Good Morning.

The morning is an odd mistress. She's lovely when the sun rises and serene as we trudge through whatever kind of weather we're experiencing at the moment, and she disregards our bitching like any boss would.

Why exactly I'm ranting like a feminist rapper, I can't answer. The reason I can't answer is cause I don't fucking know. Lay off. Its 7 am and I'm 18.

The point of this blog post as less about being hostile and more learning to love the morning, however.

This is my second cup of coffee, and the caffeine is barely beginning to rile my system, but in this strange, half-lucid state I've figured out something vitally important to a high number of the adult population: mornings don't suck. We suck.

The morning don't give a shit if you woke up at five today, or of daylight savings fucked you up. What I'd the morning but the earth turning, giving the illusion the sun rose?

Breakfast? Showers? Changing clothes? Leaving your warm and fluffy bed?

The last part is the hardest and I promise the morning won't bite after you've done it. We've just gotta stop complaining about the morning for the morning to run smoothly.

Today will be fine.

Promise.

With love,
Nick Strange.

How do you Come to Terms with Yourself?

Peter Capaldi's final remarks in his "letter to my younger self" in the website the Big Issue came to mind: "The biggest issue for my younger self will be dealing with himself."

I instantly tried to find some sort of connection to me, while simultaneously feeling a bit sad for the man and appreciating how everything turned out, realizing (slightly relieved) his young adult years are not to be mine.

Looking back at that reaction now, I can acknowledge I'm a bit self-centered, but it only makes sense: I haven't changed out of these PJs or really left my room in well over 24 hours and I've had three years of college-level metacognition beaten into my head--two of which were done during the super-impressionable high school years.

And when one grows tired of TV shows and books and big world crises, it is only natural to turn to oneself.

I mean, why not think of yourself? We're all stuck with ourselves, aren't we? We experience the universe and process all of creation as ourselves. And on an atomic level we will never really touch anything or anyone: our experience of stuff right down to color is ours alone, and no amount of loved ones will keep us from the clouded thoughts in our own heads.

I've come to think that inside ourselves, there are actually two: the ideal you, and the actual you.

As crazy as it could sound, just roll with it.

There's first, the ideal version: a product of your upbringing and exposure to societal expectations you've processed and selected for yourself. In short, the ideal you is who you want to be.

"No brainer!", right?

There's an entire industry around self-help and grabbing life by the horns and becoming the best "you" you can be!

But the real scary part happens when you realize you can't change everything.

Sure, you can make yourself drink more water, or lose the baby weight, or get back to what you once were or who you want to be. . . .but you can't change your nature.

Everyone has their flaws--grooves and crevices others fit into to fill your days up with happiness. We are, if anything, social creatures.

However, accepting those flaws is hard.

Even harder is letting go of the vices which say certain things are flaws!

Because we all want to be ideal and sometimes you just can't be.

There is an unspoken word inside of you, deep in your core and that is who you are. And that word is not changing. Not for an ideal.

And you've got to learn to live with yourself.

Stardust

If I could trade my art and writing skills for physical strength and a strong understanding on math, I would become an astronaut.

It seems better to just be in the void of space and learn about the stars instead of staying on this little marble.

If I seem disillusioned to you, it's because it feels like a better outcome than just being angry, even if in anger I can still feel the potential for home and change.

Or maybe I'm confusing anger for passion.

Instead of becoming passionate about the world against all odds, I'm just becoming sad.

Which is even more depressing, since I cant help but view those who don't care as bad people.

"But why would you view them as bad people?!" No one said I chose to. I'm a human being with a very narrow and linear thought process--anything highly against my ideals is viewed as "less worthy" or "bad".

If I seem nutty to you, it's because I am. We all are. Take solace in the fact you're not alone in this madness.

And because I become angry at those less compassionate than I-- because I valued that passion that came with compassion for so long--I became a nuisance.

Do I care less now? No. I'm just tired of no one understanding or being as upset?

Should this have passed years ago with me integrating into society with everyone else? Why is compassion and thinking things can and should change seen as childish, anyhow?

I can tell you now what I'm passionate about isn't a coincidence. And that it really does effect a ton if people--namely me, and everyone I've ever cared for. I'm a female minority in a state with no voting power! I focused on making myself educated because I deemed myself unlovable as a baby!* What else did anyone expect me to do?!

Maybe someday the people I live with will understand, or I'll move in with people who do.

Who knows. I'm only 18.

With love
Nick Strange.
----------------------
*what I decided the first time in picked up a Harry Potter book (elementary school; six or seven years old) is a telling sign of what we teach young girls and what my personality is: I was not barbie. I wasn't going to be popular or beautiful or loved by boys, so I decided I wanted to smart and powerful instead. I wanted to command boys and demand things from them like a boss.

And I decided I'd focus on good stuff, too.

Tonight

Tonight, my best friend turned 18.

She's the second youngest of our group of friends, and tonight she joined the ranks of the legal adults!

Only, of course, we're not actually adults. Not in behavior, anyway. Not in maturity.

