Lottery Tickets and Cigarettes?

Well, I made it. 

I don't feel any different. That's kind of how I feel every May 1st. Exactly the same. Except for my second or third birthday, which was when I finally understood what was actually going on. Other than that, I'm always overwhelmed with the sense of uniformity the first of May always brings about. 

This birthday is the birthday I've wanted since sixth grade, probably. I've always wanted to be about ten years older than I really am. My age is always something I've tried to escape. Maybe it's because a part of me has always been running ahead of where I chronologically am. In my mind, eighteen was always that magic age when I'll finally have arrived. For the entirety of my adolescent years, I've imagined midnight on May 1st, 2009 to be filled with...well, with something.

Somewhere, my childhood escaped me. But, it's not like I woke up one morning (or stayed awake one morning) and realized that I wasn't a kid anymore. It's a process. How's that for the obvious observation of the month?

Growing up is in the present tense for a reason; it's always happening. 

Speaking of presents, I'm older. For my birthday, I would like my childhood back. 

It's not that I'm not excited about getting older and all the new experiences that entails. I'm really excited about my life. Childhood is just one of those things that doesn't come back. Not even for a long weekend. 

A part of me wishes I could be digging in the sandbox, instead of digging for information in the utterly helpless library at school. I'd rather be able to go to the park and just swing, instead of going to work and having to deal with people angry about the amount of whipped cream I put on their hot fudge sundae. I'd give almost anything to be able to play in the awesome fantasy world my best friend and I created in first grade, instead of playing with reality.

Maybe my exposure to reality is what gave my growing up such a jump-start. When I look at people who are eleven or twelve right  now, I'm always struck by just how childish they really are. The things they do and talk about are anything but similar to what was on my mind at eleven and twelve. 

When I was eleven, I was trying to figure out what the meaning of life is. No joke. It kept me tearfully awake just about every single night. I also got my braces taken off that year. When I turned twelve, it got more intense. The search for life's meaning, that is. I remember being struck my own emptiness almost daily throughout most of seventh grade. I was still immature, but it was the kind of immaturity that almost realized its own existence. My immaturity contributed to my emptiness. It didn't make sense how one part of me could be dealing with such weighty things, and another part could just want to do dumb things like playing in the mud. It was too late to go back to the mud, though. My childhood had already mostly flown by.

And now I'm here. I'm still struck by my own immaturity at times, although I like to think of myself as mature on the whole. I'm still aware of emptiness from time to time, although it's mostly that of those around me. I'm still searching for my life's exact meaning, although I do have a firm grip on its general meaning. I still have my braces off, although I do wear a retainer every night. So, in a way, I guess I still am the same person.

'60s, hippies, etc.

I usually don't do journal style blog posts, where I talk about what's going on in my life. Mostly, that's because I'm fairly convinced that nobody cares all that much. Today, though, I'm really in the mood. 

For my honors history class, I have to write a final paper on any topic relating to western civilizations, as long as it dates from the 1700s to the present day. I picked hippies and the counter cultural/anti-war movements of the 1960s. 

Just for kicks, I used Google Images to search for photos of "hippies." I thought you might enjoy this one:

It goes along perfectly with a book I came across in my research. Apparently, the school's library search engine thought this book would come in handy. 

My Hippie Grandmother is a children's book written by Reeve Lindbergh, whoever that is. The basic focus of the story is on a young girl's relationship with her grandmother, who drives a purple bus and "hasn't cut her hair since nineteen sixty-nine." Together, the pair work in Grandma's organic garden and participate in anti-war protests outside of City Hall.

Oh, and the hippie grandmother's cat is named Woodstock. That just might be the most important detail.

Anyway, this paper. 

I went to the library and got about five books on hippie-related subjects. Actually, I got exactly five books on hippie-related subjects. I realized that I really miss doing research with actual books, instead of just typing things into Google.

Maybe I should become a hippie and reject all forms of modern information-getting. I should live in a cabin on top of a hill and grow my own food in a garden in my backyard. I'll become a vegetarian and I won't drive my hippie bus very often, unless I find time to create my own form of oil for it to run. You know, it's to save the environment and everything. If I have to, I'll get a horse and a buggy to travel from place to place.

