RIP climber

you could shave my head, rip off one of my limbs. i don't care, i just want my cat back.

I love SoCal, And you know I love Springsteen

  Not really. That's an excerpt from Taylor Swift's new album, Lover. (Streaming now!!). I just thought it was cool how she referenced the two places I'm from.

  It reminds me, I've been out of CA for, what, 13 years now? How much time can pass before I can say "I'm from California," and have that be a relevant statement? I guess that doesn't matter. It will technically always be true; it's said that you can't change your birthplace or connection to it.

  Well, my family and I just celebrated my 21st birthday yesterday. It's on September 4th, but we're doing it early since I'll be moved into my new dorm by then. I've got most of my stuff packed up already. It's kind of crazy. I don't think it's fully registered in my head just yet. We went to Asbury Park Boardwalk, where they were gearing up for a free Jonas Brothers concert that's happening today, Sunday, around 7:30. There were giant disco balls swaying in the breeze above their stage.

  I wore a flowy, yellow and white, plaid-table-cloth pattern dress.

(Thanks for being the ever-dutiful 12-year-old photographer, Fiona.)

  My mom wrote "Happy Birthday Agent 47" on my Carvel cake, and that was funny. It had cookie monster filling. Since the people at Cheesecake Factory already sang to me though, my family didn't sing to me at home. There's a part of me that wishes that they did. However, I'm grateful for everything so I can't complain.

  I'm (pretty much) 21-years-old now. I feel a little babied, and a little guilty for that, but I guess it's alright. Living at home in your early 20s is nothing to be ashamed of, especially in 2019. We all go at different paces. So what if I still have my permit? I had a JOB for like three years! I paid off a huge chunk of student loans from Marymount, too. It's been a stressful, fun at times, boring at other times learning experience, and...I'm okay!

  I'll finally be learning about animation. That's a new thing to look forward to.

So, I'm Twenty.

  It's 9:42 PM as I type this. Therefore, I'm nearly a week into 20, as of right now. The birthday itself felt uneventful, and was the least fulfilling one I've had yet. Maybe that's what adulthood is about: not caring. I don't like that prospect, but it's not ceasing to revert as far as I can tell. Unraveling like an egregiously long ancient scroll, off the table and across the room, the fact of the matter bounces at my feet and stops. I can't avoid it. A voice in my head intones that perhaps if you had made friends--real friends--you wouldn't feel so paper-thin. There's no point in throwing a pity party.

  I did this to myself.
 
  Admitting that helps in a sense. However, while I do know the cause, and I'm still not excusing myself, mind you--it was a little out of my hands--I get obsessive. All my school planners were filled with Adventure Time. Regular Show. Cartoons everywhere! When I'm caught on something, I'm really, really, caught. You'll have to forgive me for that and then talk to me in about 4 years when I've finally moved on from whatever's grabbed me. It's strange. I'm not normal and I know that.

  If I could go back 10 years, I would tell myself the following, "People will reach out, talk to you, and two word answers will not cut it." An autistic, bullied ten-year-old doesn't know this though. And even if they did, they probably wouldn't listen. Let's be honest.

  It's good to think positive but not in excess and that's what I'm trying to do now. I know my faults and my obstacles. The hurdles of an disabled 20-something are not equivalent to that of your average 20-something. So I'll have to work harder.

  So, I'm twenty.

Vivaldi Winter

The time has come.

You close your eyes, bracing your weapon against your chest and wielding a determination few mortals even dream. Your opponent steps out from icy gossamer, tromping on flowers, the mop on his head as pale as the ground. He brandishes a violin. It's small and gray. Nothing about him is subtle--he's the color of death. He’s comatose rabbits and dormant crops and white breath. He is Antonio Vivaldi, slayer of autumn and naysayer of spring.

Your guitar is electric but lacks a cord, or even a port for such a purpose. Feverish heat expels from its slick surface. It’s not one color, but two, extending from cherry to pineapple from base to head. It thrives off you. You ignore a smirk he’s wedged at you, and instead tread closer; you’re a threat, a proposition. The ground vibrates! Equinox will overcome.

It’s your turn, you will not succumb.

