A Day in the Life of Mordecai Lancaster

So my day starts as such:

12:00 am = Final touches on Beltie clothing designs.
1:00 am = Attempt to go to sleep.
2:00 am = Laying in bed wide awake because my mind is racing through many different things at once and it won't shut up.
3:00 am = At some point I realized that sleep was nearly impossible and went on my computer to do something stupid and mindless so I might fall asleep.
4:00 am = Somewhere in the last hour I finally fell asleep.
5:30 am = Alarm goes off for my meds. Take them. Fall back asleep.
6:30 am = Hit snooze so many times that I started putting my phone on my face to remind me that I need to get up.
6:50 am = Finally up and gathering things for school. Remembered my wallet. A+
7:00 am = Leave for UMass.
7:10 am = Stop at Dunkin for breakfast. Realize that my back aches but doesn't remember why. Then remembers that I carried a human being on my back down a hill from a dining commons to the car.
7:20 am = Park my car. Realize that I left my lab goggles in my room like a boss. B+
7:35 am = Trying to eat my breakfast when one of my tater tots attacks me from the pile when I try to take another. Dangerous mofos I tell you.
7:40 am = Put following picture as the background on my phone for inspiration:

8:30 am = Lab lecture starts. So far so good.
9:30 am = Reach lab room, inform the TA that I forgot my lab goggles like a boss. His sarcastic response:
"That's bullshit. You fail. Get out." Then proceeds to hand me a pair of goggles and smiles. I have just solidified the fact that this kid is my brother's doppleganger if he had ever decided to pursue a science degree. Also find out that our 3rd lab partner (out of a total of 3) wasn't there so it was just my friend and myself.
10:30 am to 12:00 pm = Lab commences with the following chain of events:
~Have the sanity scared out of me by the other TA when he had told me to pour the Lysate into the resin filter column, then proceed to pour it, and he decided to yell "NO!" and make me jump and make my heart skip a beat.
~Realize that I converted 1.6 mL to 160 uL instead of 1.6 mL ro 1600 uL. Spend 20 minutes with TA trying to figure out how to salvage the experiment.
~Continue experiment, trying to re-write correction calculations in a legible and understandable format.
~In one part of experiment, accidentally caught liquid in filter column cap, went to return liquid to column and proceeded to drop cap into column. Started crying a little bit in both frustration and from laughing so hard at that which was happening with my life at that moment. The TA's kindly fixed my misfortune.
~After second to last part of the experiment, initial TA chases us out of the room so that we would go and bring our samples to be tested upstairs.
~Send samples through machine, TA from different section had to run the test 3 times because of miscommunication between TAs.
~Our results were so weird that they got some strange looks. Professor helped in explaining how our data isn't technically bad.
~During clean up, TA that helped with calculations presented me with the dropped column cap as a souvenir from this day in lab.
~Was the last of any non-TA or professor to leave the lab area.
12:30 pm = Leave campus.
1:00 pm = Contemplating previous picture. Not sure whether to see it as a warning for what was to come, or the universe's way of throwing me off my game.

Surprisingly, the rest of the day went rather well.

What's In A Name?

Everyone has a name. They receive it from birth. Some pick up names along the way due to religious practice, or nicknames bestowed upon them by peers. Most people go through life content with their names and think nothing of it. But there are those who find that their name doesn't quite sound right, doesn't feel right. it sounds foreign, it doesn't sound as if they are truly calling your name.

For some, the gender is wrong. They are born female, but their gender identity is not female. They would be inclined to alter their name to that of a more fitting, masculine name. For some, it's the way it sounds. Some names, the mere sound makes them cringe or doesn't sound quite right. On the simplest ground, the name does not feel like them, or at least the "them" that they are now.

After a change in one's life, they may feel like their name was who they once were, not who they are now. After said change, when hearing that name, they feel strange, the name sounds alien. It sounds as if they aren't talking to them anymore. It feels like someone is saying the wrong name.

I guess names can be strange, finicky, little things that sometimes like to worm their way in and out of people's lives.

But really, can we even answer, what's in a name?

Falling Blindly

Going to school? Learning? That's easy. I know ow to do that. I've been doing that all my life.  It's something I understand. I can see how it's done, but going out there? I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know what to expect. It seems as if the rest of the world around me can see what is happening, know how to do it too. I don't. I'm blind. Whenever I try to see how to do it, I go blind in a world I was so used to seeing.  In that blindness, I see darkness and all that does is instill fear into my hear. That fear cripples. All I can so is curl into a ball in a dark corner of existence and try to hide from that fear that wants to consume me.

