This, That, and The Other: An Update on Life

It is one in the morning. I have a maths exam in eight hours. If it were up to me, I would not be awake right now.

But it's not up to me. It's up to my biology. Because guess what.

I'M FUCKING NOCTURNAL.

World, you need to shape up. So many people are all about inclusiveness: include the blacks and Hispanics and gays and all those other minorities, and I'm not bashing that, but how about we get a little inclusiveness for the nocturnal people? How about we get more all-night stores and restaurants, more night classes and work opportunities for people who function better at midnight than at noon?

Seriously, my sleep schedule can flip in a day. No matter how much sleep I have gotten during the week, when I don't have anywhere to be before, I will literally sleep until one or two in the afternoon. I went to bed at five AM yesterday morning. I woke up at two-thirty in the afternoon. I am perfectly peachy, and would be happy to spend the rest of my life like this. I'm not going to get to do, but I can hope, can't I?

I don't even know what the point of this is. I'm angry and upset about something completely different, and I feel like yelling and swearing about it, but I can't react the way I want to, so I suppose that's where this came from.

Maybe I'm just feeling misunderstood and excluded. Not like that's different than usual, but hey, what can I say? I have to have a talk with my German professor at eleven about social anxiety, and I have to figure out how I'm going to get through it without yelling at him or crying. Merlin only knows if I'm going to manage...

On a completely different note, I've decided to post at least once a week from now on. Perhaps it will be a Twilight recap. Perhaps it will be a ramble of ramblyness, like this one. Perhaps (this'll be fun) it will be a short story of mine. Who knows? But there will be a post every week.

With that, dear readers, I leave you and go back to my GameBoy.

Night

I step outside into the icy cold. My breath fogs in front of me, and I smile. A memory drifts on the still night air, a memory of eighth grade, a time before I knew of my allergy, and "the only good thing about smoking". I let the memory float to me, and then past, choosing instead to look up at the night sky.

It it cloudless, save for the steam coming out of the paper mill to the north, so similar to my own foggy breath, but so much bigger. A little to the south, I spy Abby's buddy, Orion, and above me, I think I see the Big Dipper. I grin, my knowledge of astronomy so very limited.

I should have been home hours ago, but my Big started watching Firefly, and I couldn't exactly walk away. It's midnight, and I'm tired, and I still have to shower; the night is cold and empty, but I am fine walking this way by myself.

I take a deep breath to revel in the night; the air is icy, and it pierces my lungs. My body is wracked by coughs from my brand of the Con Death Plague, and I remember that I should really be wearing a hat, a scarf, and probably a thicker coat. I couldn't be bothered, though, to find them on my way out the door to my social group meeting.

I am almost at the door to my dorm now; I tread a longer path than usual, to avoid the snow and keep my shoes from getting wet (they're canvas, and they take a long time to dry). I do not want to take my hands from my pockets to open the door; I'm not wearing any gloves, and my hands chap easily when it's this cold out. I have to do, though, because it's midnight, and not many people will be around to let me in. I pull out my ID and swipe it through the lock, yanking the door open before it has a chance to be an ass and close on me.

Inside now, I am almost immediately warmer. I trudge up the fourty steps to my room, and practically fall through the door. I wave at my roommate. She grins back. My coat comes off and I am cold again. I should shower and go to sleep. I have class and work tomorrow and I'm tired and sick. But I haven't been writing, and I feel the need to do. So I sit down, open my browser, and, still chilly, start to type.

I'm Still A Princess

My first name is Sarah. It’s not a secret. I put it on pretty much everything. I introduce myself as Sarah Kate—and want to be called Sarah Kate—because Sarah is so common, and it’s less confusing to have a differentiation. But my name is Sarah. It’s Hebrew; it was the name of Abraham’s wife, and it means princess.

My mom used to call me that when I was little. I’m her first daughter, and she used to tell me about how we once promised to always be best friends. Before my baby sister was born, Mom would tell Neenie and me stories about Princess Sarah the Brave and Princess Annie the Kind. I was her princess, and she would always be telling me how beautiful I was.

