Remember That Time You Lit Yourself On Fire?

It happens around my birthday, and it’s protested by the on-campus Feminists: WooFest. When the freshmen and sophomore guys attempt to get the most votes through song and dance, I know I’ll be in for a hilarious evening. But I’ll never forget my first WooFest, which turned into trouble.

It was my freshman year at Vanguard, and my friend and I forced my roommate to dress up and go with us to NMC’s sanctuary for WooFest, where there were flowers and pretty lights and nicely-dressed escorts offering flowers to everyone. Oh, and something else: there were candles.

I really like candles, I honestly do, but I was very distracted, walking the pathway to the door with my escort and holding a flower. I would never intentionally destroy a candle, unless there was some sort of weird emergency or it smelled unbearably awful. But that night I was so distracted that I didn’t see the candles lighting our path until I stepped in one.

Wax dripped, hot and painful, on my leg and in my sandals, down to my feet.

“Aughhh!” I screamed and looked down. Candle residue, sloppy and smoky, was the only thing left in the path. The pathway looked like this: nice candle, nice candle, gross mess, nice candle, sanctuary door. I was terrified.

My escort, observing my hopping around and panicking, said “Be careful of the candles.” My friends, smiling from the other line, told me to watch out for those candles! No kidding.

I stumbled over to the door and then limped to my seat with my friends. I looked at my leg helplessly. It might as well have been on fire. Amidst my friends’ “how-did-that-even-happen” and “this-could-only-have-happened-to-you,” I looked for something with an edge to help me get the wax off, since it was still painful to the touch. All I had with me was the rose, given to every girl by her escort. I seized it firmly by the stem and used the end of the stem to scrape the wax off.

It didn’t work.

The wax was still not entirely dry. I scraped harder and only succeeded in breaking my poor rose. I again tried to remove the wax with my hands, burning my fingers.

By then, WooFest itself was getting ready to start. The lights were dimming and second floor was beginning their performance. After watching it, I turned back to my wax delimma with limited success.

I spent the rest of the evening, in between watching the different acts, picking wax off my leg and shoe. Some of it I couldn’t get off, and I later endured a painful shower to remove all the wax that dried and was firmly attached to my calf.

Other than that, it was quite a fun evening. Now I know what it feels like to be set on fire, only the whole thing happened because I often forget to look where I’m going.

Puzzle

Despite being fully capable of performing such academic tasks as writing an in-depth literary analysis in Spanish, I was almost run over by a car in a parking lot because I got excited about my new Post-it note tabs. I didn’t even see it coming because of my all-consuming enthusiasm for office supplies. This worries me.

Whether I’m forgetting to turn off appliances or completely missing your point because you said something minor that caught my attention, I have become increasingly aware that while I do well in school, practical, everyday life is difficult for me.

Even the simple things, like remembering to watch where I’m going and not step on a lit candle, covering my foot, ankle, and shoes in hot dripping wax, take lots of effort for me to remember.

It’s quite confusing, really. On the one hand, I remember how to perform gel electrophoresis on sample DNA, determining its mutations and genetic code, yet I got the question wrong about what happens to sugar when you put it in water.

This has been a common theme throughout my life—I’m wondering why everyday mundane tasks become nearly insurmountable obstacles for me. I have to try so. hard. to remember to pay attention to where I’m going so I don’t run into people or things, or so I don’t get run over. To remember to look for things in obvious places first, so I don’t spend all day trying to find what’s been right in front of me all along.

But I want to be one of those people that can do daily things, one who remembers little details and doesn’t get so caught up in unusual tasks, such as my ongoing battle with a yarn sculpture/mass, that it seems a wonder she can get dressed in the mornings.

Me vs. Scrug

So, it started out simply enough: another new hobby.

The only consistent non-academic interests I have are: running, piano, ukulele, guitar and swing dancing, which I consider more than mere hobbies, but as integral parts of who I am, of my creative identity.

