RIGHT now!

I am sitting on my bed with my necklace in my mouth, waiting for the new man to get off work and listening to a mix that consists of ACDC, Ingrid, AND Taylor Swift. That's right- I like a lotta genres of music. I don't just like to stick with one. It's called v-e-r-s-a-t-i-l-i-t-y.

And it would be really funny if I just misspelled that.

I want to be an author. I want to be a writer.

And in the grand twist of things, when something really, really good happens I just don't even know what to say or write because I get embarrassed and giggle and put my head in my hands and say "AH!" I'm hoping that it is cute.

I've just seen a face I can't forget the time or place where we just met 

She's just the girl for me and I want all the world to see we've met

Had it been another day, I might have looked the other way

And I'd of never been aware, but as it is I'll dream of her tonight

Falling, yes I am falling and she keeps calling me back again

I have never known a like of this

I've been alone and I have missed things and kept out of sight

But other girls were never quite like this

Falling, yes I am falling and she keeps calling me back again

Cute

"Your face is really warm, too."

"I think that's because I'm blushing."

Lyrics

Heavy is the mind that can't be told when it's time to let it go

Heavy is the heart filled so full with sorrow

But worry can't help a single thing and when we're out of heads

At least we're out in the open

The warning signs of a troubled mind it's all the things we can't see

We can't hide

But when you kiss me in ways I've forgotten, Love is a swimming pool

With no bottom

We've got to hold on, the water is rising

Now all we ever want is to be loved

Whether sun or stars above

All our trouble, all our toil is toward no greater earthly goal

So never mind what logic says

I say logic's a guy who outta empty his pockets

All we want is an open mind

Y'know the kind ya can't hurt, ya can't buy

And when you kiss me in ways I've forgotten, Love is a swimming pool

With no bottom

We've got to hold on, the water is rising

Everyone spends a little time fighting the drift back out to the deep end

When I asked you to throw me a line

That's when you pulled me out by the heart strings. 

We thought the weight of the world would have us sinking like a stone

If we should ever lose our hold

But we rise to the surface the moment that we know

There is nothing to fear down below -The Submarines

Just a good one.

Sin

I have had an interesting, busy, long/short, fun week.

I met new people and learned new things about my old friends and I slept in late and got up way too early and ate crackers and chicken and cheese and I even went snowshoeing and did not get injured or wind up in the hospital like I always seem to do and I got a cute card in the testing center and I finished the maps at work and am getting reacquainted with my friend S. Norman Lee, a man who died in the 50s that I already did a big collection on and now have a new addition and my mama sent me new clothes and I read Coleridge and Wordsworth and Wheatley. Also I wore my cowboy boots again, finally.

That is all I have to say. I need to jump start reading Persuasion before I leave again.

I am not a big Jane Austen fan. I think that makes me a sinner.

Things I Do Not Like

1. Having too much homework to have a life

2. My homework today

3. The feeling after you go from really, really hungry to really, really full

4. The headache I have from being really full

5. Technology

6. Being slow on the uptake

Right now, I am frustrated because my computer does not want to install my new printer. Also I am frustrated because Pops did not buy me a USB chord to go with my printer. Yes, I realize I should be grateful to have a printer. But what good is a printer without a USB chord? Thus, I stole Kendra's to install this baby and it still is not working. Lame-O.

To ease out my frustration, I will say a few things I do like. And I like a lot of things.

1. My jacket that I have worn for 2 days in a row

2. Cute, CUTE and cheap dresses off ebay. Oh yes.

3. The terms "Dear Heart" and "My Little Sweetheart"

Now I am re-installing it. Is that a bad thing?

Whatev.

The History of Clothes

When I left work this morning, I swiped my card on the Kronos machine and pivoted towards the stairs. As I turned, I saw Geoff with red hair walking my way. Geoff is a work friend, but I am hesitant to even call him that. He is funny to talk to and super nerdy like me but he is also the person who tells me when I do things wrong, which is all the time because I am a rebel and try to loophole required fields on processing documents (intentionally and unintentionally). Also, I think he thinks I am ridiculous, and that suspicion was confirmed today. When I saw Geoff, I smiled and waved like usual. No big. I started to pass him on the stairs, but then he stopped me. 

"Lissa," he said

And I thought, "What did I do wrong now? If he tries to correct me, I am going to tell him I need to get going." But that is not what I said. Instead, I tentatively squeaked "Yes?"

"I wasn't sure that was you when I first saw you."

"Oh," I replied, trying to make an escape before he told me he needed to talk to me about my work performance.

"I have something to tell you," he said and I knew I was in trouble.

"Yes?" I said again. Apparently, when I think I am going to be lectured I don't know what else to say.

"I have never seen you wearing something so... muted." (Actually, I'm not sure that's what he said, but it was along those lines.)

