Oh, I've BEEN to Prague.

I suppose I should start with something like, “Well, I’m in Prague now. Look at that!” But it seems a strange thing to say. I feel as if I’ve been in Prague forever, though it’s only been about a month. I’ve been awfully lazy about updating my blog, and for that I apologize. I know I promised a few people I’d keep them updated, but I by the time I got a converter for my laptop so much had happened that I didn’t know where to start. So I just downloaded the NYU proxy and watched old Barbara Stanwyck and Fay Wray movies on Netflix when I was in instead.

Though I’ve been living in New York, these weeks in Prague have been my first time really frequenting the nightlife. I’ve been to a several clubs, even more bars, and a few that crossed somewhere between a bar and club. On our first night, we accidentally wandered into a strip club, where serious looking dancers swung around lazily while stern-faced Czech men watched in silence, frowning at us over their bekarovka and tonics. We didn’t stay long.

We’ve been spoiled with full-bodied beers and clean vodka shots – that is, until the recent hard alcohol ban. That ban has been all I’ve seen in the papers – 20 hospitalized, now 38. Dozens dead. I probably won’t drink another shot the whole time I’m here, just because I’m now so terrified of becoming blind off bad moonshine masquerading as legitimate liquor.

My classes have been enjoyable. My most serious class is a course on international reporting. People rarely mention how small classes can get while studying abroad. We had four people in our class until last Thursday. Now there’s only two, including myself. The teacher is a gloriously abrasive Argentinean with a New York accent, blonde highlights and 7-month-old twins. She’s reported all over the world for everything and everybody, and though I’m intimidated by her I’d love to be just like her, which is a problem because I’m absolutely nothing like her. I’ve realized all of a reporter’s greatest attributes – forwardness, self-confidence, and an ability to remember facts from hearing them once – are my weak points. I’m the anti-reporter in all but the ability to write. But what else am I to do with my life? Write poetry? I don’t think so. Well, the matter of my future career will come later (I have a few months before I have to choose what I’ll do for the rest of my life.) For now I’ll focus on turning my weaknesses into strengths, if just for the class I’m in.

My Kafka class has been surprisingly disappointing. I love the work – I’m sorry I’ve never read any Kafka before. It was because I was reading “The Trial” that I decided to write this blog post. It’s the kind of writing that makes you want to write yourself. I guess in the future I’ll have to start keeping Kafka around just to make me want to work. But the teacher is incredibly dull. He’s a young Czech man with a Tony Stark beard and a monotone, mumbling voice. He punctuates every sentence at the beginning and end with a low, grumbling “uuuuuuhhhhhhhh.” But that wouldn’t be a problem if he understood what literature majors… well, do. My roommate, who’s in my class (for the time being – she doesn’t like this professor much either) tried to analyze the text, bringing in other examples from Kafka’s contemporaries to punctuate her point, and the teacher interjected saying, “I think you are adding your own ideas.” Which is what we do – we analyze the text and come up with new ideas about the text. This teacher prefers us to simply regurgitate what we’ve read, which could have passed for English in, say, 7th grade. I don’t even know if I can do very well in this class if I’m expected to do that.

Czech class is very difficult for me. The teacher is wonderful, and teaches us conversational Czech instead of trying to explain everything through grammatical terms like “past participle” or “future perfect indicative” or whatever. He’s Czech, but speaks perfect English, and this NYU teaching job is only one of his many translating/teaching jobs where he teaches English speakers Czech or Czech speakers English. He’s tall with high cheekbones, probably about forty years old, and everyday appears sincerely happy to see us.

Finally, I have my Cultures and Contexts course, taught by my orientation leader Mucha. He’s a distant relative of the famous Mucha, though he won’t tell us exactly how they’re related. While he was a college student, he was also one of the dissidents who organized the Velvet Revolution, and was a personal friend of Czech libertarian, playwright, and president Vaclav Havel. He’s also damn precious. He must be in his forties as well. He has a broad, little boy smile and breathes in sharply in between each of his sentences, giving the impression he’s extremely excited about absolutely everything he’s saying. He also seems thrilled about the course he’s teaching, and makes us powerpoints in (admittedly a bit poorly translated) English before taking us outdoors for field trips. And whenever we go out he puts on an adorable blue pageboy hat, which absolutely kills everybody in the class. We’ve only had two class periods (it’s a long, once-a-week class) but he’s gained the loyalty of all of his students, party through his history as a dissident and partly through his supreme cuteness.

