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Myths they teach you in high school
"High school prepares you for college."
Cramming one of the oily cookies in my mouth, I walk past the asshat hall monitor, ducking my head and praying that he won't ask me where I'm going. He's too busy yelling at some kid that probably only left the cafeteria to use the restroom. We're not even allowed to go to the library and do school-like things according to this man. He's like a hall pass Nazi, though no one knows where he expects us to get hall passes from during our lunch period.
I make it to the library without being stopped. It's not really that big of a feat, as the hall monitors don't care what we do as long as we look busy, but I don't have the time to waste being questioned by a hall monitor that decided to do his job today.
The harsh lights of the library reflect off the computer screen as I slide into a desk and login to the system. As I open a fresh word document I note the time on the yellowing clock. I have twenty minutes to write this paper before it's due. Two pages on The Great Gatsby; ye Gods I hate that book, but I've got to hand in something.
"Let's do this thing.”
Many a lunch period, during my high school career, was spent writing papers I hadn't completed the night before. One of my best friends at the time affectionately donned me with the name, Jedi Master Bullshitter. Every paper that I wrote during my lunch periods received an A or B grade. What a lesson to learn! I could slack, give only a 5% effort, and still come away from the whole shebang with a grade I could show to my parents. This became a bad habit for me, as I realized that there was only minimal effort that I needed to give.
I got better and better at bold-faced lying to my teachers. Believe you me, “my printer broke,” is only the tip of the iceberg. Almost all the time, my teachers would end up accepting a late paper or giving me an extension on the due date. And these were the people that were preparing me for college? What were they thinking? To be fair, many of my teachers were actually quite good, it's just that I was very good at being a very bad student.Next time that someone tells you that high school prepares you for college, call bullshit. In high school, you are still a child. I know none of you in high school want to read that, but it's 100% true. Because you are still a child, your parents and teachers treat you as thus. Your parents can still take care of you by calling the school when you're going to be sick or by talking to a teacher when you're doing poorly. Regulations in the school are in place so that you are guarded by hall monitors and security guards like prisoners of war. You are told exactly how and what to write, how and what to think, in order to receive a good grade.
College was (and is) a hell of a wake up call for people like me who skated through high school. Suddenly I was expected to be an adult, and I realized that I had no idea what that meant. Professors wouldn't baby me, or accept any of my excuses when an assignment was late. My Jedi Master Bullshitter skills were useless. For a while, I did okay. The professors in required 100 level courses understand that most high school students are still babies in adult bodies.However, except for some early freshman year classes, in college, you are an adult. Your parents are no longer of much use in the school department. They cannot call the school and tell them you will be absent – you must contact professors and suffer the inevitable consequences; your parents can also do nothing to divert these consequences. Your work is expected to be of a level that requires forethought; you can no longer just sit down and write a two page paper in twenty minutes. I recently wrote a 6 page paper that took me four hours to actually write, with probably another two hours of research. Original thought is required, your thesis can no longer be regurgitated statements of your professor. There are no hall monitors telling you to go to class, you must remember that yourself – even if you've been out all night.
High school doesn't prepare you for college, only college can prepare you for college. However, if you are ready and willing to take responsibility for your actions, all your actions, you're more ready for college than I was.Posted 5/19/2009 at 4:29 PM - add eprops - add comments
Persistence
I realized today that although I had always considered myself a confident person, I hadn't truly been confident until my late 20's. This manifested itself in my way of pursuing what I desired. The belief that I deserved to have what I wanted was always there, but the method in attaining those things was lacking.
Looking back at my younger years, I think I was a bit of a fatalist. If things happened, they were meant to be, if not then it was not in my cards. My attitude has changed considerably since then, though it will be a lifelong process. I no longer believe in fate, destiny, or luck. I think that mode of thinking was the result of an ever present fear of failure. If things didn't just happen immediately then I could easily say 'it wasn't meant to be.'
My dynamic with women that I dated was similar. I expected things to be easy, and if they weren't then I would take it as a sign that failure was imminent and flee. I don't mean that I didn't put up with a lot of crazy shit, more so that I needed them to like me in equal or greater measure than my interest in them. Typically, I would delay any advances on my part until I had seen clear indication of their interest.
When you base your own interest on the level of interest of another, or you expect them to initiate a relationship, you are giving up control over your own life. You limit your options only to those that are immediately available, and that pool of options becomes the only choices that you have to choose from. Often in those relationships, I would have reservations going in which I would ignore partially based on being caught up in the moment, and partially because I felt compelled to go along with what was available to me. The idea of unrequited interest was too risky and potentially harmful to my self-esteem to pursue. As a result, I never found exactly what I wanted, and those reservations that I so conveniently ignored would always return to haunt me.
Similarly with my career, minor setbacks would easily cause me to reconsider my entire course. If I felt bored, disenchanted, under appreciated, overworked, or disrespected, I would immediately start thinking about quitting. This attitude partially lay in my penchant for an extreme all or nothing philosophy, and partly because I was too young to know with clarity what I wanted out of life and love.
