Depression: MY Jar of Dirt. Not Yours. Mine. MINE.

*Yes that is a reference to Pirates of the Caribbean. No I am not sorry.*

Those closest to me know that I was fairly recently diagnosed with clinical depression and General Anxiety Disorder. Now those of you not closest to me know too. I mean, that's if it wasn't obvious to you, and I know it sort of has been.

I'm not really here to talk about the self-hatred or the lack of interest or the feeling of drowning in a thick blackness of every horrible thing you've ever done or the way getting out of bed is impossible because it's like you're dragging a huge boulder with you wherever you go. And I'm not particularly interested in discussing the pros and cons of therapy and medication, either. The symptoms and the treatment are things you can learn about elsewhere from people with degrees who have more knowledge and better words.

Basically, I'm ranting, because this is my blog and I'm allowed to do whatever I want, thank-you-very-much.

When I had sunk so low that I was solely using Spark Notes for English class, voluntarily watching ABC Family dramas, and wearing the same clothes four days in row (and I'm not saying there aren't still times when I do all those things-- I have nowhere near recovered), I had essentially lost all hope. I felt like nothing would ever be okay again.

The problem with depression is, it isn't logical. You may be in a terrible situation, when depression is somehow "justified" (ew ew ew), or you may be surrounded by a loving family in a nice upper-middle class house with a steady income and regular access to pizza. Either way, the feelings of hopelessness, of drowning, are so incredibly oppressive that at times you can barely move. And since my depression felt so incredibly illogical, I spent half my time hating myself for feeling "unjustly depressed" and half my time trying to think up a reason as to why I was feeling this way, thinking if I could just get rid of it, maybe it would magically disappear.

Except there was no reason. And I tried talking to friends about it, but that just made things worse.

There are two phrases I am positively ill with hearing.

The first is "It's just your age. Everyone feels like that when they're a teenager. You'll grow out of it." I will vomit all over the next person to say that to me. Do you. Have any. Actual idea. How. Much. Worse. That. Makes. Me. Feel.

Given how popular this attitude is, and the fact that my parents haven't helped me find a "grown-up doctor" yet now that I'm eighteen, I'm surprised anyone diagnosed me and took me seriously at all. It makes me so frustrated when people say that somehow, my age is responsible for my depression.

Depression isn't some sort of sick rite of passage that every teenager goes through like puberty and prom night. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain. It's serious. And treating it like it's not just because a kid is experiencing it shows how much ageism has taken over our society. How can look at a fellow human being who is literally drowning in their own anguish, and because of they are younger just shake your head and mutter "Kids today"? If I was having a depressive episode at thirty, or fifty, would I be melodramatic then?

The second phrase I will absolutely die if I ever have to hear again is this:

"You have no reason to be sad."

I have heard this from a caring nurse, two close relatives, several good friends, and a complete stranger on the Internet.

To anyone who plans on saying this to me in the future:

I KNOW. I AM COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY AWARE THAT I HAVE NO REASON TO BE SAD. I AM CLOTHED AND OVER-FED AND WHITE AND HAVE A JOB THAT PAYS REASONABLY WELL AND MY PARENTS ARE STILL MARRIED AND I HAVE CENTRAL HEAT AND FREE WIFI AND LAUNDRY SERVICES AND A BOYFRIEND AND LOTS OF PEOPLE WHO LOVE ME AND EVEN THOUGH I'M BEHIND IN A COUPLE CLASSES I AM STILL MANAGING A'S AND B'S. I HAVE NO REASON TO BE SAD. I GET IT.

SO WHY AM I STILL SAD??????????????

*panting*

Unless you have a degree in Feelings, or are God, or Dumbledore or something, don't try to explain my feelings to me. If I can't understand them, what makes you think you can? Worry about your own feelings. Give me hugs, not an analysis. U feel me?

On Driving

I recently passed the ever-fearsome Driver's Test. It was a lot like slaying a dragon, except that instead of a sword I had car keys, and instead of a cool wizard mentor I had a test administrator that spoke in a monotone, and there was no dragon and I kind of wished there was because then I wouldn't have had to take the test. While I was thinking in run-on sentence metaphors, I managed to pass by one Very Important Point. So woo-hoo.

If you've known me for any significant length of time, then you probably know that I have an extreme (and pathological) fear of driving. This phobia took root after my first driving class, which consisted of a multiple-choice packet that went over traffic laws and a lot of YouTube videos of very, very bad car crashes. 

It's been about a week-ish since I passed the test, so I think I can be considered something of a driving expert now. And I discovered a lot of lies that my driving instructors told me in that class. 

For example, parallel parking. This is one that I'm pretty sure everyone's aware of. Parallel parking reminds me of parabolas. Both of them are things that you are required to know about, but you will encounter them pretty rarely in your life unless you are in very specific situations. In the case of parabolas, those situations involve Angry Birds and/or being a super smart mathematical genius. With parallel parking, it involves the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you will have in your mid-thirties to take your 2.5 children to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and stand too far away to actually see anything, freezing your butt off in New York's autumnal chill. Suffice it to say that I know people who have been alive since television was in black and white who have never used parallel parking once in their entire careers on the road. 

Another thing I was told was that essentially every time I passed an entrance to a gas station or a grocery store, people were going to zoom out in front of me and cut me off. That has not happened. I know that it can happen. I'm very, very aware of the insane people on the road in Oklahoma. But for the most part, everyone on the road has been very polite and waited for me to go by. I'll admit that I'm still pleasantly surprised every time I go through an intersection or a four-way stop and discover that no one has suddenly made the decision to ram into my car for no reason. 

Also, signaling. Nobody signals except for me and that one old lady who left her signal on for twelve blocks and drove eight miles an hour under the speed limit in front of me on the way to school last Thursday. What is up with that? I mean, come on. Those fancy buttons are part of the reason you paid so much money for that car. What was the point of that if you don't use them? 

One thing I wished I'd been warned about is how easy it is to get lost when you first start out driving. Maybe it's just me, but I've already had to call my parents to bail me out of wrong turns and streets-too-far at least four times. And before anyone tells me to use my GPS, I'll have you know that I got lost because of mine, and yes I put the address in correctly, I think I am perfectly capable of holding up the human end of the bargain when it comes to a GPS, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it Boy Scouts of America. 

Well, I haven't died yet. So there's that.

The Hiatus

In the interlude between the last time I posted anything on this blog or my beautiful baby bird of a YouTube channel and now, my cast has been removed, I'm 3/4 of the way through a summer Biology course at OSU-OKC (please don't stalk me), my sister's room has been repainted, homosexual people finally getting some rights, a murderer received a verdict of not guilty, my broken foot was replaced by the worst sunburn in the history of History, I still don't have my driver's license, Egypt is having a revolution, and John Green had another kid.

Well, jeez, guys, I turned around for two seconds, let's tone this party down before the neighbors file a complaint with the police. Also, use coasters, that is mahogany.

And guess what? I am a mind reader. I know exactly what you're thinking. Part of you is concentrating on not spilling any of whatever snack you're eating while you're reading this on the gadget of your choice, another part of you is squinting and going "Nah, she can't read my mind... wait, can she? I think she's doing it right now. Oh crap. What if she knows about that one time..." (yes, I do, and yes, that was very bad). And there is also a part of you going "What could Sarah have possibly been doing for two and a half months that was so important she forgot all about us?"

Well, to answer your question, I did not forget all about you. In fact for a while there I felt incredibly guilty, as my hiatus went from two weeks to two months. That really was not the plan.

The thing is, Mommy's been taking a break, but that doesn't mean she loves you any less.

My thought process was something along these lines: I just... didn't feel the need to post every second of my life for a while. And I haven't really had too much to say. On the one hand, yeah, I probably could have done some witty Doctor Who-related post or criticized the latest horrible decision made by the U.S. government, but I just didn't. And who honestly cares about my biology professor and his long tangents about how back when he was a kid there was no television and the job he had when he was fifteen, and how by the end of the year I'll probably know the names of his three daughters and his two step-children? I could rant about it, and probably do it in an eloquent and funny way, but so what?

Basically, I experienced a bit of creative nihilism. But I'm better now.

I've stolen a lot of advice from a lot of creatives who are both smarter and better at what they do than me, but I think the best advice I've gotten came from this video by Ze Frank.

If you watched it, you're probably in shock because of the awesomeness of what he said. If you didn't, I'm annoyed with you, but whatever, I'll just point out the part that I need to point out so we can all just move on with our lives.

Basically, toward the end of the video, Ze Frank said something that still kind of blows my mind a tiny bit: "It's okay to take breaks, but make it your choice. Don't do it because you're scared or lazy or think there's some other path to it. If you want to write, write." That statement, I think, identifies my mistake, because I feel like a bit of my creative nihilism-- okay, maybe more than just a bit-- was rooted in being scared.

Originally, I did choose to take a break from writing for a couple weeks to focus on studying for the ACT (which helped me earn an overall score of 27, put that in your pipe and smoke it), and I feel like it was a good decision. The problem was getting started back up again.

