Little Gifts

I find the strangest things to be treats for me.  For example, last night, I had a real treat.  I slept on the couch.  And yes, I found that to be a treat.

Growing up, my dad slept on the couch a lot.  Not because he was in trouble with my mom or any of those stereotypes you think of when the man is forced to sleep on the couch in a story or television show, but usually because he would stay up watching television so late that he would be the last one in the room still watching, and he’d just fall right asleep where he sat.  So, on days that I stayed up later than him, or days that he wasn’t home, and days when I didn’t have to wake up for school, I would carry my blanket out to the couch and make my own little nest to sleep in. I had full control of the television, and I could stay up or fall asleep at my choosing.  It’s true; we did have a very comfortable couch, so that made it an extra treat in itself, but it was also that I got to sleep out there where my dad normally slept.  For some reason or another, that was a privilege to me.

No one sleeps on the couch in our apartment.  In fact, most nights the living room is left abandoned as we go about our separate paths, trying to be productive in our own unique ways. But last night the roommate who lives right off the living room was out of town—and I had no one to disturb.

So I pulled out my comforter, put on my copy of The Princess Bride, and hunkered down into my own little nest to watch a movie I loved and to stay up or fall asleep at my choosing.

And frankly, it’s probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long, long while.

<3 

Blogger's Block

So—I don’t know what to write. Not that this is an unfamiliar feeling.  Anyone who fancies themselves a writer has dealt with that moment of “Well—what now?”  It’s a most unfortunate feeling, if I may say so myself. It’s even worse here, because it’s just a twisted form of Writers Block.

Okay, my good memory is failing me, and if you read this blog I apologize in advance for forgetting who you are, but one of my friends once told me that he didn’t believe in “Writer’s Block.” He told me it was just an excuse for a writer to be lazy, and not sit down and put nose to the grindstone and write what they were supposed to be writing.  I suppose that in some cases he’s probably right. I can think of people who have used writer’s block as an excuse for why they are watching tv instead of working on a story—Not me of course, but a friend.  However, to say that writer’s block as a genuine issue doesn’t exist I don’t think is possible.  I think there are those moments when someone is actually trying to write, to be productive in one way or another, and their brains just go on strike, protesting any work of any kind. They are left just staring at a blank word document or an empty page of notebook, and coming up with absolutely nothing.

Or just staring at the bottom of any already started document for a solid twenty minutes and thinking over and over again, “What in the world will I write today?” and finally giving it up as a lost cause and writing about the fact that she has nothing to write about.  

Okay, word count hit. I’m going to stop rambling now.  Sorry for taking up your time, and kindly enjoy the rest of your day.

<3

Tinker Sick?

So, Hollins Sick is nothing new. I was warned several times in advance through multiple different class years that I was bound to be Hollins Sick after graduation, no matter how much I thought I was ready to be done with the place.  But as we rapidly approach October, I’ve realized that what I’m going through right now is a very specific kind of Hollins Sick.  I’m Tinker Sick.  Without even realizing it, I’ve been waiting for a surprise day off.  A phone call from my boss that will tell me not to come into work, and I’ll spend the whole day dressed in something ridiculous. I have absolutely no desire to climb another mountain (always my least favorite part of Tinker Day, and I hated going down the mountain even more so), but the silly skits, inordinate amounts of foods that strictly speaking aren’t good for me, and proper excuse to dress up like an absolute fool—yeah, I really miss Tinker Day. 

I was half awake this morning (my alarm having already gone off once, but I knew I could hit snooze twice more before I actually had to get up) when one of my roommates dropped something in the kitchen.  It made a very distinct clanging pot sort of noise.  I longed for the days of Tinker Scares, no matter how they annoyed me as an underclassman or caused me to go deaf for a couple hours as a senior. It’s making my heart hurt even now just thinking about it. I wonder when the class of 2013 did their last one, or when they are going to do it again. I wonder if my Ring Sister has gotten to do any, since she’s a commuter student, and I sincerely hope she has.

