Paula Deen: Deny – a – betes

I was at the gym two nights ago minding my own business aka trying to turn my fat into muscle and my calorie intake for that day into nonexistent being, when I discovered something on the news that I probably already knew: Paula Deen had diabetes.

That’s right. Surprise, surprise! Paula Deen, a woman who has essentially based her entire career on telling people to eat four sticks of butter and constituting it as a meal, has diabetes. Type 2 Diabetes to be precise.

I’ve rarely watched TV over the past few years and keeping up with celebrities is something I am pretty inept at (excluding the ones that I’m obsessed with, obviously. I’d probably win some stalker award for these lucky individuals). The only times I’ve ever even watched the Food Network is when my cousins turn it on and I just happen to be hanging in their general vicinity.

But even I know who Paula Deen is.

Paula Deen's other job: riding around on a stick of butter

While it is sad that good ol’ Pauly D has diabetes (no one ever deserves to develop a disease), the main issue or even ‘controversy’ is that she was diagnosed 3 years ago and didn’t go public with the news until now.

And on top of all that, she also signed an endorsement contract with the diabetes drug maker Novo Nordisk that consequently makes Victoza, the drug that she is now taking.

It hasn’t escaped most people’s notice that Pauly D only seems to have released the news about her diagnosis after she’d already been contracted to promote Victoza. In the eyes of many, it seems that Deen is just trying to milk as much money as she can get.

Of course, Deen has the right to her own privacy about her medical history. But why not come clean from the start? I can understand wanting to keep it within the family at first while she was trying to sort things out and educate herself about the disease as she claims… but 3 years?

For someone who is a famous chef and has a relatively good amount of influence on what the public consumes, you would think she’d want to consider the fact that maybe her own high calorie, high sugar, high everything recipes played a factor in her diagnosis. And if this were the case, you’d think that she’d feel the obligation to warn her viewers sooner rather than later.

Maybe not “oh, by the way… the recipes for all the Southern cuisine that I’ve been telling you to create for yourself may lead to consequences like diabetes. Or a heart attack.”

But at least a little fair word of warning, maybe something along the lines of “the recipe just told you to use 2 sticks of butter. But just remember that moderation is key.”

Although you’d think that if a recipe called for 2 cups of sugar or 3 sticks of butter, people would have enough brains to think “hey maybe I shouldn’t eat this. It sounds like a colossal artery blockage just waiting to happen.” But people are people. Noms are noms.

Something that I found rather ironic is that during an interview, Pauly D says that she has always promoted moderation. Now, I can’t say whether this is true or not because I’ve never watched her show and I don’t know anything more about her besides the fact that she was claimed to be the ‘most dangerous person in America’ by Anthony Bourdain, a chef himself.

So while what she claims may be true, that she has been serving up encouragement for moderation alongside her so-good-that-it’s-so-bad-for-you food, I turn to her actual recipes and find that they say otherwise on more than just one occasion.

Diabetes is nothing to laugh at. I have a friend who got diagnosed with it a few years back and it’s a scary disease. I can understand why Pauly D would want to educate herself as much as possible about it before she went public with it. Unfortunately, she has been receiving more criticism than support.

Plainly put, the fact that Deen released news of her disease right after she’d entered into an endorsement contract with a diabetes drug maker doesn’t put her into a very sympathy inducing light.

As someone in the public eye who has the power to influence the choices that people make in their food choices, I feel like Pauly D had and still has a responsibility to her viewers – to let them know the risks that come with eating such high fat and high calorie foods. At this point, she serves as the prime example.

(I’m hoping that Deen will use her diabetes as a positive turning point – that she’ll find a way to maker her recipes healthier, but with the same good taste.)

Of course, viewers and people in general also have the responsibility to make their own healthy eating choices. After all, even if you get diabetes from making and eating all of Paula Deen’s recipes, you still can’t place 100% blame on her.

No one is making you use her recipes. No one is force-feeding you 4 sticks of butter. In the end, you have the choice to make healthy decisions. Or not.

Unfortunately, most people really will eat anything.

I guess we can’t all have our cake and eat it too. We might wake up with diabetes.

Lonely bloggers of the internet unite !

Or: how I came to be alone on the first Friday night of the second semester of my sophomore year of college.

Whew, that was a mouthful. And did I mention I’m sitting in total darkness save for the light from my mac in true lonely blogger fashion?

Well… almost. I do have a really weak and inept desk lamp that only spreads light and happiness in a 2 feet radius. Looks like my desk will be my old ball and chain for the night.

I find myself in this position because luckily for me, the overhead ceiling light in my room has conveniently decided that now would be the perfect time to die a slow and painful death and give me a seizure in the process. Actually, scratch the painful part. It actually seems like it is quite enjoying itself and is drawing out the process. What with all the spastic flickering, I feel like I’m having a bad trip at some sketch rave and all I want to do is claw my eyes out. Not that I know what that feels like.

ANYWAYS… back to how I ended up in the position of lonely girl blogger on a Friday night.

So first off, let me just say that I’m not actually lonely. No really, I’m not. I may have my ‘I hate everyone’ ‘ woe is me’ and ‘people are so stupid they should just burn in a fiery pit’ moments but I am quite interested in people and am even enamored by an embarrassingly large amount…  and I usually like being around them.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t have my antisocial moments because I admit that sometimes I do just want to curl up with a good book and spend the night perfectly alone and perfectly content.

That doesn’t happen a lot in college. Especially not when you’re still living in a dorm and sharing a room with another living, breathing human being who is perfectly capable of puking on your favorite shirt just within arm’s reach.

I didn’t go out tonight not because I am aggressively antisocial or because I am a social outcast with no friends or even because I didn’t have plans. I actually had a solid itinerary for tonight: a wine power hour pregame at a friend’s apartment followed by another friend’s party all lined up (no more walking around looking for parties and freezing my ass off in this January rain. That was so freshman year.)

