Tear Factor: My Girl

So, every so often (or maybe every single sacred weekend), I have an overwhelming need to make myself cry. Especially after a long week or an especially bad Friday (probably caused by my failure to remember anything on a Latin quiz), the cathartic release of crying is the one thing I really need to feel. So, rather than suck it up and go out and get wasted enough to forget my troubles, I cozy up with my favorite blanket and a bag of Sour Patch Kids (my kryptonite!) and go in search of books, movies, and TV shows that are likely to make me feel like the sappy, hormonal woman I truly am.

So, I've decided to share with the world what tearjerkers I use. You know, just incase anyone else needs a good reason to release some built up emotion and have a good cry! (And let's face it, we all could probably use just a little bit ;P)

So this weeks pick: 
Title: My Girl (1991)
Starring: Anna Chlumsky, Macaulay Culkin, Dan Aykroyd, Jamie Lee Curtis 
Rating: PG-13 (contains mild language and intense scenes)
Synopsis: Vada Sultenfuss is obsessed with death. Her mother is dead, and her father runs a funeral parlor. She is also in love with her English teacher, and joins a poetry class over the summer just to impress him. Thomas J., her best friend, is "allergic to everything", and sticks with Vada despite her hangups. When Vada's father hires Shelly, a makeup expert, in his funeral parlor, and begins to fall in love with her, Vada is outraged and does everything in her power to split them up.

My Take: This movie, without a doubt, is in my top 5 favorite movies. Ever. Maybe it's the awesome 70s soundtrack and the more than adorable Macaulay Culkin (and trust me, this is no Kevin McAllister that we're working with this time around) , but, seriously, fantastic movie. 

I don't even know where to start with this movie without just diving into complete spoiler mode. 

First of all, Vada is a great character. She's been surrounded by death from the moment she came into being, and she is the biggest hypochondriac ever. She reads the "Cause of Death" on the death certificates of the people taken to her father's funeral home, and automatically gives herself the same diagnosis. This is just, like, the best thing. It adds a comedic element to the movie. Her naivety of disease is what makes it hilarious, in case you were wondering. At one point, she thinks she has prostate cancer, if that gives you an idea of how naive she really is. 

Then there's her best friend Thomas J. He's an easy target for the other kids in the neighborhood because he's a bit less adventurous. But Vada, despite her own crazy ideas and ambitions to learn, keeps him around and always defends him. He's also allergic to just about every damn thing, even chocolate, which is actually pretty sad when you think about it. But together, he and Vada make the best pair and show the greatness of childhood innocence. 

Now, I've got to say right now that movies about kids are probably the worst tearjerkers ever. The thing about these movies is that they get you totally hooked on the adorableness of these kids and then something terrible beyond terrible strikes and your whole understanding of happiness comes crashing down into one of those shitty pits in an Edgar Allan Poe story. This movie is definitely no exception to this assumption.  I don't want to totally turn you off by saying that happiness is not in the stars for Vada and Thomas J, but.... I mean, what are you expecting if I am writing a blog post about a sad movie... that just happens to be about kids? But it's really a pretty funny movie until the end, so, please, don't worry about instantly getting all the feelings. (Well, if you're me, then you probably will just because kid feels, but seriously... don't worry about it)

But let's get to what everyone really cares about: the on-screen romance between Jamie Lee Curtis and Dan Aykroyd. Yeah, I know, JLC was a total babe back in the day... and, well, Aykroyd... he's looking like something. Curtis plays Shelly, a make-up artist recently hired by Aykroyd's character of Harry, Vada's dad. When Harry and Shelly see sparks fly and love fills the air, hilarity ensues. Harry, who probably hasn't even touched a woman since his late wife died soon after giving birth to Vada, is the most awkward flirt and dater on the planet. Meanwhile, Shelly is constantly trying to send signals to Harry... and he is just not getting it... at all. 

So, pretty much, if you watch this movie, you'll get to see some awkward romance, cute kids, and some really sad things that I can't talk about because I don't want to spoil it and ruin your life. 

