Young, scrappy, and hungry? One out of three ain't bad.

It’s hungry. I’m always hungry.

Some background before I get into everything: I’m a recovering Broadway addict, the kind who no longer keeps up with the trades, but who still jams out to The Last Five Years every now and then. I also enjoy rap music (Kendrick deserved that Pulitzer, though he got it for the wrong album). All things considered, it seemed like Hamilton would be right up my alley. But I’ve never so much as listened to the cast album. I decided early on I didn’t want to experience any of it until I could see it in person.

Disney+ provided that opportunity, and here’s the thing.

Deep breath. I can do this. Here we go.

I didn't particularly like Hamilton, and I'm scared to admit it. 

Parts were good! But I don't understand why this was such a Broadway darling, or why it set the world on fire. Is it because Broadway fans/white kids had never heard rap before? That's all I can think of. I'm honestly at a loss to understand the zeitgeist. It makes me feel old and a little afraid.

What I enjoyed:

• Many of the lyrics were clever and well-formed. The music was also catchy. Damnably catchy. Lin Manuel-Miranda is a fantastic musician/songwriter. I can’t get the songs out of my head. Granted, the main refrains did play approximately one billion times throughout the show, but still. They are deservedly earworms.

• How unabashedly it gloried in the history of founding a nation. As much as I will point out the many, many, many flaws in our political systems, I am at the core patriotic. I think it’s inconceivable that America exists as a nation. It shouldn’t. And yet, there’s something to the krazy glue and luck and sheer will that holds the states together, and I enjoyed Hamilton giving some credence to that.

• On that note, I loved the cabinet meetings/rap battles. Far and away the most engrossing part. I wish the entire play had been three hours of that. I would have been on the edge of my seat. Show me more debates about the treasury! I’m into it! Get more into your talking points, and make those personal jibes! Love. It.

• These performances: Daveed Diggs as Jefferson, Jonathon Groff as King George, Renée Elise Goldsberry as Angelica. Also, the true star of the show, Mr. Leslie Odom Jr., who made Aaron Burr come across as sensible and pathos-inspiring. I think I agreed with everything he said? Is that true? Maybe?

What I did not enjoy:

• The plot treatment, how it told without showing. Parts of it felt like a high school history project (granted, the best high school history project ever), because it quickly highlighted events without giving them much personal time to breathe.

• The choreography. I’m of the opinion that movement should serve the play. It should enhance what’s happening in the narrative. Since the narrative was thin, a lot of the movement seemed superfluous. It was distracting. Flailing. And far too often they relied on the stage turntable to add visual interest.

• The treatment of women. Put down your pitchforks, fans! But to me, any strength or sassiness on their part seemed shoved in the story to curry favor, and any later acknowledgements of the sister’s actual accomplishments seemed in service to preserving the legacy of more "important" men.* 

• On that note, the end enraged me. I was a frowny pants during the final number. So glad to hear 30 seconds of Eliza's story, which is basically that she bolstered Alexander's history? Cool cool cool. 
• Lin-Manuel Miranda as Hamilton. He doesn't have a great vocal or acting range. He's talented! Adorable and charming! But I kept imagining Daveed Diggs in the role. How would it have changed if there was a performer with raw charisma and magnetism? Would I have been more impacted by Hamilton’s pride? Would I have understood his “tomcatting,” a plot point Miranda was too much of a cute muffin to pull off? So much of the characterization was left to the audience to create. A stronger performer—like Goldsberry, who completely owned every line and made me an Angelica fan based stage presence alone—could have sold the role much more successfully.

And yet. I’ve woken up every morning for the past three days with songs reverberating through my head. I've found myself going down YouTube holes and reading articles to try and understand. I want it to stop taking up my mental space, but it's there. Lurking. "La da da da daaa, da da da da dai yuh dum." Please. Make it stop. So does Hamilton win this round? Perhaps, perhaps.

But until I completely and utterly surrender to the hivemind on this, I will claim this as my favorite song from the musical (click on it, please click on it, you'll be so happy you did):

And this as my chosen Hamilton, and what I will picture any time people bring it up in conversation. In turn, I'll contribute by discussing how great Dave Grohl was at the Constitutional Convention:

* Background on why this is a plot point I'm sensitive to, and why it infuriates me. In grad school, I noticed that every one of my male professors had a female graduate assistant (meanwhile, most of the female professors didn't have any assistants that I knew of... hmmmm). It opened up my eyes to see how those professors heavily relied on the organization and precision of hard-working women. And yet, when high-profile promotions or openings came up, the professors more often recommended the few male students, impressed with how "assertive" and "straight-shooting" they were. Once I noticed it in my industry, I noticed it everywhere. 
I'm tired of women's labor being in service to old white dudes.

Show Yourself

This is me, being 31.

This is also me wearing some makeup for the first time in... three weeks? Maybe longer? Even that was only for a doctors appointment. Before that, who even knows.

Welp. I'm older. What a time to be alive, amiright?

Last year, I referenced my "plans for shattering life the tiniest bit."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahahahahaha *wipes hysterical tears*

via GIPHY

Tiniest bit may be the greatest understatement I've ever made in a semi-understated life.

Things I did while 30:

• Left Seattle
• Moved to Texas (without housing)
• Found a temporary apartment
• Signed Alex up for preschool/daycare
• Started a teaching gig
• Bought a house
• Left my teaching gig
• Spent six months (and counting!) unemployed
• Hosted more visitors in the past six months than I did during seven years in Seattle
• Watched my dad die
• Spoke at my dad's funeral
• The world underwent quarantine for a global pandemic

And here we are.

It seems like every time I took a breath this year—every time I cleared a hurdle, squared my shoulders, and thought now, this is it, this is where I find a routine and things get back to normal—there would be an email, a phone call, a new urgent need sending me scrambling to find some sense of equilibrium.

And yet, despite that cursed list above, despite my constant anxiety and yearning for the world to just settle on down a skosh, there's been deep satisfaction this year.

Alex turned three and became my movie buddy. We've watched endless loops of Totoro, Rango, and Frozen. We've cuddled watching Avatar: the Last Airbender, crunched popcorn while giggling at School of Rock. Afterwards, her rush to act out scenes or continue the story with whatever doll or toy or simply her fingers and thumbs together like a puppet, electrifies me. She's not a baby. I have a goofy, stubborn, sensitive, creative kid in my house. It's a blast. 88% of the time, anyway.

