I Want To Go To Europe.

Carpe Diem, and all that jazz.

It's that time of year again when hot, sticky July transitions into unpredictable August. When your mailbox is littered with "back-to-school" coupons and ads from stores you've never heard of, trying to coax you through their doors with "2 for 1 notebook" deals and backpacks half off. That time of year when you can't watch television without stumbling upon at least a dozen commercials for back-to-school sales at Target, Khol's, or Macy's.

Back-to-school is my very favorite time of the year, when everything is brand new, just waiting to be graffitied with pictures you drew during class when you were bored to tears, or notes passed to someone in the desk behind yours.

And since I've been bombarded with the back-to-school hubbub, I've naturally had the upcoming school year on my mind.

It's hard to believe that I'll be entering my junior year at James Madison University in a measly 20 days. It feels like just yesterday I pulled up to campus, the van filled to the brim with clothes, fans, bedding, and whatever else I could possibly need during my freshman year at College, made my way up to Fredrikson Hall, and sheepishly met my first 29 friends at JMU. Now, my academic career is almost half over, and then I'll step out into the real-world, sheepishly meeting my first group of high school English students ever. I'll finally make the leap from student to teacher. "Make the leap", "take the plunge"...either way, I'll be entering the reality I've set up for myself.

Of course, the uncertainty of it all is a little staggering...so, having preoccupied myself with my future, I've decided to make the absolute most of the rest of my time at school. A sort of academic bucket list :)

1. Take an astrology class. To those of you rebuking me for my aspirations, I insist. I don't care how hard it is, but I've always been fascinated with astrology and I plan on taking one no matter how hard it may prove to be.

2. Have my fortune told. There are two fortune tellers in the Harrisonburg area, and so I definitely plan on hitting that up before I graduate. Preferably soon, so I have time to take whatever my future supposedly holds into consideration before I graduate.

3. Publish something in The Breeze. I don't think I'll ever actually make it as a writer, but I'm pretty content with being a writing enthusiast if I can get only one thing published in my lifetime. And since real-world newspapers are on the decline, what better vista is there for a college-age author than their own school newspaper?

4. Get into an a cappella group. Friends...I know that I can do this. I just get terribly, terribly nervous every single time before I audition. I've made it to callbacks numerous times already, but then I get bundled down with nerves and I can't squeak out any notes. It's really rather humorous to watch. But, I'm determined to audition again and again until a) they feel so sorry for me that they just let me in or b) finally overcome my nerves and make it on my own. Anyway, wish me luck :/

5. Leave something behind at JMU for someone to discover. I've done this once every year, and they haven't worked. Freshman year, I planted some flowers outside of my dorm, and dutifully watered them every single day second semester. Unfortunately, nothing became of my efforts. I'm pretty sure I don't have a green thumb (which would most likely bring my grandfather, an avid-farmer since 15, to tears). Then, sophomore year, I left five dollars in Mrs. Green's, but the students at JMU are so bloody honest that some girl who took my table when I left grabbed it, sprinted after me up the stairs, and gave it back to me with a, "Hey, you dropped this". Anyway, one of these days I'll be successful and leave something behind to make a future JMU student's day :)

6. Study Abroad. I don't think JMU offers it as of now, but I desperately want to study abroad in England. So much so that I'd practically do anything to get there. I have three whole years to make it happen, and then it's bon voyage!

Thanks for listening!

A Little Inspiration For Today

Lovely People, Lovely Places, Lovely Things

There are certain things that, when you're confronted with them, instantly make you happy. Of course, these rather cryptic "things" range from person to person; so, in light of recent events and because I could use a dose of inspiration today, I've decided to amass a list of things that always lighten my mood and hopefully inspire a little happiness in you all as well.

{It's not all the things, of course, but just a few that came to mind}

I absolutely, without a doubt, love candlelight.

Especially outside.

You can call it whatever you want: "romantic lighting", "amber light", "dramatic light"--they all drench their surroundings with a rich, illuminating essence that casts a cheerful glow everywhere.

Really, the right lighting can change my mood entirely.

I hate fluorescent lighting, which seems just too cold, manufactured, and sterile for me.

I like warm, yellow light that changes the color of a room or a night sky and doesn't overexpose.

I won't pretend it's day when it's really night--some things require to be left alone, in a more natural state of affairs.

