Fuzzball

Dear readers of this blog,
I apologize for the mush fest you are about to witness. You have come to expect me to make you laugh and I'm about to fail you. Also I think it's been four centuries since I wrote anything for this blog. Feel free to pelt me with your dirty socks. And by "feel free," I mean don't feel free at all. 

-Snark

P.S. I changed the name to "Fuzzball" because...well, it's funny. 

Sometimes I think she was the only person who really understood me. I liked the person I was with her: crazy, confident, witty. What can I say? She rubbed off on me. We called each other the first thing that popped into our heads: fuzzball, platypus toe, radical eyeball. It was weird, but it was great. And the amount of inside jokes? They were astounding for two people who had only known each other two years. We were kindred spirits. We are kindred spirits. It kills me that we’re estranged. And it kills me that it’s my fault. It’s my fault my best friend and I are not on the best terms. 

We’re not speaking at all. It sucks. Because I miss her so much and I really have to stop reading our old text messages, but I know I won’t. There are so many things I wish I could tell her, show her. I wish I could send her this horrible poem I wrote back in September. She’s the only one who would think it was funny. 

I’ve never met anyone quite like the girl with dreams stained with ink. I think it’s fairly safe to say she changed my life. It’s like when lighting strikes and everything is aflame. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s unforgettable and you know that when it’s all over the fire that’s sweeping the barren field is going to ultimately bring growth and healing. Fuzzball is the kind of girl who is too confident. When you don’t have enough confidence in yourself, don’t worry, she has enough confidence for the both of you and them some. And she’s brazen and bold and she doesn’t care. She likes who she is. 

I’ve never characterized myself as someone who had self-esteem issues. I’ve always been insecure about certain parts of myself: my hair, my lips, the color of my skin, my rough hands, and the small scar that runs across my collarbone, dipping into the hollow of my throat. It’s a short list. I had learned to make peace with the rest of me, but I’ve never considered myself pretty. I never thought of myself as ugly either, just average. Nothing special. Boys don’t really crush on me and I always thought that meant I wasn’t that attractive. I went through my phases, finding myself I guess. 

I tried to be bubbly and giggly and sweet like the other girls. I talked like them and dressed like them. I followed the fads and I straightened my hair.  When I got sick of that, I tried to be one of the guys, sporting basketball shorts and a t-shirt. At some point, I settled for tough as nails and biting sarcasm. I was weird. I liked Anime and writing novels, but I was fine with who I was. I was fine with my Hollister t-shirts and skinny jeans. I savored the days when I really really liked who I saw in the mirror. Those days were rare. Rarely, did I hate what I saw. That was only on special occasions after colossal mistakes. At least they seemed colossal at the time. I was always making mistakes. Always messing up.

I hated it. I was a perfectionist trapped in a human body. Some days were miserable. Eventually I started to get over myself. Just slightly and then I met her. Well, I use the word “met” loosely. It was after the worst summer of my life or maybe it was the second worst summer of my life. I was fourteen, for one. On top of that my father had picked up this terrible habit—a habit I’ll leave unnamed. It was only three years ago, but my memories of that summer and the summer before are foggy—like a hallucination. 

My freshman year, I was accepted to Stanford University’s Online high school. I was excited in a muted sort of way. The first day I was determined to friend all of my classmates on Facebook. There was one girl in particular I was anxious to befriend. Her technical difficulties were tragic. Her webcam didn’t work and her mic made a horrific screeching sound any time she attempted to contribute to our English discussion. Eventually, it became the source of many jokes. She accepted my friend request almost immediately. I scanned her page. The first picture that caught my eye was of her adorable puppy, Paddington. He reminded me of my own dog, Ollie. We started talking and I discovered we shared something in common more significant than a love for cute dogs: faith. 

Our entire relationship thrived on the Timothy 4:12, one of my favorite Bible verses. Our Facebook chat soon turned into a phone conversation that lasted for six hours straight and then resumed for another two hours after a quick break. 

