Mariah's Journal

Jun 2010
7:46 PM EDT

"To go on this trip, you either need a bedroll or a passport. We'll explain in the car."

Last year my dad, my mum, and I dropped my brother off at church camp and headed north to Stratford for the Shakespeare Theater Festival. Oddly enough, Daniel prefers going to church camp, rather than joining us on the family getaway. So, this year, we decided to do it again (since we had such a wonderful time last year). Consequently, I'm now typing this from a Comfort Inn just inside the border in the city of Windsor. Hopefully, I'll have something more interesting to add later.
Before dropping Daniel and another girl from my church off at camp, we stopped to eat a Fathers' Day dinner at Johnny Carino's. The conversation bounced around endlessly from topic to topic, including those weird things people do when you try to give them a high five or a knuckle touch (turkey, snail, bull, etc.), whether or not they would bring complimentary bread (I really wanted to know!), and the abnormality of 12 Layer Lasagna (which is what Dad ordered). Surprisingly, I was the only one who brought away a box for my pizza (which I later finished in the car as a light supper).
Soon after leaving the restaurant, we had to stop at a gas station because everyone had A LOT to drink. I stopped counting my Diet Cokes after three. At the gas station, I came out with a tall can of Peace Tea and a package of Twizzlers.
On the rest of the first leg of our journey (leg one was from home to camp, leg two was from camp to Canada), we kept to the road. I got some drawing done for my 4-H project. Dad quizzed me on state and provience capitals, and we actually listened to some of my music over the car radio... and no one complained! That would be a first. (Although Daniel didn't seem to happy that it was techno.)
Once the kids bound for camp were out of the car, we continued to Canada. We went through Ohio, into Michigan where we took the bridge across the water and into Canada. We got through customs alright and I practiced using "washrooms" in place of "restrooms" or "bathrooms". All in all it was a pretty good first day. Tomorrow we start the third leg (from Windsor to Stratford).

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May 2010
9:19 AM EDT

Mmkay. So I have seriously been considering attending Olney Friends School when I'm a sophomore (that gives me a two summers and a school year). Why not? I know I wouldn't get religious persecution for my Quakerism because the school is run by Quakers... Sure, I wouldn't really have internet access for much other than school work, but I could live with contacting my parents via snail mail. From what I read on the site ( olneyfriends.org ), the attitude displayed by the students is a lot more serious than you find at most regular schools, and at mine, there is only a handful of "serious" students. Very comfortable, communal environment, AMAZING music program, some student theater, vegetarian meal options (:D), and a town that's just a bike ride away (only on weekends though...). Those were a few of the pros, here come the cons- Expensive, no internet in dorms (like I said), all students are required to do farm work (I'm used to manual labor, just not daily), and I would have to do my own laundry (:P). I'm still thinking it over. Dad says that next fall break we'll visit for a tou

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1 comment(s) - 11:29 PM - 05/29/2010

May 2010
3:11 PM EDT

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May 2010
5:47 PM EDT

It just struck me, "Why hadn't I thought of doing this before?" I used to live in a constant fear that someone would pick up my journal and start reading it when I wasn't in the room. I used to carry my notebooks into the bathroom with me for the sake of Peter! Yet there was something about it that was secretly delicious, like I was somehow sly because I had made it so far without anyone reading it... or so I thought. Until my brother decided to start scribbling little notes down in margins. That was about the time when I started guarding them with my life. I still kind of miss flipping through flimsy, ink-stained pages just to gaze upon the multitude of paragraphs I had written. I would write about every little thought that popped into my head all day- religion, politics, psychology, and yet still those little petty things that almost all twelve-year-old girls think about. Sometimes, I would think that all the things I wrote about would spill into what I talked about, making me a more socially disagreeable person, but it turns out that it was quite opposite. The less I write about these things, the more short and quick my temper has become. I find myself turning red in the face when I "discuss" these things with some of the most stubborn and unthoughtful people. Then I become unable to remind myself that arguing with these people is pointless, because they take it upon themselves to believe that they know all and will refuse to see reason. I'm becoming quite the John Adams. (But at least the people he argued with had and IQ level above that of a chimpanzee.) Then again, what can you expect from junior high students?

