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.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
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.
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.
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.
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