Nightmares

I'm afraid of my dreams.

I'm not talking about my reoccurring night terror where I'm kidnapped from the creepy guy who says"this is a dead zone" in the AT&T* commercials in the local Wal Mart and no matter how much I cry out to Stetson Richey's mom she never saves me. Though I'm scared of that too, that's an entirely different blog post about my problems.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

I'm afraid of my "dream big", "reach for the stars", "you can do it" type dreams. Not because I dream of being a soldier or a serial killer or a dairy farmer (which would all scare me), but just because I have them. I have dreams of traveling the world and making a difference. I dream of changing lives and having my life changed for me. I dream of falling in love like that hat can't-eat, can't- sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of stuff**.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

Because what if I don't achieve them? What will I have then? I will tell you. I will have my pathetic hopes and unrealistic rationalizations. I'll probably have a condo and a husband who doesn't talk to me and a job at the local Pick N, Save***. I'll have regrets and disappointments. I'll be stuck, sitting around and fiddling with my potential.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

But I will never stop having them. Because at the moment, they're all I've got. And when everyone has deserted me and there is a knife in my back, I will have my dreams. You can't steal them out from under me, or make them yours. I will always be good enough for my dreams. They are the one thing that you can't possibly take from me. I know, it must kill you.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

-M

*Dear AT&T, you're the worst. Fix my phone. Thanks.

**Wish I could take credit for that quote. It Takes Two has been good to me.

***Why the heck did they change it to Big Lots? What does that even mean....

Batman Jammies

It's because my hair is long enough to tangle around your neck,

isn't it?

No?

Then what could it possibly be?

I do Apologize

I have a secret blog. And it's taking up the majority of my writing time.
And no, don't ask me for the name.
I will give you this one hint: the name is hidden here, on this blog.

Why are you so obsessed with me?

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Oh, Satire, My One True Love

We had to write a paper on Bowling etiquette and everyone was all, "WAHHH" and inside I was shouting for joy. I busted this baby out like an overdue preggo.

They are just so happy to be bowling together.

Enjoy.

The Art of Bowling

By Emily Henson

            Bowling is a very serious subject. Failure to follow bowling rules may result in serious injury, death, and ejection from Jack and Jill’s. Can you imagine a bowling ball flying towards your head, ready to dent your skull forever all because someone didn’t read this paper? We don’t want that, now do w? So read on, my friend, read on.

Step One: It’s all about the kicks

Bowling without proper shoes is just plain irresponsible, folks. DON”T DO IT. If you can’t afford your own pair of custom professionally-made bowling shoes, rent some from the bowling alley! They are there for a reason. And, as an added bonus, bowling shoes make dance moves, like the moon walk, a lot easier.

Step Two: Because Nice Matters

I know, I know. Trust me, I know. Missing that strike you’ve been waiting for can be the most frustrating thing in the entire universe. Don’t even get me started on the miraculously-wobbly-one-pin-left-standing scenario. But those folks from the retirement home in the lane next to you do not want to hear your profanities. So say things like, “Dag nabbit!” and “Shucks.”

Step Three:  It is inappropriate to grab others’ balls. (Get your mind out of the gutter)

Forget “Sharing is Caring.” Not when it comes to bowling it isn’t! Bowling balls, people, are not to be messed with. Once someone takes that germ infested sphere off the shelf, that ball is theirs for the day. So when you take someone else’s ball from a shared dispenser, whether by purpose or accident, it is serious business. Fights erupt. Hair is pulled. Bowling balls and pins start flying. Be cautious, kids.

Step Four: To the Right (Take it back now, y’all. One hop this time…)

That awkward moment when two people go to bowl at the same time and don’t know who should go first so they end up both going and whacking each other in the face, is something we all want to avoid. So when in doubt, the person to the right gets the privilege of going first. Say nice things like “After you, lassie” or “Oh please, I insist”. If you are interested romantically in the person next to you, resort to “You go first” “No you go first” “No! You go!” etc.

Step Five: Even if those boots (bowling shoes) are made for walking, they better not walk all over someone else’s lane.

DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE (unless a small child is about to get hit with a bowling ball and you have the ability to dive in front of them yelling “NOOOOOOO” and save them) GO IN OR IN FRONT OF SOMEONE ELSE’S LANE. It will end up like one of those horrible movie scenes where the main character is about to get hit by a car and they just stand there thinking “Oh shiz that’s a semi truck coming right for me,” and everyone in the audience is like, YOU IDIOT. (Replace main character with bowler and semi truck with bowling ball).

 The end.

