being long and very boring.  But that’s only a scratch on the surface.  They are also very cheesy.  Don’t get me wrong; I like romance just as much as the next girl, and I get angry if there isn’t any in my books and movies, but I also like it to be countered with awesome things; like wizards and death and stuff that’s awesome.

Weddings have none of this.  They are cheesy romances with people cheesily saying “I love you,” and countering with “No, I love you.”  Call me grumpy, but I have never been able to stand seeing two people making silly fools out of themselves over each other, and ‘the wedding,’ is often the pinnacle of this.

But sometimes, the people actually genuinely love each other and they have a reverence for themselves and for the wedding, and this are the weddings I actually enjoy.  When I feel convinced that the people actually love and care for one another, then, I can feel genuinely happy for them, and it causes me to unwittingly participate in the next reason.

2.     Endless Parade of Tears

At weddings, everyone is constantly crying; for something that is supposed to be so joyful it is an awful endless parade of sad.  The bridesmaids usually weep because they are alone and they want this happiness.  The bride cries because she is “just so happy,” and her vows become impossible, and then the groom’s voice even starts to crack.  The mothers were in  tears hours ago and even daddy can’t get his speeches out.  So, much crying.

Then, you have the people who have come to see the wedding.  Some sit there checking their watches and playing ‘Tetris’ on their phones.  You also have the teary lovestruck girlfriends gazing into their boyfriend’s face daydreaming of their wedding together, while the boyfriends think, “Oh.  No.”  All the other relatives are going through a Kleenex a minute, remembering how dear little April used to play house, and now she’s married, and you just know at any second Great Aunt Eunice is going to come in to hug you clutching her 82 Kleenexes, her crusty eyeliner running down her face with exclamations on how beautiful the wedding was.

But once in a while she is right, and those weddings are the worse.  And at the end, all you want to do is make a fortress out of Kleenexes, but you definitely can’t cry at a wedding of all things, because your heart is black and you don’t feel things and you don’t really like for people to see you cry.

Now, I’m someone who cries a lot, but I really don’t like for people to see me cry over serious things like love, death or hurt.  I know Chris is reading this and thinking, “Gah, Rachel, you are lying, because I see you cry all the time.”  And I do – on you.  But you’re my best friend and kind of the only person I feel comfortable getting authentically weepy around, and ew, yucky emotions are yucky and may we move on?

See even blogging about weddings make me all icky.  Ew.

3.      “No, I love you more…”

Marriage is a big, big step.  And during weddings you are miserably forced to watch the bride and groom, and there are two types of couples:

a., A bride and a groom who really love each other, and you can see how much they love each other and as they get all choky in their vows, you feel awkward for looking at them and seeing their feelings, although that’s kind of the concept of a wedding.

-or-

b., A bride and a groom who don’t really love each other at all and either think they do or are just doing this because they’ve dated so long that it’s sort of an obligation at this point.  These two are either silly giddy in a way that makes you vomit, or they are stoic and accept one another with a nod.

The first couple produces a wedding that makes me want to cry (ugh, tears).  The second couple produces a wedding that makes me want to gag.  Not everyone is as intuitive as I am, so regardless of if it marriage was a good idea or not, they’ll be making a big teary hoopla out of it regardless.  Usually, I just wasted a good 30 minutes watching idiots making goo-goo eyes at one another, and I’m supposed to be happy for these yahoos when I really wished I could have stayed with grandma.  Why do I have to go to boring weddings?

4.      Receptions ≠ Good Food

So after you have the wedding you have to go mingle with people at the reception.  Regardless of having to explain to 254 different family members what I’m doing at college, I could endure receptions if they had good food.  After all, I am a girl that enjoys a good [free] meal more than anyone and dozens of people can agree to this.

Unfortunately, receptions rarely ever equal a good meal.  To every wedding I’ve been to, the reception instantly equals a buffet.  And how I despise buffets, for the food is always cold, the lines always insufferable, and you see your awkward ‘cousin’ Lenny reaching out his cubby, sweaty hands and taking the tongs to grab his piece of chicken. He puts the tongs down, and as you reach out for them, you feel the greasy residues of his hand, and you just pray to God that you can get to a bottle of Purell soon.

There are usually two types of receptions (in my experience.)  There are the ones where the bride and groom are ‘proud to be southern,’ and as they cut the ‘George Bulldogs’ grooms cake, you can see a rebel flag fluttering behind them, red and menacing.  These receptions usually have ‘home-style’ food with endless bowls of macaroni and cheese and rolls from Ingles.  And dear me, how I hate macaroni and cheese.*

Then there are the weddings of college graduates, where everyone's a doctor who sips wine.  These are ‘Fancy Food Weddings.’  It’s supposed to be good food, but inevitably, it’s a buffet, so that gives it a -8 score right off.  The caterers usually try to make their food *unique*, so they slather your chicken in the weirdest combinations of spices and you’re forced rake it off.  Then you have the other caterers who like to make things bland, so then you sit there eating the most boring meal of your life.  Either way, by the time you are halfway into your cold chicken breast, you really don’t want it.  But if you’re me, you keep eating it, because, well, you’re me.  And then your mom gives you hers because she really doesn’t like it, and you eat it too.