I'm fairly certain that, as different as writers and their styles can be, the one thing that unites us as a group is that we absolutely hate rereading our old work. It falls under cruel and unusual punishment. Water boarding is more humane than making me reread a file I have saved from 2009. Heck, rereading something I wrote last month can even be painful. And I'm pretty sure that's a contributing factor to why 3/4 of writing is re-writing.

But I feel like that other 25% doesn't just involve writing. It involves all the different voices in your head that don't necessarily come from you, pointing out your mistakes and telling you that your work sucks and no one will like it, and the different ways people have of drowning out those voices. Drowning out the voices is half the battle, because they can keep you from creating anything at all, and they can make the editing process more complicated than it needs to be.

So I've got these voices, and they're telling me "Who cares about your dumb biology class and the horrible sunburn you got on vacation or the story that you're writing about those kids who do that thing or the videos you were planning to make about what you do when you're home alone and the huge library of embarrassing and funny stories from your childhood and the things that annoy you?"

I'm just sort of irked that it took me a two-month Internet hiatus tantamount to "finding myself in Tibet" to realize that I'm actually the one that cares, and that's good enough.

An Open Letter to Facebook

Dear Facebook,

In the beginning, I thought we were friends. I turned thirteen in 2009, when you were slowly but surely out-cooling MySpace. Honestly, I enjoyed the first year. I spent hours in front of the computer liking pages, reading posts, arranging Pieces of Flair to express my enthusiasm for various television shows, and taking all of your ridiculous quizzes.

Here's the thing-- now, I kinda hate you.

I don't know at least a third of the people on my friend's list. Another third of my friend's list consists of people that I do not like anymore. And of the third that are people that I both know and marginally tolerate, most of those people are related to me. I could easily unfriend all the people I find undesirable, or make a new profile, but here's the thing: I have neither the time, nor the patience to do this. I do not want to sit in front of my computer for hours unfriending people that I do not like, and I certainly don't want to deal with all the unpleasant (to say the least) feelings that would go along with the process. I don't want to make a new profile because, here's a shocker, I DO NOT ENJOY YOUR WEBSITE, so why on Earth would I decide to further support it by creating an entirely new profile that shows exactly the same information as my current one?

Think of it this way. This is sort of like when you go into a public restroom, and you go into a stall, and you see that someone hasn't flushed the toilet. Unless you really, really need to pee, you're just gonna leave and use a different stall. The reason is because there's so much crap already in the toilet that it'd be easier and less gross to go to a different stall. Or maybe hold it in and wait until you get home, because public restrooms are disgusting. I've gotten to the point, Facebook, where all the crap on my page seems like it belongs to a completely different person, and the path of least resistance right now is to just let it alone.

I don't like dealing with the so-called "political activists" on your website, either. I've discovered that most of them don't actually know what they're talking about, and the few that do are shot down for being Liberals. Of course, over time I realized that nothing good comes out of showing these ridiculous people that they actually know nothing about politics beyond their capacity to come up with not-so-witty and offensive slogans to plaster all over their walls. However, I look at these people like the awful school photo of me that my grandmother insists on keeping up in her living room: It might've been all right to start with, but there comes a point when you just don't want to look at that anymore.

I don't like the way you post memes eons after they stopped being cool. I'm really tired of seeing photos of various female celebrities being criticized for the way they dress. (Taylor Swift wore sweatpants today. Like wow. I wear sweatpants all the time. God forbid we have to start treating celebrities like humans.) And by the way, the Rotten E-card edits? They're not witty anymore. Now they're just bitter.

I don't like the constant Christian posts I'm barraged with on your website. As a Christian myself, I find the idea that God would send me to hell for not commenting on a picture of clouds with a Bible verse overlayed on it in Comic Sans ludicrous at best and offensive at worst. Theologically, liking and commenting on pictures of Jesus with a herd of sheep is about as likely to get me into heaven as reading the Harry Potter books is to make me a witch. Oh wait... that was probably a bad example for you guys.

I hate people my age on your website who feel it's necessary to post vague things in order to get attention. In the past two hours alone, I have seen at least six different girls post things along the lines of, "Well that was awkward lol"  and then failed to specify what, exactly, was awkward.

PLEASE OH PLEASE COULD YOU MAYBE POSSIBLY BE A BIT MORE VAGUE I THINK THERE ARE A COUPLE PEOPLE LIVING IN SUB-SAHARAN AFRICA THAT THIS DOESN'T APPLY TO.

And while we're on the subject, I would like to say how much I positively loath with every fiber of my being the girls who constantly share photos or type posts that read as follows:

DO YOU WANT AN AWARD OR SOMETHING?

I suppose I really could go on forever. Suffice it to say, Facebook, that if we were in a relationship, my status would go from "In a relationship" to "It's complicated". Hopefully in a few years I'll be able to kick you off my computer altogether.

Best Wishes,
Sarah xx

PROM!

Many people are aware that I went to prom this weekend. Thankfully, it was nothing like a Stephen King novel.

(I WILL MILK THE CARRIE REFERENCES FOR ALL THEY'RE WORTH AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.)

Let me be clear: This was my first school dance since the eighth grade spring formal, when I wore sneakers and a hoodie with my dress, only danced to the Cha Cha Slide, and then bought a cookie and sat on the bleachers, and somehow managed to make the cookie last for TWO HOURS. That is how awkward I was in middle school.

For prom, however, it was my intention to go all out, because I really don't have any intentions of going next year, unless a boy magically appears and wants to go with me. And even then, maybe not, because this year was exhausting. Literally. Do not role your eyes. This stuff takes work.

So, I got all my schoolwork done in the morning on Friday, and then spent the afternoon getting ready. Honestly, I probably could have used the entire day, I just chose not to. Guys are lucky. You shower, you shave, you put on your tux, and possibly spray on some Ax or whatever, and then BAM. You're done. 

(Speaking of Ax, I'm allergic to it, and I personally feel that there should be a serving size on the bottle so that you don't use the whole thing and then literally suffocate those around you with the smell. Even if you haven't showered, I don't think an entire bottle is required to mask the B.O. Anyway...)

Girls have more to do. I had to shower, and then repaint my nails so that they would match my dress, and there is always make-up (it usually takes me, like, ten minutes to do eyeliner because I always smear it or poke myself in the eye, which causes my eyes to water and smear my neatly applied eyeliner, etc.). Hair, though, that is always the most complicated issue for me.

I "borrowed" my sister's curling wand and watched five different tutorials that were supposed to explain how to use it. And then I just... tried.

It was something of a disaster. I burned myself multiple times.

I pondered shaving my head and washing my hands of the situation.

After five more video tutorials, plus and e-How article that had, like, twenty steps, I figured it out. And even when I did, it still took me an hour and a half to curl my hair. And my mom still had to help me with the back.

So, after six hours of hard labor, when it was finally time to leave, we went to Johnny Carino's with some friends for dinner. I will add that my friends and I sang the chorus of "Do You Hear the People Sing?" during a lull in restaurant conversation, and got a smattering of confused applause. I was all for jumping on the table and bursting into the solo, but my friends said no.

Keep in mind, the prom I went to was for homeschoolers. So, instead of arriving in a rented limo, we all piled into a fifteen passenger van. And when we arrived, we noticed that everyone else had used similar forms of transportation. Because that's just a homeschool thing.

So we went inside, and the chaperons told us where to get our picture taken, and then we started dancing.

It was extremely awkward.

Painfully awkward.

My dress had pockets, and so I made good use of them for twenty minutes.

I was actually starting to wish someone would get pig blood dumped on them, when I discovered a way to survive. All I had to do was pretend this was Pride and Prejudice. So, I basically spent the whole night pretending I was Lizzie Bennet and my friends were various Bennets and Charlotte Lucas, and we were all at some dance and any minute now a Darcy was going to appear and say that I was "barely tolerable." And it was all good.

Also, they played some Mumford & Sons, and I kind of squee'd 

I will also admit to shamelessly whipping my hair back and forth and singing very, very loudly to "What Makes You Beautiful." Because really, what else can you do to that song? I don't want to like it, but it makes me smile. Like, I'm trying not to smile, but I'm still smiling because stupid song why why are you making me feel these feels?!

So yeah.

Once I was pretending to be Lizzie, things went smoothly. I even did the conga line barefoot!

Which was a terrible idea. Do not join a conga line without wearing shoes, preferably sturdy, closed-toe-closed-heel, easy-to-run-in shoes. Because if you don't, it's very likely that the really nice-smelling guy in front of you will stomp on you foot and kill your big toe, and you will realize how smart you were to bring band-aids. Also, once you have applied your band-aids, do not get back in the conga line. Because you will sprain your ankle, and it will suck.

I did take a thirty minute break in a dark corner, because I was really tired and there were lots of people I just had to breathe for a second. I just sat there playing Temple Run, and when I regained feeling in my legs, I went back to the dance.Yes, even with a sprained ankle and a busted toe. Also, at the end, I found the chocolate fountain, and I was able to nip a macaroon before we left.

