tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3619749446646862072024-03-12T22:28:27.006-04:00birds flying high, you know how I feel.paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-61615773519278975842021-07-26T20:30:00.005-04:002021-07-26T20:30:47.963-04:00The plans I make still have you in them. <p>It’s hard to know love when you live in your own head. </p><p>When your mind is endless and boundless and you’ve built up an entire land of fantasy through countless books and movies and songs on repeat and strolls through museums full of the most beautiful art. </p><p>Everything is perfect when it’s yours. When you’ve taught yourself that your head is full of fairytales that could be really real. </p><p>I romanticize men I barely even know. I make them into my version of a prince. I give them pieces of my heart to keep. </p><p>Because they played me my favorite songs on piano and made my coffee just the way I like in the morning and let me have the last crab rangoon.</p><p>Because they told me how sweet and soft my heart is and kissed me in the rain and shared blueberry pancakes.</p><p>Because they built me a bookshelf and let me name the dog and toured me through wine country.</p><p>Because they sent me dozens of roses and wrote me love letters.</p><p>(Because I thought this time, it’s not in my head. It’s real. It’s mine. I’ve finally found him.)</p><p><br /></p>paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-26045753671477165872018-02-10T11:07:00.001-05:002018-02-10T11:07:07.299-05:00I got my feelings hurt once. <div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">At the very tip-top of a Ferris wheel is one of my favorite places to be. I love the euphoric feeling it brings my soul, like warm maple syrup, sticky and sweet, swallowing a stack of pancakes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">It's raining. Part of me, a good ninety-five percent, wants to go lay in the middle of the street. The color of the sky suits the way my insides feel, and I want to know if the rain can just wash me away. Maybe not entirely at once, a slow ebbing would be fine, as long as this all disappears. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">It was a year ago, to the day, that I first saw his name light up my phone screen. "Guten Tag Paige. Wie geht es dir?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Guten Tag Paige. Wie geht es dir? Guten Tag Paige. Wie geht es dir? </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">Guten Tag Paige. Wie geht es dir? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Two sentences, seven words, twenty-five letters. Two weeks ago I thought I'd be spinning those into my own personal fairytale, and now I'm weaving them into what can only be known as a eulogy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">It was all mindless at first, which was great because sometimes my brain is this crazy, chaotic mess — Like a heaping pile of laundry, unsorted and unfolded, that’s been neglected for a month and a half. The investment from my side was paltry and weak. I'd answer his messages when I pleased, with no sense of urgency. Initially they were nothing more than strained, pity answers. I felt obliged to respond out of politeness and a fear of invoking hurt feelings. I barely knew the guy outside of maybe sending him an email once or twice before. (Had I even ever emailed him? He looks at my LinkedIn profile what seems like an abnormal amount of times for a colleague.) I couldn't wrap my mind around why he was reaching out to me in the first place and I figured I could just bide my time before this fizzled out. I could afford to entertain him for a week, maximum, until he grew bored of my self-appointed title of "least interesting and/or untalented conversationalist." But he didn't. He persisted. Day after day after day another message. Strangely, I began to long for his messages. Mundane as they may have been, I was developing an addiction. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I saw pictures of his house, his parents’ house, and his travels. I knew what he had for dinner. I learned that he loves Thai and Indian food. He made lentil soup once. He would become sad when the weather was dull, because he wished to go for hike or take his bicycle out for a ride. He would be sleepy because he stayed up too late the evening before, nose buried, lost inside of a book. His grandmother made him a Black Forest cake. His favorite fruit is the raspberry. He hates social media. He likes dry red wine. He plays soccer with the small kids from the floor below his apartment. I began to learn every single silly detail that was Elias, and I was falling in love with him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I remember him telling me he loved the way I said hi on the telephone. It's one of those memories that stitches itself onto your heart and your head, like a cow that's been branded. Everything about me mattered. He would ask about my day, my weekend plans. The most trivial and things, he genuinely cared about and for them. They were exceedingly average, plain intrusions, but nobody else ever made them. I got good mornings and good nights. He remembered me on my birthday, Mother's Day, International Women's Day. We spoke of politics, things that made us laugh, longed to travel to each other and meet face to face. Oh, did we want to meet. Maybe in Philadelphia, perhaps in Freiburg. We'd have an adventure, a marvelous adventure, just the two of us. We didn't want to wait. We would moan about the torture that time and distance were when they were keeping us apart