Think lovely thoughts

This weekend was sublime.


Today was probably the most upsetting mix of crappy weather I have ever experienced. Is it raining? Is it windy? Is it sunny? Is it cold?


Whatever it was, I was not dressed for it. But it's fine.


I don't think I'll ever not be completely mesmerized by Peter Pan. And I mean this in the least Michael Jackson-y way possible. 


I drank a TON of water today, and for no good reason. I'm so hydrated.


You all really needed to know that.

Pinchez- Moi.

"...Since 1880, intelligent and talented students like you have used their Emerson College education to become leaders in their fields. We look foward to you becoming a part of this tradition of academic excellence, and we welcome you to a place where people believe in your dreams."

That just may be the most beautiful thing that I have ever read, ever in my life.


Emerson in the fall? Yeah, I love it!

Do you know?

I wonder if everyone's appeal is monitered by a meter, and you're only allowed to fool people into believing you're worthwhile for an allotted amount of time before it eventually runs out. Then it suddenly becomes glaringly obvious to everyone that you're not all you cracked up to be, so they set off in search of someone who just threw in a bunch of quarters.

Mine's out of order at the moment. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to redeem myself.

It'd be nice if I could fix this.

J'adore 2.0

It is absolutely unreal how badly I wish I were going to France tomorrow.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but I really loved that trip.

And I want to go back.

Instead I'll probably just stay in Amherst and take a test on plagues and thank my lucky stars that I don't have a debilitating bacterial infection.

I'm thinking I'd endure the pus if I knew when I'd be able to see the inside of Notre Dame again.

I would love to be able to rewind, and clearly see where the past ended and the present began, where this now blatantly obvious change began to take effect, when I started to fall back instead of skip foward, and exactly when I began to lose the things that I so desparately wanted to keep.

I'll always separate France from everything else. It has to be that way, because nobody else can possibly understand.

I should have thrown my passport in the Seine when I had the chance. I would have made an excellent street robot.

Must we?

I used to wish I could be a ballerina.

I used to get so jealous of the good ones. The ones who had it, who could balance for years and turn a million turns without giving it a second thought. The ones who had both their splits, hyperextended knees, parallel first positions, no hips, teeny waists and strong arches. 

God, I tried. I tried so hard to stand up straight when I was already too tall, to strenthen my feet even though they were too big, and to force my belly button against my spine and try to breathe at the same time. I must have looked like the biggest oafish fool trying to straighten both of my regularly extended knees whole holding one fairly large foot in the palm of my hand, trying to get my leg above my hips in an arabesque, trying to get my legs into The Split That Barely Was, trying to pas de deux with a boy at least five inches shorter.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall. Picture it. Some of you probably don't have to, you were THERE.

Shudder.

If I were born different, maybe, with a higher metabolism so that I'd PEAK at 5'7, 105, with nonexistant hamstrings and turned out knees and delicate yet strong bony feet, maybe I'd be singing a different, less average tune.

I hate average. I hate it to a pulp, yet I feel like right now, that word describes me best. And I do not say this with any sort of self loathing, or disdain, just slight disappointment mixed with a dash of wistful and a pinch of amused.

Ballerinas are never average. They can't be. Or else everyone would be one. 

Sometimes similarites are so blatantly in your face obvious that you don't even realize that they're there.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I really don't think it even had a point. 

I think the bottom line is that in my next life, I'm going to be a stone cold, focused, dedicated, yet friendless prima ballerina. And then I will make a Venn diagram and compare my two lives, just to see which was more fulfilling. I think I know the answer, but you can never be sure about these things, now can you?

I'm kidding. Everyone needs friends. Everyone.

My serial killer classmate was popping hard candies like it was his job today. Big ones. Colorful ones. Sometimes three at the same time, different flavors. He still wears cowboy boots in spite of the weather, and he still thinks that just because he's 50, what he has to say is of equal validity as the professor. Which it is not.

I'm really not losing my mind, I promise, on the off chance anyone is still reading this garbage. I'm just feeling like a bit of an insomniac.