My Name is Chels Bryant

The End of School

2008-06-22T13:51:00.001-07:00

The end of the school year brought busy times. Before I left for home on June thirteenth, I had seven papers to write and four finals to study for. For me, it wasn't hell week; it was hell weeks. Pretty much, when I wasn't in class, I was working. At the same time, I was trying to enjoy my last few weeks with my college friends before school let out--before I wouldn't see them again for three months.

Overall, with the coming of summer, and the end of schoolwork for a while, I eagerly anticipated my return home. I thought I would be returning to what I had left behind last summer--my amazing group of friends here (who would naturally be the same), my room (still slightly messy but home-y feeling), decent food (after spending nine months eating cafeteria food it is all relative), and just "home" (a place without cockroaches). What I came home to a week ago was, in many ways, what I expected and didn't expect. I returned home to "home," to a slightly cleaner room (which I dutifully mussed up), and better than decent food. However, those amazing friends, who weren't allowed to change did exactly what I did--> they came back evolved versions of their high school selvs (I know. How dare they, right?).

How can this have happened? I wondered. I mean, I didn't feel like I had changed that much, if at all.

Troubled, I spoke to one of friends about this phenomenon, lamenting our high school years. This friend had not gone off to school; she had chosen to work a full-time job and stay behind in Findlay instead. She told me that our friendship circle was breaking apart--that everyone was already going their seperate ways and had been since Christmas break. To all this, I reacted in shock and in denial. I knew this would happen, that one day I would be fortunate to keep in contact with even one of my twenty or so close friends, but I didn't think it would happen so soon. Our friendship circle might start to dissipitate next summer, I thought, or maybe even the summer after that. But not this summer, though. Granted, I could feel that things were off. I can feel that things are off. But I didn't and don't want them to be. Not yet, anyways.

Looking back, the seperation started the summer after graduation. That was when a lot of people took up drinking. I'm not going to pretend to be a saint, and I don't want to come off as judgemental. However, I still cannot understand the fun in losing yourself, potentionally doing something embarrassing or studpid, and growing a beer belly. Maybe that's just me. I mean, I told myself that I would not drink in college. It was a personal choice that I made not only for my health's sake but because I couldn't bear to face the disappointment in my parents' faces or past-teachers' and past-friends' faces if they found out. Plus, maybe it's just me, but it tastes bad. If for nothing else, why would you want to drink something that is fattening--that tastes gross? Why would I want that when I can gourge on chocolate cake or pizza?! But I digress, I guess, for me, the biggest transformation freshman year of college came when I joined a group called Crosswalk, or Collegiate Ministries. Until then, I had been involved only in the International Student Exchange Buddy Program, which I made several friends through, and which I will continue to be active in hopefully for many years to come. However, Crosswalk is where I have met my friends, where I met the people I am going to live with next year, and where I found people who made me feel comfortable about being myself. I didn't have to change to be around these people, because they wanted to be my friend for me.

A lot of people think that they will find themselves in college. That this is where they morph into the people they are going to be for the rest of their lives. Having lived in a dorm with incredibly immature individuals surrounding me in my room and in rooms near mine, I pray that that is not true; instead, I would venture to say that college is where people come for experiences that will eventually shape them into the men and women they will be. I don't think that a student's first year of college should leave them completely matured by any means. In contrast, I think college is merely a path leading to the mecca of self-discovery. I think, for me, my first year was exactly that. Yeah, there were a few bumps in the road (for a while, I considered transferring), but in the end, I came out of my freshman year at UC a slightly-modified version of the girl who went there, kicking and screaming, last September.

Another Poem

2008-06-03T13:04:00.001-07:00

In preparation and extreme procrastination and because I am petrified by the tornado sirens blaring outside my window, I have decided to post another poem (I swear the alliteration was unintentional). Anyway, this poem went through workshop today and received some decent reviews--though I still hold steadfast to the idea that it is subject to change and has not been rewritten yet! Regardless, enjoy!

THE BOOGEY MAN

I have been called your imagination
—the liar beneath your bed,
behind closed doors.
I am a creature
and folklore has sent me to beseech you.
“Come hither child,” I say.

My body is drawn by you—
hot tamales glaring
muscled sweetarts rolling
laffy taffy tongue snarling—
gobbling—boys and girls.

Beneath your night breath you groan,
eager to escape.
I send you goose-pimples that trigger a shiver
and pray you never learn that

you control me.

And so I draw the shadows near my breasts
—facades soaked in fool’s gold—
while you rest unaware.

The tip of my finger slithers across your pudgy face,
as I lean in.

I whisper, “Wake up!”