I suppose I’ll write about my roommates and some friends I’ve made here next time. It’s lucky I don’t have anything bad to say – otherwise I wouldn’t be able to write about them. This is the internet we’re living in, after all.

Stagnant

Unexpectedly, once my Spanish class ended I fell into a sort of stagnant state, floating aimlessly once the panicky structure of deadlines and quizzes disappeared from under my feet. I've always had trouble motivating myself when there's no one there to light a fire under my butt, no one there to disappoint if I don't get shit done. My entire life has built its schedule around avoiding stern or disapproving looks from teachers and parents, and my priorities have always upheld the mountains of schoolwork to be done. Now that I'm free to be creative on my own, I sort of melt into a puddle of lethargic waste, spending all of my time listlessly watching "RuPaul's Drag Race" and bad anime, putting off doing simple tasks like taking out the trash, ordering a prescription at the local pharmacy, going to the gym, buying milk. Very little gets done. What I need is a good kick in the pants.

I've also been putting off social interactions. Rachel and Kevin are both in Paris, Wonky Teeth (I'll call him WT from now on) is working at a summer camp in upstate New York, and all my other friends are from clubs and classes - friends I hang out with when I see them but haven't spent much time with outside of our joint activity. I'm forced to seek out my class-and-club friends, and in my globlike state that seems like too much effort. How can I organize a trip to a concert when I can barely brush my teeth in the morning?

But, luckily, I ended up getting together with one of my class friends - Meredith. I've had three classes with her, and we ended up sitting together in our last one out of familiarity. She was always astonishingly easy to talk to, and when I posted online that I was staying in New York for the summer, she responded that she, too, was here. So we got together one day to look at art galleries, and it went surprisingly well. I was afraid my choices of cheap art galleries - one of old French sketches and another by Courtney Love (which was both far away and, in the end, closed) - would bore her, but it turned out she studied French and was going to Paris next semester. She was smart, but not too serious. Wholesome, but open and unfazed by debauchery. It's rare to meet someone so simply herself. We went to the met a week or so later, but I haven't hung out with her since. I should text her. Invite her to one of the Celebrate Brooklyn concerts - I hear the admission is only $3. I'll do that... after I watch this episode of "Descendants of Darkness."

I'm also working. Part-time. But not at Sunglass Hut. The Sunglass Hut job unexpectedly fell through, entirely because one of the managers couldn't get his shit together and get me my one. last. interview. I had already done a urine drug test and a background check, for Christ's sake. Not to mention I had already done two interviews AND a floor audition. Why would they make me do all that if they weren't interested in hiring me? I had one more interview, a meet and greet with the regional manager. But the times they kept signing me up for weren't working - I was taking my Spanish class at the time and couldn't do things in the morning. But they didn't seem to understand that. So I kept calling, and finally the manager said he would call me back with the available times that would work for both the regional manager and me. So I waited. He didn't call. So I called him. And he wouldn't come to the phone - the person on the line kept repeating "he'll call you. He'll call you with the times." And then he never called. I was pretty mad.

But then, I got a part-time job at Cole Haan. I'd like to be working another job, too, since it's only 10 or 15 hours a week, but it's too late in the summer to try anywhere else. I've been thinking of putting my name in a temp agency or a babysitting website... after I finish watching this episode of "RuPaul's Drag Race."

Dang. I wanted to post today. I wanted to talk about how my new Spanish teacher seems like a good guy and all, but he really doesn't seem to have a clue about how the class is supposed to be run. I'm really worried this class will mess up my GPA just because the teacher doesn't know what's going on. I also wanted to write about how he wears really thin T-Shirts (by which I mean too thin - the kind of thin shirts that, even if they're loose, outline your chest with distracting accuracy) and pit stains. But he's been really nice, and doesn't get frustrated when we ask him to repeat things or explain. Which, I guess, is what you should expect from a teacher. But it's more rare than you'd think.

I also wanted to talk about my interview with ---------- ---, and how it's a lot fancier than I first thought. It turns out this was only the meet-and-greet. There's two more interviews and a floor test I have to pass. I hope I'm good enough - it looks fun. Everyone who works there looks chic and professional and older than me. I don't know if six months at Target prepared me for a high end retail job - sometimes I think maybe I'm more suited for a kiosk or a K-mart. But you never know.