Taylor, forever my partner, has cared for me and my family this year. He's talked to people, handled endless paperwork, held my hand, and comforted me through heartbreak. He's done all that while experiencing these strange events in lockstep, and been a rock through it all. I'm so grateful for all those choices that brought us together.

Texas. So. I love Texas? Believe me, I'm more surprised than anyone. We moved to a suburb, and I so love being part of a cozy neighborhood, one with a grocery and furniture stores and every fast food restaurant I would ever want within a two-mile radius. I love Austin itself, the warm night atmosphere, the patio lights and outdoor seating and omnipresent guitar strums. I love that the sky lives up to each and every giant testament, a limitless scope set off by perfectly scruffy treescapes. I love the wildflowers, the cactus, the river shores surrounded by dimpled rocks. I love seeing lightning again.  

Right now, everyone seems to be baking.* This year I am dough. I've been folded, twisted and turned and stretched. I've had to be elastic, to easily stretch to accommodate and mold into each new situation. I really hope something tasty happens now.

When Alex watches Frozen 2, there's a song that pulls my heartstrings and yes, brings me to suppress sobs. At this point I've heard it so much you'd think I'd be immune, but nope. It feels intensely personal. Almost written for me in this moment.** There's a part where Elsa sings "show yourself, step into your power," and I break into the chin-quivers. That is what I've always wanted. That is what I hope for.

31, let's get some power.

30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*I'm no exception. I've got the mason jar full of freshly established sourdough starter to prove it.
**Does it feel weird that this type of self-recognition comes from a Disney property? Yes. Yes it does. Now let's move past it and never speak of this moment again.

Cat in a Cage

I wrote this two weeks ago, almost to the day, during a staff meeting where I felt no other emotional recourse but writing. I'd already excused myself and sprinted around the parking lot twice. That didn't work. I needed to work out the anger some other way, and writing was that way.

"I've thought for a while that your headaches are anxiety related, and that you might want to get medication for that."

So Taylor told me yesterday, after I mentioned my latest headache. I've suffered with monthly headaches—ranging from one week a month to three weeks a month—for seven years. I've seen three doctors about them. I've self-medicated with caffeine and Excedrin. I know my way around a headache.

I was livid.

I've suffered from anxiety (hi grad school!) and I knew that the way I've felt for the past month, past two, no three years, is not related to it. Maybe depression? Or, what I feel more accurate for these days, extreme frustration?

Taylor and I talked it out. I'm lucky to have a spouse who communicates well.

Then I woke up this morning. I read Anne Helen Petersen's latest newsletter. I read this Medium article. I went to work, straight to sitting through a staff meeting about equity. We watched this video on racial literacy. We reflected on where we were in our own personal cultural competency. We looked at our district's statistics on inordinate amounts of disciplinary action against our black and Latino students. We watched videos with Seattle's parents discussing race, about how students feel about their teachers actions, about redlining and classism and the importance of understanding.

I looked around at my fellow teachers. I knew which ones had voted for Trump. I knew which ones only cared about classroom achievement: getting work done, getting good scores on the test, following class rules to the letter. I sat down for small group discussion, and listened to my assistant principal come right out of the gate with "but what about our troubled white students?"

And all I could feel was white-hot rage.

It hasn't passed yet. It fades in and out, static on my emotional radio, but there underneath the fuzz it stands: RAGE. A constant, streaming burn of anger. Dinner is happening too late? RAGE. I feel snubbed by a co-worker? RAGE. I don't get to workout one day? RAGE. My desk at work is too messy? RAGE. My assistant principal devises a stupid game just so that we all have to change seats at a staff meeting? RAGE. Half of one of my classes doesn't turn in their final project? RAGE. The heads of my church recommend that women stay off the Internet for 10 days, all in the wake of a court-appointment that will harm women? RAGE. I have to commute for two hours every day? RAGE. I don't see my kid enough? RAGE. I miss my family? RAGE. I hate my job/doubt my faith/want to live someplace more affordable? ALL THE RAGE.

All of these are typical parts of life. They are things I've been living with, and handling, for multiple years. Annoyances that usually I'm able to brush off or push aside as I go my merry way. And at first I made excuses—I'm getting back into the swing of work, oh this is temporary, things will settle down. I keep waiting for the patience to return. It's not. Instead, a boiling baseline of anger permeates every day. 

2016: On the Page

(Let's not talk about it)

Wow! 2016. What a year, right?

(Not talking about it)

Definitely a huge shift in my life. I spent over half the year pregnant, and the rest of it desperately adjusting to being a mother. But now, on to 2017!

(NotTalkingAboutIt)

With the weariness from pregnancy and full-time teaching, and then the weariness from learning the ropes of child-rearing and full time teaching, my books total severely dropped this year. I'm going to tell myself that this is understandable, and pat myself on the back for reading at all. You go, Cat! Way to be!

(OK, so yes, this is what...a year late? And far past when anyone would care? But I can't post my 2017 numbers in good faith without having this up, plus the comparison aspect is deliciously satisfying, so there. Now, NOTTALKINGABOUTIT)

Have some stats.

Total Books Read: 53. 15 less than last year. What a blow. But at least I still averaged one a week.

Favorite Comics: I'm locked in to my preferred series by now, and I pretty much stuck to those this year.

-Black Science vol. 2. Heart-wrenching, but so well told.

-Saga vol. 5 and 6. I don't know how Saga is still this consistently amazing, but it is! Thank the heavens.

-American Vampires vol. 8. Granted, the internal world is starting to sprawl. But this series is still my everything.

-Lumberjanes vol. 1. A new series! And delightful to boot. I really hope I can get some of my students tuned in to this series, since it's the best of girl power. I can't decide which is my aesthetic/fashion soulmate, Jo or Mal. I'll have to keep investigating.

Super Blah Comic: Sacred Heart. Did absolutely nothing for me, and was actively irksome.

Books I Should Not Have Read At That Time: Poor Your Soul. It is an extremely well written book, but reading a memoir about a woman miscarrying her first child while I was three months pregnant? Maybe not my best idea.