I've now realized that real confidence isn't just about knowing that you're smart enough, attractive enough, moral enough, or capable enough to handle a challenge. It's in knowing that you can handle the failures and continue persistently towards your goal. You have to be willing to swallow the good with the bad, and not falter at the first sign of difficulty. You have to have the ability to be single minded about your purpose and go after what you want without reservation. Real confidence allows you to do so-- and whatever obstacles you encounter will not shake the conviction that you are taking the correct course of action. These are the qualities that make successful people successful, and allow a man to land the right kind of woman.
Posted 5/19/2009 at 5:29 PM - add eprops - add comments
When Nothing's Ever Good Enough For Your SO
 I have been in my relationship for two years now and he obviously really loves me and stuff because we have lasted so long.
But when we first started dating, I didn't wear makeup or wear anything girly/tight/whatever, I was pretty much a tomboy...and not very cute. But, that aside..he still asked me out and liked me. Here's the bad stuff: he didn't respect me at all - he would check out other women when he was with me, and while I don't mind looking, yeah, he was bad - he would tell me what kind of girls he was into (which I definitely wasn't) and he just always seemed to want something different or more. So a few years went by and I started to change my look and try to make myself the right person for him...and myself. I didn't care about the way I looked before I met him...now I'm kinda obsessed. Anyway, now he is very respectful and doesn't make comments about the type of girls he likes. But there are times where he will say, "I wonder how your hair would look if it was this color," or "I like this kind of makeup" or he will just analyze me and it's annoying, and I get pissed and say I'm not good enough - I mean, I have a right to get mad, right? And one time I went to see him (we're long-distance); I only wore eyeliner and some lipstick...and the day after I saw him, he was, like, "Why don't you ever look good for me? I didn't even notice you were wearing any makeup." I was, like, WTF! are you kidding me? ugh. So have any of you ever felt you weren't good enough for your BF/GF? Am I wrong about getting mad at him, or is this my own insecurities? Posted 5/19/2009 at 6:15 PM - add eprops - add comments
I Was The Girl in The Armani Ad
The habit I'm about to describe will be familiar to anyone here who is also from Manhattan, or probably any other city where train travel is the norm.
I take the subway up to school every morning. To perfect my commute and cut down my travel time to the absolute quickest it can possibly be, I do little things, like walking to a specific point on the subway platform so that I get in the car (and exit through the door) that will get me closet to the stairs I have to take when I get off the train. I have various ways of remembering exactly how far to go, and one of the things I sometimes use as a gauge is the advertisements that are on the walls. These change every so often, so I usually have another distinguishing feature, but I get used to the ads.
In the station that I typically take my first train from, there was an Armani ad that marked the spot where I would stand every morning.
Only the right half of the advertisement was hanging in my subway station. I would stand in front of this advertisement every morning, and I would stare at it in between intermittently leaning off the platform peering down the tunnel as if doing so would make my train arrive any faster. Every single day, I'd stare at the ad and I'd wish to be the girl in the Armani ad.
I guess everyone will see something different when they look at the ad. I look at it, and I see a beautiful and confident girl who has this guy completely enthralled. Something about their body language makes it look to me like she's drawing him in. Someone else could look at the same ad and read it differently, but when I looked at it every morning, that was what I saw. And that was what I wanted to be. I would gaze longingly at the ad every morning, wanting more than anything to put myself in her place. I wanted to be the girl in the Armani ad.
It wasn't until recently that I knew what it was like to be that close to someone, and to have someone holding you like that. It wasn't until even later that I knew what it was like to be close to someone, to be held like that, and to feel completely confident and beautiful while it was happening. I am often very insecure. It takes me a long time to get comfortable around people and get myself to a point where I can let them in. It's just something I find difficult. But the morning after I finally found myself in someone's arms feeling confident and beautiful, I smiled up at the sky, strode cooly out the door, and down to my subway stop. Maybe it was the way I stood up a little straighter. Maybe it was the way my hips swayed a little more. Maybe it was the way I noticed people looking at me. But when I stopped midway down the platform in front of the Armani ad, I looked at the girl, and I grinned.
For a day, I was the girl in the Armani ad.
Like all good things, the confidence faded. The situation that inspired it wound down. I returned to normal and arrived at the subway stop the following week to find that the ad had been covered over with a new ad for a movie coming out. It was too ironic to me that I should only get one day before life hit another one of its rough patches and we all stumbled and fell. One day of being the girl in the Armani ad. And then she and I were both gone.
~JessicaPosted 5/19/2009 at 10:29 PM - add eprops - add comments
Eulogy to Shirley
All of us have had someone special in our lives that we’ll never forget. For me, that someone has been around my family, practically a part of my family, for as long as I can remember, but I’ve only really gotten to know her in the past couple years. This afternoon, she left us forever. Her name was Shirley.