When I have my own house, I'm going to hang bottles and jars from a tree in my backyard.

Long, colored bottles hung by their necks that glimmer in the sunlight and transform the yellow light into multicolored flecks of greens, pinks, blues, and rich, vibrant reds.

Then, at night, we could put candles in the bottles and jars and lanterns and light up the sky like winter fireflies on a crisp evening in November, or simply harbor a few beams of yellow light dancing under the stars mid-July.

Mmm, good music.

There's nothing like it.

It can build you up, make you think, and help you forget your troubles.

It brings people together, from all walks of life, who can--for a moment--lose themselves in the melody of a good song.

It expresses the most painful memories with a somber lullaby, or bring the most jubilant memories to life with a key change here and a crescendo there. We allot different rhythms and chord progressions and melodies to different emotions, creating endless possibilities in the musical world.

My music tastes range from broadway showtunes to classic rock to modern pop to the occasional rap song.

My favorite at the moment is jazz, which I consider to be the personification of my bewilderment with the forties: Casablanca and old black and white films, swing bands, men in uniform, and timeless, classic fashion.

You'll see what I mean if you click here or here. They remind me of grainy black-and-white photos, rainy Sundays, and tea. There's something positively lovely about the crooner generation...it's inexplicably calming.

Consider yourself relaxed.

I'm a chronic daydreamer.

I catch myself having spent an hour staring off "in a world of my own" more often than not, a habit that used to annoy me, but have now come to embrace.

To you nonbelievers, yes. It may sound cliche and a bit like a reverberation of Barney's personal philosophies, but being the possessor of an active imagination is, in my opinion, one of the most beneficial qualities a person can have. After all, weren't many of the things we have learned to love merely figments of someone's imagination?

It's true, I won't pretend that I'm as brilliant as Walt Disney or Benjamin Franklin--whose many inventions and advancements in modern society continue to benefit the American people even today--but I like to think of myself as a dreamer.

And perhaps, someday, those dreams will come true.

After all, "walking gets boring when you learn how to fly".

I don't care what you say;

Every single person, whether great or small, has impacted the world in some way.

It is our duty as human beings to give back to the world, and we do so in everything we do (or...unfortunately...don't do).

"It's A Wonderful Life" comes to mind. Huh.

You can either change the Earth for better or for worse, but whether or not you choose which one is of no consequence.

Merely being here--interacting with other people, falling in love, buying groceries, sending a card--you've imprinted a bit of yourself, here.

Just keeping that in mind keeps me motivated and almost purposeful. Each and every day we make a difference in someone's life, through a smile or a hug or a compliment--and whenever someone extends a smile my way, it makes me happy.

Pass the happiness on.

Surround yourself with lovely people, lovely places, and lovely things :)

But I Wouldn't Do You Justice

Something really hurts today.

I’m pretty sure it’s my heart.

Today’s world has so many doctors who can fix an array of different maladies, but where’s the cure for heartache?

Someone wonderful left the world today.

Someone brilliantly inquisitive and thoughtful thought it was time to go.

A positively radiant someone’s light went out today.

Someone who was a pleasant “breath of fresh air” took their very last.

The world lost a little sunshine today.

A little ray of sunshine that I will always call my friend.

When something like this happens, it’s intrusively shocking.

It’s comes in and infiltrates your day, your thoughts, your life, hitting you repeatedly with horrifyingly awful news that overwhelms your senses until you shut down completely, drowning you in thick, salty tears that choke you until you’re numb with grief and the inexhaustible sting of heartbreak.

You succumb to the pain and the hurt and the suffering that stifles your body, constricting your thoughts. It fills you up, consumes you, pulls you down and hurts you deeply.

It hurts you deep inside where no one can reach it, or see it, or touch it.

But you know you’ll feel it forever—the throbbing, excruciating ache inside you.

Suddenly everything is different.

You feel empty.

Alone.

But filled with grief and resentment, a new strain of misery you’ve never experienced.

It’s all new to you, this heartache: you find it hard to swallow, smile, breathe—hard to get out of bed, hard to face the world, hard to join reality once your reality is so severely altered.

