Ye Olde Zombies

My parent are home today, after having spent the past three weeks on a rebellious "empty nesters" vacation in Alaska. While it's not like I hide under an ambiguous secret screenname or anything, I still felt too creeped out to mention their absence on the internet. So for all those who asked: yes, I have a curfew, no, my mother would never have let me leave the house at 2AM if she were home, and yes, I had more reason to be stressed yesterday afternoon than I let on. Now they're home, though, so my house is once again full of life and decent food and rules.

I feel like a jerk for complaining about my friends like that yesterday. My sweet friend, Sarah, is getting married next weekend, and she was trying to make me feel better about having to house and transport people. You know you've gone too far when you're making the bride guilty when she's got the weight of the world on her shoulders. I apologize for sounding like a bitch.

Anyway, to prove once more that I have better friends than I deserve, I'm going with the bride and groom (Sarah and Graham), Sebastian, our friend Kathleen, and some other fun company to a Medieval Faire tomorrow morning. As of right now, I'm regrettably wearing boring normal clothes, because apparently garb of the Middle Ages is harder to come by than I'd expected. Even in the magical costume cave I call a bedroom, I'm fresh out of tunics and chain mail, and there isn't a long-sleeved, floor-length gown to be seen. I'm still laughing about a comment from youtube subscriber and blog follower VicMorrowsGhost, in which he suggested we dress as plague victims, sort of like "ye olde zombies." I have also considered burning holes through my street clothes to be Joan of Arc, or Kathleen's suggestion of just wearing opaque tights and a green shirt. We'll see what becomes of these ideas, or whether I'll rough it in ye olde shorts and t-shirt.

Okay, time to go write for real. This blog post is one of today's few irritating distractions from working, along with this quickie video I made, and the Donato's pizza I scarfed. I also went for a quick run, just to burn off some energy, and spent the entire time hearing a conversation between two of my characters play over and over inside my head. They are so real sometimes, it almost makes me sick.

Sexy: Those days when it feels like you've only written a paragraph, because it all comes so smoothly and effortlessly, and then you realize it's been twelve pages. And you're not spent yet. I've come to the realization that I'm no longer at the age where it's a funny, outrageous thing to suggest that I can write a decent novel. I'm doing it for real!

Unsexy: The seventy different colors of my hair growing out. I'm a mess of magenta, pale pink, bleach, brown, blonde, and gross.

Chipotle burritos this year: 26

S'mores this summer: 6

Subscribers: 19,116

Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see thee to-morrow. <3

Internet Friend Stress

Two of my good friends are getting married next weekend, and since a lot of our mutual friends live all around the country, I've suddenly turned into the Hoover Hotel and Taxi Service. I don't totally mind, because I genuinely care about these people, and if they were to come into town individually, I would want to shower them with attention. But this time, there are SO MANY coming in at once. I made irresponsible promises to some people months ago, already pushing it, because I live with my very stressed parents, and now others keep appearing and asking for favors every hour. I'm starting to regret extending invitations and accepting proposals from some of my closest friends, let alone those I barely know. I'm just a big ball of stress about it. My parents have always been kind about taking in Internet people, but I know they secretly wish it wouldn't happen. And to be honest, I wish I could go to my friends' wedding as their friend. I want to be the groom's old neighbor and fellow cast member, and the bride's old writing buddy. I don't want to be a fiveawesomegirl or a former Scone or hayleyghoover. It sounds mean and out of character, but I'd rather be with the guys from my high school, as the groom's posse, than a ride or a place to stay for the out-of-towners.

I was stuck in standstill traffic tonight for over an hour, so I called up Kayley (owlssayhooot) for a good rant session. It's incredible how well we get each other. Kayley and I have both taken controversial extended vacations from our electronic lives, and we discussed how much better we feel now that we don't spend all our time on Skype or texting people across the country. I feel happier now than I have in two years, and I chock that up to my decision to go out more often, and to focus more on those around me than on romanticized ideas of what I can't have. Amazingly, by getting away from the computer, I've started using my time on it for writing and making videos, instead of clinging to the thought of my friends' absence. Sure, I miss those people just as much as I always did, but I miss them in a pleasant way. I miss them by remembering fun times and looking forward to the next, instead of staring at a screen all day and fanning my loneliness. When I do see all my online friends, I want to have funny stories about my life to share with them, instead of the nervous, unsettled feeling I sometimes experience.

