Everything Is Ready To Go

Okay, not everything. I stil haven't picked out a roomate and bought all the neessary items to live on my own, but I have at least chosen to attend and made a deposit to Hanover College. I've earned as much money as I could up to this point for scholarships, and it's only a matter of time before I sign up for classes.

While I may be more than ready to leave high school, I'm terrified of the thought of being on my own. I can remember being a kindergartner like it was only a couple days ago. In a few months, I'll be two hours away from my family, friends and everything that I've grown up around. The weather is probably going to be cooler, and I can't rely on my mom to help me if I don't understand my chemistry homework.

I don't like the idea of just up and leaving home as if it were no big deal. I wish students had the choice of staying for another year to prepare themselves to leave. I mean, I'm sure that is an option, but it's frowned upon in my family. Plus, you would get a late start in college and might not be eligible for some money towards higher education down the road.

My dad tells me that no matter what, I'm going to be sad for at least the first month. I know I'm moving back to Lexington the first chance I get after college, but I also know I probably won't want to live in my parent's house again. It's all just very confusing and frustrating trying to figure out a plan for the rest of your life.

And I haven't even thought about marriage or kids. Ugh.

Pet Peeve About This Year

I don't much care about the rest of these 24 days or so of my highschool career. I feel a little sad, but mostly empty. Usually, I don't feel anything at all. These last four years haven't been awful, but they could've been better. I wish I had been graduating with the Class of 2009. For one, the students, in my opinion, were less uptight about everything, and the faculty (specifically the principals), were more easygoing. I mean, if you think about it, the principals took away everything this year.
For good reason, the Dawg Pound was taken away, but now we can't even eat breakfast the day of graduation, which has been tradition to eat breakfast before graduation at Dunbar since it opened. I wouldn't even have been angry about that if I hadn't known. But all I understand is that there is NO senior prank, NO breakfast, NO Dawg Pound, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO. Why should I have the right to have fun my last year at Dunbar? Like I said, I wouldn't even have been upset had I not known about this, but it's all just so negative.
It irks me when people think they can control my life because they thinks that's what's best for me. I'm not a child. I know that a senior prank shouldn't be something like spreading shaving cream all over the hallways and having a massive slip-n-slide, and it won't be (if there is one). I know it's expensive to clean up and stupid and irresponsible. I know that. Seriously, I'm not seven. 
Also, if I wear a completely appropriate dress for my Senior Volleyball Day, don't make me change into jeans and a t-shirt because the lace part shows an inch of my knees. I know you probably thought my knees were just too sexy for that dress, but I cried for an hour when I got home. A friend who was my exact height got away with wearing that dress a week later.
Anyway, I'm not too sad about my highschool career ending, mostly because of all this authority being shoved down my throat. Of course, I'll miss my family and friends when I go off to college, but I will definitely not miss Dunbar.  

Finger Hurts

Is my finger broken? I doubt it. But it is so swollen that I can't put my ring on it nor can I bend it. It just kind of sits there.

This happened during volleyball, obviously. I go up to block a ball and, being lazy (and very stupid), just point my hand towards the player. This is dangerous because if she hits into your hand, you can break some fingers. Which is what happened to me. It felt like I had held my hand out and rammed it up full force against a wall, it hurt so bad. After cursing and putting on a show in front of the sixteen year olds and their parents we were scrimmaging against, I had to go back and keep playing.

I'm not too thrilled with the idea of having a broken finger and only having two weeks left of the last season of volleyball before college. I suppose I had been asking for it, since I had been complaining about burn-out for the past month or so. Yes, I had been complaining (as I always do) about playing volleyball and just wanting to give up because it's frustrating playing with the same people for ten years. Burn out is the last thing I want in my career. I don't want to go out remembering how much I hated playing in tournaments and the spectacular lack of effort I gave, despite having natural talent. To me, burn out is one of the saddest occurences in sports. It may not top getting a career-ending injury, but it's up there.

