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.

Best Dry Shampoo: Suave Professionals and Not Your Mother's

I let about a day or two go between hair washes, because I have delicate locks and I try not strip them of the oils they need to stay healthy. However in between washes the roots can get a little lank, and that is by far the worst look, since my actual hair will have lots of body and volume, but the roots just kind of lay there. So you can imagine my happiness when the hair care industry created dry shampoo. Perfect for the lifeless roots I get, you just spray it on and let it absorb all the oils you don't need.
However with all the commercial success of dry shampoos, there are a lot of different options and some work better than others. I've tried a bunch of different brands and have picked my top two companies: Suave Professionals and Not Your Mother's.
I had the great fortune to get the Suave Professionals dry shampoo as a sample, but for what a five ounce can costs ($3.50 at CVS), it's a good bargain. The small trial size can I had lasted me a long time, and every time I used it it delivered the same amount of product, provided you shake it. It sprays on white and a little damp, but after it dries just rake it into your roots with your fingers to make it blend in and it delivers great results. It instantly restores a bunch of volume and absorbs the oil from your roots, making them looking matte and freshly washed. For curly hair, try the foam version of dry shampoo, however I can tell you that I have exceptionally curly/wavy hair and the dry shampoo works just fine for roots.

The 5 oz. can of Suave Professionals Dry Shampoo

The Suave Professionals Waterless Foam Shampoo

The other dry shampoo that I swear by, and this one happens to be my favorite, is the dry shampoo by Not Your Mother's. There's not much difference between dry shampoos, but for some reason this one works the best. Shake it and it sprays on a nice layer of powder, white like Suave, and it drys a little faster. Then when raked through the roots in blends in nicely and soaks up every particle of oil you don't want.
However words don't mean as much as a presentation, so I used Not Your Mother's the other day and took some pictures to prove how well it works. Here's my lank hair before I put any on; notice how lank the right side of my hair is.

My hair before using Not Your Mother's dry shampoo

It sprays on white, like I said. Leave it until it gets dry, since it also sprays on a little damp. 

My hair with Not Your Mother's dry shampoo on

After it dries, run it through your roots with your fingers, and TA-DA! Brand new volume! Notice how large it is on top. I love this dry shampoo brand; the results it delivers are great and consistent.

After using Not Your Mother's dry shampoo

TRESemme Split Ends hair care

Recently I got my hands on the new TRESemme Split Remedy hair care line, and I was a excited to try it out. I have a lot of split ends, and if I can finally find a shampoo and conditioner that actually seals up my little split ends, it would be a God send. However, at first, I must admit, I was bit skeptical. After all, how many times can you here "80% of your target problem is gone within a certain amount of washes" before you become immune to their promises? On top of that, TRESemme is a fairly expensive brand, so it's good to know what you're getting before forking over the cash for a two large bottles.
Thankfully TRESemme went and proved me wrong. They assured me that if I used their shampoo and conditioner every time I showered, after three washes I would see 80% less split ends, and it would protect my hair against future splits, and leave my hair "soft, smooth, and salon-fresh looking" I actually saw less split ends after my first wash alone! After 3 consecutive washes, the vast majority of my split ends were gone, and my hair was full and healthy. Not only that, but this shampoo and conditioner smell fantastic. After washing your hair, the scent sticks around for two days at least, should you skip a day in between hair washes. My hair is amazingly soft, light, and bouncy, and responds to straightening and curling just as well as ever!
If you are looking for a great shampoo and conditioner to get rid of split ends (because summer is the time to get them, with the pool chlorine and sun damage), then get the TRESemme Split Remedy shampoo and conditioner. It smells fantastic, works quickly, and leaves hair softer and stronger than before.