from one another. Then, four months in, I sat down in the middle of an aisle at a Wal-Mart, my face pressed hard against my palms, tears like white-hot fire burning my cheeks. Elias had found himself a girlfriend, and she was not me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I was wondering why he'd been so scarce the past few weeks. He promised to write while he traveled on his several-week holiday. He promised me pictures of all of the pretty things. He </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-bold"; font-size: 17pt; font-weight: bold;">promised</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">. Now I knew. I knew and I hated it. My stomach was melting itself and my heart was trying to claw its way out of my chest from behind my ribcage. I became overwhelmed with a sense of rage I didn't even know I was possible of churning up. How could he do this to me? Why wasn't I enough? I thought we had something special? I thought we were something special, or at the very least something in general. What the fuck, Elias? I told him for the very first time I didn't wish to hear from him again. I was lying. I wanted to hear from him every single second of every single day, but under different, single-or-belonging-to-me-Elias circumstances. Until then, I wanted space and darkness and to be woken up immediately from this newfound nightmare I was wrapped up in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Weeks passed, nothing. Maybe I was being dramatic. You can't possibly love someone you've gotten to know so briefly, and never in person. Relax, looney toon. You have a penchant for feeling too much, too soon. I was, successfully, tricking my heart and brain into believing that I was a complete psychotic basket-case and very much healing myself along the way. It's amazing how you can teach yourself to invalidate and remove any or all justification of what you may or may not be feeling. And then it happened: New message from Elias. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I stopped writing. It's been days since I've traced my fingers over these keys. I could keep going. I could tell you how everything fell right back into place and Elias and I kept talking and dreaming and romancing, all without a shred of respect to his girlfriend. (He still has her, by the way. She's beautiful.) I could tell you all about how he met me in Zürich. How we walked all around the lake I used to joke that I'd push him into. You would read that he made all of the first moves, intertwining fingers and that under the table hand on the knee thing people do. I'd reminisce about him kissing me fast and hard, leaving no space between us, pressed against a train that would take him home, a train that I'd watch as my face flooded with hot, salty tears, one hand on my hip and another over my mouth as I stood frozen and torn open watching it until it disappeared. I could whip up magical words about how we spent the next days seesawing between googly-eyed sentiments and feeling like our hearts were ripped in halves. I could go into every finite detail about him surprising me in Munich for my birthday, kisses on the train, seeing the whole city from 17 stories up, spending over half the night tangled and giggling and reeling in disbelief that I could ever enjoy something so fucking much. (I could replay that night over and over and over again.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I didn't cry when he left this time. This is different. </span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext-italic"; font-size: 17pt; font-style: italic;">He came back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I was at the airport by 4am, because Emily's flight was earlier. The dread of leaving Germany sat like a cinderblock in both my heart and stomach. I couldn't stop the tears or the hurt. I texted him, imploring him to call because I needed to hear his voice. I told him I missed him already because I did. I boarded the plane, then another, each one accompanied with uncontrollable sobbing, which you do not get charged for. Half of me was 4,000-some miles away and wasn't going to be getting any closer any time soon, and I was learning what it was like to genuinely ache for another human. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Here's the gut-punch: Elias didn't want to be my boyfriend. The very next day, I was on another plane, but it was figurative and it was crashing and burning. This newfound stance he was taking didn't match any of his words or actions and my brain was in a tailspin because it doesn't make sense I didn't (still don't) understand and he wasn't clearing it up. (Still isn't.) Sometimes he writes and sometimes he doesn’t and all of the time when he does everything inside of me falls 100 stories because I still want him. And I want him to want me. And he still doesn’t. And he won’t. And it doesn’t make sense. (Never will.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Fuck you. </span></div>