And for a while, I've been wanting to post a little about a guy I talked about earlier. You know, the one with the teeth? In February? Well, I can't say very much, because I know my relatives occasionally read this blog (hi guys) but after our mutual friend finally stopped liking me and got a girlfriend, things worked out. For a couple of days. But it was the end of the year, and after those few days we wouldn't be in the same city for nine whole months. And I would be in Prague, on my own in Europe. I would have had to end it no matter how long we were together. So we just let it be what it was. And it was. And now I have a great friend. I honestly had more fun and felt more like myself while just talking to this guy then I've felt in a long time. That's the thing I can't give up. I don't know if we'll ever be romantic like we were, but I think we'll still have that.

Well, whatever. I have a Spanish thing to write. It's dumb and long and I just don't care anymore.

As one or two of you (by which I mean all of you) already know, I'm spending this summer in New York, partly because I have to take a class and partly because after a few weeks Little Rocky Run starts to resemble both the neighborhood in Edward Scissorhands and a black hole. Now that I'm an adult with legitimate clips on my resume, it's time I started doing adult things like working for actual pay. I have an interview with Sunglasses Hut tomorrow.

I'm doing some other adult things too. For instance, today I made a cucumber-onion-avocado-tomato salad I found on Punchfork. I'm starting to make vegan dishes, not because I'm becoming a vegan but because I'm living in 10's New York, of course. When people reminisce about this time period, they're going to remember how vegan was in fashion just like lowfat was in fashion in the 90's. I don't want to miss out. And I figured, if I'm not going to give up burgers and other animals while I'm out, I can trick myself into getting the nutritional benefits of veganism by only teaching myself vegan recepies. When that's all I know how to make, I'll have no choice but to eat shittons of vegetables and tofu. And anyway, my adult palate has become to refined for a diet of only brownies and macaroni and cheese. I'm becoming one of those losers who says, "Oh, fruit!" at the buffet table. 

But don't confuse this with an actual interest in my nutrition. I'm not that grown-up yet. I don't know if I'll ever be grown up enough to eat foods I hate for their nutritional value or not eat foods I love because they're bad for me. Cupcakes make life worth living.

Also, now that I got my NYU ID back in a overnight express package from my mother after I left it in my backpack and came to New York without it and had to explain to the security guard that I actually did have a class in this building and am in fact a student here, I can go to the gym in the mornings before class. This is good news, because I'm testing out a theory: For a long time, I've looked at fitness magazines and figured that if they actually worked, one would only need one issue to "slim down," as they say. It seemed like a poor business model, with the success of the magazine relying on the failure of their readers to actually do what was in the magazine. I realize that's a cynical way of looking at it - maybe some women like to update their fitness routine each month - but I thought it might be fun to test that theory. So I cut all the exercises out of the May 2012 Shape magazine (and all the pictures of Mariah Carey to put on my wall when my Dad and his fiance Kristin move into their new place where I'll be living for the summer) and I'll take them with me. I'll follow their exercise routines. We'll see if they work. Also, we'll see if I stay with them once the workload picks up in class and I obtain a job that requires me to spend a lot of my time, you know, working.

Besides, I'm not so interested in losing weight as becoming strong enough to crush my enemies' heads like watermelon. I'm a little worried about traveling in Europe without some sort of plan in case I come across a rogue pack of bandits or Frenchmen or Polish Samurai or something. I figure that if I walk around looking just a little bit more like the Hulk, I'll be an unlikely target for pickpockets or swordsmen.

Some Mild Rants:

Why are balls considered the essence of manhood? We use them in so many expressions - grow a pair, that guy sure has some balls, that took balls, what balls, etc. - to represent toughness and boldness. But actual balls are the antithesis of toughness and boldness. If anything, they should represent fragility and shyness. What's avoids all encounters? Balls. What can't be touched without causing screams of pain? Balls.

Maybe it's the idea is that after gently guarding two delicate balls between your legs all your life, nothing seems that demanding or difficult. "Protect the princess from a dragon? Sure, whatever. That's nothing, I've been protecting my cojones from literally everything for thirtysome years. And they don't have the dexterity of even the most clumsy princess."

(However, I really like the saying, "What a dick," since it seems to say, "What an overly praised yet actually ridiculously sensitive person who draws his/her entire esteem from his/her theoretical power.")

Also, why don't ladies in period pieces have underarm and leg hair? Unless your setting your epic in ancient Greece or Rome, you're missing out on a pretty easily added piece of historical accuracy.