I hope that when Tinker Day finally does come, I have the day off work.  If I do, I’m going to the Stop and Shop for some fried chicken and chocolate cake.  I’m going to wear my senior robe and my Rose Hill Tinker Shirt, and multiple layers of various other mismatching clothes.  I may even wear all that to the Stop and Shop and enjoy looking completely insane—just for the moment. And as much as I’m going to miss Tinker Day, I’ll just remember that I’ll still be able to feel my legs come three in the afternoon and try to focus on the bright side of it. 

SJEJ and Ashleigh

A year ago today, I sat in Bristol, VA, brimming with delayed teenage rebellion and the overwhelming desire to do something slightly stupid and highly permanent. After Ashleigh got out of classes, we were going to go together to get our first tattoos.  I had made the decision weeks prior, but even leading up to the moment, I was still trying to decide exactly what I was going to do.  The one thing I knew was that it was going to be related to my family.

See, it was half a joke at the time between Ashleigh and I, but we were going to run away to London. We were going to graduate, sell what we could, and then we would just go.  I wasn’t going to admit then just how serious I was about the idea, because I knew that if I revealed such a fact to Ashleigh, then she would make it happen.  After all, she was the one who got two fifteen year old girls to New York City for a movie premiere when neither girl had a job, or an allowance of any kind for that matter, all because we decided that we wanted to go stand and scream at a red carpet.   Ashleigh has that kind of power.  The only thing that made me hesitate was my connection to my family.  I didn’t want to leave them behind.  In fact, it’s actually been the hardest part of the past three and a half months, being so far away from my family.

In one way or another, my tattoo always contained four letters, SJEJ, which stood for Susan, Jay, Ethan, and Jessica.  I had to limit it to just my immediate family, or else the list would have gone far too long and not been at all practical. The location changed several times throughout the decision making process, including the morning of the 23^rd.  The color of the tattoo changed while I was sitting in the chair, literally two minutes before needle hit skin.  Ashleigh made faces at me while I was getting it done—more to distract me from the nerves of “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this” rather than from the pain. (All in all, it really didn’t hurt. Just felt weird.) Now, I have SJEJ tattooed on my left wrist in royal blue ink, the exact size to be perfectly hidden by my watch band.

The other day I told Ashleigh I was considering running away to England again. Again, I’m not sure if knows just how serious I am about the whole thing—but I know that if I really want it, I can ask her to help me make it possible, and Ashleigh is good enough to make sure I get there.  After all, I never thought I would get to stand at the edge of the red carpet for a Harry Potter premiere, or have the guts to get a tattoo.  And I think that marks a great friend.

<3

Cleaning Considerations

I think that my biggest downfall is frustration. Since I was little, I’ve found that a lot of things that I have tried have come relatively easy.  Or, rather, things that I want to do have come relatively easy to me.  So, when I have to actually work for something, I get rather frustrated rather quickly.  To this day, I’m pretty sure the only reason I can’t drive a stick shift with ease is directly related to my own frustration. If I could have gotten my own frustration under control, then I probably could have mastered it.

I need to make sure that I do not let frustration get the best of me in the next couple of years.  Things are going to be tough, and I’m betting that there are going to be at least a hundred things to get frustrated about, probably every day. If I let myself, it will be very easy to quit everything.  It will be very easy to find easier ways to survive—and ten, twenty, thirty years from now, I will be very upset with myself for letting things get out of hand.  I mean, it only took me eight years to be very annoyed with myself that I didn’t learn how to drive a stick shift properly, and that had absolutely nothing to do with my hopes and dreams since childhood. 

So, yeah. These are the things I think about while cleaning coffee urns. It’s probably good that I have the day off tomorrow.