TRESemme Split Remedy shampoo

TRESemme Split Remedy Conditioner

Deciding to Branch Out

My dearest non-existent readers (unless of course the elusive reader exists, in which case please make yourself known), I've decided to branch out. In the blogging sphere of course; I'm not about to actually leave my house.
My first venture is a dating site specific to Phoenix, AZ. I know this may not appeal to many of you, but if it does, pop on over and give it a look. I've only just started, and right now it's in its fledgling state as I try to figure out how this whole deal is going to work. Maybe I can work in some freebies and prizes to up traffic. Free tickets to various theatre and museum showings? I'm still not sure, as you can tell: http://dating-ideas-phoenix.blogspot.com/
Another blog I plan to start up is one dealing with beauty products, from bath soap to mascara and everything in between (basically if it makes you look or feel good then it'll be up there at some point). This one will probably have a lot of giveaways and freebies, because I'm nice. I haven't started this one yet... but soon :)
This will require a time commitment on my part, so if I start to fall behind on posting, you'll understand since it will probably be due to school. But never fear, as I live by Mark Twain's words: "I never let schooling interfere with my education."
When the beauty blog is up and running, I'll let you know!

Graduation

It was recently graduation for class of 2012 at my high school, and my entire Facebook wall was crammed with all the seniors cyber-crying over what it represented. However I felt that the seniors (most of them) are being over emotional and forgetting just what really happens in real life.

"OMG, graduation! I'll miss everybody I've ever met ever! Suddenly everyone I went to school with is the most amazing individual and I will keep you all in my hearts for the rest of my life!"
I mean, no offense, but bitch, pls, you're going to forget about them by next week. Does nobody realize that later in life, after you have all graduated from college and gotten jobs, none of you (well, the ones whose peak years weren't high school. Uncle Rico, I'm looking at you) will even be speaking to the people you went to high school with? The only people with whom it would make sense to remain in contact with would be your very best friends from high school, the ones you grew up with and shared large amounts of time with. People who really changed your life. And I'm pretty sure that not everybody in the class of 2012 changed your life. 
Now, granted, I cannot say I speak from experience. I still have one more year of high school to complete before I can put my jaded hypothesis to the test. But from the stories and complaints via my parents and relatives, most people don't keep on touch with anyone from high school. 
Perhaps I'm being a bit disingenuous, since I'm sure that Miss Preppy Cheerleader/Dancer with 1000+ Facebook friends will totally remember all of them and what they did together by the time the 5 year reunion rolls around, but for the majority of high school seniors they will graduate, college, and then job without thinking about their classmates from high school too many times.
And for those seniors who graduate just to dwell on the people and things they did in high school, please, do us all a favor and look at your life, look at your choices. Because they clearly aren't working to your advantage. 

"I Have a Whole Armada of Ships That No One Approves Of"

After a recent discussion with a friend of mine (or series of discussion; she and I butt heads often) I have come to realize that many of my "ships" (relationships, for those of you not in the know. A fandom term. A better definition here) are not universally accepted. In fact, only a few of them are actually liked. Perhaps if I give you a list and a description of each, you'll understand.

First fandom: Sherlock
I ship the requisite Johnlock, I mean, how can you not? The ship fuels itself, but I also ship Sherlock/Moriarty, which is one that not many people ship. I find this a bit sad, because they are clearly made for each other. But perhaps the reason I ship it is because I enjoy mutually-destructive relationships. I mean, what good can really come from have a high-functioning sociopath and high-functioning psychopath in a relationship together? Probably nothing, but some really good fights.

"Nemesis" by Montya on DeviantArt

Fandom: Marvel/Avengers
This is the one my friend and I fight about often. She ships Steve/Tony big time, and I just can't get it. I feel like Steve is just too All-American boy scout to be gay, even for Tony. However, I personally ship Tony/Loki. I mean seriously, think about it. Tony is a manipulative, charming playboy who feels that no one is really worth his time, and Loki is a hot-headed god who also feels that no one is worth his time. When they meet each other, they've both just found the one person who doesn't kowtow to them based on reputation alone. Neither one really respects the other, and so their competitive nature comes out. When Loki finds someone who doesn't grovel he feels the need to break them, but Tony won't be broken, and vice versa. I feel that this relationship is actually a good one, because they come in as equals who don't respect each other, and over time they do. So basically Tony/Loki for the win.