Sometimes, Fancy Food Weddings have a salad bar, and they put all these ‘fun and unique’ toppings for your salad, but by the time you get to looking the toppings either don’t go together or you’re not sure why you’d want it to begin with.  So your salad ends up being: lettuce, tomatoes and cranberries.  Then there are the dressings.  If someone would just put me out a thing with Paul Newman’s smiling face and the title ‘Balsamic Vinaigrette,’  I would die happy.  BUT.  No, the caterers are unique, they’re fun, no, we make our own dressing!  So, what happens (as with the past wedding,) is that I stand in the salad bar line, resorting to sniffing the dressing to guarantee that it is a vinaigrette.  As I look up I realize that my relatives are giggling at me, so I drench my salad and go on my way. But, my poor family has come to expect this for one of them sniffed his chicken in agreement and said, “look, I’m like you Rachel, I’m sniffing it to see if I want it.”  Glad someone agrees with me.

Of course my family thinks that when I do weird things they’re enduring; then again, I think they kind of look at me like I’m the lovable, but retarded pet.

So many dressings.

5.     Dances Make People Awful Gutsy

There are two types of receptions too.  Ones with DJ’s who play bad 90s country songs, but you kind of enjoy them.  And live music.  :|  These people are usually ‘folk singers’ of some sort who enjoy playing very loudly, and as my mom will not shut up and get us in the car so we can go I sit there and listen to them strum out folk songs as I push my half-eaten, over drenched, funky vinaigrette covered salad.

But if it’s a DJ, I’ll either sit in my seat and dance with my arms, or if it’s a families wedding, then I’ll get on the dance floor and tear it up.  My family members who I see at Thanksgiving and Christmas think I’m sort of enduring and they film me without my knowledge and we have to play it for everyone at the next family gathering.  “Look at Rachel dance.  Gosh, she can go.”  Then I find out that the wedding photographer took it upon himself to capture my moves, and there are blurry photos of me dancing all of Facebook.

*sighhhh*

Then there is this.  Unbeknownst to you, ‘cousin’ Lenny has been staring at you in your bridesmaid dress ever since you walked down the aisle, and you can bet that when the DJ starts playing Open Arms he’ll be there with his wide open.

Twice I have been asked to dance at a wedding.  First was a boy who was rather good looking.  I would have said ‘yes,’ but boys were kind of scary and although I was a freshmen in college the thought of dancing with a boy and having his arms on my waist was very frightening.  After he had asked, my mom chastised me for being Captain Chastity, because it took a lot of guts to ask a girl dance, and at something like this, I should at least dance with him.

So then, later that night, my cousin’s husband’s brother asked me.  For as long as I can remember he has had a crush on me, and with my mother’s words in mind, I agreed.  It was to some sappy Diamond Rio song and I made him dance with me as if we were waltzing (hand on my waist; hand on shoulder; hands together).  His brothers laughed at him for keeping so much distance between us, and I told them that was because he was a gentleman unlike them, and this is how gentlemen and ladies dance.

This was the same wedding as the Georgia Bulldogs cake so I felt confident in my comments.

All the same, dancing with high school freshmen doesn’t have many appeals, and although he wasn’t bad as say an ‘cousin’ Lenny, wedding dances are there to make life everything awkward and almost instantly lead into my 6^th reason as to why I hate weddings.

6.     This isn’t Noah’s ark and there is no need for pairs

Ugh.  When people go to weddings, everyone is in a love sick mood.  According to them, everyone should be in love; and if not, we should give the façade of love.  My first experience with this in regards to weddings was around the time Abigail and I were about 10 or so.  We had been in one other wedding (Our Aunt Carolyn’s) and we were flower girls who threw peddles and basically stole the show by being cute.  But the next wedding, we were a little older so we had graduated to ‘Junior Bridesmaids.’  It was our cousin Jacqueline’s wedding, and all the cousins were to be in it.  (On my mom’s side there are 5 granddaughters).  Abigail and I were the youngest, and at this point in our lives boys were really scary.  Look back at our repressed childhood, and now relate it to our understanding of boys.  Yeah.