No, instead I chose to stay in because I was feeling under the weather. Because my accumulated hours of sleep for this week is less than the average whale’s (pilot whales get roughly 5 hours daily). Because I haven’t really been out in a month (i.e. I went out but barely drank over winter break) and I might as well wait a little longer and make it a personal record. And becauseeee dun dun dun… I didn’t feel like it.

Sorry, not sorry.

And the thing is, I know there was a 94% I would have had an awesome time drinking awesome shooters, listening to awesome music, and just sitting around and soaking up everyone’s awesomeness. And there was roughly an 85% I would have gotten drunk tonight (the percentage is higher than usual because of the wine… something that I’m still a novice at and hence have yet to build a tolerance to).

But, sorry not sorry. I sat this one out because I just couldn’t gather up enough energy to get ready and look half way decent and just be super sociable tonight. I just wasn’t feeling it. And at this point in my life, I’d rather not go out if I have to convince myself in the first place.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that just because you’re in college, where going out every weekend is basically expected if you wish to get the ‘true college experience’ (whatever the hell that is), you really don’t have to feel guilty and like you’re a complete social recluse AKA loser just because you decide to sit one night out.

It is allowed you know. I should start remembering that more often.

(Even though I literally just pretended to be having an intense phone conversation to avoid my suitemate trying to get me to go out again).

For me, I usually go out most weekends unless I have some crucial test on Monday for a class where I have yet to crack open the book. But I’ve found that staying in with the intention of getting schoolwork done or studying basically never happens. I usually just end up right back here, on the internet.

So here I am: alone on a Friday night with my tumblr, blog, and a bowl of cereal. I don’t have a test on Monday but I do have this weird pain in my back. I don’t feel lonely, but It’s time I had some time alone… and I feel fineeeeeeee.

What college has really edumacated me on

Things I’ve learned from my collective college years… as thus far. Subject to change, be forgotten, or be unlearned under the influences of alcohol and other vices.

Things I learned from Freshman Year:

1.     I walk with my hips. Too bad I don’t possess even the slightest suggestion of a butt or else I’m sure my milkshake would indeed bring all the boys to the yard.

2.     It’s hard to follow other people’s advice. It’s even harder to follow your own advice. Sometimes you just have to do things the hard way and learn from the mistakes yourself, drunken escapades and all.

3.     Age is just a number.

4.     You can skip a class for the majority of the semester and never take notes even when you DO go and still get an A in the class.

5.     However, you can also go to almost every single class and take handwritten notes and be obsessed with the subject and have an awesome professor and STILL barely pass with a B. That is life. Life is ironic.

6.     It’s all good to want to look good on the weekends, but be wary of heels. I have scars to prove this point. Even if you wear a super short dress that does a terrible job of covering up your nonexistent ass and that you have to constantly pull down all night so that no inappropriate mooning takes place… always remember to at least wear comfortable shoes because you never know how much walking you’ll end up doing.

7.     Actually, I have about 5 scars on my right foot from a weekend that I was wearing comfortable shoes… so maybe what I mean is don’t walk long distances when you’re drunk. Or don’t drink. Or just avoid fucking potholes in the middle of the street on a rainy night when your vision is already blurred from the drunk crying you’d done earlier.

8.     College is still eerily similar to high school in some respects. I learned that the girls who were ‘popular’ during those four years of hell don’t change much… they still dress ridiculous and are still obnoxious in a way that somehow wins them friends. I never got it and I still don’t. Maybe I’m bitter, but I don’t think so. I never had any desire or intention to be apart of that Uggs with jean skirt wearing, drinking in my stepmom’s basement, and giving handjobs under a restaurant table group (you think Im joking). Although I did own a pair of fake Ugg wannabes because, I mean, they are warm. Maybe I am bitter.

9.     Fire drills are the absolute worst. So of course, I was lucky enough to live in the freshman dorm that was known for having the most fire drills. 4 in one night? Naturally. They also pose a problem when you wake up more drunk than when you went to sleep, have to climb down a loft, have to walk up and down 7 flights of stairs, and are missing a shoe on a rainy March night. Curse you fire drills, curse you.

10.   Sleep over errrything. Do I really even need to explain? If I didn’t already love sleep before college then I definitely learned to after pulling all nighters and going to bed late for absolutely no reason except that I am indeed a college student and that’s what college students do.

Things I’ve learned from Sophomore Year thus far (a work in progress)

1.     Even adults can’t read blue prints. For example, this administrative lady helped my roomie and me pick out our dorm room in our suite. She picked the biggest one for us over the phone and we trusted her. Turns out we now have the smallest room of all our suitemates… Adults aren’t the brightest creatures in the world. Proceed with caution.

2.  It’s takes a certain breed of people who go to the gym, use its machines, and then after proceeding to get their nasty sweat all over the equipment… DON’T wipe it down. Yea, there’s a special place in hell for folks like you.

3. There’s a difference between blacking out and ‘browning’ out (a term I was only introduced to this year) where you forget parts of your night, but still have some remnants left to draw upon and cringe with embarrassment. Both involve moderate to heavy alcohol consumption. Both involve a significant loss in dignity. Both involve a loss of articles of clothing. And both involve getting injured in some way such as falling into potholes or down stairs. (Okay, maybe the last two are only true for me…).

4. You don’t have to know what you want to do with the rest of your life at the age of 19. Things change. You’ll change and your ambitions and goals with it. Change – that’s the only thing that’s guaranteed anymore these days. But try to keep a cool head and remember that things will work out eventually… I’m still working on this.

5. Sleep. Over. Errrrrything. This is self-explanatory. I have a feeling that this will be a reoccurring theme in the rest of my college years.

Edge of Youth

This is my very first attempt at making a video… so don’t critique too harshly!

I basically finished the video, besides for some minor edits, about a month ago. But I only uploaded it today because I was really struggling with the title…

Most of the clips are from summer. Summer has always been my favorite season and a lot of the best and most transformational experiences (two totally different things, lemme tell ya…) that I have gone through have occurred during these hot and sweltry months. In fact, I have a pretty strong suspicion that my summers have had a bigger say in who I am than any of the other drab months of the year… although this hasn’t always been true (my summers didn’t really start getting good or at least memorable enough to remember until maybe middle school. But that could just mean I have a terrible long term memory).