<3 

Ode to a Bookstore

Right now, I am sitting in a Barnes and Noble.  I know that really, I should be trying to support my local bookstores and things of that nature, but there is something about Barnes and Noble that just puts me immediately at ease.  Perhaps it is that I can walk into a Barnes and Noble and walk out without buying something and not feel too terribly guilty because they won’t really suffer from my lack of a book purchase.  Also, free wi-fi, and relatively cheap access to soda and the like.

But really, it’s the familiarity of it all.  No matter where I am—Virginia Beach, Roanoke, Shelton—I can drive to a BN and really feel like I’ve been there before.  My first time in the store it might take a few moments to get situated as to which section is where, but once I’m in between some shelves or bunkered down in an arm chair, I really could be anywhere, whether I want to be closer to home, or further away.  That’s a good feeling.

To change the subject completely: I’ve just looked up and realized that there are outlets on the ceiling.  Why would they put outlets on the ceiling? What’s the point in that? Who is breaking out the ladder to plug things in and dangle them through the room?

Jumping back:  I could continue to ramble about the wonders of BN, or other bookstores of choice, but I’ve found throughout my life that there are bookstore people and non-bookstore people.  Bookstore people know the feeling—the breath of fresh air and the calming wave that just walking into a bookstore provides.  Whether they agree with me or not about chain stories, they still know the feeling and can relate to it.  Non-bookstore people just think I’m crazy, and no matter what I do, I would never be able to explain it to them.  So, I’m not going to waste my breath (typing time?).  I just hope they have something that makes them feel as good as bookstores make me feel. 

<3

Diseased

So, I've had my first post college "failing" as an adult.  Failing is in quotes there because the average human being wouldn't consider it failing, but I still can't help but feel guilty about it.  Today, I had to call out of work.  As we speak, I should be at work, but I'm not. I'm sick.

I had a fever all day yesterday and into last night.  This morning, I had a bit of a fever still, significantly less than yesterday, but decided to go ahead and call out of work. Considering that my job deals with a lot of food and the like, it was probably best for everyone, co-workers and customers alike, if I just stayed home and got some rest, really shook off the fever before returning to work. Rationally I know that it isn't my fault that I got sick, and I did call out with plenty of warning, and really it's probably best that I'm not acting as a typhoid Mary for this silly flu/cold thing that I've got.   But I can't help but feel guilty for not being there today.  And feeling guilty when I realize how much money I'm losing for not going to work, because I could use that money.  Grumble, Grumble. Pointless complaining. There's nothing I can do about it now.  I'm not at work today.  There are worse things in the world, and with any luck it will be forgotten after a manner of time. 

All right, enough of me whining.  I'm going to go take a nap or, I guess, just go to sleep. I've got to be fighting fit for tomorrow.  As sad as it sounds, tomorrow, it's Starbucks or bust.

<3

My Favorite Game

I’ve just returned from sliding around on the kitchen floor in my socks. Why was a twenty-two year old woman slip-sliding around on the linoleum floor?  Because it’s fun that’s why.  I told Kathryn that I was going to fall from the second I started.  I did. Three times, but only twice were accidental.  The third time was because I remembered a game that I used to play as a kid while I was at church waiting for my mother to get out of choir practice, a game that was the bane of the teenager who was watching me. 

The game is very simple, and goes like this.  You spin around as quickly as you can, and don’t let yourself do any of those little trick things like picking a spot to prevent yourself from getting dizzy.  You just spin and let yourself get properly messed up in the head.  Then throw yourself forward to your knees, and then lay flat on the floor, arms and legs splayed, eyes shut.  The floor will rock back and forth, and it feels like you’re one a boat. If you just lay there, eventually the world will stabilize itself again.  Stand up. Repeat the process. 

I thought that perhaps the game might not be as much fun at twenty-two as it was at eight.  I was wrong.  It’s still ridiculously fun.  Hold on. I’m going to go do it again.

Yes.  Good fun. Knees a little bit more sore than when I was eight, but good fun all the same.