Anyway. My other hobbies change constantly, with no discernible pattern. One day, I decided I simply must be good at planning parties. Ashley and I had decided to have a Pumpkin Patch Party, and I was going to pour my heart and soul into making it unforgettable. Two weeks later, after the party, I had another hobby: our secret writing project, which is still in process.

But off and on, knitting comes into my life. Things were off to a great start: After my friend knitted me a scarf, I decided that knitting would be my new hobby. It looked fun. Which it is. But I’m terrible at it.

I went to Michael’s, where I bought a book about How to Knit. I bought a couple different-sized knitting needles. I bought yarn, which I now recognize as terrible quality. I was all set.

I went home and I read the book. My friend showed me how to knit. I told her I was making a small rug. I knitted fervently. I knitted furiously. I sat myself down and I just knitted and knitted. Pretty soon, I had what looked suspiciously like a scarf.

“I thought you were making a rug?” My mom asked me.

I looked at my deformed scarf, which looked appropriate for someone with the neck of a giraffe, only three times as wide.

I wanted my knitting to be functional, but no. So I started over.

I knitted off and on. Went to Vanguard. Brought my knitting. Freshman year, it turned into an outrageously disproportionate rug, which I tried hurriedly to fix.

Sophomore year came, and I now had a neither a scarf nor a rug nor a scrug. What I held in my hands, the product of several years’ labor, was . . .

A giant mass of yarn. Twisted. Knotted. Hideous. Incapable of practical purpose. A green yarn mass, a blob.

That’s all it was. Heartbroken, I unraveled the whole thing. By this time, I got Ashley to show me how, and she looked at my yarn in despair, shaking her head.

“Chelsea, what have you done?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to knit. I want to be someone who can knit.” I told her as I held the yarn mass at arm’s length, as if it might come alive to bite me any second.

She took the knitting from me, unraveled it, and started it over.

“Here. Try again.”

So, a year later, it still looks completely unrecognizable as a scrug or anything functional, but my goodness, I’m going to get it right one of these days.

I’m sure of it. It shouldn't take someone five years to knit a simple scarf and/or rug!

Autumn > Winter, Summer, and Spring

I've begun using mathematical equations to describe my feelings.

Even though autumn here isn't the best geographically speaking, it will always be my favorite season.

For me, this autumn is great because:

Guitar + Piano + Ukulele = Happiness

NaNoWriMo is going well, and my birthday is coming up!

I've been going to a lot of Goodbye Luna concerts.

Swing dancing!

My schedule for next semester is perfect.

Ashley and I have a special writing project going.

I love my jr high group.



God is so good to me. And so very faithful.

Creative Writing Blog

So, I made a different blog just for creative writing. It's exciting, really.

rewrittenword.tumblr.com

:o)

I'm Sorry, but I Don't Have Elbows, Either

This person clearly has kneecaps*

“I don’t even have any kneecaps, so I really need you to give me $150.”

“Oh. Um . . .” The woman at Starbucks got uncomfortably close to me. Like an inch away from my face.

“I thought, since I saw you wearing that cross necklace, you would help me.” She was walking surprisingly well for someone without kneecaps.

“Well . . .” What could I do? I wasn’t about to give her money, but not because I am heartlessly cruel. This woman needed something else more than she needed my money for allegedly nonexistent kneecaps.

I looked down at my green cross necklace. It was my favorite, and it had gotten me into this. I was also in a hurry, as I was supposed to be meeting someone.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I don’t have $150. If you want to, we can pray together. Do you know Jes—”

“—Yes, we will pray together.” She interrupts me quickly. “If I’ve ever done anything wrong, I’m sorry for it.” Grabbing me by the hand, the woman led me to the bench beside Starbucks, where I prayed softly over her.

[It was far more awkward than practicing my Spanish by having accurate yet agonizingly slow conversations with native speakers, where it takes me a million years to say one paragraph because I am so fearful of incorrect verb conjugation. Yes, I am even a stickler for Spanish grammar.]

Immediately afterward, the woman invaded another customer’s personal space with talk of her missing kneecaps, her commanding presence startling the unsuspecting man. So it may not have been profoundly life-changing, but perhaps something stuck. Who knows? This woman has been in my prayers.