You say it's gross? It's not gross, it's natural. How did we come to consider something disgusting that literally everyone above age 14 has? How did we come to just pretend ladyhair away? And even many male stars now sport waxed chests and sometimes even shaved underarms. Why?! Put it back. On everybody. (If the time period calls for it.)

That aside, violent bloody battle scenes are pretty gross. But we normalized them through TV, movies, and video games. And now, to some interest groups' dismay, we can all enjoy a fountain of blood from a sliced enemy soldier with no distaste whatsoever. Why not do the same for pit hair? And lady leg carpets? And hairy manbacks?

Hair

Yes I have a midterm tomorrow. Yes I'm going to write a blog post instead of going to sleep right away. What of it?

(Actually, I had a serious heart-to-heart with myself on the way back from my internship. I asked myself, "Self, if you were to die right now, which would you rather leave behind - good test scores or good/ok blog posts?" And deep inside my heart, I knew I would rather leave blog posts. Too bad I'm conditioned to prioritize school above all else. Stupid mind.)

Here's what I didn't do all semester so far: shave my leg hair. Here's what I learned: I don't actually grow leg hair. What have I been doing all this time?! Shaving tiny blonde hairs almost as thin as the ones on my arm. And the ones on my arm are pretty much invisible. And the back of my legs? Absolutely no hair at all. I've been mindlessly going through motions of hygiene that don't apply to me. It's like I've spent seven years mowing plastic grass.

Ok, maybe it's not that drastic. I do have some hair, and since I'm so used to the hairless feel I might shave them again come summertime, just because I don't like them rustling in the wind. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean I can't feel them. But it does make me wonder, how did I ever end up shaving them in the first place? Certainly not because there was any physical indication there was something to be shaved.

And I certainly wasn't the one who decided to start. I fought puberty with a vengeance. My mother had to beg me to wear a bra (a bra I still own and wear. Limited Too sure built things to last. And yes, I'm the same size I was back then. My breasts grew in one great leap, so I got all the mortification of an early bloomer with larger breasts than any of the other girls in the sixth grade and then the mortification of being a small-chested adult. Whatever man. 36B's for the win!) When I first got my period, I howled so loud my mother came running in alarm. She tried to congratulate me as I lamented the loss of my youth. I was fully aware these signs of puberty - breasts, periods, new hair - meant I was leaving a place to which I could never return. And I clung to my residual youth. I played Barbies through seventh grade (albeit their adventures got increasingly murder-centric) and I'm pretty sure I spent my ninth grade year acting like a toddler. Just ask anybody from the theater department of Centreville High circa 2008.

And underarm hair was no exception. I was sure the minute I shaved my pits, my youth was gone forever. I spent days in sixth grade with my arms clenched to my sides, not wanting anyone to notice my new hair but not wanting to go through the aging ritual of actually shaving them. Then, one day, my mother said, "Hey, Alison, do you want me to show you how to shave your underarms now?" She had suggested this delicately a few times before, but I had always emphatically resisted. However, since clenching my arms was very uncomfortable, and because raising my hand had become virtually impossible (and, since I was also just learning how to use deodorant and experimenting with different brands, sometimes the smell was unpleasant. Sixth grade was a very awkward time for me) I said, "Ok."

And we went into her bathroom, and she showed me the razor. It was a svelte, curvy, pretty thing, that razor. Somehow less threatening than I imagined. Then, she showed me how to use shaving cream (a practice I later deserted) and shave. And I lost nothing. Nothing but hair. I didn't jolt into adulthood or lose my childhood innocence. I was still me - but now I no longer feared being called up to the blackboard. So I imagine that, about that time, my mother said, "Do you want me to show you how to shave your legs too, while we're at it?" And I figure I said, since I now knew I had nothing to lose, "Ok."

And I guess I just started. Weird.

Health?

If this is what it means to be healthy, no wonder so few people do it. It's really obnoxious. And it's hard to concentrate when you're hungry all the time.

I started doing a calorie counting website, www.myfitnesspal.com, which says I should eat about 1,230 calories a day. That's half what the middle school health teacher said we should eat in a day, plus a bag of chips or a brownie or something. Like, half of what the world told me I could eat. So now, I'm adjusting to low-feeding levels. And it sucks. Because I get kind of hungry.

I guess it's because my body got so used to consuming too much food it began to expect a feast every day. Now that I'm giving it its real requirement, it's angry at me. It wants sandwiches. It wants cake. But it can no longer have sandwiches and cake. It can have only cream of wheat and tears.