FrostIron - Morning Sunshine by AlexZoe on DeviantArt

"Tony x Loki" by Cheezah on DeviantArt

Fandom: Supernatural
Here's the big one. I ship Wincest really hard. And I know that after the frist season came out, it was the biggest ship in the fandom, but seriously, who actually ships two brothers together (other than those weirdos who ship Thor/Loki. I just can't)? But I do, and it's the one ship that I pour the most time into. As one Tumblrer put it, "you start to ship Wincest, but you don't really think about it, and then Wincest comes in and takes over your life." And it really does. I used to be the world's biggest Johnlock shipper, until I got into Supernatural, and now all of my other ships are on the back burner because of Wincest. I write, I draw, I read... all Wincest. I haven't actually read a different slash pairing fanfic in months. Mmm, Wincest. Or as I like to put it:
Friend: "Remember, gay porn over incest!"
Me: "Or both, since I ship Wincest!"
Friend: "..."

"SPN+ Chaste kiss" by Leyla-Lovely on DeviantArt

At any rate, there are planty of ships I sail that others approve of, and so I won't be stopped by just a few "haters." So ship who you want and ship who you like, because... it makes you feel good (I just wanted to use those Nicki Minaj lines.)

Don't ever stop shipping!

Tanner Foust and my inability to flirt

As a follow up to my earlier post about Tanner Foust, here are some shots of the lovely man himself, looking pensive and serious, shot in very deep black and white. Because that's the one adjective you can clearly apply to him. Deep. Or at least you can apply it to me. 

And an adorable Instagram picture he tweeted. Why is he so cute?

I won't apologize for my complete lack of shame. I'm not sorry. But look at me. Look at my life, look at my choices. Maybe he'll stop by Firebird Raceway sometime soon and I can abduct him meet him. That would be nice. He'll be charmed by me and my coquettish ways. I'll bat my eyelashes and twirl my fan around and maybe let him get a peek at my ankles. Because I can't flirt. If I lived in a Jane Austen novel or it was the early 1900's, I might be able to snag a man. Unfortunately I am not, and a woman's ability to catch a husband no longer rests with her ability to dance, smile and, in my opinion most importantly, have a good grasp of society, art, music, and the running of a large estate. 

Now, and even then, it's based on whether or not her boobs look good shoved nearly up her nostrils. But unlike then, a woman is found attractive if she isn't as smart. No longer is emphasis placed on knowledge. Glittering generalities, or do those awful blonde jokes have a grain of truth to them?

My argument is bolstered by the my father. Every once in a while when I'm creeping on the popular chicks in my school on Facebook (never in person), he'll pop up behind me and make awkward comments like "oh, she's cute." When I lament the fact that God is unfair and despite her having a small waist and a pair of 36Ds, she's as dumb as a post, Dad goes, "no, no, that's all right. Dumb is good." I give him my best "shocked and appalled" face, but he won't be chastised by me. 

My observations are also helped along by the amount of teen relationships in my school. Dare we notice who they are all between? The cliche jock and cheerleader/dancer? No! Say it isn't so! The hot guy, who himself is low on the brain wattage, picks the dyed blonde who wear his two favorite colors, short and tight? She laughs at all of his horrendously awful jokes and constantly tells him "I love you, baby, you're my everything." Oh horror! It's true!

Ergo, the best way for me to pick up dudes is to do a complete 180 on my personality and appearance. 

Thankfully for me and the rest of the downtrodden female population, deliverance is upon us. We just need more mature men! So far my mother's wise words have been repeated by such reputable sources as Jim Belushi and my best friend's parents. Men don't mentally mature past 8 years of age until they hit about 35-45 years old. Sad, but true. 

However my baby Tanner Foust is 38 years old (June 13, 1973, if anybody cares), so I think that he and I will get along perfectly. I'd better work on my giggle though. 