*Photocred:http://www.indiamart.com/company/1488707/rehabilitation-aids.html

Just a Little Higher . . . 2,425 Feet Higher, to be Exact

I rarely post serious personal experiences, since those seem more like they belong in a journal rather than a blog. However, below is what happened to me at camp. Skip this post if you want to read higher-quality writing.

Do you know what it took to make me a different person?

Did a life-changing mountaintop summer camp experience come strictly through opening my mosquito-bitten arms to a few hundred children?

No.

Through learning to be a lumberjack? Tree chopping, wood chipping, yelling “Timber!”, or laying a phone line?

No.

It came through the days when no children were at camp, through hours of sitting on a stump amidst a broken pile of trees with nothing but God and His Word. Flipping through pages with dry hands, reading them with wet, weary eyes, and pouring out my heart—straight from chapped lips to an Almighty God.
And it came through having Him answer me. He answered me from a point beyond confession, when my English-major mind could think of no more words.

Change comes from asking God to do whatever it takes, whatever He needs to, to make you into the person He wants you to be.

At camp, I did many things I’m too intimidated to do, like jump off a 40 foot ledge attached to a tree on a zip line. Like going swimming 2,425 feet in the air in the pools of a waterfall in Yosemite. Like being a stand-in mother to several girls a week, 24 hours a day, getting up at 5:30 a.m. and cleaning for hours on end.

I listened to people’s life stories and hold their secrets. I listened to the kinds of things that no one would ever admit, except to an understanding listener with whom they are watching the stars until 4 in the morning. People will say a lot of things when you’re alone with them on top of a mountain.
In return, I told people some of my secrets.

Even here at school this year, I'm doing stuff that would normally scare me, like being president of things and speaking to groups of people.

There is nothing more freeing than doing things you’ve never done before--maybe things that scare you to death--if God is with you.

Oleoresin Capsicum, Elvis, and Me . . . Let’s Make Human Noises

It was a gorgeous day as usual. Sun shining, grass green, the whole bit. The focal point of the mountain, camp, was in full swing. Children and staff were busily making two-to-several zillion string lanyards, hands becoming dry from the effort of tightening. Processed, sugary goods were purchased from the gift store; a game of David and Goliath was in its early stages on the field. Others were testing their climbing abilities at the Rock Wall (Rocky), playing Sharks and Minnows in the pool, or asking their counselor to play her ukulele. A typical afternoon at Timber Mountain.

Almost simultaneously, all were stricken with extreme coughing. The watering in my eyes was insufficient to cool the burning as I wheezed and agonized, the A-frame my only refuge. Upon entering it, I discovered very quickly that this was the closest place to the agitation’s source. I needed to be as far away as possible, so I stumbled in the opposite direction as fast as I could.

“What’s (cough) happening? What is it?” Campers asked, flocking to the staff, which had camp omniscience.

“Don’t worry, it’s only the (cough) insulation,” we told the children.

“Insulation?”

“Yeah (cough). They have (cough, wheeze) to insulate (cough) the new addition to (cough, cry, feel like dying) the Boys Staff cabin.”

“Oh.” Cough. “Okay.”

“Just go (cough) along and (COUGH! COUGH!) play now,” I said.

I, along with the kids, sought a place to breathe again. But unlike these unsuspecting campers, I knew that this was no insulation problem.

It was Elvis.

“Elvis” is the name camp uses to refer to bears so as not to upset the children. Elvis had entered the building and was poking around the trash, then spent time hanging out around the BB gun area and archery. So “just a very little bit” of pepper spray was used to ward off the bear (read: bears, plural. Mama, baby, and teenager bear). It didn't work really . . . at all, but it made me want to leave the area.
It reminded me of Yosemite’s warning: “Actively discourage wildlife from approaching you.” Hmmm. Elvis, I don’t think you should do it. It’s really not in your best interest to come near me . . . it’s too nice outside, I’m busy right now . . . not a good idea. Not really in the mood to be approached.

