Here's something new: I'm overwhelmed!

I am sick. I have a Bio test on Tuesday. And college applications. And SATs. And SAT II's. And I was six dollars short of having enough money on my Debit Card to register for the ACT on time. So now I have to explain to my mom why I'm paying $70 for it instead of $45.



Yeah.

God damn it.

I fail at school. End of story. Back to homework. I can spend hours on it now and still have hours left to do. Last year I spent a couple of minutes on an assignment the class period before it was due. Now? Block-scheduling = double the work in each class. But hey, with only half the number of classes at a time, how could this be overwhelming? Because I can't wrap my brain around that much material in a single subject at one time!! I can't comprehend two chapters of Econ in one night or five chapters of APUSH in a week. That's too much. Not to mention, I can't sit still and pay attention for eighty minutes. No wonder Bio makes no sense. I don't have time to thoroughly read it because of the numerous chapters being assigned for APUSH and Econ. Don't give me any of that "It's preparing you for college" bullshit. You don't have eight hours of every class a day in college. Just wait til next semester, when I drop my two easy languages and pick up Humanities and Calculus.

Ohhhh, and I have to be up for gym in three and a half hours. Cool.

Enough complaining. If this doesn't blow over and turn out to be an awkward beginning of school thing, then I don't know what I'm going to do.

Back to Econ. Still have at least another two hours worth of it. If I skip lunch, I think I can finish it tomorrow.

Blargh! If I don't get my license, I'm going an heroine.

I go for my license in less than an hour now, and I'm freaked. Okay, let's be optimistic about this, even though I probably won't be getting it because after seven hours of practice, I still can't parallel park.

Best Case Scenario: If I get my license, I'll be able to drive to work, structure my own hours, drive to school for early morning gym, make my own appointments, go to colleges with Tina, and drive to Esther's for our Jambiddlybop on Thursday.

Worst Case Scenario: If I don't get my license...well, I suppose I'll have a possible topic for college admissions essays. I'm one of those kids who is good at high school and...pretty much nothing else. So when folks say, "Oh, you'll be fine. Driving is just common sense," I say, "Uh-oh..."

I'll report back later after I've finished crying over my immense failure at life.

Edit: ZOMGWTFBBQLOLZ I got it.

The Joys of College Admissions Essays (not) and What NYU has Done for ME.

I'm not a good writer. I can't easily make one sentence flow to the other, and, while my sentences are free of spelling and grammatical errors, they lack substance and zing. It's funny to observe just how much my style has diminished throughout the years. From the time I was three years old, til I was about thirteen, I wanted to be an author when I grew up. In school, I was treated like a prodigy when it came to writing. Unfortunately, that didn't last. In junior high, I switched my focus over to music (specifically John Mayer). From that, I picked up a guitar and banged around on a keyboard. I wasn't able to afford lessons for myself, so I did what seemed practical enough: I taught myself. Again, for whatever reason, this was seen as impressive, and I was treated as a prodigy. But as time went on, my interest in music dwindled.

In high school, I didn't write for fun, and I barely picked up an instrument. My life literally was centered around friends and the computer. But hey, that's high school for you. I was treated like a prodigy concerning my schoolwork, too. Oh, sure, the classes I take aren't exactly a walk in the park, but I barely put effort into them, and I'm not at the very top of my class.

Well, my point is that I wanted to write back when I was a kid. Every writing assignment I turned in during elementary school was my best work, and it paid off. Now I dread sitting down to write a blog. Similarly, I wanted to play guitar and piano. I would sit in my room practicing for hours and hours upon end until I got whatever concept I was trying to learn down perfectly. Now I can barely play for more than ten minutes at a time.

High school came, and I didn't want things like I used to. I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't know what to try for. Money seemed more important. Schoolwork seemed less so. It was a dull, depressing life, and I had a lot of downs during my freshman and sophomore years. The PSATs (practice test for the SATs) were a joke, and I went into them on three hours of sleep. I subconsciously checked off a box to have my scores sent to colleges, and within months of doing so, my mailbox was stormed with floods of letters on a daily basis. They were all from colleges, and while I knew their interest wasn't directed at me personally, I was still flattered. So I opened letter upon letter and read the opening lines. That was usually as far as I got.

Millersville: "We want you at our school! Come visit."
Drexel: "We hear you're a high achieving student."
Penn State: "Here at PSU, we look for students just like you!"
Franklin & Marshall: "Are you looking for a school with renowned professors, great academic opportunities, and unique campus life? Then F&M is right for you!"
New York University: "I'll be honest with you -- NYU isn't for everyone."

Wait...what was that last one? You mean you aren't one-hundred percent certain that you want me at your school? To be perfectly honest, I had intended since junior high to just go to Millersville or Penn State because they were cheap, and I could live at home. I didn't aspire to travel anywhere cool, let alone to New York City. But for some reason, I really, really liked the sound of NYU.