I kept toying with the idea of summer and youth and trying to somehow incorporate that into a succinct and relevant title. It was harder than I thought.

Eventually, I scrapped the whole summer idea not only because the video also included tiny bits of the beginning of my sophomore year of college.. but also because I thought the video was more about youth and how fleeting it is. To me, the video contains happy, interesting, funny, and/or exciting moments from my life (albeit mostly in the time frame of summer 2011) that still make me smile when I watch them now, months after their actual occurrence.

Each clip is only a few seconds long. In other words, they are pretty fleeting… just like how I view my childhood and adolescence now, as a 19 year old teenager. A second semester sophomore in college. I was wary of the idea of turning 19 months before my birthday back in April because I thought that 19 was just an awkward number and therefore it would most definitely be an awkward age.

And it has. Or at least, parts of it. You see, I belong to that rather idiosyncratic group of people who just seem to have a natural tendency to walk into awkward situations and who lack exemplary social skills (i.e. I have none). But forget awkward, 19 has just been an interesting and most of all, strange, age for me.

It has been very different. And while change is sometimes good, I’m not quite sure if it has indeed been good or bad or anything at all besides just fleeting. Ah, there’s that word again: fleeting.

19 has been the age where I have finally declared a major (still no clue what I plan on doing with my life but that’s perfectly okay according to my advisor, who often reminds me to take deep breaths and keep breathing. What would I do without her?), learned how to book an entire grooms party for a wedding in the classiest of tuxedos (it helps when they don’t come in with their domineering wife-to-be but that rarely happens… which is actually fine because it just gave us employees a chance to judge how long the marriage would last), got the spins for the first time, and didn’t truly read more than 5 books (textbooks and terribly boring school mumbo jumbo don’t count… I hardly read them anyway). It was also the age where I actually enjoyed smoking weed for once in a blue moon, stole a traffic cone, and could legally enter a Target store again (and found it very ironic when a shopper thought I was an employee). 19 was the age when I got told I actually looked 16 quite a few times (I was not too happy about this), but also 21.

It was the age when people started treating me more like an adult, which is a good thing… right? But that also meant more responsibilities, more worry about money and my future, more serious consequences for my actions (or lack thereof), and more e x p e c t a t i o n s. All of a sudden I was expected to act more mature and put together, like I actually had a plan for my life and future goals. Of course, maybe this was just all in my head. Which, actually, is worse because then I’m not only risking the possibility of disappointing others but also myself. And even though I don’t hold myself in very high esteem, that’s still the worst.

And besides, let’s be serious here. I am nowhere close to being mature. I use more obscenities than most people I know and say ‘like my dick’ a lot. Like, no seriously, a lot. (i.e. That line is so long. “Like my dick.” God, that’s so hard. “Like my dick.”) And put together? Please, I can barely dress myself in the morning let alone try to plan for a future as someone outrageously successful with ridiculous prestige… and money. And fame. And groupies.

As of right now, my future goals include trying to wake up on time tomorrow for my 9:30am class when I’ve spent the last few weeks at home (winter break) going to bed at 6am and finally rolling out of it at an embarrassingly indecent time (2pm… 3pm…). My future goals also include looking forward to finally slurping down some abp soup tomorrow because hey, it’s been a month, and my stomach missed their chicken potpie soup (with some wheat bread and mixed nuts on the side, please and thank you).

19 is such a transitional age. It’s the last year that I can ever say that I’m a teenager (there are, in fact, no more ages that end in -teen) but I’m definitely not an adult yet. It’s just there, like a friend saving you a spot in line, until you can finally turn 20. Even then, in my eyes, you’re still not quite an adult yet because you can’t legally drink. But you’re also no longer a teenager.

So what I’m trying to say after this very long winded and probably unnecessary explanation (because you probably didn’t give a hoot in the first place or, to use my kind of language, ever really give two fucks) is that this video is about my so called youth, or what’s left of it at the tender ole age of 19, on the very cusp of adulthood.

Adulthood is interesting in and of itself  (Does this power suit make me look like I’m the CEO of the world? VS. Does this outfit match? No? Oh, whatever. Does this outfit make me look skinny? No? Oh, well what can you do… Are these even real clothes? I don’t give a fuck bc I paid $30 for this non shirt and I will wear it (basically, me)).  Also, I think becoming an ‘adult’ happens for people at different ages… you may turn 20 or 21 or 22 and be an adult on paper but a piece of paper doesn’t mean shit (unless it’s you know… money. Or Daniel Craig’s autograph). Adulthood comes from total life experience. And, really, it comes when you think you’re ready.

So, finally, to my actual point… the title of my little attempt at a video (don’t laugh at it, kay? geez. Maybe some rich producer will see it and believe I possess some hidden talent and pay me millions, so hah) is pretty straight forward. I’m 19, almost technically an ‘adult’ give or take a few years, but still in my teens, but not really a teenager, and not ready to take on the real world now or ever (it get’s in the way of sitting in front of the computer)… So, really, I’m on the Edge of Youth.

And end scene. Tadaaaa.

62 words

I liked you from the start. I liked you with your charming words and forthright stares. I even liked you with that ridiculous Mohawk. But now you’re gone and I miss what we had even though there was no love lost, just tears shed on my part. Most of all, I miss how goddamn beautiful your smile was. I dream about it.

