Taxes or How I Would Run the Government

So the other day I was thinking about taxes. It's something I like to do when I have nothing else to think about and feel like being unnecessarily worked up over something I'm not completely educated in. Anyway, I was thinking about the division of taxes, you know? Like, how when the Man takes out the money from you paycheck, he decides how to divvy it up. So even if you're a hard core Republican right wing wacko (this is not to say that it's bad if you are right wing, I'm just using a stereotype) your money will still go to those horrible Liberal government programs like Obamacare. And vice versa.

What if you could decide where your money went in the government? Like, you had a minimum amount of money you had to give to the feds, but you chose where it went. So the liberals could give all their money to the programs they initiated, and conservatives could do the same (not that it would be regulated. If the staunchest right wing nut job wanted to give all his money to federal aid programs, so be it).

Basically the idea here is that a person has a fixed rate they need to give to the government, both state and federal levels, and then they figure out how much money that actually is. Once they know how much they're giving away, they can divide the money into the areas they want the money to go to. So I, for example, would happily pour my money into education, public safety, and the military. And every year you could choose to either keep the same sections as last year, or update them based on your changing perceptions to the political environment.

As you can see, I haven't completely fleshed this idea out, it's just a sketch. But I love this one, and the when I brought it up in class, my professor told me he agreed wholeheartedly, so I thought I'd put it out onto the interwebs.

Writing Challenge Day 2 - Untitled Prompt

I've been toying around with the idea of a prompt about a girl, probably my age, who's in this totally unfulfilling relationship with a guy. He's a little older than she (I'm 17 and the guy I'm basing this off off is 20) and it's mostly a physical relationship. She has few feelings for this guy. He's the only one who pays her any attention, and she was flirting with him because she likes being paid attention to, and likes the feeling of victory she gets whenever flirting progresses into something more, but there was nothing more than that, and she has no idea how to extricate herself from the relationship without there being some seriously weird consequences afterwards (they work together, so it would be very strange if they saw each other later. And all the magazines warned against workplace romances).

"Hey, you wanna come over this weekend?" he asked, looking at her hopefully. Her eyes glazed a little, and she processed the pros and cons of another weekend together. She wasn't sure how she had let the relationship go this far. She was just not interested in him, but she couldn't start refusing him without it being suspicious. Another dull Saturday would end up with him playing video games while she sat next to him, trying not to fall asleep. He'd want to sleep together and she'd comply because she was bored and wow, what a shitty forecast for the weekend.

She smiled, "yeah, sure, I'd love to come over," she said, the words slipping easily out of her mouth. He smiled back at her, then she grabbed his belt loop and pulled him in for a kiss. She claimed his mouth; he was very passive when it came to physical interaction and allowed her to take charge. He said she was passionate. She was just pissed.

The guy who I'm basing my male character off of smokes, and I wanted that to effect her too. I think she'll pick up the habit without even thinking about it. A very obvious symbol of how the relationship is impacting her.

"But that's not even funny," he said, after a pause.
She took a drag off her cigarette. Her eyes were dead as she said, "it's funny because I hate everyone."
He smiled and nodded like he understood. She knew he didn't, and his feigned interest made her more upset. If he really didn't want to listen to her, he could just tell her to be quiet. Or change the subject. Or bring something to the table himself, just once. But she knew he wouldn't. Because he was the most spineless individual she'd ever met, and being around him made her physically ill, but she still couldn't bring herself to leave him. She could find a way to look him in the eyes and say that she was through with him and all of his emotional bullshit, just like she'd done many times in the mirror.
 

She'd rehearsed and rewritten her breakup speech many times. Sometimes she'd said it quietly, whispering as though he might start to cry, reassuring him it wasn't his fault. Sometimes she'd screamed it, loud enough to make her own ears ring, pouring forth her irritation and disappointment in herself and him, making sure he knew just how much she loathed him. One draft contained many curse words, another none. Occasionally she cried, most times she hoped he did. One draft was very gentle, another was venomous. She spent more time thinking about how to break up with him than anything else, and it was making her irritable. She snapped at people at work, hung up on people when she didn't feel like talking. The relationships she felt she could control were taking a beating because she was coddling the one she hated the most. People began to pull away from her, and this made her even more angry and depressed. Her terrible boyfriend indirectly cost her a best friend and the peace with her parents.