We ran to one another as though it had been a million years, spoke loudly and chortled in our laughter.

Essentially, we were the annoying kids at the back of the restaurant (I am deeply ashamed).

Somewhere between catching up and emotional Disney sing-alongs, the funeral I had just went to the week before came to mind:

I saw my cousins for the first time since I was born--all fine men and women between 25-35, perpetually frozen as scrappy teenagers in the stories I heard from my parents.

Despite trying to stay on my best behavior and converse like a grown-up, they were very understanding of my childish Facebook name, slouched posture, and goofy grins.

One cousin even reminded me of all the times her and my older sister drove around for food and to check out boys! I'm not sure how she felt about my going to cons, but she didn't judge.

Juxtaposing those girl my cousin spoke of--the ones who waisted gas on "mensada y media"--to the girls and boys at the restaurant tonight, I couldn't help but laugh to myself.

Both sets were barely gaining the ability to think complexly, and we believed ourselves so mature but a year ago!

Half-serious, we joked about our de-maturing before a wiser, more honest friend laughed out "No, we just pretended to be more mature!"

When asking my mom about how normal that was, she just shook her head, saying this was the most mature thing in the world. That we're growing up just fine.

Maybe letting go is first step to really growing up.

Be Kind to Yourself.

You will learn in time.

Be Graceful with mistakes.

You will learn in time.

Be patient with unlearning things.

You will learn in time.

Be kind with yourself.

You will understand.

Imaginary Scenarios

A song I forgot the title of once gave me the best two lines in a stanza I've ever heard in my life:

"The best moments of my life
I think I saw them on TV."

And for the first time in my life I knew what restlessness was. The rage fuel inside of your gut: the winds moving and the volcanoes erupting inside. The urge to move mountains and run through rivers and seize some unattainable feeling of euphoria.

And then the restlessness died away with a fizzle and silence after a friend pointed out it's our fault for not going out and doing things.

I knew I wouldn't do much, so I couldn't mind much anymore.

But today I realized something: I am a person with a huge amount of potential. Beyond what I've said before. I have the potential of being someone's wife someday.

I can be the emotional support/co-op partner in crime to another human being. They Bonney to someone else's Clyde.

Beyond any other amazing idea that's crossed my mind--from traveling time to patenting clothing to renovating housed to make them look authentically abandoned--this is the most incredible. The chance to touch and be touched.

The chance to do something beyond all understanding.

If we're all capable of loving and being loved, who's to say we aren't capable of living and being lived.

For once I understood Belle.

Drink up the fountain of life!

Try and say "yes", before life passes you by.

Life, the Universe, and Fairy Tales (or "Why I hate debates.")

I recently got really into Douglas Adams and started reading the Hitchhiker's Guide, which quickly became one of my favorite things ever conceived be a human being!

This series was actually one of those I had been meaning to pick up for a really long time but never got around to, and it couldn't have come to be at a better time, since I was going through a bit of a crisis at the time.

An existential crisis.

Try and imagine what it could be like to realize you're pathetically insignificant in the grand scheme of the entire universe which most likely is no scheme at all!

It boggled me and I couldn't focus--I couldn't do anything!

Want a better idea? Danisnotonfire's got a great explanation of the feeling!

Point is, I was hitting an all time low and needed a pick me up, and lo! The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was waiting for me in movie form. It was exactly what I needed at the time!

After absorbing its story plot and getting to read the novels, including buying the books, I was cured! I felt better right away. I even try and find strength in the fact nothing I do will ever matter in the grand scheme of things.

It makes failure easier to settle with, which is important for me to learn to live with.

There's just one problem.

I now hate arguments.

This wouldn't be a problem if college classes didn't involve so much debating.

And the sad part is, my English teacher told me it's a good thing I learned this lesson now while I'm still a budding adult in legal terms.

Let's think about this one for a second: a high school English teacher of mine once said "I'm not right, I just know I'm not wrong." With this in mind, try and do a legitimate research paper. There's no word count and you love the topic. Just be satisfied with your decision.

I honestly can't do that. There's no such thing as a right answer and if you're open-minded enough, common consensus aside, almost every point can be validated!

Why do we debate? Why do I have to debate? To make more consensuses in the world?

Well I don't feel like it! I just can't muster up the energy necessary to try and shoot down the rest of the world.

We're a marble in the uncharted backwaters or the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the solar system. Don't even begin to try and pit me against the rest of the universe.

CS Lewis once said ". . .someday, you'll be old enough to start reading fairy tales again."
I think this is what he meant.

It's easier to create consensus with good fictional tales based on reality than debating endlessly. And sure, maybe once in a while a silly argument or a fresh debate could be fun to have, but a full-scale mock-congress? Or a mock-trial? Or more research papers?

Jesus Christ no.

I am done with these stupid research papers.

With love
Nick Strange

Stop trying to "figure it out" already.

Today, I found an image of the original description of the F.R.I.E.N.D.S cast (or what tumblr claimed to be the original description for the cast).

