Happy List as.of.today.february.26th.(or.27th.since.its.2:30.a.m.)

.bonfires.
.getting more and more excited for summer.
.sword fights with hot dog sticks.
.eating.
.eating.
.eating.
.feeling good about a taken test.
.hawaii plans.
.finding a balance between schoolworkfriendsandallthingshim.
.realizing you are on the same page but come from different directions.
.socks.
.being hilarious twentyfourseven.
.down comfortors.
.weekends.
.falling asleep.
.song and picture text messages.
.calling texts text messages.
.wonderful people.
.contentedness.

'cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance

then they're no friends of mine.

bah humbug

For those of you who know me, I am not a huge proponent of this month's holiday.

I do not like pink.
I do not like pink and red together.
I think cuddly little bears oozing with mushiness are sort of gross.
Sometimes I'd like to take one of cupid's arrows and whack him over the head with it.

I don't really know why.

I am totally a closet romantic. I don't like PDA, and sappy things directed towards me make me extremely uncomfortable.
But I love everything about love.

Confused?

You may think I have had some horrible V-day story in the past...au contraire.
All my February 14th's have been just peachy.
I am not some girl who eats her weight in ice cream sobbing over some movie in her pj's that night because she needs a boy to validate her life.
I am not some scorned woman who holds an "i hate men" party with all her uber-feminist friends.
I just have always thought that Valentine's Day was a little...

gay.

This V-day was no different. I approached it scoffing at all the decorations and commercialism (except my power rangers valentines).
And I didn't even do anything remotely Valentiney.

But somewhere in the past few days I had a realization.
Hating Valentine's Day because of the pink, the fluff, the mush,
is like hating Christmas because of the trees, the lights, the gifts.
Hating Easter because of the eggs, the bunnies, the pastels.
Hating Thanksgiving because of the food, the football, the food.

It's ridiculous.

Those holidays aren't about any of those things. They're just a part of how we celebrate.
I thought it was so lame because there shouldn't have to be a designated day for people to proclaim their love.
But there shouldn't have to be one to celebrate the birth of Christ, or His resurrection, or to give thanks either.

Valentine's is about celebrating love, in all of it's forms.
And I love everything about love.

.happy things.

Ultimate Challenges
Fort Building (2 stories no less)
Birthday Necklaces
Epic Dance Moves
"The Silent Cricket" "Wax On, Wax Off" "Rockin' The Boat" (a few of said dance moves)
Becoming A Morning Person
Not Being Behind On Homework
Being Excited For Any And All Physical Activity
Yoga And Studying At The Same Time
Pandora
Weekends At Home
Love
New Shoes
Pleasant Realizations
Graduation Plans
Summer Plans
California Plans
Hawaii Plans

And Of Course...The Korean BBQ (it's as awesome as it sounds)

"this gaudy, mother-scented, mud-bedaubed language of ours"

is a snippet of the inside jacket of my current favorite book, Good Poems. I have always had a small soft spot in my soul for poetry, but lately it has erupted.
Poetry speaks to the romantic in each of us. It can take a subject as ordinary as socks and make it sound beautiful. Poetry allows us to describe the world as we see it, not the way that it really is.

Or maybe its the other way around.

The best song lyrics are poetry set to music, and it has been said that dance is poetry in motion.

I couldn't agree more.

One poem may have an infinite number of meanings. It may convey one message one day, and a completely different one the next.
Poems are coy, complex. They are not meant to be read in one sitting and never thought of again. They are meant to be inhaled. Read out loud. The words are meant to dance around on your tongue and slink their way up to your brain. They are meant to be peeled apart, examined, and lovingly put back together. One poem may never divulge all of its secrets to you. Certainly not in one sitting.

Poetry is art in written form. A good poem makes my whole body tingle, and I read it over and over and over again. Poetry is life, the way we see it, the way we want it to be. The way it is. Poetry is eternal.

The Yellow Slicker
Stuart Dischell

On this fourth day in a row of rain
There is a sameness to the streets broken only by the odd
Brightly painted house--the way those who pass by
In tan or black trench coats look back at the girl
Wearing a yellow slicker. The yellow slicker,
A gift from her aunt who knew London would be wet,
Having lived there herself just after The War,
The Europe she had known transformed to a state
Of the mind, no longer Central but Eastern, far away,
Bombed-out, depopulated, at least of her kind.

But for a girl of nineteen with American thoughts,
Traveler's cheques, a boy at home, a university
Address, the decline of the West compels less
Than each step she takes through the London rain.
Even these British so accustomed to their weather
Admire the girl in the yellow slicker, as if she
With her uncovered streaming blond hair might shine
As the only sun they will see all week. Now,
That's the kind of history she likes to hear.


See, this is my current favorite poem and I've already learned something new in typing it out.
It's delicious.

1/19/10

Today happiness has been my new "go, go power rangers" ringtone. Everytime I hear the beepity beep of a T message coming my way I feel like I'm being called to go save the world.

Today

happiness was getting out of my dress and into some sweats and being lazy and comfy with a certain somebody.