Books from Best Of Lists That, to Quote Shania, "Didn't Impress-a Me Much":

This year all those best of/recommended lists let me down. Not catastrophically, mind you, just with a thud. I wish the books had been explosive failures, but they were just wet mud plopped on the sidewalk of my mind. That sound you just heard in your head? That was the feel of most of these books.

-Sunday's on the Phone to Monday. 
-Those Girls. 
-Gold Fame Citrus. 
-Without You, There is No Us. 
-Crazy Rich Asians. 
-The Hate List. 
-What Alice Forgot.

I remember nothing about Sunday's on the Phone to Monday—seriously, the plot had zero staying power—but I did write this review right after reading it, and it almost makes me wish I remembered more. "Beautiful language that amounts to nothing. Drivel written wonderfully. Like a Seinfeld episode, but with poetry trying desperately to be prose." Wow! What a statement!

New Favorite Book: Salem's Lot. I won't try to explain the connection I feel to vampires here, but I will say that I often seek out vampire literature, and everything has paled in comparison to Dracula. Everything until now. I'm ashamed it took me so long to read Stephen King in general, but particularly that I missed this book. It terrified me. I actually couldn't sleep for multiple nights while reading, but I couldn't stop. I loved the way King encapsulates slow dread and control. The section where Mike Ryerson digs Danny Glick's grave is a master class in suspense, and I'll be pondering it for a while.

Best Reading Experience: Holding my daughter and reading Maniac Magee out loud. My favorite children's book, one of my all-time favorite books, and the first book she heard.

THE COMPLETE LIST:

• Rainbow Valley by L. M. Montgomery
• Those Girls by Lauren Saft
• For the Record by Charlotte Huang
• Poor Your Soul by Mira Ptacin
• Black Science vol. 2: Welcome, Nowhere by Rick Remender, Matteo Scalera and Dean White
• Challenger Deep by Neal Shusterman
• All Better Now by Emily Wing Smith
• Saga vol. 5 by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples
• Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock by Matthew Quick
• Just Kids by Patti Smith
• Babysitters Club: Stacey McGill...Matchmaker? by Ann M. Martin
• Hunger Makes Me A Modern Girl by Carrie Brownstein
• Sunday's on the Phone to Monday by Christine Reilly
• Gold Fame Citrus by Claire Vaye Watkins
• American Vampire, vol. 8 by Scott Snyder, Rafael Albuquerque, et al
• 11/22/1963 by Stephen King
• Lumberjanes vol 1: Beware the Kitten Holy by Noelle Stevenson
• The Loser List: Revenge of the Loser by H. N. Kowitt
• A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute
• Baltimore: the Plague Ships by Mike Mignola
• Along For the Ride by Sarah Dessen
• Davita's Harp by Chaim Potok
• Anne of Windy Poplars by L. M. Montgomery
• Salem's Lot by Stephen King
• Anne of the Island by L. M. Montgomery
• Zen and the Art of Faking It by Jordan Sonnenblick
• Exile by Kevin Emerson
• The Cardturner by Louis Sachar
• The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen
• Gossip Girl by Cecily van Ziegesar
• Read Write Teach by Linda Rief
• Rocking Fatherhood by Chris Kornelis
• A Prince in Peril by Robin Russell
• A Jail for Justice by Robin Russell
• A Karst in Kweilin by Robin Russell
• A Tiara for the Taking by Robin Russell
• Saga vol. 6 by Brian K Vaughan and Fiona Staples
• Without You, There is No Us by Suki Kim
• Once Upon a Cow by Dr. Camilo Cruz
• Dietland by Sarai Walker
• Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli
• The Hate List by Jennifer Brown
• Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan
• The Feathered Bone by Julie Cantrell
• Sacred Heart by Liz Suburbia
• Stories I Only Tell My Friends by Rob Lowe
• Simon vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli
• I Will Always Write Back by Caitlin Alifirenka and Martin Ganda with Liz Welch
• I'll Be There by Holly Goldberg Sloan
• Payback Time by Carl Deuker
• Counting by 7s by Holly Goldberg Sloan
• What Alice Forgot by Lianne Moriarty
• I Was Here by Gayle Forman

Truth Lies Low

"If I don't do it, it's just more work for someone else. So it's like, well, I have no other option. Why should I even talk to her? It won't change anything. It will just cause this... friction. So I just need to do it."

It's been quite the couple of years, hasn't it, church? I have not had the happiest time being a Mormon. First there was the women thing, and the excommunication stuff, and then (oh, and then) the big policy reveal. And my heart ached, and I cried, and I stayed and stayed and stayed.

And I'm still staying, just to get that out of the way. No danger of abandonment yet.

Lately the struggle hasn't been the anger or the hurt, or the beautiful wrestling before God. Lately, I've been struggling with the nothing.

No emotion. No connection. No spirituality.

It's been consumed with the never-ending motions of the every day: the go-go-go to work, the go-go-go to spend time with my daughter, the go-go-go- to do housework and cook meals and lesson plan and get sleep so I can function. And oh yes, the barest of go-go-go to fulfill my church calling. The barest, and yet it's enough to make me dread those three hours every Sunday.

I'm in the Primary Presidency, and I spend the first hour stewing over sharing times and other undone administrative tasks, simmering in all my inadequacies. I spend sacrament meeting, that one hour where I could learn of God, consumed by the things I have to do and have not done. I spend the following two hours doing those things, those teaching and organization tasks that are so close to what I do during the week, but worse because it's with small children. I go home exhausted, wondering when restoration will come.

Where is space for the divine? If I don't get to recharge at church, how can I find space to do it myself?

I whine about the culture of the church a lot. My struggle with the Utah ideals I grew up with dominates my therapy sessions. A huge target of disgust is the idea of sanctification through suffering—how the more we sacrifice in silence, the better a person we are. It's pervasive. Good Mormons sit in silence and suffer through. We put our shoulder to the wheel.

But what if the wheel crushes us?

I talked to my therapist about what I can do with my calling. It seemed an impossible situation. I am called, and so I have to do it. What other option is there? Besides, the primary president has done so much for me, and I don't want to seem ungrateful.

In the middle of listing all the things the president has done for me, and the little I've done in return, my therapist said, "If she didn't want to do those things, she'd say so. That's what people do—they share emotions, they let you know if something's unpleasant or part of a bargain."