A handful of people approach it with "You need to learn to do it on your own, to stand on your own two feet." Unfortunately, all that does is make me feel as though the darkness opens up beneath me and swallows me up into a dark pit. It makes me feel like I've asked for too much, that I've run our of time for assistance.

It's all so terrifying that it mutes me. I can cry and scream in the hole but all the sound I try to make get consumed by that darkness.

Wanting to be on my own was always a dream. To be alone, independent, strong.  But now that it's here, at my door, in my face, it's terrifying. It feels as if in the dead of night, while I was sleeping (when I could sleep) it came and turned my world upside down, stripped away all that I know and left me for dead.

I know what I need. A hand. Someone who can find me in that dark little corner and help me along, to take my hand and show me the world and what I'm supposed to do. Someone who can walk with me and show me the path in front of me when I go blind, to keep that darkness at bay, and to help me see how I am supposed to proceed.

In a world that moves forward so quickly, it feels as though there is no one who can notice the blur in the surroundings as the blind person, falling behind into the darkness and reach out a hand to help them move forward again.

Untitled

A voice shouts through all the noise and commotion of the brain. "What are you?" it cries out in anger, for no other question was granted a response. No other words reached the mind of the clatter, the never ending frenzy of noises. In an instant, everything went silent. All that was heard was a deep, booming, "You."

It's Not a Full Moon, No, That Was Wednesday

What is it about a cold, dark Saturday night at about 3am that calls me out to my car? The first time, I realized, was a subconscious act to be near my car since it had been the anniversary of the death of Percius P. Percival, my scion xa who had been totaled a year ago, and I had not done anything to honor his memory.  Tonight, I'm not sure. I don't remember April 27th being any day of significance in terms of my car. It seems that both times, I had an errand I had to run involving my car that, for some reason, could not wait until the morning.  I feel wired. I feel like I need to do something.  I can't sleep, I can't relax. At this time, all I can think of is going to sit in the warm comfort of my car.  It could be nerves. I could be suffering from over stacked nerves about finals, end of the semester, finals, grades, friends, social interactions, family, interactions, moving out of my dorm, moving into my apartment, what I'm going to do for that week in between the two, this summer being my last camp summer, if I should find a doctor up here in Massachusetts, should I just stay with my pediatrician until I get kicked out of the office when I get to old because Massachusetts might be just a temporary thing, am I trying too hard, am I not trying hard enough, am I actually failing at my life, am I disappointing everyone, or am I just making everything up in my head?

Right now, all I know is that I appreciate you Swooshy. You are good to me.

Love,
Lunch Box.

I Still Wake Up.

Done with freehand sharpie (and no references...). Every once in a while I get the inspiration to draw and this is sometimes what happens.

The words I had found inspiration in through the lyrics of a song, "Some Nights" by Fun. and found myself telling myself "I still wake up." over and over again when I hit small spirals of depressive thoughts. It helps me to keep walking forward.  The images became a sort of unspoken mantra, that I still wake up, no matter what is happening.

Don't Kick The Puppy

In my mind, I see issues, or at least any topic that elicits a response from an individual, as puppies. Most people can attest to a situation in which they bring up a topic of conversation and someone jumps down your throat about it. The person who brought up the topic kicked the other person's puppy.  And this isn't to say that the puppy is ONLY theirs, more like it's a puppy that they chose to care about, or a puppy that they connect with personally.  This thought first came about when I heard people say to others who looked pissed or at least agitated, "Who kicked your puppy?" Insulting someone, or something they connect with is, in my eyes, the same as kicking their metaphorical puppy.

How hard a puppy is kicked can be judged in two VERY different we ways. The first is obvious; how extreme the person bringing up the topic is about it. The second is more ambiguous:  those topics that are so touchy to begin with, that simply saying the name of the topic will send 30% of the people within hearing range into a state of rabid defensiveness.  Those two instances I have classified as punting the puppy across the room. In true second case, it describes the fact that they respond as if their puppy was punted across the room.

I truly connected this metaphor when I was in the middle of a LGBT support group. I had brought up how, before I first came out, I had built myself up, arming myself, against every negative response I could have expected to get when coming out.  This was stemmed from all the horror stories I've heard about kids coming out in their schools.  An image popped into my mind:

[The puppy represents any topic or subject that you feel compelled to protect.]