It’s been at least ten years since I last heard a story about Princess Sarah. I’ve changed so much since then, and I’ve learned so much about myself. I’ve learned that the reason I tap pens against tables is because it keeps me focused. I’ve learned that it’s okay to cry without a good reason. I’ve learned that I’m never really going to understand people, but instead, I have the ability to just look at a set plan and know how to put it together. I’ve learned that on the sliding scale of sexuality, I lean more towards women, but that men are okay, too. I’ve learned that I do not fit into a traditional gender role; I am gender neutral, and only seem more masculine because I look female.

Princess Sarah wasn’t any of that. She was very ladylike, though the most important thing in her life was keeping her people safe from the dragons that would constantly plague the city that her parents ruled. She had no romantic interest, in either boys or girls. She never cried, because she was so brave. She always took care of her sister, Princess Annie, and she was always so focused on saving everyone she could. And she always did; she would save the day before anyone died, she was just that good.

I know now that I’m not going to save everyone in the world; I’m not even going to be able to protect everyone in my reach. I still try, though. I will always try to keep my friends afloat, to battle away the dragons that plague them. I will always take care of my Neenie, even from as far away as I am. Though I shake and tremble and occasionally have to physically anchor myself to something to stop myself from running away, I do the scary things, the uncomfortable things, the new things, the things no one else will do and the things done in front of people, I stand up for others and for myself, I put my trust in others when it would be so easy to just stay jaded, I speak my mind and damn the consequences and no one ever knows how absolutely paralyzed with terror I am at every moment I am doing it.

I am not the same Princess Sarah that I was when I was eight, but I am still Princess Sarah the Brave.

I’m still a princess.

Twilight, Chapter 11

I’m going to take some time out of my day, turn on some nice, calming piano music, and go the fuck at this.

Why? Because it’s never going to get done otherwise.

Without further ado:

Chapter 11: Complications

Bella and Edward wander into Biology, and apparently everyone watches. Is this Bella’s conceit talking, or does everyone really have nothing better to do before class? I, for one, would be drawing the hell out of something, as per usual.

Anyway, the teacher shows a movie and an entire page is devoted to describing the sexual tension between Bella and Edward. Badly written sexual tension. God, if I ever write this poorly, someone just shoot me in the face.

Anyway, Biology ends, then Gym happens, and there’s conversation with Mike about the way Edward looks at her THANK YOU GOD THAT SOMEONE HAS NOTICED THAT THIS IS UNHEALTHY but Bella ignores Mike and heads outside. Edward is there, as probably will become the norm, and he was mind-reading during class and now he’s pissed that any other guy is even talking to Bella and DOES ANYONE ELSE SEE AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP. I CAN’T BE THE ONLY ONE.

So there are boys all over Rosalie’s car, and I SWEAR TO GOD I AM NEVER USING THE WORD “OSTENTATIOUS” AGAIN. EVER.

They drive home and Edward continues to act the dick, refusing to respect Bella’s privacy. Then there is a veiled mention of the running. I giggle, thinking of baseball. Edward thinks it’s funny that he scares Bella. WHAT THE FUCK YOU GUYS. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK. I just cannot even at this point, okay. Honest to god. He thinks it’s funny. FUNNY. He thinks it’s FUNNY that he scares her. Good god in heaven…

We’re moving on so that I don’t explode all over my roommate. There’s some hilarious cluelessness going on. Bella still can’t figure out why Edward doesn’t want to take her hunting. IT’S BECAUSE HE WILL FUCKING EAT YOU YOU MORON. So he has to spell it out for her.

But yeah. So that happens. Then more terrible sexual tension, then ~parting omg~, then undiagnosed horny dreams, then comes morning and Charlie is still my favorite character. He is clearly the only person who actually cares. I wish to god that Bella would bring Edward around and actually hang out with Charlie so that Charlie could see how horrible this whole thing is and then be all “Bitch this ain’t happenin’,” and, like, shoot Edward. Or maybe call in the Slayer Squad. Or something.