"Not where I grew up," I said. Cue lightning bolt.

Oh. I grew up seeing people, particularly women, serve and give of themselves far past the point of enjoyment, and often to the point of silent resentment. Usually that resentment would bubble up, siphon itself out on people. People, but never the person responsible. There wasn't direct conversation. There were clouds of anger, falsity, and a pervasive air of distrust. People wallowed in insincerity because everything was an angry, holy sacrifice. We were the sacred martyrs. Our suffering brings us close to God, even if we sink into personal despair.

And there I was, expecting the same from myself.

I don't have issues setting boundaries and expectations in any other setting. But church? Boundaries shouldn't exist. And although I give good lip service to defying that culture, I find it's unexpectedly buried deep. It's tightly woven into the fiber of my being.

Driving away from therapy, full of solutions and new resolve to be the change I want to see in the church, Andrew Bird's Are You Serious? played on my stereo.* The song "Truth Lies Low" began, and Bird's mellow voice resonated:

Here's a little game, you can play along

Oh you do the walk of shame

From the comfort of your home.

So here's another game, you can play along,

Where you empty all your blame

From your guilty bones.**

Album version here for better sound quality and less song-building.

I don't have to sacrifice. It's not worth my happiness, my sanity, my testimony. Yes, I can do it for now, but it's OK to say I can't do it forever. And it's OK to let people know I'm not happy—if I don't tell them, how will they know?

It's OK.

I don't have to walk in shame. There's nothing redeemable about guilt,

*Side note: this album is FANTASTIC. It's his latest, and finally managed to convert my husband to Andrew Bird. Listening to "Valleys of the Young" as new parents was a mind-altering experience.

**I can acknowledge that Bird probably did not mean to write about people tortuing themselves with guilt and self-loathing (especially considering the last verse referencing what sound like trolls), but that's the beauty of lyrics--it just takes one line at one moment to become part of a person's unique experience forever.

2015: On the Page

I continued to increase my books-read amount this year, which sort of makes up for the sting of failing in the movie count. I also continued to notice the phases I go through when I read. My genre-reading tends to cycle through a "comic-YA lit-modern fiction" loop, with slight sprinklings of the occasional essay compendium or non-fiction pop-culture related title. It's probably a sign that I need to push myself out of a reading comfort zone. Maybe my next challenge should be a non-fiction science text. Or a historical biography (which you'd think I'd enjoy more, but....ehhhhh).

Or maybe I should stick with what's working for me.

Perusing through this year's list, I was struck with the glory of text and place. While reviewing titles, I kept getting flashes of where and when I read them.

I remembered running to job interviews while Syllabus roasted in sunshine on the front seat of my car. Each interview I half-hoped someone would ask me what I was currently reading, so that I could brag about a book that was esoteric AND related to teaching practices! Just look how committed I am to professional development.

I remembered polishing off The Knife of Never Letting Go while lying on the floor of an unfurnished second bedroom, reveling in the fact that I could go to a place that wasn't my bed and wasn't the living room, but an entirely separate room in itself. I also remembered wondering why so many of my colleagues loved that book. Chalk that and Maze Runner up as tomes I'm glad kids love, but which leave me cold.

Fevre Dream was my airport book during the flight to Boston when I graduated with my Masters. I sat around airports during redeye flights, trying to place this tale in the greater structure of vampire lit and nervously dreading a trip that turned out not so bad.

I didn't finish The Brothers Karamazov, but I did attempt it again. And it did keep me company as the most absurd beach book in history while I chilled/burned to a crisp at Carkeek Beach during the most idyllic (read: toasty) summer Seattle has ever had.

2015 was a great year for books overall. I read in more places, read more diverse things, and had recommended reading lists yield better fruit than I'm getting so far in 2016. It was the year I got a Kindle, and even begrudgingly used it (though still sparingly). I found new soul books. And I found some beautiful memories.

Total Books Read: 68

Incredible Comics: Ms. Marvel: Generation Why. Every preteen and teenager should read Ms. Marvel. Not only does it have one of the best superhero origin stories I've read in a long time (not in this volume, but the sentiment stands), but Kamala's continuing adventures seem realistic to her age, while containing a warmth and humor that any book could seriously use. Highly, HIGHLY recommend. Syllabus. Lynda Barry is a new hero. Reading this completely amped me up for teaching again, and after using her journaling formats in my ELL class I can testify: this practice of creativity works! She's a marvel. Everyone go draw spirals right now. An Age of License. I really enjoy Lucy Knisley's voice. She somehow manages to do the impossible when it comes to memoir: be introspective without being indulgent. None of her remembrances seem whiny or entitled, and they all strike a real and familiar emotional chord. A must-read for those lost twenty-somethings on the cusp of a great future. American Vampire vol. 7. I owe some serious, life-changing decisions to Scott Snyder and this series, so it will always be on my favorites list. Also, despite Skinner Sweet being mostly unseen throughout this volume, 7 seriously amped up the big bad facing the American vampires (and vampire hunters). A solid addition to the story. Through the Woods. I love Emily Carroll's art, and the somewhat terrifying tales are right up my tonal alley. Slight unease and a touch of darkness make this a quick but satisfying read. Two Brothers. Ba and Moon's last work, Daytripper, was one of the most incredible books I've ever read. This second take, based around two unlike brothers in Brazil, packs artistic dynamism with an equally heartbreaking tale. It's an all around beautiful work.


Fantastic Realistic (read: ANGSTY) YA Lit: It's Kind of a Funny Story. Some of the greatest descriptions of depression and mental illness I've ever read. Totally captured how in the moment it doesn't feel like an affliction, but just feels like incompetence. Love Letters to the Dead. The ultimate in teen novels--feeling ostracized, finding a cool friend group, overcoming a deeply repressed past, hero worship of super-cool past idols. All familiar, but done in a way I dug. Jumped In. I loved the focus on poetry and music (plus, the local aspects were none too shabby). It managed to have teens growing and becoming adults without a completely earth-shattering trauma, which was a pleasant surprise. Adolescence is difficult enough without all the dramatics added on. I'll Give you the Sun. Gorgeous prose, told from two distinct and lovely character voices. I particularly enjoyed the descriptions of falling in love, which were shown in a way that, if not emotionally healthy, at least felt true to the feeling of infatuation.


