Washington Post Magazine Rejections and Zombie Planets

1:31 PM me: Want to be a part of my blogpost  ?? ♥: In what way..? me: Well do you read gene weingarten?1:33 PM ♥: Occasionally1:34 PM me: L  K well read this issue  I want my blogpost to be like a conversation about something  Sort of like gene weingarten1:35 PM What should we talk about?1:36 PM ♥: um idk lol  something that won't piss off the world? me: Yeah but it still has to be fairly controversial  Just in a friendly or funny way1:37 PM ♥: mhm ok  well idk me: Or it can be about how boring tenth grade is irdk1:39 PM ♥: lol talking about how boring something is is usually not that interesting1:40 PM me: I  D  O  N  '1:41 PM T ♥: Dude  stahp. me: That was Kira like ♥: Lolz1:42 PM me: Kira says that  Anyway ♥: we could talk about how awkward the holiday season is for everyone with all the different religions  like what about Muslim people  they don't even celebrate a winter holiday me: Hey  Hey Ramadan ♥: so everyone else is like yay happy holidays and they're just like Um.1:43 PM me: Ramadan ♥: Ramadan usually does not happen in late December but sometimes in the middle of fall, and the date changes.  It really can't be classified as a winter holiday. me: Ok fine1:44 PM ♥: People have also tried to say Eid but thats just the end of ramadan. so yeah. me: I am ignorant to that ♥: Muslim best friend <3 <3 <31:45 PM but ya. Hey so since Laura's a wiccan now we can celebrate winter solstice with her x1:48 PM me: Seriously?1:49 PM ♥: bahaha I have no idea. I get the sense that Laura wants to be a Wiccan like I want to be a Buddhist.  Thinks it'd be rad but probably doesn't know much about it. me: X l1:50 PM That was my phone  Yeah  Yeah I don't really want to be anything just me  And such1:51 PM Or we could pray to the church of Jules1:52 PM But then we'd all die of overdose of something  And we'd get unattractive once we'd turn like 22  No  321:56 PM ♥: Hey  hey  he will always attractive to meeeeeeee  but i really don't want to be a part of the church of jules it sounds both scary and lame at the same time like a bunch of strange delusional teenage girls who dont know how to do crack but will damn well try1:57 PM me: Yeah and we'd only have to listen to the strokes1:58 PM ♥: and phrazes for the young me: That means we'd always be like 1 foot deep in the coffin of getting too underground  Yeah  So we'd just be like  Half dead  Zombies  I don't want to be a zombie who can't move1:59 PM ♥: yeah i mean zombies only purposes are to walk around and do whatever they can to continue walking around  #obscurejohngreenreferences2:00 PM me: Zombies or aliens ♥: Um...zombies?  I mean aliens are scarier obviously  well  hm me: What if the aliens were zombies ♥: they're scary in different ways.  what do you mean what if the aliens were zombies2:03 PM me: Like what I'd there is a planet where all the people are zombies  It's plausible think of how much living earth is of space  I hate parties  They just  I hate them2:04 PM ♥: w me: Because I don't like being around people  I mean its a party at my house2:05 PM Why can't I say  I FEEL REALLY SICK  Y'ALL ARE GOING TO GET HELLA SICK WITH MY GERMS  GET OUT  my cousin is having a party at my house  And they are telling me  I'm not useful  I mean  It's my house  I know where the things are2:06 PM It makes sense I didn't understand that orangey juice was a mamosa because  1. My house doesn't live the orange juice life  2. My house doesn't live the mamosa life  3. So why are all these things in my refrigerator  Just go away YOU DON'T LIVE THIS LIFE2:10 PM ♥: um  what xD  that is the best thing i have ever heard2:11 PM my house doesnt live the mamosa life
Yesterday, I went to a dinner party and found quite brutally I least enjoy any party, and I am a terribleguest when I don't turn in regularly my homework to my PreCalculus class, but perhaps nothing has been more influential to my weekend than this article I read of Gene Weingarten, in which he and his feminist friend analyze Romney as a date. 
That shant be too hard, me girl I thought (I awoke today from a dream about Hawaii, which reminded me of pirates, and I was thinking in pirate). I thought. I didn't think too much, because what I wanted to do was show Gene Weingarten I could do what he did, and I could be a funny feminist friend, and should I ever run for president, boy would I show a great date. I was on my phone (hence all of the capitals at every single shift), and Gmail was my ticket to an editorial.
A good friend of mine was my sharer of conversation. She's an ENTJ, and I am an INFP. Our friendship exists in poles. Our agreements rest in our discord. Take that, feminist Gene Weingarten friend.
This is the resulf of my test. It was a test, after all, because all I wanted to do was disprove a Pulitzer winning author, because really what he did wasn't that hard. Oh, was it. I wasn't thinking for all the damaged little brain I have, and I wasn't really writing. I was being a 15 year old girl, and that is not a Pulitzer winning anything, unless it's a disheartening picture that looks like a printed case for a tattered childhood or perhaps a play featured in the Royal Tenenbaums. 
Later, at the second party I attended of the week, hosted of my house, because I really do live that life, I was reading The Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly to my three year old cousin. Perhaps I should've toppled Weingarten with my perfect analysis of its disturbance to children. I'm sure that hasn't been done 90008907 times. I'm surprised I didn't get nightmares from that lady's psychosis, and for her persistent eating, and because there were talking animals, I think instead I laughed. That lady's psychosis transferred to produce mine.
Anyway, what I find most appalling about that book is the moral: You shouldn't swallow a horse. It's too simple, and that's not half of the issue! The moral is you shouldn't be crazy, and eat too much, and trust your death in the voices of ally cats! But that is the moral. You shouldn't swallow a horse because you shouldn't be crazy, and you most certainly shouldn't eat too much, and you ate the horse because you trusted your death in the voices of ally cats.
The moral of this chat is: You are not Gene Weingarten. Obviously, I am not a middle aged man with a funny mustache and a shiny Pulitzer on my non existent resume, and I haven't ever written a very adorable book on old dogs. Obviously I'm a fifteen year o ld girl with more tracks in my mind than hot wheels. I think I'll create a rap lyric of that one day; however, it's true. I can't talk about something deep and make it funny, I'll talk about something deep and make you uncomfortable. I think if I ever ran for elections, I'd be a horrible date, and I wouldn't even get my last page in the Washington Post Magazine of a feminist and a man with a funny mustache making an essay of me.
I'd choose a zombie over an alien. Zombies are predictable, and humans have a natural fear of the unknown. What I didn't know was that Gene Weingarten is a genius, and I tried to disprove him the same way an explorer in the 1600's would declare an inhabited country his own. I don't know you, so I'll just take you over, go away. My house doesn't live the mamosa life, we live the one of respect. And that's what I've got for the last page of the Washington Post magazine.
* I didn't actually think this, I wanted to make an editorial of not being able to, and redundancy, and about one of the Editorial Gods.Ya dig?
Also I'm so sorry the color is white blogger did that idk why