"Say what?"

"Yeah, you usually wear something bright. Like red."

"Oh." 

"And you're wearing brown and pink today..."

"Well," I informed him, "Sometimes I wear black."

"Yeah, but when you do, you wear it like BAM! Like your bag."

"Well, I love my bag," I told him. Then I laughed and started walking up the stairs, but he stopped me again. He said something else about me wearing colorful clothes.

And I said, "I am going to take that as a compliment."

I was halfway up the stairs by this point and there were people around me. Geoff stood by the foot of the stairs as he said, "Well... it's not a compliment, but it's not--"

I cut him off. "I'm taking it as a compliment."

And then I made my escape. I didn't even get in trouble for my processing skills (or lack thereof).

But now I know that people, even boys, pay attention to what I wear. I think that is weird, because I don't remember much of what I wear. I remember sometimes, but not always. 

Let me rephrase that: I can remember what I wore when memorable events happened. For example, the pink tank top I have on today-  Right after I got it, I wore it when I had one of my first kisses with Jon, a boy I dated in high school. I think I wore this tank top (under a white wife beater) to a frat party at Mizzou when I proclaimed my (or rather Kelly's) black and pink mini skirt B. Spears worthy. I also wore this tank top when Anna came to visit me in Salt Lake. I also wore this tank top both summers of EFY. I also wore it one late night not last summer, but the one before while I talked to David (who will no longer acknowledge my presence on campus, but that is okay) on a hill by a parking lot. I wore it when I went home this summer and watched Sophie. I paired it with a purple wife beater and cut off, rolled up shorts and flip flops and it felt like summer. I wore it today when I talked to red-headed Geoff on the HBLL stairs. I think it came from Kohl's years and years ago and I wash it every two weeks. It is starting to get holes.

And my brown shirt? Well, it's history is not as long, mostly because I don't always like to wear it. When I wear it, I usually wear it under that white smock dress of mine, but that presents a problem because it likes to snake its way up to my ribcage. BUT I know I wore it the day after my birthday last September. We had a bonfire, that originated as a Cowboy and Indian bonfire, only to get shot down and become a normal fire. Also I liked to wear it tucked into jeans and skirts because it cannot ride up that way. I am just thankful I am skinny enough to tuck my clothes into my clothes. So maybe I do wear it a lot, but it has not seen as much life as my tank top.

My jeans, my shoes, and my sweater were all acquired over Christmas, thus they have no history.

But WAIT. That is a lie. My shoes have a history. Two Mondays ago, Provo was covered by a blizzard and I, Elisabeth Bogart, did not feel the necessity to wear boots. Instead, I wore the shoes I wore today. They are cute cloth flats with no traction and while I wore them, I thought I was going to slip and die. I should have been concerned for my welfare, and I was until Chad helped me down the walkway, but my mind couldn't help worrying that my shoes would be ruined (which they weren't, thank heavens).

That is all I have to say today. 

OH. And the other day I fixed the toilet. Yes. I fixed the toilet and Becci helped. Kinda. I am working on expanding my talents.

Ink.

The past few days I have gotten more into blogging. It is faster than writing in long hand.

Today I turned in some pages I graded, went to work, went to the class I grade (TA) for, and then I came to the library and sat down. But before I sat down in the library, I went to the bathroom. Life changing, I know. Who does that between classes? 

Anyways, while I turned on the faucet to wash my hands, I looked in the mirror surrounded by florescent lighting. And there it was: Ink. Right under my nose. There were two inky marks, which probably originated as two spots... and no one told me about it all day long. Not when I handed papers in. Not when I went to work in the SC. Not while I sat in Albert Winkler's History 202 class. Not when I handed students back their papers. Not when I talked with the other TAs. The ink stayed above my lip and under my nose, defiantly staring down those in front of me. It branded me in the way only ink can. I am a victim of ink.

Drama.

Water Cup

 

This is what I look like today.

I must admit, I am weird looking. Multi ethnic with a big nose while lookin mostly white.

But I'm feeling like myself again... again. 

In the words of Audrey Hepburn:

"I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles."

Gotta love her.

Staying Awake

This picture is super cute big, but weird-lookin' small.

I'm just hanging out. Staying awake because I do not have school or work tomorrow, which is fabulous. I finally finished grading papers today while my roommates watch "Another Cinderella Story" and I swear my IQ dropped ten points. Don't get me wrong- the girl in it is cute, and I guess the story is okay if you're into super super teeny bop cheesy. But I am not. I like things to be real, and the movie industry/most of Hollywood really, really bugs me. It also bugs me that so many kids think they need to feel so many emotions about everything all the time. Yes, emotions are good and sometimes you get mad or sad just to feel, but I hate it when I see people create emotions out of nothing. I'm guilty of it, and everyone else probably is as well. That is my tangent.

