dare i?

i love graphic novels. however, if you asked me about the thousands of underground word-picture publications i would fail to tell you which ones i thought had the most exquisitely drawn illustrations or which alan moore book i thought had the most profound message about society. i'm not going to lie to you, readers: i really don't know much at all about the would of graphic novels, and i'm not going to pretend i do. this lack of knowledge was probably what caused my first (and presumably last) attempt at writing/illustrating a graphic novel, well, what the young kids would say, an "epic fail".

ah, yes...but it's come time again to embark on a new literary mission in ela class - the second round of independent writing projects. and i think i'd like to take another stab at the graphic novel. and this plan didn't just pounce upon me like the metaphorical puma of good ideas. it's been nesting in the back of my brain ever since i completed my first graphic novel in the seventh grade. my (very minor) perfectionist ways have forced me to have a constant desire to make what formerly was a screw-up into something better. sometimes my more prominent, lazy, procrastinator side dominates, yet this time, my love for the peanut butter-and-jelly relationship of words and pictures is pushing me forward, into the depths of challenge.

my first graphic novel was about a young, pious girl suffering from the black plague in the middle ages. (what fun!) it was a comedy, too. no, just kidding. i thought it was a good idea from the start, but as the writing process progressed, it turned into a nightmarish experience that i was desperate to abandon. although i personally believe any story can be adapted into a graphic novel, drawing pictures of sickly children lying listlessly on flea-ridden bales of hay was not my idea of an inspirational writing experience.

this time, i plan to write something more personal. about myself. not exactly a memoir, because i believe that memoirs shouldn't be written unless you are inches from death (but still able to pick up a pen or type on a keyboard). i guess it would be more of a documentation of my life right now, in the midst of stress and confusion and angst. i have a million ideas swimming around in my cerebral sea and i feel the need to put them down on paper. the story isn't exactly linear, nor does it have a set point. but it will. all i have to do is harness my inspiration and courage, even though it sounds painfully corny. i'm determined to master the art of the thing i love most about literacy. wish me luck.

I Fought The Law, And The Law Won.

It's human nature to want to break the rules. Even the tightest-wound individual still harbors some smothered desire to do something that they're not supposed to do. For whatever reason it may be, we all feel the need to rebel against society - whether it be to quench an uncontrollable thirst for action or to "get back" at society for wronging you in some way. As for Terry Dean in Steve Tolz's A Fraction of The Whole, his past is what fuels his need to be a ruthless, unstoppable criminal.

Once an incredible athlete and the town's crowing glory, Terry's fame is instantly diminished after getting in a competitive conflict over a cricket match and ends up with a stabbed leg. Instead of doing nothing, Terry decides that the only thing that will give him a purpose in life is to find another obsession - in this case, that obsession was mugging, thievery, and all things to do with breaking the town's laws. What starts as a petty, somewhat hesitant attempt to wreak havoc on the town and its people gradually blossoms into a full-fledged criminal lifestyle fueled by Terry's traumatizing past and crazy vengefulness. Before we know it, Terry has thrown himself into a festering abyss of killing and crime, ganging up with fellow outlaws and again becoming the most famous person in his small town, but for a much different reason.

So besides Terry's past, what is it that drives him to break the law? I think that part of it is the mere fact that he's escaped the police and law enforcers so many times that his success has gone to his head. He thinks that he can fool them every time, and he teases them by going on insane killing sprees and fleeing from the scene. An incredibly talented criminal, Terry has realized that the so-called "authorities" of his town aren't actually as big as he knew them to be, and this would be a liberating realization for everyone. The thing that sets Terry apart from everyone else is that he springs upon each opportunity and approaches the situation in a way that gives him excitement - he shoves himself in the face of the law, only to tear himself away at the moment they bite. The ability to be quicker and almost invincible to the law's ever-watching eyes is a powerful thing.

I also believe that Terry's past fame plays a huge part in his desire to get in trouble. He's let the town down by getting his leg stabbed and losing his ability to participate in sports. However, his obsessive competitiveness still burns and he chooses to apply that force to another activity that will earn him fame yet again, even if the fame could get him killed. The fact that your face is known all over Australia is a blessing and a curse, and fame is addicting - once you've achieved it, you keep wanting more.

The fact that he murders only sports figures is obviously a refection of his past. Whenever he hears of a cheating athlete or coach he punishes them by killing them. Sports and crime are very similar - both can start a fire of competition in anyone who takes part in either of them, and when you've got both in you, it's like an explosion.

Although it may seem like a total cliche that Terry's hunger for crime is based on his traumatizing past, I believe that it's so much more than that. I think so many criminals perform ridiculous acts to "punish" society, Terry's motives are so much more complex. In some ways, I think he's doing what he's doing in order to be known again, to make up for his loss of athleticism by doing something that will also make him well known. I think in some ways he's trying to make a point, but in others, he's just doing it because he can. He's been raised on crime since he was a young boy, and it's really become a part of his life. Crime, like a sport, is an aspect of life that can fuel obsessions. In Terry's case, crime is used to fill the holes in his life, and make an impact on his world.

Just for fun, here's The Clash and their cover of Sonny Curtis's "I Fought the Law". Yay!

As Busy as James Franco.

This post isn't about the independent book I'm working on now, and I hope that's acceptable. It's about a really long article from New York Magazine that I read about the actor James Franco, entitled "Is James Franco for Real?". By now, it's pretty apparent to everyone who knows me that I have a giant celebrity crush on this man. My nonstop chatting about him (James Franco is so cute! Oh my god he looked soooo gorgeous in that movie! He should really lose the mustache, though, it doesn't flatter his face) has started to get on my parent's nerves, and I'm teased about it nonstop. So clearly I was thrilled when this 5-page story was published a few months ago. I was reading it over again a few nights ago. The whole piece sort of gives an overview of James Franco's personal life, exposing him to everyone who picks up the article. It focuses a lot on his educational life, describing his stressful, obsessive work habits and the mounds of homework he receives from the ridiculous number of colleges he's enrolled in. It glorifies the man, listing off the many things he does, including modeling, writing books, making movies, and putting up art shows in prestigious galleries in New York. "How on earth does he do it?" is the question that is brought up throughout the entire piece. At first, I venerated James for all the intense work he does, and thought it was the most incredible thing I'd ever heard. Well, maybe not, but keep in mind, this is when I was still "madly in love" with him.