We were friends immediately. I venture to say we were best friends immediately. We Skyped constantly and talked on the phone and occasionally texted. We lived eight hours away from each other, and we felt the distance, but it did nothing to dampen the strength of our relationship. Together, we embarked on a journey. Our destination was revolution. We had high hopes and higher aspirations. We were going to change the world. It was crazy, but we didn’t care. 

She had this wild passion for everything she held dear. She was a free spirit and I always kept one toe on the ground. I envied her conviction. I wanted it for myself. I wanted that fire, that passion and I didn’t care if it burned me. I wanted to feel everything, deeply, strongly, clearly. But that’s not the way I’m wired, I guess. My emotions don’t explode. They simmer and sometimes if you really rattle me, they boil. The last time I erupted, I broke a vase and bruised my own hand. That was eleven years ago.

She told me I was like…I wish I could remember her exact words…something comical. A tabby cat perhaps? Or maybe it was an oak tree. I can’t quite remember, but she told me I was strong like a general of an army.

“You fight for people,” she said. “And I’m the nurse. I patch up the wounded.”

 It was a prophecy. It shaped me and marked me. And that’s my super power. I’m strong. I don’t budge. And it made up for the fact that I wasn’t pretty. I clung to it as I fought my demons at home. I played the words over in my head.

But the longer I hung out with Fuzzball, the more the way I saw myself changed. Suddenly, I saw something other than an average face in the mirror. No, I didn’t see beauty not yet. That didn’t come until later, but I stopped counting the flaws on my face so often.

I doubt anyone would guess that I feel insecure sometimes. I think people kind of assume I’m a rock and nothing gets to me just because I don’t cry when my feelings get hurt. I’ve never been one for crying. When I would get in trouble as a little girl, I would look my dad straight in the eye as he scolded me. I’d hold back my tears and nod my head resolutely. I was always determined to take my punishments with dignity. There was no point in crying. I knew my actions had consequences. I wasn’t trying to manipulate my parents into letting me off the hook, so I took my punishments bravely and sometimes I punished myself before my parents even got around to it. 

I’m pretty sure there’s a warrior in me, but there’s a warrior in her too. It’s a different kind of fight, a different kind of war. She’s impulsive. She blurts out what she thinks, what she feels. I calculate and imagine the possible effect of my words…sometimes. Sometimes I’m just as bad as she is.

As I tried to help a friend today with a problem she’s dealing with I wished for her charisma. Her way of saying just right thing in the strangest way. I wished for her ability to heal with her words. I’m not Fuzzball. But I miss her. 

And it hit me like a pound of flesh to my chest today of all days. It hit me because I looked in the mirror and I thought I was a little bit beautiful. 

I'm [relatively] mentally stable

Public high school affords a lot of opportunities for human interaction.

Yeah, I know. No freaking duh. The above sentence is pretty obvious. I mean, you spend 8 hours surrounded by 1000 people you barely know. There must be some interaction. Well, you'd be surprised how easy it is to speak exactly 10 words all day; most of them being some shortened variation of "the hallway is not a parking lot" and "stop stepping on my face, moron." When you're in high school, you get pretty good at the whole abbreviating thing. And being vague. Being vague is essential to the high school existence...and stuff.

Through all of this...quality interaction, I've noticed something about myself. I have just about 15 different sides. Which one is seen is dependent on who I'm with. It's not exactly a new observation. I've always known this about myself, but I've never seen it manifest itself so clearly until this week. I went from sarcastic hippy to valley girl, loudly chewing her gum to know-it-all Granger and everything in between within the span of 8 hours.

Everyone experiences this, I'm sure, but it doesn't make it any less interesting. I've found that once I've established that a certain "side" goes with a certain person. It's nearly impossible to change. Yesterday, I tried and...it didn't work. In fact, I only became more sarcastic and insulted the intelligence of four people. Fail.

I've been thinking about this quite a bit. After a lot of soul searching,  I came to the conclusion that penguins are reptiles. Everything else is just a lie.

Behold the mighty penguin. It has no soul.

Public High School: The Recluse discovers a Mystical Planet

(No, I'm not apologizing for my lack of posts AGAIN. Nope. Not gonna. You can't make me.)