Happiness is a warm summer’s night

Happiness – general

There is no one true definition, it’s different for everyone because everyone has different experiences and processes thing in varying ways. Many variations: joyful, content, ecstatic, happy, glad, cheerful, blissful. Can be triggered by present event or remembering/reliving past events (nostalgia) or even dreaming of the future. Can be from big events like marriage, having a baby, graduation, getting a job or small, everyday events like getting up on time and not feeling tired, writing something you like, a friend’s sincere compliment on a day when you’re not feeling good. Things that make me happy: summer, the beach, nostalgia, car rides with the windows down and good music, traveling, being around good friends… Something that has always stuck with me is something that one of my favorite teachers said. My 7th grade history teacher told my class that him and his wife had different views on happiness; that one believed happiness was felt in the moment of whatever event it was that transpired, while the other believed happiness was something you felt after that event. That you don’t truly realize you were happy until you remember/relive it and that is when you become fully conscious of it and are able to appreciate it…

Happiness – my version of it (a narrative)

The sun beat down that day as if it had something to prove. As if it wished to be the center of attention and the topic on everyone’s mind, not wanting to be forgotten. Not that it could have been on a day like this, where it’s very presence was lamented and words rolled lazily off tongues and were carried upon a sigh of defeat. There was no escaping the sun, as my parents and the more placid had discovered once again this time of year. They had relented to taking shelter in their homes to sit in front of the fan, sip their cool drinks, and worst of all, nap.

But this was what my friends and I lived for: the two and a half months relieve from schooling, pointless assignments, rumors produced by the careless and never ending gossip mill and waking up in the early hours of the morning when no teenager should rightfully be awake. This was finally our time and none of it could go to waste. Every moment not spent outside, partaking in adventures or even being lazy but in an acceptable manner was a moment squandered and something that could not be retrieved.

Vision was hard to achieve that day; it was hazy at best from all the waves of heat that emanated from everything in our line of sight. It was all starting to look the same, as if the heat had morphed everything in the horizon into one flat, smooth expanse of middle class suburbia. Boredom could have easily set in, but to my friends and I this was an unacceptable option. We let our imaginations wander as we roamed our neighborhoods, ones that we had spent our childhood growing up in and knew like the back of our hand. We stayed at the pool for an unhealthy amount of time, became friends with the ice cream truck driver, went bike riding for the thrill of the hills, dipped our feet in the creek, and got lost in the woods. We were looking for anything that would give us that sweet adrenaline rush. Sweat was inevitable, but we were never bored.

During the day a sense of stillness had descended upon my neighborhood and its surrounding counterparts, as most retreated into their heavily air conditioned havens. But at night things became alive and everything was amplified tenfold. With the coming of dusk came with it a restlessness and this night was no different.

By the time the sun was disappearing, it’s last bit of light giving way into the fuzziness that precedes a deeper darkness, a nice sense of exhaustion was setting in, in a way that bespoke of a day filled with the exploits of the young and alert. Of another day comfortably similar to the ones that had preceded it and would continue to follow.

As we all piled into whomever’s car that night, feelings of invincibility ranked high. The night was only beginning and whatever it brought with it would be the perfect way to end another perfect day. We pushed and squirmed and elbowed our way into finding comfortable seating, a feat that could never be fully achieved. Radio stations were shouted at the person who’d called dibs on sitting shotgun, as they were now our night’s dj, although our laughter and mediocre singing would soon drown out any music being aired. Squished in that car, our arms and legs overflowing, we could not have been any more content. Even then our skin was never really cool; it was always warm to the touch despite the sun being gone, as if we’d gone over our daily dosage for that day.

Streetlamps lit our way as we followed the familiar curves of the road that would lead us into another night full of possibilities. It was all about the possibilities.

The Girl with the Dragon Tatto 2009 vs. 2011

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo 2009 vs. 2011

-  My thoughts before having read the book

Rooney Mara vs. Noomi Rapace as Lisbeth Salander

I’ve been reading a lot of articles and reviews about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo recently and I still haven’t formed a completely solid opinion about anything – about who played the character of Lisbeth better (Noomi Rapace vs. Rooney Mara), which movie I preferred, etc.

These articles have definitely helped me to form somewhat of an opinion, but I realize that before I can completely and thoroughly continue with my analysis of the two movies and the portrayals of Lisbeth (things that I must look at separately and together in order to do either justice), I need to finally read the book… so these are my thoughts as so far. I plan on writing another piece once the book is done.

I did things out of wack this time, not having read the book first. Instead, I saw the 2009 Swedish film adaptation of the movie about a week before I finally watched the American version last night.

Going into Fincher’s American adaptation of the film, I was worried that I wouldn’t keep enough of an open mind because I absolutely loved Rapace’s Lisbeth. However, I was pleasantly surprised that I also really enjoyed Mara’s depiction, although the two representations of the character are very, very different. Both are endearing in different ways and for different reasons.

Unfortunately, I still can’t say which one held truer to the book.

In terms of Lisbeth’s character, I felt that I had stronger emotional ties to Rapace’s version. She portrayed Lisbeth with more stoicism, which, for me, actually carried across her vulnerability in a way that worked better for me and actually gave her a greater sense of rawness. She’s supposed to be this closed up character, at least in the beginning of the series, because of all that she has suffered and experienced.

Whereas in the US version, I feel that Mara’s Lisbeth opened up to Blomkvist too quickly… basically as soon as they had sex. For a book that’s supposed to be heavy on the feminism, some people may think that the US movie, in a way, showed that Lisbeth was just damaged goods who was only waiting for the right person, a knight in shining armor, a man, to come save her… Not necessarily what Stieg Larsson was going for?

Lisbeth is drawn to Mikael Blomkvist, something that I hope to find out more about when reading the book, and their relationship develops past just an investigative journalist and a researcher working together to solve a 40 year old mystery. Blomkvist helps Lisbeth come out of her shell more… I want to read the book first before I explore their relationship too much.

From what I’ve read, Blomkvist is supposed to be much more of a ladies man in the actual book but both the Swedish and US version kind’ve skip over this, probably to keep the storyline from getting too complex. Apparently, he has relations with not just Lisbeth or his long time lover Erika Berger.

However, I noticed that Blomkvist’s portrayals are also very different. In the Swedish version, I felt that he was more noticeably attached to Lisbeth than in the US version. Once again, I can’t say which is more accurate according to the book… but it’s something I definitely noticed.

I’ve read arguments about which actress had better control of the character on screen, and the only thing I managed to garner was that both Rapace and Mara brought out different aspects of Lisbeth’s very complex character.

