Mini CT’s Dream Jobs

Copyright: The Sticky Note Addict

Copyright: The Sticky Note Addict

Cookie dough taster.
Television watcher.
Bed tester.
Book reader.
Swimming pool tester.
Pizza taster.
Trampoline jumper.
Stuffed animal trainer.
Pepperoni eater.
Unicorn rider.
Chocolate taster.

These are the jobs that young CT wrote in her diary about. Agreed, she was wacky, but she was also a dreamer.
And as she wrote in her loopy childish handwriting, all of these must be exercized in a purely “preffeshenol” manner.

And you know what? Someday, older CT is gonna accomplish every one of these dreams. Yes, even the unicorn one, doubters.

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

 

The Post About Toes

My toes lie dormant for most of the year, nestled in warm fuzzy socks and hidden from the cold by thick furry boots. Much like groundhogs, they hibernate until they feel the soft breeze of spring tickle them during a night when they were violently kicked out from under the covers. And that, that is when they wake up and start demanding what they feel is rightfully theirs: freedom.

From all of you out there freaking out because I’m implying that my toes have an independent thought pattern, calm your over-enthusiastic horses. I’m not saying that my toes suddenly start moving all by themselves and ask the brain if they can break up with my body just to pitter-patter away on their own adventures. I like to think that my toes love me far to much to ever act on the great threat of 2011 (don’t ask.), so don’t y’all go chopping off your toes in fear that they’ll decide to discover China without you. Seriously, don’t, you’ll look like a wounded ostrich when you walk around.

I, being the generous and fair goddess that y’all claim me to be, give them their freedom earlier than most. Roughly translated into human lingo, this means that by March I can be seen prancing around the streets of Paris in my favorite pair of flip flops, gathering stares of disdain from most, awe from some and admiration from the rare few. I mean I have nothing against normal shoes, I wear sneakers and flats like everyone else, but there’s nothing quite like that first day when you walk outside, wiggle your toes and feel the raw air on your feet.

Having feet free of the constraints of suffocating socks and shoes is a part of summer that I love and that I would have a hard time living without, which is part of the reason that I could never thrive in Siberia. That and I don’t speak Russian. Now I know that some people simply can’t take off their shoes and walk across a lawn or a beach barefoot. Ladies, gentlemen and aliens, you are missing out. There are few feelings more enjoyable than having sand filter through your toes or letting your feet sink into a shaggy carpet of juicy green grass.

So (I feel as if I’m in a commercial, advertizing some natural health enhancer thing), take off your shoes, let your toes breathe, and walk through the grass. Well, except if you live in the city, in which case don’t, because the grass is covered in a thick layer of dog piss. Side effects of walking barefoot through an urban park may include fungi, disgust and consequential barfing. You are forwarned. Peace out.

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: Am I the only one who’s been having some trouble with WordPress lately? My notifications don’t always show up, my reader won’t load… It’s the weirdest thing.

An Open Letter to Summer

Dear Summer,

You’ve been here for twenty days already, and yet you still fail to make your presence known to us. Yes yes, I know that here in Normandy we’re not supposed to get high expectations about your three month visit, but we still have some hopes come the 21st of June. We can give you a couple weeks to settle in, but then you’re supposed to warm our hearts and souls (and, um, skin and hair, but those parts are slightly less romantic) and make us sing with joy at being able to run through the fields and lay in the grass laughing. Instead, you appear to be being bullied by the other seasons, thus depriving us of some much needed alone time with the giant apricot in the sky.

Today when I got up, I put on shorts and a t-shirt and trudged into the bathroom to brush my hair and do other stuff that you don’t need to know about. About 156 seconds later I emerged from the room looking like I had just come from the Arctic Circle and had only seen wolverines for the past fifteen days (you heard me: a wolverine. Not nearly as muscly as Hugh Jackman, more of a Ron Weasley type (because a wolverine is a weasel. Get it? Yeah I find myself smart). Gosh, I can’t remember what I was talking about… Oh right, I was cold). I dashed back into my room and changed into pants, a long sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt.  Summer, it’s the 11th of July. Even for our harsh climate, frostbite inducing weather is not normal.