2008-05-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

There seems to be this great misconception that, because I'm an English major and because I claim to be a "writer" (though that has yet to be proven to anyone), writing comes easily to me. This is like haranguing a hunter for not being able to find his prey whenever he wants. Suddenly, because that person is "supposed" to be an expert in their field, they are inept; they are failures. I realize that I am writing a post that, in its tone, is far more serious than other posts, but, really, people, I wish I could write whenever I wanted to. I wish that I could write and that everything I wrote would automatically be featured in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, or The Paris Review, but, unfortunately, that's not the case (if it was, I definitely would not be wasting time by sitting here, writing this blog!). Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that writing is not something that I can just do. Don't get me wrong, writing is still my passion and it's a major part of my life and my thoughts, but it's not a light I can just flip on whenever I feel like it. I know I've been writing a lot about writer's block lately, and I know that it's a cliche topic for me to write about, but, really, not being able to write puts me on edge (and those who know me personally will testify that I get seriously stressed out anyway). For me, not being able to write makes my body hurt because of all the pressure that is not only self-inflicted but brought on by the extreme expectations of those around me. Yeah, that sounds dramatic. It sounds even a little cliche. But writing has become so much a part of my identity now that I can't escape it. My life goal is to be able to write anything. Right now, I am working on being able to write novels (for the first time in months, I actually looked at the novel I'm working on right now, so maybe that's a good sign). Novels are my passion, and I dream of someday seeing one of mine published (though even novel writing is hard for me). Lately, I've been taking a creative writing class in poetry, and I've been receiving A's, but it's not something I feel terribly passionate about. I like poetry, but am I confident writing it? Do I feel satisfied when I've written a poem? Uh, no. Poetry is to me like constipation is to someone trying to poop (sorry for the image). Same goes for essays and any nonfiction writings, which, to me, is like regurgitating a Chipotle burrito (yeah, not fun). So, when you tell me that it shouldn't take me long to write an essay for one of my literature classes or when you tell me it should be easy for me to compose a poem for my creative writing class, you are slapping a pair of manacles to my wrists, dousing the room in gasoline, lighting a match, and slamming the door in my face. Please, PLEASE, do not tell me that writing should be easy for me, because I will slap a pair of manacles on your wrists, douse the room in gasoline, light a match, slam the door in your face, and watch you burn. Thank you.

It's Been a While

2008-05-13T14:35:00.000-07:00

Sorry that it's been so long since I've posted last... taking eighteen credit hours is like rolling around in gasolene and hoping no one lights a match. I don't have too much to report on (ha! I say this like I have time to report on something even if I did); however, I do have a poem for everyone. I wrote this poem for my creative writing class and my professor gave me an A on it, and I received good peer reviews, so I guess it's decent enough to be revealed to the public. I would like, however, to caution you, because it has not been rewritten yet, so it is subject to editing (and is currently in the process of being edited)! Anyways, here it is! Enjoy!

"JUDAS ISCARIOT’S LIPS"

I have become scaly,
chapped with all my lies.
Our face is sober,
and I do not give us away.
We sit next to him—
the one I betrayed,
and I continue to scald him—
to burn his skin—
as we pretend.

Soon it will be over.
The swords I cover have dulled.
An innocent man will die upon the cross.

I am grainy,
saltier than sweat.
He walked on water,
cured lepers and the blind.
Fool! Can’t he see?
We bring him death.

The three kings brought him:
gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

And so I spit acid.
Soon it will be over.
We have sparred, and we have won.
Or so we thought...

And there it is—
in his lips
— in his eyes—
he knows of my betrayal—

Shh! He speaks.

Switchfoot

2008-04-10T14:00:00.000-07:00

*WARNING* please step away from your computer before you read the following if you are prone to vomitting:

Well, this really isn't that disgusting. I just feel that I need to warn all of the concert enthusiasts out there that I am about to divulge content about myself that not only is highly embarrassing to me but that may well make music fans sick. So here goes... I, Chelsie Anne Bryant, have only been to two concerts in my lifetime. And, sigh, the first one was Nsync--the world gasps (imagine me ducking away from all of the blows concert-goers are pelting me with right now). BUT! In my defense, my second concert--the one I am slyly segueing into telling you about--was a Switchfoot concert.

Last Friday, I attended my second (well, first depending on who you're talking to)real concert. Opening for Switchfoot was Emery (a band that likes to exercise their lungs) and Athlete (a great British band who now dominates my iTunes). Our seats (standing space technically) were in the second row, and I could (if I wanted to, so I did) touch the lead singers of the bands. It was incredible.

I have no musical talents or knowledge whatsoever. My favorite bands include Damien Rice, Coldplay, and Joe Purdy. I like their sound and their lyrics. I can't pretend to know what I'm talking about and criticize the bands I heard, so all I can really say about what I heard/saw is that I enjoyed the music.