Now, before all two of you guys reading this start to worry, I'm not on some anorexic crash course diet to try to lose weight because I hate myself and want to look like a vapid Victoria's Secret model. My body, though unique, is fine. And I realize that even if I hated my body, like I used to, losing weight wouldn't help me love it. Back when I hated my body, I hated it just as much when I was 112 pounds as when I was 155. I have to love my body unconditionally or not at all. I have to love it whether everyone likes it or no one does. Otherwise I'll be miserable again.

No, this calorie counter came from a pure, innocent place. I was catsitting at my father's fiance's apartment when I realized I literally could not stop eating her Reese's Cups. Like, actually couldn't stop. I couldn't overcome the temptation. And then I got to thinking about things I've heard about sugar, and how it can be just as addicting as alcohol or benedril or Gilmore Girls (don't quote me on this.) And I realized that I, Alison Maney, am addicted to sugar. A glucosaholic. I recalled times in my youth when I could easily turn down cookies and candy, realizing I didn't need them or didn't really want them. Now, when I see sweets, I must eat them. And that's no good. Society usually discourages dependency on a substance. My substance of choice just happened to be legal. And super available.

So I figured, why not use this website to track my sugar intake? When I have to write out every doughnut hole in the food log, I'll gain incentive to turn down sugar. To my surprise, I learned lent was mere days away, and took it as a sign that I should give up sugary sweets for the sake of myself and God. (Except for on Sundays, obviously.)

Problem is, when I typed in my statistics, it turned out my recommended calorie intake was way lower than expected. Not wanting the website to blast me with red warnings for every calorie that overstepped the limit, I decided to try to keep myself in the recommended calorie range. It's been about a week now, and now I'm sitting on my bed in my underwear too distracted by my hunger to write about anything else. I guess I'll tell you guys about my awesome weekend next time. I'm off to the gym.      

Random Thoughts

I think if I couldn't write I would die.

Not so much that if for a time I wasn't allowed to write, I would die. That would be awful, but not impossible. I'd still have writing inside me. I'd still write mentally - I'd still think in writing. But if a terrible accident occurred, like a bullet on the street or a car crash, and destroyed that part of my brain... I think, if I lost my one ability, I would have to die.

For so long, I've identified writing as my skill. Since first grade teachers praised my journals and my parents sent my homework to their friends. What would I do without this skill? It defines me. It's my marketable resource. It's the way I plan on making money. It's all I have.

What if I actually suck at it?

What if these people praised me out of kindness instead of true admiration? What then? I'd feel my entire life has been a lie. True, I'd still have all the pleasure of actually writing stuff, but knowing I'm delusional and crappy would make me feel... upset.

This fear is amplified by my inability to tell whether I'm writing something good or not. I know a work's worth once someone praises it, but before that I look at it and think, "What a load of crap I just put down on this paper. I've disgraced my standing as a writer. I know I could have done better. Look at all this f*cking passive voice. I'm the worst person ever."

 And then someone either says, "This is super great!" or "This could use more work." I absolutely never know which it's going to be. Which is incredibly nerve wracking seeing as I write papers for all my grades and all.

But papers are hard. I won't write papers in the real world. I'll write articles or emails or captions beneath J.Crew t-shirts. And I'll write fiction and poetry on my own time. And that shit probably won't get published anyway. So... there.

Now that I think about it, I'm going to be poor forever. Which means I'll never have kids, since I can't afford them. Which is ok, I guess, since I planned on not getting married. But I did want kids. Badly. Too bad they're so darn expensive. I think I'm starting to understand the mindset of gold diggers. Maybe it's time I started investing in a hot body. Too bad I'll never be able to trick someone into thinking I love them. I'd feel so terrible. I can't imagine how anyone does it. It's like training a puppy and then kicking it away. Except, in this case, the puppy is a sweaty fifty-year-old billionaire. Still, it's a person. You can't do that to a person, whether they're a puppy or a businessman.

Oh, I'm getting tired. Will any of this make sense in the morning? Debatable.

But while I'm on the subject of bodies, let me talk about mine. Mine is at it's prime, whether it looks good or not. I'm at the peak of my youth and it's all downhill from here. It's far from perfect, with many... er... unique qualities. But there must be someone out there who would enjoy it. But whoever they are, they're not picking at peak season. Because I have a feeling I won't have another relationship anytime soon. Or even a fling. Or a crush.