I feel like Rapace had more anger in her Lisbeth. Rapace was skinny but had more muscle, while Mara is anorexic skinny and looks a lot younger, which I think helped add to her sense of vulnerability. By the end of the movie, she was a lot less closed up than Rapace’s version. However, I still hold that Rapace’s closed off-ness is what makes her seem more vulnerable and gives her character more depth. I found both portrayals to be endearing, but Rapace had that extra something that made her more believable – that she was Lisbeth, not just portraying her on the big screen.

I’m not necessarily saying Mara failed in that aspect. I think she did a great job. But for me, there was something in Rapace’s performance that made it resonate with me more. I know not everyone will agree with me on this, but that’s okay.

Both did superb jobs, and I applaud them both. I also find it interesting to note that the directors of the Swedish and US versions did not originally think Rapace or Mara were quite right for the job. Rapace went back to the director and told him that she’d do anything to prove that she was the one the role was meant for. And Mara had to go through a series of auditions because Sony didn’t think she could do it, but she did. I can’t imagine them having cast Scarlett Johansson or Carey Mulligan or anyone else, for that matter.

In terms of the movie as a whole, I’m pretty sure I enjoyed the Swedish version better. I do want to watch it one more time though, before I make my final judgment. However, I do agree with most of the articles I read that while both movies were about two and a half hours long, you don’t realize this until it’s over. Both do great jobs at capturing the audience’s attention.

While both are relatively fast paced, I felt like the US version was choppier and that some scenes felt disconnected from each other in their transition. The Swedish adaptation felt a little bit more coherent to me. To touch lightly on the differences in characters between the two films: I felt that the Nils Bjurman was much creepier in the Swedish film – something about his voice and lack of emotion. And from what I can remember (again, need to rewatch in order to reassess), I feel like the rape scene was worst in the Swedish version. However, the rape revenge scene was more intense in the US version.

I also felt that it was more obvious in the US adaptation who was behind the murder mystery. I could be totally biased though, like I probably am about a lot of things, since I did see the Swedish version already so I obviously knew who the culprit was. However, I remember that when I watched the Swedish version I was suspicious about a lot more characters due to the way their acting was portrayed… But like I said, the first time I watched it I didn’t know who the killer was so I’d be probably more suspicious about more characters anyways.

Stieg Larsson’s novels tackle a lot of big issues – feminism, sadism, violent crimes against women, corruption, etc… and a lot of the articles/reviews that I read also attempted to address how (and how well) these issues were portrayed on the movie screen. However, I have barely touched upon any of these topics in my piece and I feel like my analysis has barely even grazed the surface.

Other things that have I yet to further explore in this piece include: the greater Hollywood-ization of the US version due to its bigger budget and director (Fincher is known for Fight Club and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, to name a few), how Lisbeth’s character and the issue of feminism may or may not have been undermined by Blomkvist’s character in the US adaptation, how sex and sexuality were portrayed in both films, the controversy that surrounded the marketing for the US film adaptation (many argued that it didn’t keep with the spirit of the book or Lisbeth’s character because of the way it used sex – Mara was topless in a promo poster – to get more people’s attention)… just to name a few.

But I’m holding off on more of that that until I’ve finished reading the book…

Bout to go start it now, I’m excited!

end of 2011: reflections

I realize this is incredibly long and I apologize. Apparently, it turns out I had a lot more to say then I originally thought I did… and it became a lot more self-involved than I planned it to be.

Sorry. Not that any of you plan on reading it anyways, so this was more for myself than anything.

2010 started out rough, but ended on a much better and hopeful note. Thank god for that.

2011 started out nicely.

New Years Eve found me at my best friends apartment and when the clock finally struck 12, we were surprised at having almost missed it. For the most part, we were high out of our minds. We didn’t have alcohol, so weed was our answer. We all cheered when the ball dropped on the screen of the little TV on the floor of my friend’s apartment and went crazy with our silly string and confetti and poppers. It was truly a magical moment, that’s the only way I can put it. Everything seemed to be in slow motion – the glittering confetti falling to the floor, the silly string that was getting on my hair and tread into the carpet, the happy faces. I wanted that moment to last forever.

New Years 2011 was fucking magical... that may or may not have been the result of drugs.

I’ve heard that how you spend your new years is how you’ll end it. That night, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe that this year would be a good one and that maybe this year I’d try harder to keep my resolutions. We’d all written them on balloons and released them off the balcony, letting the dark night swallow them up whole. I’m sad to say I probably did not keep my resolution, because for the life of me, I cannot recall what it was in the first place.

That night, I was surrounded by a lot of old friends that I’d already begun to fall out of touch with. It’s weird to say that because I’d only been off at college for one semester, 4ish months, yet the distancing had already started. Looking at the faces around that room that night, there are only two people in that entire apartment I still really talk to. The rest don’t know me anymore. So much has happened to me that they’d never be able to fathom. I don’t know them anymore either… and worse, I don’t care a great deal.

Back at school, I knew I had to try harder 2^nd semester to earn better grades and ultimately, to get my GPA up. Leaving high school, I’d had a 4.2 GPA and high SAT scores. But guess what? None of that shit matters in college (just like similarly, no one fucking cares that you played varsity this or that in high school… get over yourself). I didn’t do bad my 1^st semester (3.4 GPA) but I wasn’t holding up to my own high caliber. It also didn’t help that when I came home, my relatives would ask me disappointedly, what happened? And to add to the disappointment, I was undeclared in my major and had no idea what the fuck I wanted to do. I still don’t.

After 1^st semester/the end of 2010, one of my friends and possible interests found out that his ex was pregnant with his child. So that halted anything from happening. I rarely saw him 2^nd semester. One of my other friends had been suspended for drugs. Two of my good friends got together. The dynamics of my usual little group changed and things were strange and different.

But this led way for another possible interest to develop.