Inadvertent Cockblock

Today I rode the late bus, because I missed my regular bus by about four minutes. Being an interloper on this bus, I was unlearned on the seating chart. This is a very important part of school life, where you sit on the bus and who you sit with. It seems like a simple thing, but sitting next to the same person for 40 minutes can get really weird if you don't know them and don't have a portable music device (I forgot my earphones).
I boarded the late bus, looking for an open seat, and literally every seat had at least one person in it. This usually means that seats are being saved. If a seat is being saved, you can't take it, it's just a rule. Even if all the other seats are taken, if someone behind you in line has the forethought to get someone to guard a seat for them, you're SOL. If someone messes up the seating system on our regular bus, people get really angry.
I board the bus, and make my way to the back, where I have friends. However, they're sitting together, which means I needed to find a new seat. There was one with a girl sitting in it, and without even thinking I just sat down.
As I realized what a grievous mistake I had made, I went to ask her if she was saving. I turned to her, saying, "oh God, I'm sorry, were you saving this seat," and I saw she was looking at the guy behind me, who, as I turned to him, was staring at me. And oh my Lawd, he was hott.
My eyes went wide, she was saving this seat, and like some entitled asshole I just sat down.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, do you want-" I began to stand up so he could take my seat.
"Nah, it's cool," he said, and just sat down in the seat in front of me. She looked cute and he was hot and I'd just inadvertently cockblocked the two of them, most notably her. A whole 40 minute bus ride and I felt terrible. If I had been saving a seat for someone as good looking as him, and I was going to have his undivided attention for over half an hour, and some chick just sat down without asking, I would have politely pushed her right off the seat.
I cannot believe she didn't try to kill me. I scooted over until I had about one cheek on the seat. If I was going to ruin her bus ride, might as well take up as litte space as possible. I consoled myself with the idea that maybe he'd wait for her when we got to school.
The bus pulled in, I stood up as fast as possible, and looked over. He was just now putting his earbuds in, opening up Pandora, and booking it the hell off the bus. He left her in the dust. I felt so bad. I wanted to crawl into some small hole and quietly expire.
I made sure to get the hell away from her too, just in case she decided to kill me for completely shutting her down. 

It's Valentine's Day!

The number of cheesy teddy bears, ugly balloons, and cheap chocolate I've seen and school has only just started. Ah yes, the bitter perfume of jealous, I wear it well, don't I? But really, I think my favorite part of Valentine's Day is remembering the real story of St. Valentine, looking at all these dumb boys who spent too much money on nothing, and being single and bitter. At least I can burn calories laughing when people ask me if I have a valentine.

For those unwashed masses who don't know, St. Valentine was a priest who practiced during the 3rd century. Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, so he outlawed marriage for young men. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine's actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death. So Valentine's Day marriages, as schlocky as they are, make more sense than buying drug store chocolates in a box shaped like a heart. Over-sized teddy bears and shiny, foil balloons are an unnecessary commercialization of what could be a very beautiful holiday (granted people say that about Christmas, forgetting that it is, in fact, a completely commercial holiday, since Jesus was actually born sometime in March, and the committee that convened to decide on dates of important things for the Catholic Church, decided to move the birthday of their most important prophet to around the same time as the pagan celebration of Saturnalia, so that pagans who converted would feel some sense of familiarity with the new religion. Christmas is completely commercial, created to sell a religion).

However, it's fun to see the trappings of Valentine's Day all over the school. Girls hitting people in the face with their balloons ("accidentally" of course), eating their chocolates in class (not that they can share, of course), and cooing over the horrible cards their boyfriends got them ("Roses are red, violets are blue, this unoriginal, and so are you"). Wow, I really am bitter. I should probably either get a boyfriend, or give up on idea of love.

I do like the idea of looking at Valentine's Day as a celebration of love, rather than a bastardization of a simple holiday. We listened to Pablo Neruda poetry in creative writing the other day, and I was reminded why I love poetry. Poetry can make you feel things; it puts into words what you've felt but couldn't say. You are struck by the realization that you have felt what the poet is writing, but you didn't know it until now. Neruda's words flow and mesh and they connect into some of the most beautiful lines I've ever read. Except for John Keats, he's still my favorite.

"O BLUSH not so! O blush not so! 

Or I shall think you knowing; 

And if you smile the blushing while, 

Then maidenheads are going."

-"O Blush Not So" by John Keats 

I mean, you think, because of the flowery language it's going to be a sweet, beautiful poem, but if you read it, it clearly says, "gurl, it looks like you and I are on the same page. If you keep looking at me like that, you gon' get the D." Shakespeare also writes like this, and that's why I have no patience for people who say they don't like poetry. It's because you don't know what you're reading or how to find exciting poetry. But if we're looking for romance, John still delivers.

"Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-- 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night 

And watching, with eternal lids apart, 

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, 

The moving waters at their priestlike task 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-- 

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast 

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 

And so live ever--or else swoon to death."

-"Bright Star" by John Keats 

Sure, one of his more famous poems, but let's break it down here. He's saying, basically, that he wishes he were a star, but not in the way that a star is removed, priest-like, and alone, forced to remain separated from the earth as one who takes a religious vow. Rather, he were a star in the way they are absolute and never-changing, so he could be a star, and exist forever on the bosom of the woman he loves, listening to her breathe (which is unnervingly beautiful. Wanting to listen to someone breathe sounds creepy, but actually comes off kind of sweet) and if he cannot be with her forever, he'd rather die. Like, damn, you go John Keats. You can be my bright star any day.