In this spirit, please show the following advice (by which I mean orders) to Winter, Spring and Autumn:
Winter; you have no right to butt in right now. You know we love you and your snow and holidays, but this isn’t the time. How would you like it if at Christmas Summer didn’t let you make it snow anywhere in the Northern hemisphere by turning your snowflakes into rain? Not good huh? No. So leave June, July and September alone.
Spring; you bring hope and color with you when you come, but now we don’t want to just hope anymore. Don’t push your timeline on other people, it’s not nice.
Autumn; as much as I love you, it most certainly isn’t your turn yet. You have the least right to impose yourself on Summer because it’s your time to shine afterwards anyway. Stop being hyperactive and trying to steal Summer’s months of glory.

Guys, it’s raining, I’m cold and about as tanned as a dying walrus. Will someone please send me on vacation to some exotic island already?

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: Upon re-reading this post, it seems necessary to indicate that the giant apricot in the sky is the sun, since you aren’t all sociopaths who can read my mind. If you are, then you people have really great covers. Although… they do say ‘stranger danger’… I should stop writing now.

The Kardashian App: Kill Me Now

WARNING: THIS IS A RANT. ENTER WITH CAUTION, AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Have you ever wanted to ask Kim Kardashian for advice on relationships, beauty, health, fashion or style? Why yes Apple Store, it’s all I’ve ever wanted in my life, thanks for asking.
Watch as Kim strikes her signature poses or blows you a kiss — even locate your closest Sephora to find her new perfume! I assume Kimmy’s “signature pose” is lying on an examination table in her plastic surgeon’s office, talking on her phone and making bad choices. Oh please, let her do that on our screens! As for locating the closest Sephora, that probably implies that 1) the application is stalking you, and 2) that your ensuing conversation with the salesclerk at Sephora will go something like this:

You: Hi, so ohmygod, I was playing the Kim Kardashian: Hollywood app, and like Kim told me that you were near me and that you had her perfume, so um since I’m sort of addicted to the Kardashian’s makeup I was like ‘holy sh*t yes’ so I got in my convertible and I drove here like, really fast.
Salesclerk: [shocked silence. Symptoms may include open mouth, wide, unblinking eyes and a vacant stare]
You: No but seriously I like have the twenty dollar nail polish and the fake eyelashes and everything.
Salesclerk: [slowly regaining consciousness] I.. um.. yeah, one of your eyelashes is stuck to your cheek.
You: Oh gosh silly ole’ me, I’m not very good with the glue, I kinda get it all over myself. So the perfume?

I gotta say guys, applications like these are slowly making me lose faith in humanity. I love technology, I really do: I marvel at my phone telling me that it’ll be raining in Normandy for the next year and a half, or that the Mets finally won a game, or that I’m ten minutes from home in normal traffic conditions. Honestly, living in a world without apps on my phone seems mightely boring (although granted, that might just be because I’m an Internet obsessed teenager), but the apps have to at least be useful.

A Kim Kardashian app teaches its users (who I’m guessing are about 99% women and 1% men) that it’s better to live in a fake, superficial world than in the real one. Sure, the real one is filled with unpleasant things such as, to cite a few; the alarming disappearance of cookies, deadlines and/or alarm clocks but these daft everyday annoyances are part of who we are and what we have to deal with. As a player, your celebrity’s problems are horrible boyfriends and bad makeovers. Boo-freakin-hoo. I understand a little light hearted fun; I downloaded the app myself and giggled at its stupidness with a couple of my friends, but looking over the reviews and some articles on the Web, I realized the horrible extent of people’s addiction to this crap. It needs to stop; people need to focus on things that are more important rather than spending hours on end squinting at their phone’s screen and wondering if they have enough imaginary money to buy that leather jacket Kim’s been telling them to or if they need to invest real money to buy fake cash.

I wish I didn’t care. I wish I could be CT, aloof and uncaring, laughing off stuff like this. Yet I do, and apps like these really get to me. In between the Kardashian app and the Yo app, I don’t know in what direction this world is heading. I think I’ll go watch all my favorite characters get killed in Game of Thrones now, and try and forget about the people moaning because their pixel avatar’s hair isn’t growing fast enough.