Really, that's all I have to say. I know this is ending abruptly and that, again, there was really no point to this post; however, as I am still suffering from that soul-stealing disease that makes the literary world tremble at its wake (also known as writer's block) this is really all I can squeeze out for now. So, I guess, in the words of Athlete, "Would you like a cup of tea?" ;)

P.S. If this is your first time reading my blog, please see the earliest posts, as they were before I became addled by disease.

I Love English

2008-04-02T14:23:00.000-07:00

Let me just start by saying that I love English. I don't think that I could've chosen a major that fits my strengths and interests better. That said, I don't like science and math. Don't get me wrong, it's great if those are your strengths and interests, but, for me, they are my weaknesses. I try to avoid them at all costs. For intsance, the extent of my science experience here at UC has been astronomy-- a course that requires memorization skills, which I have, but no application, which I don't have. Astronomy is not an easy class, please don't misunderstand me. I had to memorize at least thirty pages of notes per class, which is a lot for anyone. I took astronomy simply because I knew it would not involve me doing math or any labs. I have yet to take any math classes, because, like the sciences, I am doing my best to avoid them. Let me explain, math is to me like Columbus was to the Native Americans--it has the power to bring down my entire civilization via disease, warfare, and slavery. In short, I contract measles and die because my immune system can't handle it. And, to make this a complete allegory, when I can no longer avoid math, I'm going to be scalped.

Now let me explain my true-love, English. Yes, I am married to English, and we are irrevocably in love. He has the most interesting things to say, and he makes me happy. So there. It's out in the open now. I LOVE English (imagine me standing outside his window with a boombox on my shoulder, singing some cringe-worthy song), and I could never take the step down of majoring in something else (no, I am not challenging all of you other majors, so chill... I'm just saying that you wish you were me ;).)

Have We Forgotten What's Important?

2008-03-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

Today is Easter, so, naturally, I should be blogging, right? Well, my parents and sister are in Oxford (no, not England, Ohio (I know, big disappointment, right?)) right now, dropping my sister back off at Miami (no, not Florida, Ohio (I know, big disappointment, right? (they just keep coming (also, do you like the quadruple parenthesis? I do...)))). She, like several other friends of mine, have school tomorrow. The universities--being the steeples of erudition (that's right Mrs. Blankenship, I'm using an English 12 vocab word!) that they are--decided to start school on the Monday following Easter. There are only two possible reasons that this can be attributed to: 1. Either the scholars forgot that Easter is probably the most important holiday and that Christians would be celebrating it with their families today... maybe they didn't think about the fact that, instead of spending time with their families, students would have to be travelling back to school today? or 2. They realized this and didn't care. Honestly people, if number two is actually the real reason for making students return to school today, then that is ridiculous. Especially when you consider that students get cake holidays like (and I say this with respect) Martin Luther King Day and Presidents Day off. Seriously. What does it say about society when we honor days like these, but we can't take time to honor someone who died for us? SERIOUSLY. Anyways, You will have to excuse me for only being slightly perturbed with the idea that, instead of spending Easter day at my Grandma's house with my entire family, I am sitting at home, writing a blog while my twin sister, who I won't get to see for three months, is being taken back to school. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, fight the power? No. What I am trying to say is that, as a society, we need to get a better perspective on what is important. Hear that colleges?

Also, I would like to say hi to my Aunt Judy and Uncle Doug, who I just found out are avid fans of my blog. Being a little gangsta (I mean, I go to Cincinnati, and I'm an English major... it's how we do) that consists of a big fat, "Holla!"

It's Been Forever

2008-03-06T09:10:00.000-08:00

I know that it has been a ridiculously long time since I have posted, but I have two perfectly good reasons for my lack of presence. Firstly, I have been suffering from a horrible bout of writer's block. I still am (look at the last few posts... see how they're so sloppy?). Secondly, I am incredibly busy. Yeah. News flash, people, I'm in college, and college students aren't exactly known for having an overflow of time outside of school work and friend time. Nonetheless, I am sorry to not have updated in so long. I will try to be more diligent in keeping with my blogging duties, as they are so many.

Finals week is approaching quickly. As an English major, I don't have as many exams as other people; instead, I have a lot of papers (all between 5-10 pages long)to write, so I will have even less time then. Don't get me wrong, though. I love being an English major, and I am thinking about picking up a second major either in French or women's studies. Regardless, I am blessed to love what I am doing in life and to have a clear idea of where I am going.