Yes, Master

I wish it was like the movies.
I wish everything meant what I thought it meant. Maybe then all the things that romantic comedies have taught me would come to use, other than during trivia games. All the signals that I think are saying stop mean go and I keep going straight in the "left turn only" lane. I wish I could say what I mean. And even though I tell you that everything is ok, I really want to yell at you for ruining every chance I have. I would cry a lot more, and laugh at bad grammar. Some days I wouldn't participate in unintelligent conversation, and sometimes I wouldn't speak at all. But my silence would be viewed as rudeness, and my lack of words stupidity. I wish I had the courage for ultimatums. I wish risks paid off and all heartbreaks are just misunderstandings, to be sorted out through astronomical means. I wish there was a soundtrack that warned me of murderers under my bed and when he's about to kiss me.
But instead I'm always wrong, and my instincts mean absolutely nothing. I don't understand boys, and  I don't understand girls. I don't even understand why I choose to stay home on a Saturday night. I think it's because I need a break. I need a break from guessing what you're thinking and resisting the urge to punch people.
But then I see Jesse Schow at a pizza place in Salt Lake and he spins me around. Then I spend time with my family, who let me be exactly who I am even if it involves dancing to "Big and Chunky" and seeing who can make the ugliest face (it's me, I can). And then I get this hopeful feeling because High School politics actually mean nothing and I am the only one who, with God by my side, decides my fate.
So sorry, but screw it all.
-M

What I do in Newspaper....

Please Ignore the Previous Post

And look at these beautiful pictures.

There is something extraordinary about an absence of color.

There is something incredible about the ability we have to see such detail in flecks of black and white and grey. But no matter how fine the sharpness is, there is always a small sense of wonder. How green is the grass and what color is her shirt? And then the real question: Does it even matter?

No. I don't think it does.

 

It May As Well All End Now.

High School

She wishes he would notice her,

That her eyelash would land on his hand,

And he would be forced to look into her eye.

But this is high school.

This is nervous glances

At the social chains binding her feet.

This is that moment

When fantasy becomes tainted with reality

And all dreams are censored by

Strangers with black over their eyes.

This is wishing she could stop stuttering,

And finish a sentence that actually has meaning.

This is high school.

This is forgetting that everyone is crying on the inside

And lying on the outside.

This is trying to shape her body

Into this mold that tells her how to smile

And how to hold hands,

And how to love.

This is wishing on numbers

That life will turn out like the fairytales

And worrying her husband will stop

Wanting to kiss her lips.

And every second that goes by

Is chipping away at the small light

Hidden behind her breasts.

Because her heart hasn't even broken yet.

This is too many forevers and not enough goodbyes.

Watching inside jokes from the outside,

And getting wasted

By the constant waves of emotion

That puberty hasn't taught her to deal with.

This is thinking this poem is only for her.

This is remembering that it isn't.

But then forgetting that everyone else is clinging

To this utter reality

As soon as gossip emerges from the depths of the halls,

And eyes begin to do circles in their sockets.

This is words and phrases and sentences

Camouflaged as solid color.

Just green, just blue, just grey.

Just another girl.

This is laughing

At health-class-lingo,

And secretly wishing that she knew someone on drugs,

So she could feel older than 16.

This is high school.

This is insomniacs who spend their money

On sleeping pills and playboys.

This is "I won't tell"s

And she won't tell either.

This is high school.

This is thinking love is lust,

And laughing in the face of sanctity.

This is clothes strewn across the floor,

And tears shed for sweet nothings.

This is first kisses,

And wishing someone would call her beautiful.

This is religion shoving a cloth down her throat.

Taking her away her happiness,

And her chances at life.

This is her ignorance.

This is her own hand around the washcloth.

This is high school.

This is the melting pot,

Where every lie she's been told,

Like that she can't have a radical on the bottom of a fraction

And she can never start a sentence with "because"

Collides with the facts about life, and sex, and what it means to be free.

This is begging him not to cry,

And discovering that sometimes she can't stop.

This is small scale politics,

That replaces the need for hydrogen bombs.

And this, this is where she learns.

This is learning that love has nothing to do with romance,

And everything to do with the smile

Of a small child and a baby's first words.

This is pretending that there is a deeper meaning,

And that her art represents something.

This is high school.

This is giddy laughs and broken sobs.

This is her hand grazing his and it not mattering.

This is how it starts, and how it ends.

This is all she gets.

This is how she becomes

Who she will one day wish she wasn't.

Paradise

Cold Water Surrounds Me

I'm covering my wall in paper. Paper with my future written all over. Where I want to go and where I am and where I wish I was. All the places in story books that really exist now cover my wall. And instead of the maps making me happy, they just make me restless. I lay on my bed looking at adventure and wondering if I'll ever taste it or if it will always be just out of my reach...I'm afraid that I can't walk the walk.
Instead I'll be stuck in this limbo where I have to get root canals, and nitrous is the closest thing to drugs in my life. I'll be glued to my calculus book and attending math banquets. I'll feel proud about front page newspaper layouts and 98% test scores. I'll be stuck, even when all I want to do is scream, "I DON'T CARE ABOUT  PHYSICS" and silently sob because my life is so pathetic.
In the back of my mind there lives a sliver of hope for the future, but it's surrounded by the bleak and black fear that I will never get to be happy like I think I should deserve to want to be. But when light is surrounded by darkness, no matter how small the amount, it only shines brighter. And sometimes the only thing that gets me through Edgar Allan Poe videos that have nothing to do with poetry and times when girls are ignorant fools and I just want to yell at them is the small light illuminating the corner of my brain.

Lord, can you hear me now, or am I lost?

The Blink of an Eye

They say that not all distractions are bad. They say that sometimes they get in the way, however, and should be eliminated. I beg to differ.