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

Bibliography: some Polish nutcase
 

Graphic Drawings

cyanideandhappinessdrawing” – Oh look, you drew something!
– Yeah, do you like it?
– It’s wonderful! [more gushing ensues] But… um… What is it?
– What do you think it is?
– I, uh, a representation of death?
– No, it’s a forest.
– Oh of course, I totally see it now! Right, and here’s a person walking through it!
– That’s a tree trunk. Maybe I’ll start over again.
– I’m sorry, I really did try to be enthusiastic.”

I’ve never been the most gifted person with colored pencils, pastels, paint, blood or any of those artistic devices used to create a masterpiece on paper, canvas, cupcakes, corpses or whatever. My family has always been artistic: grandparents, aunts, parents and even siblings have a certain magical talent to create these wonderful drawings that look like they could be in any art museum. They each have their specialty: still life, nature, surreal forms, architecture… And of course I have one too, one that requires great, well, nothing: stick figures.

You see, the drawing gene seems to have skipped me. Sure, when I was little I took great pride in being able to connect the dots to make a snowman appear or color in a certain amount of shapes without going over the lines, but my abilities seemed to stop there. My brother started showing promise early, concocting things like trains and dogs, while I was left drawing teepees (why you ask? Teepees are basically triangles. That much I can deal with.).

At this point you’re probably thinking to yourself “Nah, she can’t possibly be as bad as she’s making herself out to be..” First of all, if you really are thinking that, it means that my mind manipulation techniques are finally working and I can start putting my world domination plan into action. Secondly, shucks guys, you’re so nice! Thirdly, I forgot what I was counting for. I know that they say that practice makes perfect, and while I agree to a certain extent, I have to concede the fact that at a certain point, if it ain’t happening, it ain’t gonna happen. So instead of lamenting the fact that I have the drawing talents of Godzilla, I’ll keep  proudly drawing stick figures living in houses consisting of squares and triangles under a sun that lives permanently in the upper right corner of the page.

Why am I suddenly being so generous and forgiving myself for making a drawing of Mars look like a giant apricot? Because I can paint in a different way: with words. The Mostly Confused Teenager is my canvas, the keys on the keyboard my brushes, the posts my masterpieces (I have a weird notion of masterpiece I know) and you, fellow bloggers, are my critics.

So in conclusion, thank you for making me feel artsy. In return, I promise never to publish a collection of my drawings, for the good of the world.

Live long and prosper \V/

Sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

 

Still Alive *let the world rejoice*

msray2008.com

msray2008.com

It’s always hard to come back after a long absence. This much has been demonstrated by the string of ill-fated train-wrecks released by Psy since Gangnam Style rocked the world. I don’t know if I can keep writing with the gusto I did a year ago, and I’m quite worried that I’ll let you guys down. Heck, I don’t even know if anyone will read this, I have been told that if one stops blogging regularly, one loses a great deal of readership. People of the ultimate achievement of Spiderman (get it? the Web. oh dear, what am I saying), I don’t want to end up like Psy, which is why I intend to make my return to the world of blogging as triumphantly as possible. There’s only one problem: when I try to be triumphant, I usually end up doing something stupid and causing the severe embarrassment of everyone around me, while I stare at the results of my so-called triumph and wonder where the fudge I went wrong. So this time, instead of proudly prancing around before tripping and falling down the stairs (which, um, never happened *gag*), I’m going to triumph by slowly easing back into The Mostly Confused Teenager, hopefully as easily as Rory Williams comes back to life every time he dies.

For the past few months, I have been a nerdy, anti-social recluse. Now this has been caused partly by the great deal of exams I have had to take and partly by the power of procrastination, which lately has been taking the form of Game of Thrones episodes. I had finals in April, the SAT in June and the first part of my baccalaureate strangling me from behind until a few days ago. Over this period of time I became a pale, weak version of an apricot, who’s sad life consisted of getting up having slept an average of 5 hours, struggling through the morning, working at lunch, looking like a zombie in the afternoon and going straight to the library after classes until it closed. I thank the great cookie in the sky that I was too busy to blog, otherwise The Mostly Confused Teenager would have been replete with inspiring statements to be read in overly melodramatic voices such as:
“The wind and rain are howling and lashing inside my soul”
“My one comfort is knowing that the world will still have cookies once I’m gone” or even
“I will only be happy again once the Mets have won the World Series”
Depressing huh? It was a dark time for good old CT, and when I got to the point where I was relying on a completely hopeless team for happiness I realized that I needed to snap out of it.