Also, I should mention the slow dances. They were the saddest things I've ever seen. Basically, homeschooled guys aren't all the smart, because they don't realize that the best place to get a girl friend is at prom during a slow dance. Every guy there was somebody's boyfriend, and so during the slow dances, all the couples would rush to the dance floor and get their sway on, and all the single girls were forced to retreat to the chairs and take their punch. The single girls corner was pretty full too, and while I was sitting amongst them, I was having a pretty hard time deciding whether I should laugh or cry, because we were the most pathetic little group of people I've ever seen.

Maybe we could start a club.

The She-Girls-Man-Haters Club.

We could have t-shirts.

Anyway, after three days, I'm still mildly sore from all the awkward dancing. Was it worth it? I don't know. I mean, even after going, I'm still having trouble grasping the point of prom. Like, it's supposed to be this rite of passage, this thing that everybody has to do before they graduate, and you're supposed to feel young and invincible, but when I'm on a dance floor, I don't feel young and invincible. I feel stupid and awkward, and nothing like Cinderella, whom I never particularly cared for anyway. I mean, it was cool being with my friends and stuff, but I get more out of just hanging out with them in my pajamas than I get out of swaying to music in a pretty dress with them like I know what I'm doing. 

I dunno. Maybe I'm just weird. 

But I doubt there will be more prom in my future, to be honest.

P.S. Click here to see my new vlog and subscribe to my YouTube channel and stuff and we can be best friends forever and ever and ever!

So I Have To Say Something

Okay. It looks like this blog is turning into a monthly thing. Can we all deal with that? Good.

So.

I have something I need to say, because it has recently become relevant in my life.

I am a seventeen-year-old girl. And I have never once been on a date or been in a romantic relationship. I didn't even pretend to get married on the playground in kindergarten.

I don't usually dwell on it. I mean, while I'm pretty much okay being single, it doesn't exactly do much for your self-esteem to spend any large amount of time sitting there going, "I've never had a boyfriend UGH." But I'm just saying, I've made it perfectly clear in previous posts, and IRL, that it is not my life's goal to get a boyfriend. It'd be nice, but it's not exactly my main focus.

That being said, relationships have come up in a lot of my conversations recently. Particularly conversations with adults. These are adults I love dearly. I know for a fact that they care about me. But I have some beefs with the so-called "advice" or "encouragement" they are always trying to offer. Because honestly, in that respect, I don't feel like I need anyone to hug me and tell me that the perfect guy will eventually show up. Maybe I did at one point. That point may even have been less than a year ago. But not anymore.

One thing I get very often, from people of all ages, is "You aren't missing out." Along with every variation of this statement known to the English language.

Most often, this statement pops up in conversations where the other person brought up the topic of relationships and specifically asked me if I had a boyfriend or was dating. And that is one huge reason why I find it so incredibly patronizing. And while I have never actually said this to anyone, I'm going to take the opportunity to say it now:

Do you remember when you were a little kid, and you'd go to the store and you couldn't see over the counter, and you were always begging your mom or dad to lift you up so you could see what was behind the counter? Or maybe when you first learned to read and saw doors in big office buildings that had signs reading, "Authorized Personnel Only"? Grown-ups were always telling us there wasn't anything interesting in those places. And somewhere in the back of our minds, we were thinking, "It's not interesting to you because you've seen it."

When you eventually grew tall enough to look over the counter or old enough to take a job and become the authorized personnel that could go behind the door, you learned that the grown-ups were right. There really isn't anything interesting in those places. But when you're a little kid, you never know. There could be anything back there! A pile of chocolate bars! A sheet of scratch-and-sniff stickers! Barney! A magical wish-granting unicorn!

The point being, you know in your head that the grown-ups are probably right, but that doesn't stifle your curiosity one bit.

And that's kind of how I feel when people tell me I'm not missing out by not dating.

The second thing I find marginally more annoying and patronizing. And it usually comes from adults that are already married: "Oh, I never dated much in high school either. There's nothing wrong with it."

I know these people mean well and all, but still.

First of all, bear in mind that I. Have. Not. Dated. At all. Ever. In my entire life. Never even come close.

You, kind sir or madam, however well-meaning you are in your advice, have had a small number of high school relationships. Admittedly, relationships that clearly you are not the worse for ending. But still. Even if you only dated one person for half a week in high school, you've dated more than me.

I have mentioned repeatedly that I have no problem being single, but if you're telling me you haven't dated much when I'm telling you I never have, I feel less understood and more like you're ignoring me and shelling out words of wisdom that you've been hanging on to ever since you saw the teen pregnancy rate for the past several years.

On to the second half of that statement: I KNOW there is nothing wrong with not dating much. I know there isn't anything wrong with not having dated at all. I am fully aware. Thank you for agreeing with me. Over. And. Over.

So, in conclusion:

1. Please, please stop giving me this "advice".

2. Next time the topic of relationships comes up, don't assume that I have a low self-esteem because I've never had a boyfriend. I mean, if it is low, that's not the reason. It has more to do with other events in my life unrelated to relationship problems, which I've never had, because I've never had a boyfriend.

3. Don't assume I'm lying when I say I'm okay with never having dated. I don't need you to be my savior and show me the true beauty of my personality or whatever. What's the point of telling girls that they're fine without a boyfriend if you turn around and tell the girls who really are fine with it that they're lying?

Okay. Rant over.

Vlogging Is Hard To Do

So I took some time off from the ol' blog. Sue me. :P

Okay, just kidding, I really did miss blogging. Still, we need to talk.

I've found someone... *ahem* something else: vlogging.

I know I promised ages ago that I'd set up a YouTube channel for your viewing pleasure. Well, I actually did it. For real. And it's fun and all, but it's also really, really hard. I have developed a whole new level of respect for YouTubers now that I've actually gone through the process of filming and editing a video. It takes hours- for some projects, days, or even weeks.

For one thing, there's the part where you actually sit down and film your video. I mean, you'd think you could just come up with a topic, sit yourself down in front of your little video camera, and just go. But it's really not that simple.

First, you have to set up the camera, and if you don't have a tripod (as I didn't until last week when my sister loaned me hers) it takes a while. If you're going to be talking for any length of time, you can't just hold the camera. Your arm would get tired eventually. So, you have to find a substitute for a tripod. In my case, the most convenient option was a large stack of books. It's not particularly steady, but it's better than nothing.

You also want to have some sort of spot where you film in your room. That's part of the set up. Before I found a tripod, my spot was my bed, because it was easy to balance a stack of books on it and I didn't have to have my room too neat and tidy before filming. All I had to do was make my bed. That will change now that I have a tripod that needs to be on a flat surface- like, you know, the floor.

Once you have all that stuff out of the way, you have to actually say stuff.

This part is really hard, because, as everyone knows, it's virtually impossible to act natural in front of a video camera. Even if it was a good idea to sit down and start rambling, it would be really hard for you to do, because the whole time you're thinking:

1) I wonder if people are actually going to watch this.
2) Will they like it? Or hate it?
3) I bet they'll hate it.
4) Ugh, nobody likes me.
5) I have nothing interesting to say.
6) What's for lunch?

This makes it very difficult to concentrate, even if it turns out what you have to say is actually interesting and people do respond to it. Regardless, you will experience some kind of stage fright if you're anything like me: that's an introverted, almost reclusive writer type who prefers books to real human interaction. Because real humans are kind of mean.

Then comes the editing. This part is hard for everybody, but I personally enjoy it, although I'm painfully aware that my Flip video camera and Windows editing software aren't exactly the shiniest toys in the store. Still, it's probably the most fun part for me, although since I talk a lot it's kind of hard for me to condense things to a not-ridiculous length. But I'm getting better, I think.

After that, you have to upload the video, and this is the part that takes a ridiculously long time. Once it's loading, you type in your description, tag it, and select which little icon you want people to see when they click on your video- the one with you looking up at the ceiling, the one with a face that looks like you're sneezing, or that other one where you're scratching your nose. I'm crocheting a scarf during these twenty to thirty minute waiting periods. So far, I'm about a quarter of the way through it, and I've only got eight videos up. That should give you some idea of how much time you have while these things load.

Once it's up, you share it. And hope.

Most people tell their viewers or readers or audience to "Like, comment, and subscribe!" and I didn't do that. I still don't. But maybe I should, because I've only got six subscribers, and they're all people I know IRL except for one.

*sigh*

Ah, well. Rome wasn't built in a day.

Excuses, Excuses

My little sister is thirteen years old. She's always been way more concerned about her appearance than I have with mine. When I was thirteen, I holed up in my room with a book and wore whatever clothes I could find that were inexpensive and would last a while. Make-up was foreign. My sister, on the other hand, has more make-up than any girl I know, and spends quite a lot of time picking her outfits and doing her hair in the mornings. For Christmas, I got a phone and bookshelves; she got a new straightener and curling wand.

Don't get me wrong, I love her. But this is all leading up to something.

She wore a hat to church tonight. Heck, so did I. It's been rainy, and wearing a hat is always less of a hassle than remembering an umbrella. While I was in the high school worship service, my sister hung out with the other seventh graders in the cafe to text, flirt, and drink coffee. Apparently, while she was with her friends, a boy stole her hat multiple times and called her names. Mean names.

To hear her tell it, the adults didn't do much to stop him. My mother, who was there, said she didn't really see anything, and even if she had, since the boy wasn't doing anything that was technically against the rules, there wasn't much she could do.