When I didn't get the negative response initially that I was expecting, all the pent up defensiveness had no where to go. Now, I am in that unfortunate, ever defensive mode where I tip-toe into every situation, waiting for someone to come and kick my puppy.

I thought that I would share this metaphor since I just had a classes where people were seriously punting puppies across the room.

Sincerely,
Lunch Box.

Look Too Far Forward and You'll Find Yourself Looking Back

More often than not, I find myself wishing to be a child again, to be back home where everything was simpler.  You didn't have to worry about your college experience, how likely it is that you will get into vet school, getting an apartment, getting a job, or worry about life in general.  You only had to worry about your homework and your chores, like keeping your room clean and anything else your parents tell you to do.  If things went wrong, your mother was there to give you a hug and tell you that everything was going to be alright. Your dog is there to paw at you to give him attention when his presence is more sought after than he actually thinks.

There is a little part of Mr that wishes I could go back in time and tell myself, "Enjoy your youth while it lasts, enjoy being a kid with no responsibilities. Growing up is not all that you think it will be. It's tough, it's tedious, and at times you will think it's completely unbearable, despite how great of a freedom you get by growing up.  Savor your childhood, don't scorn it, or forsake it, but embrace it. Be a child when you're supposed to be a child, don't fight so much to be an adult when you have only reason to be a child."

I wish I enjoyed being a child more. As great as the freedom of being an adult is, I miss the freedom of being a child, where everything was so simple.

How to Offend Almost Everyone Without Really Trying

Think of those moments when you think of something perfect, and honest, to say about something or someone and you just say it without another thought. Yes, those moments. I have been deemed a terrible person by a handful of people who don't understand that that is just how I think. Sometimes, it's because my clinical curiosity had gotten the better of me. Other times, it's just the honest truth about how I perceive the people, things, and events around me.

Case #1:

My mother and I had participated in a towel exchange, where we are each in a group of 8 and we have to each weave 8 towels for the members of our group and ourselves.  My mom, being the smart person she was, wove a number of extra towels to give out to family members and friends as presents. I only wove as many as I needed, one for each person, one for myself, and then some samples of the design. I had found a pattern that had sheep in the border of the towels:

My mom wanted it. Oh, she really wanted one of those towels. I, being me, only wove one to keep.  At the guild meeting where we exchanged all of the towels, my mom turns to me and said, "I really wanted you to weave one for me to have." To which I replied, "Why would I weave you your own? It seems pointless to give you a duplicate of something I already own because when you die, I will just get it back. You can have mine, I won't need it."

Cue the horrific look directed at me.

Case #2:

A friend of mine had scoliosis, and thus had gone through surgery to correct her spine with a metal bar. Me, again being me, was bored and randomly thinking about random things around me.  I had an idea which prompted a question. This question was, "Is the metal in your back conductive?" Cue horrified look. "I was asking cause I was wondering what would happen if you got struck by lightning." To this, she replied, "Dear god! You're sitting here thinking up ways to kill me!"

Case #3 (The one case of slight redemption):

My grandmother makes quilts for her grandchildren when they get married as a wedding/entering adulthood gift. Me, being the youngest and probably single for a LONG while, was concerned that I would not get one. I voiced this to my mom in the following words: "I don't expect Grammy to be alive, or at least still have the ability to make quilts, by the time I marry someone so I want her to make me one and put it away for when I do." Now, I didn't quite realize how I said that until it had already come out of my mouth. Apparently, my mom had gone and repeated, in the exact wording, what I had said to Grammy, in which she started crying over the fact that I appreciate her quilts that much. I still sounded like a horrible person, even if I did get a little bit of redemption through my grammy's response...

Case #4:

I eat meat. It's not a secret. I am also an animal science major, I work with beef cattle at school, and I bring home the meat from our cattle. 

The adorable and delicious Belted Galloways!

The fact that I have no problem eating meat from an animal that I worked with offends a handful of people. Compounding on that fact, is when I say, "I can't wait for Milo to be sent off to slaughter so I can eat him because he will taste amazing since he was the biggest ass to all of us." If nothing else, that one usually offends most...

So yeah, I don't have to try, I just have to open my mouth and talk to people...that usually gets the job done.

Lunch Box out.