So, ladies, gentlemen, both, neither and aliens, here I am; on vacation and back to my old if slightly more wrinkled self. And as I age with as much grace and wisdom as Yoda (shh. no comment. let me live out my dream); return to blogging I will.

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: Happy 4th of July to all you ‘Muricans out there. May you overdrink, overeat and overspend in peace and freedom.

Why I’m Suicidal (Part I)

Now before you all  shove your suicide hot line numbers in my face (on which, paradoxically, I might choke), I’m not suicidal yet. However, I want to become a doctor, so I am convinced that a part of me must be slightly crazy. Slightly. No comments please.

I’ve wanted to be a doctor ever since I was a little girl, around 6 years old. As the years pass I’ve always stuck firm to my resolution, never wavering from the path of my dreams, but never really thinking about it either. Now, less than a year away from college applications, people (including my pushy but well-intentioned parents) are questioning my motives. Why do I want to become a doctor? Why would I want to put myself through so many years of hell? Well maybe I like hell. Did you ever think of that? Huh? Wait no… I like lazing around and doing nothing. I really need to ask myself some serious questions. After a lot of procrastinating and wishing that I had a yacht (don’t ask, even I don’t know), I’ve come up with a certain number of reasons why I want to be a doctor.

#1: It’s as interesting as a chocolate fountain

Chocolate fountains are interesting as fudge (get it? *big grin* no? *grin fades a little* I use the word ‘fudge’ to replace f*ck, and in context it worked so well that I found myself quite clever. Whaaat am I doing?). Biology is my favorite class in the whole wide world, because I always learn something new, something so amazing that it often makes my mouth hang open and my eyes widen until someone tells me that I look like a dying fish. “Yeah, but CT, you learn things in other classes too, isn’t that the point of school?” I see where you’re coming from, oh stranger of the Internet, but for me there’s a vast difference in between say, what I learn in math and what I learn in bio. Here’s an example:
BIO
Teacher: did you if someone laid your blood vessels from end to end they would circle the Earth approximately 2,5 times?
Me: I COULD RULE THE WOR-Oh wait no I’d be dead. *looks down at body* The force is strong with this one!
MATH
Teacher: did you know that if cosx = 1/2, x= pi/3 or -pi/3?
Me: Oh my god, who the hell cares?
See, there’s just something about the world of science that is so fascinating that sometimes I can’t tear myself away from my biology book. Math on the other hand I have no trouble putting at the bottom of my bag where I can’t see it.

#2: The knight of the sick

Knights can be women now right? No? Only dames? But I want to go around on a horse and save people too! When you’re a doctor, your patients look up to you, unless you do a crappy job, in which case they risk killing you with a chainsaw in the middle of the night while eating a hamburger. I’m not saying that I’m avid of power, but it’s nice to be needed and to know that you can make someone’s life better, show them the way out of the dark abyss that they’d been stuck in, and most of all put a smile back on their face. I know it’s cliché, but there’s a reason that people use it as a reason (not at all repetitive CT, good sentence structure): there’s nothing quite like seeing someone’s face light up because you’ve made them happy.

#3: It’s fulfilling (like mint-chip ice cream)

The awesome thing about making someone else happy is that it makes you happy. There’s nothing that makes me more pleased than someone’s eyes widen in delight when they see that I have cookies. Is that selfish? I can’t tell, and it’s stressing me out a little bit. Aaand now I’ve forgotten what I was talking about. Ah yes: I imagine that making people feel better and taking away the pain is a bit like giving someone a cookie and a hug when they’re having a bad day, but in a much more important sense. I don’t want to get stuck in a dead end job where I finish some kind of project and get absolutely no satisfaction in it, sit back in my chair and think; “I miss the days when I was all smiley faces and jumped around ecstatically when I accomplished something (and not because I was high either)“. I want to feel something inside of me each time a patient come around and tells me that he or she is feeling better, something new and refreshing that will motivate me to keep going.