I could write and write and write,

try to capture your witty sarcasm,

your wonderful smile,

your marvelous ability to bring everyone to tears with a perfectly-placed joke at dinner,

your perpetual knowledge of all things literary,

your favorite grey JMU sweatshirt,

the selfless way you were our constant friend,

the flash of light in your eyes when you laughed,

how we could talk to you for hours on end and never feel like we wasted the whole day away,

how many times we talked about everything and nothing at all, how every insignificant thing we ever did is magnified in my mind, imprinted in my memory, to have with me forever,

and I could write you every little memory until I couldn't anymore,

I could make it sound beautifully melodic, a testament to our friendship,

this novel of mine,

but I wouldn't do you justice.

I can't come to terms with what happened just yet.

I've listened to this song more times than I can count.

I'm so very, terribly sorry.

Emily, you were a vivacious, positively brilliant, wonderful person with a heart of gold. I feel privileged to have met you, known you, and been able to call you my friend even if it was just for a short while.

I'll forever miss you, and remember you always.

When It Comes Down To Dreams,

I'm not shooting for the stars, I'm asking for the moon.

WOW: It's Better To Be Opinionated Than To Have No Opinion At All

It's obvious that I love all things vintage. I idolize 1940s movie stars, listen to swing music and jazz on my iPod, and have an unhealthy obsession with Bing Crosby. I'd much rather watch Breakfast at Tiffany's or Indiana Jones than a mediocre Twilight flick.

Hands. Down.

Anyway, I recently stumbled across this masterpiece of opinionated writing and absolutely loved it. It compares the stars of today with those of yesterday, as epitomized in the lives and filmography of two of Hollywood's leading ladies (but several eras apart). The author shares my thoughts entirely, and has rolled into a witty, eloquent, and overall brilliant piece of writing.

Plus, it bows down to the Queen of the Screen: Miz Liz.

If you want to read it, click this!

EDIT: For those of you who were confused, the "WOW" in the title stands for "Words of Wisdom". Sorry about that.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Fan Letters really do work!

Like everyone else who was inspired to create their own epic list after seeing the movie, I have my very own Bucket List.

It's filled with random things I've always wanted to do (i.e. publish a book, visit/live in England, ride a camel, go skinny dipping, see the Pyramids, etc. etc. etc.)

And what was #28, you ask?

Write your first and only fan letter and hopefully get a response!

...It's alright, you can totally judge me.

Anyway, I sort of wrote two. Fan letters, that is. I didn't think the first one counted because it wasn't a letter...it was a friend request on Facebook (again, I totally understand if you judge) to my very favorite author, Karen Quinn.

I added some of her books to my info section, and lo and behold her very own Facebook account popped up! So, out of pure curiosity and impulse, I added her. I didn't think in a million years that she would ever accept my friend request, but she did!

Like every literary enthusiast, I was thrilled. Getting a response from a famous author is like being acknowledged for your talent by David Beckham when you're a little league soccer player. I've read every single one of her books ("Holly Would Dream" being my favorite) and so I decided that it wouldn't hurt to express how much I love her writing (and how I've been toying with the idea of becoming a writer myself), so I sent her a brief message expecting no reply.

But I did!!!!

Here's what she said:

Yeah, it was kind of short...but hey! I got a response! Now if only Elizabeth Taylor will write me back...

EDIT: The other fan letter pulled through!!! I sent it to a celeb and received an autographed picture and a little note jotted on a scrap piece of paper...it's not terribly noteworthy, but I was excited :)

When Life Gives You Lemons...

…upgrade to Venti Shaken Black Tea Lemonade!

In case you haven’t noticed,

LIFE IS GRAND!

I woke up this morning successfully (meaning I wasn’t late for work, was able to take a leisurely shower, and even put on makeup. It's amazing how different you look if you put in an extra five minutes) and was out the door by 7:25. That gave me five whole extra minutes to get to Short Pump, so I decided to pop into Starbucks to fuel my black tea addiction before mosey-ing into the office at precisely 7:58.

The day went along pretty swimmingly from there (I was on a caffeine high, so life was good), and I even found a ten-dollar bill in my pants pocket.

After a few failed attempts, I was finally able to hijack WiFi from the UPS Store next door on my iPad, and figured out how to download books onto it (Yes, it sounds lame, but it was a milestone for me and my technology). I was pleasantly surprised by the comical genius that is Samantha Bee in her first novel, I know I am, but what are you? I only read a couple pages because I had to get to work, but I made up for it by filing away a giant stack of papers on top of the filing cabinet.