I could tie this into some kind of big metaphor about doing something that you know is going to make you fall--or hurt your knees--but you just keep doing it because it’s fun and the fun is worth it.  Blah blah blah.  Really, I just wanted to tell you all about my awesome game. Try it some time.

<3 

Waiting, Wondering, and Wales

I think my biggest problem is waiting.  For a very long time, I really embraced the idea of "All Good Things for Those Who Wait." I still think that's true--but I wonder if I haven't taken it a bit too far.  I've always had an excuse to not do what I want to do--to daydream but not act.  All of them have made sense, and I think that they were the logical thing to do. 

The first time I found myself really saying "I can't do that yet," I was still a teenager, still a high school student.  Getting out of my parents house would be a hell of a trip, I would face all kinds of legal issues, and as a high school dropout I would have been in for a very long and very difficult road.

The next was while I was at Hollins, but by the time that I really truly just wanted to pack and run, I had already sunk so much money (and so much energy) into Hollins that I would have been really upset to walk away without a degree, and that's nothing in comparison to what my parents would have thought about it.  Likely, my father would stop talking to me all together.  While I might have finally been in a place that I wanted to be--I knew I wouldn't be at all happy with the situations that I would be in then with my family.

Now, it's loyalty to a friend.  I went into a yearlong lease with her, and I would not be willing to leave her in the lurch just to fulfill a need to get out of town, to do something that's probably really stupid. 

All very good reasons to wait.  But I don't want to wait anymore.

The other day I half-joked with my mother that I wanted to move to Wales.  I was reminded once again how much I loved visiting there, and how much I liked the way British TV was handled versus American TV, and I told her that my new life goal was to go and work for the BBC.  My mother didn't laugh at me, or suggest I think of something more realistic to do with my life, or even start to worry about the semantics of me actually being able to move out of the country, all options I thought might come from the joke. Instead she said, and I quote, "Well, did you go online and see if you could apply?"

For a moment I was stunned.  I think my response was some kind of sputtering about not even having a passport at the moment.  My mother made the point that if I was going to do something like that, then I should do it now, when the only person I really had to answer to was myself. She countered quickly with a "well, not right now, of course. But--you know what I mean."

And she has a point.  If I'm going to do something insane, "now" is the time to do it. Because of my lease, I'm in Shelton, CT until May.  In between then and now, I'm sure I will change my mind a hundred times--but in May, I am going somewhere.  Somewhere crazy. Somewhere that I'm not sure that I'll actually thrive, but somewhere where I want to go, while I've got the chance to answer only to me. Maybe LA. Maybe Wales. Maybe Australia. Maybe somewhere I haven't even thought of considering yet. But in May--or possibly June--I am going somewhere.

<3

A Random Chain of Thoughts

I haven’t updated for a couple of days because I keep having these spattering of little thoughts, but none that seem important enough to actually dedicate the time to turn them into a full-fledged blog post. So, I’ve decided just to put a couple of these little one or two line thoughts all together and make that a blog post.  After all, I’m nothing if not random.

I finally got a way to watch DVDs in my room since my disc drive on my computer has stopped working. It’s a brilliant relief to me, because it’s so nice to be able to use my DVD collection more frequently and on my own time.  I love it.

It’s occurred to me that I am a girl who learns and remembers and does a lot of different things almost entirely based on what I hear.  I am also a girl who has been slowly losing her hearing all her life, and is rapidly approaching deaf.   Those two things together really seem like they are heading towards disaster.

How old does one have to be before it’s no longer considered “running away”?

If the idea of doing something that should be stressful fills you with a sense of calm, is that a sign that it’s something you should do, or is it a sign that you haven’t really thought it all the way through?

I wish American television companies treated TV the way that British companies did.  While I’m sure that it’s all money motivated (any good company would be) the British just seem to care a lot more about their TV and genuinely want their shows to succeed.  American companies just seem to be too ready to pull the plug if it isn’t wonderfully awesome from the start and already have plans B through X for what to do with that timeslot.  It’s a little bit devastating to realize.

