These last couple of weeks have all been about goodbyes (and pretending to do my directed study work)-- from signing "Have a nice life!" in yearbooks or otherwise treating yearbook entries as confessionals. But instead of these trite little farewells, lit has helped us go out with our grand last lectures. And here are my thoughts:
I'm sorry if I ever gave the impression that I disrespected anyone in my last lecture (as some of you might have gathered). I don't think I could ever give an accurate view of my life up until now without an existentialist perspective. It's not that I hate religion or that I'm scared of it. It's that it has just never played a role in my life. And I'm sorry for those who thought my lecture was depressing because it wasn't meant to be. I'm not sure where I would be in life if I couldn't sit back and remark on all of its irony. I look inside myself for strength, and mostly I laugh really hard for hours. But that's just me.
On a grander note, I was overall under-whelmed with our presentations. Not because I think you guys are boring (haha, I know I know, I'm really boring) but because of how the project was presented to us. I get the feeling that most of us didn't really open up during our speeches, and the one's who did almost couldn't go anywhere with it. I want to say it's because of you Ms. Marcy. I'm sorry. I felt that you could have opened up to us more, and maybe we could have opened up to you. That also doesn't mean we had to give sob stories to make a point. We just had to be real, and maybe we felt that we couldn't be real because if we did, you might not agree with it.
After sitting in on Ms. Clinch's class lectures I began to realize that everyone in their class was a family bonded together by their teacher, whose open life inspired interest. They were able to communicate freely, most not needing powerpoints, and some using -gasp- bad language to get their messages across. I hate that, for some reason, I was never able to connect with our reading or grow as a writer. And now that it's over, I can gladly say I won't miss lit class.
So farewell lit class. Farewell blog. It was nice knowin' ya (but you never really did know me).
Cleo 5-7
AP Literature
Monday, May 23, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Goodbye Regal!
I quit my job. I can't tell if it's because I really just hate Regal or because I think myself so above a minimum wage job that I gave into my instincts and said F--- the world (Ms. Marcy, please don't kill me, I can't hold back any longer, this is how I talk in the real world). But there is a deeper reason. Every time I work I get the feeling that the harder I work, the more the company makes, the less I ever see a dime of that money (and I can't accept tips) and the more customers snap at me for reasons unknown except for the fact that they need someone to snap at, and why not me, the worthless minimum wage employee?
Or it's more than That. It's that every time a customer opts to buy three small popcorns instead of one large tub, I die a little inside, "Do you know how dumb you are? I want to pity you but I can't because I'm too busy pitying myself for watching this." and of course, my managers tell us to push more. More. Make them buy, make them love you, make them drink the Regal juice, or just the half-filled cup of instant coffee that our machine cranks out after you spit into the top of it (we don't really do that, but sometimes I am nice and press the button twice-- but only if you happen to be a cripple).
And then the intervention. The life intervention. The only analogy or explanation for this intervention I can find is Mersault, the day his boss promotes him, or more accurately, the time he is on trial for his entire life's misdeeds. The conversation went something like this, "We really like you. You're a really strong employee. But lately we have noticed your apathetic attitude. You don't upsell or push the Two for Ten combo. If you really hate it here, we suggest we quit before we fire you." What I'm really thinking, "Honestly, we sent you to Paris and back and you don't care anymore." So yeah, the real reason I quit my job? I sacrificed wonderful, carefree weekends and lovely, snow covered holidays to save for France. I did everything for Regal except lick the hot dog buns to keep them from growing stale. And then I got to France, I was in Paris, it was all happening-- and the same consumerism that sends me into a blind rage every time I am behind a register made a comeback again-- that these awful teenage girls would rather sit in a shopping mall and wander around drinking nutella shots (I am talking about myself here) than visit the catacombs. Or that our tour guide would have the audacity to forget to check the schedule for the Louvre. Or that I could spend a year of my time drained into Regal with the prospect of something better, that when I got something disappointing, I couldn't stomach the punch-drunk stained walls or the plush acid-trip carpeting because, quite frankly, I don't care anymore. So I quit.