Well, maybe a crush. Our romance is forbidden, even though he doesn't know it exists yet. He's a friend of my good friend Kevin - and Kevin is in super intense like with me. So, despite my inability to like Kevin back, it'd be pretty wankoids for me to go after his friend. And, therefore, I can't even make a move on this guy. Not that he'd be interested anyway - he's waaaay out of my league. Head of a club, super good at a million things... you know the type.

But he's super cute though you guys. I think his wonky teeth attract me more than anything. That, and that he's super nerdy and super cool at the same time. He's absolutely unashamed of his nerddom. Which is pretty much the most attractive thing in the entire world.

But I'm thankful. His unavailability struck me hard, but because of him, I found I can feel again. I can crush on someone again. I can actually feel attraction. And because I can feel attraction to one person means I may eventually feel attraction for another. And maybe next time, he'll like me back.

Not that I particularly "like" like this guy. Just to clear that up. I just find him attractive, ok? Just attractive. Ok.

Celebrity

Not many of my friends know this about me (or maybe they do and I hide it poorly): I love celebrity ladies. So much. I love their pretty clothes, their confidence, and their sexiness. I'll reblog their pictures on tumblr, keep up with their clubbing outfits, and always watch their new music videos (you know, if they're singers.)   

I would call my celebrity love a guilty pleasure, but that would suggest I'm ashamed of my billions of girl crushes.

I guess it stems from my obsession with the female form. I think all bodies are absolutely beautiful - I browse body positive tumblrs for hours, looking at thousands of unique female forms. I love how each one is different. I love the sizes and falls of breasts, the rolls or flat plane of each stomach. On legs I love dimples and muscle lines both. And I have yet to find a face not worth admiring. Which contributes in a big way to my confusion when I see that most guys pursue "the ideal," and feel that if anything about a woman is not "ideal" she deserves to be ridiculed. I've met one or two guys who don't seem to believe that (guys who love individual girls as whole people instead of making each potential mate a checklist of physical traits,) but these guys are few and far between.

But, I already talked about that in a past post. I assume whoever's reading this already knows how baffled I am about how men seem to upgrade their women like cars. I need to stop talking about this. My three loyal readers will get bored.

Anyway. Celebrities. Celebrities are glamorous, celebrities are fancy. But many times, people feel the need to put celebrities down. Maybe it's because celebrities are more like fictional characters than human beings. Maybe it's because we find them unworthy of their positions of power. Maybe it's because we're jealous because they will be mourned by millions when they die, while we will only be remembered by a select few. I don't know why we do it. I know I'm guilty of putting celebrities down as well (goodness knows I've said some unflattering things about Kim Kardashian's voice.) But there are a few put-downs that I just don't understand.

1) Adele is fat.

Adele is not fat. Adele appears to be a healthy weight for her body type. I had heard about Adele before I saw her - I had heard the nasty comments about her weight, and heard admirers mention Adele's "weight problem" begrudgingly. So imagine my surprise when I saw a young woman with a fairly small, very defined waist, gorgeous round hips and breasts, and medium-thick thighs.

I'm not sure what my informants were talking about. Perhaps these people live in some town that survives on a stock of celery and wheat grass, where 150 lbs ladies are considered monstrously overweight. But I live in a world where many gorgeous, desirable women reach much, much higher numbers on the scale.

But "fatness" is subjective.

So, then, what if, in your opinion, Adele is "fat"? Certainly she's not unhealthily so. I'd say her smoking poses much more of a risk to her health than her extra pounds. But still, what of it? It's her body. We don't get to dictate what she puts into it. We don't get to dictate what body size is "correct" for anyone other than ourselves.

And if Adele is indeed fat, what a positive influence for the children! For little girls to believe their body type won't define their "success" in life - that's huge (no pun intended.) That's what we want.

Whatever.

2) Sarah Jessica Parker is ugly.

She looks like a regular person.

But, hey, let's assume she is ugly. If that's the case, we should be kissing her feet. This girl is the chosen one. She beat the system. She proved ladies can become ridiculously successful and attractive to other ridiculously successful people on personality alone. Heck, she proved that an ugly girl can make an ENTIRE nation go bananas for her for an entire decade.

This woman dated THE Robert Downey Jr. You know, the sex symbol. He was in love with her in the craziest way. If that was all personality and no looks... damn. This girl must have the personality of Jesus himself. Or Jack Nicholson.