The other night some boys and a couple of girls came over that we don't really know well. One of the girls and three of the boys stayed well past curfew and they were funny. I was tired and I kept going off on tangents- even more than usual which is ridic because I go on tangents all the time. I can't even help it. For example, Kendra talked about hitting her head on the snow/ice while living at King Henry and I said, "King Henry is just bad for heads. Like this one time, when I was walking home from campus, a bird pooped on my head." And then everyone laughed at me. (That really happened, by the way, and I screamed. Loud. And then I could not stop laughing the whole way home while I tilted my crappy hair away from my face. Drama)

Speaking of drama, that night I kept saying "drama" to every story that was told. And then everyone kept making fun of me for it. One of the boys, his name is Sean, hit the couch and said "DRAMA!" and I was so tired I didn't even know what was going on.

Sometimes I come off as a ditz and I do not even care. Actually, I think I kinda like it because then people are surprised that I'm relatively smart and much more ambitious than most.

Speaking of ambition, lately (as in the past 4 months) this is what I wanna do with my life:

1. Publish not only a novel, but academic essays and short stories. Right now I am writing a novel tentatively titled "When Fireflies Fly" and a children's series called "Lulu and Zuzu's How-To" which is funny.

2. Teach for America when I graduate

3. Grad School somewhere not in the West... probably the North East. And either in American or European History or Creative Writing or Literature (my Dad started out with two focuses in grad school.. I could too. Then again, it took him 10 years to graduate)

4. I STILL need to exhibit photos in a show. I'm just lazy when it comes to that one.

5. Obviously, I wanna get hitched and have about fifteen children, half of them adopted. BUT I want to get married because I am in LOVE and not because I feel like it is my last and/or only chance... I've seen so many girls in Provo rush into marriages they are so not ready for.

6. Also I want to be a better cook

7. Also I want to go on a humanitarian trip or teach English to kids in third world countries

8. If I do not get married, I want to join the Peace Corps

9. Oh, and I wanna be good. :)

"Cause I'm a drifter and I know it doesn't do me any good. Moving on from place to place, never stayin where I should." -Rosi Golan.

There are things I need to do better.

Lately I have been making all kinds of excuses for myself. Though I've had some legit reasons to have a roller coaster year or two, those legit excuses don't matter. I need to focus on my art and my writing and my schooling and live my life the way I want to live it. I've said "I do what I want" since I was a little girl, but I forgot how to do it.... And it is time to start remembering.

Also I really want an Obama shirt.

PEACE. 

I wrote this for Mama.

This is from my book, again.

Really I am just posting this for Mama.

"When I was a little girl, I always got my way. 

Who am I kidding? I still try to get my way. I'm not ashamed to admit this to you.

The problem is, people make it easy for me to get what I want. For example, today I walked into my little sister's bedroom. She is five years younger than me but, in general, we can fit into each other's clothes. Rummaging through her closet, I found a grey shirt that would match my new grey boots. I pulled it out, and yelled for her permission. She was lying on her bed outside the closet. 

She said no because she wanted to wear it with her new grey boots. 'Pleeeease let me wear it,' I pleaded. She ignored me, so I asked again. She ignored me again, so I asked again. She looked up from her bed and said, 'You realize I'm ignoring you on purpose, right?' I smiled, sweetly saying, 'So that means I can wear it...' And she said 'FINE!'. Now I am dressed in her cute grey sweater. It wasn't hard, and now I have something to wear that matches my cute new boots. Mission Accomplished."

I am writing a book

... and now I can say it because I broke the 100 page mark over break.

This is part of it:

"Remember when I put red streaks in my hair last year? I'd dyed it black, much to your chagrin, and, thinking it was too dull, I tried to spice it up with big chunks of red. I dyed it when you were off doing something somewhere else (so that you would not tell me not to) and sadly, the dye didn't even show. You were relieved, but I was bummed. 

Nevertheless, the dye still lives on. Literally. The dye may not have been strong enough for my hair follicles, but it was definitely strong enough to attach itself to the kitchen furniture in my somewhat furnished apartment. It was also strong enough to streak the bathroom wall. After seeing the damage inflicted on the kitchen, I quickly hopped in the shower to rinse out the dye. Big mistake. The dye went everywhere. In the back of the bathtub, on the shower curtain, on the wall... somehow even on the toilet seat. My landlord was pissed but my twenty-eight year old roommate was even more annoyed. She demanded I scrub it off the wall. I would have done it anyways, but two hours later when I couldn't get it off, she gave me a tongue lashing worse than you or my father have ever given me.

She told me to straighten up. She told me that I was as responsible as an eleven year old and that I needed to grow up. I told her that I was grown up, at least for my age. I was twenty-one. I could do everything except rent a car. She rolled her eyes at me and slammed the door of her room. I padded outside, climbed onto the apartment's roof- not a hard feat- and called you just to laugh. You laughed, too, but then you told me she was probably right. I did need to be more responsible."