A Mid-Night's Walk

The dashboard blinks 2:45 at me in bright teal numbers. "Somewhere only we know" blasts through the speakers. The lamp post gleams brightly down at me. The campus is quiet, peaceful. There is a tranquility that the campus holds at night that makes me want to stay, to sit out there for hours, listening to my music quietly, staring up at the stars, well, the stars that one can see through the light pollution of a college campus.  It's the frightful dilemma of the insomniac and the night owls.  The hustle and bustle that the sun calls forth that then spills into dusk can be quite boring after a while. The peaceful lull of the night noises, the sound of silence throughout a campus commonly known for it's boisterousness is quite alluring.  I'll honestly never be able to explain what calls me out of bed to run an errand that is very unpleasing in the middle of the night, especially when I desire the feeling of sleeping and the comfort of my be so much.  It might be the feeling of being caged, a need to move, a need to stretch and roam around, that primal resistance to captivity taking hold for a fleeting moment maybe? I'll never know. Part of me desperately wants to know what makes an insomniac so that I can fight it and sleep when I have to, but then I don't at the same time.  I enjoy being able to lay awake and come up with brilliant ideas sometimes, or to go out at 3 in the morning because I just can't lay still. I definitely can't explain it, but at peaceful times like this, why would I want to?

The clock now flashes 2:58. I smile at the sight of small groups of students, bundled up men and scantily clad woman, walking back to their dorms after returning from a party. In a little bit, I'll be walking back. People will probably see me in a similar way, walking back home from a party, or some might think that I was trying to avoid a walk of shame by moving at 3 am while most people are still asleep. Whatever they think, I can only smile about because I know my reasons for late night skulking about.  They can think whatever they please.

Sweet dreams to those who can sleep,

Lunch Box.

The Door in the Dark Little Corner

So I sit here, relaxing since there is no homework to be done and no imminent test to study for. I sit here and work on writing my book about a universe that had been cooking in my head for eight years now.  As I am writing through scenes, characters, and emotions, I realized something. Writing out a book, a story, about many different people, personalities, actions, places, and emotions forces you, momentarily, into split personalities.  You aren't just documenting a story about imaginary people in your mind, they are telling you about all the little things you never consciously think about. They are actually showing you the door to yourself that sits in that dark little corner of your mind. The one that you don't think about opening as yourself, well actually, you can't open it yourself. That's why it sits there in a dark little corner. It is a door that you can only open with the help of, in my case, an entire fictional species.

So I bring you back to me sitting here. That door has been nudged open a crack and it is fascinating and a little bit scary.  I only realized this when I try to write out the scene where one of the characters experiences an instantaneous inescapable desire to kill someone on sight.  Now it's one thing to write out, "He had an instantaneous urge to kill", but that isn't enough. That doesn't have enough emotion, feeling, or passion behind the words to make the reader feel it, to get a taste of what he could possibly be feeling. This feeling does not get to be bland and not passionate just because it is something that I can't possibly begin to imaging how it truly feels.  Other scenes, other emotions can be so easily written with enough passion to make the reader cry or rejoice. What makes this one so different?

I guess it just scares me to wedge open that door and search for a way to describe how that must feel, even though I don't have the capacity to actually feel it or understand it. The feeling itself is scary to think about to the point where you don't even want to know how it would feel hypothetically.  But then that makes me think.  Maybe that's why that door in the dark little corner exists.  To take the scary things and put them somewhere where you have to want to look for them in order to face them.

So I still sit here, staring at that door.  I slowly take a step forward and by slowly I mean it takes a good day or two to take one step because as writers, we sometimes find ourselves facing things that were never meant for us just for the sake of our story.  It just won't feel right if we didn't. The goal of any writer is to make the reader, at the very least, understand what the character is going through even if there is no way they can relate.

And this isn't to say that I want people to understand the urge to kill, or to understand why he wants to kill. I want them to understand him. In my story, he represents the struggle of someone who is inherently evil, someone so dark and twisted that a simple smile is a challenge to him.  He is a warped and damaged soul that is believed by the vast majority to be nothing more than pure evil.  This scene, and the few following it, are to prove something, to show you the inside of someone. A person who, for all their life, has been told by both the little voice at the back of your mind and society that all they are is evil and all they will accomplish and be is evil.  This is the start of his breaking point. It shows how far someone will push themselves to fight and then how hard they fight when their will to fight almost disappears. He is meant to show how someone lives their life when they are handed a bomb at birth and society is just waiting for it to explode and all he wants to do is defuse it but he can't on his own but there is no one there to help him and the one person who can is the one person who could trigger the bomb.  All he wants to do is be happy.