Next thing I knew it was lunchtime, and we had oodles of time to spare. So I finally lost my IHOP virginity and got Double Blueberry Pancakes (which ultimately tasted like you spread a little chunk of heaven onto a flapjack, cooked it in $1 million, and plopped it on my plate) and some OJ.

The rest of the day was semi-uneventful. However, I did hear some old school Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears on the radio on the way home. It only solidified the fact that July 6, 2010 would go down in history as pretty much the best day ever on the face of the Planet.

Plus I wrote two new blog posts! How efficient am I today?

The obvious answer is very.

My Ability To Go On Long Tangents About My Pathetic Disregard For My Health Will Undoubtedly Astound You And Probably Make You Cry

Uuuughhhhhhhh.

So most of you have no idea what I’ve been doing with my life since I’ve been home for summer.

Since I know you’re dying to find out, I’ll fill you in on my summer festivities. Besides working and hanging out, I’ve undertaken Mission Impossible: stay in shape (not lose weight, just maintain it).

It really is harder than it sounds.

However, if you’ve been around me for .23 seconds, you know how much I love sweets. Candy, especially. So my mind decided that instead of swearing off my favorite sweets, I could indulge myself until the Good Lord calls it quits if I only put in some effort on the exercise end.

So out of pure boredom and a random stroke of spontaneity, I decided to join American Family Fitness.

Boy what a rip-off.

Every time I go to the gym, I walk through the pristinely-Windexed sliding doors with hope in my heart and the best of intentions. I proudly hand the guy at the counter my ID card and he gives me a “Good luck out there” nod as I head to the locker room to lock up my belongings. I turn up my iPod to an ear-splitting volume so everyone can hear my hardcore music as I psyche myself up for the most intense workout in the history of history. My pre-run stretches are a sure-fire sign that I mean business. I can practically hear the theme song to Rocky as I walk up the stairs to the track in my brand-new Nike running shorts and my “Just Do It” Tee. I chug a little water and sprint off down the recycled rubber path as a rousing chorus of “Gotta Get Thru This” blares on my iPod.

I even intimidate myself sometimes.

After about 1 minute of intense Asafa-Powell-sprinting-for-his-life-from-a-bear-while-also-attempting-to-break-a-world-record-esque sprinting, I’m out of commission.

I’m panting, I’m disappointed, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from over-exhaustion and heat stroke right there between the Ab Cruncher and the Stairmaster.

(I’m pretty sure it’s not healthy if your heart is successfully re-creating the drum solo to Led Zepplin’s Moby Dick in your chest. Just sayin’.)

So after a few weeks of high expectations regarding my exercise regimen, I have unfortunately gone from enthusiastic to apathetic regarding my physical health. Now my days look like this:

Get up, get dressed, drive to gym. Park the car at farthest spot from the doors imaginable next to some sketchy white van with no front bumper. Walk sadly to the sliding door, head hung in shame, sunglasses on so no one will recognize me and offer to “exercise together”. Hand the guy at the front desk my ID card. Mumble a hello. Shuffle into the locker room and lock up my stuff. Trudge up the stairs to the track. Forget to stretch. Jog once around the track to “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, pretend to get a leg cramp, and exit the track. Drink from the water fountain until the water isn’t cold anymore. Find another water fountain to quench my undying thirst. Get on elliptical. Put elliptical on highest incline. Pant away and pump my arms enthusiastically so people think I’m really into it. Disembark the machine after ten minutes. Repeat water fountain ritual. Walk over to the Stairmaster. Read all the instructions. Attempt to work the Stairmaster. End up doing a strange jumping/climbing thing on the machine while holding on for dear life. Decide I’m making a fool of myself and walk over to the free weights. Find the smallest weight and make up some arm exercises. Check out the cute guy next to me lifting weights the size of watermelons over his head no sweat. Get sort of jealous that I’m struggling with 5 lbs. while he can easily bench press my body weight. Get discouraged and trudge back to the locker room to leave. Sneak out the backdoor out of shame and embarrassment for my pathetic attempt at exercise. Call myself a failure. But decide that I probably burned enough calories to treat myself to a Venti Shaken Black Tea from Sbux. Drive across the street to Starbucks. Enter with a smile. Order Starbucks. Get drink from friendly barista. Sit down. Drink drink slowly, savoring every sip of sugary goodness. Think of how much I really like their jazzy music. Decide that the gym isn’t so bad. Leave Starbucks refreshed and rejuvenated. Go home. Shower. Lather. Rise. Repeat. Get out of Shower. Decide I want a Kit Kat. Tell myself that in order to eat the Kit Kat, I must do some crunches. Go into room. Pop in Sexy Sporty Abs DVD. Do first few exercises. Stop the exercises because I feel like my stomach will surely explode. Decide that the video girl’s abs are airbrushed and fake. Eat Kit Kat anyway.