But I was thinking about this story the other day. Although this man is a really, really famous actor, and while it may seem crazy that he's trying to do all sorts of things to earn Phd's or whatever he wants to do, his life isn't really that different from those of all the other people trying to become smarter while taking care of children and supporting their family. I mean, think of all those people that the online college ads target: many of those people are single mothers or people who are so busy with whatever they have to do that they don't even have the time to attend real, tangible college with real teachers and interact with them in person. I can't help feeling that this article minimizes the problems and busy lives of those un-famous people living in New York, or America, or the world. The writer of this article decided to write this piece so people would be amazed by this multi-tasking man, but the truth is, there are so many people that are a thousand times busier than him - bankers on Wall Street during the recession, scientists trying to develop renewable fuels and ways to stop global warming, and like I said before, just average Americans trying to support their families. People think we want to read about actors and what they've done just because they're super-famous and good looking. The fact that they are famous just drives people to assume that they are better and more accomplished than other people. The fact that they're well-known doesn't make them have much harder lives than us - I mean, at least they have substantial amounts of money. Being famous isn't really a responsibility, and simply wanting to receive a Phd when you're a well-known actor doesn't make you the most revolutionary man in the world. In some ways, the lives of the average American are so much harder than an actor's.

I mean, of course we have to take into consideration the fact that James Franco is an incredibly busy man, and that it is somewhat ambitious of him to want to enroll in so many colleges. But at least he has a choice - he can go to college any time he wants and drop out anytime he wants. Famous individuals have certain privileges that we don't have, and its those privileges, such as the ignorance of many Americans, large amounts of money, and media's glorification, that make their lives so much easier, even if they are as "busy" as James Franco.

clawing myself out of the rut.

i'm listening to the song "mad world", which was originally by tears for fears, but everyone seems to know only the gary jules version, which is stupid because he sounds exactly like michael stipe of REM. ugh, REM. anyway, it's weird because this song is expressing almost exactly how i'm feeling about the world. it's crazy - just earlier today i was convinced i as falling into this downwards spiral of bad writing because i wasn't placed into the "advanced revision" group in class today. it's true, though - my draft really sucked. it was cliched, dry, uninteresting...i mean, what kind of kid would want to read this, unless they like torturing themself? long story short, it was really, really, bad, as was my foreword, which was almost just as bad. ok, enough with the self-criticism. but this year i was determined to reconcile my life as a writer and create something i really was proud of. it was hard work, and i feel like i occasionally wrote something sort of good, but then again there was always that aspect that was a bit off about it, like milk that's just on the verge of souring. gross, right? i took a few pathetic stabs at writing deep and profound pieces which turned out disturbing or stereotypical and mostly just really...bad. around this time of writing depression, while i was developing a terrible habit of over-eating crappy candy bars, i picked up Steve Toltz's debut novel, A Fraction of The Whole. It was just the kind of cold, slightly offensive, riotously funny Australian story that i needed to cheer me up. The end result of reading a few chapters would end up shaping my writing life....maybe forever.

Today, after an excellent prompt administered by Miss Lilabet Johnstongil, i managed to whip about maybe the wittiest piece i had ever composed, one that i was actually proud of, entitled The Predicament of Monsieur Chapeau, Jr. The positive praise from teacher and students alike was more than enough to convince me that i really hadn't fallen into a rut at all, i just was a much better comic writer than an epic novelist. i definitely saw bits in my story that were largely inspired by A Fraction of The Whole, and i thank Steve Toltz for producing such an inspiring, humorous book that made me realize who i truly am as a writer. although i occasionally feel dumb and silly for composing funny pieces, it rarely bothers me, and i am truly satisfied with writing things that make people laugh.

so, back to that tears for fears song. it really is a mad world, because you'll never really know when your life will flip itself around and you'll find something you like. but that song is over now, and now my ipod's playing a-ha's "take on me". i guess there can't always be a song to spontaneously fit my mood.

The Issue With Siblings.

Yes, I know. This sounds like the latest television situation comedy about a lovingly dysfunctional family and their seventeen adopted children. Well, I'm sorry, friends, but that won't happen for a while, although it's secretly been my lifelong dream to make a sitcom. What I'm talking about is the popular theme in many books - siblings. In general, there's usually a tinge (or maybe something more than a tinge) of jealously and competitiveness between two, or three, or five brothers and/or sisters that is for the most part resolved happily in the ending. PHOOEY! This is not always how it works out. Take it from me, I'm fifty percent of a pair of twins, "A Fraction of the Whole", as it were. And Steve Toltz's book, that goes by the name of the phrase in the quotation marks, in case you didn't pick up on that, really does a righteous job of illuminating the true lives and conflicts that siblings face.

The two main characters featured in the novel, Martin and his younger brother Terry, are youngsters living in an uneventful town in Australia proclaimed affectionately by its people as "The Worst Place To Live in New South Wales". Or something like that. Whatever it may be, the point is that it's really an awful town and there's nothing much to do there but lie around in bed looking at the town's prison, or just cause trouble. Martin, who was in a ridiculously long coma while his younger son (of a different father) was being born, generally chooses the former option of preoccupying himself. His brother Terry, early in his life, would idolize his brother, imitating his ailments, until his father decides that he should turn his son onto sports. Terry soon becomes almost religiously addicted, praised by the entire town, until he gets stabbed in the leg and turns to "mucking about" in the town and traveling rapidly through a downwards spiral into a no-good criminal life.

At first, Martin tries to help his younger brother reconcile his life and drop his wanton crimes, yet Terry seems hopelessly devoted to the criminal life. There is a constant flame of competition burning in the metaphorical family fireplace that, let's face it, shall not be smothered by the water of peace. When Terry was the town's best athlete, Martin was shunned even further because of his bedridden past and was looked upon ever since as a grumpy, useless invalid who stares to much. People place tags on siblings, especially if they are of the same gender or age.

Honestly, it can sometimes be difficult being a twin. Many people associate me with my brother, saying things like "you look a lot like Ben", or "Oh right, you're Ben's sister". God, I hate that. And then I've probably heard the line "You're Ben's sister? But you look nothing like him! Well, now that I look at you, I guess you have the same nose..." People know me because of my twin. I'm really not someone who likes to grab a lot of attention, and I feel like Ben can act like a vacuum, sucking up the sappy affection and attention of everyone in the room. This is where most of our hidden rivalry sparks. When he struts about, singing Beatle's songs and strumming his guitar, a slew of eleven-year-old girls trailing after him like he was a prophet. And when he becomes famous, I'm known as being "the cool boy"'s sister, and people come up to me to praise him and gush about his excellence. As far as I know, I don't get much admiration. Me and Ben are like rocks. Ben is a plain grey rock on the outside, but when you bash him on the head, you'll find a valuable gem inside. Me...I'm still grey inside.