Kayley and I have both discovered how much brighter the colors are in the real world than through a monitor. We adore each other, we love watching videos, we love texting other youtube nerds, but we also love being real, breathing people. When I hang up from a conversation with Kayley, I feel like I've chatted with a friend I haven't seen in a while, which is what it SHOULD feel like. There's no pining, no promise of calling each other back every hour for the next week. It's just a good talk.

It's sad that I'm too stressed to look forward to seeing everyone. I'm going to college orientation the day before it all starts, guys. In half my mind, I'll be reeling up the summer in preparation for moving across the state, and in the other half, I'll be entertaining people for a whole week. I value my alone time and my space, and I'm not going to get much of it before I move into a tiny dorm room with a stranger. Sigh. It just sucks when what's disguised as fun is really more like torture.

Sexy: Kayley, with her wit and attractiveness and whatnot.

Unsexy: Crazy traffic. I sat on the highway tonight, rolling my eyes and mumbling along with Katy Perry's "Thinking of You," when a carful of cowboy hat-clad hoes honked at me for not moving forward the foot I was allowed. I inched up, barely making any difference at all, and looked in the rearview mirror for their approval. They didn't see, because they were posing for photos on an iPhone. RAWR!

Chipotle burritos this year: 26 (I had to smell it in its bowl for that hour of traffic, as I was spoonless. Aloud to Kayley, I considered eating it with an end of a snow scraper. She advised me against that plan.)

S'mores this summer: 6

Subscribers: 19,093

Bye, guys. Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. :(

P.S. Jaclyn Moriarty just added me as one of her very few facebook friends. Along with my request, I sent a message that said something like, "I understand if you don't accept fans on facebook, but you've changed my life in inconceivable ways." She responded, "I love fans. Especially ones who say surprising things that make me smile, like you just did." My day = a whole lot better.

I murdered my favorite author.

I always tense up a little bit when asked my favorite author. Shakespeare sounds totally pretentious, so no matter how true it may be, I usually skirt around his name. I feel similarly about Jo Rowling. To non-fans, it sounds like I only read pop culture, or like I can't advance past children's fantasy. And when I preface my answer, "The woman to whom I've devoted my life since I was eleven," I sound like a psycho showoff. John Green, Megan McCafferty and Jaclyn Moriarty are a three-way tie for my... something. I don't know what to call them; their importance in my life at the present time is immeasurable, but none of them individually is my favorite.

So, for at least the last couple of years, I've always provided one of two answers: J.D. Salinger, author of The Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey; and John Hughes, writer/director/producer of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Home Alone, and just about every other classic film from the 1980s. The former plays to my superiority complex regarding literature, as it's recognizable, but gives off that air of "I'm moody and therefore more cultured than you are." The latter is one of those Jeopardy question names that sit on the tip of your tongue-- someone you've heard of, but have no idea where.

John Hughes died today. He was taking a walk around Manhattan, thinking whatever it is amazing people think, and he had a heart attack at fifty-nine years old. And here I was, going cheerfully about my day, having no idea. I first heard the news from Molly (mememolly)'s blog, and when I ran to google, there weren't even any news stories about him yet. His name wasn't trending on twitter. Not a single facebook status contained any hint of tragedy.

Now, at least, Ferris Bueller is a popular hashtag, and Adam Dubberly has written on my wall that he's watching Weird Science in memorial. It's possible that I included that last bit just to brag that one of The Mudbloods wrote on my facebook wall, but regardless, today is sad.

I can't help but wonder when old J.D. Salinger is due. The man's ninety, and he hasn't peeked a finger out of his little hiding corner of doom and misery for years. I don't want him to die, because I admire him greatly (and am holding out hope that I'll be the last of the young fangirls he flirts with through letters), but I am selfishly and eagerly awaiting all the promised prose that will be released after his death. Imagine, a whole new Salinger canon. My sexual fantasies run wild with it.