It’s sad, and a little exaggerated, but you get the jist. Exercising is no fun. And though I am getting a little bit better at it with each gym visit, it’s still far from an enjoyable experience.

However, I’m getting myself into tip top physical shape no matter how long it takes. Just in case someone ever puts a gun to my head and tells me that they’ll only spare my life if I run a marathon.

In which case, I’ll be ready.

Yes, I'm a Sap.

I just got back from seeing Disney Pixar’s Toy Story 3.

And I cried like a baby.

It’s a heart-warming tale of true friends, true love, and true loyalty to one another. America’s most beloved cowboy and favorite space ranger continue to make us laugh and cry, as we witness their most defining moments: whether they are fighting for their lives in a landfill, evading near death in Sid’s room, in a vending machine at Pizza Planet, locked away in Sunnyside Daycare, or with their owner, Andy, they stick together and warm the hearts of audiences across the nation.

This particular film hit home for me, as Andy heads off to college and must leave his childhood memories behind. This includes Buzz, Jessie, Bullseye, Slink, Rex, Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head, and Ham, who are suddenly shipped to Sunnyside Daycare, a militaristic facility run by a heartless teddy bear. Sound familiar?

Probably not right away. But believe me, you’ve got a lot more in common with these characters than you’d ever believe.

I’ll admit that it sounds sophomoric and juvenile, but there wasn’t a dry eye in the theatre as the film came to a close. Andy grows up, his toys move on, and an era comes to an end.

That godforsaken “You’ve Got A Friend In Me” gets me every time.

Of course, I’m an Andy.

We all are.

We’ve been there: torn between the past and the future, leaving things behind to move on to the (hopefully) better things that lie ahead of us in Life. Andy may go to college and leave his toys behind, but—as cliché as it sounds—aren’t they always with him? He’ll remember his best friends from age 7 to 17, from 35 to 58, to infinity and beyond. He’s reached a milestone in his life and he’s stronger because of the ones who got him there.

I’ve been a selfish brat since I went away to college.

I haven’t called my parents. I haven’t visited home. I’ve cleaned out my closet and I’ve “moved on” to bigger, better things. Mature, adult things. I’m a whole-new me, a brand-new woman. I’ve grown up.

But I’ve never stopped to think of all the things I’ve left behind. All the people I’ve hurt because I’ve gone my own way and done my own things. I’ve been concerned with me, myself, and I--and I didn’t care who my fire burned.

Well, listen to me, kid. You’ve still got a lot of growing up to do.

Now that I’m home, I can see how much my parents have gone out of the way to provide everything they ever could for me. They’ve seen me grow up from a little curly-haired girl who watched Duck Tales in the den and wanted to be a “beautiful ballerina” into a big-shot college girl who loves her friends and her classes and her new grown-up life. I understand that I need to leave things behind in order to move forward, but growing up is all about changing for the better. You learn to think of people other than yourself, and you can begin to give back to those who have helped you get to where you are. You give back to those you’ve helped you grow.

And I see how much I’ve hurt them because I’ve pushed them away and denied them because it was inconvenient for me to call or let them know how I was. How utterly selfish I was...how blind I was to the emotions of others...and only now I realized it.

I'm Native American and a Pirate...it's nbd.

Guess what guys?

I FOUND OUT ABOUT MY HERITAGE!

And if you're a little insecure with the fact that you aren't exotic or are descended from celebrities, you might want to re-think reading this post.

Because, let's face it, my heritage will most likely put yours to shame :/

So, for those of you daring enough to still be reading this, proceed with severe caution.

I'm going to start at the beginning.

As a small child, I was terribly self-conscious about myself. Probably due to the fact that I literally didn't know who I was. Was I Jewish? Maybe. How about Egyptian? Perhaps. African American? It could happen.

