The Crime Fighting Team of Caramel and Macchiato

You know I have a paper due the next day when you get a new blog post from me. You know I really don't want to write the paper when you get two blog posts from me within 12 hours. You know I really really really don't want to write the paper when you get a blog post about a new crime fighting team.

It's funny, the creative juices that flow at one thirty in the morning when something is due the next day. Too bad those creative juices aren't flowing in the right direction, eh?

So I was sitting in the dining room typing away at my trusty laptop, when my roommate poked her head through the swinging door from the kitchen.
"You want some coffee?" she asked me.
"Sure," I said. It was the early hours of the morning on a day a paper is due, and the chance was growing that I would not see my bed tonight. A cup of coffee could not hurt. I capped my pen and joined my roomie in the kitchen. She was doing something nice for me, I figured I should join her.
"So what are you working on?" I asked.
"That project I told you about."
"Oh, right. How's it going?"
"Good," she said, "I'm making a pet rock now."
"Pet rock? Sweet."
So we got into a conversation, one of those conversations that seems to meander through the wrinkles of the brain, stopping at every interesting intersection to point out random bits of information. Paper towel roll binoculars, stupid cows, and coffee...sweet coffee.
"I realized that I don't really like coffee, " I said, putting down my paper towel roll telescope. "I mean, I drink Starbucks, but that's not really coffee. It's like sugar water with a little coffee flavor."
"Starbucks kind of scares me cause they say things like Venti and Macchiato," my roommate says.
"Yeah, Caramel Macchiato sounds like some kind of crime fighting team." I alter my voice to sound like some kind of crazy cartoon announcer. "Behold! The crime fighting team of Caramel and Macchiato! Ridding the world of tea one bag at time!"
We laughed. I grabbed my half-full coffee mug and teaspoon, posing in a kung-foo-esque stance. The conversation went down hill from there. All of a sudden I was six years old again, having a paper towel roll sword fight in the kitchen.

After a while we realized that even though we felt like kids, we are in fact college students who have work to do. We laid down our weapons and returned to our laptops. And now I'm procrastinating...again.

All I have to say is: "Skcubrats! I have to finish my paper! Aahhhh!"

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I Am:
1. Tired
2. Crampy (and yes, I took some Midol)
3. Battling a headache
4. Ache-y
5. Sleepy
6. Feeling like I need to vomit
7. Gas-y
8. PMS-y

I Have to:
1. Write a 2 page summary of a very long, very boring article
2. Write a 4-5 page paper that extends that very long, very boring article

I Feel:
1. Frustrated
2. Burned out
3. Lazy
4. Confused
5. Whine-y

Not a good day for me. Not a good day.

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Been busy. Haven't had a paper to write. Haven't had any inspiration to write. I'm tired of reading [boring stuff] and writing, I feel like that's all I do. Give me a math problem, please, I'd like a concrete answer for once.

Writer's Block

I've been writing a short story for my Fiction Technique class. The problem is I made it personal. Very personal if you ask me. Maybe even too personal. It's a fictionalized version of my grandmother's funeral several years ago--I don't even remember how many--and I'm trying to get it farther away from home than it is. The writing text book said not to make a character too much like yourself, well I ignored that guideline (because rules to writing are really more like guidelines), and now I'm finding myself in a huge pickle, because I don't want to write anymore on these lines. Do I dare cut out one of my brothers from the story, because that just wouldn't be nice.

So this is what I've been wrestling with, while trying to find inspiration on the Grey's Anatomy writer's blog. It's also not funny...I wanted it to be funny. And I think I finally have a theme for my story, but I don't know how to communicate it yet. Do stories have to have a theme? A moral? I'm trying to answer all of these questions and just get it over with, but it's not really working. Maybe I'll roll around on the floor and moan about how horrible my life is and it'll come to me. That actually sounds like a good alternative at the moment.

Or guitar...I could play guitar.

If Only They Understood

I find myself in my classes saying this phrase many times over: "If only they understood...." This is usually after someone has made a statement about Christianity revealing their lack of understanding of the Christian faith. If only they understood grace, I say to myself. If only they understood that Christians are human too. If only they understood that the Bible isn't just a list of "though shalt not"s. If only they understood that Christians aren't perfect, just forgiven. If only they understood that God loves them unconditionally. If only they understood...