So, of course they played the ‘pair off’ game with us, and Abigail and I were stuck walking back at the end with two 25-23 year olds.  To a ten year old this is effing creepy.  We cried through the entire rehearsal because we were going to have to link arms with these guys.  Eventually they settled on us holding hands, which on reflection, is kind of worse; Abigail’s fellow had canary yellow hair.  And our hotel didn’t even have a pool, and then mom made the power go out by plugging in two hairdryers, and it was a bad trip.

The moral of this is though (although it relates in no way) is when at weddings, people are obsessed with couples.  They just finished a wedding and they want another one.  I cannot tell you how many people ask me at weddings, “So, when are you gonna get a boyfriend?”  To which I reply that I am 20 years old and the matter of boyfriends and otherwise is not very important at the moment to me, where as an education is valuable and is something I’ll have for the rest of my life and I do not need a man to define me and I’ll get a boyfriend when I’m good and ready and when one asks me out, if I find him desirable.

That usually shuts them up.

And lastly,

7.      The honeymoon

*SIGHHHH*

Although I do not witness the honeymoon, I hear so much about it I as good as well be there.  First you have the wedding that you didn’t want to go to, then you have the reception with the awkward dancing and bad food, and then, then you have to hear everyone go on about the honeymoon.  And it’s not valuable comments and questions like, “Yes, Bermuda is really pretty,” or “You’ll really enjoy the shanty towns in Rio.”

No, because the honeymoon is the time of SEX :} :} and everyone knows it.  So, you have every old man at the wedding making comments such as, “well that weddin’ was nice, but the honeymoon, now he’ll enjoy that *wink wink*.”  And then everyone slaps each other and says things such as, “wonder what they’ll be doin’ tonight *wink wink*.”

And just when you think, “Stop.  This has become awkward enough,” no, let’s get more pervy!  While they’re away on people say things like, “I bet their discovering that those canyons aren’t where the excitement’s at.” *wink wink*

And THEN just to seal the deal on let’s make marriage uncomfortable, when the newlyweds return from seeing exciting mountains or waterfalls or whatever, everyone vultures around with that horrible knowing look in their eye, and with a head nod, they ask “so, how’d you enjoy that honeymoon?”  *wink wink*

CAN WE NOT?  So not only are the newlyweds like, “*nervous chuckle* yeah, the, um, birds in the park, they were really great.”  And then everyone is like, “yeah, birds are great, but how was the SEX :} :}.”

After witnessing this several times, can we please not?  It makes me uncomfortable, it makes them uncomfortable, it makes everyone uncomfortable.  And that’s supposed to private, YES.

Although that it is a part of marriage it isn’t MARRIAGE it’s self, and when Captain Pervy Pants decides it is and makes life uncomfortable for everyone but the other Captain Pervy Pants in the world, I have to say will you please stop?

So it is firmly my plan that on the first night of my honeymoon I am going to bring a boardgame, that way when Captain Pervy Pants shows up and asks me, “so, how’d you like your first night as a married couple? *wink wink*” I can say, “You know what, it was great.  We played Battleship all night.  No, no, not like that, like the boardgame, with the pegs and the ships and…oh, nevermind.”

So Why I Hate Weddings

I am sorry ya’ll, but I hate them.  I’m sure they are magical and wonderful and sealing and whatever else, but they are a boring fest of sappy cheese to me.  I think weddings are absolutely wonderful things in life and I find them to be very, very sacred.  And when it is made sacred between two people who love each other very much, then I find them enjoyable and I cry.  Some.

And Now, A Briefly Boring Story about the Time I Cooked Macaroni and Cheese:

*Over the summer Chris told me I couldn’t take care of myself.  I thought, huh, I’ll show him.  So I found some macaroni and cheese recipe off the internet, and I went to Ingles and bought a bag of ‘Wacky Mac’ and my ingredients.  I was going to show him, I could use a stove and I could take care of myself.  So I got in my kitchen and I called my mom to ask how to do things like turning the stove on and stuff.  I got my pot out and somehow ended up burning the majority to the pot.  But I put what was salvageable in a bowl and I took some to Abigail and she really liked it.  I hate macaroni and cheese but I ate the fruit of my efforts out of pride, and I choked it down.  It wasn’t bad, but I just hate that stuff.

A few days later I took some to Chris (the instigator in my plight of cooking and independence) who picked up the container and looked at it with his nostrils flared.

Chris:  Why does it look so weird?  It’s all sorts of ugly colours.

Me:  It’s that way because I used ‘Wacky Mac.’  It’s coloured noodles.

Chris:  Isn’t that for pasta salads and stuff?

Me: Noodles are noodles!  It’ll use what I want.

Chris:  *puts container down* Okay.

Me:  You have to try it!  I made it just to show you how I could take care of myself.

Chris:  *sigh/eyeroll* Go ahead and heat it up and I’ll try a noodle or two.