#4: I will NEVER get bored

And if I do, there are always fail videos on YouTube (will YouTube still exist when I’m grown up? *slaps herself before the panicky feeling takes a hold of her heart*). I’m not the kind of person who can sit in one seat for 3 hours and type away at a computer without getting butterflies in her stomach and needing to walk around stretching her legs as if she were part of the Ministry of Silly Walks on Monty Python. In medecine, you’ve got the type-cases that you learn about in medical school, but as soon as you get into the real world everything is very different (I’ve heard, I unfortunately haven’t mastered time travel yet): no two people are the same, which means that no two needs  are the same and by association no two cases are identical. Can you imagine? The excitement of waking up each day and knowing that you’re going to accomplish something new and be confronted to something that you may never have encountered before? It’s kind of like pizza: there’s an infinite amount of possibilities that will always surprise and challenge (I consider a nutella pizza to be challenging) and will sometimes leave a bad taste in your mouth (try nutella and anchovies, then reap), but all in all the experiences are so interesting that nothing would make you regret them.

This is a list in progress, meaning that it’s not even close to done. It also means that when I go into an interview and someone asks me ‘why’ I want to be a doctor, I can remember this article and spit out a drastically different version of it. Because there is no way in hell that I’m telling my examiner that I want to be a doctor because with the money I make off of it, I could buy a solar powered unicorn tracker.

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

A New Hope

2013MERRY CHRISTMAS! Oh wait, that’s past isn’t it. Hum… well, what comes after Christmas? The New Year, right. Ohmygosh 2013 is over already? How time does fly *takes southern accent and shakes head slowly like an old and wise pomegranate peel*

I spent the last evening of 2013 playing Scrabble. This is unbelievably unbelievable for me as 1) I suck at it, and 2) I don’t like it. Upon second reflection my dislike of the game may have something to do with my ability to play it. Anyway, I guess that it’s rather fitting, I’m seeing the year out the same as it’s been for the past 365 days: awful. Because of this I feel totally uninspired when it comes to talking about the past year, which is why I’m going to move right on to my hopes for the year to come. And that’s 2014, in case any of you have been stuck in a cave for a (very long) while.

Firstly, I hope that I’ll find it in me to write 2014 on my school papers. Every year it’s the same old deal: a student’s mind not having registered that a new year of scholastic failure is upon it, it tells the hand to write the year that came before. In my case I stopped registering the new year in 2010, so I still find myself having to angrily turn the 0 into some other number, so that it ends up looking like a potato that has felt the hard times and decided to suicide under the first backhoe that should come along.

Secondly, I would like to get my learner’s permit and be able to drive. My mom told me that on the day of her 16th birthday, the first thing she did was race (get it? no? let’s blame it on the New Year’s alcohol then.) down and register for driving lessons. On my 16th birthday I stuffed my face with cake and cookies until I was about to explode. I want to be able to go to my friends’ when I have homework to do, go shopping and spend all my money on things  I don’t need and finally be in a badass car chase that, while it will undoubtedly end with my licence getting taken away, will have been worth it. Hold your ridiculously cool sunglasses Blues Brothers, CT is coming to town.

2014 will see the start of my last year of high school, my SAT scores and my college applications. Dear Great Cookie in the sky, please make the scores stellar and the universities that I apply to accepting! (get it again? still no? damned alcohol I tell you) Otherwise I might be forced to disown you as my favorite deity. Now now, don’t be that way, you know that I could never actually do that. Still, 800s would be nice, and a get into Vassar and Tufts free card would be just peachy. Just… peachy.

Thirdly, I would awfully like my sports teams to be successful. For the Patriots, that starts right at the beginning of the year with the playoffs. I know that we’re not first seed and have an extremely small chance of winning it all, but let’s give ’em a run for their money anyway, whaddya say? Let’s knock Peyton Manning off his high horse. I’m now getting so worked up that I almost just took out my giant alligator named- uh, you don’t need to know. And also, let’s go Mets! 2014 is our year! Sort of, not really, hardly at all. Oh well, let’s go anyway *voice slowly descends ’til it reaches a barely audible whisper*

Finally, I have decided that 2014 would be a prime year to grow up. I need to become serious, lose the childish gullibleledniss (I just couldn’t end 2013 without making up one last word), the constant laughing. I’m going to walk around with a briefcase and be all business-like and no fun at all. If you fell for one word of that growing up nonsense, I highly suggest that you not allow yourself any cookies until next year. See what I did there? I feel so proud 🙂 No, I think I’ll continue being immature, making awful jokes, keeping a blog that is a great helper when it comes to procrastinating and enjoying every second I spend in the kind, funny world of the Internet (see Mom? nothing to worry about here) and making new friends in the most ridiculous ways possible.