When facing a bear, you should make yourself appear as large as possible and make human noises. For me, this means holding my arms out as far as they will go while yelling, “I am making human noises. I am a human, and I am making noises. Human noises, in fact. Got that, Elvis? HUMAN. NOISES.”

And we were all safe. I hope that is the only time I encounter "a little bit" of Oleoresin Capsicum.

It’s Never “Just an Eraser”

Upon examining past writings, I found this from my freshman year at Vanguard:

“The principle of functional fixedness was brought to my attention a few days ago. It states that people can become so hung up on the intended purpose of an object or situation that they fail to realize how else they can avail themselves of it. For example, my class was told to look at an eraser and come up with alternative uses for it. These uses included hollowing it out and using it as an ipod case, as a doorstop, etc. While some were odd, such as a makeup applicator, or impractical, such as a toothbrush, the point of getting out of our comfort zones and being resourceful was well-taken. It was not "just an eraser"; not quite in the same way that it is never "just the wind", but not an eraser in that things are not always as you first perceive them. With a little effort and thought and perhaps more time, new uses can be discovered for almost any situation or circumstance. So, don't despair--it's never 'just an eraser.' It's always something more.”

I often have the problem of not seeing what’s directly in front of me. Of missing the most obvious solutions.

So . . . maybe I should start viewing everything in my life as more than an eraser: feeling stressed about school? It’s more than an eraser! When I look at where I am now and where I want to be in a few years, I begin to wonder how the gap will ever be bridged and think . . . it’s more than an eraser! When I look at who I was 3 months ago and who I am now and I can scarcely see the resemblance---definitely not just an eraser.

And so God comforts me, putting me at peace once more.

I'll post about my camp summer soon: stay tuned, my 3-ish readers! :o)

A Harbor, a Safe Place, or . . . a Landing Zone for Chalk or Limestone?

That's me. If you want chalk or limestone, apparently I'm the one to talk to. It's my name. In the Ancient Near East, in biblical times, names were often taken as a prediction or as accurate descriptions of their owners. "Isaac" is a pun on laughter, "Jabez" meant pain, and "Esau" meant something like red and/or hairy, which he was. Your name used to say so much more about you than it does today. Naming a boy "Mark" does not necessarily mean that he will be "rebellious" any more than naming a girl "Brianna" will mean she is "strong."

But still. What if people tried to be like their names? Mine intrigues me. I want to be a harbor, a safe place. I want people to feel like they are safe with me, that they can trust me. They really can.

When people have been sailing a long time and they feel exhausted, suspicious, torn and jaded by the endless sea, I could be someone they can talk to, a place where their dreams, fears, hopes, motives and insecurities can rest in a harbor. Of course, Christ is the only true harbor and safe place, but I want to be a dependable person nonetheless. Metaphorical ships are safe with me, I assure you. I don't know much about real ships or actual, physical harbors, so my name doesn't work literally. However, I am not threatening or dangerous. I don't really want to emulate a landing zone for chalk or limestone, but I have been using chalk on a somewhat regular basis this summer.

So: what does your name mean, and do you want to embody that definition? Does your name describe you? Do you want it to?

"Like a Ukulele . . ."

Somewhere between wanting to learn to play another instrument and listening to beautiful ukulele duets by Chad and Shelley, I got a ukulele of my very own. After tuning it with the use of a helpful tuner and printing out a chord chart to guide me, I was ready to play. And due to already having learned to read music from piano, I knew where to find every note on that lovely ukulele.

After having played for an hour a day for about two days now, I feel as though I am getting somewhere. Kind of. I mean, I'd imagined myself playing the pleasant, cheery, four-stringed sounds that make you feel vacation-relaxed for my family and friends, with somebody who can sing doing that, this whole scenario. But I haven't really figured out how to play chords yet. I'm in no rush though, just enjoying myself as I try to figure it out. I'm hoping to actually get good at this over the, well, don't think I'll be able to play it over summer so, over the autumn and winter and spring, then.