Ok, this post is really going nowhere and is turning into a dry, substance-less rant. The point I'm trying to make is that there will always be the sibling who achieves even the mildest fame, and then the other, no matter who they are, will immediately be brought down a level if they don't strive to compete with their siblings. This is sounding really dramatic, but I feel that it's true. A sibling's status largely depends on that of his brother or sister. YES! Finally, I have uncovered the big idea of this seemingly self-piteous blog post. Society can't seem to shake the popular misconception that families are one homogenous blob. Therefore, they like to make siblings seem like one person, sometimes. Ok, I'm making some assumptions here. But I feel like I'm viewed sometimes as the less-talented side of my brother. If I was an only child, things would be infinitely different because you really wouldn't have anyone to compare me too. Whoever is the twin of higher social status, that's the one you're expected to live up to. The fact that society views twins as being in a race to the top of the social bar is what fuels so much of our competition. It's offensive to be known by who your siblings are, and we feel that the only way to be known for who you are is being "famous". Oh my gosh, this post is going all over the place. I feel like I'm drunk! I'm not really, though. Sorry, readers.

I'm Sorry, Nicole Krauss.

She had recommended it to me, so I felt obliged to read it. Nicole Krauss's A History of Love. I tried. I tried to make myself like it. I really did. From the start, it sounded too much like a bad Jonathan Safran Foer knock-off. To me, she just missed the mark with this story. The language at first sounds beautiful and deep and unique and what everyone wants in a book, yet it gets too much after a while. Just an overusage of an attempt to be special and profound. The character of Leopold Gursky, with his frequent "and yet"s became an uncomfortably tedious life to follow and I felt unnerved just reading about him, as if the story was a strange man was sitting in the corner of my room, picking locks all day. Alma, to me, seemed a thoroughly unremarkable girl whose slightly obsessive list-like storytelling format became sort of obnoxious and made her side of the tale seem oddly professional and boring to read. The entire plot of the story seemed to swerve all over the place and the whole "long lost book/love" thing sounded like the all too frequent theme of so many of today's stories. I just couldn't sit with this book any longer - I found myself longing to venture back into the cabinet of our classroom and pull our something else. That's the worst thing to feel when you're reading something. And I feel guilty while writing this post. I know my teacher, who is an avid supporter of Miss Krauss, will read this, and might even be appalled by my harsh view of her book. I feel like I was supposed to like it. But I couldn't. I had to abandon it on the side of the metaphorical highway to the destination that all books hope to reach a place in the hall of fame of awesome books. But hey, now The History of Love can chill with Wuthering Heights in the ditch by Exit 3.

And on a lighter note, I am currently reading a book whose morbidly hysterical jokes will soon be featured on an "Annie's Favorite Quotes" list on the right side of my blog. Hurrah! Congratulations, A Fraction of The Whole (by Steve Toltz). You are well on your way to the mental hall of fame.

The Allure of Pictures and The Printed Word.

Capacity by Theo Ellsworth is by far the most beautiful book I have held in my hands, read, looked at, pondered, understood, not understood. A squarish, thick graphic novel that I stumbled upon in my favorite comic book store. Looks like any other little-known, arty book in the store. Upon closer inspection, the pages contain a marvel in the world graphic novels. Capacity. A freakish, fantastic world illustrated in back-and-white pen drawings, meticulously detailed, each square inch of intertwined, cross-hatched flat space a world in itself. An audacious attempt to illustrate the images that appear so frequently in the author's head. Characters banter mischievously throughout the pages of the book, among the myriad of dots and dashes that come together to form a congested mass of wildly imaginative scenery and action. Hand-written words that are so natural you can tell they just came out of someone's notebook. It's not condescending; it's simple. Language that has earned plaudits from journalists, writers and artists alike. You could spend hours deciphering one of the pictures, the beautiful universes that muddle together into an image that looks like a winding, lopsided dream. The book begins with a strange, robotic illustration, also featured on the cover, that the author describes as "the reader". You are immediately placed (gently) into this story as a creature that fits in, so when the giant, ever-changing friendly beast places you on the chair he has so thoughtfully strapped to his antlered head, you don't feel so strange. The author does what many seem to forget - he makes you a character in the tale, and frequently interrupts the story to apologize for the strangeness, saying things like "Oh, by the way, are you still doing okay? Thanks for sticking with me through all of this! Here, have some more imaginary tea!" The author presents himself as someone who is hospitable, friendly, and perfectly human. We grow to like the author. This is really what sets Capacity apart from other books of its kind. You are not merely thrown into the world of fantastic creatures, mysterious cities, dark streets, and cryptic wizards offering you magic glasses. You are told the author's story in such a way that you forget about the insanity. He switches on and off from telling the true stories of his abandoned projects and his experiences of living out of a car. He then goes back to his dream-like histories, a welcome break from his somewhat lonely and obsessive life. The book is a like a Russian doll, a story inside a story inside a story. You would be confused if not for the author's frequent check-ups.

I was trying to pick a book out at Bergen Street Comics that day. This was before I had laid eyes on Theo Ellsworth's book. There was one I'd been eyeing for a while, a beautifully illustrated, wordless hardcover called Weathercraft. But, as I always do, I decided I would keep looking for a bit before making a big decision. I was a little bit put off by the fact that there was no dialogue or narrative in the book. While the illustrations were stunning, the experience of "reading" the book was like being

blindfolded, then dropped out of a plane and into a forest where there's lots of squirrels and stuff. You can sort of get a gist of what's happening by piecing together what little information you gather from your surroundings, but there's really nothing there to relieve your maddening curiosity and awkward misplacement. Capacity has a certain allure because of its conversation-like narratives and totally unpretentious descriptions, with an equally amazing supply of intriguing pictures. Sorry if I'm over-using corny analogies, but reading Capacity is like eating a chocolate bar with nuts in it or something else kind of chunky. Every bite of chocolaty sweetness is broken by a textural freakout of something else. A perfect balance and equilibrium between chocolate and nuts, words and pictures. Both are deliciously enjoyable, and this is what makes Capacity an incredible book.