And guess what? It made me happy. For those two seconds I was inscribing my initials on to my two weeks notice and throwing the shirt over my back, to the minutes I sat in my car and thought, "Holy S--- I'm broke" But that's okay because today I applied to the Tilted Kilt (Scottish themed Hooters) and I am honestly excited for a change.
p.s. Ms. Marcy-- after that speech you gave us today, I thought about how irresponsible I am/was because my dad does not have a job and neither does my mom, so right now we are hippies. And I kind of can't wait for college when I can just be a hippy. I guess the best thing to do would be to invest in a Kindle now because at some point before these next four years are up, my text books will be available online for three bucks.
Or it's more than That. It's that every time a customer opts to buy three small popcorns instead of one large tub, I die a little inside, "Do you know how dumb you are? I want to pity you but I can't because I'm too busy pitying myself for watching this." and of course, my managers tell us to push more. More. Make them buy, make them love you, make them drink the Regal juice, or just the half-filled cup of instant coffee that our machine cranks out after you spit into the top of it (we don't really do that, but sometimes I am nice and press the button twice-- but only if you happen to be a cripple).
And then the intervention. The life intervention. The only analogy or explanation for this intervention I can find is Mersault, the day his boss promotes him, or more accurately, the time he is on trial for his entire life's misdeeds. The conversation went something like this, "We really like you. You're a really strong employee. But lately we have noticed your apathetic attitude. You don't upsell or push the Two for Ten combo. If you really hate it here, we suggest we quit before we fire you." What I'm really thinking, "Honestly, we sent you to Paris and back and you don't care anymore." So yeah, the real reason I quit my job? I sacrificed wonderful, carefree weekends and lovely, snow covered holidays to save for France. I did everything for Regal except lick the hot dog buns to keep them from growing stale. And then I got to France, I was in Paris, it was all happening-- and the same consumerism that sends me into a blind rage every time I am behind a register made a comeback again-- that these awful teenage girls would rather sit in a shopping mall and wander around drinking nutella shots (I am talking about myself here) than visit the catacombs. Or that our tour guide would have the audacity to forget to check the schedule for the Louvre. Or that I could spend a year of my time drained into Regal with the prospect of something better, that when I got something disappointing, I couldn't stomach the punch-drunk stained walls or the plush acid-trip carpeting because, quite frankly, I don't care anymore. So I quit.
And guess what? It made me happy. For those two seconds I was inscribing my initials on to my two weeks notice and throwing the shirt over my back, to the minutes I sat in my car and thought, "Holy S--- I'm broke" But that's okay because today I applied to the Tilted Kilt (Scottish themed Hooters) and I am honestly excited for a change.
p.s. Ms. Marcy-- after that speech you gave us today, I thought about how irresponsible I am/was because my dad does not have a job and neither does my mom, so right now we are hippies. And I kind of can't wait for college when I can just be a hippy. I guess the best thing to do would be to invest in a Kindle now because at some point before these next four years are up, my text books will be available online for three bucks.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Well, isn't it ironic
So everything is ending-- the married couple has called it quits, Charlie Sheen is off the air, and Bin Laden has just been executed. I would say it's the end of an era that marks this high school "journey" (or for those who can't stand to think of life as a grand narrative, a "hurrah"). The only thing I can say about the upcoming festivities is that I am stressed, excited, and sad.
Breaking your metatarsal a few days before the AP exam must be incredibly difficult. Not only physically debilitating, but ominously ironic. All I can say is-- don't worry about us, we have been prepared to our utmost! Omen or not, we will do well.
Also ironic, my date sprained his ankle two days before prom. I can't tell if I was angry with him or just amused. It's ironic because, if not for a sprained ankle three months prior, we would not have created the Folk Ravers (our joke band, but for those who read this blog, you probably already know this). Therefore, why be mad if it is what brought us together in the first place? Furthermore, he sprained it by tripping over a tree root while avoiding jumping over a bush, which, by his judgment, would have been more dangerous.
Yes, everything is winding down, including classes and AP exams. Except this thing that may or may not be winding down, which I newly discovered, but is probably already winding down, although it's just starting up.
Breaking your metatarsal a few days before the AP exam must be incredibly difficult. Not only physically debilitating, but ominously ironic. All I can say is-- don't worry about us, we have been prepared to our utmost! Omen or not, we will do well.