Anyway, there's no meaningful conclusion to this blog. I just wanted to say at least a tiny something to recognize a great man. Especially since there are some things heavy on my heart right now-- personal drama, if you will-- I think I'm going to pop in Ferris Bueller, lean against the giant poster on my wall with John Hughes's name in bold, and go to bed.

...OH MY GOD.

OH MY GOD.

OH MY GOD.

Remember when I said I wished Michael Jackson would die the day before it happened? According to my tweets, on July 22, I sleep-walked and tore that same Ferris Bueller poster off my wall. "Maybe it's symbolic?" Jess had said. I giggled and tried to imagine how that could be true. Okay, now I'm seriously going to bed. I'm seriously going to bed before I kill any more celebrities. GOODNIGHT.

Sexy: Getting a fake ID not to drink, not to smoke, but to vote. RIP, The Breakfast Club.

Unsexy: The giant "Lil Wayne" concert happening in my county tonight. There are cars hauling in from ONTARIO to hear a man with dreadlocks drop it like it's hot, or whatever it is he does.

Chipotle burritos this year: 25

S'mores this summer: 6

Subscribers: 19,060

Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow, without having murdered anybody. <3

Eleven-year-old at the Dentist's

It's really funny how sometimes "writing" can mean pounding away at a keyboard, chomping away at a pen, filling pages and pages with words... and other times it can mean staring quizzically at a flashing cursor while watching Matilda, pretending like it'll benefit your creative process. What's sad is that no matter how many excuses I devise in my head, in reality, Matilda has absolutely nothing to do with my novel. My friend Leah compared the feel of my narration to the tone of the movie's narrator, but at the end of the day, one is a family flick about the power of reading and telekinesis, and the other is not. This knowledge did not stop me, however, from justifying just ten more minutes, then just ten more, until I'd watched the whole thing and written no more than a paragraph. Sigh.

I wish the love I have for my story and its characters was enough incentive to just get the damn thing typed up in order. My excuse for having no product used to be that I didn't know what happened next. Now I could talk about the plot's goings-on and the inner-workings of every single character's mind for a week straight, yet I'm finding it nearly impossible to sort through my mental clutter and organize it to make sense to readers. To me, the fact that the one guy is a catalyst is obvious, because I know his past and the decisions he's made, but if I don't record them correctly, the reader will just think he's an insignificant background person everyone else has a habit of discussing. Or if I go into every minor character's parents and grade school education and first job and annoying habits, I'll be spinning a confusing web no one will want to bother to decode. 

I was thinking about all this, among other things, as I got my teeth cleaned at the dentist's yesterday afternoon. A pretty Indian woman was dragging a pointy metal stick along the inside of my mouth, making a hanger-against-an-iron-clothes-rack sound of death, and I closed my twitching eyes. "What happened here?" said another dentist in the next room. A feminine-sounding young boy's voice responded, "Okay, so I was riding my bike up next to the school-- there's a school by my house, and it has swings, so I was going to go play on the swings-- and the cement on the sidewalk went up like this, so I thought I could jump over it, but I fell off...." I smiled with the unoccupied part of my face. I'd met that kid, JJ, in the waiting room. He had told me the same story. 

JJ and I hit it off after he complimented my hair, comparing its color to that which he called "the puffy pink stuff they put in attics." I laughed and told him it's called insulation, but for years I just thought of it as sharp cotton candy. He proceeded to tell me about going into fifth grade, his teachers' names, how the classes were divided up. I sprouted out a couple of elementary school memories for JJ, told him I'm going to college, and began a detailed rapport about the merits of trapper keepers. The conversation was endearing and nonchalant, and very reminiscent of the days when it was appropriate to look around a waiting room for the kid closest to your age and strike up a friendship. Along with my nerves about dentists, I was disappointed to see JJ go when I got called back for my appointment.

