Back in School Again -- Why?

Monday, August 17, 2015

UWG - Carrollton, GA

12:53am

 

Dear Diary,

 

Today totally wasn't move-in, but it's when I finally got my butt over here. I actually drove the hour and a half all by myself. Like, with no one else in the car. I was all on my lonesome in the gold car--"The Golden Bullet", as Kyle calls it--and I made it without much of a problem. Any issues were navigation related, and the fact that my GPS waits so long before it tells you to turn.

 

I did learn a few things about the path, though.

 

I bad-mouth the gold car, but he's actually not so bad. I don't mind it so much. It just rides so low.

 

Anyway, I'm tired, so moving on.

 

Rush. Today was just Rho Gam Meet-&-Greet and Orientation, which of course I pretty much have memorized by now. (I've been through the process enough times.) But I wanted to go through it one more time since it's the last year I can. It's just another audition. If I get in, fantastic. If I don't, it's one less thing to deal with this term.

 

           SIDEBAR: I do need to remember to go introduce myself to the new TD.

 

I love Mary's and my housemates. I guess there's only two: a Phi Mu, Laura-Ashley (who's also Exec. Panhellenic), and a Kappa Delta, Gabby. Gabby and I actually recognized each other from Chorus last year, though it did take us a while to get around to that conclusion. They should be fun.

 

I don't know why I agreed to watch American Horror Story, though.

 

I think it was because I want Mary to watch Supernatural.

 

I gotta fix that.

 

Went to a super late dinner with Olivia, too. Though, things seem to be difficult on the housing frontier for her and Katie. Fingers-crossed that that gets better.

 

Anyway, I'm going to bed now. Zzz-quil kicking in.

 

                    -- KG

Uber

Sunday, August 9, 2015

3:52pm, Wilmington International Airport

 

What if there was a taxi service that wasn't really a "taxi service"? What if there was one that was clean? Punctual? Sleazy-free? Well, there is! Welcome to Uber.

 

I know I sound like some ridiculous TV advertisement, but I'm actually super impressed with this "taxi service". I almost want to call it a "cabbie service"--which is what it's called in London--just because it lived up, and even exceeded those standards.

 

Uber is an app that calls personal drivers to take you wherever you need to go. And yes, I know how that sounds. And I have no sympathy. I had never heard of Uber until this weekend, when I needed a way to get to the airport while everyone else was busy. I don't like taxis; I don't trust taxis, but Beca told me about Uber.

 

Now, when she introduced it to me, she said it was an app that called "strangers to come and drive you around". Like strangers right off the street. I could not understand why anyone would be stupid enough to try that. And over the course of the weekend, other people talked about Uber, too, like it was a god-send. I honestly thought, on multiple occasions, "Am I surrounded by idiots?"

 

But, earlier this morning, Nikki told me what it really was about. And it is like a high-end, personal driving service.

 

(Here's how it works:

• About twenty minutes before you have to leave, you set your destination into the app and a driver is called to pick you up.
• There is a map on the app that tracks your location, and you can physically watch the car on the map drive to meet you. (I think that's my favorite part.)
• The app gives you the license plate and type of car that is coming for you. (That is very handy. Especially when you're leaving from a convention center in the middle of One Tree Hill Con.)
• And then, of course, just to make sure you know, the driver calls you when he arrives.

 

I had some sort of black Kia, but it was super clean and spacious. The driver was very talkative, which I have to assume is unique to the person, but while I usually don't like talking in taxis, I rather enjoyed that ten-minute conversation.

 

Though I had a short trip, I have been completely turned-on to Uber. I am totally keeping that app (which is free, by the way). I swear to god, I am never using a taxi ever again.

 

                               -- KG

Nerd Camp 2015 - Day Ten

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Dear Diary,

 

Why am I always the one apologizing in my relationships?

 

The one with the girls, I get. That's been going on since January. I'll just have to wait and see how that one goes during this stupid OTH con next week.

 

But I've noticed it here too. With Zoe. Yesterday, Marianna asked me to do her hair for the day, and Zoe basically jumped down both our throats for me "encouraging her". I get that she wants to leave at a certain time, but Marianna still had time. I checked for that specific reason. But here comes Zoe, stomping in at 8:27am, claws out, ready to rip a new one--And somehow, I'm the one apologizing at breakfast.