Favorite New Books: A Tale for the Time Being. This book, while initially difficult to get into, was stunning. Told from the perspective of an author in Canada reading a journal she found on the beach, telling the story of a Japanese school girl. The way the stories intersect is beautiful, and while I found the sequences in Japan more compelling, the entire thing was well-crafted. Child 44. One of my favorite books from the past few years was The Orphan Master's Son, and this very much felt like the Russian complement to that novel. A tight read that helps the layperson fear government a little bit more.  The Walls Around Us. It is a YA book, but it wasn't necessarily angsty enough to fit in my last category. Mostly because this book is mind-blowingly cool. It's told in a weird, time-bending format, and the central mystery (while not too obtuse) is fascinating.

Favorite Classics that I Re-Read and Which Comforted Me in Their Glory: Dandelion Wine. Mister Pip. A Swiftly Tilting Planet. All the Pretty Horses. I don't have much to say about these, other than I love them all and they are must-reads.

THE COMPLETE LIST:

• Saga vol.4 by Brain K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples
• Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosh
• Batman Zero Year vol. 5: Dark City by Scott Snyder
• Yes Please by Amy Poehler
• Anya's Ghost by Vera Brosgol
• Rat Queens vol. 1: Sass and Sorcery by Kurtis J. Wiebe and Roc Upchurch
• 13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson
• Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira
• The Geography of You and Me by Jennifer E. Smith
• The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness
• The Shadow Hero by Gene Luen Yang
• It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini
• The DUFF by Kody Keplinger
• Alex and Ada by Jonathan Luna and Sarah Vaughan
• Smiles to Go by Jerry Spinelli
• 27 by Howard Sounes
• Child 44 by Tom Rob Smith
• Sunshine by Robin McKinley
• A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki
• A Swiftly Tilting Planet by Madeline L'Engle
• Ms. Marvel: Generation Why by G. Willow Wilson, Jacob Wyatt, and Adrian Alphona
• Syllabus by Lynda Barry
• Fevre Dream by George R. R. Martin
• Go Tell it on the Mountain by James Baldwin
• I am Princess X by Cherie Priest
• American Vampire vol. 7 by Scott Snyder
• The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman
• This One is Mine by Maria Semple
• An Age of License by Lucy Knisley
• Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford
• Wonder by R.J. Palacio
• Feed  by M. T. Anderson
• Cuckoo Song by Frances Hardinge
• Swamp Thing vol.1: Raise Them Bones by Scott Snyder, Yanick Paquette and Marco Ruby
• Monster by Walter Dean Myers
• Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones
• Althea and Oliver by Cristina Moracho
• NOS4A2 by Joe Hill
• Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury
• The Impossible Knife of Memory by Laurie Halse Anderson
• The White Mountains by John Christopher
• Taran Wanderer by Lloyd Alexander
• The Walls Around Us by Nova Ren Suma
• All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy
• The Gunslinger by Stephen King
• The City of Gold and Lead by John Christopher
• The Way He Lived by Emily Wing Smith
• Maggot Moon by Sally Gardner
• Roller Skates by Ruth Sawyer
• Death Note vol.1 by Tsugami Ohba and Takeshi Obata
• Ungifted by Gordon Korman
• Jumped In by Patrick Flores-Scott
• Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz
• The Carnival at Bray by Jessie Ann Foley
• I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson
• The Dead and Buried by Kit Harrington
• Through the Woods by Emily Carroll 
• War Brothers by Sharon McKay and Daniel Lafrance
• Creatures of the Night by Neil Gaiman and Michael Zulli
• Sahara Special by Esme Raji Codell
• Carry On by Rainbow Rowell
• Confessions of a Latter-Day Virgin by Nicole Hardy
• The Martian by Andy Weir
• I Wear the Black Hat by Chuck Klosterman
• The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
• The Tyrant's Daughter by J. C. Carleson
• Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson
• Two Brothers by Fabio Moon and Gabriel Ba

A Patriotic Burger Bloat

Last night, I became a red-blooded American. I can finally brandish my U S of A passport with pride, because I earned it. I earned the right to call myself a Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Proud-To-Be-An-American, a champion of Ye Grand Old Flag, Ye High-Flying Flag.

Last night, I ate the Most American Thickburger at Carl's Jr.

I've never felt so nauseous* and so proud of my citizenship.

Since I'm officially a semi-certified burger critic, I couldn't let such a momentous occasion pass without documenting my experience eating this behemoth of a burger, this over-the-top spectacle. The Most American Thickburger is somewhat simple in its genius. Just take everything that could possibly be labelled American, save for the apple pie and thankfully the baseballs, and shove it between two buns. That's the only thought behind this gross(ly awesome?) display of nationalism on a platter.

The handmade bun, a little thicker and ten times slicker than your average Carl's Jr. burger holder, cradles one burger patty, lettuce, pickles, mustard, ketchup, a slice of whatever passes for cheddar cheese oozed on top of the beef, one hot dog cut lengthwise and criss-crossed on top of the burger, all resting on crunchy bed of Lays kettle-cooked potato chips.

Mm-mmm, good.

Here I am. Note my squeamishness, my frankly unAmerican skepticism in such a glorious meal. That was back when I was younger, foolisher, ten times more communist and at least ten pounds lighter.

I could barely get my mouth around this burger. The thick kettle chips resisted any compression efforts, and the more I pushed down the more the hot dogs slipped towards the edges of the bread, constantly threatening to pop out of the marvelous burger construction.

Eventually I managed to chomp into the thing, my mouth unhinging like snake jaws with every bite, but let me tell you. It was worth it.

USA! USA! USA! With every beat of my heart, slower and slower as the arteries clogged with grease, its rhythm matched this internal chance. How lucky am I to live in a world where this burger exists. The burger was meaty. The pickles were tart. The ketchup and mustard were gloriously mayo-free, just as any good burger should be. This burger is the Real Thing.

And that's without even mentioning the potato chips! I give those chips fifty stars in red, white and blue. They are the Greatest American Heroes. My Captain America, all full of crispity crunch to offset the gooey mess of whatever-it-might-be and the richness of two (or more) dead animals. It's a textural treat to sooth the wild masses.