Me:  *heats it up; hands it to him*

Chris:  *eats noodle, smacks lips, nostril still flared* Hm, its good.  If you like bland things.

I finished the rest out of pride, but, yet again, I really hated every bite.  Chris later told me just because I could cook noodles it didn’t mean I could cook, and definitely didn’t mean that I could take care of myself.  I told him to shut it

-Me.

The Drama of the Flat Tire

So, this is a story, a semi-epic story that includes me, Chris and me doing something wrong that has to be promptly corrected by Chris.  Chris, yet again, sacrifices something to come to my aid, while I sit in the corner and cry hysterically, not being of much use other than making background noise.

It starts like this.  It was late last night, and I am driving on the road.  I see this giant pile of what I think to be sand on the side of the road, but instead, it is a large chuck of what I can only guess is concrete.  It looked something like this:

My stupidity led me to run straight over it with my back tire.  I had a few reactions, at the very loud noise that was emitted.  I thought I had died, I thought my car had died, and that my tire had died, but I pressed onward, just to be sure.  SOMEHOW.  I managed to get up the gorge and home, and after the first bought of noise, I thought, all was good, because I didn't have any problems.

The morning rolls around, and I have my 8 o'clock class with Susan.  I go to Sev, and as I'm turning, I swerve all over the place.  I chock it up to my alertness in regards to driving.  It's 7 o'clock, I'm tired, Harry Potter is tonight (!), perfectly explainable.  But, I'm cautions.  After a few more swerving issues, I finally make it down the mountain and I'm on my way to WCU.  Then, I hear this horrid noise, I feel the car going down, and near the Drake building, I pull over.

I knew what has happened.  I knew since yesterday, that I was destined to have a flat tire.  How this didn't happen until 12 hours later, I do not know.  The smell of burnt rubber was everywhere, and I stepped out and looked.  So while I stand out in the cold, bawling, slumped in submission and racked with despair, suddenly, my knight in his tacky Tubes tennis shoes appears.  His first assumption is "Rachel has ran over a cat; I'll never see the end of tears."  But he was wrong.

I run to him and sniffle out that I have a flat tire.  We go and look at it and he asks questions, and I reinstate all the above, in between dramatic sobs.  I tell him to go on; we have Susan's class and I'll figure out this tire thing.  As I slowly bring out a diamond looking metal thing, I ask "I use this, right?"  He shakes his head and tells me there are 2 more parts.  I continue to persuade him, "Go on.  Just leave me behind.  I'm not worth it.  I was made to suffer."  And he almost does.  But the fact that I look something like this:

Makes him say, "no I can't leave her."  So, he sets out, on his mission, and we find the thingie that takes the nuts (or bolts, I don't know) off and on, and the thingie that cranks the jack up, and he talks me through it.  I'm still in hysterics, but I explode when I hit my head on my hatchback.  I begin to do that thing where I breath very fast but the air doesn't quite reach my lungs, so I begin retching for breath, and Chris has to say, "calm down Rachel, calm down.  It's just a flat tire.  Calm down, CALM DOWN.  Get a hold of yourself."  I'm so cold and all I want is to die along with my tire.  He takes it off after a lot of elbow grease ("why are these so tight?!") as I watch with eager, tear-stained eyes.

Eventually, Chris gets everything in order, and he drives behind me as we go to the tire place, and I drive cautiously.  The hole in my flat tire is literally large enough for Chris to stick his hand through, and we wonder how I managed to go on it for so long.  We leave it at the tire place (my mom has set everything up) and Chris drives us to school, and we are able to make it to Jazz.

The moral of this story is that I have learned two things:  A. I have to learn how to take care of myself. and B.  Chris isn't a total jerk, and I owe him, yet again.  It only took a flat tire to learn this.

And I probably shouldn't run over giant blobs of concrete.  

-Me

Tiny Man; Dancing Cat

So, so, SO many things to talk about.  Where to start; I DON'T KNOW.  I guess I'll start on where I left off.  The show went rather well.  One girl, bless, messed up her line and let the entire audience know by saying 'Gosh' at the end.  Afterwards, she was in such a tizzy that she nearly walked off into the recesses of backstage, when she was supposed to be on stage again.  Yours truly saved the day in alerting her that she was needed on stage.  Of course, she made up some sort of excuse about how she forgot to put her sweater on and she was going to do it, and then she remembered she had to be on stage, but you, I, and God know the truth, and we'll keep it that way.


I never messed up once thankfully.  We did lose Chris' armhole in dressing one night, but we quickly found it, so all was well.  Did I forget to mention that I quick-changed Chris for the show?  Well I did.  He stripped down to his skivvies and I put his costume over his head.  I then folded all his clothes like a mother-wife-secretary friend would do.  I am such a good person; I should get a macaroni sculpture to acknowledge this.