DISCLAIMER: Not everyone that I "discuss" with is purely infantile. There are a few whose maturity is at quite an acceptable height.

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May 2010
4:58 PM EDT

I've taken to the habit of doing something I like to call "napkin art". When I go to cafes or restaurants, I doodle on my napkin. I write little witticisms and short poems. I'll draw cartoony pictures that make little sense to the dull eye and much to the keen, and I always leave a message that says something along the lines of "I hope this napkin brightened your day! :D" Even though I know that it will probably be thrown into the rubbish bin before it's read, it's a nice feeling. I never sign them though. I can't bring myself to do it. Like when I graded myself on my group project for art, I couldn't bring myself to write 10/10, even though I knew I deserved it. The other thing I wanted to touch on is my peculiar reading habits. When I read a book, I'm a noisy reader. I laugh out loud at funny parts, sometimes I gasp, other times I make sarcastic comments about what the author wrote. I do this everywhere. In class. On trains, planes, and buses. In cafes and restaurants. I just can't seem to contain myself. Lastly, I was mulling over what it's like to be a minister's daughter earlier today. There are several rules to it- 1. Smile at everyone on Sunday morning. Even the most annoying people. 2. No swearing, no pseudo-swearing. 3. If there's food in the house, don't touch it until you've asked what it's for. (It may be for church dinners, charity auctions, out-reach- you just never know.) 4. Never bother the minister when he appears to be napping, because quite often, he's not. 5. Never tell what the minster is really like to anyone in the congregation. Ex) what he watches on TV, what he says when he gets angry, the type of crude jokes he makes. All of it is taboo. It's not quite as hard as it sounds, it's just that people like to think of preacher's kids as little all-american angels, when really, I'm just about 1/4 pure German and I wished I lived somewhere that wasn't here (Definition of "Here" in the sense of "Where I Live" in The Updated Dictionary of Mariah- (noun) an uncultured hellhole that sucks your sanity away like the vacuum of a black hole. A place in which people are easily fascinated and fill their lives with petty drama because they have nothing better to do with their lives that they themselves have made pathetic (even I have)) I know I should really try to make the best of things, but it seems quite difficult considering I've been maturing at 2x speed and my classmates have been maturing -2x speed. Honestly, I don't mind the congregation. There are plenty of nice people who try their best to make their meager lives significant and that's really what I wish I could say of the other people my age, but they seem to be so intent on keeping up the norm of teenage existence that they forget that they won't be teenagers forever. (I'm terrible at wrapping up my rants, so I'm just going to end it here. Ciao.)

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1 comment(s) - 08:17 PM - 05/13/2010

May 2010
5:42 PM EDT

My locker is the very last eighth grade locker in the entirety of the eighth grade hallway and there are four seventh graders with lockers right close to mine. Yesterday, the two next to me caught a whiff of something that they thought was unpleasant-tempera paint. I can't help the fact that I always smell horribly of paint. We rotate our extra classes and right now, I'm in the art rotation. It ties with foreign languages for the best. And since next year, I won't be taking an art class because I was accepted to the student publications class (yearbook). So I've been working my bass off on all of my art projects. Right now, we're doing group projects, and when I'm in the group, they become Mariah Projects, but the art teacher, Mrs. H, has been getting on us about not working as a group. It was a project on Jackson Pollock that I just finished *wipes sweat from forehead*. Unfortunately, because it's not hard enough, we weren't allowed to just drip paint for the entire project.So I stayed up late doing a recreation of "The Key". She had better be happy with it, because I went out and bought my own posterboard, my own paints, and my own brushes, just because the other members of my group weren't mature enough to use hers. But really, the point of this was how prissy these two seventh graders are. Apparently, I'm revolting- I don't straighten my hair (I actually let it air-dry on my way to school, so it's really frizzy), I wear no makeup, I'm not athletic (a sin in their book), and I constantly smell like paint of some type or other, or of a theater makeup room (not a very pleasant odor either). Well it's late, and I still have to print out the written portion. Ciao.