If there is a chink in the impenetrable armor of this masterpiece, it's the hot dogs. I know, what a shock, but in the words of the immortal Joe E. Brown, nobody's perfect. The hot dogs were pinkish boiled cylinders. They didn't taste bad, per se, but the look and feel against the rest of the burger was a little unappetizing. But again, this is America. The hot dogs must be boiled. It's a nod to our war-time past. If we grilled those things, they might be mistaken for bratwurst, and this is not a German state. We won that war. Boil those dogs loud and proud! It's the American way.

All things must pass, as American hero George Harrison said (yeah, that's right, he's ours now. Suck it, Britain). And even this burger had to come to an end. I got down to one final morsel, a goopy bundle of burger and condiments and what must be cheese, trapped between soggy potato chips. Choking back sobs, both because my culinary experience is at an end and because my entire digestive tract is seizing up, I scarfed that final piece. As I did, I could barely keep from saluting this fine dining experience. Nay, this fine patriotic experience.

Take that, ISIS. Eat it, North Korea. We win. America forever, America the free. We fought through wars, strife, trouble, and it's all culminated in this, our greatest achievement. The Most American Thickburger. Cue the country singer and his leather boots, the waving flags, the fireworks, all of it, because it doesn't get any better. Welcome to the epoch of our country. Truly, we are the greatest nation of all!

Now excuse me, because I think I'll be completely indisposed for the next week or so as I slowly purge this experience from every pore. 'MERICA!

*This is not quite true. Nothing will ever beat the nausea of the Mall of America Deep Fried Oreo Incident of '04.

Oh, I Remember Yesterday

This song is fall 2007. My best friend had given me Pinkerton. Sometime after the album gifting, we had what I'll awkwardly call physical contact (NIGHTS OF INTENSE HAND-HOLDING!). During the following four weeks of our non-relationship, I watched this video over and over and over and over, volume up to eleven in my sad little hermity room. Oh, I'd be so good for you, and you'd be good for me.

A month after first contact (is that copyrighted? Somebody get Roddenberry on the line!), my friend asked me if we could go back to that, to just friends. I smiled and said yes. Two minutes later I drove down the street, passing his car while secretly blasting "Song for the Dumped." Freshman Cat was as classy as shut-your-mouth. At one point, our cars were next to each other. I smiled, one of those over-enthusiastic smiles that every girl has, the smile that shows no, you're totally fine, aw you're so nice, everything is happy and sunshine. We exchanged waves. Meanwhile, my toe was tapping the "give me my money back" beat on the brake pedal.

It all worked out in the end. We didn't talk for a year and a half, then after a chance meeting in the Wilkinson Center we picked up right on our friend path (with only the occasional moment of uncomfortable sexual tension). Now we are both married. We talk occasionally. It's all copacetic. 

Except, in all truthfulness, one of my greatest moments of personal shame revolves around this guy. For the record, hey Andy. I'm sorry about the Sufjan concert. I was a major jerkwad.

I had a point when I started typing, I swear. Not much of one, but a point.

I miss blogging. Not my personal blogging, mind you, but that era. The rule of the blog, when everyone had some little corner of the Internet. It wasn't as raw as LiveJournal—no, what could be?—but it had the same confessional, glimpse-behind-the-curtain effect. When you became friends with someone on Facebook, you'd check for the blog link, and over half the time there was something there. It was my chance to check out the psyche of the dudes I had crushes on. To judge their grammar. To peek at their music tastes. To roll my eyes at unabashed churchiness. To gawp at artistic talent. There was a thrill of excitement when new friends (and "special" friends) became followers on the blog.

Essentially, I miss being able to read honest stories about the people I liked/found interesting/respected. 

Part of me wonders—was there really this short timespan where people were writing freely? Was there actually an embarrassment of riches in blogland? Or, like everything, did it just feel new and special because I was eighteen and everything was new and special? Do those connections still exist, and are they just called Twitter and Instagram?

I still listen to Weezer more often than not.* I'm pretty painfully unhip now. My last concert was the Stone Temple Pilots with lead vocals by Chester Bennington (weird crowd, good show, and made me feel like an aging grunge fan in the worst way)(particularly odd considering I wasn't an original grunge fan, it's a new development thanks to That Man I Live With and Married, so this onetime indie chick is now just the mainstream of twenty years ago). I find myself gravitating towards the bands I listened to in college, all of five years ago, back when I was cool. Just leave me in my enclave with Ben Gibbard and Jenny Lewis and Rivers. We're good here.

It doesn't help that I lost my entire iTunes library in 2012. Now my beloved 160GB iPod Classic is a relic, a musical time capsule of my tastes. Nothing goes on for fear of losing what I have. When it dies, I will mourn. I will also forget well over 70% of the music I once owned.

Also, what do the kids listen to these days? Robot music, right?

But back to the point, why did blogging die? If people maintain blogs nowadays, it's designed and photo-heavy and "curated" (gag) to death. The words are gone. As a words person, I weep. I weep for honesty. 

Look at that sidebar, will you. Lists of names, links that date back years. All empty houses on the Internet. Abandoned buildings. And here I am, occasionally donning my explorer cap and poking in, willing there to be something different, something new.

In the true spirit of college Cat, I wrote this while procrastinating other writings. Real writings, for real places, because I'm a real person now. It doesn't feel the way I thought it would.

Welp. Better get back to it.

*Especially since their latest album, Everything Will Be Alright in the End, was seriously amazing. Best since Pinkerton, and that's coming from someone who actually liked "Hash Pipe" and Make Believe and went on record with favorable reviews of the Red Album. Please, please, everyone. Listen to EWBAITE. It's Rivers at his angry best (and even sweeter for us, the audience, being the subject of his wrath. Jilted Rivers is the best Rivers).

2014: On the Page

To be totally frank,* I'm surprised I read as many books as I did, and particularly that I beat my score from last year.  Many of these are comics and young adult books, and I have absolutely zero remorse about that.  Contrary to what Ruth Graham believes, I think that there can be beauty in unexpected places.  YA lit focuses on periods of stretching, the hard transitions.  Even adults transition at points—when I'm between jobs, or trying to adjust to life in school, or out of school, these stories can comfort me.  Me, an adult.  Imagine that!  As for comic books, well that's an art form, the marriage of story and image, and is often a better method for telling a narrative than word alone.  This year I read Fun Home and Marbles, both graphic novels, both dealing with quote/unquote serious issues, and both benefit from using art to express certain plot points.  Both of those are lovely books, by the way, which I recommend.

