I have this theory that everyone's soul is a certain age. Some people are bored in grade school because they're supposed to be thirty-eight. Some people are tortured by office jobs because they have the spirit of eleven-year-olds. My prom date is a fifty-five-year-old man trapped in an eighteen-year-old's body. There's no shame in being a young soul; my best friend, Jess, is ridiculously smart and in most ways very mature, but her soulage is about six. And there's nothing frumpy about having an old soul; my friend, Sarah Keeler, is vivacious and youthful, but her soul is an older adult. (Here's an interesting side note: I googled "soulage" to see if I did, in fact, make that word up. It's apparently the first-person singular present indicative form of the French word soulager, which means, more or less, "to relieve.") What age is your soul?
I think mine is fourteen. Fourteen-year-olds are on the barrier between middle school and high school, waiting for the next thing to start. They're in between little girl and grown woman, displaying some qualities of both, physically and mentally. They're accused of being self-absorbed, but that's really not true-- they just feel things so deeply and everything matters to them. They're on a constant quest to understand the world, and they long to be accepted as real people with real thoughts. They feel like there are opposing forces acting upon them at all times, and they're really never relaxed, despite how it looks.
I started keeping a diary when I was fourteen. I funneled every ounce of my hyperactive emotion into hundreds of pages, forming analytical lists about the guy I was obsessed with, coming up with one-word, all-telling nicknames for every important character in my life, practicing third person and present tense and dramaturgy. For years, I narrated my life in Bradley Hand ITC. And although I was miserable at that time in every possible way-- stressed, confused, sad and angry-- I felt so very, purely myself. My soul is fourteen. My soul is part slacker, part nervous wreck, pouring over a hot pink livejournal in an attempt to solve the riddle of myself.
This sounds like a video to me. Maybe I'll make it one, if you guys will promise to make video responses. In other youtubely news, the "italktosnakes Throwdown" is being BOMBARDED with sporm. I think even the porn sites are yelling at me for not posting anything in three weeks. They're right. I know. Oh, and I continue my terrible habit of developing crushes on strangers on the internet.
Sexy: Let's face it: video bloggers. I like a guy who knows his way around editing software.
Unsexy: "Frosted tips." Ew, guys. Keep the yellow hair dye away from your scraggily, over-gelled man 'do.
Chipotle burritos this year: 12
Days left of high school: 25
Bye, guys! See you tomorrow. <3