If you are mean, you are meaningless

 Dear readers, 

I just finished the movie Mean Girls for god knows the number of times. Much to my surprise, I don't find Regina the meanest person on earth. I wouldn't have believed you if you had told me that a year ago. I would have brought you to court and dragged your bottom so far that you'd have a $400 fine waiting for you on the other side of jail for wasting the jury's time. Regina is becoming more and more associated with cancel culture and toxic feminism to me. 

In one of the scenes, the rumored drug-associated calculus teacher makes an extremely Oprah-Winfrey-dedicated point. She tells the girls to raise their hands if someone had talked bad about them. Obviously, they all raised their hand, and I am pretty sure I would have raised mine too. But, then, she asked if you'd ever spoken badly about somebody else. And I had never really thought about Karma in this sense before. Yes, I've said some pretty genuinely nasty stuff about people, and I feel bad for it for a few minutes. I then go back to living my life and crying about the pettiest inconveniences. Anyways, all the girls raised their hands. The calculus teacher calls this a 'girl-on-girl' crime. She also says that the reason guys have the audacity to call us whores and sluts is because we call each other those terms. I have never experienced a more orgasmic revelation in my life. Will never forget this, and neither should you. 

Remember to be kind to those who are unkind, because they probably need it the most. 

Wish me the heavenly impossible, 

diarygirl

Blog Bum

 Dear readers, 

I have not blogged in a while, which is super contradictory to my name, and I apologize for my absence (even though there are like two of you). There is nothing absolutely new and deserving of your presence that has occurred in my life lately, neither philosophical ideas that are too odd to be addressed as true nor silly interactions with the human race that causes me to bury my face in my pillow and wish that I was better at speaking. I have something, though, that might anger someone who has been writing for a long time. Writing is something that comes to me naturally, and reading is something I thoroughly enjoy. So, one might make a great hypothesis statement that looks somewhat like this: If someone is good at writing and loves to read, English class will be their forte and chance to show their superhuman abilities in those topics. I will prove your claim wrong because English class is not usually my forte. I lack the ability to cite correctly and often get points off. Why there has to be a period at the end of my citation and parenthesis will always be a mystery to me. No matter how many English buffs tell me all the whys and hows and whens, I will never be able to fully grasp the concept of citation and will forever condemn myself to an endless cycle of the high 90s because of my lack of the ability to cite intelligently and efficiently. Please help. 

With much love, 

diarygirl

 Dear readers, 

I haven't written a blog entry in a full month concerning lengthy school initiatives, but because I live in the United States, the amount of holidays we have is immeasurable. So, I have enough time to write at least two before the horrors start all over again. On the topic of horrors, I have recently indulged myself in the horror movie series, Insidious. To simply put the movie in the description, it was loud and scary. One of the concepts I found interesting was the ability to come out of your own body and become lost. Obviously, we have not truly experienced it, but we do experience it mentally. In fact, there are several mental disorders that include the distortion of reality.  But, it isn't true that we do not experience this feeling unless we are diagnosed with something particular. We often make things seem different than they really are and force ourselves to believe what we want. It is our way of coping. Do not be ashamed of doing so, because in the end, just like in Insidious, your reality is truly what you make it to be. 

With much love, 

diarygirl

Thriving or Barely Surviving

 Dear readers, 

Recently, I have been put up to the horrific test of camping. You might think I'm being dramatic; in that case, you'd be very correct. It is truly the most time-consuming and wish-I-was-doing-something-else hobby in the world. I don't judge, but I do worry for the millions of people who find this type of physical exertion "fun". The only ecstatic and euphoric thing that happened during that trip was probably the consumption of over a billion s'mores. (My stomach hated/s me)  Camping is much like the healing process of humankind. You are placed out into the unknown (okay, maybe the camping ground was pretty popular, but still!! Almost drowned in the fresh air and the Delaware River!!), and you are given limited supplies to live. You are robbed of a life you once imagined you'd always have because of something you did. You can't help but hate the environment around you because you refuse to hate yourself. And when you do, you start stuffing your face with gooey marshmallows and melted chocolate. (no joke, they were literally so good I could curse)  And then you hate yourself for doing that. The healing process is one big joke presented to a circus audience that is the public. My message to you today is: Eat as many marshmallows as you want, hate as much as you want, and even cry. Because you'll never get anywhere if you don't start healing now. The hardest thing to do is start. 