Un-American History

** I didn't feel this was especially appropriate for links, so I just added those which would better convey the ideas and difficult issues.

               Yesterday, I went with the GSA to see the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington. My mom inquired that this was one of the perks of where I live, which she says is not America because it's too liberal and too diverse and too much of anything to be those. I don't think I disagree; however, I like living in un-America. Un-America lets me see that which makes my life; school sponsored trips to see drag queens and Bollywood dances. Un-America is a nice place to live.
                   Perhaps my family could attest to this Un-America. My mother's family's lived in DC for a very, very long time. My dad's family has lived in the country for a very, very, very long time. My grandmother's name is Meekins. My dad says that records in North Carolina (my grandma's from the Outer banks beach-town called Manteo) from the 1600's document a man of the same name, and his five slaves. My family was here before the country started. Of course then my dad (a history major) noted that slave trading ended in the 1800's, so many black families have roots in the country longer than most residents.
               I get my name from my father's father. The folklore of the Keys's, a huge family composed of most I have never known, is they've always been free. The town of which my grandfather originates, Jamesville, was that of freed blacks. My dad doesn't think this was always true. He says the oldest records date to the 1700's, and, though the Keys's have been free for much longer than most, they had once been slaves in Virginia. Then they were not. Those of Jamesville have Jamesville features; they're very light skinned, and they have straight hair.
              York and Rachel were going to move to California, it was the early 1900s, (19 o something) and they were black. York and Rachel lived in Red Springs North Carolina, and they had about eight children. Rachel didn't want to move, though, because of those Injuns, or Indians. It sounds a bit wrong to me, but York and Rachel lived in that America. Rachel died. York decided he would pack up his things with his sons, and he would give Mary, his two year old daughter a choice.

"Now you can stay here, in Red Springs, or you can come on with me to California. Tell me by tomorrow morning."
         