There's No Looking Back Once It's Over

I know the feeling, even if I'm not "old". You're running out of time. You have a math test next period and the minutes swoop by your head, like vultures, mocking your anxiety. You're about to graduate from middle school to be passed on to the new life of high school. Whatever it is, every single day, we run out of time. The issue becomes more frequent as you grow older. More responsibilities, more tasks to complete. Your years are dwindling, and as you reach your senior citizen years, you are faced with the truth: in a relatively short period of time, you're going to die. It's a frightening realization, but yes, it has to be faced. We all spend our last years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds, in different ways. For Leo Gursky in Nicole Krauss's The History of Love, he wants to spend his time on Earth being seen. To have everyone know that he was indeed living, and for one second know who he is. He wants to impact the people of New York because that's the only way that he will die feeling satisfied.

Some people live to be seen. They believe that is the purpose of life, to affect everyone they can and leave their mark on the Earth. But do you really need to be seen to make your mark? Is doing something mindless and unpleasant just because you think its the "right thing to do" the best way to spend the rest of your life?

I once saw this old movie called Last Holiday. Of course we had to make a second version starring Queen Latifah fifty six years later, but that's not the one I'm referring to. It's about this man who hears he's going to die in a very short period of time. The man goes out and spends all his money and is totally happy, feeling better than he ever has before. In the end, it turns out that the doctor mixed up two people's tests and that the man isn't really going to die at all. By now he has no money left, but he's made new friends and had the time of his life.

To me, this is the way to spend the rest of your life. You don't have to treat it as if you're about to die because you don't feel anything when you're dead. It's not like a math test, where you nervously anticipate it all day and feel the "I did so badly" feeling when it's done. When you're dead, you can't look back and think to yourself, "I did so badly". Why try to prove yourself and make yourself huge and important when you can just be happy? You only live once, and when it's over, it's over. Be happy while you're alive, and make some mistakes, because there's no looking back once it's over. Why do people feel badly about their mistakes? Why have we created a heaven and a hell? To prevent those mistakes. To scare people into being good, and because we can't bear the thought of not living at all. But I think that sometimes life is just one big mistake, and that we can improve it by simply being happy. I think you should just do what you want in life, and you shouldn't worry about the screw-ups because you won't be able to look back on them.

Leo Gursky is wasting his last years! He doesn't really want to be seen. The things that make him happy are his friends. Let's face it - after someone looks at him for a moment, they forget about him. Life isn't about making yourself known, it's about enjoying it while you can.

A Poem: Sudden Idea That Needed Posting.

Parted lips, heavily painted a shining red

she is beautiful

eyes so clear like a blue lake

you can peer all the way in

if you look hard enough

you can even see the bottom

although it is blurry

she likes cool music

her brain is molded into the shape of a daisy

she smells like fancy hand cream

the kind i want to buy

and when she dies

her body will still look young and supple

we will cut her open

we could even do it with a butter knife

her skin so delicate

and we will see her ribcage

empty

nothing but brittle bones shaped like a jail cell

no prisoner inside

no, heart was set free long ago

never to return

only one cloud of smoke will lift from that

beautiful,

empty,

chest

bearing the words

AT LAST.

and then it will fade away in an instant

fusing with the vapor from my english breakfast tea.

Being Futterman.

The name is not elegant: sounds like too-heavy stones being chucked into a murky lake filled with seaweed. Each syllable a new rock tossed. Futt-plop-er-plop-man-plop. It does not roll off the tongue, as words like effervescence or lemon do, delicately sliding out of your vocal cords like honey. Lemon is my favorite word, with lethargic being a close second. Neither sound anything like Futterman, which is too thick and too Jewish and sounds fat and unhealthy, I can feel my arteries clogging up as I say it. It isn't a movie star's name - I can't picture it being featured on a big poster: Starring Tom Hanks and Annie Futterman. It isn't glamorous. I couldn't be famous, or maybe I could if I was willing to change my last name to Lemon. But I'm not willing. It's not pride or family legacy that I'm concerned about. I just feel as if my appearance fits the name well. Slow and awkward and Jewish. I don't sound like lemon - lemon sounds like someone stingy and tart and flirty and Christian, and I am anything but. So changing my last name would be wrong, because no other name could sum up me, Annie, so well as the not-so-pretty Futterman.

She Drags You In By Your Feet. Wow, That Metaphorical Grip Is Really Strong.

As a fickle Futterman it is often extremely hard for me to find books that I truly enjoy. Most books I read are ones that I am really into at first, then the interest trickles down to a slow drip of thought, then diminishes altogether and I usually end up reading once a week for fifteen minutes at a time, or simply abandoning the book altogether. My list of consistently awesome books follows as such:

The Harry Potter Series

The His Dark Materials Series

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

The Hunger Games

Looking For Alaska

And I'm trying to think of others, but honestly, guys, it's hard. And this is why I often consider myself as someone who doesn't like reading. To me, a good book is something absolutely wonderful, yet a bad book can be a hellish experience to read. How do I know if a book is good or not? Recommendations and blurbs are not enough. I'd actually have to read the book! Books, although made of just paper, are frightening things to me. They can be brazenly passionate, horrifyingly grotesque, wonderfully compelling, or awfully and unbearably boring. I would rather not take the risk of stumbling across a bad book.

However. I had just had a hard experience with the book Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. It was long, it was very detailed, and it could be painfully monotonous at times. Yes, I know it's a classic, but that doesn't make it good, people. I abandoned it, as was inevitable. And so, I went venturing into Ms. Robbins' "Grown-Up Closet", as it is affectionately called by me, to find another book. I was attracted by the brightly colored, brand-new, dust-jacket-still-intact books, yet none seemed so compelling to me besides their seductive outer layers. Need I quote the saying?

The name Cisneros caught my eye at that point, and I immediately associated it with The House on Mango Street, one of my favorite books of short stories. I decided to pick it up and give it a try. The cover, while at first unappealing, attracted me because of its poetic and grammatically incorrect title, Woman Hollering Creek. Checking it out, I immediately opened it up and read the first beautiful lines of "My Lucy Friend Who Smells Like Corn". These lines are like no other - while similar to The House on Mango Street, they seem rawer, more rough-cut and deeper. Harder to swallow, to digest. Some of these two, three page stories are charmingly innocent, telling tales of Southern childhoods, ones that all children can connect to. They are nostalgic and told with a voice that is so complex that it sounds like both a child and a grandmother are narrating.