Now, in response to his story, JJ's dentist said something terribly stupid over in their room. Something, if I'm not mistaken, like "Wowiekabootles! Let's get those teethies checked out, Mr. Man!" I flinched, and the woman flossing my teeth asked if she was hurting me. I gargled the closest thing to "No, I'm fine" you can say when a gloved hand is inside your mouth. The only thing hurting me was how terribly a lot of adults misunderstand pre-teens.

Why is it that when a person hits adulthood, they suddenly lose all ability to conceptualize their eleven-year-old feelings? Fifth grade. It's the year you buy markers for school instead of crayons. Tests start to require studying. Somebody in the class will take to connecting everything to sex, and you'll pretend to know what it means, but refuse to repeat its meaning when asked for confirmation. Talk of who's wearing a bra will spread like wildfire, until boys reach out and snap any strap they see outlined on a girl's back. I can list detail upon detail from fifth grade. My homeroom teacher's name was Mrs. Evans, and she was loud-mouthed and had curly brown hair. I sat with Jess and The Most Popular Girl in one seat on the bus, and together we sang NSYNC songs about things we didn't understand. I realized I was bad at math when I decided not to learn long division. I was the third girl in our grade to get my period, I started growing out my bangs, I was a fairy for Halloween. Maybe all these memories will evaporate in the next ten years, but right now, I remember eleven.

JJ from the dentist's office is, more or less, the reason I want to finish this novel. Although it's not intended for eleven-year-old boys, it's a similar situation, in that the novel is definitely a preservation of my early teenage years, and I want to make sure I can seal the lid of those memories tightly before they go sour. When I was eleven, I knew I wanted to be a writer, I was a vegetarian, and I had the same three close friends I have now. I was a person, and an observant one. I never want to be that man who thinks fifth graders want to hear things like "wowiekabootles."

Sexy: Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked ice cream. I don't love ice cream, but I love chunks of cookie dough and brownies.

Unsexy: Editing through twenty minutes of footage, like I had to tonight for tomorrow's "fiveawesomeboys" video. It turned out to be two amusing minutes, after at least an hour of cutting and viewing and clicking.

Chipotle burritos this year: 25

S'mores this summer: 6

Subscribers: 19,019

Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3

Writing... Dot dot dot.

Once again, I'm sitting on my couch with a laptop propped on my knees, trying to no avail to make monumental progress on my novel. This involves a whole lot of dramatic reading aloud, some running around the room clapping, and a lot of under-the-breath muttering. I nearly had a panic attack earlier, trying to choose between two different versions of a chapter. I know the story like I know my own soul, but the hard part comes in choosing what to include and at what point to include it. This is all part of a process I've never been quick to let others see, but Sebastian, who appeared at my door an hour or so ago, has been allowed to stay in the same room, so long as he doesn't read over my shoulder.

"Hello, Misty," he's currently saying to my little white dog in the kitchen, where he is making me tea, without having been asked. "You are the product of hundreds of years of selective breeding to produce small dogs," he tells her scientifically. "Your ancestors are wolves. They are badass. And you, Misty, smell bad." This one-way conversation is truly representative of Sebastian's character, which is why I've pulled myself away from MS Word long enough to record it in a blog. 

It's later now, and I'm still working away. I'm really happy with what I've accomplished today. I'm sitting at the neglected dining room table (the last time I was in here, without joking, was to write video scripts with the awesomegirls. Liane sat where I am now. By the way, ladies, we still haven't made one of those videos....), playing with the 1970s tablecloth pattern, and praying there will be a day when I see my book between covers, instead of this chaotic abyss inside my mind. I have serious issues with the idea of posting any excerpts here, but maybe someday I'll read a little bit aloud on BlogTV.

Speaking of BlogTV, thanks to all of you who came to my impromptu show last night. I had no idea it went for three hours (time flies when you're talking about Degrassi), and it made me reconsider the idea of doing shows more often. I was just beaming all night from the lovely @replies I received about it, and I am in love with this video response. Thank you!

Sexy: Matt Maggiacomo.

Unsexy: This guy named Anthony Maggiacomo I found on wikipedia just to complete the joke. I really have no idea whether or not this guy is sexy. Just laugh, dammit.