As today is Thursday, I have Crosswalk then swing dancing tonight, so I will be out late again (or, as usual). Some misguided teacher I had in high school told me that, in college, you catch up on all the sleep you lost in high school, but I'm here to set the record straight. You sleep a heck've a lot less in college than you do in high school. This could be due to a variety of reasons. Mainly, however, it's because you have friends who are crazy and do things on the spur of the moment, dragging you along with them. Next thing you know, it's 4:30 a.m., and you've got class at eight. Oops. Anyway, you become calloused to no sleep, and you learn time-management or you die trying. Afterall, it's those spur of the moment friends who keep you alive in the end.

Feeling Alive

2008-02-19T17:27:00.000-08:00

In "The Tide" by the Spill Canvas, Nick Thomas sings, "Heaven's not a place that you go when you die. It's that moment in life when you actually feel alive." That feeling runs through me a lot here. It comes during moments of complete randomness or, even, during times of total idiocy. I wish I could capture it--and feel that way forever--but (and it sounds cheesy) all good things come to an end (it's the truth). I find myself often feeling that way when I am around my friends from Crosswalk (a Christian group). Things aren't planned when I'm with them. We just decide to do stuff and, from there, other things happen, and it all builds into some multi-hour-stealing activity when I should be doing my homework, but, instead, I'm just living life.

Indeed, I have spent hours with my friends--a guitar player with John Mayer hair who is cool enough to exhibit sweet English majorness, a half-Asian (it's how he refers to himself, I swear!) who always has homework and is too nice to tell us we can't hang out in his room (like right now), a crazy swing dancer who will pick you up and toss you over his shoulder (who also happens to be the mastermind behind all of our procrastination and time-consuming (but fun) activity), and a petite blond who totally knows where I'm coming from when I talk about the creepy make-up prof and who shares in my torture three times a week. That's not even touching on all the other amazing people I did not mention.

Really, the point is that college is, at times, stressful, but--with the right people--it transports you to the heaven that the Spill Canvas speaks of. Then, and only then, do we actually feel alive.

The Non-Creepies

2008-02-13T14:24:00.000-08:00

My greatest fear about going to college was that I would find myself alone and friendless. I thought that no one would want to be my friend--that I might even hate it here. I don't think I took into account just how many other people were coming to college and how everyone was in need of a friend.

I meet people in a variety of ways. I have awesome friends that I graduated high school with who I am still friends with and who I have made great friends through. I have friends from the international program that I'm in who I adore. Recently, I joined Crosswalk (a Christian group), and I've met many amazing people through that. And that's not even counting the beautiful people I've met in class or in my dorm's bathroom (yeah, even though the bathroom is a festering spot on my cockroach-invaded dorm, it has a wealth of cool people that use it).

Anyway, the point I'm getting at is that I know I talk a lot about creepy people (and, trust me, there has been at least three creepers this week), but I don't want people to fear that they're creepy for reading my blog. I would be an idiot to think that stuff I publish on the Internet isn't going to get read by people I don't know. So, please, I WANT you to read what I write. I just don't want you to send me creepy messages, posts, or stalk me-- seriously, just emapathize with me here, people.

What Happens When I'm Left to My Own Devices

2008-02-11T19:14:00.000-08:00

When I came to college, I had no idea what it would be like. I suspected that I would have a lot of homework, classes would be hard, and I'd be doing a lot of goofing off. What I didn't realize, however, was just how much goofing off there would be (like, right now, I should be working on French, but, instead, I'm writing my blog and listening to Incubus).

Where do I even begin and what should I divulge?

Don't get me wrong... I'm not the stereotypical college student-- I've been to a college party this year where I did not drink; I've been invited to go clubbing; and I tried a sip of beer--just to see what it tasted like--and, let me tell you, it was probably the worst taste I've ever had the unfortunateness to experience. So, as you can see, most people would probably consider me boring-- safe, even. Yet, somehow, I seem to have random adventures that seem to make my life, at least, to me, interesting. As the Spill Canvas sings in their song "The Tide," "Heaven... is that moment in life when you actually feel alive." I get that feeling a lot here.

In case you haven't realized this yet, I really love to be random, and I generally like to write when I'm feeling frisky (yes, I said "frisky"). So, here is some random stories to tell you just exactly how uninteresting or interesting my life is...