However. Some of these stories are filled with white-hot passion, experiences so intense that they are just barely hinted at. An indulgence, something that you feel like you shouldn't really be reading, but you want to anyway. The tragic love stories that just seem all to common and regular in Sandra's world. Cisneros does not over-glorify these moments, nor does she create women who are faultless and perfect. A relief from the overly-glamorous females in books and movies today. These stories, both the childhood tales and the moments of love, are brutally honest, with no detail or aspect dumbed down or sugar coated. Nothing really works out perfectly, yet the reader is always satisfied with the story's turnout. None of the characters are flawless and their dialogue is often crude and rough, yet somehow it always comes out perfect.

To me, this is what makes the stories in Woman Hollering Creek so appealing. There is a perfect equilibrium between honesty and charm, between mistake and happy endings. Sandra's writing does not make the reader feel either superior or inferior - we are completely at level with her characters. Although I haven't had the same experiences as these women and men and children in this book, the way Sandra tells the story is almost like she is dragging us into our world, sometimes against our will, so we truly can have these moments in our mind, and we can connect so deeply to these characters.

That's why this book is going on my list of consistent books. It's because the author is so skilled as to have the ability to bring the reader into her world, and not let go until the book is over. And even then, we still have that aftershock lingering in between our bones.

Do you know the feeling I'm describing? Are there any books you've read that offer the same sensation as Woman Hollering Creek? Comment and tell me what you think.

UNINSPIRATION.

Maybe it's because it's raining, or because my muscles are stiff with cold, or because I've listened to this Cornershop album too many times. I don't know. But I feel as if my brain has been pulverized into a mushy substance, swallowed by the monster of Bland-Land, and then spit back up again through my ear and back into my empty cranium where it's sadly rattling away and making the sound that a single dime makes when it's sitting, lonely, in your tin can bank. In other words, I'm running short of ideas.

I feel as if I am living in a world surrounded by talented people, like shining pieces of gold, and I'm that rock that accidentally got mixed in with the bunch. Why have I been placed in this community of wonderful writers? Why do I feel like none of my work is worth entering into a contest? Because it's not! Because my work is unoriginal, it's bland, it's unpleasant, and it never turns our the way I want it to. I look at my work and say, blech, you are bad. It's like white bread - fake, with no nutritional value and full of fluff and air. Why am i using so many analogies? I want to write something subtle and impressive but what comes out is like an attempt to copy someone else's work that just missed the mark. No ideas are coming to me and I bang my head on the table in such grief. How do these writers think of such lovely subjects to write about? I'm in a funk and I can't get out.

I need to eat something fattening.

i hate babies.

No, I am not cold, and I am not heartless...I just don't like them. The way they stare at me with their big, undeveloped, watery eyes, they have no manners. The way they must be fed by their mothers who attempt to force smiles and funny faces to make those little poison dumplings STOP CRYING ALREADY. The crying is by far the worst part. There's a baby that lives next door to me and her room is perpendicular to mine, and I hear her cry all night and sometimes I just want to stuff a sock in her mouth! Gosh! It's like, of all the things in the world to cry about, you cry about not being able to use the bathroom by yourself or because you're hungry or whatever. So thoughtless! Horrible things.

My theory, you ask? Gladly! Well. I think that immediately after the baby has been delivered and "tidied up", they must be put in large boxes, but not too large, and then shipped off to a baby processing plant in East Cambodia where they will live and develop under strict baby rules until they have reached a state of maturity and have earned their "I'm a Big Kid Now" diplomas INCLUDING the Futterman Seal of Approval. Then, and only then, will I accept a baby to be in the presence of myself. Until this happens, which will be soon since I am sending my proposal to the Baby Haters Union, I will look upon those tiny creatures with malice, and steal candy from them.

Know Thy Family

I can't get that stupid song by Sonny and Cher out of my head - "I Got You Babe". It came up on my iPod's shuffle setting and I've been humming the chorus all afternoon. God, what a terrible song.

But I've been trying to think of a blog post that relates to social justice in my book - I usually post blog entires a few days before, always eager to type up a new idea. But this week, I was a bit stuck when faced with this assignment. But when that Sonny and Cher song played, it all sort of came to me.

The song is basically about these lovers who are like "we're sort of poor, and people are telling us that we're too young to love each other, but we're happy because we have one another". Aw, so cute. But this made me think of the main theme of Wuthering Heights - love. And the importance of it. We've just been introduced to Isabella Linton and Heathcliff's son, Linton - a sallow, sickly, spoiled creature who sits in his furred cloak by the fire all day, wallowing in his own self pity. His mother, Isabella, has never mentioned Heathcliff to Linton because they're not together anymore. But Isabella dies, and Linton has no place to go but to his stranger of a father, Heathcliff, who he's quite afraid of.

This is definitely not the first time we've seen issues like these in novels and stories, but I am always appalled at them whenever a story mentions it. I can barely comprehend what it must be like to never know your father or mother, and then to suddenly meet them without any warning. To me, it is absolute cruelty for a parent to hide a child's relations from them. A relation is more important than many people think - especially someone as close to you as a mother or father. To keep a child away from that is to deprive them of the knowledge of where they came from and who they came from and what qualities have been passed down from father or mother to son or daughter.

A parent's love is like none other - it cannot be duplicated, forged, or found anywhere else besides its inhabitance in the heart of a mother or father. No matter how much you try to separate father and son, there will forever be a link between the two souls that won't break, because this child is a part of you. It's disturbing to think of Linton's situation with Healthcliff - he must have been absolutely appalled to find out that this gruff, vulgar man was his father. If only he had been raised with Healthcliff, Linton would not have to suffer the metal torment instilled upon him by the shock of meeting his father for the first time.

Isabella has hidden Heathcliff's identity because she is disgusted by his behavior and ashamed of the fact that she created a child with him. That's understandable, but I don't think she's making any attempt to see the situation from Linton's point of view. I think that the entire trio of characters would all be much better off if they had all known each other from the start - for several reasons. Heathcliff would have raised the child in a better way, and kept it from turning into a pale, slimy weakling as Isabella has done. Little Linton would not have the surprise of such a man as his father, and can you just imagine the mental state the poor child must be in? He's so weak already.

In short, I believe that one of the big social issues in this story is the separation of child and parent. It can be incredibly upsetting and troubling for both the son and the father, or daughter and mother, to meet their child which they have never even seen before. As Sonny and Cher express in their song, love is utterly important and extremely powerful. Especially the love of a parent. It's a bond that will never break and must not be disguised. To deprive a child of the knowledge of their family is the cruelest form of torture, and can be such a harrowing experience to a family as time goes one.