It's hard to look at that door and know that I can tell his story, but but knowing that I am too scared to find the words to tell it.  So I sit here and wait until I can.

ADHD: Me vs the World (or so it seems)

I just want to take a moment and say that I am disappointed in some of the people in the world. There are many people who believe that ADHD/ADD isn't a legitimate disorder and that they hate people who claim they have it. They rant about how it is only the product of bad parenting and should not be taken seriously.

Can I say, I have ADHD. My parents weren't "bad parents".  ADHD is not a social cry or a stamp for doctors.  It is a neurological misfiring. When a part of your brain tries to fire neurotransmitters, but it doesn't properly attach to the receptors.  This causes a misfiring around specific areas of the brain.  Granted, parents and teachers push doctors to "diagnose" their child with it when they don't just so they have an excuse for their behavior.

Kids who truly have ADHD are not just misbehaving, and I'm not saying they don't.  I was a terrible child.  ADHD is an extra struggle in life that causes more strife than it's worth sometimes.  There are those who say "some ADHD people are smarter than "normal" people so what's the problem?" Different people's ADHD can aid them in particular subjects.  For example, my ADHD helps me when working with animals because I am able to change my focus on a dime, much like an animal does.  Others are able to hyperfocus on things they like, where the thing they like is what they want to do with their life.  However, there is that flipside where it can be a weight, pulling us down and making it harder to function.  

In class, you can't focus.
You can't take notes.
You can't sit down and do your work.
You can't hand in the work on time because your brain wouldn't allow you to simply sit down and do it.

People also look at our behavior and wonder how we do anything at all because we are always doing something.  During high school, whenever I told people my schedule, they looked at me and called me "super woman" because they couldn't understand how I could do that and do my school work.  To me, it was never a packed schedule, like I felt like I didn't do enough.  I figured out how I work best (do my homework) and was able to do it all in school, because my brain agreed that it would work from 7:15 to 2:30 and that was it.  I figured out a system to work around my ADHD, but I forgot I had ADHD at this point because I had taken myself of meds in middle school.

When people invalidate ADHD as something legitimate, it makes me feel as if my ADHD isn't real.  It is though.  It is a struggle that prevents me from functioning and being a "normal" student.  Whenever my ADHD gets the best of me, it feels degrading, that I'm a failure, that I'm useless and that I am a disgrace as a human being.  I've had teachers yell at me that I have no excuse for handing things in on time.  I can't do things on time. I really can't. ADHD doesn't feel like an excuse for this situation but it is the greatest thing that keeps me from doing my work.

People invalidate it because they don't understand how your brain could keep you from doing your schoolwork, something that is really important in this day in age.  Here is a challenge, go to do your work. sit there and want to do your work. say to yourself, "do your work, you need to." But here's the catch. You can't. something inside of your mind, in your brain, won't let you do it. how frustrating is that? try to imagine how our symptoms affect us, try to understand how we feel on a day to day basis before you go and belittle our disorder. (let me tell you, your belittling isn't helping the situation at all.)

Please and thank you. I don't mean to rant, but seriously. Step off and come back when you know what you're talking about.

Dear Wardrobe,

For all these years, you have stayed relatively the same: T-shirts, jeans, men's shorts, sweats and you have been the perfect thing for my life in high school. However, I am now in college and an adult, which means that you need to have an overhaul. I know you won't be happy for the first few days, but bear with me, it'll be great in the end. You'll be happy to know that I got you some nice pieces, things that are perfect for camp, great for everyday, and an item or two that are great for a party or a night out. So far, you haven't been too angry with me and I hope you still love me.

Sincerely,
Lunch Box.

Dear Percius P. Percival,

I thank you for being the car that you were (in case you are totaled). You saved the life of 5 people in your lifetime. Between the truck tire blowout that hit you, the teenager running the red light, and my accident 3 days ago, you have preformed valiantly. I know we have put you through so much, but we love you and wish that you could have lasted with us longer. When recounting my story of last Friday, I've been asked if I had spun out or swerved. You, being the car that you were, handled beautifully and I did not spin or swerve, but drove straight and pulled over with ease, despite the blowout which was inflicted upon you.

Rest in pieces.
Lunch Box.

