I'm scared of the dark

I'm trying to write my story but my pen keeps running out of ink.
I want to be important, and do amazing things, but I don't know where to start.
I want to save the world, but sometimes I'm scared that I'm too insignificant.
I want to be remembered, but I'm afraid I'll be forgotten anyways.
I'm scared.
I'm scared that I won't be able to make my dreams come true.
I'm scared that the american dream is all propaganda; a clever way of subduing the masses. An endless game of dog chasing tail.
I think way too much for my own good; I stay up late at night when everyone's asleep and I think. About everything. About nothing. About everything inbetween.
I have all these elusive aspirations that are so out of reach. On the highest shelf of the mahagony bookshelf that leads you to the stars. But has anyone ever got that far?
Or are we all stuck on the 4th rung, on our very tiptoes stretching our fingers, but never quite reaching?
I want to meet someone whose made it to the future. I want to ask them how they got there. I want to ask them how you know when you get there. Because I don't pay attention to detail; what if I walk right by it without even knowing?
Because I am sick and tired of now. My life is one big game of waiting. And I've never been a very patient person. I wish there was an airplane that could fly you right to your future, and fly over all this growing up and making mistakes and learning lessons yadda yadda.
I just want to be there already, and see if it's everything I imagined.
But what if it's not? What do you do if you spend your entire life preparing for a future you end up not wanting at all?
I wish there was a manual. Or something.
Because I feel like I'm in a dark hole inside myself that no one can shine a flashlight into and show me the way because they don't even know where I am.
Hell, they don't even know it's dark inside me.
If you can hear me, please turn on the light on your way out.

Dear Barack Obama,
Wow. I don't even know where to start. You're no longer president-elect, but President. Wow times infinity. This is beyond anything I've ever experienced before. I volunteered at the Campaign for Change, you know. Me and my best friend. We walked around in the cold and knocked on doors. We got praises and 'keep up the good works', plus we got doors slammed in our faces and dogs set on us, but it was okay. It really was. Because I believed in you. Because I liked the way I felt after listening to you speak. Cuz I felt like I knew you, and you knew me. Because I felt like you cared about me. And I was too scared to believe that you could win. But you did, and I cried and cried and cried. I was so proud, you don't even understand. It was our victory.
And today it was made official.
B.Boy, do right by us, please. I'm counting on you. I'm seventeen years young, and sometimes I'm scared to grow up because the world's retarded. But you give me hope. You show me that my dreams can come true. That in the great story that is America, I can have a chapter. If I want it. If I work for it. And I will.
You make me want to be better. So thank you. It means a lot.
I've got your back Mr. President, and I want to help you fix America.
Because together, we can do anything.

Love,
J.

you can't hate something till you try it. in that case i guess you can't love something till you try it either.

I have kind of a problem.

Did you wonder if maybe I was a closet gambler? Or that maybe I snort coke during bathroom breaks?

Why so serious?

That was a completely irrelevant Dark Knight reference. And now I'm thinking about Heath Ledger. And now I want to cry :(

I'm easily sidetracked. That's another problem.

But, not that problem I'm talking about.

You see, I tend to fall in love with things before I ever really try them.

Let me explain.

A few months ago I saw Leighton Meester in a pair of pumps, and I decided I loved them. I mean really, really loved them. Until I got a pair of my own that are now in a box somewhere under my bed.

After a few seasons of Top Model, I realized that my true calling in life was modeling. Thank God, I came to my senses and realized that I would never subject myself to such blatant objectification.

A few weeks ago I decided I wanted to be 'geek chic.' (I didn't make that up. Google it.) I started wearing my glasses instead of my contacts. I wore my hair in (read: cute) ponytails and half buns. I read on the bus. Until I looked in the mirror and remembered why I never wore my glasses in public.