Also ironic, my date sprained his ankle two days before prom. I can't tell if I was angry with him or just amused. It's ironic because, if not for a sprained ankle three months prior, we would not have created the Folk Ravers (our joke band, but for those who read this blog, you probably already know this). Therefore, why be mad if it is what brought us together in the first place? Furthermore, he sprained it by tripping over a tree root while avoiding jumping over a bush, which, by his judgment, would have been more dangerous.
Yes, everything is winding down, including classes and AP exams. Except this thing that may or may not be winding down, which I newly discovered, but is probably already winding down, although it's just starting up.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Another Regal story...
I wish I could have taken the practice exam, really, but I had to attend a mandatory employee meeting.
This weekend a man and his daughter came up to my counter and ordered four drinks and popcorn. Not only were the drinks all different sizes, but they were all different sodas. Every time I get an order I repeat it back to the customer just to double check. Of course, I mixed up two of the drinks, and this man gave me a look like I didn't deserve to live on Earth. I didn't deserve to breathe, and since I couldn't get an order right, I was most likely going to fail at life.
Regal customers make assumptions when they approach me. Possibly because I look college age, "This girl probably dropped out of school and is never going to get anywhere in life." I'm not saying that every customer assumes this-- but this man was sure one of them.
At this point, after the glare he shot at me, I didn't even want to look at him. I filled the order and ignored him until he complained that there was butter on the side of the popcorn bag. Well, there is butter on the side of the bag because you ordered butter. But I didn't say anything and wiped it off. Then I rang up his order, and when I was through, I smiled at him and said thank you.
I knew exactly what I was doing, exactly which smile to flash him. And his face blew up. He asked for my name, and later, as I had predicted, he complained to my manager. Nothing came of it.
I've never felt as low about me job as then. That because I was taking someone's order, they could walk all over me (the irony is that I am probably more intelligent than 95 percent of the people who walk through there). The hardship is that my dad is out of the job, and I need to somehow afford UGA. And now I've realized why I have senioritis-- because despite everything I feel in my gut about this man, that part of me thinks he was right. And that's the part of me I need to work on. The more I sit through school, the more my grades drop, the more I can't stand thinking about my future, the more this man embodies every personal struggle I am going through as this year comes to a close.
So this is where I am sending my personal apologies. Sorry physics for failing your tests and for wanting to cancel the exam scores, sorry lit for neglecting you though I love reading and writing, sorry directed study for procrastinating, sorry French for never doing homework, and sorry Econ for drawing butts all over your worksheets.
Now it's time for Prom weekend. The Folk Ravers are bringing their accordion!
This weekend a man and his daughter came up to my counter and ordered four drinks and popcorn. Not only were the drinks all different sizes, but they were all different sodas. Every time I get an order I repeat it back to the customer just to double check. Of course, I mixed up two of the drinks, and this man gave me a look like I didn't deserve to live on Earth. I didn't deserve to breathe, and since I couldn't get an order right, I was most likely going to fail at life.
Regal customers make assumptions when they approach me. Possibly because I look college age, "This girl probably dropped out of school and is never going to get anywhere in life." I'm not saying that every customer assumes this-- but this man was sure one of them.
At this point, after the glare he shot at me, I didn't even want to look at him. I filled the order and ignored him until he complained that there was butter on the side of the popcorn bag. Well, there is butter on the side of the bag because you ordered butter. But I didn't say anything and wiped it off. Then I rang up his order, and when I was through, I smiled at him and said thank you.
I knew exactly what I was doing, exactly which smile to flash him. And his face blew up. He asked for my name, and later, as I had predicted, he complained to my manager. Nothing came of it.
I've never felt as low about me job as then. That because I was taking someone's order, they could walk all over me (the irony is that I am probably more intelligent than 95 percent of the people who walk through there). The hardship is that my dad is out of the job, and I need to somehow afford UGA. And now I've realized why I have senioritis-- because despite everything I feel in my gut about this man, that part of me thinks he was right. And that's the part of me I need to work on. The more I sit through school, the more my grades drop, the more I can't stand thinking about my future, the more this man embodies every personal struggle I am going through as this year comes to a close.