Chipotle burritos: 25

S'mores this summer: 6

Subscribers: 18,964

Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3

First Person and Zombies

After utilizing a gallon of shampoos and conditioners, a rake, a hoe and a grenade, I've finally deflated my hair. It was a complicated process, but all in a day's work for a girl with hair thicker than a fertilized Chia pet. 

Other than that, though, the past day has been uneventful. Sebastian came over last night and we watched half of Twilight, before he couldn't handle it anymore and skillfully guided me away with a ruse involving microwaved cheese. During the part of the movie we did see, Sebastian snarkily asked if the books are written in first person, then laughed when I said yes. I gaped at him. "What's wrong with first person? First person is wonderful! What do you have against first person?!"

"Besides Catcher in the Rye," he said, "the last book I read in first person was in, like--"

"The Great Gatsby," I provided.

"--fifth grade," he finished.

"No. The last book you read in first person was Looking For Alaska."

At that, Sebastian giggled, considering, and moved his eyes a little bit as if to say, "Yes. Well. You're right." 

I meditated on that conversation for a bit, making a mental list over the course of a few hours. Wuthering Heights, I thought. Huck Finn. Heart of Darkness. All brilliant (even though the latter makes me groan and sigh), revered, first person novels. I don't know what made me fight so valiantly for narrative in the first person. Perhaps my devotion to Megan McCafferty, or because a fourth of my first novel is told through letters. Either way, let it be known that I think highly of first person, and that it works well for both character development and comedy, which are the two areas I plan to focus on for my entire life and living. /rant

Speak of the devil. It's now much later in the day, and I'm on the couch with Sebastian to my left and my sister to the right. We've shared this month's Cosmopolitan, chips and salsa, Oreos, pizza rolls, and chocolate chip cookies with milk. We're watching a favorite film of mine, Sebastian's, Jess's and Graham's: a zombie movie called Dance of the Dead that was made on After Effects. We rented it months ago thinking it would be a hilarious joke that took itself seriously... but in reality, it realizes it's funny. And it's really, really funny! Highly recommended. Plus, one of the characters has my video camera.

Anyway, in youtubely news, I wrote and recorded part of a new hayleyghoover video today. It will probably take a few days to finish, and it's kind of melodramatic, but I think you might like it. I know it will be fun to make. Also, this week on fiveawesomegirls, we're having our boyfriends make the videos. I'm looking forward to Matt's and Denis's a lot; they're two fantastic people. It's good to see 5AG up and running again. I miss back when I could anticipate a video every weekday.

Oh, goodness. Zombies are currently attacking the character who looks like meekakitty. What a great movie. It's also making me think of Kristina, what with ALL CAPS and everything. Speaking of Kristina? I miss that girl. We had a really long real-time email conversation today about life, love, London and southern Ohio. I knew when we started fiveawesomegirls that the other members were interesting and pretty, but I could never have imagined how close we would grow. And the awkwardly personal text conversations we would have. I miss them madly.

Sexy: Having a guy around who appreciates amazing movies, understands my need to blog, and isn't offended when I sit with my laptop during a hangout.

Unsexy: The living dead. Man, I hate, hate freakin' zombies.

Chipotle burritos this year: 25

S'mores this summer: 6

Economy-sized bags of pizza rolls this past two weeks: 3 1/2

Subscribers: 18,917

Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3

Rocky Horror

I don't know why it took me eighteen years to finally go see a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but tonight's event will not be the last of its kind. I dressed up as Magenta-- fishnet stockings, high boots, excessive makeup and all. I went with the friend I talked about the other day and this other girl, Alyssa. We were fairly casual friends before, from a shared gym class, West Side Story and Into the Woods, but after driving around harmonizing to the Anastasia soundtrack, falling into fits of giggles, and making each other up like freaks, I think I'll be seeing a lot more of her. Haha. Oh, hold on; I seriously need to wash some of this gunk off my face.