One Friday night, my roommates and I were sitting at our desks, in our pajamas (yeah, we're cool), when we randomly decide to go get piercings. Now, let me give you some background about my parents. They're kind of like the Camden's of Seventh Heaven except they swear like sailors (yes, if you have seen this show, then you know that that is highly ironic... and somewhere my mom is planning a verbal assault against me for writing this...). Anyway, if you haven't seen Seventh Heaven, then you just need to know that my parents are extremely conservative people, i.e. the anti-piercing/tattoo folk. So, you can kind of see where this is going... Anyway, my roommates hadn't had their second holes pierced yet, so they were going to do that, and, since my second holes were already pierced, I was going to get my cartilage done. Well, I had asked my mom several times to let me pierce it there before, but she had always said no. However, being the rebel that I am (oh, the irony is so strong it smells), I go with them to Kentucky (yes, we go to another state in this adventure) and get them pierced. I had three exceedingly lodgical reasons for my rebelliousness here: 1. I'm nineteen; therefore, I'm an adult. 2. I really want to get my nose pierced, and I figured that this would sort of be testing the waters for when I brought home the big guns (somewhere, my mother is stabbing herself). 3. I couldn't just go along on a piercing trip and not get anything done. Seriously. I would definitely be a pansy then.

Random happenings wouldn't be random if they were planned, right? Well, this certainly wasn't planned; therefore, it didn't exactly come at a great time. In fact, the next weekend, I was due home for my mom's birthday (man, things just keep getting worse for her, don't they?). Anyway, long story sort of short, we were at her birthday dinner when she saw my new asset. Yeah... her first words were, "Um, excuse me, Miss, but what is that in your ear?"

To which I replied, pushing my hair forward, covering my ear, "Wh--what? What are you talking about?"

"Since when have you had your ear pierced there?"

Now, let me tell you, this whole situation was made worse by the fact that my dad, sitting between my mother and I, starts laughing. Picture storm clouds hovering ominously overheard.

Before I could answer her second question, my grandma, who, in typical grandma fashion, has been completely oblivious the entire time, says, "What? Who? She got her ear pierced? Oh no. Oh fooey (yes, she actually says fooey). Well, at least she didn't get her nose pierced."

At this point, Mandie (my twin),who has known about my scheming all along, nearly pees her pants, because she is laughing so hard, my dad is trying to redeem himself with my mom, and my mom has steam coming out of her ears. So, naturally the only way I can save myself is by saying, "Yeah, at least I didn't get my lip pierced" and hope that that diverts her attention before she tells me I can't get my nose pierced. It didn't work...

My mom then goes on a rampage about how, if I come home with anymore new piercings, I'm going to be paying for my own college, which my argument about how I am going to be a starving artist had little effect on changing. Luckily, not long after, I was saved by our waiter, who brought out the soups. Yay for soup!

Indeed, I have a wealth of random stories to share because that's what college is. There was the time that I went into the boys bathroom (on accident, I assure you). Or the time when I decided that "ghastly" is the new "pink" (I like to say, "You smell ghastly," but it can also be used in such forms as "Ghastly, what is that?" or "Mm. That's ghastly"). My favorite, however, would most certainly be what happened today. I had a conference with one of my professors about a paper I was writing. When I arrived at the Starbucks we were to meet at, my first wave of imminent weirdness hit me when I saw that my prof donned a sweaty bandanna. I thought it seemed odd, but who am I to judge fashion? I wear t-shirts like it's my job. Anyway, my second clue came when I noticed that his eyes seemed weird... it probably seemed creepy, because I kept staring at him, but I seriously could not figure out what was wrong with his face (other than what's usually wrong with it, I mean). Then, I realized, he was wearing eyeliner. No, wait, it gets weirder. I then see that his lips are a darker shade of red than normal. And, when I look at his coffee cup and see lipstick stains around the top rim, I am overcome with a fit of giggles. Yeah, I just lost it. I mean, the dude was wearing more make-up than me, and I'm a girl (yeah, I know, shocker there, right?). Even now, thinking about his face makes me want to bust out.

And, with that, I think I'm going to go practice my make-up techniques. I am suddenly feeling insecure about how I look.

P.S. This post is probably wrought with grammatical mistakes. Sorry.

Quit Creepin' on Facebook

2008-02-05T17:11:00.000-08:00

In my very first post I stated specifically that I do not want befriended on Facebook if you are a creep. In fact, I think I stated that at least three times. Why, then, am I continually getting creepy messages from dudes I either don't know or people I do know that I've made quite clear that I don't like? Stop it, capiche?!?! Yes, I am talking to you, sir, yes, you. You live in freaking Turkey, okay? There is no chance that I'm going to date you when A. I don't know you and B. You live in freaking Turkey. Yes, I'm talking to you, sir, yes, you. I worked with you when I was sixteen. You were too old for me then and, even though I am legal now, you're still too old for me. I don't care that you lied on your profile and said that you're twenty-five when, clearly, you're at least thirty. Stop it. You're a CREEP. Yes, I am talking to you, sir, yes, you. I went to the ticketbooth to get a ticket. When I come back and get on facebook and find that you've added me as a friend not only does that make me never want to buy a ticket again, but it creeps me out. Yes, I am talking to you, sir, yes, you. It's pathetic when I am whining to my friends about you guys, and they have to stop me and say, "Which creep?" Quit creepin'. If I have not been clear enough, then let me say it again. YOU ARE CREEPS. If I haven't met you face-to-face, then you have no right to tell me that I'm beautiful or gorgeous. I don't want to hear that. It makes me feel violated, and it pisses me off. STOP.