To her, she said, it looked like he and my sister were goofing off.

(I love my mom too, but this issue is really important to me. And my mom has said she will try to track down the boy, in case anyone is concerned on that score.)

This happens more and more in our society, I've noticed. This assumption that girls are more responsible than boys is not only ridiculous, it is potentially threatening. Any child, boy or girl, is as responsible as their parents and other authority figures teach them to be, and perhaps as their culture teaches them to be.

Guys, if they so choose, are perfectly allowed to stay out as late as they want. They can choose to hang out with friends or go somewhere alone. They wear whatever they want, and nobody calls them names for it.

Girls are advised not to go out at night. Girls must travel anywhere in groups; travelling alone is discouraged. If it's hot outside, and a girl wears a tank top and shorts, she's ridiculed.

In other words, we're taught responsibility. For us, it's a survival skill. By necessity we stay in passed ten, go everywhere (even the bathroom) in packs, and sweat through August in jeans because the alternative is receiving catcalls, wolf-whistles, and other forms of harassment.

My little sister  has told me that she won't be wearing hats for a long time.

She's a thirteen-year-old kid. Hats are one of the few items that aren't on the List of Things Girls Aren't Allowed to Wear. But shouldn't she be allowed to wear whatever she wants in the first place?

Does any of the above seem fair to you? Because I'm not particularly happy with this situation.

We live in a society where girl clothes are made tight-fitting, showing skin is stylish, and even my little sister has a hard time finding shorts that are a suitable length for summer, because my mom refuses to buy the "short-shorts" that are stocked in most stores. Adults say girls should be modest and cautious, and clothing stores make it difficult to do so.

What would happen if we stopped telling girls what they're doing to make boys tease them and started telling boys not to tease girls in the first place?

Think about it: a boy pull a girl's hair in preschool, and the adults will give each other the Look and say, "Boys will be boys." Maybe he doesn't get reprimanded, or if he does it's nothing serious. And then this boy grows up, and he's in middle school, and he calls a girl names and takes her hat, and nobody does anything about it because they think, "Oh, it's just kids goofing around, testing the waters and all." So then he gets to be a grown man, and he's at a party, and he sees a girl, and she says, "No."

This boy's gone through his whole life thinking it's okay to mess with girls. How likely do you think it is that he'll listen to her?

Christmas Traditions

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

So, we have five days left until zero hour, and maybe it's just all of History Channel's specials talking, but I've been thinking about the origins of some of our traditions at Christmastime.

I mean, think about it. Some of them are pretty bizarre. We bring a tree inside our house. We allow a strange fat man to give small children toys, but spend the rest of the year telling them that this is bad. We hang socks up and call it decoration. I mean, it's kind of strange, right?

Okay, maybe not now, but at one point, it was strange.

1. Santa Claus: So, the creep has multiple origins-- Odin, the awesome Norse god who, in some other works of Great Literature, goes by Mr. Wednesday; Sinterklaas, a traditional figure from the Low Countries who rides on a horse and has little helpers with black faces that inform on nice and naughty children; Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of children; and Saint Basil of Caesarea (whose only real similarity is that his feast day, January 1, is a traditional day of gift-giving in Greece).

Sinterklaas in particular is sort of freaky. His main helper is this devil-looking thing called Black Peter that carries a book, sort of like Santa's Naughty and Nice list. Sinterklaas and his pals arrive in Spain by steamboat every year in December (presumably from Africa...) and ride on a white horse over the rooftops, delivering candy to well-behaved children. Naughty children, on the other hand, are put into sacks and beaten with willow rods. Not exactly a story to float little Jimmy and Jenny off to dreamland...

The American version of Santa Claus, like the Yankees, showtunes, insomnia, and the world's biggest Weeping Angel, is native to New York. Clement Clarke Moore composed "A Visit From St. Nicholas" (or "The Night Before Christmas") in 1823. While the poem encourages breaking and entering, it also gives us a description of Santa Claus, as well as his reindeer. In 1863, Thomas Nast gave us an illustration of Santa Claus-- fat, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, dressed in warm furs, and so unquestionably American. Norman Rockwell later standardized Santa's look in the early twentieth century, and the television special Santa Claus is Coming to Town explained to kids about the North Pole, the naughty/nice gig, and the toy making (throwing in the Winter Warlock and the Bergermeister Meisterberger, two of the scariest villains in children's television, if you ask me).

But I think my favorite New York origin has to be Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus, which was actually published in the New York Sun under the title "Is There a Santa Claus?" on September 21, 1897. Eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon asked her father if Santa Claus was real. Her father suggested she write to the Sun. Thank God for men like Francis Church, who was the editor of the newspaper and responded so eloquently to Virginia's letter:

"No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood."

2. Christmas Tree: Why do we bring trees into our houses every year? I mean, it's not to keep them warm or anything. There are probably some hardcore environmentalists out there somewhere who heartily despise this particular tradition of destroying trees en masse for a holiday.

The Encyclopedia Britannica says, "The use of evergreen trees, wreaths, and garlands to symbolize eternal life was a custom of the ancient Egyptians, Chinese, and Hebrews. Tree worship was common among the pagan Europeans and survived their conversion to Christianity in the Scandinavian customs of decorating the house and barn with evergreens at the New Year to scare away the devil and of setting up a tree for the birds during Christmastime." Obviously, though, that's not why we put trees in our homes.

A picture was published in the Illustrated London News in 1848 of Prince Albert, his wife Victoria, and their children around a Christmas tree. The picturesque familial image was popular all over the world. After all, if you removed Albert's mustache and Victoria's fancy tiara, you got an ordinary family around a Christmas tree, which led to this image becoming widely published:

 

 

The above image was the revised family, republished in the American Godley's Lady's Book in 1850. Afterwards, Christmas trees became immensely popular. Of course, the giant tree in Rockafeller Center helps, too.

 

3. Stockings: This tradition does not orginate from Sombertown's endless list of chores. Actually, it goes back to one of the ancient Santa Claus figures. Good little Norse children, when they weren't studying to become Vikings or singing opera in funny hats, celebrated Winter Solstice, which was a big deal for Odin. Children would put their boots by the fire, and then leave out carrots and oats for Odin's horse as he road past. As a thank for feeding his horse, Odin would leave the children candy and fruit in their shoes. We changed it to stockings, probably due to the pesky Clement Clarke Moore poem again.

 

4. Christmas Carols: Obviously, Christmas Carols are written by people. DUH!

 

Here's a few of my favorites:

 

-"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" was originally sung by Judy Garland, the little girl with the big voice, in the musical Meet Me in St. Louis in 1944. It was written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane, and rerecorded by literally every big artist ever since, including Frank Sinatra, John Denver and the Muppets, Michael Buble, Amy Grant, and the wrockstars Gred and Forge. I maintain that it's the best Christmas carol of them all, but that's my lowly opinion.

 



-"Silent Night" is one of the most beloved Christmas carols of all time. The song was first preformed in a small town's even smaller church in Austria on Christmas Eve, 1818. The young priest, Father Joseph Mohr, had written a poem called Stille Nacht two years before, and before the Christmas Eve service Mohr present the poem to the schoolmaster and organist Franz Gruber. He asked Gruber to compose a melody and guitar accompaniment for the song, because Mohr's church had no organ available.

-"White Christmas" was written by Irving Berlin and sung by Bing Crosby, whose baratone voice is like the sound of rich, creamy dark chocolate seeping into your ears... Anyway, it was originally written for the movie Holiday Inn. Initially, it wasn't a hit, but by the autumn of 1942, as we closed in on our one-year mark of fighting in World War II, record sales spiked. It was listed as the world's best-selling single ever in the first Guinness Book of World Records, and maintains that title today, even after fifty years.

-"Here We Come A-waissailing" is another of my favorites. It's a boisterous tune that originated in England around 1850. "Waissailing" is a term that means singing carols and wishing good health. Poor people and children would sing this song as they went from door to door, caroling, and since Christmas has always been a generous time of year, they often got a penny or a bit of food for their songs, or if they were especially lucky, a few moments inside, standing by the fire and warming their hands.

-"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlement" is a traditional English carol that has mildly fascinated me since I was twelve years old, when my uncle explained to me that the comma is often misplaced in the title. Apparently, a common saying in England way back when was "Rest ye merry!" So, rather than "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" which admittedly doesn't make much sense anyway, the comma is correct as shown above. (She said smugly...)

5. Presents!!!!!!

Many people attribute this last to the Magi, who brought gifts to Jesus after his birth. It's an interesting theory, since the gifts the Magi brought were so symbolic-- gold, because He was the King; frankinsense, because He would bring peace; and myrrh, for His ultimate sacrifice. However, I tend to harbor a different idea. God loved us so much that He gave us His son. So, why wouldn't we express our own love with gifts?

Merry Christmas, guys!!