Okay, I'm back. As a disclaimer of sorts, I must mention that it's 5:10 AM-- not like getting up early, but like never going to bed-- and no one should be expected to make any sense at an hour like this one. For example, I'm lying the wrong way on my bed, with my feet at the headboard and my pillow at the end, just to be a jackass. My stomach is daring to growl when I fed it excessively all day. My eyelids are daring to retain bits of the eyeliner in which I earlier smothered them, even after various attempts with cotton balls and makeup remover. My feet are still complaining from tonight's stiletto trek, but I'm sort of on their side this time; I'd rebel, too. The blister on my left baby toe is forgivable, after all I put those guys through this evening.

It just occurred to me that you, blog readers, are equally as important as my left baby toe, and if it deserves a massage and a Band-Aid, you guys deserve something interesting to read. Keep in mind that, just as I can't cure a blister, I can't promise you'll care about any of this stuff. But you're here, so I'll try.

I spent the morning at my sister's inlaws' house again, gleefully bobbing around the above-ground pool with my twelve-year-old cousin, two sisters, and one of my sisters' friends. I drank delicious beverages, scarfed about six slices of cheese pizza, obnoxiously changed the lyrics of pop songs to include my company's names, and read a bit of The Spell Book of Listen Taylor. So far, it's really different from Jaclyn Moriarty's other novels. I'm not yet sure who the main character is, if one exists, and it has a little girl named Cassie, who outrageously appears (unless it's some twisted backstory I haven't yet learned) to not be Cassie Aganovic. But despite adjusting to a JM book that has--gasp!-- a real, third-person narrative, in twenty pages, it's already quirky, funny, and poignant. I'm so excited.

Shortly after returning home from the pool, I stopped by the town's other sex shop (on quite the roll this week!) for thigh-high fishnet hose for my Rocky Horror costume. "Tonight's the night/ let's live it up," I sang to myself while driving, in the style of my favorite new song, the Black Eyed Peas' "I Gotta Feeling." As soon as the syllables left my lips, that song started on the radio. A pleasant omen. I smiled when I got out of the car, and kept the song running through my mind as I handed over my debit card. "Tonight's gonna be a good, good night," Fergie sang in my head. And she was right.

***

It's 4:20 in the afternoon now. I finally got to sleep at about six, with my hair still teased to the point of being perpendicular. In fact, there's something about waking up after McDonald's closes its breakfast menu that makes showers seem like less of a pressing need. Yes. It's dinner time, and I'm in pajamas with my hair curled and crimped into a rat's nest. Judge me.

Anyway, last night was amazing. I'm finally starting to close in on my new year's resolution to learn how to have fun. And before you start, I mean real fun. Not, like, clever-skype-call fun, or reading-PostSecret-alone-at-the-library fun. I'm talking waiting-in-line-with-scantily-clad-young-people-for-a-movie-I-have-at-home fun. Getting-waggled-eyebrows-and-a-hand-flap-wave-from-a-transvestite fun. While my family thinks I'm careless and lazy (because my parents are so uptight they make Hillary Clinton look like a pothead), I'm really sort of a nervous person, so I know I'm making progress when driving somewhere new in the middle of the night is laid-back and pleasant. I laughed so hard I could feel it in my feet when the Rocky Horror enthusiast down the aisle shouted out every single audience participation line. I followed tradition and put a Plain Dealer over my head to block squirt gun blows. I knew which word to shout after "Brad Majors" and when to chuck my rice. I'm still beaming just from thinking about it.

All right, I just finished off the brinner my sister made me, so I think it's time to finish off my Carrot Top hairdo. I shall now proceed to shower and hopefully slip back into the state of mind in which I can blog again in a manner that makes sense.

Sexy: This hilarious Lizzie McGuire fanfiction written by my friend Leah (professorspork) when she was thirteen. She's an astoundingly talented writer nowadays, so I'm grateful to the internet for preserving fossils of when she didn't know how to punctuate within quotation marks... and when she thought Shakespeare was Old English.

Unsexy: Alyssa and I in this photo from last night.

Chipotle burritos this year: 25

S'mores this summer: 6

Subscribers: 18,859

Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3