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paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-54363941032405424942015-11-16T19:37:00.001-05:002015-11-16T23:19:47.059-05:00Hello, it's me.<div style="text-align: start;"><span style="text-align: center; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet t</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">o go over everything. This is where I stop being Adele and start being way less rich and vocally talented. </span></div><div style="text-align: start;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I sleep alone at night. Nobody asks me how my day at work was. I don't receive good morning texts. I'm not picking out a house in a city that'll be perfect for our kids to grow up in someday. I'm not picking out a name for our dog. I'm not waking up early to brew him coffee so it's ready before his pretty eyes flutter open. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Hot, angry tears streak down my cheeks, cutting through caked on glitter makeup applied by my four year old. I should be happy and I should be content, but -- I'm not. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I'm mad at myself for feeling these things. I'm mad at myself for writing these things. I'm mad that I'm chastising myself for having these raw emotions. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">At over halfway to 26, I see my clock ticking. I get poisoned by social media littered with home buying and engagement pictures and sweet, small babies. I find myself envious and resentful of those who are happy in their love, because I'm not. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Not is underrated. It yields so much power contextually. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I think, maybe, therein lies my problem. If I can't be happy and love myself, love the family I've got, maybe I'm not ready to share the love of another human. Then again, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe, for once in my life, I <i>am</i> ready. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Life is funny like that. We wrestle with finding serenity, but we seek continuous improvement. We set goals, but we strive to aim higher and higher. For me, the key is to push to make certainties happen, to find the pockets where it's okay to keep wanting more, to keep wanting <i>better</i>. Then there are milestones, events and situations that, if you don't meet those marks you want, renders them insignificant. I don't care if I'm never a CEO, because if at the end of the day I can home home, and nestle in-between my loved ones, I'm exactly where I'm meant to be. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Love is my largest dream. To share my life and my heart with my forever best friend, that's my greatest victory. It's okay to want that. It's okay to desire that. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay. </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">It's okay. I'm not. <i>I will. </i> </span></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><br></div>paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-32379604531970218482009-02-25T05:14:00.002-05:002009-02-25T05:26:32.521-05:00fuck fuck fuck fucking fuckyou're fucking lost, dude. i don't even know you anymore. hell, you don't even know you anymore. i want to save you, i love you, you know that, i know that, the whole motherfucking world knows that. you're not the person i used to know, and that makes me sadder than you could ever know. when you send me drunk ims, telling me you're going to kill yourself, you rip me apart. i've been up all night, worrying, crying, throwing my fucking guts up. i hope you're as happy as you're pretending; one day you'll get sick of saying that everything's alright. i'm just hoping that when that day comes, it doesn't involve suicide. i'm here, todd, i'm here. i'm not fucking going anywhere. i would never leave you, i would never leave your side. even when you've left mine, i waited for you, and when you came back, there i was. please stop. stop this fucking bullshit. i'm ready to pick up the pieces when you're ready to admit you're broken. i love you.paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-51421866136764064252009-01-07T12:17:00.002-05:002009-02-25T08:28:21.453-05:00hold mei’m pale so you can see my veins underneath my skin because it’s practically see-through. if i stare at my veins long enough, it’s almost as though i can feel the blood pulsing within them, being transported throughout my entire body. sometimes i trace a path with my fingertip, following my heartbeat from my wrist to wherever the blood is traveling at that particular point in time. i lay there, heavy eyes closed, focusing on my heartbeat. and some days it feels like my blood is lined with lead, everything moves so slowly. sometimes after i shower, i slink down and just sit until my body air dries entirely. i like to rest my head between my kneecaps and just let my wet hair stick to my cheekbones. dark brown tangles fall in front of my face, blocking my eyesight. i watch the water bead up and chase the droplets with my eyes as they weave through the intricate knots and clusters of hair. i pretend the drops are racing down each strand, trying to see who can reach the end first. i might be weird, but i don’t care what you think.paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-26608053558009777122008-11-23T02:07:00.004-05:002008-11-23T02:38:20.197-05:00similar to heavy trafficmy hands smell like cigarettes and my breath smells like coffee. my socks are wet from the snow and my nose is pink from the wind. my tears are hidden behind my smile and my hair is damaged from straightening it far too much. i'm a hot mess, really.<br /><br />i don't even think anybody reads my blog anymore and strangely, i'm alright with that. it's a release for me; especially today. i haven't posted in so long and i didn't realize how detrimental it was becoming. when i write, i'm happy. i'm free of judgment and scrutiny; i'm me. i can spill out all of my innermost thoughts and my deepest emotions and my strongest feelings and nobody says shit to me.