But my greatest passion, up till only a few days ago, was soccer. You see, I'd never actually played a game of soccer, or football as the Brits would call it, in my life. But I convinced everyone, myself included, that there was a professional soccer player inside of me, just waiting to kick a ball across a field. I was Mia Hamm. I was the girl version of David Beckham. Mmm. David Beckham. On topic. Stay on topic. Do not be distracted by talented, uber-gorgeous...

Until my PE teacher said we'd be playing soccer for the last 45 minutes of our Thursday class.

After tripping over the ball too many times to count, a head-butt gone wrong, and I kid you not- a ball kicked straight into my face( IT WAS ON PURPOSE I SWEAR IT WAS)- the PE teacher said I could sit out if I wanted to.

And that was the end of my "passion" for soccer.

ps) I've moved on to guitar and John Mayer. Oh yes. Most definitely John Mayer.

Now all I have to do is convince my parents to buy me a guitar, and convince JM that age is nothing but a number, and 14 years is really not a big deal.

Have you noticed they never tell you public speaking is dangerous?!

I'm taking a speech class.

Pause and let that sink in.

And, wait for it, my first college speech is TOMORROW!

Sure it's just an introduction speech, and I must admit it's kind of an ego-booster since I know more about myself than anyone else in that class, but STILL!!

It starts with butterflies. No, butterflies makes it sound pleasant. It starts with rabid raccoons clawing at my insides. Than I get up in front of the class and even though I look totally fabulous and confident (what? it's an act i've perfected for years!) I'm dying inside. I swear, I feel like I'm suffocating. I'm choking on my own words, and then, wait what? They're clapping. I'm done. What?! I'm still alive? And they're oblivious to the fact that I was inches away from meeting my maker.

Gosh. People are just so oblivious.

I'm sure it'll get me one day. So if I don't survive tomorrow, dear faithful readers, please keep my legacy of fabulosity alive. ie: Print out the pages of my blog, photocopy them, and pass them out.

But if the speech demons don't get me, and I end up defying death again, although I find it unlikely, I'll try and resolve my public speaking issues.

Seriously. I do plan on being famous and all.

ps) listen to my current favorite song! i've listened to it 436326836+ times already. So I'll probably be sick of it tomorrow. And I know it's solja boy ! And I'm totally against top 40 stuff because it's all so meaningless, but I couldn't help myself! It's the fairytale loving, happy ending seeking, sweep-my-off-my-feet-and-write-pretty-sings-about-me teenage girl in me, I apologize.

Kiss Me Thru The Phone - Soulja Boy Feat. Sammie

hey girl heeeeeyyy

Dear Oprah Winfrey
cc: Tyra and Ellen
cc: Anderson Cooper (I realize you're a longshot)

Hi.
You may not know this yet, but you need my on your show. Seriously.
Thank you.
I'm already imagining what I'll wear and how I'll do my hair and all the wonderful things we'll talk about! Plus, I've already figured out how exactly to angle my body towards the camera for maximum fabulosity! What, there's nothing else to do when there's nothing good on TV and you don't feel like doing homework!
Just imagine how your ratings would go up!
Tsk. Tsk.
Why haven't you thought of it before?
It's okay, I guess. I realize how busy we all are. So just have your people call my people (read: my mom) and extend me an invitation and I'll accept. Just like that.
Oh and don't worry. I'll keep the fabulousness to a minimum: I do realize it's your show and all. I won't steal your thunder or your limelight or whatever. So no worries.

Kaythanksbyegirfriend! I'll be waiting!!