During the show and before I would go back in the back and study French. By doing this I avoided doing any energy/focus exercises and therefore inevitably, making roof shingles out of my legs.  I have learned more French this past week than I have all semester.  I sort of wanted to join the fun of making a fool of myself in the group exercises; but in the end, my lack of confidence and utter fear that I would look stupid (no, I know.  It makes no sense) overrode everything, so instead of looking stupid, I looked smart.  Studying French.  In the back.  Alone.


:(


BUT.  It was fun.  Jack and Tim bought all the girls roses, and Chris ran out of balloons for this one scene.  He asked me to get some at Party Zone while I was in Franklin, and I found a bag for $12.00 dollars.  (!)  So Chris now is the proud owner of more balloons than one man should ever need to possess.  If he ever aspires to be a clown, he's set.


Jack, Tim and Volpsters would go outside and try to throw candy in each others mouth.  The won some and lost some.  Ew, and in one scene Chris had to carry raw meat, and it killed me because it smelt so raunchy and it was raw meat.  Oh vomit.


OH.  And there was a cast party.


Chris:  Are you going?
Me:  Where?
Chris:  To the cast party.
Me:  Do I need to go?
Chris:  Have you ever been to a party?
Me:  *whine commences* No.  Do they drink?  Is there drinking?  Are they going to be sloshed?  Are their drugs?  Am I going to get raped?  Will you watch me and make sure I'm alright?
Chris:  Um, yes, yes, yes, yes, no and I am not responsible for you.
Me:  *whining ever increasing* But Chris.  I dunno.  Do I need to go?  I'm scared to go.
Chris:...
Me:  But I've never gone to a party before.  *small, nervous chuckle*  Experience and what not, right?  College...college is about parties, and I wouldn't drink, but I would feel uncomfortable, yes?
Chris:  ...yes.  You don't need to go Rachel.  You need to go home, get some sleep and go to church tomorrow.
Me:  *hysterical* Now you're mocking me!
Chris:  No, I'm not.  But you won't like it.  I'm just going for a minute, telling everyone they did great, and then I'm leaving.  I'll text you when I leave, and it'll be okay.
Me:...okay. *sniff*


So after more discussions on "you think I'm a prude," "no, I don't," etc., I tearfully hugged Chris bye, got in my car and left.  Chris got home safely about 30 minutes later, and it wasn't that ragging yet, but I'm sure it became such.


Overall it was great fun, and I enjoyed it, all in all.  I was complemented on my stage handiness, and it was suggested that I be Assistant Stage Manger for the next show.  I have a "very level head and amazing focus."


One thing bothered me though, and I'm going to post my feelings on it in a public blog.


One girl sat in the hallway before the first show, doing tarot cards to predict the outcome of the show.  I was about 2 yards away from her, reading my bible in preparation.  And nearly everyone was drawn to her.  She did readings for everyone, they could "feel the energy," some asked for private readings, etc.  No one approached me.


This bothered me, perhaps, more than anything.


Isn't it funny how people flock to something like that vs the Bible?  I know it all boils down to opinion, of what is right and what is wrong.  And inevitably, to a 20 year old mindset, tarot cards are much more interesting than the Bible is.


Every night, I watched those actors and actresses nervously prepare themselves.  Some of the chit-chatted, some of them buried themselves.  And it made me wonder, what is it like to go through life alone?  To know, that when you go up on that stage, it's all you.  To not know that God is there to help, to give you the confidence and understanding to be the best you could ever possibly be.  To know that, even when you mess up, God is still loves you.


What is it like to go through life and think it's all your fault something happened, and to carry the weight of things completely on your shoulders?  To worry about things constantly and to think, "it's all on me."  I've had the privilege of knowing God since infancy, and I couldn't tell you how this feels because I've always known God was there to help me get through these things.  In this I am so entirely blessed and grateful.  To know that there is hope regardless of what I've done or what the outcome looks to be. 


After this night, while I drove home, I prayed for those poor kids.  The play they participated in was not exactly clean or right, but, as Jesus Himself said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. (Luke 23:34)"  I know I may not be the most wonderful witness, but, I am, in a way, all there is, so I must suffice.  God's done more with worse than I, I'm sure.


Getting off the Biblical path, I went through some mysterious woods at Western.  I was bored and had an hour to kill, so I drove over to the baseball fields.  I found a creepy underpass, so I took it and then I found a creepy institutional building with creepy statues of children, and then I found a creepy trail in the woods and I took it.  I got a little frightened, and I thought I heard people (I did.  It was the band practicing) and I kept thinking some rapist or a gypsies clan, or a gypsy rapist was going to get me, but I trucked on and I ended up on some road, and I took it and I ended up somewhere and I found about 17 large above ground pool looking things, and on reflection, I think they may have had bodies for them for the body farm.