The Shooting

I was in kindergarten when we had our first lockdown drill at Skyview Elementary. My teacher, Mrs. Doenier, explained that lockdown drills were a lot like hide-and-seek, except in this case, being found resulted in getting hurt, not tagged. She showed us where to hide: under her desk, behind the cubbies, even in the closet. It wasn't long after the first lockdown drill of the year that the World Trade Center was attacked. I remember sitting on the rug, staring up at Mrs. Doenier's TV as the towers fell down again and again and again. I remember thinking it was a war movie. It wasn't.

When I got a little older and understood what happened on 9/11, I found myself wondering why somebody would purposely steer an airplane into a building with the intent of killing people. The complete senselessness of the act scared me and brought out my keen, childish sense of injustice. It was then I realized what people meant when they used the word "Terrorism"-- it is an act of violence meant to scare people. When grown-ups get scared, you should be worried.

By that fourth grade definition, what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, was an act of terrorism. Actually, it was more than that. What the shooter did was something so profoundly, despicably, disgustingly evil that I'm not sure even Shakespeare could have invented a word for it. I can never see the point of people going into a school to shoot kids, as with Columbine High School in 1999. But there's something about the fact that it was an elementary school that makes this particularly disturbing.

Online, the names of the twenty-six people that were killed have recently been released.

Twenty of those names belonged to six and seven-year-olds.

Jack Pinto, one of the children killed, was a fan of the New York Giants. Victor Cruz wore the boy's name on his cleats and gloves for his game that weekend.

Olivia Engel, a six-year-old who was killed, was a Daisy Girl Scout.

A little boy named Daniel Barden, who was a victim of the shooting, woke up early and played foosball with his mom that morning. He won. The score was ten to eight.

Jessica Rekos was as horse crazy as my own little sister. She asked Santa for a cowgirl outfit. Her parents had promised to get her a horse when she turned ten.

Noah Pozner had a twin sister who was not killed. How are his parents supposed to explain this to her?

These kids were supposed to have a lifetime ahead of them.

The other names belong to teachers who tried to protect their students.

Victoria Soto, aged 27, used herself as a human shield to protect her students.

One of those teachers herded her students into a closet to hide. The shooter confronted her once the children were hidden. The teacher told the shooter that all of her students were in the gym. She was killed, but her students are safe.

A kindergarten teacher close to the classroom where the massacre began huddled her students into a corner. Since the gunshots frightened the children, she read to them until they were able to be evacuated.

Another teacher found some kids in the hallway. She took them to a bathroom, locked the door, and helped the children hide in the stalls.

The victims weren't shot once, but multiple times. One teacher said she heard at least a hundred rounds while she hid in an office where she had been having a meeting.

All of these kids and teachers dead, and the police haven't found a motive yet. Because what could motivate someone to do this?

Worse, the infamous Westboro Baptist Church announced its intentions to picket at the funerals of these kids and teachers. They wanted to "sing praise to God" for "executing judgement" on America and its sinful ways. Right.

A group of hackers called Anonymous (who, while they have noble intentions, seem to think they are at the center of a crappy sci-fi novel) countered Westboro by hacking into their website, tacking over a prominent church member's twitter feed, and publishing not only various church members' personal information, but also a petition from the Whitehouse to have them legally declared a hate group. Maybe it will be enough.

I think my nine-year-old self's definition of terrorism stands in this case. Look at this mess. Look at this horrible, horrible thing and draw your own conclusions.

I'm Scared

Hello, Internet.

This week has been one of the longest weeks of my life, in a very, very good way.

This week, I turned seventeen, which isn't a particularly big deal, as I can neither drive without a licensed adult in the front seat, nor seem to find any work outside of babysitting. Still, if I was a wizard, I'd be an adult, which is cool. My birthday was fun. Having been born on the same day that someone named Guy tried to blow up Parliament a hundred years ago is sort of interesting, and it makes for a good conversation starter. Incidentally, Neil Gaiman's birthday is today. People born in November are always destined to be awesome.

However, this week has also had a couple of downers- for other people, mostly, but for me too. I'm starting to get why people dread their birthdays every year. Even if I don't think I ever will, I understand why some people do. Becoming a year older makes you reflect on the things you've done in the past year, and the things you're going to do in the future. And when you're turning seventeen, the future seems a heck of a lot bigger and scarier and darker than the future did when you were six, or ten, or even thirteen.

Because when you were six, the scariest thing that was going to happen to you was getting your training wheels off your bike, and maybe starting kindergarten. When you were ten, the scariest thing was that your best friend might be moving away, or middle school was looming ahead of you in a year, or two years. When you were thirteen, the scariest things you could imagine were not being cool enough, or getting your phone taken away, or that guy never noticing you, or him actually finding out that you like him.

If you haven't noticed, we're dwelling on things that scare us this week. Because, as much as we'd like to believe it, life isn't all fricasseed frogs and eel pie. Even though it's after Halloween, a few youtubers I'm subscribed to have been talking about what they're most afraid of (links at the end), and I decided I might as well do the same thing, because what else do I have to talk about, right?

Maybe the things that scare us when we're seventeen- like, learning to drive, or ACTs and SATs, or thinking about how in a couple of years you're going to be on your own- will seem dumb in ten years. Maybe five years. Maybe even two or three. But the fact that it might not matter later doesn't make it any less scary now, does it? If you try to explain to a four-year-old that the monster in their closet won't be scary in the morning, they're not going to be relieved and go back to bed. They're going to stay glued to your leg until the sun comes up and shows them actual proof that the monster was just a pile of dirty clothes. It would probably make them even more afraid.

Why?

Because it presents the idea of a risk. What if the monster eats them before it gets to be morning? What if the morning comes, and you were wrong, and it is actually a monster? What if...?

And I think it's only the What Ifs that are scaring us, not the actual things themselves. Like, going to school, for instance. You bring in the kid, and they aren't afraid of the brick building they'll be confined in for the next eight hours, or even necessarily of the teachers and other kids. They're thinking, What if I do something wrong? What if they laugh at me if I do something wrong? What if nobody likes me? And then they make friends and realize how completely wrong they were about the What Ifs.

But just because the What Ifs usually prove to be wrong doesn't mean there isn't a teeny, tiny possibility that maybe one day, one of your What Ifs will come true.

So I'm seventeen, and I'm thinking this:

What if my grades aren't good enough?

What if I don't get into college and I'm stuck here?

What if I do get into college?

What if I screw it up and I'm stuck here?

What if even after going to college I still can't get a descent job?

What if I'm so busy worrying that I'm missing out?

What if nobody cares?

What if the president can't actually fix anything, no matter who he or she is?

What if I don't make it?

What if I end up alone?

What if I end up with someone?

What if I just... end up?

What If...

And you know, there are more. We could do it all day, listing the endless negative outcomes of our next step. But you know what? If every single stinking time we're face with these scary things and we just sit here thinking "What If," we're never actually going to get to find out what is actually going to happen. I'm scared of spiders, but I still walk my dog even though there's a chance I might see a spider when I'm outside. I'm absolutely TERRIFIED of the Joker, but that doesn't stop me from watching the Batman movies. Slenderman completely freaks me out, but I don't throw out my laptop and never get on tumblr again. Serial killers and homicidal maniacs could be wandering around, but I still go to the mall and to the movies and to Wal-Mart and the bookstore. Weeping Angels? They send me diving behind my sofa! But I would never miss an episode of Doctor Who just because of some statues that aren't even real (probably...).

There comes a point when you have to take a deep breath and just walk into Mordor. When you have to leave the safety of Hogwarts and face the evil wizard. When you have to realize that the White Witch has your brother, so you might as well fight, because it's no good going back to Finchley now. When you take the Vorpal Sword in hand, and you do some Jabberwocky slaying. When you put on your travelling cloak and take your staff and go on an adventure even though you're abnormally short and not actually a thief and don't even like adventures and there's a dragon involved.

When you just stop What If-ing and go. Because even though it looks big and dark, and even though you're scared, and even though your brain is telling you that this is the part of the horror movie when everyone in the theater is screaming, "DON'T GO IN THERE"... that's all, apparently, supposed to be part of the adventure. And eventually, when it's all over, one day you'll remember how scared you were at the time, and maybe you were right to be scared, and maybe it made you stronger, and maybe both of those things will be true. But you won't be scared anymore.

Link to Scared Video 1, 2, and 3

Happy Halloween! (and some other stuff)

So. I have been gone for over a month. Leave me punishments in my tumblr ask box. (I'm being serious. I even linked it.) I literally have no good excuses.

Here's a little bit about what's been going on during my hiatus: Mostly, I've been trying to drive so I can get a license so my thirteen-year-old sister will stop making fun of me for being the only kid my age who is unable to drive. Also, I've been studying. Algebra 2 is hard, and there's a lot of it on the ACT and the SAT, both of which I am taking (including writing sections) the first week of December. No, my mother is not making me. It is self-inflicted torture. (I am also not depressed, and very well-adjusted for someone my age, thank you.)

I saw The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Twice. In two weeks. Right after it came out.

I love it so much, and if I had enough money and somebody else who would put up with me, I'd go see it again in a heartbeat, because it's the best movie in the whole wide world and Emma Watson and Logan Lerman and Ezra Miller are perfect and why is Stephen Chbolskey so awesome and why is the music so perfect and it's brilliant. (Yes I know that was a run on sentence, but I have a lot of emotions about this movie and the book, too.)