Monica, Rachel, Pheebs, Ross, Joey, and Chandler haven't change much at all from that original description at all, and I love them for it. These characters played a central part in my childhood, and to this day hold a special spot in my heart for it.

What managed to get me thinking was what they were all doing together--they were "all trying to figure it out".

It occurred to me no one I've ever known--even my parents or aunts, grandmother, or great-grand mother (from the stories I've heard), sisters or older friends--have ever really "figured it out". And then I realized how a once solemn, profound and calming phrase was actually really vague.

Does anyone know what "it" actually is?

We can usually assume "it" is another phrase for "life". It's actually a pretty accurate representation. Life is vague. Life is scary and all-encompassing and we have to cope with "it" since there's no getting around existing, less you're dead.

I sincerely hope you're not dead. I love you all.

Unless of course, you're actually a dead ghost reading this over someone's shoulder. In which case, good on you, ghosty! I love you too!

But I digress: "figuring it out" is an impossible task, as tangible as it may seem when you try and think about it. To figure out what life is supposed to be about for you is assuming the purpose is already set before you're even alive. Or that you're going to have things smooth out as soon as you find the one thing you want to do more than anything else with your life.

It implies deliberate planning. It implies smooth choices or smooth endings. Or at the very least that soul-crushing endings cannot occur. That those things happen to other people, but you've got "it" figured out so you're okay, right?

No one has this. No one's got the perfect life, and no one should expect themselves or others to have this wonderful life even a fraction of the time.

Among the glossy autobiographies and True Hollywood stories or even pretty and cutsey Facebook updates, we lose sight of the hard details and life's challenges each and every one of us faces every day.

So if you're scared, or angry, or saddened today, take a deep breath. Relax. You are in very good company. The rest of the world, actually. Eventually, you're gonna be okay.

With Love
Nikola Strange.

After-School reflections

It’s two in the morning and Adele is my company.

The end of high school doesn't feel as eventful as movies would have you assume, and even there it isn't that glamorous. The music and end scene—the lessons learned and the friends made—is almost never impacted by the graduation. Even the speeches made and applauses echoing and the hats thrown don’t fill the void of the “what now?” question, and it isn't possible for me to answer it now.

Lifescout Badges

Taking a bit from one of my favorite people on the internet. . . . ever, Charlie McDonnell and Alex Day, I’ve decided to try and post up a group of little something called “Lifescout Badges”, an idea by Mr. Day, or Nerimon on YouTube, to make Boy or Girlscout badges for things most human beings are generally excited about as a means of motivation!

Here goes, and good luck not falling asleep *wink*:

Learning how to Archery
Most recently I took an Archery class with one of my best friends at our town’s Olympic Training Centers. It was the absolute bomb, and I couldn’t have enjoyed it more. We kept making LOTR and Brave references and took extra delight in making the yellow Thandrul’s face.

Learning to ride a bike
I was about 13 I’ll say when I first learned how to ride a bike (yes, I was old). I took my neighbor’s old rusted bike, about two sizes too big for me, and tried to not crash into cars (a task more daunting than you can believe). I’ve had past horrible experiences with bikes, including ramming into a car right when a group of older boys were walking by. . . . that day was not a nice one. I’m proud I actually got back on the bike after that, though.

Learning to swim
Oh man that was fun! I almost drowned that day, but I managed to “swim” to the deep end of the pool and not die! I can’t remember how old I was, but it’s been a while: during a family vacation (and by this I mean my immediate family plus a boatload of extended family members) to a place called Muleje in Baja California, Mexico, I was the one kid in a group of at least six that could not swim. It was the first thing I sought to learn upon reaching the pool. Though I didn’t win any races that year, I did finally earn passage onto the deep end and that was good enough for me.

Un peu. Je ne parle pas bien le français
(I totally know wtf this means).

Learning a different language
English is not my first language! That’s not an uncommon thing here in the States, actually, especially considering that my hometown’s a massively diverse area. Yet I still hold some pride and resentment towards that five year old whom refused to speak Spanish in school for the entirety of kindergarten just to be able to speak in English with all the other kids in the neighborhood: I learned English via Pokémon and “chick flicks”, yet I wasn’t allowed to take my school’s bilingual classes, thus killing my ability to communicate in Spanish much farther than the average helper in a business setting (believe it or not, it’s not much. It makes me sad.) I’m currently taking French and took three years of Japanese (don’t ask me to speak or type in either please! I’m terrible!)

Look at it! OMG it's got little stubby legs! :D

Holding a snake
One of the first people I ever considered to be a friend was a proud owner of a small snake. She was an absolute beauty we’d take care of together. I really loved it as a kid, and remember it fondly now as a sort of adult.

Having a pet
We have owned a couple dogs at my house! Lots of dogs, actually. I want to try my hand a cat at some point in life, particularly a Munchkin cat named Napolecat (or Gatoleon in Spanish).

We're also called the Urban Knights!
That's a pretty damn awesome name!