And, while I'm on my facebook tirade, knock if off with the applications people, mmkay? I don't want to know what kind of lingerie I am nor do I want to sell myself as a pet. GET A LIFE. And quit your creepin'. Seriously.

On a lighter note, I don't mean to drive away friends. In fact, my friends are welcome to message/write on my wall at anytime. But please, PLEASE, do not be creepy. Thanks.

-Chels

School Happenings

2008-01-25T06:39:00.000-08:00

Hi Everyone--

Sorry for not posting in nearly a week... I've been very busy with homework. Cincinnati is on the quarter system, so that means we have three quarters per year (yeah, makes sense, right? Three quarters make a dollar, right? Wait...). Since we are on the quarter system, that means that we need at least fifteen credit hours per quarter in order to graduate on time. Thusly, I have five classes. As most schools are now requiring, I must complete a liberal arts education, meaning I need a certain amount of credit hours per subject area. So, putting off math as long as possible, I am taking astronomy, French, American writers, introduction to the study of literature (dare you to say that one fast), and biblical poetry. I am not going to go into much detail about my professors (for all I know they could be reading this right now...). However, I will tell you a little about them. My professors-- a professor Trelawny impersonator (don't know what I'm talking about? You haven't read Harry Potter?!?!), a Chris Daughtry poser (American Idol, come on people!), the identical twin of the turtle in Master of Disguise (What? You haven't seen this movie?), a creepy old dude that could easily be mistaken for a janitor, and a guy that sweats so much it looks like he's running a marathon, not teaching a class. I know they sound like a motley crew, but, HELLO, English major right here! What do you expect? Cicero? Oh geez, I've read some of his stuff, so I hope not. Anyway, I digress, they all have their little quirks, but they're all pretty cool (and slightly creepy, but I digress again...). Pretty much, they all have one thing in common: They either take what I say, throw it in the toilet and poop on it, or they take it, roll it around on their tongue like they're tasting a new food, and then continue the conversation (which is meant to be taken as a compliment). On rare occasions, they might stoop to *gasp* comment on something I've done well (I know; I know; It's like winning the lottery). When this happens (the rarity of this being seen is about that of actually witnessing a solar eclipse... that's right, I'm actually using the knowledge I learned in astronomy other than to answer questions and look smart on Jeopardy!). But, when it actually does occur, I want to get up and do a jig, because that means that somewhere in all the mess of my idiotic responses that I am actually doing something right (yay!). So, when today, one of profs reads part of my paper aloud and compliments me, I can't help but giggle my satisfaction (guys, this would be the girl equivalent of spiking the football). That makes two (count 'em) TWO compliments in two days. The last one was from my biblical poetry prof (who is pretty freaking schwwweeet), who complimented a parallelism (parellelism? / paralellism? I always spell it wrong...) that I wrote for class. In fact, I'm so dang proud of my own writing that I'm going to post it (it's pretty much the only creative writing I've had time to do in the last couple of days). Now, keep in mind that parallelisms are the most common poetic device in the Bible. The three main types are antithetic, synonymous, and synthetic (Ay. Look at me! Look at me! I'm using stuff I've learned!). The one I'm posting is antithetic, which simply means that the first and second lines are opposites, so enjoy, because I know everyone's idea of fun is reading something that might've been sprung from the pages of the Bible. ;)

My antithetic parallelism:

Wise men know not their errant deed,
while fools heed to command.

Hey, it may not be that interesting, but I received one of those rarities known as a compliment on it, and it's the closest thing you guys are going to be getting to creative writing from me for a while. So enjoy.

Going Back

2008-01-20T19:26:00.000-08:00

I honestly can't think of a way to start this post. I wish I could just sit down and write completely how I am feeling, as I prepare to head back to UC tomorrow after a long weekend at home, but I can't. With my last post, I'm sure a lot of you think that I prefer college life, but that is not the case. I always experience a culmination of fear/relief/anxiety/happiness when I go back-- it's altogether strange and hard to understand.