My Reality Check on Men

Nobody gives me more flak over the men I choose to like than my little brother.
Case in point: Having recently begun watching the US version of Top Gear, I have been reminded of how much I like Tanner Foust. I kept it on the DL before this, but as of late I've been pretty out and proud with my various celebrity crushes.
Today my touching but sad crush on Mr. Foust was called into question by my younger brother, who at the ripe age of 11 has seemingly deemed himself the ultimate expert on men in general, specifically on how terrible the men I choose to like are. The only time he can put together a good joke is when he's making fun of me (and understand that my brother is one of those people who try very hard to be funny but just aren't, and come off as irritating and slightly pathetic). I was verbally patting myself on the back, loudly, about how good my boards are on Pinterest, and the family stopped by to investigate. One of my boards centers around guys who I find physically appealing, and so, naturally, there are several pins of Tanner on there. My brother noticed this (how could he not?) and began his usual commentary.
"Ew, you like him? He's how old?" (38 years of age, thank you very much. I'm still down) "He's going to be so old by the time you marry him. Like, fifty. He'll have wrinkles. You'll kiss him and his jaw will fall off." Here he continues in a wizened voice (and began to mime a man with a walker) "Honey, will you help me into bed?" Then continued his diatribe in a normal tone, "Hahaha, you won't have kids together. All your money will be spent on one of those chairs that moves him up the stairs," and on and on ad nauseam, until I started hollering at my mother to make him stop.
It was continued throughout the day, being brought up when Mom voiced concerns about Tanner's height (the internet says he's 5'10" which Mom countered with, "that means in real life he's about 5' 6", honey") and later on as I questioned my own ability to park (quickly answered with a snarky "will Tanner have to teach you how to drive?").
I was not unaware of my brother's negativity up to this point, far from it. These not-so-subtle put-downs about the men I like have been happening to me for quite some time. And no celebrity of mine is immune to my brother's disdain towards them, for no apparent reason. It's happened to Tom Hiddleston, Chris Evans, Robert Downey Jr. and best of all, my one and only Benedict Cumberbatch. No one is safe.

Fangirling or How I Pretend to Be Sane

My friends who know me have grown accustomed to my unbelievable fangirling over minuscule things that pertain to the actors whose lives I follow with fervor. However, the one reason I’ve never pimped myself out as a hard-core fan is because I don’t want said individual celebrity, should they ever discover me and my depth of love for them, to think that I’m an absolute nutjob.

Because really, if I were a seriously famous actor (which I’m not nor will I ever be) and I found out that people followed my life and work with an attention to detail that would put a high-class forger to shame, I’d be creeped out. Flattered, but still. I mean, there’s a line, and I think that today’s fans, myself included, cross that boundary with alarming regularity. We, as a society, have so devoted ourselves to knowing things about people we’ve never met simply because they are in the public eye, which is odd. Besides appear in films, what have they ever actually done? But I digress.

Back to my original point, which was brought on by a blogger whose name need not be shared because it is irrelevant, is simply this: I think that being a rabid fan is ok, but stop forcing the entire world, those actors as well, to know about it. No matter how much the actors themselves insist that they are flattered by us, there are a few out there who need to show a little propriety.

Scale back on your attempts to contact them. Stop showing up everywhere they go. Quit taking creepy pictures of them when they’re just trying to get a cup of coffee. For God’s sake, leave their families alone if they don’t want to be in the limelight. Stop making the rest of fans, who don’t make it our life’s work to discover everything about this person, look like kooks.

Just a personal opinion. I’m not saying everyone is doing this, and I’m certainly not telling anyone to change their habits. Just… think about them.

Goodwill Has the World's Creepiest Clientele

Today was Goodwill's 50% Off Saturday, which happens every other week. Mom and I go every sale day, and we are so hardcore that we are part of the crowd that you see lined up outside the store before it opens. No shame.
What does worry me though is that we seem to be the most normal people there. Here's who we had at Goodwill today.