Dear Brain,

I know you are tired, but the year is not 2017. Not by a long shot. Neither is it 2008. That has long past. Please get the year right. I mean really, we've been in 2012 for 90 days. It should have sunk in by now that it is the year 2012. Also, while writing this, I must inform you that this is about a rant that you can't remember it is 2012, so while writing this, please don't try to write 2021.

Thanks,
Lunch Box

"Right".

The concept of what’s Right.

It’s a load of crap.

And when I say “right”, I don’t mean legally or morally; I mean the process of something. The way something is done.

The concept of what’s “right” is defined by the mass of neuro-typicals, all of whom can process and regurgitate that which is “right”.  Their concept of “right” cannot reach neuro-atypicals, and they can’t seem to grasp why.

The concept that something is done in a “right” way is, in and of itself, wrong.  Without fail, neruo-typicals have essentially demoralized anyone who doesn’t do things “right” and they often don’t let them try anything that isn’t “right”.  But watch, as neruo-typicals are amazed and awed by those who get past the nay-sayers and do something amazing and ground-breaking.  You know what? They did those things “WRONG”.  The concept of forcing us to do it “right” doesn’t let the potential of those of us who need to do things “wrong” in order to do them at all.  It squashes the potential for more people to destroy the “right” and do something ground-breaking.  The types of people who do things “wrong” are the exact people to revolutionize an industry, to find a cure, to discover a new, ancient civilization using unheard of techniques.

So that person with ADHD who can sit there and research some ridiculously obscure, medieval idea instead of completing their homework like a normal Child? They are the ones who will make a break-through between human culture then and human culture now, solving a problematic idea that has stumped scientists today.

The Autistic kid who spent her time thinking in pictures and listening to the mooing of cows? She revolutionized the beef industry to something they could never have imagined.

The kid with Aspergers who is failing art but produces the greatest art pieces ever seen come from a high school freshman? They will one day document a glimpse of a social uprising, of a people’s revolt, of things as simplistic as the human emotions, and show the world just what it means to be simply human.

So before you yell at them, “No! That’s wrong, do it right.”, take a moment to understand that they have done nothing wrong.  They just didn’t do what YOU wanted them to do.

The only reason for any sort of revolutions, change, or innovation to have happened is that someone did something wrong.

The so-called “geniuses”? They all did things wrong, defied what was right and created something that has never been done or thought of before.

So whenever someone chastises you for doing something “wrong”, just smile and say “Ok”, because they don’t know your potential and they’ll regret it when they aren’t there to witness the ingenious acts you accomplished.

All because you did it wrong.

The Doll Dilemma

There are three distinct types of dolls in the world.  There is the first, the porcelain doll that sits atop the highest shelf, safely tucked away from uncaring hands.  This doll is protected by its owner with intensity.  If only one scratch befalls a doll such as this one, the owner is in a huff, marching after the thing that scuffed their precious doll.  They care for it, clean it, and work at making it look perfect in the way that they want.  It becomes sheltered away from dolls of lesser value in the eyes of the owner, only other porcelain dolls are right for it.  Unfortunately these dolls are so cared for and protected that the one time they are knocked off that shelf, even if by accident, they break. They shatter into many little pieces and it’s hard to piece them back together most times.  And if they can be pieced back together, they will never look quite the same. No matter how much is painted over the cracks, no matter what clothes are chosen to hide the fractured lines, they will always be there.  There will always be that slight imperfection, especially to the eyes of the owner.

The second doll is the old rag doll.  The one that none of the kids ever liked or treated nicely, the one that was given to the dog to play with, the one that’s missing a few parts.  No one really knows where the owner of this doll is.  Maybe the doll was lost, or maybe the owner threw it out because it wasn't what they really wanted.  This doll is literally the rag of the world.  People walk all over it, and there’s no one to pick it up and set it back on the shelf.  The children ignore it, preferring the new doll they just found, or a doll that looks better.  The rag doll is tossed aside by most and not even acknowledged by many.  Some rag dolls are hardy and can survive for a very long time. However, some rag dolls were not made of very strong materials and are destroyed very quickly.

The third doll is that favorite, strong, lasting doll.  The one that survives strange adventures through the back yard or a bath in the tub.  This is the doll that looks worn but still has that life in it.  It’s the doll that gets dropped by accident but there is barely a scratch on it when it gets back up again.  It’s the doll that can handle the bratty boys who stole it from their owner and looks no worse when the owner finally gets it back.  It’s the doll that is loved by its owner, no matter what the other kids say about it.  It doesn’t need to have the best clothes or a lot of other dolls to play with.  It’s the one that is still the treasured favorite, even if a new, better doll comes along.  It’s the one that is still there, in great condition when its owner is old and gray.