I eventually found my way out, but I want to go back and follow a mysterious road I found.  Nothing takes away your worries like a scary hike in unknown woods alone.

Dance has been going well.  (sort of)  I made a 92% on my 40s dance thing, and Kayren said it was because I was just "so cute."  Yet again, my cheese allows me to soar to new heights.  Today, Jordan told Chris and Volpi that I looked adorable when I danced and they told him I looked more like a wild fire, destructing everything in my path.  Gah, they're jealous.

Yesterday in Ballet, Chris took me aside and showed me how to do a glissade, because apparently he couldn't stand watching my failure any longer.  On a brighter note, I made a 110% on my ballet vocabulary quiz.  This shows that, although my body may not move all that well, I am a genius.

Here is a picture of a tiny man and his dancing cat:

Speaking of cats, I have grave, grave news.  My beloved Smudge, the star of The Diary of Anne Frank passed away.  It was all of a sudden; suddenly, he wouldn't move or eat, and Aunt Dale drove to our house to take him to the vet and he was gone, laying in front of Grandma's chair.  I found out near the end of rehearsals on Thursday night.  I began crying (I tried to stay in my cubby, but they found me) and all the actresses wiped my eyes and fixed my make up and hugged me, but then they had to go on stage, so Jaclyn took me outside and I cried all over her, and Chris found out and he hugged me for a long time while I slightly sobbed into him, and then during notes, he made hand puppets to make me feel better.  I made a killer one that tried to eat his.

I miss Smudge dearly.  He was a cat that didn't mind me when I dressed him up, and dragged him around and put him in boxes, and for that I am grateful.  It's funny; I used to hate Smudge.  He was my grandmother's cat, and when I came home from school, I would sit in front of the stove and he would lay with me.  I was afraid to pet him because he liked to bite and scratch if you pet him too much, but eventually got up the nerve, and he learned to love me and I him.  Once I was trying to trim the fur on his ears, and I accidentally cut a piece off, and it bled but he didn't notice, and I doctored it up.

Grandma always said, "if something happens to me, you get that cat."  When she did pass away, they tried to give him to my Aunt Carolyn, but I pitched a fit.  He was my cat.  I won, eventually.  He slept with me, and he had the most annoying purr, but I miss it now.

-Me

I'm out 10 bucks, but I have a bushel of onions

Right now, I am so sleepy that I think I may die at this computer.  But I want to catch up on my blog, because I want to.  Alright with everyone?  Great.

Anyway, there is a reason I am so tired, and that's because of sleep lackage.  This weekend we spend almost 24 hours couped up in Niggli, dieing over and over by the Tech from you know where.  We get there at 11:30; it doesn't start until 12:45.  I kid you not, they were on about the 4th scene out of 13 around 5 o'clock.  You'd think it was over, and then they'd say, "do that again.  We have to get the music right."  Everyone mutually agreed - this is the longest tech.  Ever.


Light guy blamed sound guy, sound guy blamed light guy.  On top of it all, everyone was mad at each other and emotions were ramped.  We went to Subway, and Chris and I were bickering when someone came up to the trash can and said 'Excuse me,' because I was in front of it.  I was too busy arguing to notice, and Chris said, "say you're sorry."  In which I thought he was telling me to apologize to him, and not to the other guy.  Which I refused to do, and then Chris had to apologize for my bad manners, and then he made fun of me and then I cried for no real reason other than I was so tired of this stupid tech, and WHEN DOES IT DIE?  We went outside and "why *sniff* are you *sniff* so mean *sniff* to me? *cascading tears falling from eyes*"

Next day was better, for it was two runs and only a little tech (we had to finish off the first day).  They had a dress parade, and stuff.  Wasn't so bad; but it still was a very long day.  Chris, Volpi and I ate at the Chinese Buffet.  I hate Chinese Buffets, but I endured it and stole all the shrimp from the shrimp and vegetable dish.  Which was 5 shrimp, so it wasn't that much.  A 5 year old brought us our drinks.  She could only carry one at a time and had to ask us 6 times what we wanted.  As much as I hate children, it was sort of cute.

Yesterday, was much, much better.  Kind of.  Peter fussed all the actors out for having absolutely no focus.  One of the actors suggested that the tech join in the warm-up exercises to create "a feeling of unity," or something in other.  I hope everybody forgets this idea because I would rather take the skin of my legs and make it into roof shingles than do warm-up exercises.  It's not that I'm proud; it's just that there are some things I am comfortable with and other things I am not comfortable with, and group warm-up exercises are in that category.