I'm actually glad the situation has improved, because here's how it really started: I got my ukulele over finals week and it sounded terrible. At first I thought it was me, but then I remembered how Chad let me play his for a little bit and it certainly didn't sound like it did now, which was worse than the sound of a cat being put in a blender, taken out and placed in a washing machine with an irate and frightened guinea pig. It was bad. I wanted to apologize to anyone who happened to pass by my room, or anyone out in our hallway forced to listen to a determined girl who didn't fully understand her ukulele insisting on playing it anyway.

So I got an idea: Perhaps it is not tuned. I kept turning the knobs the wrong way and getting mixed up so, afraid of breaking it, I found a music major who tuned it for me. But it still sounded awful. Thus, a few weeks later, I walked into Guitar Center in search of help.

"This your ukulele?" The kind, curly-haired guy asked. "What do you need?"

"Well, it sounds awful. I think it needs to be tuned."

"Do you know how to tune it?"

"Um . . .no, actually. I just got it and--"

"Well, no problem!" he said. "You can watch me tune it and listen to how it sounds, and you can buy a tuner that does it for you. Follow me."

As I followed him, I walked past a GORGEOUS Yamaha keyboard, with 88 keys and . . . got distracted. Trying to stop myself from drooling over it, I tried to focus on the ukulele situation.

"Makala?" The guy looks impressed as he takes the uke out of its box. "This is really good quality." He tunes it and begins to play. It is mesmerizing.

I am surprised it is super-good quality, since it was not as expensive as you'd think.

"It'll just probably take a little while for the strings to stretch, since they're plastic. But the tuner will turn green when it's right, so you're good to go."

"Thanks so much!" I purchased a tuner and, after another longing, lustful glance at that Yamaha full-size keyboard with a performance stand, USB capability . . . I left the store.

Now, I can play a ukulele that is fully tuned and I aspire to play as hypnotically as that one guy.

P.S. Plus, I love how portable it is. This two pound-ish instrument can go with me practically anywhere, whereas my digital piano (not a keyboard) is more cumbersome. The saying is true: "Without music, life would Bb."

I Don’t Know What You’d Do, But I’d Rob a Bank: How Grocery Store Criminals, Satanists, and Train Stations Will Teach You Spanish

Have you ever had an inexplicable yet persistent urge to learn Spanish? Me too. And while I thoroughly enjoy my first Spanish class at Vanguard, the soap opera/Sesame Street hybrid makes less than no sense. It’s like a soap opera because the plots are inappropriate for children, but Sesame Street because of the instructional quality. I like watching the episodes—they crack me up. However, the plots are illogical and, in one case, eerily prophetic.

At the beginning of each episode, an Introduction Woman gives a little speech without ever revealing her name, although she asks us how we, the collective and interested students, are. She doesn’t really care about us though. All her movements and gestures are robotic, not unlike those of an under-oiled Tin Man.

Plant a Tree, Write a Book, Have a Child. Um, okay. In one episode, this couple finds out their son is coming to visit, and that the son will have trouble parking his potentially expensive car due to blockage from a skinny tree in the driveway. The father spends the entire week getting rid of the tree while being ridiculed by a balding, insensitive neighbor. The father even tries to cut it with a tiny saw that looks as if it would be hard pressed to cut butter. I could probably saw away at my own arm for days without ever needing a band-aid. At the end of the week, it is revealed that the son isn’t coming. Aw. All that tree-cutting for nothing. So the father goes and plants another tree. Wow. That episode was the most coherent.

In another, a man performs satanic rituals to conjure up the devil in the middle of a street at night. Because that’s very safe, apparently the best place for demonic activity: amidst the possibility of traffic. He has candles, a chalk pentagram, the whole bit. The devil comes and asks him if he needs money, which he does. One of the devil’s eyes is blue and the other is brown and large, creating a chilling effect. The devil puts on a ski mask and throws a gun and ski mask at the man who summoned him. Immediately, the two do the only logical thing after you’ve summoned the devil: rob a bank. After the robbery, the devil departs with the man’s soul and a few drops of blood on a contract, and the man goes to a dusty, celery-colored house, where his family watches the news. On the news, footage from the bank robbery is shown, and the man can see his own face, which has the devil’s eyes. I definitely have a firmer grasp of the Spanish language now. I mean, who doesn’t use phrases like “conjuring up spirits” and “your soul is mine” in everyday conversation?

