College, The Real World, and an Older Brother

So I'm going to be graduating soon, and honestly, I am terrified. My parents, teachers and friends say everything will be fine, but I have my doubts. Recently, I vented to my older brother Pat, a UGA graduate, and he did not sugar-coat the situation of a rising college freshman. He told me, "One thing I learned, Faith, is to never count on anyone having the answers for you. People can give you advice, but never let them predict your future." I knew he was right, and this was unnerving, because I sure as heck didn't have any answers! "You don't need to worry about everything right now," he said, "You're not even out of high school yet. I'm twenty four, and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up." My father, who was listening quietly from a nearby recliner, said, "I'm fifty years old, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up!"
"I just want to figure something out," I said, still feeling quite hopeless. "I mean, where am I going to live, where I'm even going to attend college, how to pay for it--" I hung my head low as the pressure came back. My parents are divorced, and our finacial situation was anything but good. In this chaotic part of my life, I felt so out of sync and completely powerless. College seemed totally overwhelming.

Patrick and I talked for another two hours. We covered evertyhing from life, love, and heartbreak. We talked about how small the dorms are, and getting used to campus life. We talked about how the one dorm biulding that was not co-ed was referred to as the Virgin Vault, because it was all girls, and no male visitors were allowed after 7 pm. Patrick told me heremembered what it was like to have his whole life infront of him, with no idea about how to live it.
The biggest adventure that I will be embarking on, I think, will be Independance, and entering Real Life in the Real World. But how can you prepare for the Real World if you don't actually live in it until you graduate from high school? As I begin my great-college-life-journey-thing, I will more than likely fall head first out of the nest, and learn to fly on the way down. But everyone has to at some point, and most people get survive. As college gets closer, The Real World seems more doable, and with the help of a wiser, older, college-graduated brother, I think I may just be able to do it.

Valentine's is Hard!

Roses are red,
Violets are blue
Valentine's is in a week.
And I don't know what to do.

My Mom asked me, "What are you going to do for Steven?" I wonder, is that a trick question?
I swear, I need GPS for lovers or something. This is the first Valentine's where I won't be alone, and I have absolutely no idea what to get for my boyfriend, Steven. I've gotten advice from friends, but they remind me of those poorly translated instruction pamhplets you get when you buy something made in a different country.

"Happy love when buy gift right. Give to boyfriend maybe chocolate yummy. "

Open mouth, insert foot. Spare me.

Not only are men impossible to shop for, but the men in my family just don't like anything. At all.
In all my life, my father has never really laughed out loud at anything. What do you do with that?

Pat, my older brother, is a bit easier. Something electronic. He's a film graduate, and is big on gadgets. If you walked into his apartment, you would think he's a secret spy for the LPD or something. The hard part is figuring out exactly what he does and does not have.

And I still don't know how to work the DVD player.

Andrew, my younger brother, is the worst of all. Picture this. Mom walks in, plastic shopping bag in hand.
"You said you needed some pants, right honey?"
Andrew, skeptically: "Yeeeaaaahhh............"
Mom. "Try these." She tosses him the perfectly decent pair of jeans. Andrew inspects them.
"Why did you get me these?"
Mom: "What's wrong with them?"
Andrew: "The pattern inside the pockets is kinda gay."

This is why I gave up with Andrew. He loves guns, and anything relating to the mimlitary. We try to lean in that direction when holidays approach, but, as with Pat, Mom and I, being the soul surviving women in the family, don't know what to do.

So back to Steven. He's my kind of guy. Well he is my guy. We've been dating for about six months, which is pretty decent. He's tall and lean, with soft shaggy hair that needs to be cut. He is, to be frank, hairy. His thick eyebrows crawl almost to the center of his forehead, and his chin gets scruffy two days after shaving.

Steven's cleft chin and wide smile give him the appearance of the mischievous Cheshire cat. Or a very handsome cartoon character. He's just a silly boy, who says he loves me at least once in every phone conversation, and at least twice when we just sit there, being with each other. Steven is a rocker, who would play his bass more often if he had any free time whatsoever. What time he does have, he usually spends with me. If I am not around the house at the moment, he will get pouty over the phone, and pretend to be angry about the injustice I have put upon him. Then he'll laugh and say, "I love you. Tomorrow then?" Always the optimist.

So what do you do for a guy like that? I guy with everything. He's not materialiistic, mind you, he lives on a budget, and there are planty of things he deserves. "But I have you," he says.