I know that's silly.  "You're an actress, get over it."  Well, acting with some set plan and making weird guttural noises are two very different things.  In the end, this is what it boils down to:  I feel insecure looking like an idiot.  No, I know, I know, you would never think this.  But in essence, I am a very shy person, and unless I know the people who surround me well, I hesitate in doing a lot of things.  Like being social or crazy.

Anyway, last night was the first night we used real, raw, meat, and Chris had to hold it (getting blood all over his hands) and I pitied him greatly for once.  Because even he doesn't deserve that.

Afterwards, we stopped at the gas station to share the swirly gummy bears I had bought, and then the gas flowed out of my gas tank, and Chris was afraid that my car or the gas station would catch fire or something, so we took all the left over water bottles in his car and poured it all over the spill, and then I found a gallon jug of water in my car and we poured that.  My car did not catch fire, but it was all thanks to Chris being the modern day McGyver with his water bottles and his Maglight that he didn't use, but I know he has.

Today we had a function thing for the show.  I went to it before my art lecture.  I mostly sat behind a table, because there is something about advertising that I loathe.  I hate selling stuff; does any one really want or need vidalia sweet onions?  No.  So when I say, "why hello ma'am, I have some delicious onions for sale," I feel ridiculous, because no one really wants to buy your stupid onions.  I someone came up to me and said, "why hello ma'am, I have some delicious onions for sale," I would be thinking Please, get me away so I do not have to buy onions. Oh please, please, please dear please, I can't tell this girl 'no, I don't want to buy your onions.' And then you're out $10 bucks, but you're left with a bushel of onions.

So; advertising a show and selling onions is two different things.  But still, people loathe your presence when they see you.  You are suddenly repulsive to the world because you are selling something people don't want.  Everyone else had fun with it.  Chris sprouted off the weirdest lines, "if you're going to go to the clock tower to avoid me, I'm going to come get you."  And "if you're tired of hearing me yell, then come see Romantic Fools." Like I said, I sat behind a table and didn't hand out a single flyer.  In help with the promotion, they had Tara give out free sexual innuendos.  Fortunately, the health center was all out of condoms when they went to get them this morning, so I didn't have to pass those out.  Flyers are one thing; condoms another.

To the modern man, I may seem a little prudish.  And I am.  Sometimes, when I'm backstage, and I hear all the personal details of everyone's sex life, I just sit there and I pray to God for two things.  First of all, for comfort, and then for some sort of intelligence, because I'm definitely not getting it at the moment.  Time and time again, I have to explain that I really don't know what a vibrator looks like, I don't need birth control, and, yes, I'm a virgin and yes I'm making that choice.  So, in this aspect, I am not as experienced. And although I do not know if I'm a 'screamer' or not, I do know that a human and a monkey can not have a baby, which was actually a question posed.

All in all, I have enjoyed working this show.  I have enjoyed the new friends I've made, I enjoy my table moving duties, and I enjoy, at times, watching the show.  Everyone does a good job, and although I definitely can say this sort of show is not my pleasure, it has been fun.

I leave you with the trailer.  I don't think you can see it unless you're on Facebook, but I dunno.

Chris thinks he looks like a pervert; I agree.

-Me

This is for the ladies.

To start your day off right, I'm going to post a picture of Volpsters in his dance attire.

The boys have devised a diabolical plan of dressing as much like 'dancers' as possible.  Up until this point they had avoided looking like every other jazz yahoo.  It started with the basketball shorts.  Kayren insisted they wear spandex.  Then came the infamous bicycle shorts.  But, somehow, this still wasn't enough.  Graded down on appearance, they decided to obey the rules - as ridiculously as possible.  Thus, this combination.

Everyone knows (or should know) that wife-beaters should never, ever, EVER be worn by anyone.  But, in the sake of tomfoolery, I'll forgive it.

So, I'm here in the CMC until rehearsals, and although I should be rewriting some French, I'm instead, writing a blog. Somewhere I like to imagine that someone finds what I have to say interesting.  Nikki appreciates it at least.

So, rehearsals last night went really, really well.  As it stands, I have the prestigious title of moving the table with Jacklyn.  It's a serious position, so don't you dare laugh.  The night before DV visited and he was like, "...it's like Growing Up With Children.  You're not going for that, right?"  So, basically, they have set out to rework the whole thing - 6 days before opening, mind you - but this was a wise choice because it is so much better.  Mr. Pace Monster is now a constant member, it's over the top where it needs to be and subtle where it needs to be, and it's entertaining, despite its material.  Overall, I'm enjoying myself so much more than I ever did when I did Almost Maine but perhaps that's became I'm not quite so neurotically awkward.  Or at least I'm not as shy as I was.

So yesterday was French Table, and I... didn't go.  Oh, how I could have kicked myself.  As Julian sat in that tiny class room, mummering sweet words in French that should have been directed to me, well, it kills me.  One girl announced in class that he would need a ride after each French table.  The girls jumped on this opportunity, and it should have been my opportunity.  So, you know where I was when my French-Canadian dream was not whispering sweet nothings across the table?  I was in a den of incense.