But nope. I don’t get that. I get more fuckwittery from Bella and Edward and…honestly, it’s not even worth it to make fun of what goes on in that car. Suffice to say that Edward asks questions, Bella answers, and it’s boring as all fuck. Apparently he’s psychoanalyzing her. Or something. I don’t even know.

And then the whole day is skipped and come Biology and HOLY CRAP THEIR TEACHER’S NAME IS MR. BANNER PLEASE GOD PLEASE LET HIS FIRST NAME BE BRUCE OH THAT WOULD BE BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE THIS BOOK COULD SERIOUSLY FUCKING DO WITH SOME GODDAMN AWESOME BRUCE BANNER ACTION.

And then nothing happens. And then more nothing happens. It’s all questions and answers and we really get none of them (siriusly, guys, we don’t learn a thing about Bella), and then Edward mentions that it’s twilight LOL I C WAT U DID THAR and Charlie will be home soon. And then Meyer tries to be poetic (I can tell that it’s her because it sucks ass) and then Jacob! Yay Jacob! I still like Jacob!

And also Billy and Charlie and apparently Billy ~knows deep down~ that the Cullens are vampires or some shit and hey! What’d’ya know! I’m done!

It’s past midnight and I have a midterm tomorrow so this is SK, signing out!

Politics

I don't like politics. I run very far and very fast from politics.

It has nothing to do with disagreeing with my friends. My best friend and I will probably always vote against each other, but that's because different things are important to us for different reasons. I don't get mad at her when we discuss our differing opinions, because I know that certain things have shaped her life just as different--but no less important--things have shaped my life.

I will not argue with you about your voting policy. I will not argue with you about you opinion on who is better. I may, occasionally, engage in healthy debate about the way I think things should go, but I will not argue.

And this is why I don't like politics.

I had a debate in my English class on Wednesday. We read Oedipus the King over last weekend, and split into sides based on whether we thought that Oedipus was a victim of the prediction made about him before his birth, or if it was his character and choices that led him to his fate.

(For those who don't know, Oedipus the King is the Greek story about the guy who was sent away at his birth (him mom wanted him killed), and was raised by another king and queen because of shepherds. He grew up to kill his birth father and marry his birth mother. Greek legends are nasty as hell, really...)

Personally, I was in the "Human beings are illogical dumbfucks, I'm going to Vulcan" camp, but since I had to pick one side or the other, I went with "This is not Oedipus' fault". And I could expound on how it isn't. Maybe I will, because it's interesting, but it will be in another post. I'm trying to make a point (shocker!) here.

The thing is, in this debate, there were a bunch of eighteen-to-twenty-three-year-olds. The "immature" ones. The "entitled" ones. The ones who were raised to be spoiled and think that they are the second coming of Christ. Or something. However the hell you want to describe my generation. That was who was participating in this debate. You know what, though? We were respectful. We actually listened to each other. We brought up well-thought-out points and counterpoints. We actually debated.

To tie this back into the beginning and title of this post, there are some things that I have never heard the "mature", "unspoiled", "intelligent" participants of political debates say that I heard in that room. For example:

"I never thought about it that way."

"I concede your point."

"I understand why you see it that way, even though I don't see it like that myself."

Admittedly, the media would have a field day with any politician who said that. The opposing side would be all "OH MY GOD THEY DON'T STICK TO THEIR OWN BELIEFS HOLY CRAP THIS IS HORRIFYING THAT SOMEONE IS CHANGING AND GROWING ENLIGHTENED BECAUSE THAT IS WRONG YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO DO THAT YOU SHOULD TOTALLY VOTE FOR OUR CANDIDATE BECAUSE HE IS IMMOVABLE."