Making it into collage
I made it into the Academy of Art University in San Francisco! Sure, that’s not a big deal considering their lack of criteria, but to me it’s an important first step! I wasn’t sure I even really wanted to go to College, despite my AP class credits (I took ‘em for funsies). Finding a passion in animation set things in motion for me, especially when I found out I sort of fit the bill really well for what an animator should be—artistic, creative, attention to detail, history nut, keen on diversity over routine, a bit of a tech nerd. I found something and that’s important to me, less I’d refused to evolve as a person at all.

As proof, here's a busy
Street in SF herself!

Going to San Francisco
I went to San Fran to visit the Collage I wanted to go to, actually, with my best friend (whom will be dorming with me and eventually renting an apartment with me). The city’s a gorgeous place, and definitely earns its’ reputation for being one of the healthiest cities in America—the hills are ridiculous! You cannot afford to eat junk food there, less you’re one of the elite few whom have the luxury of being able to afford the parking meters (and even they looked mad at the prices)! All in all, after you’ve found your way around, it’s a small place, and rather cozy, yet still so much more vast than my own humble hometown.

Moving out of Mom and Dad’s
This one’s a technicality, I think. . . .but I still think it’s an important first step in my life. When I went to San Francisco to visit my collage, I got sick on the last day and got scared. Because of this, I was silently crying on the way back home, and it didn’t help that I had dropped my phone in the car and thus lost communication to the rest of the world (and my parents, more specifically my mother). So, partly for scholarships and partly for my own sake, I moved into my older sister’s house. I set my own alarms, make my own breakfast and dinner, and spend most of my days alone since my sister’s a workaholic. Sure, my mother babysits my nephew and still takes me to school, but I’m removing myself some, which I feel is important for me at the moment.

Going to Disneyland
Who, by God, in all the world doesn’t love Disney, or at the very least didn’t love Disney at some point in their lives? I personally adore it! Every bit of i—well, almost every bit of it. Despite being a national treasure of sorts, I don’t think Disney’s too big to critique, but I digress.  Disneyland’s a wonderful, beautiful place, that in my mind never ceases to be amazing. As children, we’re all tricked to believe it’s this magical kingdom where all dreams come true and no bad things happen. As an older person, I’ve come to appreciate that trick. Bad things happen all the time, but escapism never ceases to refresh the optimistic (and I do this I’m pretty optimistic, for a pessimist).

Going to a party
I’m an antisocial schizoid, so parities are few and far between for me! I’m not proud of the actions displayed by peers whom attend these parties with me (I’m usually the killjoy in the corner, pretending not to know anybody), but in the end it’s sort of lovely to see my friends having fun, even if it’s not the type of fun I would normally have. In all their imperfections, my friends are perfect and I enjoy seeing them like that—natural. A person never looks more beautiful than they do while wearing their everyday expressions and walking in everyday life. I seriously need a stalker camera to catch them in the act of being beautiful.

Going to the Zoo
Zoos!! My hometown has a world-famous zoo, which I’ve visited over the years and still greatly enjoy going to! As of late, I’ve only gone because of my nephews and siblings, but I desperately want to go again to sketch out the animals some. I love sketching out animals, and sometimes googling an image isn’t enough of a challenge! XD

Made the playbill and
drew up costumes. ;)

Going to a school event
Again, I’m a bit of a schizoid so this is a rare activity for me: my best friend was in a play*, which I actually had contributed a lot of my time to, not to mention I knew a lot of people in the play and was close with the teacher, so I was obliged to go. I thoroughly enjoyed it! Seeing those jolly idiots spout Shakespere at each other might be the highlight of my senior year.

Going to Cancun
I got to go on my ninth birthday! My biggest memories were a) extending my birthday to an entire week so I could get cake and “las mananitas” sung to me at every restaurant, b) my cousin and uncle thoroughly annoying my older sister, c) pretending I was old enough to drink with unalchoholic pina coladas, d) meeting a little dude whom looked so much like my father we kept making “long-lost son” jokes, and e) getting a stern talking to by a French lady whom was also staying at our hotel, presumably over how “Madmuaselle” wouldn’t apply to a woman of her age, and how I shouldn’t have been uttering French if I couldn’t speak it!

Badges I still need to earn:

Visit New York
Visit Paris
Visit London
Successfully horseback ride
Hang-glide
Successfully blog
Successfully vlog, at least once in my life
Meet some of my “internet heroes”.
Collage
Finish at least SOME collage and get a job as an animator for a company somewhere in the world
wind up working for Disney or Pixar
Sketch our animals at the zoo
Sketch out people in a natural habitat

*Gotta love the complete contradiction and utter disregard to mental disorders: A schizoid is, in common terms, a loner: they don't have many friends, seemingly have a lack of emotions, and tend to prefer solitary activity. . . . the more ya know! ;)

With love,
Nikola Strange.

To this day

A friend sent me a video today.

It was gorgeous.