It's the second best movie that has come out this year (with Dark Night Rises in first place and Avengers coming in at a solid third, though before Perks it was in second, I admit). It feels like a John Hughes film, and we all know how awesome John Hughes is. Correct me if you think I'm wrong, but to me the movie was like what would happen if The Breakfast Club had a baby with Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Of course, as with any movie that is based on a book, READ THE BOOK FIRST. It won't take you very long because you won't be able to put it down. Then go see the movie because it's awesome and the author directed it and produced it and wrote the screenplay, so it's basically almost exactly the same as the book.

Last weekend I went to Haunted Corn Maze with my youth group. I wasn't going to go, because I had a big test in Anatomy to study for, and my sister's birthday part was on Friday, but at church all these people kept coming up to me like, "YOU SHOULD COME YOU SHOULD COME OMG IT'S THE MOST FUN YOU WILL EVER HAVE IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE PARTICIPAAAAAATE!"

And I was like, "Um, that's what you said about retreat, and it turned out to be kinda lousy...."

And they said, "THAT'S WHY THIS IS THE MOST FUN YOU WILL EVER HAAAAVE!1!!1!"

And I said, "But-"

And they said, "HERE IS YOUR PERMISSION FORM PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE FILL IT OUT EVEN THOUGH YOU'VE HAD THE SAME ADDRESS SINCE KINDERGARTEN AND WE KNOW WHO YOUR PARENTS ARE SO WE COULD PRACTICALLY FILL IT OUT FOR YOU!"

And I said, "Oh, what the heck."

And then I went into the haunted corn maze. With a group composed of five sophomore girls and one guy from my Sunday school class. So, five minutes in, we were proclaimed leaders (I somewhat reluctantly, given the number of chainsaws), and the other girls had mostly burst into tears. So then two of the girls latch onto my arm and won't let go, as if there's anything I can do to protect them from people who have signed a contract not to touch any civilians coming through the corn maze and who are carrying chainsaws that DON'T EVEN HAVE CHAINS ON THEM SO HOW COULD THEY CUT OF OUR HEADS YOU GUYS?!?

And they're both like, "I want to get out," but they won't move, and I'm stuck to them, so I start dragging them along like, "You have to walk to get out, geniuses." And then some guy jumps out with a chainsaw, and they run in to directions, and I fall, and they fall on top of me, and the long and short of it is I sprained my knee in the haunted corn maze in Chickasaw.

And the anatomy test I had to study for, which I could have been studying for that night? Yeah, I failed it.

And trick-or-treating with my little sister? Forget about it. I have to stay off of my leg as much as possible until tomorrow, which means I get to be the person who stays home and watches the Nickelodeon's midnight special while passing out candy to an infinite string of six-year-olds who couldn't come up with more creative costume ideas than a public servant or one of Disney's vast array of female rulers over small, fictitious populaces.

On the plus side, being an invalid drove me, as it so often does, to Netflix, where I discovered the awesomeness that is Supernatural. I was going to try out Once Upon a Time, but I wasn't in the mood, and then there it was, with Jared Padelecki and Jensen Ackles in all their sarcastic glory. I would marry men with those wits, provided they also had the hair, and the ability to exorcise a demon in the back of an airplane without the other 240 passengers noticing...

I hope you have noticed the motif here:

HALLOWEEN!

One of my favorite YouTubers, Cassidy Jay Tucker, was clever enough to ponder the idea of fandom haunted houses here. She listed a lot of my favorite fandoms: Doctor Who, Sherlock, Harry Potter, even Maximum Ride. As well read as she is, I was kind of surprised she didn't get this idea...

What about a Neil Gaiman-inspired Haunted House?

Seriously! It would be about the scariest thing in the world! Like, going up to it, the house or building or whatever is in a graveyard, and there's all these Man Jacks chasing you up to the house. You get in, and slam the door shut behind you, and you're leaning against it and panting and then, out of nowhere, the Other Mother shows up, and she's challenging you to a game and trying to sew buttons in your eyes, and of course, you won't have any of it, so she grabs you and throws you behind a mirror, and there you meet not the ghost children, but Shadow! And you're sitting there in a crappy hotel room, watching TV, when Lucy comes on and shows you Wednesday getting killed. And you get up to leave and go do something about it, but oh no, no you can't, because now you're in Neverwhere.

And you have to go through EVERYTHING Richard Mayhew did, with Door and Hunter and the Marquis de Caribrais being about as helpful to you as they were to him, before you can leave.

And at the end, you feel like everyone always feels at the end of one of Neil Gaiman's books which is something along the lines of this:
WHAT IS LIFE????? *bangs head against nearest hard surface* And then you go to the bookstore the next week and get another one and do it all over again.

FUN FACTS ABOUT HALLOWEEN:

1) The name is derived from the much longer name All Hallows' Eve. The Scottish shortened it to Hallowe'en, and since people are afraid of the Scottish (I mean, look at Steven Moffat), the name stuck.

2) The Celts and Irish celebrated a holiday called Samhain, a night when the believed the door to the Otherworld was open to allow fairies and dead souls to pass through to our world and pester ordinary mortals. The people would have big parties and feast, sometimes setting a place for a departed friend, in much the same way that small children request a place set at the table for their imaginary friends. Anyway, Jack-o-lanterns may come from this early branch of the holiday; in the nineteenth century, people carried carved-out turnips with lights in them, sometimes with faces carved into them as well, to protect themselves from spirits and fairies.

3) In Britain Jack-o-lanterns represented souls in purgatory, and on the night of All Hallows' Eve, children would go into graveyards and put candy in skulls. That's all pretty weird, and so these sorts of practices were discouraged in the 1600s. Conveniently, Guy Fawkes' Night became popular around that time (it's on November 5, my birthday!), and it was easy to pull the populace away from Halloween and toward a new, less creepy tradition. (Arguably, it was still pretty violent, since they went around burning effigies of the guy like it was okay, but still. Better than sending sweet little John and Jane into the graveyard at night to put a Snickers in grandpa's skull.)

4) Orange and black are associated with Halloween because orange is a color symbolizing the harvest, while black, of course, symbolizes death.

5) The Celts, from number two, who celebrated Samhain, may have been the origin of costumes as well. They wore masks so that the fairies and spirits wouldn't recognize them as they wandered the countryside.

6) The movie Halloween, made in 1978, was filmed in 21 days on a limited budget.

7) October 31st was originally the last day of the Celtic calender. Funny, nobody ever thought the world was going to end on Halloween...

8) Halloween is the second most commercially successfully holiday. No prizes for guessing the first...

9) Halloween candy sales in the U.S. annually average about 2 billion dollars. *whistles*

10) Black cats? Not so unlucky in the U.K., where it's white cats you should be watching out for.

My Reichenbach Theories

So I wasn't going to do this, but now I feel like I have to. I mean, I've just watched Reichenbach all the way through on Netflix for the first time in months, and I just feel something must be said. I think everyone in the fandom-- tumblr fans specifically-- are totally over thinking this, looking for details, trying to be clever. The result is that they see too much, and they can't get to the important stuff.

Okay, let's take a look at what we know. And I don't want to hear any crap about Moriarty's fox pin or fairytale symbolism or whatever. Just the facts.

Okay, starting with their post-trial meeting:

Sherlock makes the tea and plays the violin. When Moriarty comes in, he comments, "Johannes Sebastian would be appalled," and takes his seat. There follows a brief discussion about Bach in his last days. (M: "Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody." S "And neither can you.") Then some chatting over the key code, which is pretty much irrelevant since we know it was never real. Then Moriarty's I.O.U. speech: "I owe you a fall Sherlock." ; "Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

So, they both know that Sherlock's going to die. There's a two-month breach for the two of them to plan their strategies.

Moriarty's Strategy: Take advantage of Sherlock's obvious contempt for the press and really drag his name through the mud with tailor made, too-clever cases. Get inside their heads, including Sherlock's. Plant the doubt seeds. And when all of it is done, get Sherlock to kill himself.

Sherlock's Strategy: Don't die. (Note: I'm summarizing a lot of complicated, Sherlock-y thoughts for our puny little fangirl brains.)

Okay, simple enough.

John and Mycroft have talk about the press. Mycroft admits to giving Moriarty information in exchange for the code, implying he knew of the code's existence. BUT, we know the code's a fake. Moriarty admitted himself that it was just music, saying, "Thank you Johannes Sebastian Bach!" (I think he had a tiny inspiration from Sherlock's violin playing in the tea scene.) Some of the information in the articles was valid, because John recognized it, but how much? We haven't seen the article, so we don't know, but clearly there is more to Mycroft than meets the eye, and we know from the original canon that he's supposed to be even better at observing and so on than Sherlock is himself. Maybe Mycroft was feeding Moriarty half-truths. Maybe some of the information was gathered by Moriarty during his time at the Yard as "Jim from IT" and Molly's boyfriend. But that's not quite as important as the fall itself.

Cut to St. Bart's.

Sherlock goes to St. Bart's after separating himself from John. He talks to Molly and asks her for help. Presumably, they plan something. John arrives, the decide to use the code to erase Brook and bring back Moriarty. John gets the call about Mrs. Hudson being shot.