Athletes who have an innocent love for the game are being turned against their sports by years of overuse and emotional stress. Sometimes, there's a good practice, or game, but it isn't enough. It's all just disappointing after awhile. When you really know you should take off next season in order to gain back some appreciation for the sport, but you can't because a season is ten months, and that's too long. I get it.

So, yes, my finger hurts, but, no, I won't be skipping any practices. I have to finish this miserable season out, and then I'll be home free. I just hate the mentality that I've developed from this experience.

Emily Dickinson

She was crazy. There isn't any other way about describing her. Looking at her work and trying to puzzle over something as confusing as The Bell Jar could make even the most decorated English scholar grimace. I tried to read that book when I was a sophomore. It didn't work out. Her poems are just as equally ambiguous. Sometimes, when I'm done with my English homework and just so happen to have the book flipped open to a page with an Emily Dickinson poem on it, I'll read it. And then I'll kind of sit there in my bed, stare at the wall, and wonder what in the world it was, exactly, that I had just read.

What happened in her life? I tried looking up the answer, but was slightly disappointed. As expected, some of her friends and family members died when she was younger. That happened a lot in the 1800's. And, as it turns out, she had a fear of death as an adolescent. I suppose it was the overwhelming depression of loss and lack of a social life that did her in.

Turns out, she didn't intentionally stick her head in an oven in order to commit suicide. She passed out in the same room an oven was on, but she died several months later after the incident due to heart failure induced by severe hypertension.

I still don't like reading her poems.

Vero Beach: Makeup 3/28

Oops, I completely forgot to make a blog for the week before spring break. My bad on that one.

 I'm going to miss Vero Beach; my and my friend's Spring Break destination for 2013. We had had this vacation planned out since the beginning of last summer, and I suppose the excitement went to my head. Vero Beach is a small city on Florida's east coast, about 135 miles north of Miami. We were blessed with good weather for most of the week, only encountering rain once, and thankfully on a day where we could have used a break from the sun.

The first day we arrived at Vero Beach, we unpacked and did what mostly every tourist does- went to the beach. The family that I stayed in their own condo inside what's called "The Kentucky Club," (condominiums filled with Kenucky residents on their vacation) that was within walking distance of a private beach. I was the only one who put on sunscreen, yet I still managed to get burnt behind my ears. Although unbelievably painful, I've learned my lesson. And, even though I'm not much of a pizza fan, the family forced me to try a piece from a local pizzeria. I remember those eight slices fondly.

The week consisted of sleeping, eating and sleeping some more. I also cut my foot open trying my hand at skimboarding, but I did manage to stay on successfully for about four seconds before faceplanting in the sand. I miss Vero so much, and I'm definitely going back next year.

Hey Guys!

I'm going to be a mom! Well, not exactly. See, my horse is pregnant with her first foal and I'm terribly excited. I just like to say that so people give me a flabbergasted look and then continue to tell me my life is over until I correct them.

So around March 1st, my siblings and I were pulled out of school to witness this creation of life. My horse, tiny and easily-intimidated, would soon be paired up with the mighty Albertus Maximus, winner of the 2008 Breeder's Cup Dirt Mile, the mother of all races (beside the Ketucky Derby). Not only did he have an impressive reputation, but seeing him prance into the breeding shed was also quite impressive. He was much bigger than any horse I've ever had to take of, and was almost too much muscle for his handler- who was also much bigger than me. While I won't go into the obvious details of what breeding is, I will say that my horse was perfectly fine- for a first-timer- while Albertus was the one with the...performance issues. We'll say it took eight tries.

Anyway, my mare expects her little bundle of joy come late February of next year; horses have the long incubation period of 11 months, 11 days. Perfect timing, considering by the time the horse turns one, it will have a leg up on its competitors for being older. While I will be in college by that time, I expect to be there for the birth of her first foal. My horse is very special to me, and I already know her baby is going to be a great racer.  

Poetry and the Beach

I hate poetry. Poetry hates me.