We saw Casanova again. No, not really, not even close. This guy is short, Mexican, and kind of weird. We first met this guy two weeks ago while standing in line to get in. Mom made a passing comment and he started a conversation. Well, I say conversation, but it was more like he kept talking to Mom while she was trying to brush him off and talk to me. During that day he managed to find each of us about two more times and try to start up a conversation. Both Mom and I handled the situation. We thought we had successfully avoided him, because how many times do you run into the same person at the same Goodwill?
I saw him first today. I happened to look up and there he was, and he starts talking to me.
He goes, "Hey, how are you?"
"Yeah, fine," I mumbled, hoping he would go away (I'm not completely antisocial, but seriously, dude, leave me alone).
"Oh yeah? How's your mom? Is she here today?" He continues, raising his eyebrows.
Being thoroughly skeezed out, I say, "Um, fine, I guess. She's around here... somewhere," waving my hand around my head indeterminately, "but anyway, I gotta go. Bye."
I thought I had lost him, right? Like maybe he could take a hint and leave me alone? Bro, we happened to swap two sentences weeks ago, it's not like we became bosom buddies. But no. While I was helping Mom weed through what she had found, I had taken off my shirt and was now lounging in a large armchair with just my cami on (look, I had been trying other shirts on over it so I didn't need to be in the dressing rooms as long. I'm not a skank) and suddenly she chirps, "I have to go to the bathroom. Stay here," and she disappears. Who should skulk around the corner at that moment? Casanova. I looked in the opposite direction, literally hurting my neck as I tried to make it clear that I didn't want to talk. So close, but no banana.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Uh, yeah. You know, long day shopping, and all," I said vaguely, even though it was only about 11 AM.
"I know what you mean. I found lots of clothes too," he said.
"Mm, that's awesome," I said. I mean, do you want a cookie?
He smiled, and left. Thank Jesus, I was safe.
I related my tale of woe to Mom later in the car, and she goes, "Oh my God! He found you too? I thought it was just me!"
"Oh, no such luck, Mom. And he asked about you," I said, and smiled suggestively at her.
She looks at me with mild revulsion, and proceeds, "Yeah, I saw him and he goes 'Hola' and I was like, look here, pal, I am in the men's section. Not because I need a man. So I say 'Hi!' really loudly. He sort of took a step back and said, 'Oh, yes, hello. How are you? I don't know why I thought you spoke Spanish,' and I said, 'Yeah, I don't either.' It was so weird."
He made another comment to her, and then she made excuses and left, rather hurriedly.
So that's Casanova, the creepy stalker Mexican.

While I was lounging in the aforementioned chair I happened to look up and see this tall, overweight man testing a pair of binoculars. In my direction.
I thought, "No, Isabela, he's not looking at you. Stop being so paranoid and narcissistic all the time. You're not that good-looking. Nobody likes you. He's probably looking at the wall on the other side of the store. Which makes sense, because I'm too close for the binoculars to really work. Right?"
He lowers the binoculars, and makes eye contact with me. ARRGH! No, he was looking at me... with fucking binoculars. Who even does that? And the best part? As he put them down, his wife appeared and tried to pull him down the next aisle.
I slithered lower in my armchair and cried internally.

Then while Mom and I were standing in line, this guy carrying a huge-ass pile of blue shirts bustles passed us. Now, while this may not sound interesting, it was. I couldn't believe how huge this pile was. 20 shirts, at least? And all light blue. He was coughing on them, with that gross, rattly, gurgle-y cough sick people have, and was trying to push through the throng of people in line without so much as an "excuse me." Because politeness is for pussies, I guess. Mom looks at him, then leans in and says to me, "God, what an absolute jerk. No, really buddy, we love it when you hack all over the merchandise. Oh, and he was a complete douche to the lady behind the specialty counter. An absolute douche canoe. I don't even..."
About a minute later Mom taps me and punts down the men's short sleeves aisle. It's Douche-Canoe, open mouthed hawking all over the clothes, even though he had a free hand to cover his mouth. But he was too busy pawing through the shirts, amassing another pile in his arms, this one of orange and white shirts. Weirdo.

Anyway, those were the most interesting people today, barring Tourette's Man, since I do not need to be told I am a horrible person for making fun of people with legit problems. Which I don't, but there are some seriously uptight people out there.

And if anybody cares, I got some awesome stuff at Goodwill.

Is it wrong that I want this to happen?

This is probably my favorite Sherlock drawing from Sash-Kash (their kiss is my icon on Tumblr), but she never ceases to amaze with each new post.