Que audience: "Awwwwww."

So as Steven and I fall more stupidly in love with eachother, Valentine's has become incrfeasingly more important. And I am completely lost. We will propbably end up getting each other something that doesn't seem like much but, we will both know that it means so much more.

The Beauty of "Me"

All the flowers and trees
Will have silicone leaves,
All an unnatural green.

What good is a rose,
With a fake plastic nose?
Is it best to be heard, or seen?

The world we've created
Is something mutated
From the lives of the foolish and young.

What good is a song,
That's been dead way too long,
You can't sing with that ring in your tongue.

Girls starting diets,
And boys starting riots,
What happened to innocence?

It's gone with the wind,
It's not like back then,
And it hasn't been that way since.

Life is confusing,
And Nature is losing,
To the Mannequin Army's fight.

What good is a rose,
If nobody knows,
What's morally wrong and right?

Beauty is changing,
And there's no use complaining,
We've been heading this way all along.

As real beauty dies,
We ask ourselves Why?
How would we get life so wrong?

If we're all the same,
Then what's in a name?
We'll all just be X, Y, and Z.

I won't speak for you,
But I'm staying true,
And holding on to the beauty of
"Me."

The Daily Rant- No. 1

It seems like the craze nowadays is medication. Not asprin, but things like Zoloft and Prozac. Today, if you are not taking a pill of some sort, there must be something wrong with you. Shouldn't it be the opposite? Don't get me wrong, many people really do need these chemicles in their system. If you have a legitament problem with your psyche, such as a chememcle inbalance then go ahead and take your meds. But for those of you who just have a bad day now and then, you don't need to be taking antidepressants.

But really, it's not the people taking the pills that I'm mad at; it's the doctors prescribing them. They hand these things out like candy. It seems that everybody has some sort of medicle issue now. Doctors are the ones absuing prescription drugs, not the general public.

The things that people mistake for disoders and syndromes can sometimes just be the way that person functions.

For example:

The drug Mirapex was tested on Parkinsons' patients to help revent tremors. Some of the testers noticed that their legs didn't move as much. So, when the drug didn't sell quite like the companies expected, the pharmassutal sellers focused on a little-known disorder called Restless Leg Syndrome, in which there is sometimes minor discomfort in the legs.

Before you could say "Take with food," millions of people flocked to doctors' offices, stating that they must have RLS. So, without any hesitation, what do the doctors do? They write a prescription for Mirapex.

Did you know that every time a prescription drug is sold, or even refilled, the doctor and pharmaceutical company get paid? Multiply that by the hundreds of thousands of people on mdeciation, and you have some very rich, very shrewd, men and women.

There are some real problems in the world, and they need real solutions. But since when is being human a disorder? We are not robots, we are not clones; we will all be different and have our "issues." But that does not mean we need medication for every little negative in our lives. Let the people with problems fix themselves with medication and therapy. As for the rest of you, think about if what you think is a disorder, may just be the way you are supposed to be. It's okay to be depressed for a day or two, or fidgety or antsy-------if it doesn't keep you from functioning, or only affects you temporarily, chances are you can do without a drug.

Be human. It's not against the law. Yet.

Random

Okay, you got me. You did it, PLC. I am now becomming addicted to blogging. Curse you. Of course, Mrs. Scredon is neurotic, (her words, not mine) and Mrs. siegmund is a mother. She has her ways. So, are you happy? You got what you wanted. Now there is a whole new blog devoted to my random bursts of creativity. I hope you're proud.

Sarcasm aside, I will be posting things of little to no importance to the general public. Like the article you are reading now, for example. But, like most mavericks, I need an outlet. Ironically, I never learned to hold a pencil correctly, so my hand gets stiff from my awkward way of writing. Typing is a good alternative. But I can't even do that correctly. I use my own system. It's just as fast as regular typing, but my fingers don't stay on "home row" and I am always looking down.

Despite my troubles at getting the words into a physical form, when they do come out, they make much more sense than when tangled inside my head. Some things will be be more Shakespereian, while others will have a more casual side. I have many voices when it comes to writing. They need to get out of my head so someone can listen to them, because they know what it's like to not really be anything. I guess these different voices in my writing represents the different chapters in the saga of life, a tale in which the hero finds himself completely lost and somehow has to find a way back to sanity with his character and dignity intact. It's the same story over and over again.
Like the words in my head, I'm not much of anything yet. Right now, I just need someone to listen.