I was just a typical kid, building blocks in kindergarten, learning how to ride a two wheel bike, and getting mauled by some girl at the puppet station during Centers who claimed she had the Kermit the Frog puppet first, but really, we all know that it was rightfully mine and she had no reason whatsoever for pulling my hair and therefore it was totally fair for me to dig my nails into her arm...

...but I digress.

Anyway, I was a very normal American kid. Except for the fact that I was scarred for life because I didn't know whether my ancestors hailed from Newfoundland, New Zealand, or New Jersey.

You see, everyone in my classes throughout elementary school, middle school, and high school seemed to have fabulously wonderful ancestors whom they bragged about at least once a week. I remember one time my friend from 1st grade told me that her great-grandfather invented basketball and was best friends with Steve from Blue's Clues (now, looking back on it, I'm pretty sure this wasn't true). Naturally, she was the most popular person in our grade once this information was revealed. Everyone wanted to rub elbows with the man who could get them tickets to a Lakers game or invite Steve and Blue to their birthday party. So, because of her fascinating background, said girl shot to the top of the heap with little to no effort on her part. She was picked first in gym, had the best mat during naptime, and was even handed extra snacks during our midday snack break black-market-style. She was the envy of every 1st grader in Ms. Gardener's class. After that, everyone in our grade was disclosing their awesome heritages in the hopes of winning extra juice boxes, animal crackers, and friends.

But poor little first-grade-me had nothing to reveal. My mom didn't really know much about her side of the family and showed little interest in the subject even when I dramatically insisted that having super stellar ancestors would boost my social life. And I was completely out of luck on my paternal side as well. I never wanted to ask my real Dad about his heritage (I mean, who knows what I would have found out there). So I just sat friendless and snackless in my classroom, accepting my fate as the loser with regular boring parents and grandparents.

One day I got so fed up with the fact that I simply wasn't exciting that I lied and told everyone that I was part alien. In my little first-grade mind, this was a sure-fire way to get everyone's attention.

And of course, I was right.

But instead of having everyone bow down to me because of my blatantly awesome alien descendants, the kids in my class decided that I was a freak.

No one wanted to come to my house because they were scared that I would take them away to the Mothership and eat them for dinner. It wasn't much help that I lived about 45 minutes out of town in the country, so my classmates had never even heard of my town at all. At recess, children ran in fear from me. They began playing games like "Kill the Alien", which involved pelting me with dodgeballs.

So I grew up just assuming that I was plain old "American". Which is really so boring that I might as well just have died from unexoticness. I mean, my friend Mary was Czechoslovakian (which, by the way, is pretty much the epitome of exotic. I mean, I can't even pronounce that.), Cara was Irish, Danielle and Nicole were Italian, Anja was German, and Alice was South freaking African. I mean, COME ON. How could I compete with that?

WELL I CAN NOW!

Turns out, all this time I was way cooler than I thought I was. I pestered my Mom to ask around about our background, and come to find out I'm NATIVE AMERICAN! One whole eighth! Legit Native American!

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. My ancestors were the first freaking Americans. They taught you how to farm and survive in America. Ultimately, you owe me and my ancestors your life.

But wait...there's more!

I'm also...now, get this...I'm also descended from pirates!!!

Okay, so we aren't really sure if we're descended from pirates, but we're almost positive. My mom called one of my great-aunts who is apparently really into the whole genealogy thing, and her exact words were this:

"Well, your great-great-great-grandfather owned a ship. We have no idea what his occupation was...we only know that he transported money from continent to continent. The exact amount of money is unknown. Also, the documentation I have of him states that he changed his name five different times, and lived on almost every continent at one time or another. He didn't have many relatives or friends, and he never stayed in one place very long, but he was very wealthy."

It's sooooooooooooo obvious he was a pirate. I mean, really. He transported money from place to place...they didn't know what he did for a living...he changed his name a bunch of times...he was rich...

...Either he was a pirate or he was just really sketch.

No, he was most definitely a pirate.

I mean how do you think he got all that money when they don't even have a record of his job? He STOLE IT. There's no other explanation. My great-great-great-grandfather was a thief and an outlaw.

I'm descended from the most B.A. man ever.

EDIT: So for all of you who doubted me and threw dodgeballs at me in elementary school, I suggest you reevaluate my coolness level :)

(Insert Eye-Catching, Witty, and Overall Gee-Erin-You're-So-Creative Title Here)

I keep having the strangest dreams.