Or would that be considered Amish?

un-hippielike quote of the day: "a large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of." [jane austen]

(noun) trib'-yah-LAY-shahn

Here I am, sitting in the school library. I'm people-watching, because I finished all my statistics homework within a reasonable amount of time today. I'm pretty sure that no one cares about how I spend the minutes of my free time, so if anyone actually is reading this, they are no doubt wondering 'why.' 

Why indeed. 

It's a good question. A lot is packed into that one three letter word. No matter what it's asked about, 'why' can easily be considered the Superman of questions (or whatever other comic book character you happen to think the most worthy, I guess). 

It's a heartbreaking question, to ask as well as to hear. Asking 'why' when you know that no one has a real answer, at least not one they're going to give you, is frustrating at best. It's tragically pitiful at worst. Being asked 'why' when you don't even know yourself is probably one of the hardest things, really whatever that 'why' might be relating to. It would be so much easier if life just was, without having to be explained. 

It's like in math class, where all the answers are just supposed to be. No questions asked. 2+2=4. But, in my statistics class, our instructor will constantly ask us 'why.' Why do you use the binomial formula in this instance, but not in the other instance? Why does the probability equal .5? 

But, then, you can ask 'why' about much more difficult things. Why am I so alone so much of the time? Why is he not talking to me anymore? Why is my life falling apart, when all the lives around me are staying perfectly intact?

Why indeed. 

For the most part, I don't have the answers. I don't know why the quartiles in a certain data set are what they are anymore than I know why you had to lose someone so important to you. I think I remember someone saying that it's not always important to have the answers, provided you can ask the right questions. 

Really?

As long as someone has the answers, I guess that's an acceptable statement. But, it doesn't give that qualifier. What's the point of asking questions if you never ever hear an answer? 

And yet, I'm never going to get all the answers to all my questions. Maybe I'll figure some out. Maybe someone will be able to tell me 'why' in a few circumstances. But, every question I have? There's no way all of those will be answered. Although it's kind of frustrating to think about, I'm pretty sure that most of my questions will remain unanswered. 

Such as, WHY is there an obnoxiously large dinosaur statue, painted with the most seizure-inducing colors, being stored in the back of library?

"Stuffed deer heads on walls are bad enough, but it's worse when they are wearing dark glasses and have streamers in their antlers because then you know they were enjoying themselves at a party when they were shot." [ellen degeneres = awesome]

So Much Love (yes, i do name blog posts after what comes up on my ipod's shuffle. sheesh.)

I have this full length mirror in my bedroom. It's slightly classy. Maybe someday I'll take a picture of it. 

I have this habit of looking at myself. If a mirror isn't available, I'll use windows, puddles, shiny cars, or your sunglasses. This full length mirror makes looking at myself so much more convenient. 

I'm probably not the right person to have a full length mirror, or any object I can see a reflection in for that matter. Looking at myself has always caused me so much more grief than it should. I remember times when I would end up sobbing, all because my reflection just happened to catch me off guard. 

Lately, though, looking at myself in my mirror has put different kinds of thoughts in my head. Sure, I still see the things I wish didn't exist. That's just not what looking at myself makes me think about. 

I'm really just nothing special. 

My whole life I've been told I was special. Mr. Rogers had me convinced by the age of three. I was the first grandchild, so that automatically made me a big deal. When I could memorize those AWANA books cover to cover in second and third grade, I got super proud of myself. In sixth grade, when I scored at the college reading level, I knew I was special. In high school, when I would compare the person I was to the people my peers were, I had this idea of being miles ahead of them on the maturity scale. And then the big one. I finished high school a whole year early. Woah; I'm so special. 

Not really. 

For the most part, this past year has instilled a good sense of my normal-ness. Really, I'm not as different as I naively used to think I was. That's not to say I've become a conformist. I still think I'm strongly individualistic. 

I'm really just nothing special.

I like knowing that. It's actually very comforting. There's a lot more pressure involved if you're "special." You have to live up to certain expectations. I'm not complacent, though. I don't want to be mediocre in life. The more special I am, though, the better I supposedly am than everyone else. It's kind of complicated to explain, I guess. 

It's not like I'm normal now, so I can fit in. It's not like I all of a sudden have given up on attaining anything worth attaining. It's more of an adequate sense of myself as compared to the universe. It makes me feel small. The good kind of small. 

I'm really just nothing special.

And I wouldn't change that for anything. 

let no one who loves be unhappy. even love unreturned has its rainbow james barrie