Explanation?

After ballet class we had gone to eat with two guys from our class.  Afterwards, the idea to go to their house was proposed.  I wasn't going to go, but I had somehow forgotten about French Table, and decided, why not?  Broaden my experiences or whatever.  So we walk through the door, and I am knocked out.  They are burning the strongest incense I have ever smelt, and in the smallest room possible.  As I gather my lungs, we sit down and look at some videos of stuff or something.  These incense fumes are wafting right on me, but Chris, being the genius of us two, took the recliner away from the incense.  Chris and I began to work on our Jazz homework.

After about 5 minutes, something happens.  I'm not going to say what, but I will give an overview of the conversation right after it happened.  For a little visualization, this would be what I looked like during the whole thing.

Chris: *looks at guy

Guy:  *looks at Chris*

Me:  *stares at Chris*

Chris:  *looks at Me*

Guy:  Is that not okay?

Chris: *looking at me*  No, no, that's fine...fine.

Guy:  *chuckles*  You're judging me, aren't you, Chris?

Me:  *stares at Chris*

Chris:  *looks at him, looks at me*  No, no...

Me:  *MEGA STARE AT CHRIS*

Chris:  *looks at me.*

- 2 Minutes Later -

Chris:  So yeah, I think I'm going to go study in the library now...concentration, and...stuff.

So we jetted out, and tried to clear our lungs of the incense, and then continued to write our Jazz papers in the sanctuary of the library.  Earlier in the day, Chris also managed to be prayed on.  

[Beginning of Religious Rant]

They were holding some function out on the lawn called 'Jesus Heals.'  To be honest, I usually shy away from these kind of things.  Oh, I believe it's message, I assure.  But, I find it more awkward for sinners than assuring, and although they could use a little awkwardness once in a while, I almost feel like its counterproductive. 

Also, if you are advertising Jesus in such a fashion, the prayer better be guaranteed to work.  For instance, say a sinner walks up and wants a prayer. It's possible that they have very little faith and in the prayer to begin with, (thus canceling everything anyway, unless it is absolutely God's will) and they are probably expecting a miracle.  It's generally well know that it takes a lot of prayer, patience, time and faith (in most instances, depends on the person and the strength of their belief and God's will) whereas a sinner may not grasp this concept.  If the prayer doesn't work, for lack of faith from the sinners part of whatever, then they feel a little disheartened as they tried, maybe just this once, to grasp an idea of God. 

Lack of prayers answered is one of the reasons people don't believe in God.  A great example comes to mind.  Once in high school, I sort of befriended this guy named Kevin.  Kevin was weird, a bit of a loner, and not too great smelling. I've always had a soft place for the 'outcasts' if you will, so I would talk to him.  Kevin didn't believe in God.  And here is why:

"When I was younger I would pray every night that God would turn me into an Anamorph.  And He never did it.  Eventually I gave up on God, and figured he didn't exist because I never turned into an Anamorph."

When people promote something such as 'Jesus Heals' people almost expect an immediate result.  And believe you me, I know that can happen.  But it takes faith, and when dealing with sinners who have little to none, the outcome is often grim.  And therefore the negative effect happens, and when they are not turned into an Anamorph, they tend to lose faith.

The moral of this is, YES God answers prayers, YES he can do it quickly, BUT it takes faith and it has to be God's will.  And this needs to be understood.  Is this a good idea?  I'm still trying to figure it out.  It's serving Jesus with love, which I adore; but all the same time it's forceful, and...I dunno.  I'm just tired of trying to think my feelings out.  Welcome to what goes on inside my head.


All in all, I'm sure God worked through them some, and who knows, maybe it did reach some people.  It's not up for me to decide if it's right or wrong in the end.

[End of Religious Rant]

So they prayed on Chris to heal his eye.  Twice.  Regardless of my views on this matter, I was very touched by their gesture, and all in all, it was very, very sweet.


On second thought, after just slamming my computer keys in my current rage against Chris, I somehow managed to freeze my computer in the process.  After crying, and having Chris talk me through restarting my computer as I had a nervous breakdown, I resume my writing, and I can firmly say that I hate Chris because he induces a great, great anger in me.  As I glare at him now, as he sits in the chair and watches Beatlejuice, not interested in the "boring" things I have to say, I am...
...actually thankful that I have him as my best friend.


There I said something nice about you; give me a cookie for the deed.


...no, seriously, I mean it.  The cookie part.
Okay, I mean the thankfulness part.  Too.


So, we're going to eat now, so I leave you a picture with this cat in a rocket or something.

-Me