Then, she married Farris Bueller. You know, the guy you had a crush on as a kid. Matthew Broderick. A shorter-term sex symbol, but a sex symbol nonetheless. AND crazy talented, with zillions of dollars that could buy him any perfect lady on the Hollywood circuit. But no, he wanted SJP. And still does.

But heck if she needs any Broderick money. She was America's It girl from 1998-2004. Heck, some might argue she never lost her It girl status. If we, the American public, chose Sarah Jessica Parker as our It girl solely on a personality basis, with full knowledge of her hideous ugliness... then we're really good people. We don't need looks. We want SJP. We want bubbly relatability, no matter what the package. We want a woman who produces her own ridiculously popular television show, no matter her genetics. We're no shallow television viewing public - we're a bunch of people who care about what's inside, about character. Not about outward appearances.

That is, if Sarah Jessica Parker is actually ugly.

Maybe she's actually alright looking. Maybe she's a decent looking female with an unconventional but attractive face. Most likely, right?

But, now that I look at it, it seems better for us if Sarah Jessica Parker actually is ugly - it certainly says better things about our society.

If SJP is actually hideous, it certainly gives me hope.

Washington Square, The Book.

This post is dedicated to Alex Gomes and Elizabeth Trojanowski. Because when people cooler than you like your blog, you have to keep writing it.

So I turned 21 on Tuesday. Not exactly the best day of the week for a life-changing birthday, but you take what you get. Maybe I'll write about that next time. Today I will write about the books I'm reading. And also about my feelings. Because they're important.

I've spent my day with Catherine of Washington Square Park and I intend to spend my night with Catherine of Northanger Abbey. Of these two Catherines, Henry James' seems to have it the worst. The poor thing is stupid, silent, and unattractive. And I relate to her fully. Henry James captures perfectly the experience of being stuck around people who are not only smarter and better looking than you are but people who know (or seem to know) and fully acknowledge their superiority to you. And thus, Catherine, one of the most unappealing people ever to grace a novel, becomes a reflection of ourselves. Or... or just of me. I know a lot of times while at NYU, I look at the model-esque girls in my classes and wonder if they're not disgusted to see an inferior being contaminate their view. And I wonder if the men, who are so used to seeing such physical perfection in their female companions, are offended to see a clunky, chunky, brightly colored girl sitting timidly around. Whenever I'm alone on the NYU campus (which is about 15 hours a day, roughly) I'm constantly sure people see Catherine in my place - a clueless, homely, offensively stupid girl. I'm always sure they know exactly how many calories I've eaten today. For all the fat acceptance blogs I follow, and for all the acceptance I'm trying to give my... abnormal shape, it can be difficult. Being in New York helps and hurts, I suppose. Fewer people care what you look like or how you dress, and they're actually more likely than elsewhere to accept someone who looks different or outside the norm, but more people here look absolutely flawless. Especially students. Students who go to NYU, particularly.

Of course, it's not like I've never had any positive attention here. I guess I shouldn't even be complaining, actually, because I've received far more compliments than I ever expected here. By which I mean five people have been attracted to me at some point, as opposed to zero. (Not counting catcalls on the street - even 90-year-old women get sick of hearing those all the time.) However, my brain has played me a mean trick - all of the men (and women) who have found me attractive have not been attractive to me. It's an especially mean trick because all of these people are way better looking and much more kind and interesting than I'll ever be, but for some reason my romantic facilities seem stunted. I feel the need for a relationship and attraction and sex and all that, but when I finally find someone who's interested, I feel... nothing.

Me: "Come on, brain, let's get those positive chemicals flowing. We need to like this one - we'll never get anyone better. They're charming and attractive and for some reason they're interested in you. This is your chance to satisfy all those urges you've been having with someone who doesn't think of you as a blob with a hole."

Brain: "Meh."

Me: "Brain! For someone who got it into herself that she won't have sex without love, you sure are making it awful hard to love anyone. You've never met a nicer person than this. They're fantastic, intelligent, perfect! What do you say, brain?"

Brain: "Eh. I'm just not feeling it."

Me: "Goddam it brain we're never going to get laid."
  
I feel like we've gotten off track. What was I talking about today?

Oh, right. Catherine. I wonder what the kids at recitation will think if I say I empathize with Catherine. They'll probably think I'm simple and stupid and probably unattractive. Well, to hell with it. It's better than sitting there mutely, staring blankly at my warped reflection in the glass of TV equipment. That's what Catherine would have done, and her whole silent acquiescence to the world doesn't seem to be working out too well.