I mean, they wouldn't phrase it like that, because the way I said it makes it clear that change is a good thing (or, at least, I think it does), and the media sources would want to make it seem absolutely terrible. I don't know why. I probably never will. See, if I heard a candidate say that, I don't think I would give a flying monkey fuck what his policies were. The fact that he would agree that he might be wrong or that his opinion isn't the only valid option would make me respect him immensely, and my respecting someone means one hell of a lot more (generally) than my agreeing with them. Any politician who says something similar to that has my vote.

It bothers me that Obama supports abortion. It bothers me that Romney thinks gays don't have families. It bothers me that Obama isn't really working with the Catholic Church on the contraception issue. It bothers me that Romney doesn't seem to care about  hardworking poor people. Both these people have their faults. I don't even know how I'm voting at this point. But I would be swayed immediately by someone who listens, someone who understands, someone who respects their rival. That is all I want in a president. I want someone who isn't afraid to be swayed by good, strong arguments. I want someone who cares about what the other side thinks, even if he doesn't agree with him. I want someone who takes everyone's opinions into consideration, and then makes the best decision for the majority.

Who the hell knows if I'll ever get it, though.

This

This is why I left my parents' house:



So I can come and go whenever and wherever I want.

So I can cuddle with my friends on the couch and fangirl to our hearts' content.

So my fails are met with giggles and gentle corrections, not disappointed looks and sighs.

So I can make jokes about my neighbors having loud sex.

So I can swear.

So I can work at at job I love, and not one my parents force on me to get me out of the house.

So I can do what's best for my health, and not end up hurting myself to keep up with my parents' wishes.

So I can sit in a comfy chair and read for hours on end without interruption.

So it's okay for me to be mostly gay, and I don't have to hide it from the people who are paying my rent.

So I can be the nocturnal creature I am.

So I can use my free time as I see fit.

So I don't have glares coming at me from all directions when I show up with another five comic books.

So I can read whatever the bloody hell I want, and not worry about getting in trouble.

So I can actually clean the everliving fuck out of a paint-sink.

So I can finally be who I really am.



I left my parents' house so I can find a home.

<_<

>_>

*whispers* Okay, all clear.



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Open Letters

So this happened last spring, and I decided that it’s time I write an open letter.  Or two.



To my sophomore-year gym class teacher:

Dear Mr. Walsh,

I doubt you’d remember me.  I run errands for the library, and I’ve often given you DVDs and fixed your laptop.

Remember me?  No?  Okay, let’s try this:

I’m the blue-haired loony who spent every free day pacing the edge of the gym.  I never spoke.  You laughed at me a lot, especially on days when we didn’t have to dress and I showed up in Doctor Who and Star Trek shirts and spent the entire period reading.  I was pretty spacey; you never could hold my attention, and you often had to call my name repeatedly.

Remember now?  Oh, good.

Your laughter and constant shouting of my name brought a lot of unwanted attention to me.  I get the feeling that if you had never put the spotlight on me, my life wouldn’t have been the hell it was that year.  It still would have been hell, but perhaps not as high a circle as it ended up being.  I’m not saying all of it’s your fault; you may have called attention to me, but my classmates didn’t have to pick on me.  Still, teasing the geek?  For being smart as opposed to athletic?  And for reading?  Really?  Aren’t adults supposed to be above that?

Still, maybe next time you walk into the library while I’m working there, you’ll recognize me and see how things are.  I’ve single-handedly fixed half the computers in there.  I know exactly where everything is.  I helped sort out the bloody design of the place.  All the librarians love me, because I’m bright, I can help with the books, and I can teach them how to do tech things.

Did you notice?  Did you see that everything they love me for is what you teased me about?  Did you know that I endeared myself to my boss over the summer on the first day by teaching myself how to do something she wanted, and then teaching her?

