"Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humor, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficent to make his wife understand his character" (Austen 4).
The french painter Paul Gauguin is the source for this saying. Rumor has it that admirers loved his painting but had problems pronouncing his name. So they shortened their admiration to saying that they were just ‘Ga Ga.’ Others claim that’s just nonsense. And the word comes from French orgin for “fool” and so the words represents the sound a mindless person makes
alternate: The word ‘gaga’ originates from the French word ‘gateux’ (with a circumflec accent on the ‘a’) ‘Se gater’ which means to spoil or got rotten. So ‘gateux’ or ‘gaga’ could translate as ‘soft in the head’ as in senile. “
In the old days the pumping action of the heart was considered to be the beat of a person’s personality. Doctors knew little else about your circulatory system back then. So figurative words were attached to the heart regarding people’s personalities, like hard-hearted, soft-hearted, heavy-hearted, light-hearted and cold-hearted. Since love makes us all giddy, often our hearts beat faster. So the term ‘sweet heart’ meant a fast beating heart. The term slowly grew into the term ‘sweetheart’ and is today referred to as someone who makes your heart throb.”
"Do you wanna go running with me later, Drea?" Anna said as we made our way home from a breeze-filled day in Camarillo. Trying to escape the heat of the unforgiving valley.
"Sure, let’s go later though. It’s too hot to run right now." Hours passed by, as we watched the television show Friends in our air conditioned room. We bickered and fought, and I was about ready to cut her throat out with my sewing scissors. The sun had finally set, and it was a bearable temperature outside.
I put my baggy CSUN shirt on, and my black running shorts that hit the top of my knee caps. I tie my faded blue running shoes, and head out the door. We stretch on the our green, moist lawn making sure our muscles are loose and limber. As we make our way to the school near our house, I see families enjoying the cool summer nights, riding bikes and playing tag. We start our light jog. My sister, who runs cross country, easily beats my stride by a couple minutes, and she is soon out of sight. I lose myself in my breathing, running one step after another. Telling myself to keep going, keep breathing, and the song Eye of the Tiger starts playing in my head. After the fourth lap, I start wondering why I have not run into Anna. I start looking at the houses, each one getting scarier, and darker as a pass them by. They turned from peaceful family oriented homes to, hellish evil houses. I calculate in my head, If I stay here for 5 minutes, I should run into her. I look at the school fence waiting to see that tall, slim figure pass the landmarks I had planted in my head. Nothing. Seconds feel like hours, waiting for her to pop out of a bush to scare me so this nightmare can turn into a dream never to be revisited.
Fear started to well up in me like a volcano, and I started to walk the opposite directions. I should have thought of doing this before. I have to run into her this way. I than see my uncle in his champagne colored Camry.
"Andrea, are you okay there?" He said in a concerned voice
"Yes, I’m fine"
"It’s dark over there, are you here with anyone?"
"Yeah, Anna is running"
"Where is she?"
"I’m about to get her and we’re gunna go home" I said in my most relaxed voice possible.
"Okay, do you have a cell phone" I didn’t.
"Yes I do, thanks, bye"
My leisurely walk turns into a brisk jog which turns into a panicked sprint. I see her no where. Nothing. What do I do? What if she’s hurt? How can I live with myself, knowing shes gone? What if some molester took her? There are sick people out there, why should I be so quick to assume I’m immune. It’s all my fault! How am I going to tell me family. I’m supposed to be her big sister. I knew we shouldn’t have gone out. I should have gotten into my uncles car and started to look for her. I’m wasting time. Oh GOD, OH GOD. Tears brimming the edges of my eyes, I see a bicyclalist. Okay, I’ll ask them if they’ve seen a young girl running around the school. As they come closer I start to recognize the silhouette. That familiar beach cruiser is one I’ve seen before. It’s her. My stride slows and the bike approaches.
"I’ve been looking for you everywhere" Anna said, with the same amount of panic I recognized in my thoughts. "I went home and they said you weren’t there, so I came back with the bike to look for you" She said with relief, one that I felt simultaneously. Jeez, she was looking for me. As I slowly rode the bike back, allowing my body to return to homeostasis. I realize, alone or together, sisters will always be able to find a way home.