Love,
your girl J

Sometimes I get serious

You know why I write?
Because people just don't get it. And that's fine. I'm totally okay with that. There's family and friends, the people who know you, but still know one will ever know you the way you know yourself. Except my pen and paper. I can ramble and rant and make absolutely no sense, yet when I read it back it's all coherant. It all makes perfect sense to me.
But still. Sometimes I can't help feeling really lonely.
Back at high school I had a bunch of friends. Friends to eat lunch with, friends to talk to in classes, between classes, and on trips to the bathroom.
And I knew I'd be leaving all of that when I decided to the whole early college thing, I just didn't realize it would be hard. I had friends, yeah, but nothing in common with them. They partied on weekends and dated profusely, and I, well, not so much. I wanted to save the world. Call it a messianic complex. But still, if I squinted my eyes and tilted my head at just the right angle I could pretend everything was peachy. I could pretend we were all friends for life, even though in the back of my head I knew they were temporary. I wanted smarter friends, friends who had things in common with me, friends like in books and movies and tv. I've seen people with best friends, and I really wanted them. And I never doubted I would find them. I thought one day I would meet them and then BAM: insta-friend.
And I guess the world doesn't work that way.
I'm lonely at PCC. I sit in class and during breaks I text, even though I really wish I had someone to talk to. I go to the bathroom and fix up my hair and wish there was someone there standing next to me. I disgust myself, I never knew I was so needy. So I'm thinking maybe some people don't get best friends. Maybe they get family and friends, but not best friends.
But that's not good enough for me. It never has been. I want sleepovers and hour-long phone conversations. I want a family outside of my family.
I used to outgoing and loud and happy and surrounded by a crowd of friends. True, they were the superficial kind, but I've always been appreciative of all people. Now I'm happy, but quieter. I've come to realize I like listening more than I like talking. But above all alone. Well, not alone, if you want to get technical. I have myself.
I just wish it could be enough.

I'm going crazy: Britney Spears circa 1999

Initially I was going to write a letter to Chuck Bass. I know, I know, I'm slightly Gossip Girl obsessed. Okay. Fine. More than slightly.

But I decided not to. On account of the fact that it would be more than a little psycho writing a letter to a fictional character.

Plus, if my mother taught me anything, it was to never throw myself at boys. (Which I don't. See, I'm more of play-so-hard-to-get-people-will-think-you've-got-an-ice cube-for-a-heart-type of girl. Except I don't. I would just rather spend my time pining for book and tv characters.)

Sigh.

You know when you tell someone you're not talking to them? But than you talk to the person next to them really, really loud, but only because you want them to hear?

Yeah. That's what I've just done.

Except for the fact that Chuck Bass will not hear because Chuck Bass does not exist.
And I am stopping right here because even I realize how ridiculous this has all gotten.

Normal people don't like pain.

I'm sick :/

I woke up at four this morning with the worst stomach ache ever, followed by hours of porcelain worship.

TMI, I know.

I am exhausted. My tummy hurts. I missed my first day of classes. But above all, I am not allowed to eat anything. I'm only allowed to drink "clear liquids". So now I am angry.

Because nothing stands between me and my food.

Oh wait, wait!

Gossip girl is on tonight :)

Two words: Chuck Bass.

What was that I said about feeling sick...?

Gossip girl (or more specifically, Chuck, Nate, and Dan): A cure for what ails you.

New Years Cheers? No, no. New Years Tears, you idiot. Hmph. Well that wasn't very nice.

For some reason New Years makes me sad.

I don't know why, but it happens every year.

You see, I usually spend New Years on the coach watching the ball drop in New York, my home sweet home. Well, not really. Errr.... fine. Not at all. But still. I've adopted it, you could say.

I even call my look New York inspired. My mom calls it radical, over the top, and sometimes, uhhhhgulyyy. Rude, I know. 

So every New Years I think about how uneventful the last year was. And how I'm not famous yet, nor have I saved the world. I haven't even STARTED saving the world, and it makes me sad. Because I've missed out on an entire year. 

My mother says that I'm only seventeen and that I can save the world when I'm all grown up. 

She's forgetting that I'm not very patient, and I really can't wait that long.

So 2009 will be my year. I'm absolutely determined that next New Years eve I will be thinking about all the people I've helped, and books I've written, and shows I've starred in, and I'll be content because at least I have done something.

The only problem is that I have no idea where to start.