I used to say that listening to you talk dropped my IQ by a point or two every time.  I realize that you’re probably not smart enough to understand the technology that I work with and fix every day, and that probably puts you a little in awe of my technological magic (because that’s what it is), and that maybe you’re a little afraid of what you don’t understand.  You’re not going about this the right way, though.  You want to befriend the smart kids who can fix your webcam and microphone.  You want to be nice to them.  Because we can tell.  We know who teased the nerds, and we’ll fix your webcam, but we can install viruses, too.  We know how to make your computer flash you the bird at random times.  We can externally access your computer and steal your files.  But on the other hand, we can tell who was nice to the nerds, and we’ll fix your webcam, but then we’ll do a scan to make sure that you have no viruses, and make sure that all your connections are up and running.

I’m not making threats.  I’m just saying, be nice to the smart kids, and we’ll be nice back.  Be mean to the smart kids, and we’ll be the ones in power pretty soon, and then we’ll make your life hell.  We’re kind of vindictive that way.

—Sarah Kate



To my eighth grade graduating class:

To Whom It May Concern:

So, does anyone remember me?  You probably all do, actually.  I mean, there were only sixty-four of us; we all knew each other by name.  But, in case you don’t, I’m the kid who challenged your views of how people should be.  I’m the one who was completely beyond your comprehension.  I’m the smart one with all the answers who didn’t know shit.  I’m the one who never swore.  I’m the one who never thought about dying her hair, painting her nails, or putting on make-up.  I’m the only one who didn’t have a problem with the socks.  I’m the non-conformist of non-conformists.  I’m the one you simply did not understand.

And I remember, very clearly, that you reacted with hostility.

I got left out of almost everything, picked last in gym class, left to work alone on group projects.  My books were stolen.  I was treated like I wasn’t there.  I was hit more than once.  When I made the slightest mistake, everyone laughed.  I was expected to be perfect, yet viewed as always wrong until someone confirmed what I said.

There were light points, though.  You were grudgingly impressed whenever I was forced to share my writing with the class.  I remember one incident from sixth grade, when the silence after I’d read a story was punctuated by admiring whistles and a surprised look from our teacher that a twelve-year-old could be so deep.  More than once, I heard, “Don’t forget us when you’re famous.”

I’d smile and blush and promise not to, only to cry at home that I’d never be able to.  Whether I end up the rich, famous author, or the technician working on your computers, I will never be able to forget you or what you did, though I’m sure you’ll only remember enough to say, “I knew her in grade school!”  If you see my name on a book, you’ll think, “I always said she was good!” and if you hire me to fix your computer, you’ll think, “I always thought she’d never amount to anything.”

Really though? I don't care any more. I'm finished being upset that you thought that "different" meant "weird." I can take on huge projects by myself now, because I had to do before. I can take being wrong, because I know I'm not perfect. I have the ability to disappear into crowds and sneak away, because I know how to make people ignore me. Most of all, though, I can fight back and stand up for other people, because I know how much it sucks to be on receiving end of it.

In short, "I'm burning bright thanks to your rejection fuel."

Whatever I end up doing, I'll love it and shine like a star in my field, and that's one hell of a lot more than I can say for most of you.

—Sarah Kate

Always

I wrote this post on 20 July in my notebook, but I never got around to posting it because of reasons. Still, it's a good post, and I'm going to share it unchanged from then.

I read a lot. Everyone who knows me should know this. I generally don’t go anywhere without a book (except work, of course). Ironically enough, I couldn’t read until the end of second grade, just after I turned eight. That summer, though, I quickly graduated from Dr. Seuss and the Berenstain Bears to Harry Potter and Redwall.

I’ve waxed poetic on Redwall before. I wrote an obituary of sorts last February on the one-year anniversary of Mr. Jacques’s death. I’ve mentioned that this series is the reason I write, that I’ve learned so much about writing just from reading these books. I could extol the virtues of these stories until I’m blue in the face and your ears fall off (no, really, I can).

The thing is, I can tell you all this, but never get my true feelings across. So instead of telling you why these books are brilliant, I will show you my reaction to them.