Going to school in an urban environment has always been a dream of mine, but being from Findlay (population 50,000--yes, we were on Jeopardy that one time (if you don't know what I'm talking about, then you clearly aren't from Findlay)) makes it a little more difficult to adjust. In Findlay, we might have cockroaches, but they don't live with us... or fall from the sky. I don't have to wear shoes in the shower (big time plus). My parents are so happy to see me that they buy me a bunch of stuff, which, if you're smart, you TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS WHILE YOU CAN, because, when your mom finds that pile of laundry you threw in the corner (or that random piercing you got), she isn't going to be happy. My cats (all nine) nearly knock me down when I open the door, because they're so excited to see me. After I've kicked off my shoes, I get to fall asleep in my own bed (no matter how comfortable your bed is at school, nothing ever compares to your bed at home). And don't even get me started on the fact that, in your room, you actually have some privacy. Yeah, your roommates are great, but they're great three hours away, too.

Anyway, what I can't say that I'm trying to say is that, for me, being a college student is a lot like living a dual life that you're never really comfortable with. It's like having two families, and you don't want to choose between them. I guess, what I'm really trying to say is that I'm still a kid. Yeah, I'm legally an adult (I can get tattoos, piercings, my own apartment), but I miss my youth. I miss the innocence I had before I left home, I miss my childhood friends, and the fact that I didn't use to have any responsibility--a time before I was bombarded with application after application, asking me to do all sorts of things (No, I don't want to join the freaking Army, thanks). Now I wonder what happened to the days of old when all there was to worry about was catching the ice cream man. I don't know where they went, and I'd kinda like to get them back.

Home Again

2008-01-18T22:09:00.000-08:00

As any college student will tell you, a week at school feels like a month from home. If you're a freshman without a car and your parents are picking you up, then that Friday seems like it drags until they finally arrive. The outlook is bright and fresh. It seems like the sun is shining just a little brighter and that it is warmer outside. Class doesn't even seem that bad.

When whomever is picking you up actually does arrive, it feels like you are going home for good when, in reality, it's only for a couple of days at most. This doesn't sink in until that Saturday or Sunday morning, when you're scrambling to pack to go back. Upon your first step inside your home, you realize that something (if only minute) has changed in your absense. The smell, just the feel, is different. Enter your room, and if you're like me, your first thought is, "Where is the pile of clothes I left sitting in that corner a month ago?" Immediately, you reak as much havoc as possible in order to make it feel more like "you." Pop in your old Hanson CD (because everyone secretly loves "MMMBop"), and plop on your bed--remote in hand--and everything is sort of back to normal.

Then there is your friends to deal with. Yeahhhh. They've been away at school, too. They have new and scary--I mean exciting--experiences to share with you. A lot of this has to do with their so-called "freedom." For some [idiotic] reason, freshmen, maybe even sophomores, tend to think that going off to college is their get-drunk-semi-free pass. Their parents don't come with the dorm on move-in day; therefore, there is no one to enforce the curfew, anti-drug-sex-alcohol rules, or the cleanliness policy (consequently, my room at school is WAY cleaner than my room at home... just thought I'd throw that out there...). Anyway, this is one of the ways the Feds (see "My Life as a Freshman at UC") pick off Pickett's men. One by one, they fall, often by failing in their responsibilities to themselves. The rest of us trample over them on our way to the safer zone (and, by safer, I mean the hand to hand combat on the other side of the field).

But I digress, after you've been home for a night, the next day you have to deal with the dentist, chiropractor, dermatoligist, hair, and doctor appointments your mom is trying to make you cram in during your brief stay at home. Yeah... then you have to see everyone--your high school friends, your aunts, uncles, cousins, half-cousins, step-siblings, your uncle's sixth wife, your past teachers, your old employer, the old cat lady next door, etc. It's a rough schedule and, in the end, it's the relief you sought from school by heading home that ends up being stressful. The only real break is heading back to school--away from the real world.

A Nasty in the Nati

2008-01-16T20:30:00.001-08:00

Like I said, I am here to chronicle the ongoings of my life. So, when, about ten minutes ago, a cockroach falls from the sky and somehow lands on my roommate's computer, that naturally makes the Blog, capiche? Well, like the studious person I am, I was facebooking when I heard a blood-curdling scream from behind me. As one usually does, I turned around to see what the commotion was. There, atop her computer, is sitting a goliath cockroach (at least the size of a baseball). She screamed. I screamed. We all screamed. There was no ice cream.

So, being the Wonder Woman that I am, I called my guy friends. Of course, they couldn't come until the episode of 24 they were watching on DVD was done [Insert sarcasm here]. By the time they arrived, the roach had somehow weasled out of our sights. We searched through the forest of books, bags, and hair on our floor. Finally, I looked down, and there the bastard was (on the floor he looked a mite smaller)! Naturally, I let loose my own cry of terror, at which point, one of my friend's crushed it with a Kleenex.