I hate it when I find myself cupcaking about someone. If you do not know what cupcaking is, allow me to explain.
Cupcaking is the act or phase in which someone is in a deep infatuation with another individual. This often times lead to a massive amount of flirtation between the two individuals.
And so, I feel like at times it is somewhat hazardous to be put into this position, the state of “cupcaking.” I mean, what happens if things do not follow through? Instead, you are left with nothing except for the dream of being with that person.
Post Script If you catch me cupcaking me, kick me in the face for a reality check.
Cupcaking is the exact term I have been looking for to describe my current situation. It’s completely dangerous and time consuming, and ultimately never worth it. I won’t allow myself to get caught into this addictive and influential behavior. Thank you for this term.
Shredding is quite possibly one of my favorite tasks to do at work. There is something so secretive an almost undescribable thrill of not knowing if what you’re getting rid of is important or not. Yet it’s cleansing and freeing. The noise of the machine alive, ready to eat anything. The heat reaching my cheeks. The papers falling into a dark abyss. Paper after paper, I lose count, lose myself in the slicing of papers. Unattainable only after a quick glace. The room goes silent, and they’re gone forever.
You are perhaps one of my biggest pet peeves. Upon entering Filipino households, I find it very unsatisfying for you to be the first thing that I smell. Even for those few seconds, the interior of my nostrils feel as if they are on fire. Why, if I may ask, is such a foul smell produced from food that tastes so delicious? I highly doubt that I will ever obtain this answer. Also, it disgusts me how you slowly creep up and latch on to my clothes, thus leaving your odor on me for the rest of the day. Not only do you degrade the quality of my clothes, but you put me in a self conscious state of mind. I would not want people to associate your smell with me.
Post Script For those of you who are not Filipino, Pang-Bahay smell pertains to the odor emitted from cooked Filipino food. Often times, this smell lingers around the house for as little as a couple of minutes to many years.
The worst is when your hair smells like it, holding the smell like a mop, and exuding is meaty odor for the world to smell
From freshman retreat to college orientations to internship summits, I hate meet-and-greets. I don’t even know if that’s the right word for them. I prefer to call them awkward first encounters with people you’ll probably never see again, but are forced to “bond” with for a day because you’re affiliated with the same group.
This is how the standard conversation goes at one of these functions:
Stranger: Hi, what’s your name?
Me: Keena. (But really, I’m thinking, it’s on my nametag, duh.)
Stranger: Hi, I’m (insert name I won’t remember).
Me: Nice to meet you. Where do you go to school?
The rest of the conversation is unimportant, because the odds are, I’ve forgotten it by the time you walk away from me, embarrassed that we have nothing else to talk about.
And why, WHY, do they always plan the most awkward icebreaker activities? For example, is it really necessary to make the day more painful by forcing all of us to get in touch with our creative side and form the letters of our name with our bodies? I’m awkward enough without having to attempt to dance, thank you very much.
Or that whole cross-the-line business. Cross the line if you, or someone you know, is gay, transgendered, or questioning. So, I cross the line. And now everyone thinks I’m a transvestite. Greeeaaaat.
In essence, meet-and-greets don’t help me at all. Except they do help me realize how much I hate them. I guess that’s a positive…
Hi, I’m Andrea. I hate ice-breakers, too. They are comparable to chewing foil. Painful and pointless.
Have you ever been cheering up a friend and said, “You’re such a catch. Someone is going to be so lucky to end up with you”? I know I’ve been guilty of saying these reassuring words, but have you ever heard the words you are actually saying? You’re calling your friend a catch, which infers that they are being thrown or on the move so to speak, yet one can’t be caught if they aren’t moving. People need to make an effort if they ever want anything done. I’m the kind of person to do something if I want something. If I’m thirsty, I get my ass of out the chair I’m sitting in, and get it my damn self. I don’t whine and ask someone else to get it for me. I’ll wait to a certain extent, but if nothing happens, if i put an effort and get nothing in return, I’m out. I won’t be wasting time.
is a lot like relationships. It shaky, exciting, and scary at first, but you soon get into the swing of things. Unsure of where to put what, what to do first. But sooner or later, instinct replaces thought. You ride, and you’re free, and for once, only one image is focused, and everything else around you is a blur. Some people even have those three person bicycles. They can be complicated, and they can get messy, but that’s there own business. They also have the ones where the kids can be attached. Some times you’re so afraid to fall, it even scares you enough not to bike at all. And if you do fall, sometimes you’re too afraid to get back on. Yet, I’ve realized, before you can bike with anyone else, before you can get on those two person bikes, before you do anything, you’ve got to find your balance. With out that, you’re going no where.