There are so many events coming up that I could spend my energy on; like prom, or getting tan enough to be able to live in Florida for a week. I knew this poetry unit was going to sneak up on me. I remember the exact day Mullins told us we were going to do poetry at the beginning of the year. And now that it's here and time to start reading and dissecting poems, I realize how fast this year went by. I remember sitting in my chair smirking, thinking Spring was too far off for me to worry about it. But now it's here and I'm buried up to my neck in work; physical, tough, time-wasting work. I feel awful for not being able to sit back and enjoy reading poetry in the middle of the day; instead, I'm cursing the homework I'm forced to do at midnight because my manager wouldn't cut me early enough. Although, tomorrow is a good opportunity to catch up on homework, before I leave for a volleyball tournament in Muncie, Indiana. 

While I would love to spend my time worrying about Spring Break and Prom and all that, I have to prioritize my life. Perhaps, I should instead focus on actually passing English in time to graduate, and make a final decision about college. The beach will have to wait, I have poetry to read.

My Dad's Music Predicament

My dad has always been an old-fashioned guy. He hates my technology-loaded generation and its stupidity with a fiery rage only equal to that of my own emotions when I play volleyball (we are both passionate people, you see).

 Dad has a problem. He is the president of the PLD Baseball Team this year and has been assigned the impossible task of finding agreeable music to everyone's taste. Ouch. He's been sitting on the couch for days now, iPad in one hand, and notebook paper in the other, blaring out classic rock songs at random until he gets too exhausted and goes to bed. His concentration cannot be broken! but neither can the list of 70's rock songs. My brother cringes every time Whipping Post by the Allman Brothers Band comes on yet again. He tried to show my father "the light," whipping out his own iPod and blasting Lil' Wayne throughout the room.

"We listen to it in the locker room all the time," exclaimed my brother. My dad snarled at the poor kid and told him to go to his room before the iPod would be broken into bits. Dad shook his head and sat back on the couch once more continuing to grumble about today's teenagers ("Nothing but a bunch of sissies). Before I knew it, the man had turned on me, accusing me of listening to such inappropriate shinanigans. He always complained that the warm-up music for volleyball games was just "some guy talking, how is that music?" Well, I don't know.

Anyway, if you come to a PLD Baseball game, I hope you're an ACDC fan. Or Aerosmith. Dad isn't quite finished with his list yet, so I've been looking for suggestions. I just think the whole situation is hysterical.

Rock on, Dad.

   

Dear Gas Prices

Dear Gas Prices,

WOAH, calm down there. I mean, who are you mad at? Why must you insist on rising one day- the day I just so happen to have an empty tank and need to shell out 65 bucks to refill my poor car- and lower another day- the day I just so happen to have a full gas tank? Now, I don't know who bullied you as a kid or what made you so bipolar, but you need to stop making everyone miserable. Go to a psychiatrist, punch your pillow at night, but for goodness sakes it is too expensive to keep putting up with your little tantrums.

Look at the stats, woman. The price of you rose 50 cents from the beginning of February to the end! Did you break up with your boyfriend, or something? Fifty cents! That may not sound like a lot, but multiply 50 cents by the sixteen or so gallons it takes to fill up the old Jeep, and that'll cost an extra $8! My job does not pay me well enough to continuously spend an extra $8 every week and a half/two weeks. That still doesn't sound like a lot but that isn't my point. You're constantly on the news for being expensive; it's a wonder how people don't just toss their own vehicles to the side and take public transportation. At least we have it easier in America, I hear you are up to $8/ gallon over in Europe. What's with that? And let's not even bring up the 70's, or this letter would never end.

I cannot continue to sit idly by while you wreak havoc on the world. Get it together, Gas. Make up with your little friend Money, build a bridge, and get over it. Whenever you two fight, it just isn't good for anybody. 