The Unthinkable

  Yes, my friends...I've done it. I have talked to someone on Facebook that I had severed ends with over five years ago. It was someone I've had history with--a, give or take--seven years with. I don't know if it's the meds making my heart thump, but it is thumping. (It's partially due to the meds, probably). So my heart's thumping and I'm a little wired. I think I'm nervous about this because it's gotten me thinking about why we even split up in the first place. However, it's a little funny.

  I can't even remember why we split up, it's been so long. We had one last spat, and quit hanging out for a while. One of my last encounters with them was awkward. Wet snow covered the sleeping gardens between our yards, while my orange sled remained tucked snugly between their shrubs. I'm pretty sure they called, or maybe their mother did, but point being, I had to go and retrieve it. We exchanged some small talk, and I remember saying something like, "Man, I wish it would snow more." Because the weather's always been something I lazily fall back to when there's a hapless lull, and it never really is redemptive, she simply mumbled in agreement, and we parted ways. What could anyone else do?

  Posting that comment to Facebook has pulled the water-logged corpse from the lake, and dropped it in front of us. She probably won't do anything, and I am not expecting anything in return. Maybe a simple "like" would be nice, but I mean, that is asking for something. Hah. More than likely, I'll be ignored and that's alright. It's better to be satisfied with putting a kind gesture out just for the hell of it. Grudges are just so heavy. You have to put them down at some point.

Disposable Cameras

  I fell into plastic crates again in search for old pictures today. And by old, I mean--it's a relative term--I'm talking 2000. Late 1990s. It's old for myself, because I was born in 1998. But anyway: the boxes. It's never good to look through those. This is not because the containers reek of dust and buried teratogens, but for the sole fact that it reminds me of what was.

  The boxes scare me.

  Her hair is sunflower blonde and pig-tailed. In another, she's wearing a Powerpuff Girls party hat in a park. The girl's cheeks are flushed with California heat. I'm small, and I grin toothily into the searing disposable flash. These memories are elusive. It's as if the flash is like a memory wipe, like those used in the movie Men In Black. This makes me think of what my idea of pop culture was back then, too.

  Cartoon Network, Nickelodeon, and Disney Channel were my world. One thing I can still recall to this day is trying to figure out how to use a VHS tape to record the Powerpuff Girls episode, "Paste Makes Waste." You know, the one where Buttercup bullies a kid for eating glue. Then, said child turns into a glowing paste monster. I did end up recording it, I think. And I could only find a dying pink gel pen to write with, so I used that to scratch the contents of what it was onto the black plastic of the VHS. That was really what I knew of TV at the time, and it was all I cared about.

  It currently boggles me that so much of what I love now is from an era that I was a baby in. I love The X-Files, Friends, Scrubs. So much of what made a lasting impression on television was happening when I was too dumb and too little to acknowledge it. But even so, I existed. That's a weird thing. I guess it's a stupid thing to bring up too, because of course I existed. What I mean is, it's like, I've envied the '90s so much for its trends, lack of social media, fashion, and TV...it's always seemed like this distant realm that I was never there for, and yet I was. But I don't remember it. This is what it all comes back to...the fact that memory fazes me like no other.

  Will I remember writing this blog post in twelve years? Probably not. Will I have new concerns? Hopefully, yes. Will nineteen year old me later seem innocent and untouched like seven-year-old does to me now? That, I cannot truthfully answer. Seven-year-old me was so happy. Now I'm all depressed and mopey and I do not like dogs. My only hope is that future me doesn't nosedive as I have in recent years.

  Ugh.

  I hope that you will be okay too.

Volcanic Rage Boiled In Her Throat...

  So I'm not actually enraged. I just sometimes have these lines that form out of no where in my head, and no story to pen them to. I've been trying to put some of them to use in fanfiction, at least. That way, they're out there. Somewhere. Not just for me to think over in my head, over and over...

  Also, did you know I'm still an Owl City fanatic? No, of course you didn't! Or you did. I don't know you, sorry. Anyway, Adam Young of Owl City finally answered the 600 million dollar question: 

  You would think he'd be tired of Fireflies and the jokes about it at this point. But he's not, and I'm glad. He's a sweet guy. And speaking of sweet things...I have a job! (Which I won't disclose here for obvious reasons). But it's cool to have my own money for once, and a bank account. I'm getting an X-Files comic book volume in the mail with my own money to celebrate, too. :)