On a slightly similar note, while I do really enjoy some reality TV shows, I am heartbroken to see what it has done to television as a whole.

I finally got my Shelton library card today, and it’s borderline ridiculous how insanely relieved I felt to have that card in my hand.  Libraries are a lot more important to me than I once thought. And that’s saying something, because I thought they were pretty darn important.

Every day is a normal day until something happens to make it special.  What can I do to make today special?

Alright, I think that’s enough rambling from me. If anyone has any answers to the questions I posed in this post, feel free to shoot me a line with the answer.  I would love to have a discussion on any of them. 

One True Love

I have a big shock for you all.  I am absolutely in love.  With television shows. 

I know, I know, it’s a huge surprise to all of you who thought you knew me. “Rebekah? Watching Television? Why I never!”  I’m sure you’re all clutching your chests and passing out onto fainting couches at this very moment.

Well, now that I’m done being sarcastic—I’d forgotten just how much fun it was to dive head first into a new television series, a television drama to be specific.  Comedies’ have their place, but to get really pulled into a good dramatic storyline and a good overarching plot with a big bad, and—oo. There is just nothing like it. It’s a rush.  It’s exhilarating. It’s—addicting. And now I’m beginning to wonder if I have a problem.

NOT THE POINT! The point is: everyone has their thing.  Mine is stories. I love books, and I love movies, but nothing really tells a story like a TV Show. Because that’s all TV shows are. Stories.  Long running stories. Over multiple seasons. That tend to fail miserably towards the end. And wander off in directions that make me very angry. And leave me on awful mid-season cliff hangers where characters make bad decisions. (I’m looking at you, Mike Ross.  Honestly!) But I love them nonetheless.

And really, what is the point in life if you don’t get to revel in experiences that you love?

(Also, it doesn’t hurt when the new drama I’m watching has two very, very attractive leads with beautiful accents.  I’m just saying.)

<3

Me and My Brain

My subconscious and I have a very interesting relationship.  For twenty-two years, it has been trying to tell me important things, and for twenty-two years I’ve been mostly ignoring it. It has come to realize over time that if it wants me to really pay attention to something, it has to smack me in the face. That has led to some very interesting dreams.

Recently, I’ve been having a very interesting pseudo-reoccurring dream. It’s only pseudo-reoccurring because it does change in some of the detail, but there are overarching similarities between the dreams, including the general passing of the dream’s “story line.”  It goes as following: I’m walking along one of the bridge tunnels in the Hampton Roads area, most frequently the HRBT or The Chesapeake Bay Bridge tunnel. I am walking by myself, but I’m passing other people who are walking or biking, occasionally driving, by who will stop to say hello or give me a wave. When I reach the tunnel, I find someone waiting at the end of the tunnel, always someone different but someone I was coming to meet, but I also find that all the lights in the tunnel have gone out, leaving the whole path completely black.  When I try to look past the tunnel, I can see the water stretching out for miles, but I can’t see where the tunnel comes back up or the land on the other side.

I ask the person who I’m standing next to where the tunnel leads, and they tell me that I know, which “I do,” (couldn’t actually tell you, but I’m overwhelmed with the desire to get to the other side of the tunnel.  What I know is that really good things are on the opposite side of that tunnel) but then I ask what’s going on in the tunnel, and I’m met with various responses that are summed up with “Don’t know. Isn’t that half the fun?”

Depending on the night, either I make the decision to walk blindly into the tunnel, or I get scared and turn to walk back towards Virginia Beach instead.  Either way you spin it, I wake up a little bit panicked, either because I was walking in complete darkness, or because I had given up and gone home.