Sincerely,

Everyone and Their Mother

Oh, The Humanity

There seems to be a lack of humanity within the community that Sethe is raising her children in. Earlier in the novel, a little boy taunts Denver over the fact that her mother went to jail. Denver was shunned by both the community and herself, refusing to even hear confirmation of her mothers' wrongdoings, instead, going deaf. I mean, what kind of a person do you have to be to blatantly walk up to a little girl and say something like "Your mom went to prison, right? Haha." Today, that kid would have gotten into trouble, and the suspended for playing imaginary war with his friends (but that's a different issue). But no, nothing happened to that little boy, perhaps encouraging his behavior. Denver dropped out of school, that day being her first and only, and refused to go back. The community is already a negative environment that she turns herself away from.

And what's with the community not saying anything about the Schoolteacher coming to take away Sethe and her children into slavery and then judging her when she kills her children? Half of the community are freed slaves! It isn't like they couldn't relate to her situation and feel sympathetic for her! What, was it because Baby Suggs gave them too much food to eat at the celebration the day before? That's some sense of entitlement if I ever did see it (and I have, I work in a sit-down, middle-class restaraunt for crying out loud).

The community shuns Sethe and her children, eventually causing the ultimate downfall of her household, for reasons that are superficial and ridiculous.

Community, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

Hanover Experience Makeup 2/14/17

Last Friday I took the day off of school so that I could go on an overnight visit to Hanover College. Most people wrinkle their brows when I tell them I'm considering Hanover.

"Where's that?" they ask. "It's up in Indiana, right across the river," I reply. I know what they are about to say next. Something along the lines of

"Indiana? That's so boring!" Yeah, well.

Anyway, so I took the day off to visit and as soon as I arrive on campus, I've been assigned to shadow a student during a chemistry class. We arrive at the class and I sit for an hour, trying my best to understand the equations that are put up on the board. My escort told me that usually visitors would be falling asleep by that point.

After that class I was escorted to another class that was called "Great Works," where students review Great American Works. I walked in on a class reviewing Wuthering Heights and I payed lots of attention because I knew we would be reading that book at some point in class as well.
I went to eat lunch with some volleyball girls and realized tthat while eating, I would probably have to join a sorority. I haven't the slightest idea, really, what a sorority does, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with community service and other things like that (?). I may have to join a sorority because 45% of the student body is greek, and all of the volleyball players (except 2) are as well. But I digress.

I didn't realize how many meetings I would have. The amount of questions I had to come up with on the spot after having the volleyball coach, a chemistry professer, and my admissions counselor ask me if I "had any questions," was unreal. I was exhausted by the end of the day.
Despite this setback, my experience at Hanover was wonderful. I suppose if I could have been less shy and more social, my experience would have been even better. But I don't regret how I acted, and I even made new friends. I may even go back in the fall.

Hand Written Letters Makeup 1/31/13

Hand written letters seem to be something of the past. Whenever I get a postcard from my grandmother, I snort in amusement and try to read her messy cursive handwriting before giving up and putting it on the mantle above the fireplace like every other card she's sent me. Now that I type about it, I feel bad for her. She spends all that time carefully writing her feelings out, in pen, no less. What if she makes a mistake? Does she have to go out and buy another postcard? I've never seen a card that had a scratch mark through it.

Hand written letters preserve our education. Sometimes, we refer to computers to do all the work for us, and even help us find more academic words to make us more...impressive sounding. Hand written letters are more heart-felt, and you know the person means what they say when the write it. You can tell what the person is feeling by their handwriting. When reading from a typed letter, there is less emotion felt, especially looking at some Times New Roman font (nothing against the font, it's just less personal because everyone uses it).

So you go, Nana. You preserve your education like you do, girl.

Take A Step Back Makeup 1/17/13

Does anyone else have three jobs? A real, paying job, school, and an extracurricular activity that takes dedication? I mean, I don't think teachers realize that nowadays. How in the world am I supposed to find time between these three things to sit down and do a two-hour assignement? This is a problem; not having enough time to do anything but eat and sleep. I suppose I could take precious time from my sleeping schedule to do these assgnments, but then again I'd rather be called selfish for caring more about my sleep than schoolwork.