I went online, checked it out, and I found that I had the right GPA and courseload, but my SATs were predicted to be way lower than NYU's range. Also, the tuition was 50k a year -- way more than I could ever afford. I almost gave up on any ambitions to attend the school until I mentioned those three letters, which now roll off my tongue on a daily basis, to Tina's mom. I told her all the reasons why I could never attend, and she nearly smacked me in the face. "Are you crazy? NYU is the PERFECT place for you! You deserve that school, Elizabeth. So your SAT scores aren't the highest. They have enough kids with perfects. They need someone like you.And as for the cost...don't even worry about money if that's where you want to be." And that day in February, Tina's mom sparked the fire which has dimmed and flickered from time to time but has yet to go out.

I'm not going to write a blurb about all the amazing things that NYU is. What I am going to write, though, is how grateful I am that the Office of Admissions sent me that letter. For the first time in two and a half years, I really want something.

What I really like about wanting admission into NYU, what's really different about truly wanting something this time around, is that it's not easy for me. I don't have all the stats needed for NYU, and I probably still won't by the time I apply. It's quite the reach away, but I'm willing to jump for it, and that's what'll make it worth it in the end.

So far, I've worked hard to familiarize myself with the SATs (which is A LOT better than going in blind, trust me). I didn't study for them, but I learned what to expect on them. I scored above average with a 1950, just barely in NYU's range. It won't get me in, but it gives me a chance, plus I have an opportunity to get my score higher in October. I've also managed to convince my mom not only to visit NYU but to accept the fact that New York City is where I want to be. This was a remarkable feat, and major props go to her for being so understanding. I've gained a lot of respect for my mom over the past six months.

I'm excited and scared for application time this fall. Screwing up my apps or my essay is not an option. The essay is what worries me the most, especially, because I absolutely cannot write. I can't tell the admissions officers through written expression why I'm the kind of person that NYU was made for. I don't know how to explain my extracurriculars or how I'd change the world with a five dollar bill. So in conclusion to this long, tangent-filled post, I'm just going to say that, despite my lack of confidence in my writing skills, I am determined to pull things together and figure out a way to make it work. I'll be damned if I've come this far to have it all ruined by a stupid essay.

Bad news never had good timing.

I came home from work today (or yesterday, rather) completely exhausted from working the dreaded 7-2 shift. I hopped on facebook and just surfed through friends' pages, looking at them in more detail. I noticed that, listed on one of my friend's facespaces, was a group called "In Dedication and Remembrance to Mr. Way." Out of curiosity, I clicked the link to the group's page, and this whole array of memories seemed to flood my mind.

My mom has been working in the daycare for the local rec center since before I could walk or talk. She first met Mr. Way when he put his twin daughters in the nursery when they were toddlers. As she sometimes does with the parents who drop their kids off, my mom conversed quite a bit with Mr. Way. Unlike other parents, who would leave their kids and run off quickly to exercise, he would make the time to sit and play with his daughters before leaving. This gave my mom plenty of opportunity to get to know him and his wife.

Years and years later, when my brother entered high school, he had Mr. Way for General Science in his freshman year. During the school's open houses, to which I usually came along, my mom would go up and talk to him. Every year, for all four years of my brother's high school career, they talked of me possibly having Mr. Way as a teacher once I got to the high school level.

And I very well almost did. During course selection in eighth grade, I could have chosen to take Honors General Science, and therefore I would have had Mr. Way as a teacher. But I'd heard so many horror stories about his class being terribly difficult and how hard he graded science fair, etc. My own brother dropped out of honors science after taking his class, so I decided that I'd better take the regular level course instead.

Ninth grade came along, and I enjoyed my courses very much. Although I didn't have Mr. Way, I heard from many of my friends taking honors that he was an amazing, though admittedly tough, teacher. One friend told me at the beginning of the year that it was too bad I didn't take honors because Mr. Way often let his discussions meander from science so much that he would wind up talking about human nature or his life experiences. She said that his thought-provoking tangents were "my kind" of thing.

Mr. Way wanted everything done precisely (Way's way). I heard that he once took points off on a test because a kid showed work horizontally instead of vertically. All of his students needed to have their binders organized in a certain manner, and he graded them on this. A lot of kids received their first F's in his class. Still, he was respected and honored as one of the favorite teachers of most of the students who had him.

From day one of freshman year, my mom periodically insisted that I go see him and tell him that she had watched his daughters in the nursery and that he had my brother seven years ago. I answered that I would, when I got around to it, every single time. I had plenty of opportunities to let him know, too. I'd followed friends into his classroom both freshman and sophomore year when they had to ask him questions, and I often passed him in the halls. Junior year, I walked past him standing outside of his room several times a day to get to my locker. I just thought it'd be awkward to go up and tell him that he knew everyone in my family except for me.