I had 50 hours of court ordered community service that I had to complete by sometime in November, so I was busy with that a lot during 1^st semester. I even skipped classes to get more hours in. I met a lot of peculiar people (mostly locals) during this time, but I never minded working there. I found it amusing to say the least and I also got hit on a lot by people of varying ages (and genders). That time period of my life was just very strange. Sometimes I miss it, but don’t know why. (2^nd semester, when I had to write a creative non-fiction piece, my teacher told us that it could be about any experience, as long as it made you feel something. I ended up writing about my community service. I don’t know what it made me feel exactly or why it even stuck with me, but it just made me feel. That’s the best way I can explain it).

But it was while doing community service that I met someone. Didn’t really start talking/seeing him much ‘til the first few months of 2011 though. The words ‘talking’ and ‘seeing’ are very misleading in this case, because we weren’t really doing either. I don’t know what we were doing. We weren’t nothing, but not something. A lot of physical things ensued, and since I’m being honest, that became the basis of our relationship more than anything else. However, I was still more naïve than even I’d expected way back then. It’s complicated.

St. Patty’s Day weekend was a turning point. Two of my best friends were coming to visit during their spring break and I was excited beyond words. We had a good time. We had a drunk time. The first night we had to hitchhike because being directionally challenged and still not having the whole bus system thing down, I made us get off at a random stop.

I don’t remember when I started drinking the next night, but I do remember exactly what and how much of it I drank. I was a fucking mess. On the way to the party I started crying to my best friend (first and only time drunk crying, ugh) and saying lord knows what. But thank god, I stopped. The party was fun – trolled and drunk grinded on strangers with the bestie. I have a lot of scars from tripping and falling into potholes that night. Later discovered pictures that I have no recollection of.

That entire weekend was a sloppy mess... if only I could remember.

The next morning, my friends had to leave. I don’t remember what I said when I was crying, or why I even started. From what I’ve heard, basically it seemed like my new ‘interest’ was an asshole and yadda yadda yadda. But since one of the guys in my past was an exceptional asshole, my best friend was worried I’d get hurt again. Long story short, she told this new guy to never talk to me again (in a far from nice manner) and deleted his number.

Things got shaky after that. My best friend and I talked and were okay. But I tried to contact him and apologize, but he never responded. He completely cut contact with me after that. To me, this was devastating. I don’t know why. I still don’t. I’m blaming a large part on the fact that I never got any closure, something that I haven’t received in the past either. To me, this makes things harder.

After that sloppy night, more of my friends from school now knew about this interest. I’d been keeping it a secret, except for my best friends from home, because I didn’t know how my new friends would react because of one distinct characteristic about him. They were probably bound to find out anyways, because I’d always disappear at late hours with vague lies about my whereabouts. I even earned the nickname “Sketchy Susan.”

I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I was still as busy as ever with school. And I was constantly surrounded by people 24/7. Even if I wanted to cry and wallow in self-pity and despair, which I adamantly did, I couldn’t. I was never alone. The only times I had to myself were in the communal showers, where the sound of the showers could mask my crying. Not that I cried too much.

Luckily, I was also taking a creative writing class that semester. I’d never been a fan of reading or writing poetry because I just didn’t get most of it, but poetry was what we started out with. It helped me a lot. I hardly talked to any of my friends at school about what I was going through. I’m a rather private person as it is. I don’t like feeling weak (how terribly dumb).

It also didn’t escape my attention that back in 2010 I’d been seeing a boy for a while, but we ended rather badly around March and I let this catapult me into months of depression. Really, I was just being fucking stupid and I despise that. And here I was again, March 2011, letting myself get worked up over a boy. The year had seemed to come full circle, and the irony was just too rich.

I remember April being pretty good. It was my birthday month. I got jello shots, a cake with ‘69’ candles, and lap dances for my birthday, among other things. I went to RVA to see my best friend. I went to a concert.

My friends and I are the classiest...

Anyways, school went well from what I can remember. I got a slightly higher GPA that semester and I even got an A in my public speaking class, which made me really happy because public speaking still scares me today. It may seem silly, but it was one of those things that helped me realize that I can truly achieve what I set out to.

The days were getting warmer, the weather nicer. I spent a lot of time between classes lying out on the drill field with my friends – tanning, goofing around, watching them throw a football. Things were nice.

One of my guy friends whom I’d only met around my birthday became interested in me. I’ll just call him ‘R.’ He was attractive. The attention was nice. To spare you the long story, it basically turned out that he’d been fucking one of the other girls in our friend group for a while. And when they weren’t on good terms, he’d come to me to chill or talk or flirt… or fall asleep in my bed with. Then ignore me again when they were good. So that was fun to find out. Honestly, it didn’t faze me as much as it could have because I never actually did like him. Like I said, he was attractive. The attention was nice. It was certainly a distraction and it helped to keep my mind off of the events that’d transpired in March.

School ended. Summer came. As I’ve been finding out every year for the past few years, it’s not the same anymore. It’s a sad fact.

I got a job at Men’s Wearhouse because my mom works there and some girl had just quit and they desperately needed more help during prom season. It was actually a fun job and I really liked the people I worked with, for the most part. I honestly had a crush on one of my coworkers for a bit, despite him being like 30. But I got over it. I was really busy working for the first part of the summer, but then prom season ended mid June. After that, my hours slowly became less and less until I barely worked 15 hours a week. I asked for more, but got none.

All of my friends were basically working or interning. Everyone was busy. So when I suddenly had all this free time on my hands, it was bad news. After I’d come home from school, I’d begun thinking about what happened in March with ‘Y’ (that’s what I’ll call him now). And now I had even more time to think about him. I spent hours laying awake in bed at night, going over all the time I’d spent with him. I hated that I could never fall asleep and I hated that I’d turned into this pathetic person. There were so many reasons that it was a good thing that things between ‘Y’ and me had ended. But whatever, I didn’t care. Feelings don’t work like that anyhow.

This past summer wasn’t bad or anything. I still had fun because after all, it is summer. But it was a pretty lonely one. I definitely spent way too much time on tumblr and I just kept finding things that seemed so relevant to me in my ‘heartbreak’ (not actually, but for lack of a better term). I was aware that this only fueled my misery but I couldn’t stop, nonetheless. It was my own doing. It was my own fucking choice. Like I said, I hated that I’d become this pathetic person. Like I said, summer wasn’t the same anymore.