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Apr 2010
2:41 PM EDT

Amnesia

Right about now, I'm wishing that I could suffer from a severe case of amnesia, from which I would mostly recover and remember everything, with the exception of him. I'm sorry, but after you breakup with someone, it's not supposed to bring you closer together, right?

A Traumatic Case of Amnesia
(By the way, I know you can't really get amnesia this way.)
Mariah stepped out of the front doors of the tiny Middle School, which she was barred into ever day for eight hours. Suddenly, she staggered under the weight of her Dumbledore's Army shoulder bag and felt a heavy pressure on the millions of thoughts that began to buzz about in her head and then...
nothing. Where was she? Who was she? A couple of her friends ran to her aid as she whirled about in a flurry of confusion. "Who are you?" she asked. The sound of her voice tasted odd on her tongue. "Where am I?" She stared blankly
at them and then shifted her gaze to the row of buses. The school principal strode up to her and questioned,
"Which bus is yours?"
"I have a bus?"

Two weeks later...

Mariah stepped into the familiar surroundings of her school. After a two week recovery, she remembered everything almost twenty times better than she had before it happened. As she made her way through the hallways, he came up to her and exclaimed, "You're back!" Giving the unfamiliar boy a confused look she said, "Umm..right." She dodged through the crowd as he followed her, "Hey! Wait up! I thought that they said you remembered everything!"
"I don't know you stop following me!"
And that was the end of their acquaintance.

But even if I were to suddenly come down with amnesia, I doubt there would be an "end of their acquaintance". In reality, he would be persistent and reacquaint himself with me, whether I would want him to or not... I'm doomed to a life with him at my tail, boyfriend or just friend...D:

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3 comment(s) - 02:49 PM - 04/06/2010

Mar 2010
3:03 PM EDT

English Class

English Class at my school is the ecstasy of chaos, and a good majority of the time, I'm the trigger for the chaos. I admit. I'm a bit of a hypocrite. A bit of an attention-seeker, but I sometimes have relevant thoughts that I can't help but share. In other words, I criticize whoever wrote our worksheets... and the state standards... and the American School System... and on occasion, my classmates. And this is where my hypocritical attitude seems to pop out to my classmates. I point out one of their mistakes (bluntly) and then they decide that the next time that I make a mistake, it's appropriate to point it out (rudely). I get lots of groans from the other chillens, every time I open my mouth. And sometimes, it's just word vomit that I'm spewing into everyone's ears. A random thought I that is *somewhat* in relation to whatever it iswe're discussing that I just can't stop. I occasionally do wish that I knew how to just shut my big fat mouth and sit there like everyone else, but when I do, I feel a little bit like a clone... or a chess piece. Not identical, but still not much different, moving to where ever my owner moves me, even if I'm put in danger by their decisions. Still... I'm starting to think that my diarrhea of� the mouth is getting out of hand. I'm going to try... *try* to swallow some self-control supplements and keep the passageway shut until I get home and can let the word vomit happen here. On this computer. Ugh. If only it were as easy as it sounded. Here's today situation (in play form)-

�� ENGLISH CLASS- 3/30/10 (Haha: 30/3= 10)
(SCENE 1: the class is playing a board race. They are
reviewing capitalization. MARIAH scowls at the stupidity of
a teach telling them to take their time on their work and
then doing board *races* with them.)

MARIAH: He forgot a period. It shouldn't count.
AUSTIN 1: Oh my gosh, Mariah!
MARIAH: She said it had to be *correct* with *correct*
capitalization. I assume she meant punctuation.
ACCUSED (sorry, I forgot who it was): Nu-uh!
PERSON RACING AGAINST ACCUSED: Yu-hu!
(CLASS breaks out into random chatter about how idiotic
MARIAH can be)
MRS. JONES: You're right, it doesn't count.