So this is where I am sending my personal apologies. Sorry physics for failing your tests and for wanting to cancel the exam scores, sorry lit for neglecting you though I love reading and writing, sorry directed study for procrastinating, sorry French for never doing homework, and sorry Econ for drawing butts all over your worksheets.
Now it's time for Prom weekend. The Folk Ravers are bringing their accordion!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Great Expectations
I liked Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. But I never thought that I would ever go knocking on its door.
My foray in France was both exciting and disappointing. Alone in a foreign place equipped only with a French-English dictionary, I found it was easier to pretend I understood less than I actually did. It's sad to think of it like that. I boarded the plane with a completely different idea of France than what I came home with. The moment I stepped of the plane, les palmiers were everywhere. I thought I had landed in California.
As soon as I stepped through the door the host family was gracious. "Pour boire? du lait? du cafe?" This would be easy, I thought, I don't have to worry about going hungry. I was willing to eat frog's legs every night. The house was remarkably smaller than what I was used to. I shared a room with Laura, my correspondent. Although part of the exchange guaranteed me my own bed, I knew that this was France and that they were being friendly. I was grateful.
That was the first day. On the second day I learned that the French hate bare feet in the house. Laura's mother demanded that I wear les pontoufles-- house slippers. However, they were less slippers and more like clogs, making my treks up and down the stairs (about half the width of American stairs) dangerous. I would leave them up there just once, I thought, they won't notice I'm not wearing them. Of course, the first thing launched at me is, "Ou est les pantoufles??" That's okay. I could deal with their rules.
On the third day I met Laura's girlfriend. Now I think it's cool that she is open with herself, but the problem was that her mother thought she had a boyfriend 0.o The third day is when they began quizzing me on my ability to read minds. "Do you want an omelette sandwich or a nutella sandwich?" Me-- "Oh nutella please!" "You don't like my omelettes? Laura hates them. You don't like them?" Me-- "Uh, no, I mean, yes, I like your omelettes." "Okay then I will make you an omelette sandwich." That might sound small, but the entire day continued like that. Again, les pantoufles, then again with my backpack and my clothes, and whether or not I wanted to go swimming. The family was constantly asking me questions about my happiness but not listening to my answers. It may sound like small things, but this continued for a week straight, and I swear I didn't have ten minutes to myself to use the restroom.
On the fourth day Laura lost her purse. And her cellphone. Suddenly the small bickering, even the moderate shout/fights I had witnessed (over whether or not I wanted to eat jambon du pays or jambon blanc, whether or not I wanted to swim, or sit in the front seat) turned into full on war. Every problem in the household-- Laura's secrets, her relationship with her mother-- came out. Losing your purse, I suppose, means you will fail out of school and fail life. I was just standing there watching all of this build, and just when I make it upstairs away from the crying, I am called down again to eat dinner right in the middle of it.
When I was deciding to take French people kept telling me how beautiful the language was. I agreed, until I heard the angry, bitter French that was kicked around in this house. And while I was eating and they were shouting, I listened though pretending not to hear. Then suddenly a question was addressed to me, "Where did you last see Laura's bag?" I wasn't going to play that game, this wasn't my fault. I said nothing. "You don't understand anything do you?!?!" That was the last time I wanted to talk to my family. The rest of the week was spoiled. I wouldn't learn anymore grammar or ask anymore questions. As far as I was concerned, the trip was over. It was time to get to Paris.
And so on the sad day that the Americans had to part with their French families, I said goodbye and that was it. I left as Nick and Honey left after the war. The family had no idea why I had suddenly turned silent in the middle of the week, and they had come to no conclusion in their fighting. I was glad to be rid of the absurdist drama.
My foray in France was both exciting and disappointing. Alone in a foreign place equipped only with a French-English dictionary, I found it was easier to pretend I understood less than I actually did. It's sad to think of it like that. I boarded the plane with a completely different idea of France than what I came home with. The moment I stepped of the plane, les palmiers were everywhere. I thought I had landed in California.