So, here’s my take on the very blunt symbolism of it all.  I know that there are great things waiting for me in the future. I know that if I can suck up the fear and doubt, I can make it through “the tunnel.” The problem is—I don’t know what’s going to happen in that tunnel. I don’t have a clue what I am going to have to face, or how hard I am going to have to work, or even if I can actually make it through the tunnel without getting seriously messed up on the way. But I have to decide if I’m going head into that darkness, or if I’m just going to turn around and head home.  And clearly, I don’t know which way to go.

Anyway, that’s dream reading with Bekah Beth. Tune in tomorrow for something equally pointless that I am equally unqualified to talk about.

<3

A Little Bit of Crazy

I apologize in advanced for the errors in this post.  My in house editor has gone to bed, like any sane person would have done hours ago.  But I wanted to post, so here we go.

I suddenly find myself very grateful for Hollins.  I will never have to be taught how to be a little bit crazy. Hollins let me be just about as crazy as I could handle. From now on, a little bit crazy will be like child's play.  Being a little bit crazy is a part of daily life, and I very rarely go through a day without saying or doing something that could, in general, be considered a bit insane.

But at the same time, I am not at all grateful for Hollins, because it has let me know just what I'm missing.  For four years, Hollins let me be insane with the drop of a hat. I could stand up, make a declaration that I was restless, and instantly, insanity would ensue. With any given moment, I was likely to be flipped on my head by a friend’s idea, or her own restlessness.  We'd be off, and it'd be brilliant. Kelsey would have duct taped herself to a chair, or Emily would show up with a disguise and an alter ego.  Or maybe it would just be a discussion on the writing of different accents, and Amy would go Irish long enough that I started mimicking her and forgot what my own accent was supposed to sound like.

I think that's why I am so Hollins sick. I think that’s why I am so insanely restless.  I haven’t done nearly enough crazy in the four months since I left, and I’m afraid that all that not enough crazy is going to explode into a giant ball of just a little bit too crazy. But I think that just might be a risk that all Hollins women have to take.

Also, I should stop watching sad movies after midnight, no matter how good they are.  It makes it even harder to go to bed.

<3

I'm Fancy!

Okay, so I missed a day.  But I have a good excuse.  I managed to hurt my pinky.  And I know that sounds like quite a silly little complaint, but you’d be amazed how much a little thing like a pinky can really hurt you, and the lack of use of a pinky can really throw things off for a while. 

We’ve determined that it’s most likely not broken, but it might be sprained or jammed or something of that nature.  The fact of the matter is it’s much better today than it was yesterday, so I’m just being too cheap to go to the urgent care when it looks like it’s something that’s going to go away on its own.  I’ve been following the instructions of the many nurses in my family, (ice, immobilization, pain relievers, don’t poke at it while it’s numb) and will continue to do so until the pain and swelling disappear. 

I will say though, I feel like everything I do is “fancy” in the way that things were fancy when I was about eleven years old.  Everything is “Pinky Out.” It’s a good thing I embraced that trend so readily when I was young, because I do think it has helped me do a lot of things today.  Except type.  The splint keeps pressing random keys.  While slightly entertaining, it is also extremely frustrating. I’m almost ashamed to admit how long this has taken me to type because almost any word involving letters typed by my right hand has to be typed twice because I just cannot get the hang of it.

That being said, I’m done for now.  Time for some more ice.

<3

Adventures in People Watching

At work today, a father and (adult) daughter were ordering their drinks and carrying on with an argument.  “You don’t need to protect me anymore,” the daughter insisted, “I know how to take care of myself.”

“I haven’t had to protect you since you were about fourteen, and I am painfully aware of that. But I still think that I am well within my rights to want to protect you.  Is that so wrong?” the father countered. 

The daughter was brought up short by that response, and after a couple of seconds of silence, she twisted the subject of the argument so that she was back on moral high ground. 