An Average Blogger's Foray Into Working Out

I'm sorry for not updating in a while, but school has recently started. Today marks my second full Tuesday back in prison my fine educational institution. I have been given the schedule from hell, which is a shame, since I signed up for everything I'm taking. Here's a breakdown of what I have, who I hate, and why. Today we'll focus on first period.
1st period is Advanced P.E. Now keep in mind that I am your average teenage blogger, the one that spends too much time slouching here in the glow of my sweet, comforting computer screen, and not nearly enough time doing anything remotely active. And now I have a grueling workout first thing every morning.
In order to take Adv. P.E. you must be participating in a sport, so I said I was going to be a thrower, meaning discus and shot put, for our track and field team. Big mistake.
My workouts include legs destroyers exercises (mandatory for all track people, whether runners, throwers, or jumpers) and heavy duty arm manglers . I have zero upper body strength, and my legs have the muscle consistency of jelly. What possessed me to sign up for this torture? I need a PE credit to graduate and there is no fucking way that I, as a self-important, pompous junior is going to slum with the freshmen in P.E. 1-2.
Today I had a routine that was nearly all legs, culminating in me falling over on the last set of weighted lunges because my hamstrings decided they were done with my nonsense. It was embarrassing, and I am reminded why getting a gym membership would be a nightmare.
However, the worst and the best part of my situation here is that my class has kids from softball (only 3, who are all my friends), track, tennis, basketball, wrestling, and baseball. Since this is PE, an elective that involves working out (and is not trendy, like dance) it's filled with guys. Hot guys. Hot guys that I get to watch work out. Hot guys that I have to work out in front of. Hot guys that I have to work out in front of who already know what they are doing so they look all sexy and shit sweating in the gym and I look like a complete loon in my ill-fitting uniform, sweating like a whore in church as I stumble around the gym. It's disgusting. I destroy the sex levels in that weight room.
Hopefully with all this getting swoll and stuff, I will be able to wear my jeans nicely, my ass won't look like a water balloon (and that's a sexy water balloon to you), and my gut will go away. Trolololol, this year is going to be awesome.
And I'll let you know if I get to hook up with one of the hotties in my gym class (not bloody likely, though. My sweat and body odor do not induce arousal. Perhaps revulsion...).

BBC or Why I Hate American Television

I am, unabashedly, a huge fan of British television. I have actually caught myself talking in an English accent, and no, I regret nothing. But my inability to remember which voice I should be speaking in has nothing to do with what I want to rant about. Or maybe it does. You tell me.
British TV has always been 120% better than American television and I always feel sad and slightly ashamed admitting this being an American. But it's true.
My main cases in point are Doctor Who and, most recently, Sherlock. The Grand Poobah Steven Moffat is currently behind these two shows and clearly his influence has been felt. I am quite unapologetic in announcing that I think he is one of the best TV writers this planet has ever seen. Everything he does is frightening, intriguing and fun. It has a specific flair that can be felt as soon as the episode starts. It's difficult to put into words, but if you watch his shows, you know what I mean.
I have recently become a huge fan of Doctor Who and so I can happily call myself a Whovian, which I do. Often. In public. My favorite episode so far is most definitely "The Girl in the Fireplace" which, as I'm sure you have guessed being the smart reader you are, is a Steven Moffat written episode. Watch it. Trust me.
My love for Doctor Who stems mostly from the show's longevity. It astounds me that this show has been on for so long and has amassed such a large fan-base. I also like the imagination that goes on behind the scenes. Think about all the ideas that get tossed around before they decide on one that they like. I would love to be able to see that collaborative process.
The other show that has recently become a (huge, ginormous, unnatural) obsession of mine is Sherlock. It happens to be an amazing show, due partly (mostly) to Steven Moffat... again. Damn, that man is everywhere (but Mark Gatiss is amazing too). His and Mark bring Sherlock Holmes, sociopath genius, into the 21st century without so much a glitch. He seamlessly integrates Sherlock's practices (drugs, deductions, queer experiments) into modern London and makes Sherlock look hella fine while doing it. The writing remains true to the character while still introducing a few new elements and fudging some things to make the series work. And Jim Moriarty is chilling. Chilling I say.
More on my feelings about British TV at a later date.