   York, Mary, and sons moved on to California, and Leticia, married, stayed. Leticia was my mother's great grandmother. John, her son was a piano player. John was smooth and exotic and modest, and he didn't have to go to war because the draft officers thought he would create too much drug havoc. Rhoda Mary Francis Harley fell in love with him.
             The Harley's had a complex. There are those black families in each city which breed among themselves to pass, or to look white. The Harley's were light skinned people, lighter than a paper bag, almost white, but just almost. There were to be no Harley's darker than that paper bag, but John Malachi was that bag completely rained upon, or maybe even chocolate.
            So when Rhoda Mary Francis had to marry John Malachi because she was knocked up and 16, there was disgrace, there was shame, there was no hope for the Harley's. And so the Harley's disowned her. Rhoda Mary Francis Harley Malachi didn't care, she loved John Malachi, and John loved her. Rhoda Mary Francis Harley Malachi was my mother's grandmother. She named my grandfather John Edward Malachi after true love. She had no teeth, and she was benevolent and very loud, and when John Malachi died she lasted ten years after.
             My grandmother's family was of DC and Maryland. Gramma witnessed Un-America. In the 1940's, when she was a child, there was Roland. Roland was a crossdresser. He stayed in his room, and read. Sometimes he would take my grandmother and her cousins out to shop for shoes. Roland's mother never called him so, and neither did my great grandmother. My grandma wondered why.
             Roland's best friend was a Queen named Chickedee. Both were introverted figures. Roland died, and when he did, he lay in his casket in a pink suit. It suddenly became clear to my grandmother why his mother would call him "Rosemary."
             Maybe my mother doesn't believe that we live in America because we never really have. My mother's father's family went to California, which was extremely uncommon for black families, or perhaps families at all during the time. My mother's mother's family housed a cross dresser and a queen, and yet the current black consent for gay marriage is dismal. That was in the 40's. My dad's family has lived in the United States since its inception, which means I'm only not African American (I'm far removed from the continent, I mean i have mostly African blood I guess but  I don't know where from in that vast land I am) I am American-American-American (not that I'd prefer that either). My dad's father's family was free.
             I don't think, if I could wake Leticia and Rhoda Mary Francis Harley Malachi, and the Meekins slaves that they would attend the gay man's chorus with me. I don't think Lenwood and Wima Meekins Keys, my grandparents, would even listen to such an idea, but I don't think they'd be totally opposed to it either. I'd think Roland would sit next to me, and Chickedee would smile, and at home all of my ancestors would say "This Un-America sure is something special."
         

Let's Chat about Trippy Deaths and Toilets and Camels

             If you want to be my lover, you gotta go and read my journals from when I was 3 and 4, and get to know me that way. I suppose it works if you want to be my friend, but I don't want to be high maintenance. Last week, I was looking over chats with my friends from middle school on Gmail, because I positively refuse to get a facebook for the same reason. Gmail is a bit like a diary, it's a way to record how your day went, and what happened, and how you felt, and it's lame. I don't want to loose that on Facebook.
           So, to secure my decision, I looked at my Gmail Chats from 2000-2002. These were ones I had at Takoma Park Nursery School, and they are very, very trippy. I've been told I make a lot of trippy art, and I'd like to disclose that it didn't start in my 8th grade IMP, or in my 4th grade story about some guy in the sky who recruits people to explode houses (I really don't remember). It started with this:

Thursday (September)   2000

       I saw a camel in the zoo he was in a cage. I was with my dad. Landon wanted his dolphin. Daddy took it away, Because then they couldn't take it to school.

I drew a lim. He's funny as snoopy. Snoopy is on the video.

September 19 00

     I drew you when you were a baby. When you were crying. When you were boring in your mommy's stomach. When you were going to school.

(the Mom was acting like a baby is who the mom who Aidan is talking to).

              I was almost three and a half. As of September 19,2000, exactly a week short. I haven't been much of a talker, but I've been a writer. Since I had the nerve to tell this mother I drew her as a baby, and she was boring in her mother's stomach, I guess it hasn't always been so. What I can draw from this is that I've always been a trippy person, and that's an issue I must have had when I was a baby, boring in my mother's stomach. My writing skills progressed quickly:

Sept. 21

When Landon Went to the Zoo

       Landon said "How could I go to School?" "Why can't I take my dolphin to School?"

Landon cried before he went to school.