Know your parents.

dad has a blog?

I didn't even know he knew how to work a computer. Just kidding, but really, my dad has never been particularly tech-savvy. I believe it was my mother who suggested the revolutionary notion to my father, and I knew he had been reluctant to do it for a while. But he's finally started, and regularly updating it - that is, when under the watchful eye of Mother Futterman.

My dad is a freelance music writer - mostly for jazz. He used to work full time for Barnes and Noble.com, until he got laid off one or two years ago. Since then, my mother has been attempting to "put him out there" in order for magazines and up-and-coming musicians to find him on the internet. It was only until recently that I ventured to check out his blog, "Can You Tell Me A Story?". I had asked him why it was called this and he said it had something to do with jazz, and that I would have to read his blog to know. Frankly, I had no interest in reading about a genre that I had next to no interest about. But this week, I skimmed over his posts and found that he truly was a great bloggist.

But for some reason I found it slightly embarrassing to read his writing...he sounded different on the internet. Not bad or anything...just more eloquent, and he sounded so much more learned in the subject of music. I felt almost like I was violating his diary, and i quickly logged out.

I'm proud of my father for adapting to the world of bloggists so quickly. I love that he is getting exited about his blog and putting his talent out there. But I'm apprehensive about seeing the bloggy side of him. Blogs give us this whole new freedom to adopt a new voice and a new personality, and to me, that freedom is frightening. I wonder if I scare people on my blog.

http://canyoutellmeastory.blogspot.com/

Talk to Your Analyst - Isn't That What They're Paid For?

Lately I've been revisiting some of my favorite artists and their best albums. On this reminiscent mission, I've stumbled upon disc one of a Talking Heads Greatest Hits Album, strangely titled Sand in the Vaseline. I listened to one of my favorite songs on that record - No Compassion, originally on the Talking Head's debut album, Talking Heads: 77. This is one of the many reasons why I love David Byrne - he's brutally honest and can come off to some people as just plain rude in many of his songs. Take these lyrics - "Why are you in love with your problems? I think you take it a little to far. It's not so cool to have so many problems, but don't expect me to explain your indecision. Talk to your analyst - isn't that what they're paid for? You walk, you talk, you still function like you used to! It's not a question of your personality or style! Be a little more selfish, it might do you some good!" I think everyone can relate to David Byrne's rant against always having to care about everyone else's problems. In fact, he's not being rude at all. "In a world where people have problems, in this world, where decisions are a way of life, other people's problems, they overwhelm my mind, they say compassion is a virtue - but I don't have the time." We're all busy, and it sort of stinks to have to care about other people sometimes. I don't always have the time to think about other people's problems, but when I do, it really stresses me out. This song makes me laugh every time I hear it, but mostly because you really wouldn't expect those kind of lyrics in any kind of song.

Talking Heads are one of the most influential rock groups of the late seventies and early eighties, and I think this song really exemplifies that talent that the group possesses. David Byrne's unique voice that doesn't have much range gives all the songs a totally different meaning. The strange sounds stimulated by electric guitars and songs about unexpected topics such as which city they should live in or dancey songs about burning houses make them a group like no other. Revisiting their greatest hits made me realize all over again how great they were.

The Mystery of the Mysterious Mystery Man. (Ben, please don't make fun of me)

So I went to a tour of Brooklyn Tech the other day. I arrived a bit late, and the first thing that I noticed upon entering the auditorium was not the 3000 seats, nor the 100-foot stage...no, the first thing I noticed was a gorgeous, tall boy standing at the front of the immense room. His dark, unruly hair and mysterious features made me think one thing - this is Heathcliff. Heathcliff, my one and only literary love, has been reincarnated and sent back to me in the form of a cute adolescent boy! *cue cliched teenage squeals* EEEEE!!!!

But this story isn't exactly the point of this post. After I left the building and went to Junior's to eat some cheesecake, I was filled with this strange sense of slight melancholy, but mostly confusion. Mulling over a cup of coffee and vanilla cheesecake, I asked myself the same questions again and again - why was I attracted to that boy? Why are we, as women, captivated by the dark and mysterious male figure? Why are we repelled by the slightly feminine, wimpy, blond men, like Edgar Linton? Why am I so in love with Heathcliff, a cruel and hard character?

For me (I'm not sure about anyone else), it's exciting to take risks with the people you love. To delve into the enigma of the mystery man is to venture into a dark cave, hoping to find something valuable. Isabella was drawn to Heathcliff because of his frighteningly good looks. What she found when she married him was a cold and slightly selfish man who did not know how to be affectionate towards someone he really disliked. I believe that he married Isabella not only on impulse, but to test her mental strength and see if she could really handle his equivocal disposition. Isabella didn't know what she was getting into. She was fascinated by Heathcliff and wanted to experience the dangers of his love. She, being so young and foolish, didn't know what love was. Well, she learned the hard way. Hah. That's what you get, wimp.

Cathy is in love with Heathcliff, obviously, because she knows him. Heathcliff has been frowned upon his entire young life, and viewed as a "ragamuffin" and a "gypsy". Only Catherine, who has been exposed to his personality and character for much of her life, has a deep sympathy and understanding towards him, although she may smother it in the company of more prestigious figures, such as the Lintons. But she finally, much too late in the book, discovers that she and Heathcliff share an amazing bond that will never break. They have faced the same hardships, laughed at and taunted the same people, and know each other's secrets. Cathy has realized that she, too, possesses a dark side like Heathcliff's. She disguises it for the most part, but it will never go away. This is how she realizes she loves Heathcliff. Isabella does not possess a dark side because she doesn't have a particularly dark past. Heathcliff and Catherine share the same past, which means they possess similar shades of black in their internal color spectrum.

I believe that women are attracted to mysterious men because their presence reminds women that they themselves do indeed have a dark side. This realization is liberating because we as females usually like to hide this more dismal side, as Cathy does, in order to come off as charming and cheerful towards the people we are attracted to. The Mysterious Mystery Man gives us no feelings to hide. We don't need to disguise our sadness or anger or vengefulness in front of them because they understand that. People like Edgar Linton seem just too innocent. We don't want to wear masks in front of the people we love.