In “Adios, Mamá”, a poor unsuspecting grocery shopper is confronted by a woman insisting she is his mom. Actually, she tells him he looks like her dead son and asks him to call her mom. After initial confusion, he agrees. She leaves the store and he approaches the checkout only to discover she has stolen her items and he has been charged for them. I guess you can’t trust everybody.

In the first episode, “Momentos de Estación”, the Introduction Woman delivered an extremely creepy introduction, if you know anything about my life. It corresponded more to my life than it did to the actual episode, which had a nondescript young man approaching a woman selling train tickets, proclaiming his love for her. After her surprised reaction, he informs her that he has saved nearly 400 tickets that she sold him. This traveling man is a bit suspicious to me, but the woman asks, “What do you want from me?” A dramatic pause results in the man declaring, “I want to dance."

“I can’t dance, I’m at work.” The woman looks apprehensively at the line of people forming behind her redheaded, train-loving admirer. They end up dancing romantically moments later, just before you realize the whole thing was a dream. Of course. The real story ends with the man hesitantly approaching the woman. Also, a twenty-something shares a kiss with a woman who looks suspiciously like his grandmother after she tells him she hasn’t kissed since her husband died. Ew.

Coming up: a drought, avenging the death of one’s father, a mysterious man in an elevator, someone trying to freeze himself in a sci-fi manner, a soccer demon (what?), and amnesia. Spanish never fails to entertain me.

That Swooshy Feeling

Something has happened to me, something both unexpected and unfamiliar: I own a dress. It's not even green and I . . . like . . . it. It's hanging in my closet ominously, easily distinguished from my other clothes, my non-dresses. But I like it.

To fully comprehend the time-stopping magnitude of this situation, one must understand that I never wear dresses. I mean, I wear them when society demands it of me, but I complain the whole time. I don't really have a concrete reason why, but I suppose I thought dresses were annoying. Dresses don't have pockets. When you wear a dress, you have to sit a certain way so as not to be immodest. When you wear a dress, you have to wear appropriate shoes. Previously, I wore strictly pants, mostly jeans. I honestly don't pay much attention to clothes (to my roommate's dismay). If it's clean and unwrinkled when I wake up in the morning, I will wear it without a fuss. I have no strongly held opinions about my wardrobe.

Why do dresses have this sudden appeal? Is it possible that, deep inside me, I have harbored a latent attraction to dresses and only realized it now? If I like dresses, it could mean there are a lot of things I formerly dismissed but will enjoy in the future. Oh my goodness. What's next? Will I soon be wearing makeup every single day, or get the urge to spend longer than ten minutes on my hair? I usually don't. It probably shows.

It is a common belief that people are confusing. I generally reserve that adjective for people other than myself and for inanimate objects I don't understand. Yet here I am, unable to make sense of my own thoughts and motives. Next time you see me, I may be wearing a dress. Don't ask me why.

All That Glitters Is . . . Edward Cullen? Seriously?

I am so tired of hearing about the ubiquitous saga of mythological creatures! Junior highers love Edward Cullen. So do a lot of girls at Vanguard, apparently. Honestly, what is so thrilling about this precious Edward? I've read the first two books and then stopped due to my low regard for the series as quality literature. I may be one of the only girls to hold this opinion, but I hold it proudly: Edward is not the type of guy that I find desirable. From what I can tell, girls seem to like him based on his 1) incredible good looks, 2) unwavering devotion, and 3) he, umm . . . glitters?