As soon as I stepped through the door the host family was gracious. "Pour boire? du lait? du cafe?" This would be easy, I thought, I don't have to worry about going hungry. I was willing to eat frog's legs every night. The house was remarkably smaller than what I was used to. I shared a room with Laura, my correspondent. Although part of the exchange guaranteed me my own bed, I knew that this was France and that they were being friendly. I was grateful.
That was the first day. On the second day I learned that the French hate bare feet in the house. Laura's mother demanded that I wear les pontoufles-- house slippers. However, they were less slippers and more like clogs, making my treks up and down the stairs (about half the width of American stairs) dangerous. I would leave them up there just once, I thought, they won't notice I'm not wearing them. Of course, the first thing launched at me is, "Ou est les pantoufles??" That's okay. I could deal with their rules.
On the third day I met Laura's girlfriend. Now I think it's cool that she is open with herself, but the problem was that her mother thought she had a boyfriend 0.o The third day is when they began quizzing me on my ability to read minds. "Do you want an omelette sandwich or a nutella sandwich?" Me-- "Oh nutella please!" "You don't like my omelettes? Laura hates them. You don't like them?" Me-- "Uh, no, I mean, yes, I like your omelettes." "Okay then I will make you an omelette sandwich." That might sound small, but the entire day continued like that. Again, les pantoufles, then again with my backpack and my clothes, and whether or not I wanted to go swimming. The family was constantly asking me questions about my happiness but not listening to my answers. It may sound like small things, but this continued for a week straight, and I swear I didn't have ten minutes to myself to use the restroom.
On the fourth day Laura lost her purse. And her cellphone. Suddenly the small bickering, even the moderate shout/fights I had witnessed (over whether or not I wanted to eat jambon du pays or jambon blanc, whether or not I wanted to swim, or sit in the front seat) turned into full on war. Every problem in the household-- Laura's secrets, her relationship with her mother-- came out. Losing your purse, I suppose, means you will fail out of school and fail life. I was just standing there watching all of this build, and just when I make it upstairs away from the crying, I am called down again to eat dinner right in the middle of it.
When I was deciding to take French people kept telling me how beautiful the language was. I agreed, until I heard the angry, bitter French that was kicked around in this house. And while I was eating and they were shouting, I listened though pretending not to hear. Then suddenly a question was addressed to me, "Where did you last see Laura's bag?" I wasn't going to play that game, this wasn't my fault. I said nothing. "You don't understand anything do you?!?!" That was the last time I wanted to talk to my family. The rest of the week was spoiled. I wouldn't learn anymore grammar or ask anymore questions. As far as I was concerned, the trip was over. It was time to get to Paris.
And so on the sad day that the Americans had to part with their French families, I said goodbye and that was it. I left as Nick and Honey left after the war. The family had no idea why I had suddenly turned silent in the middle of the week, and they had come to no conclusion in their fighting. I was glad to be rid of the absurdist drama.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Reading Moliere
Tartuffe was awesome. I'm really happy we had the chance to read it in class. Finally, something a little light hearted! (...as opposed to dark :P )
So I guess it's all in preparation for France. We leave Thursday, so I should probably start packing or doing some laundry...
Can I just say one thing? OMG
:D
There are three things I want to see while I'm in Paris: The catacombs, the cinemateque, and Oscar Wilde's grave. Hopefully there won't be any shopping involved.
OH, I also get to see the chair that Moliere died in!!! And sit in the Twin Windmills where Amelie was filmed.
I'm tossing around the idea of doing some reading too (gasp). I've never read anything by Emile Zola, so maybe it's time to start. Hmm...if anyone has suggestions, let me know!
Right now I am continuing my odyssey into children's literature. I've read Tales from Moominvalley, and I've just started King Matt. It's funny, children's literature is so broad that sometimes I think I am actually reading a book for adults. Most of the characters represent really adult themes, especially in Tales.
Sorry I'm so scatterbrained today. I'm just really excited for everything that's coming and I haven't thought about lit (I'm sorry to say) as much as I should have. So many things have happened in the course of the week. I was waitlisted from two liberal arts colleges. To be fair, they only accept something like 500 girls (if we're only counting girls haha). Some major prom drama has gone down, partially my fault, and partially a lot of other people's faults. And, oh yeah, I came to some realization about something that was right in front of my face (those of you who know me probably know about this). I'm kind of unsure, but then again, it's senior year and I want to have fun! Maybe by the end of the year I will be able to drive stickshift.