 

I don't understand why she's so protective of her kids. I know that Marianna spends a lot of time with Priya and Indie (or with a couple other of mine). I know that she hangs out with me, but that's just because she knows Shannon. They have inside jokes that I relay to either side. And it's not like I hide them from Zoe. I let her in on the whole crocodile thing. It's not like I'm trying to steal her kids. I even mentioned it to Alex, and she's on my side.

 

I don't get it. I don't get the need to be so damn possessive. And I've noticed it before. When Zoe gets mad, she gets mad. Even little ticks and she's fuming. It's nuts. No wonder her kids come running to me. She scares the shit out of everybody. But it's not just with her. And it's not just with the girls. It's with everybody.

 

Skip Wells died.

 

He was shot in Chattanooga last week. Or two weeks ago. It was the day before I left. Everyone's taking it hard. I'm taking it hard. I can't help but remember the conversation we had when I was in Valdosta and I'm pretty sure he was completely drunk. I wish I still had it. It was on my old phone. The one I lost in Rome. But I can still feel him around. I miss him. Because I've been here these last weeks, I haven't really had time to mourn. I have moments like this where I remember and shut off. It's not what he would've wanted. But I'm not sure he would've wanted the big memorial service everyone did for him either.

 

I think that's why I like this book. One I picked up at Barnes&Noble the other day. It's about a girl who's father has PTSD and she's trying to navigate her grounded life for the first time. I've had no motivation to read for months. A lot of that had to do with the high school girls. My brain was too busy trying to protect me from them to translate the words on the pages. I couldn't write either. Not really. Though, I can't write now either. I blame the kids, but I don't think it's them at all.

 

I think it's Skip's death. And I hear the similarities between how I deal with it all and how the girl in the story deals. It's too alike. Then I remember Skip in my "The Girl With Wings" stories. And I wish I could've been talking to him recently. I wish I could've heard his take on what was happening with the high school girls. Somehow, I think he'd understand better than everyone else. But I also know that's the last of how he'd want me to be feeling right now.

 

I miss him. I can hear him in the back of my mind. I think that's why I'm fighting the apologies now. I noticed them before. And probably shouldn't have in front of Mom, but I can feel him still. Being at home is going to hurt. I know I'll only be back for a couple days before I have to leave for this con, but being at home is going to hurt. And being at this con is going to hurt.

 

I want to dye my hair.

 

Part of that, I'm sure, is the camp. These kids are so open about who they are and what they like. It makes me jealous. I was never that kid. I was always so self-conscious. I wouldn't even wear specific jewelry in fear of judgment. London made that better, but I reverted as soon as I was back. I texted Mary Hand earlier asking about what dyed hair would do for Rush. She said don't do it. Something in me doesn't care. I want to do it. I'm tired of being a chicken about it. Somewhere inside, I don't care what the sororities think.

 

I think that's Skip, too. Between my kids and Skip's death, I'm finding myself. But I can still hear my chicken-self inside. What if I damage my hair? What if they hate me? What if I regret sabotaging my chances? What if? I do that dance all the time. I do it for everything. Every outfit, every audition, every choice and decision and question. I like to cover my bases. I like to have all the information. That's why I texted Mary. And even though I stretched the truth about how the dye would get into place, I asked Mary what it would do to my chances of getting in a sorority. (It's not high.)

 

But I want to surprise her too. I want to walk into school with dip-dyed ends or streaks of purple or red and be new. I'm a theatre kid. I'm twenty. I'm losing my chance and I'm letting it be taken and I hate it. I want to do this right. I want to dye my hair. I want to be free. I want my life.

 

                                      -- KGratiaM

Nerd Camp 2015 - Day Seven

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Dear Diary,

 

One week down, one to go. That's mind-boggling. It feels like I've been here forever, but like that can't possibly add up to a week. This is going to be short, however, because I get to sleep in again tomorrow. (Which is fantastic.)

 

So, anyway, Madeline left earlier today. She has been saying that all week, but I'm still proud of her for sticking it out for the first half. Especially since it sounds like she might have Asperger's.

 

(OMG, sidebar: I found out a couple weeks ago that Raven has been diagnosed with the same thing. Which explains a lot, but still.) 

 

Also, Noa, now has some sort of hive-y rash / bites all over her skin. They started on her legs about two hours ago, and they've only spread. Bennett basically said to try to get her to sleep, but if she asks to go to the Emergency Room, we'll take her. Last time I heard, she's sleeping on the floor of her bathroom to keep the sheets from irritating her legs.