The End

P.S. Landon ate waffles

Ok I suppose not. But I wasn't so bad at using dialogue, yeah? The rest of the Fall was my camel phase, when I approached the art of writing in complete paragraphs. I'd like to retract my "trippy statement". This stuff I wrote isn't the stuff of LSD, it's deep.

Thursday Sept. 28, 2000

             I'm drawing a camel. My camel is picking up people. He is very red and he has a two leg. He has a boo-boo. He's going to feel better. My camel is to the doctor. My doctor is Dr. Ferraki. He is going to be covered in red hot in the back. The camel came out of the doctor.

Thursday Oct 5

         A camel-black sky. The camel is playing under the sky. Hide and seek with his friends under the sky too. The friend's name is Dale and I don't know who the other friends are.

Oct. 12

          To market, to market to buy a fat pig. To market to market. Home again, home again. To market to market to buy a fat goose, home again, home again. She worked hard. She went to bed and she was sick and she hurt her leg on the car.

           I was a genius. I had refrained from my talk of camel to really comment on the expenses of fat pigs, of fat gooses, of how much work it takes to buy one, and all of the pain it may cost. On paper, with extended margins and messy pre-school teacher writing, this stuff takes up a half a page. Each piece is accompanied with a drawing. Perhaps the last of the camel phase works may depict this.

Thursaday Oct. 19, 00

         This is a baby camel. His name is Kana. Kana is going to be colored. He is going to be blue. He is going to have hair. Now J used to wake some red hair. Last night J was in Susan (the other preschool teacher, I was in Lesley's group) class.

Kana got hurt last week. The ambulance picked her up and the doctor dropped her stomach. Now she's better.

The End.

October 26, 2000

         This the camel named Baby. Baby Camel. Baby Camel went "Mommy, why don't you have color eyes." And this is the morning sun and the sun went down and down. In the evening. In the blue sky it was morning. It was a beautiful blue sky and black sky. Good morning said the morning. They went all the way home and get the stroller.

         I was a genius because this is absolutely the best piece of adolescent disillusionment to the beauty of color relations in the world there is. This is why I still write. But it didn't get much better than this until March, when I had turned 4, and I  wasn't some basic genius kid anymore. In  March through May, I saw the world. I saw it's pain, and it's loss, and I saw how it was hard to live.

This is obviously an Allegory, but the rest is real (I promise):

22 March 01

           This is called the Wizard Mommie of the Whole World. She didn't have children. Her children died. She put her head in the toilet. The Wizard Daddy said "Don't put your head in the toilet, wife." The three little pigs came in and ate them up. And the Queen said "Don't eat them up." And that's the end.

April 3, '01

           I made the masterpiece so everybody likes the masterpiece. So I made it for them to take home. The magic war to me. The magic is right there. It turns the masterpiece into a fox. And it turns me into a mommy fox. And I go like this [moves her hands+ fists]. And I jump up and down. And I spin like this and I spin around. The end.

Aidan's Masterpiece

April 18

This picture is about when I scraped my knee. I was running and I scraped my knee very badly and my other hand I scarped again and I was angry. I went to my house and we had spaghetti in the night time and last night Mommy was in my bed. Remember when she was in my bed last time. She was in my bed two times. Last night Mommy was angry because I peed on the floor.

Maybe I didn't have the social skills not to give too much information, but let's remember I was newly 4, and this is the behavior of one of that age. I was smart. I made a masterpiece about War when I was 4, I made an allegory about toilets and the three little pigs. I was Aidan Keys: Girl Realist.

April 25

          Once in the nighttime I was sleeping and I decided to sleep with my mommy. Last night when my dad was watching me I got sick, and I then I was not. In the morning I got my heart shirt on. 

         Yesterday I wanted beads. And my mommy said "no, I can't get beads." She wanted to find some beads for me but she didn't. 

And that is the end of my story.

          I've never been much of a princess girl. I thought kissing was disgusting. I thought barbies were lame, and I thought playing with objects was for weirdos like my brother to do. I liked to draw, and I liked to make things. I liked fairytales. I liked stories, and so me and my genius incorporated my discovery of the horrors of the earth and fairytales to make May:

May 1, 2001

         That is Jack in The beanstalk and The mommy said "The dragon's husband..." and he goes near him and he ate him up.

He got out and showed mommy his face,

"I killed a giant and he's not going to come back 'cause he died."