<br /><br />so even though i don't feel like sitting here expelling every detail of my life, i still feel as though i have. my thoughts were so tangled and my life was so haywire before i began typing but now that i'm pressing my fingertips against my keyboard i'm forced to think about the things i've been keeping tucked away in the crevices of my mind and the dusty, cobwebbed corners of my heart. it's almost as though as soon as i hone in on writing my blog the whole world stops moving and all of the chaos surrounding me ceases. sadly, this entry will cease, too. meaning that as soon as i double click that orange 'publish post' button, the complex nature of my complicated life will resume making me feel like i'm stuck on a teacup ride, spinning and spinning, never stopping. i think i'm going to throw up. (publish post)paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-42335232463878352282008-04-24T10:08:00.003-04:002008-04-24T10:21:58.788-04:00Where is the Love?No, this post is not about the Black-Eyed Peas song.<br /><br />I hate ignorance. I hate narrow-minded people. I hate that people are so against being open-minded, so closed, so afraid of everything. I believe that it is your right to have an opinion, but I also believe that everyone has an opinion and that opinion deserves to be heard just as much as yours. It's so frustrating that people all want to talk, and run their mouths, but the second you disagree you're worth shit. <br /><br />Consider this. I'm in Speech class right now, discreetly avoiding beginning to type an outline for a persuasive speech about saving the rain forest. There's an overly obnoxious jock with the i.q. of a rock to my right. I'm a Christian. I don't believe in abortion, gay marriage, the death penalty, or sex before marriage. Well, he is writing his persuasive speech on his support of the death penalty. Whatever, those are his beliefs, I respect that. So, when he asked me if I would give him ideas, I respectfully declined. I'm against the death penalty, how am I to aid you in your pro-death penalty speech? We literally argued for about 10 minutes because, apparently, my views are wrong because they're not his opinions. LAME.<br /><br />I'm not stupid, I know that you're not going to agree with everybody, but you can at least listen to everybody and try to understand where they're coming from. Is that really so much to ask?<br /><br />Also, that annoying jock to my right just shouted that I was blogging, which would be perilous for my Speech grade and smarty-pants reputation. I not-so-respectfully told him to just shut-up, and now I allegedly am in a bad mood. Go figure. Well NEWS FLASH, I'm not in a bad mood, I'm just sick of people. Mainly you, over there to my right. Also, you can take that apology you just gave me and shove it...well, you know. And, snap my bra strap again and see what happens. (Dick.)paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-63714481565392870702008-03-13T14:38:00.000-04:002008-03-13T14:39:38.963-04:00Grin and Bear ItHere’s the deal, I’m a pretty indecisive person. For the past week or two, I’ve left my second period study hall so I could go to Mr. Clements’ room during his Composition class and work on my article about the top ten bizarre soft drinks in Japan. This article, though, has nothing to with soft drinks or Japan. I spent my time in Mr. Clements’ room online looking up weird facts and going to the Discovery Channel website to find out if I "could be Bear Grylls for a day." It was after I won both the Kenya and Iceland adventures that I realized yes, I could be Bear for a day and yes, I would rather write an article about the star of my favorite show, "Man vs. Wild."<br /><br />One Thursday however, Mr. Clements was reading writing prompts to his class and he suggested the following, "If you could spend one day with any person, living or dead, who would it be?" Even though that prompt wasn’t directed towards me and I knew that I wouldn’t have to write it, I wrinkled my nose and shuddered the thought of having to do so. I’ve never really been a prompt kind of person and that one was flat out cheesy! Or was it?<br /><br />If I had the opportunity to spend the day with any person, there is not a shred of doubt in my mind that I would spend it with Bear Grylls. Bear provides this superhuman help towards all stranded tourists. Thanks to Grylls, I now know how to survive the unexpected and how to stay alive when I’m hopelessly lost in the Moab Desert or in the Costa Rican rain forests or even the Everglades. Thanks to Grylls, I can get out of frightening predicaments such as quicksand and freezing arctic waters. But lately, rumors surrounding the credibility of Bear’s show had me doubting whether or not he can get himself out of those tough situations.<br /><br />A former member of the British Special Forces, Grylls proclaims he can "show you the skills you need to survive." Until recently, I never felt any state of disbelief as I would watch him, mouth ajar, eat creepy crawlies like maggots, scorpions, and snakes. Something inside me would tingle and be fascinated every time I would see him construct a raft out of balsa wood or build a makeshift shelter out of pine tree branches. Then I read a report on the BBC News website that claimed that Bear Grylls was a phony. How dare they? It was almost as though my world had shattered before me. Yes, that's a bit of an exaggeration. It semi-shattered. Generally any die-hard fan would boycott his or her new ex-favorite show when it was being called a sham, but not me. I still cancel all previously made plans with close friends in order to watch it. I still schedule my day around all potential viewings of the show. I still make all the residents of my household vacate the area so that I may watch Bear in a peaceful, serene location filled only with sound of attractive British accents and crackling fires. I know it may be a bit over the top, but I don’t really care. Sure, maybe Bear has stayed in motel or two, but he’s still eating beetle larvae and spruce needles on camera and that’s okay with me.