 

On a brighter note, we're going to Barnes&Noble tomorrow, and then the kids have Creative Group Time (CGT) tomorrow night. So, yay! Time away from the kids. I'm literally about to start snapping necks if we have another night like tonight with everyone talking over each other--and us--during the Trivia Crack game (which Alex corrupted me to this morning). We actually plan on doing a fandom version later in the week, but I'm seriously not kidding. If my kids get wild again, *whistles*. I actually had an RA Meeting with my kids tonight over it all. I'm not having my girls act out. I'm not. I'm a patient person, but when you push me over my line...

 

[Chel's "It's not gonna be good" gif, The Road to El Dorado.]  

 

But both Alex's kid, Parker, and my Kaitlyn Dubey have had panic attacks in the past week due to this kind of thing, so that's so not happening again.

 

But, on that joyful note, it's 1:00am. I'm going to bed.

 

                           -- KG

Nerd Camp - Day Two

Monday, July 20, 2015

Dear Diary,

 

Classes have begun! And the only reason I really know that is because there is this giant span of time (ironically nine to five) where all the RAs are off-duty. Seven hours without your kids and nothing to do—not cool.

 

Before I get to that, though, I love my kids! I love them. Especially Noa. She's absolutely adorable, and my most loyal duckling. I really need to get her a crown. But anyway, Madeline says she wants to leave Saturday, but I'm super proud of her for sticking it out until then in case it changes her mind (her words, not mine!). Especially after Lizzy went home on the first day without giving it a chance. If Madeline still wants to go home at the end of the week, then that's okay with me. And, last night, she—who is so, so shy—physically inserted herself into a big group with Zoe and I, and actually got into conversation with everyone. She actually had this zodiac / astrological characteristics book, and, although highly inappropriate for a thirteen-year-old, read out loud the "Taurus and Sex" section of her book. (Not the greatest of topics for doing it, but I'm proud of her anyway.)

 

There's two girls here, Priya and Indie—Geez, they get loud. Sometimes they're a little much, but most of the time, my relationship with them is rather smooth. Though, I do expect that energy had a lot to do with how my group got first in the team-soccer race we did yesterday. All the RAs swapped, so it was a shock to me. I was a super proud RA.

 

During our break yesterday, we watched "The Avengers: Age of Ultron", so Alex has officially corrupted me to both Avengers movies.

 

And OMG, Quicksilver. *gif*

 

Okay, so, I'd seen Quicksilver (Pietro) and Scarlet Witch (Wanda) on Tumblr enough times to know I would love them, especially him. But what I didn't know was that (SPOILER) Pietro dies! *gif*

 

Not okay! Literally, the only thing keeping me from jumping down Alex's throat for showing me that is (SPOILER) apparently, the actor has signed on for three more movies. I'm like, "There is no way he would sign on for three more movies—easily five more years—if they were just going to do flashbacks. He has to be alive." #PietroDenialSquad

 

So, as true to my obsession runs, I have dove into my reader-insert fics with Pietro Maximoff. And, as also true, I have created a whole new self-insert / OC for Pietro and that universe: Annie Romanoff. (Yes, she is Natasha's sister. #don't judge me)

 

I know eventually I'll get into where I'm actually shipping him, but until then, I'm just going to be enjoying my Annietro / Pannie. (Ugh, I hate when the girl's name is first, but "Pannie" is as bad as "Peeniss".) Romanoff, Maximoff — Yeah, that doesn't really work either... "Maxmanoff"? (I'll figure it out.)

 

(Can you tell this is a writing camp? #only us)

 

 Anyway, I'm going to bed. 6:30am is too frickin' earlier.

 

                -- KG



Death

Death has a funny way of making the Living predictable. It's never anything we notice except as we sit in a funeral home or at a church with a casket lying in front of us. But people have a default setting when someone dies. We all hook into each other. Even my no-bullshit Atheist brother took part in the religious ceremony. He may not believe in any God or Savior, like many in that room did, but he never once said anything bad or dismissive of the words coming from the minister's mouth. It was touching to see.

As people file in, we make a beeline for those closest to the deceased. We console and pay our sympathies and follow the protocol ingrained in us from childhood. Tears are shed, even if we didn't know the one laying at the front of the room. Scientists call this empathy, the ability to physically express what others are feeling. Though there are other examples, this is the strongest I've ever seen.