I trembled. And I cried.
And I remembered. I remembered all the stupid things, and I remember feeling pitiful over hurting at all. I still feel pitiful. It was never much. What I was, and what I went through, wasn't nearly as bad as what the people went through in the video. I don't even feel right saying "what I went through". It was more just . . .an experience.

I remember stupid name-calling, and I remember stupid friends. I remember each and every time I felt a bad thing at home. I know it was unknown to everyone else, especially at home. It still isn't known.

And To This Day I tell myself it was nothing and that I should feel nothing to run away because it's nothing and I should feel nothing and I genuinely believe this is true.

What I heard at school was nothing. I genuinely don't remember what it is.
What I was told at home should be nothing. I genuinely know I can change what's being said.

Yet I feel hurt.
I hurt.

Yet I know it's not so bad anymore. Not when I don't let it get to me--whatever "it" is, really. I know I'm hurt, but it's not that bad. I have a smug look, I have a smug smile, I look at myself and I don't just say, but I know that "Damn, I'm gorgeous!" I love myself. I can think that and mean it.

And that's more than can be said by others.

I went to shower afterwards, and I thought to myself of that cast wrapped around our hearts and the words written. And I knew they were wrong. I smiled. And I thought to myself "If my friends and I were all single, I'd be first to get a girlfriend--I'm perfect! In all my imperfections."

And then I cried. I curled myself up and I cried into that black hole I had newly resurfaced in my chest. And I told myself  "Don't cry, don't cry don't cry  . . . " And that the sun was ever tailor-made for me by a man or woman was just such an unattainable dream then. And that if someone was ever like the sun for me, then I knew I'd make them hurt. I thought "Johnny Cash", and the comprehension resurfaced. And now I feel better.

I genuinely do.


When I first saw the video, it was an emotion so strong I tried to suppress it. But I knew I could relate (even if I don't have the right to be such a baby). I re-watched it, open, to try and absorb it in--grasp at the idea of the video. And I felt myself gasping for breath. Until the tears rolled down my eyes.

And I smiled. And it was the most beautiful smile I've ever smiled, and I wished someone had a camera, and I said "I'm so alone."
I felt like Snow White.

And for just a second, I could see someone to sweet inside me. Someone I forgot I had. It felt like velvet. Like warmth.

And I felt light.

And I wondered, has there ever been a person on this green earth that hadn't been bullied? Some, glorious individual with all the great things in life? Someone that wasn't self-conscious about their makeup after being called pretty so many times and receiving no compliments when they had none on? Someone who hasn't had a lecture dumbed down because they were a jock and thus expected to be stupid. Some beautiful creature not called a bitch or a slut when being a prominent member of the cheer squad?

And what're we doing with these kinds of videos? Is it a vicious lineage on a food chain because everyone is called names and thus calls names to others until the poor suckers at the bottom have no one else to pick on? Are we catering to those persons? Will they ever forget what it was they went through and raise healthy strong children who in turn bully others?

What are we trying to do?

Who is it we are trying to teach?

We as a nation, and as a species, need a re-education on these type of things, because no one who has ever been hurt by this calls it "bullying", because bullying is such a small word. It's the idea of a stereotypical fat big guy in a black shirt and a mean scowl spitting on your face in a movie that ends okay. And even if we root for the underdog, and that's the point of the movie--to give hope to the real-life survivors--it still undermines everything that word implies and everything those implication do in reality. The scars never really do go away, and the mold and the grime and the hurt never really does fade forever. And the triggers are always there and the memories are always burned into the back of your eyelids, but you do learn to just turn away. Or so I've learned.

I don't think it's working too well.

I want to live here one day. Breath free.

But I know they were wrong.
I know they were wrong.
I know they were wrong about me,
And I know that I am going to do so much better than they could ever have hoped for. And if they ever become my boss, I am not just going to suck it up and hope they do not remember me. I won't sit there and look away and pretend not to care. I won't let it start up again.
But I know I won't have to. Because I remember them way more than they remember me. They don't remember me at all.

If fact, I'm willing to bet he'd find me pretty.

Reeducate the Cynical

I need to reeducate myself:

As of late, I’ve fallen into a dangerous and dastardly cynicism, and I’m not enjoying it. It’s coming at a high price—the ability to compromise, comprehend, and co-create (it took me a total of 30 seconds to come up with three C’s).

A number of factors have come up to suddenly bring this wave onto me:
My Government class comes to mind.

AP U.S. Government was a real eye-opener for me from the beginning. I won’t pretend I was a special breed, thus amplifying the above statement: I am your average nerd in an AP Gov’t class—interested in politics before joining, plans to be politically active, didn't really understand wtf the news was trying to say.

I’m proud to say I understood the President during his live Internet Chat on youtube (and greatly enjoyed his Roosevelt reference, even if I don’t hold too high of an opinion on FDR).

Normally, this would be viewed at as a brilliant thing! “Look, these children understand our politics!”

Education is the greatest equalizer of man, and that makes me lethal.

I want to say that one day and genuinely mean it.