Dolls start out as piles of specific raw materials. You can’t make a porcelain doll out of rags and you can’t make a porcelain doll into a play thing.

This is the dilemma of the dolls.

The Start of the New Year

New Year’s: the holiday for insomniacs.  The one true night of the year where people are scorned for being in bed before 2 am.  Staying up is expected. It's encouraged.  As a person with acute insomnia, I rejoice at the night where I don't have to fret about not being able to fall asleep. There was nowhere I had to be, nothing I had to do the next morning.  It’s not fun through, when you have no plans.  An insomniac with no incentive to stay awake on the one night of the year that it’s expected. 

This year I actually had plans.  Many years ago, my parents would drag us along to a party of adults at a close family friend's house.  We used to sit in a back room and play mindless video games into the wee hours, being collected to go and watch the ball, then driven home as we slept soundly as the tuckered-out, up-way-past-bed-time, little children that we were. Then, my brother, being 3 years older, began going to parties at his friend's houses, and I started staying home since I was too old to be that kid in the backroom, but not old enough to be an adult of the party.  The first year of New Year’s at home, I spent it at a neighbors house, she having 2 kids my age and older at home as well.

Then it became an alone thing.  I always thought I'd have all these friends with parties to go to when I was little, but it didn't turn out that way.  Well, that year after I went to my neighbor's, my freshman year of high school, I had a friend over.  We had fun, ate food, made cookies, had some sparkling cider, all before midnight.  She ended up going home before midnight, for reasons I had only found out about a month or two later.  After that, I was really alone for New Year’s.  I kept asking my parents if I could go to that party but every year, I was not yet of the adult classification that I needed to be to go. So I sat at home. I basically sat on my computer till 11:50 and then I would trot downstairs, watch the ball drop, then trot back upstairs to continue what I was doing, then fall asleep.  It was nice and quiet and part of me enjoyed the quiet aloneness for the holiday.

This year, I was invited to join family friends for a New Year’s celebration.  We went to First Night in Morristown, a night filled with activities and events in the surrounding area with fireworks on the Green at 9 and midnight.  I tagged along with 2 of the woman's sons.  We saw a cheesy illusionist, where I was really only impressed by the boxes where he split his assistant in half and in other such ways. The only way that could work is if she was a contortionist.  Then we saw a reptile man who was slightly crazy, but in all honesty, you'd have to be to work with animals in general. At one point, he pulled a chinchilla out of nowhere (I still can't figure out why) and I squealed. I literally squealed.  Like, jumping in my seat, flailing my arms, and squealing like a little child.  The excitement died down and we met up with their parents to go watch the fireworks.  While we walked back to the Green, we got to about a block away when they started.  We were in a lucky spot where we could see them.  It was then, as we were bracing the cold winds, looking up at the exploding lights in the sky, that the sons decided that they just wanted to go home.  We started to track back to the car as the fireworks were finishing, finding our view completely blocked when the finale went off.

We got back and instead of really helping with the hors d'oeuvres like I said I would, I found myself cuddling and playing with their 2 little white Himalayan kittens, JJ and Louie, while the 2 sons that came with us joined the 3rd son and his friend playing games in the basement.  This went on until 11:30 when the 4 boys emerged from the depths to watch the ball drop.  We had a toast and some cheers and it was 2013. After that, I helped the 3 youngest in getting the oldest to play Dark with us.  Dark is hide and go seek, in the dark, inside. Basically, it was indoor Manhunt. When my brother and I were kids, we used to play with them all the time and it was always fun. On the first round I was found right away because my watch beeped and gave me away. After that, I was never found.  After 10 minutes, the friend had said, "this is ridiculous, the four of us are black and you are the only one we can't find!" He had a point, I am pretty white and I should have a glow to me in the darkness, but I was a ninja.  After that, the game became "find Brianna".  They never succeeded.

So, in short, I spent my New Year’s running around Morristown, playing with kittens, and playing a hilarious game of indoor Manhunt. It was quite a happy New Year in my opinion.  And thus, I made a little…“resolution” and decided to start a blog, this blog.  For me, this New Year is starting off with a blog instead of a bang.  Happy New Year!

Sincerely,

Lunch Box.