“Every time I go to Disneyland, I wonder if it’s worth it. The aching of the feet, the standing in line, the annoying tourist. But at the end of the day, I realize that Disneyland revitalizes my spirits and that my friend is priceless.”—A woman in line for Splash Mountain.
Do you have Poison? If you are not familiar with the term, allow me to explain. A Poison is someone, either a former lover or close admirer, who has the capability of basically letting your guard down in terms of love. They are that type of person who can always creep back into your life when you least expect it or when you are most vulnerable. This person can either frustrate or put yourself at ease. As a whole, they are “poisonous” to your health. I’m sorry if I butchered the definition Jared.
And so, I have Poison. My Poison is someone very close to me. This is probably why I would never want a relationship to occur between us. It’s hard for me to balance friendship and companionship. Although I have long ago suppressed and put behind those feelings of compassion, they still manage to rekindle them. To be honest, I dont know what it is. They have this ability to make me revert back to my former self. To the person who still sees them as this possibility. This person who can potentially be a lover. Yet, I doubt things would ever work between us. I am at a loss of what is to become of us. Am I suppose to live my life or move on?
Post Script Things never change.
"Can’t live with or without you, and you give yourself away"-u2
I can’t give myself away. There is something in me, this internal wall, that I imagine is made of out Lego’s, that stops me from ever giving myself away. Ironically, at the same time, there’s this part of my that what wants to give my whole self away, just to feel something. Something greater than I’ve yet to know. I want to feel what it feels like to not be able to live with or without someone again. I want to crumble when my heart is too full. I want to hear a sad song and thing about someone, not just hear the catchy hook, or the shaky vibrato. I want to take hours to get ready and have my heart almost jump out of my skin with excitement. I want someone to analyze. I want someone to go with me on my whimsical adventures. Not one to ask why, just to do. Someone to jump with me, without looking. Not someone to just look at, but someone who looks at the world with me. Someone to give themselves to me and to give myself away to.
I think all in all. I’m actually asking for a poison, because feeling something is better than feeling nothing.
My friend brought these to Loyola High School to enlighten, educate, eradicate the problems that face this prestigious school
My letter (I brought 20 copies to school and gave them all out) Today at 4:26pm
The smallest most insignificant act that passes your day may go unnoticed. Watching a old man walking home from work, a young man getting bullied in the corridors of our most profound school. Yet, did you ever stop to think, in these moments, someone’s whole world can change. A small exchanging of words, and inconspicuous head nod, a rumor traveling distances that goes in one ear and out the other, something that never shows up on your mind again could have has the impact of a life time. This very thing happened to me, an ordinary day, a day I expected nothing to happen, a couple of faceless beings, inadvertently ruining my high school experience.
It all started back in the summer of 6th grade. My sexual interests were growing rapidly as I was progressing through puberty. I, like many young boys, took a strong interest in watching pornography. I would watch it at a friend’s house when his parents would go to sleep. In one scene a woman performed oral sex on a man. It left me asking, “What does that feel like?” I actually asked that question out loud. The boy in the bed across from me said, “Well I can show you.” At first I was scared and thought it was wrong but eventually my sexual curiosity got the best of me. How could something that happened at the age of 11 still come back to haunt me as a Freshman in high school let alone a Senior, days from graduation?
Somewhere along the way to my 8th grade graduation I decided to be the only student to apply and eventually go to Loyola High School from St. Cyril of Jerusalem School in the San Fernando Valley. The story from one night in the 6th grade summer had gotten out. I did not expect the story to travel out of the San Fernando Valley all the way to 1901 Venice Blvd. I was wrong. During my Freshman year I struggled to find my place at Loyola. I went from spot to spot trying to find a place to really feel comfortable sitting at breaks.