No, I am not saying that phones should never be turned off and tabloids should be read on a frequent basis. I'm saying quite the opposite, really. Shove your phone down disposal if you need to. Break your pencil in half if having it in your hand makes you feel guilty for not finishing your math homework. Shrug away responsibility for just a second.Turn off the Tv, take out all the light bulbs and light candles. And then, my friends, let yourself be distracted.

Let your thoughts take you into unknown worlds.

Because Picasso wasn't supposed to be a painter, but how could he sit and do arithmetic when his mind was with his art supplies?

Steve Jobs couldn't work part time when he was constantly distracted by the endless possibilities of technology. 

J.K. Rowling should have been trying to find any job she could get to scrape by, but a boy by the name of Harry Potter wouldn't let her sit there and be ordinary.

And when people told Walt Disney that "he lacked imagination and had no good ideas" he should have settled for a nine to five job, even if all day he was distracted by a little black mouse and his darling wife.

So to all those who tell us to focus on our studies and choose a stable career, we say to you that we will never cease to let our minds wander. Because wandering into the unknown is what created that iPhone in your hand and made the 9,237 Disney movies sitting on your shelf. Failure gave birth to Harry Potter and the Oprah Winfrey show. Distraction gave us art, and music, and the ability to express the deepest parts of ourselves for the whole world to see. So if you are willing to give up everything worth savoring, then by all means, tell me to rid myself of distractions. 

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but without it, the cat had nothing to live for anyway.

I owe it all to you.

I'm going to spare all of you from the dramatic and idealistic ramble that I am dying to write.
Best Sadies Ever.
It was absolutely perfect.

Pardon my French, but WHAT THE H.E. DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS JUST HAPPENED?

I was going for a kiss on the cheek. Another girl had the other cheek covered. Just a quick "Good Job" peck on the cheek. No big deal. And then he turned his head, and I kissed Bentley Rawle.
Him: "Uhhhhh"
Me: "Good Job Bentley. That was close."

I went into this state of shock. And then the immature side of me came out and I did the only sensible thing: I ran. I ran into the locker room and collapsed on the floor. If you were wondering if I can make the sound of a dying pig, I've got your answer. I can. Just make me half kiss one of the hottest boys you know and you'll see a side of me you will forever try to erase from your memory.

Hey, no regrets, right? It's a good story. It's not like it matters.
So much regret. So embarrassing. My life is over.

Why We Love Saturdays

I'm Not Yours

I wish I had words.
But for now I'm just content with a song I wish I could write.

Do you ever wish you could fly?

Is Matthew Gray Gubler my dream guy?

Is the world round?

Are you reading this right now?

Do you like milkshakes?

Do hearts get broken?

Is life hard?

What was Griffins response?

YES.

I do.

The truth never really comes out.
Mostly we just choose to call what we wish the world was "reality" and what we know it to be "exaggeration", because sometimes lying is easier. 

But still I'm here, trying to tell it.
Here it is. The truth, and nothing but it.

The truth is I was sad. You asked me if I was sad and I said "No!" like it was ridiculous, but really I was trying not to cry and desperately making an effort to keep my voice was shaking. I think you knew anyway.

The truth is I blame one person. And I blame him for the pile of banana peels that seems to be most of my life.

The truth is that I hate writing. Not the verb, the noun. I hate it because people can hide behind their words and strangers, or in some cases people they know, are fooled into thinking that this mystery writer is something that they are not. That they are educated when really the just use thesaraus.com and that they actually care about what they are writing. (If you're reading this, it isn't about you, i think)

The truth is I have a secret blog. And I think if you read it, you may just call me "freak".

The truth is a small part of me wants to post the url right here .

The truth is I'm tired. I'm tired of insincerity and whining about things that don't matter when serious things have happened/are happening to me, and to most people I would assume. I feel like shouting sometimes. Screaming things like "YOU'RE LIFE ISN'T HARD" and "IF YOU ONLY KNEW" but then I would be a hypocrite, because I'm just as whiny as the next angsty teen.

The truth is there is one person who've I told everything to, and now whenever I talk to him people think it means something that it doesn't. And so I stay silent.

The truth is 1/2 of me is excited about life, and the other 1/2 is utterly terrified.

but it goes on, now, doesn't it?

-M

That's super weird, cause Andrew and I are dating.

I fell into this thing we call the rabbit whole and I'm emerging someone completely new. At first it's subtle, but soon I'm asking Griffin Kerr to a dance and running through the Smith's parking lot dressed as an old man* and pulling down four pairs of giant underwear in public**. But I'm still scared to go to english class and wear high wasted pants, so maybe the old me is still somewhere below the surface. Or I guess it's possible that I just don't really know who "I" am. Is this what they call growing up?

Me: "It's going to be a great day" *stretches arms*

Giant Zit: "HA!"

*I know what you're thinking. "Clever Em, that is so random, how did you think of such a funny thing? You must be making it up, because no one who is allowed outside of a mental institution does that". Truth is folks, totes*** did that.

**And that. yeah....

***totally

Neon isn't a color, it's a state of being.

-M