I find myself wanting to explain it, but it's usually a statement made in passing that reveals their misconceptions about Christianity. As much as I'd like to, I can't stop the class and explain it all to them. So I sit there and get frustrated, not at those who don't understand necessarily, it's not their fault, but at the Christians of the past who have shaped the image of Christianity today. I begin to wonder, why didn't the wealthy British Christians in the 19th Century do something about all of the poor children? Why didn't all the preachers in the south speak out against slavery? Why didn't the German Christians work against Hitler and the Nazis? Why don't we do more to help the homeless in our own country? Why don't we do more to help hurricane and earthquake victims? Why am I sitting on my comfortable couch instead of volunteering at the homeless shelter on Tennessee St?

At Crusade tonight, the speaker talked on 2 Timothy. He said many things, but among them was this verse, which stuck out to me especially, 2 Timothy 3:12 "In fact, everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted." The Oxford English Dictionary defines persecute as follows: "To seek out and subject (a person, group, organization, etc.) to hostility or ill-treatment, esp. on grounds of religious faith, political belief, race, etc.; to torment; to oppress." Very seldom--if ever--have I been subject to hostility, ill-treatment, torment or oppression on the grounds of anything. I live in a country where such behavior is frowned upon in most civilized circles. Is it because I live in the United States--a country built on the backs of those searching for religious freedom--that I do not face persecution? Or is it because people I come in contact with don't know that I am a Christian? I don't "Preach the word," and I'm not "prepared in season and out of season". I don't wear Christ on my sleeve except for the 2 or 3 times a month when my Campus Crusade for Christ t-shirt is clean.

I find myself making excuses for the Christians of the past. They should have done something, but they didn't. They weren't practicing true Christianity. If only they understood what following Christ really means. What will I say of myself ten years down the road? I was busy, I should have done something more? I should have spoken up in class? I wasn't walking in the Spirit? I just didn't understand.

Realms of Mediocrity

I like being around artists. I like watching them work. Whether it's music, painting, drawing, acting, writing, I love watching them work. They aren't just working. They're creating, loving, living, doing what they do best, but with flare.

I don't like trying to be an artist around artists. It's easier to create when the people observing aren't better at it than me. I like winning. I like being unique. Drafting class last semester was hard for me. We all would work in one room, putting lines on paper, trying to be precise. I'm good at being precise. I can give you a construction line that is 36' long in 1/4" scale. I'm good at using a compass. I'm not good at shading things to give the illusion of dimension, or drawing 6' tall people (to scale, of course). There was a girl in my class whom I've known for quite some time, since my Junior year of high school. She'd draw caricatures of people in our class on the white board when the lines on the drafting vellum started blending together. I felt inadequate when she picked up the marker. In the time it took me to draw the molding on a column, a humorous depiction of our drafting teacher had appeared on the board, along with some crack about Poland rising again. I always did well on my drafting projects, I always got a nine out of ten; to get a ten it would have to look like a Ming Cho Lee. After seeing what a Ming Cho Lee draft looks like, I realized that I was destined to live in the realms of mediocrity.

There is some stuff I'm good at, I built a pretty cool looking table. My pride and joy last year. But I'm no Norm Abrams. And you can't make a living out of making pretty cool looking tables.

Shrug

I keep wanting to write. I do, I really do. So I start. One sentence. Two sentences. Then I stop. It doesn't feel right. I don't know why. So I reword them. They still don't feel right. So I quit.

I wonder why. There have been several times in the last month that I sat down, my computer cradled in my lap, trying to write. But I never can. I could tell you what's going on in my life, but it seems to boring. I'm bored with it, why would anyone else care?

I can't write about what I'm feeling. That hurts too much. It's scary. It would solidifying everything that I would rather ignore. I'd have to see it every time I open my internet browser. There is pain in my heart. Sometimes it's even tangible; a dull ache, or pressure, like someone's got their hand on my chest. Don't go forward. No. You can't. Take a step back. You don't belong here. So I take a step back. I can't go there. I don't even know where there is. That hand stops me.

I'm getting frustrated. I'm tired of not understanding what I'm going through. My life isn't calculus! I should be able to understand. Why can't I understand? Why can't I go on? What is wrong with me that I'm not allowed to get past this? I don't even know where "there" is.

Tragedy

You're probably wondering if I fell off the face of the planet after finals week, seeing as I haven't written anything since before then. As much as I tried to do so and have wished that I had, I'm still here, sitting on my bed in Orlando. Much has happened, but I honestly don't really have time to talk about it.

My hard drive crashed, so I'm in the arduous process of getting my life back. Hopefully, I'll be able to get the pictures from Barbados off of my old hard drive.