Shirley was a 1992 Buick LeSabre, dark blue in the spaces where the paint hasn’t chi pped off yet. My grandfather had bought her used, and when he replaced her with a shiney, new, red car, she was passed on to my older brother, John, who gave her a proper name. John’s time with Shirley is when she collected the majority of her wounds. There’s a large dent in the passenger door from when she was hit by a deer (not the other way around). There’s a chunk inexplicably missing from underneath the right brake light, which was sloppily patched up with duct tape and yellow caulk. The weight of John and his friends sitting on the trunk broke the device that keeps it shut, so that part is held together with a bungee cord. In the end, despite all she’d gone through for him, John left Shirley for a newer, faster, more “reliable” car. This is how I became her fourth owner.
I was seventeen when I inherited her, and she was two years younger, but I imagine car-years to be something like dog-years. By this logic, she was a little past one hundred. Being the old girl she was, one had to show some respect. When I looked at her, I didn’t see the dilapidated junk car everyone else did. I saw a dignified automobile. I didn’t see her as “worn out,” but as “homey.” Instead of “used,” I preferred the term “previously loved.” Passengers were forbidden to make fun or her, or they would lose shotgun privileges. Allow me to take you on a virtual tour.
Open the door…you might have to kick it first…and you’re greeted by the distinct, but not unpleasant smell of Old Spice, peppermints, and Djarum Black cigarettes. This combination of scents was produced and left behind by her previous occupants, and no amount of Febreze will overpower it. Slide in. The seats are cozy and inviting, like your grandmother’s favorite well-worn armchair. Look at your surroundings; really take it all in. In the front, the floors are heavily dusted with rainbow glitter, left behind from some long-forgotten art project. In the back, the carpet is half gone. There is a unicorn and a bear sitting on the dashboard, and beads hanging on the rearview mirror. The gray upholstery is stained here and there, as passengers have a silly habit of spilling drinks when we round corners too fast. On the dashboard, just to the right of the steering wheel, my brother had lovingly engraved Shirley’s name in blue pen. So maybe my car was missing some of the fancy special features that come standard with cars of today, but mine had something more. She had personality. She had character. Shirley had a soul.
Of course, like all beings in possession of a soul, she came with her share of issues, which have been gradually becoming more problematic. At first, she was just loud. Then I noticed that not all the windows would roll up and down. One night last summer I was driving home when suddenly I felt something fall into my lap. I picked it up, it was my keychain. Now, the car is still running, so I’m obviously confused. Upon closer examination of my keys, I realized that the majority of the key had broken off in the ignition. Of course, silly me, this was my only copy, so I’ve had no choice but to leave it there, so at this point you did not in fact need a key to turn my car on. (Though, of course, now she doesn't turn on at all). In December, the heat suddenly stopped working, which was great timing on Shirley’s part…it’s been a harsh winter. For the past few months, I've even been without windshield wipers. I kept putting off paying the three-hundred dollars it would have taken to fix that, and I was finally going to do it last week. Now I'm glad I put it off.
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This afternoon I was driving home when a old man in a Toyota made a sudden, illegal left turn in front of me. I slammed on the breaks, which slowed me down just enough to not be seriously injured, but not enough to save Shirley. The airbags deployed on impact, there was dust everywhere and I couldn't see, but I knew she wasn't going to make it. I was beeping when I hit, and now the horn wouldn't turn off, so when I called the police I couldn't hear them over the noise. I got out to see the damage, and the hood was smashed. Her remains were strewn all across Route 46. I'm lucky the windshield didn't shatter, and I'm so glad I was in the car alone. While the police checked out our insurance, I grabbed what I could off the road. I managed to salvage her front licence plate, and the buick logo, which are both now hanging above the mirror in my room. The only thing wrong with the old man's car was the back bumper. He wasn't hurt, but he got a ticket for careless driving.
In spite of all the trouble she could cause, Shirley has been a great friend to me. She has helped me get places in life I never could have gotten to on my own (by which I mean, places not within walking distance). Though I always knew that someday I'd have to put her to rest, I didn't think it would be so soon, or so sudden, let alone in such a manner. And while whatever new car I car get will probably be shinier, more efficient, and more functional, she will never be as dear to me as Shirley.
1992-2009
Posted 5/19/2009 at 10:59 PM - add eprops - add comments
It's Unfair That Trashy Girls Get Everything
These days, I feel like there's no inspiration in the world. True beauty is becoming more and more invisible, while the "trashy glamorous" types of beauty are rising to the skies. I'm still young, and I aspire to be something great. I want to be a print/commercial model, or aspire in the entertainment of acting. But when I look around, I can't find what true beauty or true talent is anymore.
When I look on the internet, I see amazingly pretty girls and I'm totally envious. Until I find out that their perfect body, perfect smile, perfect chest size are created along with the diet pills, cosmetic teeth, and implants.
And I'm not even specifically talking about the media here. There are girls just like you and me out there that are not even real. Even listening to music, I think the singer has a beautiful voice. But it turns out that they use an automated tune that fixes up the cracking of their voice! I guess you can say, I'm somewhat disappointed. I feel like only the girls with big chests and bottoms get the fame.
Why don't the good girls ever stand a chance? What's your input on this? Ever feel like it's unfair that trashy girls get everything? Posted 5/19/2009 at 11:29 PM - add eprops - add comments
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