This is all to say that I am over any kind of book-shaming.  I will read books about a teen's summer and the love triangle developed therein.  I will read about superheroes.  I will read classics.  I will read.

As for what I read in 2014, here are some highlights.

Total Books Read: 63. Up five from last year.

Classic Book that rocked my world: The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood.  I had never read this before, and after reading The Blind Assassin and thinking 'meh' I wasn't prepared to love an Atwood.  But this blew me away.  The Handmaid's Tale isn't just one of those books that's well-written, it's one of those books that's important.  I think it's often criticized for being anti-Christian, which I don't buy.  Like any dystopian novel, it cautions against a society where those in power take freedoms away from the masses. In this case, those in power use a perverted form of Christianity to strip people, particularly women, of their rights.  It's a gorgeously-written warning, a story about how easily cultural norms can build into something dangerous.

Book that disappointed me: A Visit From the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan.  I hadn't liked any of Egan's previous work—hadn't even gotten through an entire book—but this one was so highly recommended I thought it would be different.  Well, it was different, because I actually finished.  And I did like certain aspects of the musical thread throughout periods of time, and I thought the future section was well-described, but overall it was a huge thud.  I don't like the way Egan writes characters.  I hate almost everyone in her books, and not in a fun way.  In a 'why am I reading this?' way.

Book that stayed with me a surprisingly long time: The Circle, by Dave Eggers.  I'm not typically a fan of Eggers, someone who seems the ultimate hip author, but this book had a weird staying power. Maybe it's because I am not-so-secretly terrified of technology,** so it got to me.  It follows a woman who could be named Annie Millenial, she's so typical ambitious tech-obsessed twenty-something, as she gets a job working for the Circle (a thinly disguised Google/Amazon amalgamation).  It shows how easily freedom is given up for the next cool thing, how subtly companies could use that power for evil.  It wasn't the Greatest American Novel, but boy did it resonate with me.

Series I bid a fond farewell: The Sammy Keyes series by Wendelin van Draanen.  I read the first book in the series, Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief, when I was in elementary school.  Eighteen books and all these long years later, van Draanan brought the era of Sammy to an end.  Sammy is a great protagonist—smart, sassy, and super courageous.  She's a hero, but I suppose jr. high had to end at some point.  New goal in life: get box set.

Author Obsession: E. Lockhart.  I had read a couple of her books before, and seriously enjoyed The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks, but this was the year I became a completist and avid cheerleader.  Lockhart is the single best writer of girls I've ever seen.  She allows her heroines to be smart and strong, but that's not their entire personality.  They're boy crazy.  They make poor decisions.  They're foolish, and moody.  They're mean to their peers, who are often mean back, and usually without any real purpose but with long-lasting effects.  It's an honest account of being a teenager, hormones and intelligence all jumbled together.  I think every teenage girl should read Lockhart, just so they know they're normal.  It's also a good how-to for handling those situations with grace.  Eventually.

*well, actually I'm Cat. HAHAHA!
**the robot rebellion is going to happen one of these days, I have no doubt.

THE COMPLETE LIST:

• A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin
• This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper
• Where'd You Go Bernadette? by Maria Semple
• Ready Player One by Ernest Cline
• The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
• Saga vol. 2 by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples
• The Queen of the Tearling by Erika Johansen
• Anne's House of Dreams by L.M.Montgomery
• Anne of Ingleside by L.M.Montgomery
• Escape From Camp 14 by Blaine Harden
• The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
• East of West vol. 1 by Jonathan Hickman and Nick Dragotta
• Fun Home by Alison Bechdel
• Saga vol. 3 by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples
• Zero vol. 1: An Emergency TP by Ales Kot, P. Walsh Michael, Tradd Moore
• Fly on the Wall by E. Lockhart
• Story of a Girl by Sara Zarr
• A Plague Year by Edward Bloor
• Once Was Lost by Sara Zarr
• Scorpion Shards by Neal Shusterman
• The Boyfriend List by E. Lockart
• The Boy Book by E. Lockart
• American Vampire vol. 6 by Scott Snyder and Rafael Albuquerque
• Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling
• Thief of Soulsby Neal Shusterman
• Chew vol. 6: Space Cakes by John Layman and Rob Guillory 
• The Treasure Map of Boys by E. Lockhart
• Real Live Boyfriends by E. Lockhart
• This Book is Full of Spiders by David Wong
• The Book of Lost Things by John Connelly 
• Compound by S. A. Bodeen
• One Day by David Nicholls
• The Circle by Dave Eggers
• Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver
• We Were Liars by E. Lockhart
• Wild by Cheryl Strayed
• A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
• The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick
• Runaway by Wendelin van Draanen
• The List by Siobhan Vivian
• Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City by Wendelin van Draanen
• Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise by Wendelin van Draanen
• Downtown Owl by Chuck Klosterman
• Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson
• This is a Call by Paul Brannigan
• The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
• Batman: Night of the Owls by Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo
• Batman: the Heart of Hush by Paul Dini and Dustin Nguyen
• Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? bu Philip K. Dick
• Sex Criminals vol. 1 by Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky
• Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver
• Marbles by Ellen Forney
• The X-Files Season 10: vol. 1 by Joe Harris, Chris Carter and Michael Walsh
• Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye by Wendelin van Draanen
• Carrie by Stephen King
• Landline by Rainbow Rowell
• A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
• The Kid Stays in the Picture by Robert Evans
• Dear Leader by Jang Jin-sung
• Black Science vol. 1 by Matteo Scalera and Dean White
• A Dance with Dragons by George R. R. Martin
• Ms. Marvel: No Normal by G. Willow Wilson and Adrian Alphona
• Batman Zero Year: Secret City by Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo

A Tale of Bags and Artistic Ownership

This is my bag.

The ratty glory!

I've had this purse since I turned sixteen.  It's been festooned with buttons for the past, oh, six years or so.*  The buttons have changed due to lost members of the fleet--a Watchman smiley face, several Andrew Bird pins, and most recently a gorgeously minimal B.P.R.D. button have been among the casualties.