I meant to talk about the book. I meant to talk about how angry I am at Catherine's father. He's always deriding her inwardly, and treats his kindness to her as a disgusting and annoying duty, simply because she's quiet, ugly, and not very clever or interesting. What did he expect from her? A flower won't grow if you don't give it soil, water, or sunlight. He raises this child like veal, keeping her in a house all her life with little social interaction outside of her family - of course she'll be quiet and uninterested in the greater world! He left her completely under the influence of a women he knew to be dull and frivolous - did he think that somehow she would learn how to be clever all by herself? And the person who she loves most, her father, finds her repulsive - does he really think that doesn't influence her feeling about her appearance? For someone who constantly congratulates himself on superior intelligence, he certainly doesn't seem to think things through. For all his greatness as a doctor, I think all of her simplicity must come from his side of the family.

And I wish the narrator wouldn't be so hard on Catherine. It makes it awful hard to read, especially since I sympathize with her. However, that might be the point. Henry James may have thought to himself, "You know, I'd like to write a novel that reminds everyone of all the times they've felt shitty and ugly and stupid. It'll be fantastic. I'll be revered forever."

And he was.

The End.

Stepping Out...

I expect to be clubbing later tonight. I have heard on the pop songs that this is what young twentysomethings are supposed to do with their time. And when society demands, I deliver. I was expecting to put on extravagant clothing and step out in a nuts crazy fashion, á la club kids, minus the copious drug use. However, it seems all the DC clubs have very strict dress codes now, and you must look like a little lady when grinding on your neighbor. The website informed me (to my horror) that I would not be granted admission to Ultrabar if I wore my Doc Martins, or "work boots" as they so derogatively called them. So I'll be stumbling in heels instead of stomping triumphantly around the dance floor. But that's fine, I guess.

The only real concern I have is that they won't let me in because my coat - what I'll be taking off once I get inside - could technically be called "athletic wear," a type of dress that makes the bouncer's noses wrinkle and the go-go girls' skin crawl. But I won't be wearing it in the club. I'll be depositing it in the basement, in the small room in which they stored a coat-check girl and a couple million hangers. However, if they do deny me entry, we'll go to another club - a better club, even. And we'll never patronize their patronizing club ever again. So there.

This Year

I was sitting on my couch reading "Our Bodies, Ourselves" wearing a high waisted skirt, tights, and a cardigan - a variation on my usual dress/sweater/tights/boots combo. My hair was cut short at a recent trip to the barber, and I was looking forward to literature classes at NYU and an internship at the New York Daily News. I was somewhere between putting on my Doc Martins and reading a new Entertainment Weekly when I realized I had finally made it. I am finally the girl I hoped to be at this point in my life. I'm studying what I love, I have (unpaid but resume-building) work lined up, and I go to a prestigious school in the most wonderful city on earth. Plus, I've created my own personal style, which is just as important as anything - no one pities the well-dressed. And, thanks to certain feminist tumblr body acceptance movements (who knew?), I've finally made peace with my body, and that's given me more confidence than I ever hoped to have. This is a good time in my life. Everything is great. With one notable exception.

I'm not writing enough.

I expected that by 2012 I'd be churning out masterpieces, but instead I'm sitting in my pajamas at 2 PM watching Naruto on Netflix. And this is no one's fault but my own. I have not been practicing. Writing is like marathon running or painting or fixing computers, or anything that isn't riding a bicycle - you need to do it regularly or you'll lose your touch. And once you aren't as connected to your art, and once the muscle memory goes away, it gets harder and harder to get back into it. And the harder it is, the more cartoons you watch and the less stuff gets done. And you create a new pattern without your art, and it slowly phases out of your life. Which sucks. So, this year I'll write more. I will. I'm already halfway there with my creative writing classes, but I need to feel the push to write even when deadlines don't loom and teachers don't remind me to work. One thing I've learned in my short period in the Professional World is that those who start passion projects are the ones who are ultimately successful in the end. Those who put their ideas in motion, instead of worrying about whether they'll be a waste of time before they're even begun (like I do) are the people who end up with fulfilling careers and pride in their work. I'm a coward - I would rather be told what to do than think of something on my own, simply because I'm so afraid of failing. And that's no way to live, especially when I know I have good ideas and opinions. This year I will start more projects. And I will write. Maybe in here, maybe elsewhere, but I will write at least once a day. Even if I don't produce anything spectacular, I'll at least be back in practice.