1)Incredible good looks, hmmm? Everybody loves to look at pretty things and beautiful people. That much is obvious. Something within us responds deeply to beauty--look at how many pictures and paintings of sunsets there are. People like things to be gorgeous and they like shiny things. We just do. Edward Cullen, however, is portrayed as suspiciously and unrealistically good-looking, supposedly having the proverbial "perfect" body, "perfect" voice, hair, whatever. But see the problem? The sickeningly perfect is nearly impossible to relate to. It's true. Have you ever tried to relate to a sunset? I would have a hard time trusting somebody who was totally perfect. It's weird. Unnatural. Some girls go so far as to say that a "real" man looks like Edward Cullen. Now, that makes me angry. I mean, yes, like most people, I might consider some guys to be better looking than others. I'd be lying if I said well-built upper bodies were not attractive. But that is completely irrelevant to the concept of a "real" man, and that is why I get angry at girls who think it essential.

What is a "real" man? A real man (oh, misguided Twilight fans) is a man that loves the Lord more than anything, and puts God and His will above everything else in his life. A real man is nothing more, nothing less. Let's look at two broad, general stereotypes for the sake of my point. Yep, both broad and general. And vague. There could be this Edward Cullen-ish guy you know. Maybe he goes to your school. He is most likely talented at sports or lifts weights really impressively. And he goes out with all kinds of pretty girls. You might know another guy, who does not look like Edward Cullen. Perhaps he is scrawny, rather nerdy, and clumsy. Everybody probably makes fun of him constantly. But let's say that this guy really loves the Lord. With all his heart. And maybe he has never been on a date, and maybe he wants to wait for the girl God has picked to be his wife. You know what? That guy is a "real" man. He is much more of a man than the first stereotype will ever be. Much more of a man than Edward Cullen. Well, he's a vampire, not a man, but still. And he does wait for Bella. Hmmm. I find a lot of this first reason for Edward's wonderfulness a bit contradictory. Girls are always getting mad at guys for looking at heavily made-up women with perfect bodies, yet I hear girls saying they wish their boyfriends could look/be more like Edward, who is cold and pale and sparkly (gag me). So really, how can girls expect guys to try to be wholesome and not only look at a girl's appearance when these same girls can't stop telling them to be like Edward? If I had a boyfriend, you know what I would tell him? I would tell him to not be like Edward. I would tell him to fall more passionately in love with God than he ever could with me. To be like Jesus. That is rare. I'd respect him enough not to throw some fictional fantasy in his face. I don't get why girls do that. When guys go on about girls with a perfect body, I feel like I am not good enough. I think of the ways in which I differ from that notion. So maybe guys feel bad when girls go on about Edward Cullen. Maybe some Twilight fans don't think of that.

2) Unwavering devotion. Yes, Edward seems to love Bella more than his own life. A perfectly admirable quality, in one sense. I mean, relationships fall apart all the time because of people going around and having affairs--you can't turn on the news without hearing about Tiger Woods. God intended couples to be faithful to one another: till death means till death. God hates divorce. That is not where obsessing over Edward Cullen could be a problem. The problem is when that wonderful loyalty expands into an expectation of complete emotional fulfillment. I mean, look at what happens when Edward leaves: Bella's life is practically over. She cannot function properly. She gets no joy out of her existence, mopes around all the time, and is just generally unpleasant. Personally, that is how I would feel if I didn't have God, not a person. I don't have a boyfriend, and I don't feel empty or lonely or achy. I feel peaceful. I do like somebody, but I understand that God holds my life, so I don't need to worry about how it will go. When people don't find their security in God, or feel like it, they look for it in each other because that's their only other choice. (Well, some people look for it in things like money, but that's not the point). This is what some Twilight fans do not seem to understand. It is perfectly natural to want to be cared for and adored and thought of as the most beautiful and special girl in the world. Every girl wants a guy to think of her like that. But if God isn't your constant source of . . . everything, you will put that burden on someone else. People let us down, even Edward Cullen. But God never does. You can't expect a human being to be everything you need, because what happens when they fail? You feel let down, perhaps crushed.