<br /><br />I’ve decided that I’m okay if Bear doesn’t rough every night in the wild. He’s still trudging through smelly swamp goo, eating things that give normal people goosebumps, and exploring ancient, vampire bat-infested viper pits. I think it’s because no matter what, a hero is still a hero. It’s even more heroic to know that my hero has flaws, things that make him imperfect, things that put him more on my level. I think that it’s for those reasons that I will continue to aspire to someday be just like Bear. Well, maybe my aspiration is just to continue aspiring about being Bear; either way, I’m satisfied.paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-83776472946620882692008-03-13T14:37:00.000-04:002008-03-13T14:38:40.302-04:00That's a RapMatt Damon is married with children, Josh Hartnett is turning 30, and Rita’s Italian Ice is canceling their Banana Berry Cream flavor. Just when I thought my week couldn’t get any worse, it did. Two of the world’s most renowned rappers, Kanye West and 50 Cent, had been in a “rap brawl.” America titled this feud the “Kanye West vs. 50 Cent Rap Brawl 2007.” Original, huh? Perhaps Miss South Carolina helped name it. This duel was generated by the fact that both rappers were releasing their CDs on the same date: September 11, 2007. To fuel the fire, 50 added that if his CD, “Curtis,” didn’t outsell Kanye’s “Graduation” within a week of sales, he’d quit rapping. Now several weeks past the end of the brawl, I guess this is good-bye 50.<br /><br />While 50 Cent, born Curtis James Jackson III on July 6, 1975 in Queens, New York, has had numerous dance hits such as 2005’s “Disco Inferno” and “Candy Shop,” I’m a sucker for his more soulful raps, those that explain how he got that scar on the left side of his face, like “I’m a Hustler,” “Ghetto Qu’ran (Forgive Me),” and “Good Die Young.” I decided to extensively research Curtis, partly because I can’t think of any words to describe Mr. West that would be appropriate for the school newspaper and partly because someone once told me that they thought mellow, ballad-writing, John Mayer (whose music I do love), has more soul than 50 Cent. Whatever.<br /><br />As a child, Curtis lost his “hustler” mother and his father walked out, leaving him in the incapable hands of his grandmother. As a teen, Mr. Jackson found a trade that proved to be lucrative: dealing cocaine. After being arrested on multiple occasions in 1994, Curtis ultimately decided to turn his life around and became involved in the hip-hop industry. It didn’t take long for 50 to get recognized, and in 1996 he scored a deal with the help of record mogul Jam Master Jay, formerly a member of RUN-D.M.C. Before releasing his debut CD, “Power of the Dollar,” Jackson released three hits: "Your Life's on the Line," "Thug Love" (featuring Destiny’s Child), and "How to Rob,” which was the largest of the three releases, because of it’s brash lyrics describing how 50 would, essentially, rob specific big-name rappers. The instant fame Curtis attracted upon the release spurred two attacks on his life. The first attempt to take Jackson’s life occurred when he was brutally stabbed outside of the Hit Factory studio on West 54th street in Manhattan, New York. On May 24, 2000, less than month before Columbia was going to release “Power of the Dollar.” The second, and more famed, attempt was made on his life. On 161st Street in Jamaica, Queens (not only was this city where 50 was raised, but Jam Master Jay would also be shot, fatally, near the same location two and a half years later), Jackson sat helplessly in the passenger seat of the car while he was shot nine times with a 9mm gun; once in the cheek, once in the hand, and seven times in his thighs and legs, which explains his trademark of wearing bulletproof vests.<br /><br />While Curtis narrowly escaped death, Columbia received word of the shooting and negated not to release “Power of the Dollar” and to drop 50 from their label. Since that time, Mr. Jackson has still had some minor brushes with the law, none of them resulting in major jail-time. He has also founded his own record label, G-Unit, which signed many successful rap artists such as Young Buck, Lloyd Banks, and Tony Yayo. More recently, 50 Cent is becoming more and more famous. This pop culture icon is in the limelight so much that Glacéau put a blurb about Jackson on their grape flavored vitamin water.<br /><br />To me, 50 Cent is more than just a good-looking rap phenomenon; he’s a soulful music artist, who puts real meaning behind his lyrics. 50 Cent actually lived through everything most rappers write rhymes about, but not all actually experience such as: drugs, crimes, imprisonments, stabbings, and shootings. So even though 50 writes the same racy, explicit, “I met a girl at a club and took her home,” songs that the majority of other artists do, at least he puts his money where his mouth is. He’s not an egotistical, self-centered, “Kanye West,” releasing music that rocks; he’s a survivor releasing songs about a broken home and personal struggles he’s overcome. Granted, I’ll still tap my pencil during Kanye’s “Stronger,” “Touch the Sky,” and “Jesus Walks,” because quite frankly, I like his music. The thing is, I don’t like his whole, I’m-better-than-you attitude. Which is why you, Curtis James Jackson III, had my vote.paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361974944664686207.post-78854614144104146222008-02-06T18:38:00.008-05:002012-01-19T02:17:53.472-05:00You Don't Know Jack, or Do You?