We gotta start aimin' for THIS, dudes.

Yet the downside is, like reality, not simple: I grew a set of core beliefs. Most people wouldn’t see this as a bad thing, I don’t think, but I feel the need to elaborate. When we grow this core belief, we tend to reject anything and everything opposing those beliefs, even if they make sense or could benefit the whole of the nation/community. We see this all the time: our Congressional leaders pulling the breaks on the nation’s business, the far-out margins spouting their beliefs on their metaphorical soapboxes. You may see it as backwards, yet they (hopefully, depending on your viewpoint) see the rest of the world as wrong. And that isn’t healthy. For anyone. We need more pragmatists in the world, I think. People willing to look at the situation at hand and act for the good of the nation instead of those looking out the lends of their beliefs first and then applying themselves to the situation at hand—we need policy for ideals, and not ideals for policy (gotta love sound bites).

At the same time an admired man once said “If you stand for nothing, you’ll fall for anything!” So how much of this is actually harmful? How much is too much? Will we ever know? What struggles are worth fighting for?! When are we pushing it too far!? When do our leaders, and ourselves, overextend their cores or their beliefs (parties) and endanger the nation and the world?

If you find the answer to these questions easy to come by, I envy you. I wish I had that shiny box-world, where all the solutions were wrapped up with a nice bow. Simple patters, straight lines, and easy access to follow. Unfortunately, I live in an odd place.

Arhgfbkvbfsifskbfcshfbkjdsbcdshzj
confusion!!

Currently, I’d have to try and find the balance. . . .and that struggle will remain with me forever as a struggle to keep improving myself. Or keep myself at a functional level. Yeah, I think the latter’s the most accurate. My thoughts are in a constant state between too little and too much. Those moments I feel perfection is more just a chemical reaction existing in an isolated environment, which puts me on the same boat as just about everybody else on the planet.

Sure, some argue that a healthy dose of cynicism’s good for the soul, which may be true, but I don’t want to be too closed off from the rest of the options of the world as to live in a bias. I guess I want to forever live in the state of a tabula raza.

A young, impressionable, clean youth, pure and unspoiled by the biases of the world; is that a good thing to aspire to? I don’t know.

You cannot stay completely clear of opinion if you want to dive into a subject. It’s not possible. Even the most silenced of wallflowers has an opinion to express inside. Yet I don’t want to be clouded from acceptance of others! I don’t want to limit any progress that could be made through that limitation! I also don’t want to give up.

Stephen Colbert was once quoted as saying “Cynics always say no. But saying ‘yes’ begins things.”

We once spent an entire week in AP lang trying to decipher within ourselves (or debate) which was best.

“Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt or disappoint us.”

To change the validity of this statement, one would have to change the definition of cynicism, and maybe make a reference to an important figure to back it up. Einstein is good.

The financial state of the nation spiraling Collage students into debt and killing me kindly with the promise of a better future I’ll probably not get, because the nation’s in a state of disarray and I won’t be able to work at DreamWorks or Pixar or Disney and I’ll be stuck with a useless degree . . . . .

Oh look, problems!

“They only tell you want you want to hear” My Gov’t teacher says “You’re all wonderful and it’s never your fault. Those mean Republicans/Democrats don’t care about America or Grandma! We’ll take care of it!” While he mimes kicking the metaphor of an imaginary can. “By the way, we’re 16 trillion in the hole! On a rocket ship to 20!”

“You’re giving us nightmares, you know.” I had to blurt out like an idiot.

He looked shocked. “I never meant to. I simply wanted to expose you to realities of our system.”

And here I am yelling at newspaper article titles.

Stephen Colbert, Ironically enough one of the most influential figures in my life and a person responsible for my core belief . . . .for lack of a better word, problem, once had these words to say on cynicism: “Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics.”

I don’t want to not believe in anything! I want to be entranced by the beauty of the world. I want magic to occur! I want solutions. I want an ending to this chapter even if it has to be dragged out of the world while it kicks and screams because the grown ass people know when it’s time to stop being selfish! Yet something keeps me from shouting and leaves me largely empty and drowned, like the weight of this world I have in my head snuffs out the fires.

 “Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it.”

Well it looks like I’m far from my goal.

 “Because cynics don’t learn anything.”

I’m trying. That’s the point of this blog. Dearest no one, I use you for therapy.

“Cynics always say no. But saying “yes” begins things. Saying “yes” is how things grow. Saying “yes” leads to knowledge. “Yes” is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say “yes'.”

“’yes’ is for young people.”

I want to stay young.

Forever young again.

But I’m only 17.

“So for as long as you have the strength to, say ‘yes’.”

Right now, I’m going through a weird mix between “Nothing’s that great” (quoted from Julia Nunes) to “I’m not a hero!!” (A little thing my friends do: ‘Dude, I’d totally ROCK as an Avenger!!’ ‘No wai, man!’. . . .), to “The name on everybody’s lips is gonna be (mine).” to me laughing at how silly I sound. And repeat.