With much love, 

diarygirl

The Bare Minimum

 Dear readers, 

When starved or hungry, we eat whatever is on our plate, with no hesitation. And therefore, our opinions and commentary about the food will most definitely be biased. We'll say that the food is exemplary in taste and unforgettable in flavor. We'll remark boastingly about the color, simplicity, and maybe even the intricate design (if we're feeling British). In reality, the food on our plate could be microwaved carrots (yes, microwavable carrots are a thing) with a side of an expired ranch. Why? Because we were starved. Hungry. Robbed. Desperate. Our opinions and commentary about people can be explained in a similar matter. Let's say, unfortunately, you've been deserted by someone that makes you feel the most beautiful emotions beyond the power of love. They literally left you in the Sahara Desert with nothing but a bottle of water. You hate this person. You REALLY do. But these feelings can't be simplified because he's not yours. And he was never yours. So now-- you hate yourself more than you'd like to admit. After a couple of hours, you're dehydrated, starving, and exhausted. And then you see it-- you see the golden royalty on a golden chariot with golden horses and all the golden men a golden King or Queen could ask for. You see the person who left you a while ago. With nothing. You see them and your heart almost combusts. They say, "Hey." And the next thing you know, you're on their golden paradise riding away to god knows where. And that's all it took for you to become acquainted again with the person that left you to die. A simple, "Hey." Just like the mushed-up carrots, this person is unappealing and self-centered, but you still would risk anything and everything for someone who wouldn't do the same for you. My message for you today: Wake up and become who you wish that person could be.

With much love, 

diarygirl

I HATE (LOVE) YOU!!!

 Dear readers, 

Do you ever get a horrifyingly revolting aftertaste after talking with someone you tell yourself you hate? Presumably, when people hate someone they usually block them out. Scream things at them like, "I wish I never met you!", or, "I can't believe I ever loved you, you are such a numskull!" Some of us, when we say these things, don't actually mean these things. And I know this because I am some. We don't mean any of it. We say, we hurt, we tell, we yell, and then we sit down and replay and regret every moment. Flashbacking to our childhood, we give ourselves adulatory timeouts. I have found that these timeouts vary according to person. I used to speak with someone, who may have not wanted to speak with me (I guess we'll never know!), who ignored and said sorry more than the average joe. I understood nothing but the obvious assumption that he hated me and wished nothing more than my disappearance from his life. In return, I yelled, said what I didn't mean, and kept speaking to him. While he felt nothing of anything at all, and, in response, said sorry almost every millisecond we spoke. Not only was our failed attempt at making good, humane conversation worsened every time, we miscommunicated almost every millisecond that wasn't filled with the word sorry. So my message to you today is: To communicate thoroughly, do not hate individually, but instead find a way to hate companionly. 

With much love, 

diarygirl

Metamorphosis

 Dear readers,

I just finished "The Summer I Turned Pretty" series by Jenny Han and I couldn't help but feel incredibly impatient for my evolution into society's definition of "pretty". When is it my turn? When is it my turn to feel? That's a question for when I do. Turn pretty, I mean. I doubt that any of us has the ability to right away, without hesitation, improve into a breathtakingly beautiful person overnight or complete the full cycle of a butterfly in a minute or so. I mean, puberty is literally never in our favor. Majority of the people you meet like to tell you that you never need anything more than yourself to achieve what it is you want, but I think, in addition to that, you must have perks. You must have specialties. You can play the guitar, have glowing eyes and skin, be Kate Moss, etc. You have to have something part of you that makes you, you. But that something, specialty, perk, whatever it is, it doesn't have to be society's version of pretty. It can be society's version of weird but still make you an incredible amount of money. So, my message for you today is: Morph into weird if that's what makes you feel pretty and then fly away to Paris. 

With much love, 

diarygirl