‘Y’ actually texted me a few weeks before the end of summer. I was at a party and maybe a little bit intoxicated. It was upsetting. The things he said didn’t help me feel better either. Instead, they pissed me off. After that, I decided that he pissed me off. Was this what I needed to finally get past all of this nonsense? I knew he wanted to see me when I was back at school. I felt like I was now in the position of power. I was in control. This helped.

School started again mid-August. I was sad that I wasn’t as tan as I’d normally be this late into the summer. First semester was pretty all right. It was fun. I did really good grades wise. I’m a tiny bit closer to knowing what direction I want my life heading in (baby steps). Most of my classes were pretty interesting. Still good with my friends. Some bad things. Some emotionally bad/sad times. Some freak outs. So is life.

I ended up seeing ‘Y’ a few weeks into the school year. And then we basically started seeing each other weekly. But this time I knew I had to keep my distance. I was no longer as naïve. I knew I couldn’t be as emotionally invested as in the past. It’s complicated. I’m complicated. But I didn’t like the way he treated me. Not in person or anything, but just the way he’d easily blow me off through texts. It bothered me. And I knew I was starting to think about him too much. Even the fact that I let him bother me, bothered me. It showed me that I was starting to care too much.

And on the other hand, one my guy friends liked me. The same one who’d gotten his ex girlfriend pregnant and was now a father. I’ll call him ‘C.’ At least he actually liked me for me, i.e. flawed self and annoying sarcasm, and not just my body. I knew a few of my other guy friends also had crushes on me. I wasn’t really interested in any of them, except maybe ‘C.’

I didn’t know how I felt about ‘C’ and I told him that. I still don’t. I can’t honestly say that I like him in the same way, but there’s definitely something there. I wish I did. We are so strangely compatible and while there’s maybe something there, it’s not enough. I don’t think I’ve genuinely liked someone in a long time, but I remember what it’s supposed to feel like. But then again, I’ve never been friends with someone before falling for them. Maybe I don’t know what this is supposed to feel like. Either way, we’ve decided to be friends and to see where things go.

Back in October, I finally forced myself to try to talk to ‘Y.’ I always told myself I would every time I saw him, but then chickened out. But now that I knew other people whom I actually had a chance with liked me, I knew I had to. I couldn’t be a coward forever. I didn’t see him for 3 weeks after that. For us, that was a very long time. And the texting multiple times a week stopped too… which meant I could not think about him as much. I’d decided that I would stop texting him first, let him come to me, and actually follow through with that decision for once. I did pretty well.

I’d told him that I didn’t know if I wanted to see him again. I did. But afterwards, it was different. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice being with him and feeling a false sense of closeness and intimacy. That feeling is always nice and I think therein lies my weakness. But afterwards, I still didn’t think about him a lot or feel a great need to see him. Not that I never wanted to see him again.

This time, a month went by before I saw him again in December. I met his gay roommates. One of them told me I was pretty. We watched a movie. That was …different, but nice. He asked me out to dinner. That was …surprising, but nice. He blew me off. That fucking pissed me off. I’m tired of the shitty way he treats me. To be fair, I don’t think he’s an asshole at all. I just think he’s an asshole when it comes to me. I don’t know what will happen in 2012. I do know that he’ll try to talk to me again. Which is fine. I just don’t know how I’ll react. I don’t get or stay mad for very long because I usually don’t have enough energy to care. Same thing applies now.

1^st semester ended well. I made good grades. The only thing that stands out jarringly in my memory is December 8^th. Reading Day at my school. That was the day campus was on lockdown for four hours and I was stuck in my common room with all my suitemates and their friends. We were glued to the TV and constantly refreshing our social networking sites, praying that no one had gotten hurt after gunshots had been heard. Someone did. An officer died that day. I had no phone service and could not call/text, but I was surprised to hear from so many people I hadn’t seen or talked to in months. People I hardly thought about anymore, all asking me if I was okay.

Winter break has been all right. Nothing too eventful, nothing too terrible. It definitely didn’t feel like Christmas at all this year though, to me anyways. I’ve found that to be true every year, as I grow older.

2011 wasn’t absolutely terrible, it just wasn’t great.

Some things have changed: I got a new piercing, my mother has recently informed me that I’ve gotten fatter, and I have actually declared a major now.

Some things haven’t: I still go through bouts of self loathing and I still don’t know what I want to do with my life.

The thing is, I fully know why I loathe myself. It’s because I can see clearly that I over think and overanalyze and that I do things I know probably aren’t in my best interests, even as I’m doing them.

I’ve always known that I lack a great deal of common sense, and this doesn’t help me during my bouts of irrationability, which are fueled by my emotions. However, I am also a very logical person, so I can tell myself what I should do or think or feel because what I really think or feel… just isn’t good for me

Yet I don’t follow through, because low and behold, the heart is greater than the mind. I can’t always talk myself out of my feelings. Guess I can’t help or it. Or more likely: I still haven’t learned.

Being both an extremely emotional and logical person…  is the worst. You let yourself fall to the emotional extremes – self loathing, depression, self pity, self consuming despair – and then you hate yourself for it. As you’re experiencing these emotions, you tell yourself you’re stupid and weak to be having these feelings because you know better and because clearly, it’s your own fault that you’re in this place and you could get out of it you really wanted to.

The thing I’m really struggling with right now is the fact that I have a great guy who’s actually my friend and who actually likes me for me. We could work out so well. I have no problem drunkenly hooking up with him, yet I can’t even say that I like him like him. Instead, despite the fact that ‘Y’ is an asshole to me and does not treat me the way I know I deserve, I’m still not willing to give him up. We could never work for so many reasons, and that’s fine. But if he showed any sign of wanting more than the thing we sorta have sorta don’t have right now… I know I’d be willing to give it a chance in a heartbeat.