Can’t I get over this and be some silly kid again all of the time?

yosshyoshyoshyoshyoshhhh

Adulthood’s five months away? I gotta get used to this shit? . . . . Okay (I guess. Military can consider you to be a dependent to 26. . . . . But I don’t want to be dependent and I hate not trying. Damnit).

Erphh. . . . How about I stop thinking so much and get back to something easy, like my book report or finding the cure for cancer?

The nation’s problems will come the day I am good and ready to enter into office, and that’s another 18 or so years from now!!

I'd get the last quoted sentence as a tattoo if it wouldn't sound terrible out of context.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

(("WHY DON'T YOU PAY FOR THE STOCK PHOTOS?!"
I'm too broke to pay for free photos, okay!! DD:))

A continuation.

With the sudden influx of death in my life, true to my generation’s nickname, I can’t help but reflect on myself. As an individual.

How selfish.

Does it matter much [if I’m selfish right now]? I don’t know. I like to think it does.

My view on the topic at hand is not a common one in my family. In fact, it might just be mine alone—I don’t mourn the deaths of others. In fact I’m happy their sufferings are over, if they were suffering to begin with. I’m happy they lived their lives, and they had their happy moments and sad moments. So long as their lives were, for the most part, pleasant, I’m happy they’ve lived at all. And I’m happy they’re now resting. Or in a heaven. Or reborn. Or simply gone. Whatever suits their taste while alive.

I don’t know how my family would take that.

I pity the living instead. That’s the real reason why I cry in funerals.

How strange, maybe.

Mulling over these beliefs brought back memories: memories of childhood—a bookworm, refusing to put down novels twice her size, itching to get out of the kiddie’s section in the library. A loaner, whom spent time talking to imaginary, opposing sides of herself. An outgoing kid who loved to show off victories—something as small as being a “super student”—like trophies on a shelf. A kid that hated being told what to do if it wasn’t a teacher instructing her. A kid that liked work, most odd of all, I think.

I remember a teacher once asked what we had to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. While most kids said they were thankful for their toys, their rooms, their parents playing with them, I remember thinking those were stupid things to be thankful for. I raised my hand and proudly said I was thankful my parents worked for me. I was interrupted by a kid I don’t remember (lies. I still know his name) shouting “You’re mean! That’s like your parents being slaves!” I never got a chance to mention I was thankful I was fed and clothed before receiving toys (which I did receive whenever my parents could afford them, mind you).

Was that a strange thing to say? I’m not sure. I wonder what that says about me.

I don’t think I was that off. I still liked childish things, and I still love them now! I was never allowed to like Belle from Beauty and the Beast because my older sister claimed her as her favorite. Being the darkest of the three sisters, I was always stuck being Jasmine, whom I couldn’t relate to. I tried instead to be like Cinderella: she was a hard worker, and I liked that toil more than I liked her ending with Prince Charming (his name is Henry, by the way).

I remember I tried to learn to wash clothes or scrub the floors on my hands and feet, or dust the house. Mother never let me.

I also remember trying to lighten my skin with flour, and contemplating if the material would sink into my skin if I dipped my hands in egg first.

Esmeralda’s my favorite now.

Mother once said I was so sure I was a princess as a kid, I would tell her about running off to England to meet my relatives and be friends with Anastasia (bonus points if you can tell me what my favorite childhood movie was*). I remember that. I remember thinking I was a lot of things, because a gap existed on both ends of my family, grandfathers on both ends. I’d spend ages trying to imagine myself as a wizard or princess or superhero because of those gaps. I look onto those memories fondly.

God I love stories.

Mother found it strange I preferred my imagination to people most of the time. She insists to my older sister her baby boy is perfectly fine, since he’s largely the same as me. “Every child is different—you three are as different as could be. He’s just fine.”

Love you, mama.

Daddy always tried to soften the blow, though. I wasn’t your average kid, and my family has the bad habit of saying “not normal” over “not average”. He’d always tell me that wasn’t the case with me, “You’re different”.

Normal is just a state of mind, and “different” doesn’t mean bad.

Thank you daddy. I wouldn’t have come up with that without your chats.

In fact, there are times where the strange things are truly the most beautiful.

                Yet I feel that in certain situations, like a death in the family, whether it be good or bad is irrelevant.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

*it was Jurrasic Park.

Empathy Dependency

After a load of (positive) peer pressure from my favorite dick of a best friend last year for not having watched the movies, I had finally given in and decided to read the Lord of the Rings novel—and I meant read. It’s my moral belief to always read a book before watching a movie! The school librarian, earning a spot in the awesome people of the world list, instantly dropped everything to help introduce me to Middle Earth: He flat-out rejected me the Fellowship until I had read the prequel book what started it all—the Hobbit. This book, along with its sequel, instantly became a favorite of mine!

In fact, I went out to purchase a copy of the Lord of the Rings book* as soon as I had money in my hands! I got a copy of the Hobbit on my Kindle and set out to learn all I could on the rich history of Middle Earth, gobbling up information over the Undying lands, the Istar, the different races of Elvenkind, and the men of Gondor, and Middle Earth herself.