I used to be totally dedicated to doing my homework, getting every assignment done on time, and doing them well, for that matter. Now, the only way you could get me to do homework is to pay me; because all I see it as is just another job that I don't have the time to care for. Incredibly tedious and not very helpful, homework is the enemy of the Average Senior. Who's in their second semester, by the way.

Too bad my assignments are late, but I guess that's just the under-achiever in me. I'm not bothered by it, though. Whoever wants to see me at Outback when I work, I'm pretty sure I could get you a discount!

What Is So Beloved? Warning: No Spoilers

Beloved by Toni Morrison is a highly regarded novel and thought to be one of the best literary books around. I don't really understand that. I'm 30 pages in and scratching my head over the context and situations so far. I knew that Beloved would be a difficult read, so I took to SparkNotes before ever picking the book up and just read the summary. I knew I didn't have a choice in reading the book, but it looked interesting enough to keep my attention.

Last night I was able to keep up just enough so I could understand what was going on. That was ten pages ago, and today- without as refreshed a memory -I'm trying to read and keep awake as much as possible. The writing style is vague, even more so than The Road, I think. The characters switch between past and present at the drop of a hat and with no warning at all. I fear for my forehead because it's always crinkled when I try to understand what just happened. Although I will admit, Mr. Mullins did warn us about this.

So, hopefully the story will turn around and become a little bit more interesting. If not, it's always a good book to read right before bed.

I Never Did Like Pre-Writing

"Here's your essay you have an hour to do. And I strongly suggest you do an outline for this one," says every teacher that I've ever had, and will ever have. Usually, I ignore this advice and set out to writing. I will, however, inevitably find myself lost in thought as I try to come up with an intelligent response while attempting to remember all my claims. I used to think pre-writing and outlining a bore, something that was below me. I had no time to make a good outline, but if I didn't make one, either my grade would be negatively affected, or my paper wouldn't be too great (look at the evidence people, some of my papers aren't very well-written).

To me, pre-writing is win-lose/hit or miss situation. If it weren't for my legendary apathy to school issues and writing about if Suzy should wear a uniform or not in public school, writing papers in general would be easier. But I'm getting off topic. Pre-writing can be a win scenario: I get all my thoughts down on time, I can come up with a clean thesis, and fit in quite a few details here and there. But the lose scenario can be devastating: I lose track of time, have jumbled, meaningless thoughts on paper and nowhere to go with it (which happens, I'll admit, a lot). Perhaps it's my attention span that needs the work, who knows.

By no means should teachers just stop making kids pre-write to all their essays. Pre-writing is absolutely effective to the average kid. For the kids like me, I would encourage what Aaron Hamburger said; make an outline after your paper. You can fill in missing information and even everything out once you have completed your essay.

Not a bad idea. I might just do that from now on.    

The Road to Appreciating Life A Little Bit More

     To me, The Road is not simply child and father wandering about a dark, cold, wilderness that lacks both food and humanity. I see a life that the father took for granted, and a life the son will never have. Morbid as this sounds, it has helped me to appreciate my own position in life at the moment. And, to the disgust of some, I commented that every time I read this book, I have to eat. I don't find the violence and descriptions appetizing, I'm not an animal. But every time the father observes the thinness of his son (which is very frequently) I find it hard to say no to a half peanut butter sandwich, because I don't ever want to feel like the characters do in this book. I think that this is the most effective form of writing. Even if the style is a little sketchy, if the reader feels uncomfrotable or empathy for the characters, it's working. McCarthy does this very well in The Road.

     The writing style seemed to bother some people. McCarthy doesn't use the proper grammar we are all used to- apostrophes when necessary, for example -and this kind of irked me as well. However I want to open my mind to this book and any ideas it might provoke. What if this writing style is used to represent the non-existence of education anymore? The boy was born into this type of world, maybe he doesn't know about grammar. Maybe the writing style is more to convey a sense of hopelessness; it's simplistic and is written in a stream of conciousness format.

     I'm not sure. Even though I have read this book already, I'm still excited to get to the end.