So long for now, I'll give an update when I'm back from FRANCE :D
So I guess it's all in preparation for France. We leave Thursday, so I should probably start packing or doing some laundry...
Can I just say one thing? OMG
:D
There are three things I want to see while I'm in Paris: The catacombs, the cinemateque, and Oscar Wilde's grave. Hopefully there won't be any shopping involved.
OH, I also get to see the chair that Moliere died in!!! And sit in the Twin Windmills where Amelie was filmed.
I'm tossing around the idea of doing some reading too (gasp). I've never read anything by Emile Zola, so maybe it's time to start. Hmm...if anyone has suggestions, let me know!
Right now I am continuing my odyssey into children's literature. I've read Tales from Moominvalley, and I've just started King Matt. It's funny, children's literature is so broad that sometimes I think I am actually reading a book for adults. Most of the characters represent really adult themes, especially in Tales.
Sorry I'm so scatterbrained today. I'm just really excited for everything that's coming and I haven't thought about lit (I'm sorry to say) as much as I should have. So many things have happened in the course of the week. I was waitlisted from two liberal arts colleges. To be fair, they only accept something like 500 girls (if we're only counting girls haha). Some major prom drama has gone down, partially my fault, and partially a lot of other people's faults. And, oh yeah, I came to some realization about something that was right in front of my face (those of you who know me probably know about this). I'm kind of unsure, but then again, it's senior year and I want to have fun! Maybe by the end of the year I will be able to drive stickshift.
So long for now, I'll give an update when I'm back from FRANCE :D
Monday, March 14, 2011
Happy Pi Day!
I ate way too many donuts O_o
On to Heart of Darkness. I don't know what it's about or why we are reading it. It really confuses me.
But really I don't have the heart to analyze literature right now. Everything is just swirling around in my head-- Prom, the musical, France, and right now, economics.
And it's not just a dress. As a little girl I dreamed of this dress just as much as my wedding dress. Every dress I have ever worn has merely been leading up to this dress. Don't think dresses are just frivolous wastes of money. They are a symbol of womanhood, and this dress is part of every girl's coming-of-age story. A large part of women's culture revolves around dresses-- sewing circles, wedding dresses, party dresses-- and we idolize women with great fashion sense-- Princess Diana, Jacki O, Michelle Obama. Indulging in a fancy dress is what makes prom so much fun! (that and the date, but that's another story)
Lately I've been thinking about what I want in life. What I have achieved in high school. And while nothing really stands out to me, I also know that I should give myself a little more credit. So should everyone else. Sure, I am not the highest of achievers, but I have definitely pushed some of my limits. I know that whatever happens in the future, I am going to be happy and have a lot of great experiences. Why am I being so sentimental? Probably because I have been looking forward to something for so long, and now that it's finally here, I'm worried it will slip right through my fingers.
On to Heart of Darkness. I don't know what it's about or why we are reading it. It really confuses me.
But really I don't have the heart to analyze literature right now. Everything is just swirling around in my head-- Prom, the musical, France, and right now, economics.
And it's not just a dress. As a little girl I dreamed of this dress just as much as my wedding dress. Every dress I have ever worn has merely been leading up to this dress. Don't think dresses are just frivolous wastes of money. They are a symbol of womanhood, and this dress is part of every girl's coming-of-age story. A large part of women's culture revolves around dresses-- sewing circles, wedding dresses, party dresses-- and we idolize women with great fashion sense-- Princess Diana, Jacki O, Michelle Obama. Indulging in a fancy dress is what makes prom so much fun! (that and the date, but that's another story)
Lately I've been thinking about what I want in life. What I have achieved in high school. And while nothing really stands out to me, I also know that I should give myself a little more credit. So should everyone else. Sure, I am not the highest of achievers, but I have definitely pushed some of my limits. I know that whatever happens in the future, I am going to be happy and have a lot of great experiences. Why am I being so sentimental? Probably because I have been looking forward to something for so long, and now that it's finally here, I'm worried it will slip right through my fingers.
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