You can imagine my sweet elation at finding out Bilbo and the Dwarves would be brought to the big screen by director, Peter Jackson.

Instantly, I began gorging myself on all the articles I could find, sharing them on Facebook, spamming my friends with the movie, and absorbing every released image. I ate away at the differences between the book and movie, along with its similarities.

One moment among these stood out to me the most, however. As per usual, I was very much late to the news of two fandoms of mine crossing, and began hyperventilating and squealing uncontrollably at my discovery of Bilbo Baggins being portrayed by Martin Freeman, better known to the Sherlocked at Dr. John Watson.

I was jumping for joy and scaring the neighbors when everything in my world came to a screeching halt: Tumblr was down.

By the Valar I was devastated! That beautiful site was my outlet! There are no LoTR fans in my family, and I only had two friends whom really liked the books and movies! I needed these strangers there for me, to understand and share in all my feels! I needed those hilarious images crossing the fandoms to feel complete—to relieve my happiness. Then it hit me:

We’re all really damn spoiled.

As a society we’ve all gotten so spoiled by this miracle technology, we expect people to care about things we care about, even if they’re complete strangers—we assume as fact this will happen. Caring! I was so amazed that this word could be reduced to something so trivial yet blown up to something so vast by the internet: the feeling and exhibition of concern and compassion for others looked for in people behind the clacking of a keyboard.

I remember when my elder sisters felt special and privileged when one had to give up the phone for the other to use the internet (why the hell were they on the internet anyway? What did people do on here then?!). Hell, I still remember sucking up the courage to sit through and weather the storm of the dial up modem and the happiness that ensued after the (seemingly) warm voice saying “Welcome!”

I began to wonder if, as a generation, we were too indulged by this sense of self-worth. Do we really love ourselves too much as to expect empathy? Or was this a coping of sort of mechanism to make ourselves feel closer to others? Have we really become so anti-social strangers are more welcomed than people we know? And how much do we really know about either side? The argument could be made that we’re more open to strangers, but when did the classic “stranger danger” safety tip become null and void for the sake of our self-expressions? And how much of that is really us?

I remember being genuinely scared of sights like Facebook and Twitter since people could follow you on them. I found it disturbing a site would name the connection of two separate pages “following”. The term “stalking” on the internet has become something of a joke; a quick laugh, to downplay you’re admiring of another individual. This is what we’ve come to. We expose ourselves to the world in a matter that would probably make Narcissus blush, yet we can’t help but do so.

And in a sense, who could blame us? The internet was initially created as a way to share information to massive number of people at once. With a slight tweak of the definition of information, you have the very basis of our social media structure.

But what of our attachment to this?

I don't think I would ever leave. I don’t think ever could.

I can slowly but surely feel myself losing my sanity, but I'd never leave this place. It's a society within a society, thus explaining the success of the anime Sword Art Online. In this world, we are who we wish we were, not who we really are . . . . . which is also concerning. I don't think I'm much different here and, well, here, but I enjoy the company of strangers, be they lovely lies or beautiful people. I don’t know what that says about me.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

Testing patience

                 My elder sister was rightly trying my patience today: "How're you going to pay for your dorm and your things if you don't have money? Did you even turn in that application?"

                Truth be told, I didn't. I haven't done a lot of things, and I'm ashamed of that.

                "Take care of your nephew. Improvise!" She was taking care of her bills with the IRS, scratching things off of her daily planner.

I got off of facebook and took the kid outside, who proceeded to ride his bike.

                 I felt disgusted that I haven't given a shit about collage or my future at all! I was so passionate about my future and the great things I’d do—all the wonderful things I’d create.
                The tuition for the Academy of Arts, a for-profit school, was raised by 25 dollars a while back. The cost for this for-profit is staggering, but less expensive than schools like CalArts or California Collage of the Arts, and isn’t being sued like the Art Institute chain is. Not to mention it’s been nationally accredited since the 80’s. Though the school accepts everyone that applies and has no portfolio requirements, I felt so welcomed on my visit to San Francisco. And the animation building itself felt like home! I instantly went looking for work and scholarships and could not find the will to make myself continue. Why was that?

                Why is it that I can never finish anything I start?

                Lauren Faust didn't graduate from CalArts and she's made some of the most incredible cartoons do date! MLP, the Super Best friends forever shorts (I am in love with, btw), she worked on Foster's and Cats don't dance! It's all I've ever wanted in life, but with Disney.

                 Sure, she didn't have a degree, but she's skilled enough to have gotten into CalArts in the first place!

I felt like such a sloth, but why was it that I cared so little about my collage education and life goals so suddenly?

                Soon, I heard another small voice shouting at me "I got a sticker school today, tia!"

                "Oh really?!"

                "Yeah!" He laughed.

                Both of my nephews rode their identical bikes in circles, round and around and around.

         I felt like Houlden Caufield.
With love,

Nikola Strange.