This is another part of it:

"I started playing piano when I was eight years old. I begged and pleaded and wailed for a piano. My parents did not have a lot of money, so they said I would have to wait. I told my parents that if I did not have a piano, I would die. My parents shook their heads and told me that my dad needed to get settled into his new job first. He made good money, but I was far from an only child. I cried. I told them I wanted a piano more than I ever wanted to breathe.

One day, my dad came home covered in smiles. He told me he had something for me. I followed him out of my room, leaving my current drawing abandoned on the floor. I anticipated a peanut butter candy bar or watercolors. It was better. My dad covered my eyes (much in the fashion he did when he surprised me with my first car... which I totaled the next month). He took me out to the garage. And there it was: a piano.

My dad had been helping an old lady clean out her garage. In the back, she had a tall, unused piano. It was scratched and out of tune and it had huge pedals and a bad black paint job, but it did not matter to me. Once upon a time, it had been the kind of piano that could play itself, but not anymore. The scrolls had been lost long ago and it was itching for me to be its new master.

We kept it in the garage. My mother did not want it in the house because it was ugly and almost as tall as the ceiling. The winters were cold so every afternoon I put on fingerless gloves and hammered away on my favorite possession. I did not care that I had to play in the garage. I could be Mozart or Beethoven or Chopin with that old, beat up piano. My dad ruffled my chocolate brown hair. "It has spunk," he said, "Just like you." I hugged him. I had never been happier.

Time flew by with that piano and before I knew it my parents bought me a new one. They invested in a cheery brown piano with pedals that worked and a matching chestnut bench that was not too tall for me. We put my new piano in the living room, where we usually kept the Christmas tree. Every day I came home from school and ran my fingers of the wood and ivory. I was in love for the first time.

I got into a fight with my piano teacher when I was eleven. In reality, she was a lovely women from church who was a trained piano professional. She had majored in music in college and my parents paid her a lot of money they did not really have so that I could learn from the best. To me, she was a tyrant who made me sit up straight, curl my fingers, and keep with the dynamics splashed across the page. I did not want to listen to her.

My parents knew I could go somewhere with music. I knew I could, too, but I did not want to go anywhere with my teacher. I did not want to curl my fingers like I was holding a ball, I did not want to play piano games on the computer. I wanted to pound the keys for expression- I did not want to play delicately like a flower. I did not want to follow the music; I wanted to find notes myself and and play dynamics however I wanted to. I also did not want to log each minute I spent with the piano, but my teacher said I had to learn discipline and responsibility so that I could learn the right way. I told her I did not want to learn the right way. I told her I was not coming back.

I got into my mama's car after I left my lesson. She asked me how it went. I told her I was never, ever, ever coming back to play piano for my teacher. I told her I did not like to be yelled at, and I wanted to play however I saw fit. My mama told me I could not quit. I told her that I was going to and that no one could stop me. I would never set foot into that house again, I told her. I hated having to wear ugly footies with balls on the back of them whenever I forgot to wear socks of my own. My teacher did not want her students to be barefoot or to wear shoes in her house. My feet longed to be free.

Everyone thought I had great potential. I played piano at least two hours a day and they all believed I had the makings of a great musician. They thought I should study piano in college, but I did not want to think that far ahead. I was only eleven. My parents' friends asked if I wanted to compose my own sons. I did not even know what that meant. I just wanted to be able to have fun and pound keys. I just wanted to be free. I did not want to be told what to do.

I did not like finger exercises. I told my mama that if I did one more my fingers would fall off. They would be crippled. I would not be able to help do the dishes after dinner. I did not want to compete in competitions, either. It did not matter that I always got high scores. I did not want to sit stick straight. I wanted to teach myself. I cried. My mother frowned. She told me she would talk to my father at home, but that he was not going to be happy with me.

My father sat me down and made a list of pros and cons. He said that he wanted me to stick with a professional teacher, but he was tired of having this argument. We'd had it repeatedly for six months. I told him I was tired of having it, too, and that it would stop when they let me stop. He gritted his teeth to keep from laughing at me. I scowled at him. He told me had bought me a beautiful piano. I told him I did not want to quit piano; I just wanted to quit my teacher. He told me we would make a deal. Then he made me call my teacher and had me apologize for the argument we'd engaged in earlier. She accepted my apology and said that she would see me next week. "No," I calmly informed her, "I'm not coming back. Ever." Then I hung up the phone. My dad heard me and grounded me for being disrespectful. Then he called my teacher and apologized. I slunk away, victorious."

  

P.S. It's a fictional narrative.

P.S.S. This is pretty raw and unedited.