          John Watson: She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go.

Sherlock Holmes: You go. I'm busy.

John Watson: Busy?

Sherlock Holmes: Thinking. I need to think.

John Watson: You need to...? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!

Sherlock Holmes: She's my landlady.

John Watson: She's dying... You machine. Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own.

Now, we know Sherlock is supposed to have done something out of character (see article here) and I think this is one of the clues. "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!" We all love that bit in Scandal when Sherlock throws the American out of the window because he punched Mrs. Hudson.  So why hasn't anybody pointed this out? I think Sherlock knew that John would go to Mrs. Hudson's aid, even if he had just run away handcuffed to London's Most Wanted. I think the phone call was a set up. I think Sherlock wanted John to be out of harm's way. And I think that this must mean, while he anticipated his friends being targeted, I don't think he anticipated Moriarty's actual plan of three separate snipers. (We'll get to that in a moment.)

Sherlock, having previously sent a text to Moriarty to meet him up on St. Bart's ("P.S. I've got something of yours that you might want back."), now receives a text from Moriarty: "I'm waiting..." Sherlock goes up to him. And, because they're them, they talk through the whole thing.

First, the case at hand. It's almost as if Moriarty is a professor delivering a test to his favorite student, pacing around Sherlock and so on. This circling Sherlock, I believe, blows that whole "phone recording" theory. Sherlock wasn't hiding anything in his hands, and we know that because he tapped out the code for Moriarty with his fingers. We also get another lesson in German: Reichenbach = Richard Brook. (This series really makes me want to learn German...) Sherlock threatens to use the code to "destroy Richard Brook and bring back Moriarty." At this point, Moriarty explodes-- in fact, he almost seems to be crying as he says, "Too easy... There is no code!" At which point he mentions that it's only a song.

And la-dee-da, more dialogue, Sherlock nearly throws Moriarty off the roof (S: "You're insane." M: "You're just getting that now?"), and then Moriarty reveals the Incentive:

          Sherlock Holmes: "John?"
          Jim Moriarty: "Everybody."
          Sherlock Holmes: "Mrs. Hudson?"
          Jim Moriarty: "Everybody."
          Sherlock Holmes: "Lestrade?"
          Jim Moriarty: "Everybody. Three bullets. Three gunman. Three victims."

So, we can safely assume that Sherlock sent John away to check on Mrs. Hudson in the hope that John wouldn't end up in the same situation as he was at the end of Series 1, strapped to explosives, at the whims of an insane criminal mastermind. In fact, we can even assume that he anticipated that Moriarty would target these three specific people in some way, given the fact that it's been done before. But I think he wasn't expecting all three of them to have their own personal assassin. His shock was too real.

Sherlock gets up on the ledge for the first time and peers down. We see the bus, and the people, and Sherlock begins to laugh. But before he laughs, he looks. Then he jumps lightly down as Moriarty asks, "What have I missed?" and there's another spiel about angels and boring and ordinary and then Moriarty kills himself.

Now, why doesn't Sherlock jump the first time? Because he has a plan. He looks down, and there's a bus. John isn't here yet. It's not the right time. He has to stall a bit longer. Speculating that the gunmen can be called off with a word, he chats a bit longer with Moriarty:

Jim Moriarty: You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?

Sherlock Holmes: Yes. So do you.

Jim Moriarty: Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to. (Relevant to above theory about Mycroft faking knowledge of the code.)

Sherlock Holmes: Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.

Jim Moriarty: Nah — you talk big. Nah... you're ordinary. You're ordinary — you're on the side of the angels.

Sherlock Holmes: Oh, I may be on the side of the angels... but don't think for one second that I am one of them. 

Okay, why do we need any of this? Why? This whole dialogue, it's... beautiful, it's dramatic, but necessary? Not particularly. It feels sort of meaningless, as if Sherlock's just bantering. He's restating things that have already been established in previous encounters with Moriarty. And I seriously doubt that Sherlock could have forced Moriarty to call off the gunmen. He's brilliant, but Moriarty's stubborn. He would have done something crazy, the way he always does. Last time Sherlock was in a threatening situation with Moriarty, he was only saved because of a well-timed phone call.

Then there are a couple of frames where Sherlock perches himself on the edge of the roof and begins messing about with his face. What is he doing? Not putting on make up, as some have suggested. Sherlock isn't the type for fake blood, and his features are unchanged when we see the phone call a bit later. However, Sherlock's hand passes over his mouth. You can just see him putting his hand over his mouth, although the view is a bit obscured by his shoulder. (Rewatch if you're skeptical, and pay close attention.)



Then comes the phone call. Twice, he sends John back behind that little brick building. He can see Sherlock, but not the place where Sherlock is going to hit the ground. This tells us two things: 1) Sherlock wants John to think that he is dead. 2) The garbage truck must be important. It covered the spot where Sherlock hits the ground just fine, but Sherlock wanted John well out of the way. There's something fishy about the truck.

Sherlock then goes on to tell John that he is a fake, that he wants him to tell everyone that he's a fake, the newspapers were right, and Moriarty isn't real. So terribly sad, blah-blah.

This is an excerpt from the Radio Times article, where Moffat gives us a hint:

"I’ve been online and looked at all the theories," Moffat told us, "and there’s one clue that everyone’s missed. It’s something that Sherlock did that was very out of character, but which nobody has picked up on."

Yeah, Sherlock called instead of texting, but come on. Is that really all you saw? What about the fact that Sherlock Holmes started bloody crying? Think that's a bit important, do you? No?

Remember Scandal?

Sherlock Holmes: Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?

Mycroft Holmes: All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

What about this bit?

          Sherlock Holmes: Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.

And Hound?

Sherlock Holmes: Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid.

John Watson: Sherlock...

Sherlock Holmes: I've always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from feelings. But you see, body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions... grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.

John Watson: All right, Spock, just take it easy

Sherlock is Spock. "This is your 36th attempt to illicit an emotional response from me," that's Sherlock Holmes. He considers them tedious. They are no benefit to him, so he tries his best to disregard them, in himself and others. He often needs John's guidance to know when he is being too insensitive, or when he might offend someone unintentionally. He's not a big fan of emotions.

SO WHY IS HE CRYING?

I think that is TREMENDOUSLY out of character, and frankly I'm shocked that nobody has brought it up. We can literally see the tears streaming down his face, dripping onto his scarf, and it's beautiful acting on the part of Cumberbatch. Why don't we stop looking at his gorgeous, symmetrical cheekbones, and start asking what's ON them?

After that, he jumps. I don't believe any of that crap about post-mortems being dropped by Molly, or magical trampolines, or whatever. I do think that Sherlock landing in the truck makes sense. But although I do believe he fell into the truck, I think the height was sufficient for him to be bloodied up, even with the padding, and then tossed onto the pavement. Why? We see Sherlock falling forward quite clearly, here:



 

But he lands on the pavement on his side, here:



Ladies and gents, either the corpse of Sherlock Holmes wants to be drawn like one of your French girls, or he landed in the truck and was pushed out. Also, while we're looking at the above picture, notice the lack of blood. I don't see any red on his face at all, even though we are at somewhat of a distance. So, how did his face get like this:



And where did all of this come from? This huge puddle:



There wasn't much time, but there was probably enough for Sherlock to arrange for some blood. And there's also the fact that the height he jumped from was sufficient for him to get rather bashed up, garbage padding or now. But the truck's padding would have allowed him to sustain (perhaps) more repairable injuries than smacking the concrete from six stories up.

Still, there's another thing. He looks pretty dead. Why?

There are drugs and chemicals that exist that can induce a death-like state. (Check out this article from HowStuffWorks for an example.) I bet you anything he either took it when he "wiped his mouth" or injected it when he landed on the truck, depending how long it needs to kick in. It's more likely he took it on top of St. Bart's. It would explain why he was so emotional (could be a side-effect) and it would explain his laughter and not jumping the first time. He was waiting for the drug to take effect. He was laughing because his friends were safe-- he would be medically dead now, quite soon, regardless of whether Moriarty called off the shooters or not.

Also, I think it's pretty obvious I don't believe in the Great Body Switch triggered by the "Slow Down" safety cone. Honestly, when you think about it, it's a somewhat ridiculous theory. Why would they switch bodies in broad daylight? Don't you think John would have noticed, even with the four human shields around the gurney? Yeah, John was concussed, but he isn't stupid, and neither are the other witnesses who watched John being wheeled in, and who I seriously doubt were all planted. (Though I'll buy the cyclist theories. Too coincidental to be a coincidence.) Several people have gone to Bart's and seen the actual cone, which means it wasn't a helpful hint from Mofftiss. Sorry, but I don't buy it. We can't romanticize this.

A Somewhat Inconclusive Conclusion:

Mycroft knows the code Moriarty has is fake. He had Moriarty in captivity pre-trial and Crime of the Century, so if he knew the code, he could have anticipated the robberies. He didn't. He may or may not have informed Sherlock of this fact, but he is somehow in on the plan to convince John that Sherlock is dead. He is feeding John facts to help him jump to conclusions when the time comes. Mycroft always, always, knows much more than we think he does.