Frankly, I don’t know who will read this. The holidays are a time when not many people find time to consecrate to their favorite pastimes, myself included. However to anyone out there who might be reading a silly 16 year old girl’s blog, I wish you all the best for the year to come, and I do so hope that you’ll keep checking in on old CT from time to time. If she doesn’t die from a chocolate overdose. She has been eating a lot of chocolate lately. In that case, checking in on her might be futile.

So HAPPY NEW YEAR, and for the last time in 2013:

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: And if you were looking for resolutions, I have decided that since I will without a doubt  abandon them in a dumpster where all the drunks end up tomorrow morning; it is not worth is to take the time to write them all down. Except for one really: eat cookies. The one New Year’s resolution I know I can achieve.

PPS: These are wishes, not resolutions. This basically means that when I look back at the end of 2014 I won’t feel so bad that I didn’t accomplish, um, well we’ll just have to see shan’t we? As a certain Doctor Who character would say… spoilers 😉

The 5 Stages of Finals

impendingdoomAfter a certain amount of studying, you start to look decrepit, with dull eyes, terribly close to bursting into a fireball before ending up as a sad little pile of ashes. But once that last final is over, the last “TIME!” called by a bored, grumpy teacher, you rise from those ashes.

To those who got the Harry Potter reference to Fawkes, my supreme geekness commends you (yup, we’re back to making up words), although I’m not saying that I look like a half-plucked turkey or… um… whatever. I realize that I’m just digging a hole for myself but once you start it’s awfully hard to stop *sigh of resignation*

Having spent the last month on an TV, movie and blog hiatus; I am fully aware of the apocalyptic consequences that too much work can bring upon a person. In fact, now that I have a New Perspective (Panic! At the Disco reference! My, two references already, what is happening?) I can safely conclude that finals, or indeed any big test or series of tests resemble quite astonishingly the 5 stages of grief. I hereby elaborate.

STAGE #1: DENIAL AND ISOLATION

Finals? What finals? Oh those test things that we have soon? Those are still two weeks away though.. I have loads of time! Anyway they aren’t that important right? I mean who cares! Gosh, I do wish everyone would stop talking about them, it’s getting to be overbearing and stressful. I say implement the ‘zen-attitude’: [takes voice of a stoner] Life man… that’s what’s important… not some numbers on the top of a page that has been marked with the red blood of a teacher thirsty for revenge on innocent students because he/she failed to get their dream job of mixing cocktails in Tahiti. Chill dude, chill. Everything will be fine.

STAGE #2: ANGER

You know what? F*ck them. They have no right to come in like the monsters that they are and ruin our lives, especially around Christmas! We’re teenagers for crap’s sake, we should be out enjoying life, not studying in a crammed little space for hours on end only to end up with a shit*y grade anyway. And who on this planet wants to spend 4 non-stop hours trying to force yourself through math finals in a room underground with no artificial light and a heat so hot (please ignore the sentence structure, anger doesn’t bring out grammar skills) that you’re in a comatose state and come out looking like you’ve just served your 3rd tour in a war ridden country? You know what we should do? We should boycott finals. You heard me! If no one is there to take them then nothing will happen! They can’t fail us all, the school’s reputation is too important. Who’s with me? COME ON PEOPLE, RISE UP AGAINST THE ENEMY! No? No one? Oh fine. Chickens.

STAGE #3: BARGAINING

I’ve been at this for too long, my eyes are watering and my muscles are about to atrophy from lack of movement. I’ll just take a five minute break OK? Only five minutes… please, I’m on my knees here! *five minutes later* Oh dear apricot, what have I done? I needed those five minutes didn’t I. And now that I’ve wasted them doing completely irrelevant things like hydrating and breathing fresh air, I’m going to fail. Well, time to pray. O Great Cookie, please help me ace this final! You see it’s indispensable for my future and junk like that. If you can’t help me ace it, can you at least make sure that I don’t fail? I’ll give you anything if you do! That sounded so wrong. Let’s say, I’ll give you one of my most prized possessions: my signed David Wright baseball. AAAAH nope sorry can’t do it.