On one random day I noticed a lot of commotion at break. Students were running across the campus and for some reason stopping near me. There was a group of about 40 students who gathered into a group about 35 yards away from me. They were loud and obnoxious. I had no clue what was causing so much commotion. The bell rang and I went to class like nothing was going on. Five minutes into the class following break, I was handed a note asking, “Is it true?” This question puzzled me and I had no idea what he was talking about. Eventually he got to the point and I realized that the 6th grade summer night had followed me to Loyola. I was just hoping it wasn’t everywhere.
The same day, I went out onto the yard for lunch. I could tell from the rowdiness of the whole campus that people were hearing about it. I found a spot to sit and was eating my lunch when I hear a senior talking to a freshman and he says, “Who the fuck is John Platt?” From the tone of his voice I could hear the hostility. It sounded like he wanted to crush my face in for something that happened in the 6th grade. That was when I truly could see the homophobia that is at Loyola. After I stood up, a group of 6 seniors encircled me. While I was in the middle of this circle I was being screamed at how I was just a “Fucking faggot who didn’t deserve to be at Loyola”. Certain faculty members who were in the position to stop this stood by and watched me be screamed and yelled at. According to the rules, the faculty needed to contact my mom about the bullying incident. When she asked what was done to stop it, the response was that I handled it in a very mature way and that the faculty was proud of my actions. You were proud of me? I went to the next class with my head down and hid my head in my arms and cried for nearly the entire class period.
About halfway through the class, I got a text message from Damon Landry asking if I was alright. My response was, “Honestly, today is one of the worst days of my life.” The bell rang and the worst school day of my life was over. As I walked out of my classroom, Damon Landry was waiting there. He put his arm around me and walked me out nearly to the car reassuring me and telling me that he was there for me if I ever needed anything. It still to this day amazes me. It didn’t even come from a faculty member, or someone I called a close friend. Just a fellow cub looking out for me, someone I hardly knew before that day, someone who I never hang out with outside of school. Damon was the only person who showed that he genuinely cared. I have the deepest respect for you Damon and I feel like I owe you the world because I don’t know if I could have survived that day without your help and friendship. Why was it that the only person who truly embodied the grad at grad to me was a freshman? Why didn’t Loyola’s faculty intervene while I was being harassed? This small little day of bullying might not occur to all of you as something important but it changed who I am. I am proud of the man I am today. I am dating a girl who I have fallen hard for. Why does this day of bullying still hurt me so much? Why can’t I write this letter without breaking into tears of how Loyola tried to sweep my problem under the rug? Homophobia needs to stop. Please step back and think about it the next time you call something “gay” when you mean to say stupid. Please step back and think about it the next time you call someone a “queer” or “faggot” when you are just joking around. The pain you can cause someone is immense beyond no level. Gay or straight, we are all human beings.
Chris, thank you so much for guiding me into writing this. It truly is amazing to finally get it all out.
You know how people always say that the Mona Lisa is this fantastic work of art? Shaved eyebrows, uneven background, etc. etc. et al. Art critics muse about about that smile, full of secrecy, full of unanswerable questions. She’s a mystery.
I hate bloggers. No one cares about their mundane lives. The people they meet, the ideas they have, the opinions they spurt. Time will continue on, and their comments will continue to have as little weight as when they came up with them on the fly. In thousands of years, when our society has toppled and some scholar is excavating the 21st century, believe me, no one will take note of their writing. Bloggers are the proverbial simpletons of this new era of technology.
So why am I a blogger? Boredom? Curiosity? Narcissism? Masochism?
Naaah, I’m just mysterious, like the Mona Lisa. Except less romantic and with better eyebrows.
I want to uncover your mysteries, and I love your eyebrows, almost as much as I love mine.
Me:I dunno, I have a theory about love. There is true love and an opposite false love. They have false love, and it's extremely easy to see. She doesn't really love him and he really doesn't love her. They're both using each other and you know it.
Keena:Well my theory... They look alike, so she's with him because she's narcissistic and likes to look at herself.