I think he has a point.  Perhaps it’s because I’m feeling a little bit guilty about being so short tempered with my own father when discussing my own future and my own wants, but I can certainly see his point. Just because she can take care of herself, doesn’t mean he has to be completely hands off for the rest of his life.  Now, if she decides that she doesn’t want his help or protection, then she is an adult, and it is out of his hands, but—

Here’s me opening a can of worms, but I was having a similar discussion with someone about the prospect of getting married.  She was talking about how she didn’t want a husband who was going to “take care” of her or “protect” her. Something felt off about her argument to me, so I couldn’t agree with her wholeheartedly. Now I know what my counter argument would be. Now, days later when the argument is over and she’s likely forgotten we had the argument in the first place, of course.  So, I’ll tell the internet as a whole in an attempt to pretend that I could’ve held my own rather than just getting flustered and changing the subject.

My counter argument would be, no, I don’t want a husband who has to take care of me or protect me, but I want one who wants to.  And I want one who will when I’m feeling weak and I don’t think I’m capable of standing on my own two feet.

Along the same vein, I will try to be more understanding of my parents and grandparents as they try to help me and protect me.  I won’t let them “protect” me to the point that I don’t get out and do what I want/need to do, but I will understand that they don’t want to see me get hurt.  And I can’t fault them for that.

<3

The Lazy Post

So in the past two weeks, I’ve been referred to by several different accounts as “not lazy.”  These offhand comments are BLOWING MY MIND.   I guess part of growing up and being an “adult” means that I have to realize I’ve changed from when I was a child.  I mean, I know I’m more organized in the good ways, and less in bad ways.  I’m certainly a lot more social, and less socially awkward then I was as a child.  I’m less bratty then I was as a teenager by a long shot. (My mom used to call my bratty side “Addy” as in attitude and would say, “Okay, Addy, we’re not having this argument until Rebekah comes back.”) I am, believe it or not, less random than I was as a child.  Now, I will admit that since the creation of my “to-do list” technique during my junior year of high school, I have been a lot more on the ball when it came to longer term projects and much better about reading on a more daily basis.  And I’ve yet to come across a NaNo that I couldn’t beat.

But, not lazy?  That’s just mind blowing.  I used to say without fail that I was a lazy person.  I did, and probably do still, avoid work when I can.  I hate exercising with a passion.  I have, as my current apartment mate so lovingly called it, “A stronger love for pajamas than anyone else.” But as more people say they don’t consider me lazy, and explain why—well, I don’t know anymore.  Perhaps everyone is lazier or more hardworking in their own heads than what people seem to think of them.  Perhaps everyone has a defining feature, negative or positive, that doesn’t actually define them anymore, but they’re unwilling, or unable, to let it go.  Perhaps (most likely) I am getting way too deep considering that it’s 11:30 at night, and I’m not sure if I should be even getting into deep “psychological” debates at the best of times, let alone sleep deprived evenings. 

Maybe I’m just not quite ready to let go of the bratty little sixteen-year-old that slept through a grand majority of her Physics classes. 

Ah, the wonders of growing up.

Three posts in three days?  Maybe I am less lazy than anticipated.

<3

School Less Student

So, it’s official. After yesterday, this is the longest I’ve ever been not in school since I was three.  I was one of those strange children that actually got really excited for the school year to start every September (New Notebooks, New Pens, New Books—What’s not to like?), so it’s been particularly hard for me this year.  I actually got a little choked up when I saw a school bus dropping kids off today. 

Okay, maybe not choked up, but I was sad. 

As strange as it sounds--and maybe I won’t think it in a day or two--but I think that “not being in school” is actually my least favorite part of being an adult.  Paying my own bills I can deal with.  Having to be “responsible” and “mature” I can handle.  Not being a hundred percent sure what to do with my life is nothing new.  But not going to class?  Not having homework? Not attending lectures and discussions and all the things of that nature?  That’s heartbreaking to me.  As stressful as it all was at the time, I really loved it.