STAGE #4: DEPRESSION

What’s the point, I’m going to fail anyway. From there it’s just a simple chain reaction: once I’ve failed finals, that will inhibit my graduation and I’ll end up flunking out of high school. Goodbye sweet college dreams, goodbye nice house and comfortable salary. Hello winter, hello alcoholism and bridge that is my new home. I might as well just hunker down under my covers and watch the Patriots get beat by the frickin’ Dolphins. So close to #1 seed… The pain, oh the pain…

STAGE #5: ACCEPTANCE

I guess that at a certain point, whatever happens will happen. It is best, when presented with such a series of events, to go about things with an approach close to the philosophy of stoicism. Just purge yourself from all emotions and become a robot for a month. Nothing must affect you, you are a rock. Nope, not even the video of the cute kitten playing hide-and-seek. No, not the guy getting hit in the nuts by a little kid playing baseball. Oh man that is classic. NO, CT. ROBOT.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to The Mostly Confused Teenager.

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

Sea Pancakes and Toilets: Imaginary Friends

Yes, I had several. Now to all of you who are silently saying “Imaginary friends? Is she nuts?” I answer: 1) Yes, I am crazy. And quite proud. And 2) Come on, you know you had at least one too. From what I’ve gathered, having an imaginary friend is sort of a right of passage when you’re a kid. Some people may think that having friends who don’t physically exist is pathetic, and to them I say “BOY HAVE YOU EVER MISSED OUT ON SOMETHING GREAT”.

It’s not that I’m a social recluse and never had any friends. So sometimes I prefer staying home on a Friday night with a good book and a hot chocolate; that doesn’t mean that the only reason that I had imaginary friends was because I felt lonely (and let’s not even talk about Monday nights, when I am unreachable due to the amazing sport of football).

I got my first imaginary friend when I was pretty little, no more than 8 years old. I was reading Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials (you know, The Golden Compass and all that) and was fascinated by the concept of a dæmon, a creature that was essentially part of the person and from whom they could not separate from without great pain. So I decided that if Lyra and Will had dæmons and were the best heroes ever, logically if I had a dæmon I would be an amazing person as well. HA. I named my dæmon Manta. Why? Well… Because at the time I had an obsession with manta rays, or as I called them; sea pancakes. The fact that mint ice cream is my favourite flavor of ice cream also contributed to the name. I was young and innocent, don’t judge. At least, don’t judge harshly. Manta was there when I needed to babble to someone and I didn’t have The Mostly Confused Teenager to ramble on, when I was waiting all by myself for my always-late mom in the rain after school, when I wanted to make fun of my brother but no one was around. Plus, if someone asked me why I was talking to myself, I could always answer that I was actually talking to my imaginary friend, before staring at them with a mixture of befuddlement and disdain.

My second imaginary friend is one that is slightly/waaaay weirder than Manta ever was. His name is Fish, and he’s been my friend for so long that I can’t even remember when I started talking to him. This is awfully embarrassing to write, so I’m glad that not many people that I know read CT’s long winded blog posts. Still I hope that they don’t stop interacting with me because I’m such an absolute weirdosomething. See, I can only talk to Fish when.. um.. a toilet paper roll is finished. A roll with no more paper on it is the telephone that I use to contact him, at which point our conversations go something like this: “Hey Fish! How are you doing? I’m fine Fish, yeah. Ok so seeya Fish.” Now that I think about it these conversations are actually monologues. *sigh*

Still, my imaginary friends never socially hurt me (until now, I hope that this confession doesn’t The MCT’s death warrant). In fact they were a formative part of my childhood and made me into the person I am today. Whether that is a good thing or not I can’t tell 😉 Nonetheless they fostered a singular creative ability and view of the world for which I am eternally grateful. I’ve grown up a lot since the times when I heatedly debated with Manta on my brother’s level of silliness, but I haven’t forgotten the friends who helped me through some odd as sh*t days.

So parents, stop worrying because your kid has an imaginary friend, and kids, be proud! You’ll understand how a thought and/or dream can seem so real that it turns into something that you’ll cherish for the rest of your lives. Ladies and gentlemen, that is all. Peace out.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.