Ah, the cliched "horrors" of public high school. Horrible cafeteria food, brainless jocks, evil teachers, vapid cheerleaders who rule the school, nerds stuck in lockers for the duration of the school year. It's all a lie. Public school isn't like that at all. It's much, much more complex and--to be frank--strange.  If you've ever attended public high school or even just set foot in one, you know what I mean.

I, however, don't know what I mean. The above paragraph was just an assumption because I've never been to public high school.  That's all about to change tomorrow morning at precisely 8:00 AM. "BUT NICOLE," you may exclaim in complete indignation. "You were living a self-proclaimed recluse's dream! How could you give it all up for structure and...public restrooms?"

Dare I say it? I do dare. I want a social life. GASP. Yep, I said it. I want people and extracurriculars and a locker. I like lockers. Sometimes, they're shiny.  Sometimes, they make cool noises when you open them. Heck, I even want the anxiety of trying to figure out what to pack for lunch. And let me tell you, veganism and public school do NOT mix. It doesn't help that I've sworn off sugar and yeast indefinitely.

The school is amazing and I'm happy with my decision. Although I'm going to miss all my friends from online school, instructors with PhDs and all the crazy study sessions that last until 2 am in the morning, I know that I can't be a recluse forever. I'm not exactly long-term recluse material.

So in that vein, I'm changing the name of this blog. The content will pretty much remain the same. You can expect crazy stories about rabid cell phones, rules for leprechaun hunting, and of course, hobos. This blog is nothing without hobos. Say goodbye to the reclusive butterfly because she's leaving her shell behind forever.

Your Characters Should be Weak

It's been nearly two months since my last post and for that I am sorry. If you'd like to know what happened to me, ask my captors: homework and life. Also, I was attacked by giant flaming hail stones. I don't want to talk about it.

Anywho, I realized something ridiculously important yesterday as I lamented over the blandness of the main character of my novel.

Have you ever read a book about two orphan sisters? The older one sacrifices everything to make sure the younger one is provided for and lives as normal of a life as possible. As a result, the younger one has a semi-decent life with friends that love her and she doesn't realize how lucky she is to have a sister like this bla, bla, bla. Meanwhile the older sister has absolutely no life, no friends, no personality because she really never got a chance to develop as a person. Eventually, the older sister begins to resent her younger sister so much, she loses her mind and takes to dressing up in a platypus costume and murdering people with sporks.



My book is nothing like that.




However, that is a perfect metaphor for what's happening. You see, the little sister is the surrounding elements of my novel. The plot, the supporting characters, the setting etc. The older sister is my main character. My main character is the life line for the rest of the book. She pushes the plot forward and creates the situations. That's not the way to go about a novel if you want fully developed characters. My character has become a shell, bending to my will. All my other characters argue with me when I try to make them do something they wouldn't normally do, but not my main character. She does whatever I say.

 Here lies the issue. All this time I've been breaking my own rule: Authors create, not control. So, I started over with my main character. I let her react and do whatever she wanted to do without trying to keep her moving toward some goal. I put her in this really odd situation and just wrote her reactions. I found something that a million character sketches couldn't ever help me find. I found her voice.

I once said to put yourself in your character's shoes, but I retract that statement. Maybe, we should just be our character's scribes and let them do all the work.

Bloggers With Strong Pinkie Fingers: Paul Vermeesch

 It's a day late. I know, I'm horribly pathetic. You may throw things...just don't throw peanut butter. I hate peanut butter. Also, due to extreme technical difficulties the picture for this article refuses to get it's medium resolution hide into this post. I apologize for this large wall of text with no pretty pictures. Nonetheless, you will enjoy this because I barely talk at all in this post!  Instead, the quirky and completely awesome Paul Vermeesch will be doing the bulk of the talking. Paul builds Lego creations. It's rad.

Paul has been building Lego creations for a little over two years and finds his sanity depends on this fascinating hobby. He's a workaholic and has an especial knack for dissecting pre and post Colonial texts. He's an on-fire-for-God Christian (my favorite kind of Christian) and prides himself in ridiculously long words like pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis (a type of lung disease).You can check out some of his amazingsauce creations by clicking here!