And now, to finish this post that had no direction and meandered everywhere, I will give you a small selection of my favorite valentines, thanks to the internet:



Pretty much my goal every Valentine's Day

And my all time favorite:

Look, she even kind of looks like me!

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

- Pablo Neruda, "Love Sonnet XVII"

Writing Challenge Day 1 - Prompt

Working on Stephen King's quote about the muse, I'm going to have write everyday either during 1st period, like now, or as soon as I get home. I can't have any excuses. But what I do need is prompts.

My mother recently gave me one: it's a take on Wuthering Heights, since we were joking that the golf course next to our house is like the moorland or the heath (which it really isn't. If you've ever been to either you know that the heath is a flat area of land with grass and scrubby shrubs, but few trees, and the moorland is essentially an elevated version of the heath, and they are seasonally waterlogged). So it's about a boy and a girl and they're separated by the golf course. Ah, young love and the troubles of distance and parents. Oh wait, was that Romeo and Juliet I heard? Maybe, but what can I say... "good artists borrow, great artists steal."

I'm also concurrently working on a 4,000+ word story about a futuristic soldier who is accidentally sent to the middle ages. Being a super-soldier is tough in 1042 C.E.

More soon, class is ending.

My Personal Writing Challenge

It's been a long time since I've posted anything, and that's really my fault. Well, obviously it's my fault, no one else runs this blog. But, I haven't been discplining myself the way I should be. Writing isn't something I should be doing as a past-time, or when I feel like I can be bothered. Like Stephen King said:

"There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative-fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think this is far? I think it’s fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist (what I get out of mine is mostly surly grunts, unless he is on duty), but he’s got the inspiration. It’s right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There’s stuff in there that can change your life."
 

He goes on to say that the muse doesn't just come at your beck and call. You have to write everyday, at the same time everyday, and then when the muse knows that you'll be there, he'll show up to use some of that magic dust on you, and you'll write well.

 My creative writing teacher also told the class about a girl who challenged herself to post on her blog once a day for a hundred days. Well, I don't know about a hundred days, I don't even know if I want a time limit/expectation, but I do know that I really need to start writing again. I can't, for the life of me, get anything together. My notebook is filled with stories that I wasnt to finish, but I can't (I am already 11 pages into a long Sterek AU, but I can't finish it. I just got so overwhelmed by its scope, that I sort of shut down). Stories that are two paragraphs from being done, but I haven't published (I'm looking at you, Phlochte fic). And I have so many story ideas bouncing around my head that I can't even keep track of them (I'll write them down here and begin working on them, one at a time).

So if you, my followers, will bear with me here, I would like to write to you, about anything, once a day at least. It could be my life (school is winding down, but still as ludicrous as ever. Also, graduation is coming up and senior year is extra stupid) or some fiction writing (I just need to write stuff down). I'm not sure.

So this is going to be a pot-luck writing challenge. And if you have anything you want me to write about, always feel free to leave a comment and I can probably do something with it.

Makeup test: Urban Decay Primer Potion

Today was my job hunting day. I dolled myself up, put on my second best push-up bra (the best was in the wash), and printed about a bazillion copies of my resume. I sprizted on my Juicy Couture Viva la Juicy (fresh, fruity, makes me feel like an adorable, coquettish girl with a hint of sex. Beyonce's Heat, which is my clubbing scent, felt a little too sexy, and therefore rather inappropriate), rolled on my deodorant, and applied makeup.
I followed the standard steps, primer, concealer, foundation, blush. But my face is really not where I shine, makeup wise. It's my eyes. And what good is all the eyeshadow in the world if it creases up? I don't know, and I can say that from experience. However I found Jesus in a bottle. It's called Urban Decay's Primer Potion and it's been out on the market for about a century, so I'm sorry for being so late on the bandwagon. Unfortunately the first couple of times I used it it didn't work. Today, for some reason though, it worked. My eyeshadow hasn't creased or moved yet, and I put it on at 8 this morning (that means it's now 9 hours and counting). It even kept my liquid eyeliner from flaking, for which I praise the gods. Or maybe that demon I sacrificed those 24 virgins to. Either way my Primer Potion did it's job to help me get a job so I applaud the power of positive thought.
For anyone who is looking for an eye primer, I have found your option. You can get a lot of mileage out of one bottle, but it costs your first-born child, so be aware of that. Also Urban Decay eyeshadows are great. I layered them on top of the UD primer, so maybe that was actually it. Keeping all of my products within the same company. It wasn't those 24 virgins. I guess I should start work on an apology.

This is my face. That is my makeup. I had on lip color, but it wore off. Don't look at the Beanie Baby in the background. Yes, this really is my room.