May 10

          Once upon a time, there was a little girl and she was 2. And I wanted my mommy and daddy and they died. And I wanted Jasmine (my Gramma's old cat) but she died and Roxy (My gramma's old cat) but she died too.

         Ok, ok, sure maybe I took it too far with the whole death thing. I was 4, and approaching death! I was still a genius, because I was that deep. And in my corresponding masterpiece, I used black. I had the skills of connotation to do so! 

This is why my parents didn't send me to therapy (they saw I was a master of story development, that's all):

Th, May 17, 2001

       A sky with purple clouds, all different shapes. This is a lady- she has a house- a square house. A roof is on the house. And she has a bird with wings and his name was Cawcaw. And a bird named Sayay and that's her sister. Cawcaw is three and Sayay is eight.

The End

That's not the end. The house is like this. Here is the door and here is the tree.

        A Master of Story Development was what I was, and it certainly didn't end once I was no longer a red square, or in Lesley's class, and Lesley and I had stopped chatting so that she could write down all my thoughts which corresponded to the picture next to it. No, the chat continued into the Summer, and I hadn't lost my trippy, camel, dialogue, uncomfortable talk of death, or my stylish naming skills at all.

Summer 2001

        The camel was walking. The cukoo fin-bird- his name is Andrew. Andew said "My wife died, you know." Then the camel said, "Oh, your wife died?" The camel's name is Andrew also. They're both named Andew.

"I'm dreaming about Andrew. I'm 3 years old," said the camel. Then the bird said "I'm 6 years old."

          So is the beginning of a classic story to dust on the bookshelves of thousands of literature savvy Americans I plan to write Summer 2013. In this year, a week ago, when I was assessing my internet diary, I shared one of the pages with Brianna because it was that entertaining. She responded a bit terrified, and even though I was quite sure it was because it was between this girl who I'll name KiD, I asked why.

"You haven't changed in 2 years."

I thought the same, I was trippy in the eighth grade, and I was a spazz, and I really liked the Strokes, and I was really awkward, and I wasn't the best at knowing what to say next, and I had an a million track mind.

But then, I was like that when I was four, in the last page of Aidan's Journal: Lesley's 3's Class 2000-2001 TPCNS.

6 Sept, 2001

The Wife Having a Baby Inside her Tummy

          Mrs. Grill and Mr. Grill had a baby named Brianna. Mr. Grill said "Can I see the baby?" Mrs. Grill said "No, you may not. The baby is inside my tummy." Then they went to the hospital and the baby came out and said "Mama". They lived happily ever after.

The End.

Written by Aidan

Illustrated by Aidan.

                                                                                                                                                                6.30 pm  November 18, 2012

I've been thinking of getting a Facebook, but would you really want that as a status on your Dashboard?

Nice 2 chat w/ u

g2g 

Peace

*I was being totally sarcastic here (in a way). All Diary Entries are real, made possible by my parents and my Pre School Teacher Lesley (whom I called Weswey because I had a speech impediment).