(SCENE 2: MARIAH it is MARIAH's turn. She looks at the paper
with the sentence being copied and writes as she looks on.)
AUSTIN: (pointing out the obvious) She's writing and looking
at it at the same time!
JAMESON: Take your time, you've got time.
ALEX: I tried to do that, but I lost. (His handwriting was
illegible.)
(MRS. JONES starts talking with MRS. DANIEL quietly. MARIAH
finishes her sentence and tries to get MRS. JONES' attention
to verify her victory)
MRS. JONES: (finally looking over) You forgot the question
mark. (There had yet to have been a sentence that was a
question, and MARIAH had been caught off guard. CLASS breaks
out into chatter.)
MRS. JONES: And that was a Mariah thing! If you had been
sitting there you would have pointed it out! Taylor wins.
(CLASS agrees)
MARIAH: Yes, I'm human! I make mistakes!

NARRATOR (MARIAH in a cunning disguise): Although, MRS.
JONES always disagrees with MARIAH, the CLASS doesn't always
disagree.

(SCENE 0: [Because MARIAH was too lazy to change the order]
of the two scenes. The CLASS is grading their homework from
last night.[This too is over capitalization.] PERSON
ANSWERING THE QUESTION is listing the words in the sentence
that are supposed to be capitalized.)

PERSON ANSWERING THE QUESTION (may we remember them next
time D;): The, Henderson, High, School, Band, Patton Park.
MRS. JONES: (shaking her head) I agree with all of that
except for "band".
JAMESON: Wait, what?
MARIAH: It's being specific. It said "the *Henderson* High
School band", not "the high school band". You said that
things that were specified had to be capitalized.
(Random CLASS members break out in agreement.)
MRS. JONES:(glossing things over so that she'll look good)
No, I said that applied when talking about the school, I
never said anything about the band.
(CLASS groans because most of them got it wrong.)

NARRATOR: (MARIAH in a cunning disguise.): So there you have
it. The tale of the immature student English teacher and the
class disruption, who still gets straight A+'s in English
and writes like no other.

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Feb 2010
11:29 AM EDT

Soooo...

So I probably should have something uber cool and epic to say here, but I don't. .�

If I had a dime for every vampire obsessed, over emotional, masquerading wannabe that made me crack up or shake my head saying, "That's just sad," I would be either very very rich or very very broke from spending all my shiny dimes.

I was sort of hoping for... I don't know... a miracle when I came to this site. Actually , what I really was hoping for was a friend, which by my terms is another form of a miracle. �Now by friend, I don't mean a forty year old man pretending to be an extremely "hot" fourteen year old boy. I also don't like totally like mean someone who like talks like this... or someone who's life is a morbid pit of pain. Who always talks in monotone and can't stand life. I'm also not looking for someone who talks about how there best friend just fucked their boyfriend and how they're so goddamn mad that they're gonna go kill the little bitch. As you can see...I'm picky.

Its not just friends I'm picky about either. I don't plan on dating anyone...ever, because I'm so picky. Sure, there have been guys that I liked, but looking on the real side of life, if all of my fantasies I've spent hours dreaming up come true, I'll probably find myself blinded by the dark side of them. Like they're addicted to drugs and porn or all they think about is sex. Or maybe all of their friends live in a box called a PS3. Basically, I'm waiting until they've finally grown up and have learned that vices don't make you look like an adult.�

I'm opinionated. Once in English class, we got into groups to do an exercise to practice writing "hard" news. I spent half the class period with a red face, trying to explain to my partners that what they were writing was feature news, that we didn't have time to use extra verbs and pronouns. But nooo! It sounds better this way!�

You know what I hate? Sessions that will expire in five minutes. Cheerio.

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