Sherlock was playing Bach on his violin when Moriarty comes to tea. Moriarty tapped out a tune of Bach's instead of a real code to throw Sherlock off. It really is fantastically subtle.

Months pass, and the two work on their strategies. The kidnapping takes place. People become suspicious of Sherlock. The song and dance of the episode, the arrest, etc.

Sherlock goes to Molly for help the night before his jump. Presumably, she gets hold of the chemicals or drug needed to make Sherlock appear dead. With the help of Mycroft, they arrange for the truck driver and the cyclist. He will jump off of St. Bart's because then there won't be any need to call an ambulance; he can simply be wheeled into the closest hospital, Bart's itself, and straight into the morgue, where Molly will be waiting.

On top of St. Bart's, Sherlock chats with Moriarty, leading him to believe that he's beaten Sherlock, so that he can uncover for certain the safety of his friends, specifically John. He stands on the ledge, asking for privacy, and peeks at the ground. People are coming off of a bus, perhaps Molly is even going up to her post from that bus, or some other passenger gives a signal-- not yet. Sherlock takes the drug Molly has given him. He turns around and stalls some more with Moriarty. Why? Well, making good use of his time, obviously. He's trying to get ensure that Moriarty dies (roughly) with him. When Moriarty finally shoots himself, Sherlock checks again. He jumps into the garbage truck, then lands on the pavement. John gets hit by the cyclist. His head injury, combined with his shock at Sherlock's apparent suicide, is enough to make him believe that Sherlock is dead, thus causing the shooters to leave. Sherlock is wheeled safely up to Molly, and that's the end of it.

There are holes in this, I'm sure. Feel free to point them out.

Love always, Sarah xx

September First Should Be Made an International Holiday

So.

Doctor Who, guys. DOCTOR WHO!

That episode tonight WAS AWESOMESAUCE.



I was already dying to know what happened to the Ponds, since Rory left and all. But then the Doctor shows up in Scarro, and that ginger turns into a Dalek (once and for all proving that gingers do not have souls). That's a scary thought, humanoid Daleks. I mean, now anybody could be a Dalek, couldn't they? And you wouldn't know, because they can hide those para scope thingies inside their foreheads.

Now, honestly, I've never been properly afraid of the Daleks. I mean, yeah, they sicken me, but the Doctor has always managed to defeat them in the past, so I was just never scared of them. But then Moffat creates a whole bloody PLANET of cocoa-bananas Daleks, and they can actually turn you into one just with the AIR. I mean, come on. That's the scariest thing I have ever heard of.

And of course, the Doctor's priority isn't that he was attacked by a bunch of skeletal Alaskans and a dead black guy in an awesome parka, or that they're in a Dalek Mental hospital. Oh no. It's that Amy and Rory are in the process of getting a divorce. And of course, he fixes that, too. That whole scene was absolutely brilliant.

I really, really liked Oswin. She reminded me of Sally Sparrow, Rita, and Astrid, from some older episodes: clever women with big hearts who would have totally been companions if not for extenuating circumstances. (Namely, being dead. Or, if you're Sally Sparrow, married to your best friend's brother and running a shop.) I mean, she really would have been an amazing companion. She probably would have been able to fly the TARDIS- not as well as River, maybe, but she could still do it. It's amazing that she was able to maintain her own human consciousness after being turned into a Dalek, but of course that's thanks to her IQ. I can't imagine how frightening that must have been, spending a whole year in an illusion of your own creation, trying to remember and forget at the same time.

It makes the Daleks all the more scary.

I CAN'T WAIT until next week. Mr. Weasley, Filch, AND Lestrade in one episode. And I think Rory might have called Mr. Weasley "Dad" which, if I heard correctly, would totally make him related to Ronald Weasley. Also dinosaurs.

Very very exciting, yes?

 

Now, let's talk about the other big thing going on the fandoms today. Namely, the start of the Hogwarts school term.

I was kinda disappointed that the new Chamber of Secrets chapters weren't available on Pottermore today. I thought they would be, since it was September first and all, but apparently I was wrong. I think they might come out around October or November (also, the next House Cup is in November, so Slytherins, get to work already).

According to my calculations (and also some help from the HP Lexicon) Victoire Weasley should be going into her fourth year (ish) which means Dominique and Louis could also possibly be in school (though I'm pretty sure Louis is still a bit too young). Who knows about the others, since they don't exactly have birthdays or anything. James won't be going until 2015 or 2016, and we know absolutely that Scorpius, Al, and Rose go in 2017, with Lily and Hugo following in 2019.

So, yep. Big day for the fandoms, September 1st. I think it should be an international fandom holiday.

So... bye!

P.S. Spell Check, who says Awesomesauce isn't a word??

Esther Earl, Resting Forever In Awesome

Serious Post Again:

So, I just finished The Fault In Our Stars by John Green. I got it from Amazon, and I carried it around with me everywhere this summer so that, whenever I had a spare moment, I could pull it out and read it. It's really, REALLY good, and it's about a girl named Hazel who has cancer, who falls in love a with a boy named Augustus who has cancer, and it's happy and sad and beautiful and awesome.

Anyway, the book is dedicated to Esther Earl. And being a fairly new recruit in Nerdfighteria, I didn't know who Esther Earl was. And then, gradually, things began to reveal themselves.

First, there was a LeakyCon thing about the Esther Earl Charity Ball, or something. The only reason I saw it was because my mom and I had a master plan to go for two hours, which was foiled when we realized there was no way we'd be able to get to Chicago and back by car in time for school. And then there was the fabulous John Green's video made at his desk treadmill thing. He mentioned Esther, and some stuff about Esther Day being today, and then a t-shirt contest.

Now, I normally don't do stuff like this: You know, designing posters and t-shirts and stuff for contests. They used to make us do it in middle school all the time, making us do posters about saying no to drugs and alcohol and stuff. I hated it. But I clicked the link anyway, because it sounded like a big deal, and I'm curious.

Boy, was I ever in for a surprise.

The link took me the This Star Won't Go Out charity website. I clicked on Esther's Story. I read. I hummed to myself so that I wouldn't cry.

Esther had the same cancer as Hazel, without the benefit of Hazel's fictional Phalanxifor that keeps her alive. Esther was diagnosed at twelve, and then had a relapse at sixteen. She did some awesome charity work for Harry Potter Alliance and contributed to the nerdfighter community in so many ways. She hated America's Next Top Model.

But, after watching her videos, I agree with Mr. John Green. Most importantly, she was a person. Just a person, who had cancer, and tried to make the best of it. But she said herself that she was just a person. The wise, sad-eyed cancer warrior with the secret to the Meaning of Life behind her eyes may exist somewhere-- mostly in books, because books tend to favor the poetic. But that wasn't Esther. I'm not pretending I knew her very well, or knew her at all. I didn't know who she was until a few days ago.

I think I, like almost everyone else in Nerdfighteria, like her last video best. But it isn't because at the end she says, "I love you." I don't see the video as a poetic irony at all. She gave everyone a tour of the downstairs part of her house. There was one shot involving her holding the camera over the toilet while it flushed (nothing was in it, but still). There were also the customery quirky cookie monster cartoons periodically in the video.

In short, this wasn't the video of someone who knew they were about to die and tried to make it meaningful. This was the video of someone who expected that there would be future videos. Maybe not tons and tons, but still, future videos.

I mean, I know since it was her last video, we all try to read into it. How nice, her last words in her last video were "I love you." But what if things had been different? Say she knew that that was going to be her last video-- do you think it would have been more meaningful? What if her last video had just been her, sitting there, singing wizard rock with her little brother, or saying something in a French accent with only her dog on camera?

We never know. The universe doesn't put a little red dot on our foreheads a month before we die, so that we have time to count the days and set things straight. We never know what's going to happen. Some people fear that, because they want to see the bad coming. Some people long to know that their future will be better than their present.

Esther... honestly, I don't know. I don't know if she was scared, but I bet she was scared. I don't know if she saw a future for herself beyond cancer, if she ever imagined growing old post-diagnosis. I don't know, because I didn't know her. But she lived in the moment. She didn't make all of her videos as if they were going to be her last videos ever. She was just doing the same thing everyone else was doing.

I don't think I'm scared of the future. The likelihood that the future will hold something either disasterous or wonderful for me is about the same. I don't assume for a minute that I'll live any longer than Esther did, because you never know whether a bus, proverbial or otherwise, will come around a corner and hit you. But then, living a short life doesn't make it less happy or meaningful. People talk about long, full lives, but a short life can be more full than a long one.

There isn't really a point to anything in this post, except that Esther is a person we should remember, and loving everyone in the world, regardless of who they are or what they've done, is something that we should try to do, because everybody deserves to feel loved, and it always makes people feel good to know that someone loves them.

Unless you're Voldemort, and/or the Mongols.

Rest in Awesome, Esther Earl.

"Life is a disease: sexually transmitted and ultimately fatal." ~Neil Gaiman

Links: Link to TSWGO website- donate or buy a bracelet (which is also donating)
Link to Esther's YouTube Channel