Baccy and Filter in 6 Foot Deep Antique Coffins

       
      I like to go against myself. Its inception was the beginning of the ninth grade, when I decided I would fall under the "underground" trend and become a bit of a mainstream recluse. My campaign was successful. My music hadn't been seasoned to my friend's ears, and my clothing was very much different from theirs. I was insanely obsessed with the Strokes, which I found was not an underground band, but instead an Indie Superstar that catered to the aching hearts of tortured teenage girls. I don't have many regrets. Once you're underground, you have to dig yourself out.
            I'm not quite so underground; I'm not as deep as I could be. I haven't dug myself six feet and rested myself in a vintage limited edition casket. I have dug myself six feet and listened to my iPod until the juice drains out. This is why I'd like to sue Das Racist. I'd like to look them in the eye, and say, "On this Bible, I swear you have taken my ability to listen to music on the radio.... Most of it anyway, and with that you've taken my ability to dress normally. And you've taken my ability to care about things most important, and you've granted an ability to care most passionately about those beyond any control. It's your fault. It's your fault, it's your fault and I wish I had never cared about the Newspaper."
           January 1, 2011, I was reading the Washington Post. December 31 I had been singing extremely loudly each Auto-tune the News video I had found days before; perhaps it became my Christmas playlist. The Washington Post isn't a fashionable newspaper. It's for politics and art. It's for old people on the metro after days they had hoped were those of Florida beaches and exposed cellulite in over washed swim suits. It's for the interns who see futures in black ink and overworked writers.
           I liked the Washington Post before I was in my underground phase. That was a most paradoxical statement, but on the first day of the year, the Post tells you what's in and what's Out. It's a thesis of the Post's unfashionable status because the references entail pop culture from like.. the 70's. Das Racist must have been some obscure 1970's one hit wonder band, I thought to myself as I read it had replaced Auto-tune the News for a Post endorsed "in" spot.
             This is how it began. This obscure 1970's Old People Band had better been good, because nothing could rid Auto-tune the News of its relevance. This obscure 1970's Old People Band would sue if anyone addressed them as such. I YouTubed Das Racist and listened to that song which will not be named, for fear of a six month long ear worm. In any case, I found they were young! They were Hip! That song which will not be named is only one of a social issue! They're called Das Racist because of actual racism and Wondershowzen! They were so Hip, they were a part of this group called "hipsters"! "Hipsters" were who I wanted to be.
            It is best to remember I was young then. This was the middle of eighth grade.  Das Racist was burried in a vintage casket with a plate which read "2 kewl 4 u THUGLYFE' except we dead. Peace" until late September. Late September had reckoned Halloween too early, as I dug Das Racist from the dead.
            I started simply. My party with Das Racist started at 11 o clock in the night with a constant replay of Rainbow in the Dark. I'm a bit simple, and not completely in a whole because the most popular songs are often my favorite. So I replayed Who's That? Brooowwwwn about three times, and You Oughta Know about six, and Rapping 2 U about ten times. Then, revelation.
             Julian Casablancas says the only way to know music is to listen to it, and then discover the artist. If the artist has good cheekbones, that's butters because what matters is the marrow of their beats or riffs. I wasn't being faithful to my Music Messiah! I knew Das Racist's music, sure, but what I didn't know was them.
            So until three I watched all the Das Racist interviews there are on the internet. This may not have been the swiftest choice I have made. It was one of the most entertaining. I don't like the word Hipster because it reminds me of gentrification and thrift store buys I will never find, no matter how many times I visit all of the chic good wills in the city. Das Racist is a band composed inside and out of Hips and Sters and Hipsters, Hipsters, Hipsters, Hipsters, Hipsters. They are always high, and they are always fashionable with the most ironic clothing, and everything which comes from their mouth has a reference to pre 1970s underground culture. They're young professors of Brooklyn. Their studio is your class, and you're the pupil.
             Perhaps Hipster Rap is the new English class, but they seem too entitled. Almost distant and obnoxious. The English Teachers before had hard lives, and they were real about it. The hipsters went to liberal arts colleges and read Rap Bibles and Aristotle for fused inspiration. That's not English class, that's going to college.
               I love Das Racist, they're geniuses. They are the rappers you'd like to have a dinner conversation about. The ones who will show up for dinner on time and (although high) seem presentable. They're rad people. But they're not the future of rap because they don't have its core. Maybe that means Hip Hop and Rap is changing. And this is how I thought of Das Racist as I continued the party a second night. The second night I had discovered tracks of which I was oblivious; however, Das Racist is like little kids, they're really fun for a while, and very cute, but you can only be around them in doses. I was about tired of them (although I couldn't stop watching them sing "AZIZ ANSARI, HE IS THE MAN WE LOVE, LOVE, LOVE."
s1. I had to stop listening to them because
                 a. they were addicting,
                 b. they're sort of jerks with how clever they are and it was catching on
2. The people in the suggestions looked kind of cute so I wanted to see what it was all about. Also the name was kind of funny so I wanted to see if they were 12 year olds.
              This is how I found out about Rizzle Kicks. Rizzle Kicks is or was a very popular group in England, composed of Harley, or Sylvester ( the one who sings) and Jordan, or Rizzle (the one who raps). I hope the students coming over have heard of them, and like them, because they rule and they're really only very popular there. I asked some French kids if they knew who Rizzle Kicks were, and they said "No, but we like One Direction."
               This is how I dug myself out of the hole. This is the English Class. The video in the suggestions link was Miss Cigarette, one of the most genius songs to surface any pop song of any genre. It's the story of Jordan and Harley's relationship with a cigarette, which is a metaphor for that with a girl. As such, to Rizzle Kicks, girls are addicting, expensive, and if it's the wrong one, extremely hard to ignore.
              THEY ARE THE ENGLISH TEACHERS! I'd like to analyze the lyrics, but that would extend the post much longer into even more boredom. Because I'm selfish, however, because I love Rizzle Kicks so much (and because they're the English teachers) I think I will later.
               Rizzle Kicks aren't simple with their lyrics. They're very eloquent, and frank, and smart, but they know how to be a good time. They're posh, but they're friendly. They don't live in irony, they just want to make a nice essay. They seldom curse, instead they talk about vulgar adolescent issues, like feeling you're getting dumber as you get older, but being kind of happy about it. Besides, they have entire songs devoted to cursing, just to get their street cred back.
             When I Was a Youngster is one of the most excellent tracks I've ever heard. It has the prime pop sound, but it's extremely relatable and a bit deep. It uses the Clash for its beat, Revolution Rock, and it puts some synths under and bass, and it makes it into a #1 hit. It sounds extremely happy, and it was featured at the Olympics. If one looks at the lyrics, though, they'll see the chorus is "When I was a Youngster I wanted to be everything on the planet (on the on the on the planet)/ Now that I am older it seems the ambition has vanished."
            I have so much love for that, I can't explain in full. First, it's so happy! It's the happiest song! Happier than Sesame Street when Sesame Street is Happy (their songs are really sad). Also, they could just say "When I was a Youngster I wanted to be everything on the planet now I'm a loser [filthy words]." But instead they say "the ambition has vanished." How eloquent.
             Jordan's part is extremely catchy as well, and it sounds much like an essay. "Wanted to be a fireman, then I lost the desire man, the second I grew old enough to buy myself a cider can. Hey! I was a smart little Kid! Those things have departed me since, these days you can catch me on a park bench with a lager and crisps."
             The lyrics are very honest, and very telling. Once again, they refrain from being vulgar, and instead say "departed me since" instead of "I don't feel that way anymore." They're English Teacher futures shine in the word play as well "fireman" "desire, man". The hope lies in these Vibes and Charisma.
              Rizzle Kicks is, in honesty, my One Direction. I went against my place in the ditch that way. They still have the feel good pop aesthetic even with substance and talent. I've dug myself to three feet, and I've abandoned my coffin. But what's better is that they're in, and I don't have to read the newspaper to find out and go on a musical enlightenment. All I search for, though, is good music, so really I haven't betrayed myself. They're the English Teachers of the future, and that's shown no ambition has vanished after all.