By all means, I don't forget coming to school Monday November 12th of my junior year and hearing that Mr. Way had died unexpectedly from a brain tumor the previous day . The English, Math, and Cultures teachers were all saddened, but the Science Department was a wreck. I had Chemistry first period, and the first thing my teacher said to us was, "I had a lesson planned, but one of my best friends just died, so I don't give a crap." And we all sat and did nothing for forty-five minutes. The response from students was huge, too. At least five tables were set up in the Commons, and within a day all were filled with flowers and cards as a memorial to him. A sign was posted on one of the tables that read, "Men of genius are meteors destined to burn themselves out while lighting up their age."

Anyway, today I was on facebook reading all of the comments left on his page from people who knew him, and they were all so meaningful, much more than the typical, "Oh, this is so sad." He meant so much to a lot of kids. Just looking at the group page would tell you that. It made me truly regret that I never had the guts to a.) take his honors class when I definitely know I could have done it, and b.) tell him who I was and be able to meet him. I wish I could say something about how awesome a person I knew him as, but unfortunately, I just have to go by what other folks say.

It almost makes me wonder what else I have the ability to do and yet, for some lame excuse, am not doing.

Stream of consciousness writers were always bipolar. How artsy. (Rather pessimistic, I'm afraid)

Fitter, happier, more productive, comfortable, not drinking too much, regular exercise at the gym, 3 days a week, getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries, at ease, eating well, no more microwave dinners and saturated fats, a patient better drive, a safer car, sleeping well, no bad dreams, no paranoia, careful to all animals, keep in contact with old friends, enjoy a drink now and then, will frequently check credit at, moral, bank, hole in the wall, favors for favors, fond but not in love, charity standing orders, on Sundays ring road supermarket, no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants, car wash, also on Sundays, no longer afraid of the dark or midday shadows, nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate, nothing so childish, at a better pace, slower and more calculated, no chance of escape, now self-employed, concerned but powerless, an empowered and informed member of society, pragmatism not idealism, will not cry in public, less chance of illness, a good memory, still cries at a good film, still kisses with saliva, no longer empty and frantic, like a cat tied to a stick, the ability to laugh at weakness, calm, fitter, healthier and more productive, a pig in a cage on antibiotics.

Anyway, every Tuesday that I work, the same woman comes into my line a little before 5:00. She's older, overweight, and her hair is thinning. When she talks, her voice lacks any emotion whatsoever. She doesn't wear a wedding ring. Every week (for the past eleven months), she buys sixteen containers of yogurt, two tubs of ice cream, three bottle of coke, seven TV dinners, two loaves of bread, and a bag of apples. I wonder how she got to that point.

Laziness! Procrastination! Throw a computer into the mix, and you've got one sedentary kid.

Well, I'm back at my humble abode where The Iliad and an AP Biology packet that probably killed a whole tree have been eagerly awaiting my return. Those three days at the beach appear to be exactly what I needed to get me away from the dull home life I had been living. I had expected to stay through today, but we came back on Thursday because Tina's parents realized that we could come home with one of the chaperons from the Youth Group that was staying across the street. That's allright, though, because we realized on Monday that we only had three days to do whatever we wanted, and consequently, we packed a lot into those three days. It was a very full vacation.

Not to mention I was able to see John Mayer for the second time. As Tina said, he is amazingness in a man. I could blab on about the concert, but I really don't want to. Okay, I will. We arrived in Columbia right as the gates opened, and we joked about rain because it looked like clouds were moving in up ahead. Merriweather Post Pavilion smelled like old, wet sneakers (a scent others might recognize as boardwalk fries), so I can't say walking around aimlessly was exactly the most pleasant experience I've ever had.

The torrential downpour came just as the opening act (Brett Dennen) took the stage. I feel bad for opening acts. I couldn't hear Brett and his band playing at all, and the crowd simply didn't care. We were too preoccupied with trying to stay dry the entire time. Our seats were under a tarp...a very battered and ripped tarp, but at least we weren't on the lawn. Those people were completely drenched. Tina and I had bought sweatshirts before the show began and jokingly talked about how we could just sit on them if our seats were wet. However, when this became a reality, we found that we had no other choice but to keep ourselves dry with our newly bought sweatshirts. They smelled like fried food, anyway. It rained throughout the entire concert, but I have come to the conclusion that it was indubitably worthwhile.

He's playing "Who Did You Think I Was?" solo. (I am not the one who keeps saying, "Yeah!")



Here he's playing Van Halen's "Panama" while his guitarist sings. The sound quality is very bad because the microphone was weak and the guitar distorted. In addition nearly everyone in the audience was screaming because Mayer's torso was not draped in cotton.