One addition was from a month ago.  My dearest Mary had gone to see Yale Stewart, the creator of webcomic JL8, at a Brooklyn bookstore.  She picked up a couple button packs, and generously gave me a Batman one.  After all, it only makes sense.  I am the Batman girl.  I was delighted, and it immediately joined the clattering crew on my bag.  A couple weeks later, I ran into Yale at Boston Comic-Con and had a brief, awkward exchange about Superman. Life went on.

This morning, I read about Yale Stewart sending unsolicited "explicit photos" to female fans and women in the comics industry.**  It was disheartening, particularly hearing yet another story where comic fandom (that vast, faceless mass of apparently rampant testosterone) turned on the victims, doubting the already wounded.

Doubly so because of how much I enjoy JL8.  As much as I love Batman, I can't come out as a total DC fangirl.  For the most part I find the rest of the Justice League so painfully boring.  Ah, The Flash!  You run so fast!  How exciting!  Ah yes, Superman!  Such blue, so boy scout!  Ah, Wonder Woman!  The token chick!  Way to have those legs!  What wasted potential!

Image from here.

But JL8 handled that differently.  By showing these characters as children, all that purity and optimism made sense.  It resonated.  Superman became an admirable bastion of goodness, standing up for the bullied and protecting all classmates out of a sense of altruism, not obligation born of superior race.  Wonder Woman wasn't an empty figure head.  She became a feisty girl who could hold her own against her peers, and who knew it.  Suddenly, Diana became the girl every mother should want their daughter to be, imbued with confidence and assurance.  It was incredible what a slight change in setting and time did. The Justice League became an inspirational gang.

And then came this morning's news.  After reading several articles on the topic, including two apologies from Yale's own tumblr, I'm still not sure what to think.  Ii's a bit strange that this comes out right after artist Ulises Farinas issued some severe criticism about Yale's charity work.  But on the other hand, this behavior is reportedly common knowledge to those on the inside.  I'll leave it to the wiser, more connected people to comment on it.  For right now, I have to say that the dual apologies on his tumblr and the donation to RAINN, are about the best response you could hope for.  I mean, it would be better to not send the pictures in the first place, but at least the apology wasn't making him the wronged party.  It's the appropriate method of fessing up to wrongdoing and laying low.  Definitely the classiest way of dealing with a misdemeanor.

But I do condemn his actions, whether they are a misunderstandings like he claims, or if these behaviors are more widespread than the two women he acknowledges.  ~BARELY COHERENT RANT AHEAD~ OK, I understand that sexting or nude pics or whatever happens.  It's one of those things where I'm against it morally****, but not everyone abides by my own moral code, and I respect that.  There are those who feel powerful with exhibiting nudity, and who feel comfortable enough and have such ownership of their body that it isn't a big deal, and I respect the hell out of that.  But sending a picture in a sexting situation involves at least two people, and let's face it, the possible audience can be larger.  In my mind, it's something you have to be totally agreed upon.  There needs to be a level of trust between the two people, and I think that level is more difficult, nigh impossible, to reach in the courting stages of a relationship.  I think if there's any, and I mean any doubt as to how it will be received the photo shouldn't be sent.  Full stop.  No misunderstanding necessary.  ~RANT OVER~

While I was reading up on this scandal, I would periodically turn to Taylor and update him on the situation.  After reading through the apologies and sitting with it, Taylor had an interesting reaction.  He told me he felt a little guilty.  He felt guilty for hearing those apologies, and yet still strongly believing that this dude was a scumbag.  Taylor's read a bit of JL8.  He didn't love it like I did.  But he was so offended by the allegations that he immediately assumed that Yale was in the wrong.  Which shook Taylor up, because he felt like it was too quick for him to be so condemning of the harassment, and yet he was wholeheartedly anti-Yale.

To be honest, I was proud of Taylor.  My husband is the best feminist.  Thanks be for a career that forces acknowledgement and concern for the victims!  Taylor rocks.

My gut reaction was more muddled.  This might be shallow (my gut is telling me that it is, but my gut also wants cake, so whatever), but my first response was: "Can I still wear this guy's button on my bag?  How can I basically advertise the work of someone who doesn't respect women?"

Earlier this week, I was discussing Kanye with my pal Ricky.  To quote white girls everywhere, I truly cannot with Kanye.  Ricky thinks the man is a genius.  He's totally wrong, but that's not the point right now.  In defending Yeezy, he said "I don't expect my pop figures to be likable. I just want the art I love."

It was an interesting idea.  I often struggle with untangling the persona of the artist with the art produced.  Kanye's terrible image leaves me with too much distaste to ever objectively judge his music.  Same with a whole slew of musicians.  Taylor Swift, Bono.  My personal dislike keeps me from enjoying their output.

But on the other hand, I know that I would loathe Ernest Hemingway if I ever met him, and yet I find his novels and short stories among the more beautiful writings on this earth.  Most authors of weight require a severe disconnect between personal life and creative works.  If personal life required my approval, I could hardly read anything, and what a sad existence that would be.

But this isn't a dead author.  It's a man who is still present and active in the comics community.*****  And the role of women is already so tenuous and fraught in that world, that it's harder to permit any slight.

Which is all to say, tonight I'm left with a button and with a quandary.

*As a teenager, I was very ... clean cut is the word for it, I suppose.  I didn't put posters on the wall because I was nervous that they wouldn't look orderly enough, or that attempts at manufactured chaos would be a few inches away from true visual appeal.  I didn't color on my binders, and while I loved other people doodling on my arm, I wouldn't do it myself.  I had a difficult time ruining pristine things, and little confidence in my own artistic eye, so I refrained from any typical method of teenage expression.  This also reflected in my wardrobe, which until my senior year of high school comprised solely of flared jeans, pastel button-up shirts (to conceal the fat), and brown leather shoes.  And I wonder why I was an unhappy teen.

**Yes, this story is a couple days old, but I'm behind, OK?  You don't want to know how many old tabs are open on my computer and phone.  I mean, I heard something about a Batman vs. Superman movie?***  What up with that? 

***Note: joke.  Of course I know about and am already majorly conflicted, pitting my love of Batman against my hatred of Zack Snyder.  Who will triumph?

****The whole chaste, not-outside-of-marriage thing.  Within a marriage, I say knock yourself out!  But still not my bag.

*****Announced hiatus of JL8 aside.