The Unnecessary Necessary BoomBoxers of the Race for America

     
                                                       Part 2 of the Existentialist Homecoming
          It isn't necessary. Nothing's totally necessary besides all the human essentials. You need food and water, now live. You need clothes too, it's necessary to be able to see clearly (save for those with glasses needs, which prove to be very fashionable). But it's not necessary. And that's what we rely on.
                Let's walk through a high school hallway. Over there is one group, and over there's the lacrosse team, and over there are the drama kids, and over there are the kids who bring a boombox to school everyday and show off their skills. Near that window, you see, diagonal to the blast which you have now encountered are the really dorky kids, hands over ears, worried the skills of the BoomBoxers will run over their Fun Math Practice with loud compressed notes.The kids with the headphones resting on the collars of their thrift store bought denim oxford shirts scoff at the dorks and shake hands with the boombox ones. In the senior courtyard through the window are all of the Madly In Love So We Don't Care couples. Right there in between the lockers are the Outcasts in which you can't really box because they're too different anyway, but you notice  for all of them have glasses.
               This is High School in the movies. It's true there are groups that are stereotypes, but what the movies miss is that these groups have sub groups. The boombox kids likely have a division of those who prefer hip hop over indie rock, and those who identify as poets over those who are staunch rappers. And these kids might not exactly hang out together, but are in the same pool. High School is full of divisions, but it's not always East v. West.
             Those dorky kids might have their own divisions. There is no limit to a division of dork. Dork does not mean doing math all day, or correcting another's grammar for reason of anxiety. Dork means obsession. Deep obsession entails dressing up for school. Not caring if people leave the table when you go on one of your unintelligible rants. Not really giving a hoot about what people think, but managing to stay at the bottom of the "social scale" (Which exists more in connotations than in actual life. Or not. It exists). Those dorky kids might all be loose friends, but really they're a group of allies, a country of small islands and a primary government of companionship. The same with the Drama kids. There is no limit to Drama, and likewise there is no limit to the obsessions over obscure play genres.
             And each of these kids might hang out with each other, because it's not exactly necessary that there are any divisions at all. This is High School at face value.
            Political Scientists don't need to poll the country. The census doesn't need to measure the state of the union. Political Scientists just need to go to High School. Those girls over there are the fault of modern feminism. That club right there is Feminism. That crowd right there is why there are marijuana laws, but those kids sitting at that table seem to be doing fine. Those four kids sitting at that corner are arguing about Obama's job in the presidency.
           Let's go to lunch. There's promiscuity sitting by the window. A pregnant girl sits with another and discusses how her weekend fared. This school is has 3,000 students, the biggest in its county, and proves to be the most diverse. All of the Black kids are sitting there. All of the white kids, many in programs, sit over there. And those not in programs sit with each other still. And this is why programs shouldn't exist at all. That's self-segregation. Why America hasn't progressed in forty years.
           It's all a bit biased. But High School is where it starts. There is nothing more accurate of an America than the American High School.