Last night, for example, I was on a big empty ship in the middle of the ocean with no food whatsoever. I'm pretty sure I was wearing a white wedding dress and blue sneakers. Why I was wearing this hideously clashing ensemble, I'll never know. Anyway, I was alone and hungry and disoriented and angry about my predicament, so I thought that it would be best if I caught myself a fish for dinner. So I found a broom and used the drawstring off of a random pair of sweatpants I found lying around and made a nifty little fishing pole. Apparently in my dreams I have the handiness of a boy scout and the resourcefulness of Xena the Warrior Princess. Anyway, I was waiting for my prey when there was a pretty hard tug at the line (or, well, drawstring).

I pulled it up and I'd caught...

...Robin Williams.

Like, what the heck? But wait...it gets better.

So I reel in Robin Williams and he's speaking...well, I think he was speaking Martian. He kept talking about some intergalactic mission or spaceship or something (I'm pretty sure my mind was inspired by Star Wars episodes, so that kind of makes sense). I didn't understand a word he said. But then I glanced to my left and I saw a light off the water so I hushed Robin Williams and told him to start paddling the boat toward the light. Somehow he understood me. I don't know where we got oars from, but we did. So we rowed and rowed and rowed and rowed until the light was only about a mile from us. I was sure that we were going to be saved until I realized that the light was really just a small fire on a highly combustible-yet-miraculously-incombustible makeshift raft floating on the sea. I remember Dream-Me thinking, "Well, that could have been disastrous...good thing it's not on fire." But we approach it anyway. And guess who was on the raft? If you guessed Tom Hanks from Castaway and Wilson, the volleyball, you guessed right.

I'm not kidding, folks.

So it goes that Robin Williams, Tom Hanks, Wilson and I are rowing around in circles on the sea. Robin Williams and Tom Hanks get into a little spat, yadda yadda yadda, and then Robin Williams decides that it would be a spectacular idea to throw Wilson overboard as a sort of sacrifice to the goddess of the ocean or something like that (Oh, p.s. he was speaking English by this time because obviously everyone in dreams speaks a Universal language).

Well, as Robin Williams hurls Wilson overboard, Tom Hanks gasps in horror (it was really quite dramatic if I remember correctly) and runs for cover. So naturally I decide to hide as well behind a sack of potatoes (which obviously weren't there before because I would have definitely eaten them). Then, up out of the water, pops this giant fish-man with Wilson the volleyball for a head! Apparently he had magic powers or something because he transformed into pretty much the most hideous excuse for a fish-man imaginable. So then I'm all, "What the heck?!?!" And I'm semi-crying from fear and desperation and cursing the fact that I'm not dressed in black to blend in a little better to the boat (which was apparently black). Wilson the volleyball-fish-man was terribly frightening. He was definitely twenty feet tall and smelled awful. He also spewed fire. Pretty sure about that.

This is where stuff gets kind of hazy, but I do remember running for my life (that's where the blue sneakers came in handy) and chucking potatoes at Wilson the half-fish-half-man-and-part-volleyball-freak. Robin Williams was unfortunately captured by the monster and perished in the sea early in our epic battle for survival, but Tom Hanks and I were holding our own, pelting him with potatoes and screaming profanities at the top of our lungs (actually, it was really just Tom Hanks who was cursing, but I didn't really mind because he was getting pretty creative).

Then, once we realized that we were running low on potatoes, Tom Hanks decided to tame the beast with music which would lull him into a peaceful sleep for sure. The only song he knew was "You've Got a Friend in Me", so he sang it for Wilson the fishman. In case any of you were wondering, Tom Hanks has a lovely voice. In no time Wilson was tamed, and that godforsaken volleyball just drifted off to sleep.

Some other stuff happened, but I don't really remember it. I do remember a brief encounter with an albino black bear and something about mexican jumping beans, but that's about it.

I don't really know where I was going with this post.

I guess I just wanted to share.

I've heard that dreams are designed by the last thought you have before you fall asleep, or from something brewing in your "innermost conscience", a big, unknown pit of Freudian...stuff. Anyway, if my dreams are any indication of what I'm unknowingly thinking or wanting or whatever deep in my heart, then I'm pretty screwed up.

Though, still quite imaginative.

Just sayin'.