A couple weeks ago, I went to the bookstore. This was probably a bad idea, because no one could come with me, and I had to restrain myself from buying ALL THE BOOKS. (It didn’t work too well; I walked out with three in my hands and two more on order.)

Wandering the Science Fiction & Fantasy section, as I am prone to do, I found the Redwall books. This was the second section of them I had come across, because they are generally put in the “Young Readers” section (I mean, they are for ten-to-twelve-year-olds). At the end of the group of Brian Jacques’s books, there was a paperback copy of The Sable Quean, the last Redwall book published before the author’s death.

Now, it isn’t the very last one; The Rogue Crew was published post-mortem. Still, when I picked it up, I almost started crying. It felt like holding the end of my childhood in my hands. I fought back tears, told myself that I’d cry when I got The Rogue Crew, decided which other books to buy, purchased them, and left.

Fast forward to today. I was essentially on-call at work, just chilling in the building, waiting for people to need me. I had brought along The Bellmaker to continue my read-through of my whole shelf—for those of you who don’t know/couldn’t guess, The Bellmaker is part of the Redwall series. It was as I was finishing the book, reading through the epilogue, that I was it, and remembered.

At the end of practically every single Redwall book is some take on this message: Redwall’s gates will always be open to those who mean no harm, however young or old they are.

I used to smile at that line, knowing that it meant that however much I grew up, I’d always have the safety of Redwall Abbey and Mossflower Wood to return to when life got hard. Today, I broke down and cried, because of the word “always”.

The message doesn’t say “until you grow out of childish fantasies.” It doesn’t say “until you don’t need it anymore.” It doesn’t say “until the author dies.” It says “always.”

True, once I buy The Rogue Crew, I will never again feel the glee that a brand new Redwall book brings me. Once I finish reading it, I will know all the tales that will be told of this land. Once I turn its final page, I will have absorbed every single word the man wrote. But I will still have the books. I can still reread them whenever I want.

So now, whatever else changes, whoever leaves me, however old I grow, no matter what happens, I will always have the safety of these places, the companionship of these characters, the knowledge that something in this world is okay to keep me going.

Always.

Romance

So I broke up with my boyfriend last week.

Don’t get all weepy on me. I’m fine, it was my idea, I wanted it to happen, etc., etc. Honestly, I’m happy it’s over. The boy put way too much pressure on me. I was his only source of happiness~. He could see us together ~forever~. He practically had our headstones all ready. He’d talk about how we could get a house together and we’d garden in it and we couldn’t have cats.

See, here’s the thing. When he talked about that, I’d never see it. I’d look into my future, and I couldn’t see a house and a garden and no cats. All I ever saw was a London flat and my Speckle and my Neenie and ALL THE KITTIES. It seems to be a thing now. When I look, when I think about what might happen, I only ever see that. Just me and Speckle and Neenie in a flat with kittens named after superheroes.

It’s made me realize something. I’m not going to be one for commitment. Not romantic commitment, anyway. I mean, I’m incredibly loyal as a friend, and I will always stand by the people I love, but I’m getting off track…

If I look into my future, and all I can see is my two best friends, there has to be a reason for it. I’ve been saying recently that every single one of my significant others should, and probably will, be jealous of Emma Lee, and it’s true. She is my Speckle, and she is the most important person in my life. I care for and love her just as much as anyone would their One True Love, though not quite in the same way. Because I have that in Emma, I don’t need or want it in anyone else.

Maybe all this means that I wasn’t born to be a monogamous person, much the same as I wasn’t born to be a heterosexual person. I’m fine with that. The only real problem, though, is making other people fine with that. I don’t want every break-up of mine to be nasty, and I’m afraid that a lot of them will be. I just want clean, easy relationships where we don’t ask too much of each other, and both recognize when it’s over.

Maybe I’m asking too much of the world. Maybe I’m being selfish and lazy. I don’t know. I do know, though, that I’d be absolutely crazy to go out and look for another life partner when I already have one, and probably even two, despite the fact that they’re my sisters.