This is the United States.

   I'm not a very big fan of the United States of America. I am very thankful to live here. This is a wonderful country. I don't like it very much because it's a bully. It wants to be wonderful, but there are so many things of which it takes advantage to not excel. Like being totally wonderful.

          This is why I didn't very much like Homecoming Dance. I didn't like it because I didn't find that person across the room, and there wasn't cheesy blue wallpaper and lukewarm lights to remind me I'm Only Young Once and I've only got four chances to go to this particular dance and one day I'll find My One and Only and many other things I take for granted because I'm a teenager who doesn't care. This is what I find very comforting. I do care. I subscribe to cheesiness, but I'm afraid of cheese.

           There wasn't any food at the Homecoming Dance. No cheese, no celebratory cake or crackers to ingest whilst feeling awkward but being mindful of calories (Crackers are the most convenient food. I eat many with humus, like I did today where I ate that which Stephanie bought for Juliette with nothing but a spoon. It was beautiful.)
     
         The first time I started caring about Homecoming was in the Sixth Grade when I was in my Cold play and warm voices phase (Sinatra, Respectable Big Band People), and Kanye West had just come out with 808's and Heartbreak. That's why I'm so angry at him now. Homecoming is my reference song. It has everything.
          All that wasn't necessary, because nothing really is. But in the end all that's unnecessary provides for  all that which is abstruse, and often overlooked.
       
          I went to homecoming in a very cute lace dress I had gotten the day before. It didn't have sleeves, and the lace veneer was see through to a peach cloth plate. It flowed at the ends, sort of like Monroe, but lazier. It was a virgin dress, so I wore a leather jacket with zippers, more zippers, and random belts which Julian Casablancas would approve. I wore my leather converse boots, and baby pink ballet tights. I wore actual make-up and much jewelry  I put my hair in this spike poof (because I had to do it soon and it was looking a mess) in a bit of a controlled disaster. I looked Like a Virgin, a Madonna label canvased on my body. High Fashion of Costume Design.

   My homecoming wasn't up to my standards.

These are the problems I had with Homecoming (This was a text message, I'm sorry for grammar):

It was really weird and awkward and I had a lot of issues to point out like:

1. It was really self segregated naturally so all the white kids were on the right side and all the black kids/Hispanic kids were on the left side and

2. I was too white for the Black side (sort of) and too black for the white side (sort of) so i was sort of stuck in the middle/outside.

3. Basically all of the kids I never see are really attractive and they all had people to grind with so they couldn't have been the Person Across the Room. It just reminded me of the CAP bubble.

4. Everyone was grinding and it was disgusting in all respects.

7. Everyone looked in need of an ambulance because of tight dresses and high heels.

8. I got to wear tennis shoes and a not tight dress which I'm sure I got judged for so I was OK.

9. Actually that wasn't a problem.
10. I can't dance and I'm really introverted but the kind that's also shy.

         

            Perhaps the High School Hallway has lost in the race for America. The dance is what's really up. The dance is conspicuous. There's an East and West Side. There was the smell of sweat and other bodily fluids and alcohol in the air. There was a lot of drama I missed out on because as I was leaving this one guy was throwing up in a trash can. But these issues weren't sitting by the door, or in a group, or in separate countries. These issues were right there, literally hovering in the air. And that's America.

             To recognize all that isn't necessary. Homecoming was a social observation for me, and that's what took place of fun, and fun is prioritizing the necessary. That's why I had so many issues at all Even the unnecessary necessary, but I'm still mad Homecoming didn't have human essentials like food, like cheese.

Lots and Lots of cheese with blue paper on the walls and spotlighted dancing.

Peace