If Bella loved God, when Edward left, she would've realized that she should let God pick her husband. But that's less dramatic. We like drama in our fiction but not in our reality. Instead of wanting some guy to love me more than anything, I want him to love God most. Because I can't be everything to somebody, I'm just this girl. If someone expected me to be his everything, I'd feel terrible. Because I'm not. I love God and I love people. But sometimes I worry over silly things and talk too much and get distracted and interrupt people. And write really long, rambling blogs. I'm not perfect. I realize all of the above is quite easy to type and to know but more difficult to feel and live out. But it's true.

3) Glitter. "No comment" is, in fact, a comment. So, "no comment."

Edward Cullen might be fun to read about to all these girls, but let's leave him where he belongs after we close the books: he is as fictional as he is appealing. Fictional people may be fun to dream about, but God makes "real" men. Who aren't flecked with shiny little sparkles.

Zombies Make Everything Better

I think that I'm the only girl I know who has read Pride and Prejudice and, although it is a humorous, well-written classic of British literature, found it a bit dull. I hear several girls fancy themselves in love with Mr. Darcy. I don't understand what is so attractive about him--I find him just as annoying as he is fictional (I will probably make some enemies with that opinion). His pretentious attitude, "wavy chestnut hair" and general personality incite irritating rather than favorable emotions in me. While meandering around Barnes and Noble one day, I discovered a book called Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. "Now, this is more like it," I said to myself. "Maybe the addition of zombies will make the book more intriguing." I received it later for Christmas, and . . .

I was right. I have been reading this book virtually nonstop before Emily got here and after she left, and I am almost finished with it. It is hilarious. I especially enjoy the part where Charlotte is transforming into a zombie and nobody notices but Elizabeth. I cried, delirious with laughter, my body shaking in mirth as my parents knocked on my door and asked if I was all right in there and could I please calm down, they were trying to watch a movie.

I am one of those people who say they like all kinds of books. But what I really mean when I say that is I will read almost any genre of literature, but I only really like some. A lot of people don't read books that they don't like, but I do, just in case they turn out to be amazing. I don't want to miss out. I am perpetually reading Russian literature, as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky are my favorite authors, but I make sure that the other 5ish books I read at a time are of different kinds, from those gloriously entertaining Redwall books to classics to Agatha Christie mysteries to Discworld. I learned that Redwall has been on the bestseller list for years or something. How have I not heard of it before?! Brave little mice and woodland creatures, talking and battling and escaping and planning and climbing like they do, being all courageous and not giving up and supporting each other and such . . . each page I turn brings a smile to my face. And my mom got me hooked on Agatha Christie mysteries; I am particularly fond of Poirot and his arrogant brilliance. Discworld is probably the best satire series, eerily similar to and at least as good as Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy books, if not funnier.

A lot of my books are really old because I think that, besides having the advantage of being cheaper, old books smell really good. In fact, if there was a perfume or something of "old book smell" I would totally wear it. Actually, probably not. I would just sit there smelling it all day. I would spray it on my new books so that they, too, would give me a better reading experience. People might ask me how I like the book, or what it's about, but I wouldn't be able to tell them because I haven't been reading the book, I've been smelling it. [I don't have a very strong sense of smell, but that doesn't mean I don't feel happy when I smell something good. My roommate has this body spray that smells so good that I want to follow her around for the rest of my life. We will be sitting there in our room doing homework or whatever, and I get tired of sitting still, so I go over and grab her wrist and smell it nonchalantly. I'll borrow it when we go back to school, and maybe people will want to follow me around forever. If you are wearing some sort of body spray/cologne or you are one of those people that naturally smells wonderful, I'll probably try to smell you at some point without you noticing. I don't mean to be creepy, I'll just follow you around, inhaling deeply.]

Despite the fact that it's impossible to read every book ever, I still want to try. At least read lots of Russian literature.

Also, I heard of some book called Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters. Is there no end? What's next? Romeo and Juliet and Killer Bunnies? Their love interrupted--not by feuding families but by evil furry rabbits? Oh, well. Zombies made me like Pride and Prejudice.