<div align="left"><strong></strong><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >I have a tendency to change my Instant Message “info” pretty often. Recently, while I was deciding what I was going to put in it for February, I noticed a great deal of my “Buddies” had the same thing in their infos: “Bauer Power.” For those of you who, when hearing that name, don’t find yourself in a sudden grip of adrenaline and fear, you must not be a die-hard Jack Bauer (24, Fox) fan like me. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The entire season of 24 takes place over a time period of 24 hours, (hence the name), with all episodes depicting one hour. Jack, the main character of the show, has been created as a superhuman help to the Counter Terrorism Unit (CTU). Since the first season in 2001, Bauer has escaped out of a Chinese prison, had to kill his best friend, stopped the country from being gassed, uncovered a corrupt oval office, and gotten away by means of sinking his teeth into the adam’s apple of a bad guy. I’m not going to lie, 24 frightens me when I watch it. I lie down on the couch but within minutes I’m sitting up, and by the time it’s over my fingernails are significantly shorter than when the show began. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family:times new roman;">The popularity, I’ve decided, is probably caused by the show’s story line following very closely with current media events. This season has focused on the possibility of Muslim terrorists in the United States. Some may argue that this is a very real possibility. It is true that some Muslim extremists have taken drastic measures in suicide bombing missions, but I believe that the details of the show are unrealistic and are giving Americans a false fear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family:times new roman;">One character in particular, Hamri Al-Assad, a reformed Muslim extremist, was aiding the CTU. Al-Assad was able to provide CTU with valuable information that would aid it in the capture of terrorist Abu Fayed. Bill Buchanan, the head of CTU, refused Fayed so much as a handshake despite his promise of peace. Another Muslim character, Walid Al-Rezani, who was the head of the IAA, or Islamic-American Alliance, was forced into a detention center that was for, (gasp here), people of the Muslim faith, to spy on them and find out whether or not any prisoner had a connection to the terrorist attacks. After the government coerced Al-Rezani into pickpocketing a phone from an inmate, Al-Rezani was nearly beaten to death when the inmate realized his phone had gone missing. A third Muslim character, Nadia Yassir, who was a CTU employee, was also under government fire. The Department of Homeland Security restricted the access of all employees who are of Middle Eastern descent, which caused Nadia to not be able to work efficiently and at a suitable pace. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The thing that bothered me most was the fear that was instilled in Americans that every Muslim is someone to be feared, that they might at any moment detonate a nuclear bomb with the intention of using four more. Political commentator Keith Olbermann accused 24 of being “propaganda designed to keep people thinking about domestic terrorism to keep us scared.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family:times new roman;">I was at the DMV not too long ago and a Muslim man walked in. He had recently moved here from a Middle Eastern country and he spoke with a thick accent. My 11-year-old sister turned to me, clung to my arm, asked if he was a terrorist. She then proceeded to shreik in horror when she saw him climb into a big black van. Although she had only seen the show once, it appalled me that those were the kinds of ideas that 24 might be encouraging. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family:times new roman;">I wonder that if an 11-year-old ‘one-timer’ got those kinds of impressions, what in the world is the rest of America thinking? Would it not make sense that a country sitting on the edge of their seats with fear of another potential terrorist attack would begin to believe the possibility of this scenario in real life and with this fear more easily support a war against the “terrorists” that the President promotes? Isn’t also quite coincidental that 24 is aired on FOX News, the most conservative news broadcasting station and the co-producer of 24, Paul Gadd, is a registered Republican? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family:times new roman;">It’s no secret that we, The United States, are currently at war and this war is only supported by a mere thirty-six percent of Americans and our President, George W. Bush, is supported by less than thirty percent of our country. It seems to me that FOX could be using it’s political platform to take advantage of viewers and attempt to gain the support that our country is clearly lacking. Not to mention that Dick Cheney is a self-proclaimed 24 enthusiast and that is reason enough for me to not showcase my AOL Instant Messenger profile with the power of Bauer.</span> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />
</span></div>paigehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11227822914461482425noreply@blogger.com4