Break out the razor blades and bad poetry!

Dear Amy:

I am a 17-year-old high school senior girl, and the song “Teardrops on My Guitar” is basically the story of my life.

My best friend, “Jeremy,” has been dating a girl for two months and says he’s really in love this time.

Jeremy and I have been friends forever, and I have been his confidante throughout this and almost every other relationship he’s been through. The girl he is dating is great, and he seems happy.

The only problem is that I think I’m in love with him. I don’t want to say anything about it to him because he’s in a great relationship, and I don’t want to ruin our amazing friendship. I also don’t think he feels the same way about me.

I’ve been struggling with this for months, and I have been hiding my feelings for the past two years.

Now I’m worried that with graduation approaching, he will never know how I feel.

We are going to colleges in different parts of the country, so we don’t have much time together.

I don’t want to make our friendship awkward by telling him, but I don’t want to feel as if our entire high school friendship has been a lie because I never told him how I felt.

I know that the truth is always the best way to go, but there is a lot at stake for me. What should I do?

— Tear-stained Teen

My response:

Dear Tear-stained,

One, tears generally don’t stain. If they are doing so, I suggest you change out of that very fine silk blouse and into a ratty t-shirt.

Two, you probably look nothing like Taylor Swift. Amy’s advice to tone down the drama and tell your friend how you feel are good, but I’m going to go one step past her kindness and tell you to get a makeover. See a hairstylist, and I don’t mean a $10 Cut and Run. Get a professional facial. Learn how to apply a good dose of makeup. Lastly, redo your wardrobe.

Yes, all of the above is incredibly shallow, but whoever says that looks don’t count is either deluded or lying, especially in the case of young teens.

Sincerely,
Your Local Internet Eye Scratcher

Coq au Vin

I’m amused with how well this picture actually turned out. In my viewfinder, it looked grossly overexposed. I guess that supports what my Photojournalism instructor said: some people rely too much on the viewfinder, and not enough on their own eyes.

Moving along: the above is from the January/February 2008 issue of “Cooking Light”.

Randy Pausch’s Last Lecture

This video really helped me to put things into perspective.

I started thinking about all the things that I want to do differently:

To care about my writing again
I still enjoy putting together stories. I’m happier with my course load than with any other scholastic or work endeavor that I’ve pursued. For the most part, the passion isn’t there. I’ve been going through the motions without feeling…well, without feeling much of anything.

To take amazing photos
I could probably lump this with “not being afraid”.

Honestly, I’ve paid attention in every Photojournalism class. I know what the settings should be for various situations, and how to use a bounce flash. I freeze up when I actually have to put this knowledge to practice. I’m afraid I’ll look stupid taking my time with the settings and telling people where to stand and how to pose.

I need to get over myself. Nobody is overthinking this as much as I am.

To write my life story
I want my son to know his family history.

There are things that I remember, things that I think he should know. I want him to know who his grandparents were, and all my memories of growing up near the ocean, and in the same house. I want him to know that there is a whole other person than the person he calls Mommy (you know, when he really, really wants something. Otherwise, he calls me Dada), and that everything I’ve lived, every second, is also a part of him.

To be married to the love of my life
…in progress.

I’ll revisit this at a later date, when my head is less foggy from being sick.

That’s Great: It Starts With An Earthquake

I’ve had this domain for seven years. I know this, because I purchased it the year that my mother died.

Yesterday was the seventh anniversary of her death. This means that it is closer to a decade since she’s been gone, as opposed to a year, a few years, or even half of a decade.

I’ve been having panic attacks since the first of this month. Sometimes they weren’t a surprise: grocery stores haven’t been good places for me, since I now associate them with all the times I had to be there because she was too sick to leave the house. No, actually, it’s not because she was too sick: I already knew she was dying. There are still days - especially in February - where I’ll look at a shelf and completely freak out.

This past week culminated in my nearly complete shutdown. My mind went completely blank during my Journalism II midterm. I felt a familiar, cold clutch in the pit of my stomach. Mentally, I was screaming that I couldn’t do this. I had to leave. Can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t…

I could, though. I may not have done well, but I sat there, wrote out most of the answers, and went about my day.

In terms of difficulty, this anniversary is second only to the year that she passed away. I think it’s because I’m moving on with my life.

I have a family of my own now. I’m also in school for something that I’ve always wanted to study. My head is on straight, as my mom would say.

Going forward - really going forward - has awakened a whole new sense of panic. Do I lose her entirely, now that my existence no longer feels stagnant? What is going to happen as I redefine who I am and where I am going? Do these negate every memory that I have, every, to paraphrase Wordsworth, dizzying joy and aching sorrow?

I think the answer might be “maybe.” The nature of anything is structured around the interpretation of the individual. What does my past become, when I am a different person looking back at it?

In this case, it becomes something with which I’m no longer familiar. I guess it’s like seeing some of my nieces and nephews. I remember how they used to be little people, all chubby and with grins simultaneously full of mischief and innocence. If I call their names now, however, it will be young adults that respond: still the children of my siblings, but no longer tiny and unwise.

I look at all the years gone by in the same way: precious and beloved, but something that has finally slipped beyond my grasp.

As it should be.

P.S. I Hate Your Effing Bastardization of A Decent Book

Spoiler for “P.S.: I Love you”

Make that a really big, honking spoiler.

I read the book several years ago. I found it to be very touching.

My mind was pretty much made up against the film once I was the trailers. The book takes place in Scotland, with a whole cast of Scottish characters. I heard a blip of Swank’s voice sans accent and realized, “Hello, craptacular adaptation - and I use that last word very lightly.”

Basically, all the Scottish people are gone, and the whole thing takes place in New York. Tons of events are changed. New characters are added. The only thing they really seemed to keep was the title.

If this was one of my books, I would…well, I wouldn’t be crying, because I wouldn’t sign away my rights so thoroughly.

I hope this movie fizzles and disappears into oblivion very soon.

Shirts I (Might) Wear

In the time I should be spending shopping for others’ holiday presents, I have managed to find these:

• Once you go Asian, you never go Caucasian

• I’m here to kill you (Next time keep that chain letter going)
• If you think my shirt is tight…
• Cruise better take care of my kid (Okay, I wouldn’t actually wear this…but I do find it funny. I still don’t think Suri is really his)
• God made your favorite team lose (There’s no caption, but the image made me think lf my buddy, Laura.

In non-shopping related news, I turned in my final project for Photojournalism this afternoon. I hope I get a decent mark.

Here’s my problem with the workload: me. I love photography. I love everything I’ve learned in the class - and I’ve learned a lot. I’m just nervous about myself. My shyness sticks painfully close to my surface when I have to shoot assignments. As well as I know the material, I’m afraid that my subjects will either prove that I know nothing, or think I’m a nutter and want to punch me.

Maybe it’s just the American in me that expects the latter reaction.