By the way, it turns out that the cute Heathcliff-esque kid at Brooklyn Tech was in NO WAY mysterious or Heathcliffy, besides in his looks. He was President of the student body or something, and a total dork. *sigh*. So much for a reincarnation of my book crush.

my mouth's a burning pit of agony.

i got some little grape flavored waxy dots covering my sharp upper teeth. take them off and the inside of my lips become swollen and inflamed. I can barely eat-biting into anything remotely hard feels like someone's taking a white-hot poker and jamming it into my delicate, precious gums. yes. it's true.

eating, the one reason why i have to slightest amount of motivation in the morning to wake up, has now become the most unpleasant experience imaginable. and you know what? they don't sell damn pudding cups at the deli. i feel like an old lady who can't never get what she wants. that's bad, by the way.

braces. they've ventured up from the festering armpits of hell and have been applied to my mandibles by devilish orthodontic minions. it hurts to talk or smile or open my mouth. and they're blue. blue, small, painful, cold and metallic. like my heart. and my only consolation is listening to loud funk music from the seventies. for the love of god, why don't i just move to england where bad teeth are smiled (crookedly) upon and there's no such thing as an orthodontist? i think i will. good bye, incredibly judgmental america, i'm leaving you alone to enjoy your dental monstrosities without me. enjoy!

let me into your window!

During my month-long stay at summer camp, I happened to hear a song at a karaoke party that was like none other I had heard before - "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush, from the album "The Kick Inside". The song is painfully corny and ridiculous, with an even more goofy music video. Nonetheless, I immediately fell in love with the singer, prancing around in a white billowy dress, and I loved the song even more. That's the main reason why I was so compelled to read Emily Brontë's classic, which the song was named after. I wanted to find out what had driven Kate Bush to write such an unexpected song, and how the lyrics corresponded to the actual book. Before I go any further, though, here's the lyrics so you can get better acquainted with the song:

Out on the wiley, windy moors
We'd roll and fall in green
You had a temper, like my jealousy
Too hot, too greedy
How could you leave me?
When I needed to possess you?
I hated you, I loved you too

Bad dreams in the night
They told me I was going to lose the fight
Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights

(Chorus) Heathcliff, its me, Cathy come home
I'm so cold, let me in-a-your window

Oh it gets dark, it gets lonely
On the other side from you
I pine alot, I find the lot
Falls through without you
I'm coming back love, cruel Heathcliff
My one dream, my only master

Too long I roam in the night
I'm coming back to his side to put it right
I'm coming home to wuthering, wuthering,
Wuthering Heights

(Chorus)
Oh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
Oh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
You know it's me, Cathy
(Chorus)

Well, that certainly is an interesting song. I'm only half done with the book, but I have a pretty good idea of which parts of the book Kate is referring to. She touches on the major parts of the story, from Catherine's jealousy of Heathcliff's kissing Isabella, to her never-ending love for him, even if she is married. It mentions Heathcliff and Cathy's childhood friendship at the beginning, and she calls him "cruel Heathcliff" at one point in the song, which is how Catherine sometimes refers to him in the book. This makes me wonder why there aren't any more songs about such passionate love stories.

To me, love stories are perfect for putting music to. I feel that music is so much easier to connect to than a complex novel - for me, at least. I have a passion for music, and this song made me appreciate the art of song writing even more. Songs are such a good way of communicating difficult opinions or ideas to people. Everyone can listen to a song and appreciate it tune, and some people can truly understand its lyrics as well, which is so important since many songs try to express a deeper message or meaning. I love how Kate Bush sums up the main ideas of the story in a simple song.

I also think that it's important to express different aspects of culture in songs. Kate Bush does a wonderful job of introducing this wonderful book to a large audience in a way that gives them the context of the story and displays the passion of the book. I don't know about the other listeners, but this song made me want to read the story.

Kate Bush is obviously incredibly ambitious and talented artist. She was smart to write a love song based on a book. Maybe she didn't have a love story of her own to share in a song, so she took someone else's. That what makes the song so unique.

see the music video here...

borges! the giver! conexión? quizá!

I've been doing some on-and-off reading of a collection of short fiction stories by Jorge Luis Borges, an Argentine writer who wrote this particular compilation of fictions from the mid forties to the early eighties. Today, during project real, I happened to stumble upon a very short tale (about two pages long) called "The Mirror of Ink". It's about a sorcerer who is in the captivity of a cruel governor of Sudan, Yakub the Afflicted, and attempts to let the governor spare his life by showing him magic tricks. The sorcerer shows the governor an elaborate display in which he pours a pool of ink into the hand of the Afflicted one, and gives him the ability to see anything he wishes reflected in the "mirror of ink" (title! yes! i know!). First, the governor asks to see a wild horse. however, after he witnesses the creature's beauty, he wants to see the whole world and all the wonders of it. This is where i began to connect this story to the giver. remember when jonas experiences his first memory of sledding? he wants to see so much more...but he doesn't know what he's getting himself into. hm.

anyway. back to the story. eager to please his cruel master, the sorcerer shows him all the wonders of the world:

"Thus day by day did he make demands upon my skill, and thus day by day did i show him the appearances of this world. That dead man who i abominate held within his hand all that dead men have seen and all that living men see: the cities, climes, and kingdoms into which this world is divided, the hidden treasures of its center, the ships that sail its seas, its instruments of war and music and surgery, its graceful women, its fixed stars and planets, the colors taken up by the infidel to paint his abominable images...he beheld these things impossible to describe, such as streets illuminated by gaslight and such as the whale that dies when it hears man's voice. Once he commanded me to show him the city men call Europe. I showed him the grandest of its streets and i believe that it was in that rushing flood of men, all dressed in black and many wearing spectacles, that he saw for the first time the Masked One..."

(by the way, the "Masked One" refers to a short story that appears earlier in the book, called "Hakim, the Masked Dyer of Merv". the story is about a veiled man who claims he is a prophet, and that viewing his face will make anyone blind because he was so radiant. he gains many followers and worshippers, but at the end of the story, the people who never believed him to be a saint force him to remove his mask and discover him to be a hideous creature, face mutilated with leprosy. they kill him. he is possibly, according to my theories, a symbol for several things, including vanity, fraud, false hopes...among other things.)

Ok, is anyone seeing a connection to Lois Lowry's The Giver? i am. the cruel governor is very much like jonas - curious, ignorant and oblivious, eager to learn yet not understanding the consequences. the sorcerer is similar to the giver - he has no choice but to satisfy the "receiver" by giving him all the memories possible - even if they're painful.