And then we sit down and hear a man or a woman give a speech about the life of the person or God's plan or that this time together with family is a celebration. And no one quite believes them. And then maybe red-eyed attendants share stories about the one who is gone. And everyone laughs through our own tears, but the smile always ends up falling again. And then the service ends and we file back out of the room, extending touches and soft smiles and the occasional inside joke to break a depressed smile from one another.

The processional crawls through traffic and everyone starts to feel a little better. The familiarity of our own cars makes the whole endevour a little brighter. Parents have teaching moments and kids loosen their ties and hair ribbons. Slack falls into the father's shoulders and moms kick off their heels. Sometimes we crack jokes or talk about how we would like to go. We speak free and light on a topic that will be very sad should it ever come to pass.

Then the graveyard comes into view and the weight comes back. The tensions and shoes and ties and hair ribbons all come back on and when we step out of our cars, smiles once again feel awkward and out of place. Words are spoken and prayers are whispered and the casket is lying atop its hole. Sometimes we know who lay next door; sometimes it's just a name on a stone. A foreign concept even with the lid to the plot sitting off to the side, wearing the name of the one in the box.

Then the ceremony is over and a stranger stands to say we may leave, even though it always feels like that "Go in peace" is much more a "Shoo". People scatter, no one ready to go back to our cars, but we like to put some space between us. After a while, we group off with others closer to our age, seeking a comfort from someone who might just understand. The topic of why we are all here is avoided, conversation instead small talk and catching up and making plans to get together later.

Eventually we all find our way to our cars. We have things to do now, things that had escaped our notice until the sensation of togetherness faded away. We turn our backs to the one going in the ground and walk back toward the light. Back to happiness and jobs and life. I can't imagine the one lying there is sad to see us go. I don't expect loneliness to set in as they watch us walk away. I think they would see the irony of it all. We all walk away from the dead, but we face forward to Death.

At least, I think that Grand-Aunt Donagene would have seen that, and I think Grandma and Grandpa would have too. I don't know if they can see us anymore, but I like to think they do. It makes all the pain fade away. When I think of them laughing, I want to laugh, too, through the pang of loneliness in my chest.

<><><><><>

Out of everything today, the party included, my favorite set of stories was when we were sitting in the processional, with that first wave of ease washing over us. We really did talk about what we wanted to happen to us after we died and, for the most part, we ended up laughing.

My mother, for example, said: "I want you to take any part of my body that worth something and donate it, specifically my brain and spinal cord to the MS Society. And then I want to be cremated. And I don't really care where you scatter me. Whatever's precious to us at the time. If we're still at that house, put me in a garden. If we're by the sea, throw me in the water. And then, I want you to throw a big party. I want people singing and laughing and food and stories."

It was my father's response that made us all laugh. "Geez, I can't even get away from parties when you're dead?"

My brother, on the other hand, said: "I don't want people crying when I die. I don't want a thousand-dollar casket. Just find a hole and throw me in....I want a roast. I want people to talk shit. I want people to cry, not because they're sad I'm gone, but because they got offended. And then I want someone to kick out the wusses that cried."

My dad and I didn't say anything. I don't know what his plans are, and I certainly don't know mine. But my favorite quote from that time in the car was what my mother had said about her dad: "My dad always said he wanted to die one day after my mom died. Because he didn't want Mom to have to go through all the pain and grief and suffering, but he didn't want to live without her."

The true heartbreak of that quote is that Nana is alive and well, but Papa died years before I was even born.

                              — KGratiaM

Twenty

Twenty. 2-0. No one thinks of it as a big number. It's not an important number—at least not by American teenage standards. Twenty-one is the big one. You get to drink legally. No more smuggling kegs into frat parties or across state borders. No more worrying about cops patrolling the next door neighbor's house. No more asking people to lie to keep your ass out of jail. It's all legal.

So I get why twenty-one is a big deal. (I'm not much of a drinker, and even if I was, I've been to London, so it all seems counter-intuitive to me anyway) but I get it.

Twenty, though.

I never thought twenty would be a big age. I never thought of it being different than any of the other birthdays, let alone being superior in any way. But it's both.