I hate the fact that I’m so willing, despite knowing that I don’t need him. I don’t have to give in to myself. I hate the fact that I know all of these things and can rationally tell myself what I should be doing. At this point, I’m trying to work on myself and why I feel the need to always fall into self-destructive behaviors. I inflict a lot of my own pain.

I’m complicated and I have issues. That’s what I want to work on in 2012. Fixing myself. I want to feel strong and beautiful and that I don’t need someone else to be okay.

How you start your new year is how you’ll end it. Sadly, that won’t be true for me. I started out 2011 in a smokey haze of delirium like happiness.

But as of now, I have no plans. More accurately, I could have plans. But at this point in my life, I don’t know how much I care to deal with awkwardness around people I truly don’t care about. When midnight rolls around, you’ll most likely find me alone. In my room. Anyone care to join?

A lot of things can happen in a year.

2011: the year of the letdown.

This should be interesting…

I don’t know why in the world I signed up for Creative Writing: Poetry next semester. I haven’t written in so long that writing anything is already going to be hard enough, needless to say fucking poetry.

I’ve never been a huge fan of poetry because most of it just goes over my head and still does. I’m more a fan of straightforward than super abstract poetry. I like poetry (and writing in general) that makes me feel something. It doesn’t have to be a positive emotion like happiness or anything, as long as reading it makes me feel something in some way or another. However, this happens even when I read poetry that I don’t necessarily understand, so maybe this feeling I’m talking about is really just confusion.

Maybe I don’t actually have a problem with any form of poetry, I just don’t feel the need to analyze it senselessly like they make you do in school. I’d rather just enjoy it, even if I don’t quite understand it. If I really want, I could also argue that each reader can take away a different meaning from the same poem… so there’s really no point in analyzing. Or maybe I’m just personally shit at analyzing poems… you see where I’m going?

This may be as straightforward as it gets. I like it.

Last semester I took an Intro. to Creative Writing course and the first thing we covered was poetry, and I actually found that I liked writing it. Of course, the one time that my crazy teacher critiqued one of my poems she tore it to shreds and seemed to enjoy doing so. That was definitely a kick in the groins.

But now that I haven’t written anything worthwhile in ages, I have a feeling that jumping back into it again with poetry will be extremely tough. I already find the art of poetry tough enough. I already find writing tough enough, Christ. I’m scared of immersing myself into my writings again when I know all I’ll produce is something shitty and uninspiring.

Part of the reason I haven’t written in forever is because I never have time (probably not true, but it sure seems that way… I am a hardworking college student after all. I’m full of shit, I know) and because I have nothing to write about. Both of these are bullshit excuses, I know, but fuck off. Whenever I try to make myself sit down and write, all I have are excuses and not ideas. My life is full of lovely shit to garner ideas from I’m sure, but I just can’t see it.

How frustrating it is to try and create something beautiful. How even more frustrating it is to try and create something that you’ll personally like.

School Lunches

I was never one of those kids who had bagged lunches.

But I was always jealous of them. Those lunches perpetually held hidden surprises in them: napkins that caring mothers had scribbled their love messages on in their loopy cursive, an extra snack pack, last night’s leftovers or a second yoo-hoo to combat thirst.

Although my fellow lunch bringers would cringe in embarrassment at any affectionate note from loving mothers or fathers, their faces turning red as they quickly crumpled them in their hands before anyone else could see, I found no shame in having someone on the outside willing to take the time to do such things. I was a little envious. The only times that I brought my own lunch were for field trips that spanned longer then the average school day. It was only then that my parents cared about my lunch past the rudimentary level of putting money on my lunch card and sending me on my way. Lunches for these trips were always a big affair for me. My well meaning parents would let me choose whatever I wanted to put in them which I’m sure was any child’s dream, but in the end I was still the one packing them. However, that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the lunch bag they made me carry. It was big enough to verge on obnoxious and it made me feel like I stuck out. When you’re a kid, it’s surprising how much you worry about fitting in long before you can fully grasp the axioms of acceptable social behavior among your peers. The bag had a built in cooler, was insulated and my parents didn’t have to fork over too much moolah in order to take it home. It did a perfect job of carrying my lunch no doubt but what did I care; I was just a kid and things like obnoxious lunch bags mattered.

Everyday my class would walk single file towards the cafeteria and as we passed through the doors the lunch bringers and lunch buyers would separate. The bringers would go to our assigned tables and the rest of us would race into another smaller adjoining room where all the food to be had was. We would all rush to be among the first to find our lunch cards hanging on the wall so that we could be among the first to line up. The quicker you could find your card, the quicker you could get in line, the quicker you could get your food and the longer you had to eat.

The selection of food was hardly anything to go home and brag about and for a picky eater like me, there was never anything to eat.

Sloppy joes were the epitome of gross and it took a certain kind of person to eat them. I deemed those who got them and actually ate them slovenly and uncaring about where their food was coming from. In my eyes they were just as sloppy as the food they were devouring. I can safely say that I never touched them. Other forms of meat included burgers, fish sticks (which were, of course, fishy), hotdogs, corndogs and beef teriyaki. Your safest bet was to stick with the burgers and to load up on the condiments.

Now, the milk cartons were something that I had difficulty with, as I could never manage to open the carton on my own. Besides milk, the only other option to my memory was water. Neither of these choices satisfied me. I was a kid and I wasn’t thinking about what was best for my health or growth. I didn’t care about strong bones when my stomach was crying for me to be unhealthy.

The last main component of school lunches was the fruit/vegetable aspect. I don’t remember my school having much to do with carrots and broccoli, but that may just be because if they did I never wasted my time on them. I’d rather go for the grapes or apples or even oranges.

This may have just been an invention of my own school, but on grape days we would all search for what we called ‘baby’ grapes. Grapes that were itsy-bitsy and amused us to no end for no reason at all except that they were abnormally small. We would go even further to see who had the puniest of these baby grapes and the proud owner would do us all a favor and announce it to the class to endless hilarity and delight.

Maybe my school was just more easily amused than others.