Take a look at our interview:

Nicole: So, this is quite a hobby you have. How long have you been doing it?

Paul: Lego has this restriction that they plaster on their boxes "NOT FOR CHILDREN UNDER 3" So, had it been an option, I'm afraid I would have been at this hobby for maybe thirteen of my fourteen years, but alas... I was restrained from "the brick" until the age of three, when I was given my set of Duplo. Lego now runs through my veins, and I've picked it back up after a few years of dullness, as a way to stay sane... amidst homework... and school... and life.

Nicole: I've seen some of your creations and a lot of them are pretty complex. With school and life, how do you find the time and how long does it normally take you to complete a Lego creation?

Paul: Generally, I'll finish some homework, slap myself for not working harder, build for a few precious minutes, slap myself again for not working, and get back to work. Eventually, these five minute build times generate masterpieces. It depends on the complexity of the build I have in mind, but their effort is usually measured in hours. At one point in a singularly challenging build, I made the genius decision to set the work-in-progress by my alarm clock. I wake up the next morning to the sound of my alarm, and make the classic smash to the snooze button. The result was another few hours of RE-building time.


Nicole: That is incredibly frustrating. What's one of the worst building mishaps you can recall?


Paul: One word: Disorganization. It plagues me around every turn. Bricks have the tendency to look like a nuclear bomb has struck when you've been in a building groove.


Nicole: (laughter) Have you ever considered architecture as a potential career path?

Paul: With the way I like to destroy things once they are built, no. I don't think that would be a good idea. 

Nicole: (At this point, Nicole laughs like Ed the hyena from the Lion King. Nicole has issues. Do not judge her.) I could see where that could be an issue. You told me earlier that you know the molecular make up of Lego plastic. Care to share? 

Paul: Of course! Acrylonitrile butadiene styrene is a straight chain of hydrocarbons with four gas constants linked to it, and to a smaller hexagon of carbon atoms bonded and double-bonded together. The result is the familiar little piece of plastic with eight little bumps on top that has become a universal symbol of awesomeness. 

Nicole: That's great! Surprisingly, I actually understood most of that. Besides designing  (and destroying) Lego creations, what are your other hobbies? 

Paul: One of the great joys in my life is dueling, and slicing invisible opponents with anything resembling a sword. My parents eventually got worried, and signed me up for fencing, a sport which I now thoroughly enjoy. I also horseback ride and play chess against myself. Other times, I often find myself running blindly through the woods, at which point, I usually revert to Cheerio eating contests... against myself. I have no siblings, and I love it that way. 

Nicole: If you were running through the woods and found yourself face to face with a angry, yelling anteater, what would you say to it? 

Paul: Hi! You look mad.


Nicole: Oh! Before I forget, explain SNOT.

Paul: So this guy comments on one of my creations, and he's like "great SNOT work!" I reply back something like, "yeah, thanks jerk."(That did not happen by the way.) Anyhow, I did a bit of sleuthing, and eventually found this great post by some genius who figured out that a lot of the Lego terminology was too confusing and too... offensive if taken the wrong way. SNOT stands for "Studs Not On Top." If you were given a few Lego bricks to put together, you would usually just stack them. More complex building requires more complex techniques like sideways or upside-down building. (SNOT) Basically, whenever you have Legos that face sideways or down instead of up, you have used the SNOT technique. 

Nicole: What is your proudest moment as a 'legoer'? 

Paul: Photographing and perfecting models and then sharing them with the world gives me much joy. It makes me feel happy inside. Like a little cheesy smiley face giggling in my soul... I digress. It makes me happy when I get nice little comments like "awsum MOCs u rock!!!1!!1" on my creations. I don't know. The whole hobby is so fun and rewarding, each little Legoing moment is just a great part of a proud history of an art form that reaches all the way back to 1916. (MOC, by the way, stands for "My Original (or own) Creation") 

__________

So, instead of saying "there you have it, folks" after each interview, I'm just going to yell random colors. 

Razzmatazz!