I keep thinking about the F.R.I.E.N.D.S episode, "The One Where They All Turn Thirty" with the universal moping and curses at God for making them age into the devil year. Rachel doesn't want to do anything, Monica gets drunk, and poor Joey can't get over that thirty is an actual age he would eventually hit.

Thirties I get. That's over a quarter of the expected average lifespan. It's the year where all hope of the clock reversing or freezing to keep you a kid has disappeared and you're prepared for a mid-life crisis.

Twenty wasn't supposed to be this big of a deal.

But here I sit at 11:59pm, and I can't believe I'm about to be two decades old. I am decades old. How much older does that make me sound?

And there it is: Midnight on May 14th. I'm twenty.

I knew it was going to happen. From the moment my baby brother turned eighteen back in March, I knew it was inevitable. You can still cling to reasonable doubt until your baby siblings turn older. Then all hope is lost.

And the real sad part about all of it is the realization that I have done nothing with my life.

I'll be a junior in college in the Fall and I'm still pussy-footing my way around what I want and should do with my life. I'm not a teenager anymore. I have no ground to stand on when my parents gripe at me not being an adult, because I can't avoid it now. I am two decades old and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

I'm so old even Peter Pan has given up on me. My prayers to get dragged off to Neverland will never be fulfilled. My name has dropped from his list and I am screwed.

What do I want? To act. To teach. To live in London.

And guess what? I'm not doing any of that.

Do I get notified of auditions? Yes. Have I gone to a single one of those? Nope, I'm too chicken.

Am I an Education Major in school? Yes, I am. For the British school system? Nope.

Do I have means to get to London? Yep. Am I living in London? Of fucking course not.

I can make excuses for these as much as I want, but at the end of the day, it's because I just haven't done it yet. And I hate myself for that. I hate that I'm not motivated to get in there and take what I want from the world, but I'm not. I've never been that girl. And I can sit here and promise myself I'll change that today, but I've made that promise and broken it so many times that I have absolutely no faith in myself.

Since school is out, I've been marathoning Gilmore Girls and F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Pretty Little Liars and all those shows that has a strong female in different situations who will go out and get what she wants, hoping that maybe, one day, some of that power will rub off on me.

But, of course, all watching those make me feel is depressed and pathetic beyond all belief.

And, I don't know, maybe that's why I want to go back to London so bad. Even when things were bad there, they seemed lighter. Maybe the fact that I was in a huge city helped to keep things in perspective instead of letting them run rampant over my life. I could handle things over there.

I found my way to and from a hospital in a completely different town in the middle of the night sick as a dog. Things like that make you realize how strong you are. I don't get that kind of thing here. I get a million questions and policies and college politics to deal with while trying to figure out how to transfer schools across an entire ocean. I get to hear everyone's opinion over what I'm doing with my life, whether I asked them for it or not. I get my brother looking at all of my favorite actors of all time—people I look up to—and have him tear them and the shows apart, saying they are terrible actors and they have no talent and they shouldn't be on TV, and all I can see is, "Well, if they can't make it, then why the hell should I even try?"

I know I shouldn't let it bother me. It's one opinion about shows with huge fandoms and that have been running forever, but the fat that it's from my own brother and he doesn't even realize what his words could mean to me—and the truth is, knowing Kyle, he probably wouldn't care—and I can't help but think like that.

To be able to pull off a terrifying immortal without any of the special effects added later
is insanely difficult. Then on top of that, this is Dylan's second personality for "Teen Wolf".
(And I've never seen a moment of the show.)

Just look at the wheels turning.

You don't even have to know anything about that mark on his arm. You can tell he's in pain.

Don't even try to tell me you can't see it all.

It takes a special kind of actor to be able to pull off a villain, in particularly a crazy villain,
but to do it so well the audience can see everything in a single gif of him clapping,
that's the signature of an incredible actor. (R.I.P. Heath Ledger.)

This gif really doesn't give Nina Dobrev her justice, but if you want to watch the scene,
you'll see exactly what I mean. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOqg_1U7ZAI)

And these two: We can see all we need to in their expressions.

No words necessary.



I can't imagine being able to portray
that kind of pain.

I don't know who this kid is or what's going on, but that's my point.
You can see everything you need to know in his eyes.

And now I'm twenty, and I have to know what I want to do. I have to figure out how to get there and when I get there, I have to be able to stay there. (And I have convinced myself that I will never be on the same page as these star.)
I don't like being twenty.

                              — KGratiaM