I’m trying that “teach yourself” thing.  I’m learning vocab words for a graduate test I never plan to take. I’ve looked up places online that swear they’ll help me learn a new language (Whether I believe them or not…).  I’m considering buying workbooks or other things that I can play around with. I have learned more about coffee growth, roasting, and brewing then I ever cared to in the past month and a bit. I’ve upped my daily reading and writing goals.  But none of it compares with the idea of getting up and going to school. 

I don’t know.  I’m sure my affection for school will die down very, very quickly when that letter informing me it’s time to start paying off those student loans shows up at my doorstep.  Until then--

If anyone has any suggestions on fun things to study or a topic that might be interesting to read up on, please let me know.  It’s fun to have things to study.

Until next time,

<3 

The Beginning--

This is the story of how I got to Los Angeles.

Now, that’s a very bold claim, for many reasons.  The first is that I’m currently sitting in Shelton, CT with almost no concrete plans or ideas about how to get to Los Angeles besides, “just get there.”  The second is that, like all previous blogs I’ve attempted to start, this is likely to be four or five entries in a row, then an entry every four or five months until it eventually just gets abandoned all together.  But then again, I did put this in my planner to do every day—so maybe.

Here’s the deal.  I’ve secretly wanted to move to Los Angeles since I was about eleven years old.  I never really wanted to be an actor (the idea of being on screen terrifies me a little), but instead I wanted to write, or possibly direct.  In my mind, it was the best of both worlds.  I was unlikely to reach any level of insane celebrity which meant that people were looking at me all the time, but I could still help create the stories that I hoped someday people would come to love the way I loved my television shows and movies.  I was so into the idea during middle school that my friends, a group of thirteen year olds, all chipped in together to buy me a video camera for Christmas, which I literally carried around with me every day until I finally ran the poor thing into the ground and it ceased to function.

That dream “died” through the beginnings of high school, when I wasn’t entirely sure if I ever wanted to move away from my hometown, and the idea of the probably inevitable failure loomed over my head.  My dream switched from the world of television and movies, a dream where I would have to move halfway across the country to fail, to a dream of becoming a novelist, where I could fail in the privacy of my own home. That was my dream through high school and was the way I geared myself when I started looking for a university.

So I went to school for English.  I had every intention of becoming a novelist come hell and high water. And because of some good film professors, a great English teacher, and a then acquaintance (later to become an apartment mate)’s casual suggestion that I might looking into screenwriting instead of novels, I started thinking about film and being that kind of writer again.

I made my official decision to change my mind too late in my college career to make film my major.  I dropped a psychology minor and tacked the film minor on instead.  I started looking at grad schools for film, knowing full well I couldn’t afford them, but daydreamed of just maybe ending up somewhere where I would get my foot in the door.

Well, for a variety of reasons, I have decided that if opportunity isn’t going to knock, if that door isn’t going to open wide enough for me to stick my foot in, then I’m just going to have to make a door of my own.  I hope that’s what this blog is going to be the story of. It’s going to be random thoughts from my brain, both relating to and having nothing to do with Los Angeles.  It’s going to be a source of constant embarrassment for my future self when I read back on some of the things that I’m going to write. It’s going to be a point of pride when I look back and find that one line or section that I really wrote well.  It’s going to be a little bit random, a lot a bit crazy, and completely and utterly Rebekah Elizabeth.

So, goals.  One: Save enough money to actually be able to afford moving to California.  Two: Apply for jobs that I am likely wildly unqualified for in a desperate attempt to justify being out there.  Three: Overcome my lack of self-confidence/ distaste of asking for help and let friends help me where they can and are willing to.  Four: Write here, frequently. Hold myself accountable for this blog now that I’ve started it. Five: Stop believing that this all is mostly impossible.

I don’t think these are particularly far reaching goals. And yet—

Well, I think that’s the end of that for now.  I guess I will just have to talk to you all later. 

Ish.

<3