Which brings me to the second part of the Borges tale - when the governor asks to see images like death - and worse - it turns out that what's keeping the afflicted one constantly gazing into the mirror of ink (title! again!) is his desire to have the masked man that has been constantly appearing in the incantations revealed, then killed. The sorcerer pleads and begs the governor to change his mind, because viewing the masked one's face is a sin, and there would surely be no good to come out of it...yet the afflicted one insists, and the sorcerer has no choice but to oblige.

When the governor finally views the image of the unmasked man, he is shocked and horrified to find that the veiled man possesses the same face as he, the governor. He is hypnotized to the mirror, addicted to its fantastic images, yet now he wishes he could back away and take his eyes off. but he can't. when the sword is finally raised to the masked man's neck, as the governor had wished, and he is killed, the governor collapses, dead as well.

Why does this remind me of the giver so much? there are clearly some HUGE connections in these two texts. i happen to find it fascinating that Borges's tale is told from the giver's point of view as opposed to the receiver's. although jonas does not die at the end of the story due to the memories, he does suffer some severe consequences, and also almost faces death. this short story has given me a whole new perspective on Lois Lowry's book. i find these connections amazing, and slightly disturbing, but fascinating nonetheless. cool.

if you have been tempted to read the entire story of "the mirror of ink", you should. it's a beautifully written piece that is well worth the time taken to read it.

wow. sorry. sudden urge to post this.

alright, so i know that it's sort of really, really late for me to be getting into this song, and yes, i know, this is the song by radiohead that EVERYONE knows, but i just cannot stop listening to radiohead's masterpiece of music, "creep".

every time i press the replay button on itunes and thom yorke starts crooning these twisted lyrics into my ears...i feel like i'm going to cry. i don't know...it must be the beautiful, horribly bittersweet chords mixed with the brutally honest lyrics, but there is something about this song that makes me feel like i have to roll myself into a ball and swallow myself and lie in darkness. there's some sick pleasure in listening to this song. i feel the singer's pain as i hear the lyrics. i think a truly great song can do this. i can connect so deeply to this song. i know what i'm writing doesn't sound very deep...but i just can't convey my feelings for this song. i fall in love with thom yorke every single time i hear it.

listen and watch, please. beautiful.

those sick lies contain some truth.

i just finished the giver yesterday and i was totally blown away. the book is about a "utopian" society, even though everybody knows that utopian societies always turn out to be dystopian, so i guess the book is set in a dystopian society. anyway. no one can see color, no one has feelings, and so on. everything is "perfectly organized". Every year, at a special ceremony, the twelve year olds in the community are given assignments, which are the jobs they will hold for their entire lives until they become elders. our main character, jonas, is assigned the incredibly important job of "receiver of memories", in which he must receive memories of color, feelings, etcetera, etcetera...basically, the things that no one else in the community, besides the giver of memories, knows. Jonas is very scared at first, especially because it is such an honored job, and he was told that there would be physical pain involved. when jonas receives the memories, he is shocked at the wonderful colors and other nice memories that no one else gets to experience, and begins to feel rebellious and angry towards the community and how they hold everyone back from both pain and pleasure.

right, so everyone's reading the giver and everyone's getting all weepy-weepy and saying to themselves, oh no, why they killin' babies yo? and yes, there's no doubt that what they are doing is absolutely, totally sick and wrong, but don't you think they might have reasons for isolating the community and keeping them "totally safe"?

my group started talking today about this issue, and the question of why the community is depriving everyone of all the memories. we said that if you wanted to take away pain, you had to take away pleasure, because the two things go hand in hand. if you want to take away heartbreak and sadness, you have to take away love. i don't think jonas really understands how hard it is to find control. the leaders of the community just make it easier by taking away every feeling. the citizens don't know what they're missing because they've never seen or heard of any of the wonderful (or horrendous) things that jonas has seen.

would a world of complete and utter oblivion just be better? would it be better to not have feelings, or things to trouble you, or complete fairness? the citizens of the community seem to think so.

and think about what jonas finds when he escapes-wilderness, complete lack of food, cold, and no shelter. this is exactly what the community was keeping him from! what's good about starvation? many people would argue that you need to have memories and knowledge of fear, and courage, and color, but why? in a perfect world, you'll never be faced with anything dangerous. why do you need color to survive? why do you need art, or music? these people don't care about adding excitement or interest to their lives. all they care about is eating, and working, and sleeping, and staying alive. all those things are taken care of.

what's the point of living, though, if you have no interests? isn't the point of life to experience many different things, to impact other peoples' lives in a dramatic, important way? the people in this "perfect world" are living utterly pointless lives. they're living in a box, totally closed off from the entire world. why do they live anyway? they are useless beings who shove all of their issues and memories and strong desires that could "cause problems" on this one poor, decrepit old man who can barely contain them without having extreme mental breakdowns. it's unfair to dump all your problems on one person, or group of people, at that.

the point of living is to experience pain, and experience problems, and experience the hardships of life. the point of life is to experience every single thing the world has to offer, otherwise, why would we be living on earth anyway? life means to experience joy and love and even the tiniest things like color. everything life throws at you, you've got to absorb, take in, and simply have that experience.

the characters in the giver are being controlled like robots, living pointless, stupid lives, and wasting their time on earth. they aren't experiencing life, and the world, and the wonders and pains of it all. they are not living, and only jonas and the giver have the power to end it all. the citizens know that. they just don't want to live because they're scared of life.

so, how do you end a blog post anyway?

what? a blog? why a blog? i've actually never had any intention of making any kind of blog, nor to join the world of bloggers, or bloggists, or whatever your young-people lingo calls those who post things on internet sites. humph. so let's get one thing straight, bubs, this thing's giving me the creeps, so don't blame me if i have rather half-hearted "posts". there's something so cold and...insincere about writing things on the internet. i mean, who knows that it's actually me, annie futterman, writing this post? well, of course it is, but you never know. anyway. i can see this entry really isn't going anywhere, and i mostly wrote it just to see how it looked on my blog, and i think it'll look pretty sweet. ok, i guess i have to admit that i'm pretty stoked to make a blog. the fame! the glory! the freedom! the excitement of posting writing on the world wide web, for everyone to see! im getting a tiny adrenaline rush just writing this. wow. so, how are you supposed to end a blog post anyway? i mean, should i end with cute little punctuation faces or something? i'm pretty handy with those. hm. maybe i should just say goodbye. yes, that sounds quite fitting. alright.

goodbye, fellow bloggists. see you next post.