I must have been foolish to believe that the cockroach problem of Daniel's Hall had been solved long ago when I saw my R.A., G.I. Joe Ken, waging war on them. In short, they are a nasty in the Nati that should have become extinct when the meteor took out the dinosaurs a long time ago.

A Taste of my Writing

2008-01-16T17:11:00.000-08:00

[Resisting the urge to start with "Okay" again] So, since I claim to be a "writer," I feel like I need to live up to that reputation by presenting everyone with a piece of my writing.

Thanks to my friend, Mikey, this poem is one of the few pieces of my writing that was rescued from the laptop disastor of '07. When read aloud, the hyphenated areas are meant to be echoed. But I digress, I started writing this poem in December of 2006. I went back to it in October 2007, and it has recently been published to help raise AIDS awareness. I want to stress that the meaning behind it is subjective, so you can attach to it whatever meaning you would like.

I KNOW WHY THE CROW WILL CAW

I know why the Crow will caw
—the crow will caw—
he will caw in Chicago next to his cousin, the Dove

I know why the Dove will coo
—the Dove will coo—
she will coo in New York City
where she searches for food
next to her companion, the Robin

and I know where the Robin flies,
why she sings, and why she cries
and when she falls
—when her wings cease to beat—
she sings no more
—no more will the Robin sing—

a caw is heard in the distance
and the Crow, he freezes
—his wings sputter to a stop—
and no more does he caw
just like the Robin, who sang

and I know where the Dove rests
—she rests in the park next to the bench—
and the worm escapes her, for her mouth is suddenly slack
and her wings will not wave
—she cannot leave the ground—
suddenly her coo is heard no more
just like the Crow, who cawed
and the Robin’s song
no more will they be heard

I know when it rains and pours
the Robin will offer her jacket—brown-speckled—
and the rain will fall
just like the Crow will caw
and the Dove will coo
rain will start to fall
and the Robin will offer her jacket

somewhere above she sings
and her jacket—brown-speckled—protects some
but many are hit
and then they fall
and no more might they sing
their coats—speckled are they—now thrown in the ring

they fight a battle
against an invincible foe,
yet they lost long ago,
so they throw in their jackets—speckled-jackets—
and, the Robin, she sings a song
—a prolific song—
and her jacket—brown-speckled—protects what it can,
as she sings from Heaven above.

My Life as a Freshman at UC

2008-01-16T16:40:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I want to give everyone the low down about what goes on here at the University. As a freshman, I am sentenced (okay, only sort of required) to live in Daniels Hall. Let me tell you a little somethin' somethin' about living conditions here. First of all, as freshmen, we are like the soldiers of Pickett's Charge. We get sent in to pretty much mess up what we can while one by one we are picked off. Then, if we are lucky enough to be one of the 50% that is not part of the casualty rate, we have to somehow trudge through all the dead bodies and swamps that are our first quarter classes. If we make it out unscathed (and, by unscathed, I mean only missing maybe an arm or a leg or something like that), then we might be able to retire to our lovely rooms in charming Daniels Hall, which, coincidentally, just hit the big 4-0. But I digress, should we make it through the toils of war, then we get to rest in our spacious dormitories. Of course, that is providing that our three roommates are not A. having sex, B. smoking pot, C. talking on their speaker-phones to their moms, who are pissed off because they are failing three classes, D. playing guitar hero, E. sitting in front of the TV with their whale tail hanging out (that is, to say, their thong sticking out), and any other possible annoyance that they seem to feel is imperative to breathing. No matter that you have an exam or a ten page paper due, playing Wii is way more important.

Again, I digress. I live in Daniel's Hall. Yes. I live with three crazy girls, whom I get along with pretty well. Yes. When I am not reading the bazillions (okay, so I like to exaggerate a little, you'll get used to it) of pages I have to read for homework each night, I am trying to work on my novel. Yes. Consequently, this is the same novel that was lost on my computer when it randomly turned blue, started screaming, and died a few weeks ago on a night when I was hosting a House part-ay (and, by House, I mean the TV show; come on people!). And that was totally random. Yes.

Random happenings, funny stories, abrupt endings, and body piercings, such is the life of a college student.

Become my friend on Facebook

2008-01-16T16:26:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone, I am adding a link to my facebook profile just in case you want to learn more about me. Please don't befriend me if you are a creep, tool, sex offender, looking for a girlfriend, been/going to jail, going to ask/send me stupid/creepy messages (it has been known to happen), a creep, a pimp, a drug-pusher, the FBI (though, I don't know why you would be contacting me), want pizza, don't like me/my writing, a creep, or anything shady like that. Otherwise, feel free to contact me through it ;).

I hope the link works.

http://uc.facebook.com/s.php?q=chelsie+bryant&init=q