I have no criticisms for this movie. Seriously. Everything is perfect... and everything hurts. 

Just... Go watch it, dammit. 

Tear Factor Rating: 9.0

Broken Hearts for Teen Angst Me

"I hate the ending myself, but it started with an alright scene"

So, I'm not even going to lie. I'm a little whole lot heartbroken to hear of the recent split-up of one of my favorite and most dear alternative ("emo") bands, My Chemical Romance. This band was really the first "I'm-so-angry-slit-my-wrists-don't-mind-my-eyeliner" music that I ever really took refuge in as my teen angst set in during the early high school years. I first heard of them through MySpace, which really shouldn't come as a surprise. After that, I was hooked. Even after I grew out of that dark, shitty and quite downplayed part of my life, this band was still one of my favorites and has remained a source of inspiration and encouragement to express myself through the last 5 years of my life.

Honestly, I really wasn't all that big of a tortured soul as a teenager. I just hated... well, everyone. I liked sitting in my bedroom (alone, of course) with the music playing way too loud. I liked wearing black and wasting my parent's hard-earned money on band t's at HotTopic. I read shitty Twilight novels and claimed to be "not a religious person" as a really pathetic form of rebellion against my mother (which is pure irony today!). All this started happening spring semester of 9th grade. I can't say what

Whoa. Who is that hottie with the smudged eyeliner? Oh wait. 

triggered me to go to the dark side (actually, it was probably frustration with the fact that I felt so invisible that I figured no one would notice if I turned to a blur of black) after pretending to be a pacifist and "modern day hippie" for the first half of the year, but it happened, and, well, it is safe to say that it is a little too damn late to change that.

But, back to my reflection on MCR. 

You see, tragedy happens. Sometimes you can see that kind of shit coming because the headlights are just way too damn bright and the horn is blaring "You can't run! You can't hide!". Other times.... It comes at you in the blink of a beautiful eye. 2008.... was a shitty year. And, on the scale of tragedy that I had at the time, it probably ranked at a decent 8. That was the year I was constantly bullied for being me. The year my uncle lost his battle with a brain tumor. The year I got braces. The year I let a shithead sophomore boy manipulate and destroy me. And, while I don't think some of those things are quite tragedy-worthy today, these were really big deals for me as a 15 year-old. I mean, all that plus really shitty math classes and horrible acne... C'mon.

But this band was a constant companion during those times. They were there to welcome me to a new day when I woke-up and served as a lullaby when I closed my eyes at night. During a time when nothing seemed reliable or secure, they were there.

Today, I don't need bands to save my life because I have really amazing people beside me at all times, but the music will always be there to add the proper soundtrack to get me through the best and worst times.  

Right now, as I am writing this, I'm listening to one of MCR's songs "Disenchanted" from their album The Black Parade, and somehow all the words work. Fit. Speak all the things that mattered when I first picked up the album almost 5 years ago today. Being a fan of this band... No... Being a believer in this band has changed my life, and I am infinitely proud to say that I have been a member of the Black Parade and a Killjoy. These talented men influenced a generation of once hopeless people, and they will never be forgotten.

Thank you: Gerard, Mikey, Frank, and Ray.

"My Chemical Romance is done. But it can never die. It is alive in me, in the guys, and it is alive inside all of you. I always knew that, and I think you did too. Because it is not a band -  it is an idea.”- Gerard Way 

An Excuse to Write

It's said that it takes something like 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill or career. At least, that's what the guy who wrote that Outliers book said (which, btw, if you've never read that particular book, go spend your heroin money on something that won't rot your braincells). Ever since I read this little bit of information my senior year of high school, I haven't really given much thought to how much time 10,000 hours really is. That's a whole lot of time, if you hadn't figured it out yet. I mean, what else have a I spent 10,000 hours doing? Sleeping? Eating? Clicking my heels together while wishing that he'd finally man up and plant a wet one on me? I don't know. And then I think about my writing. How many hours have I spent writing shitty research papers while shamelessly citing Nick Jonas' diabetes? Writing passive aggressive poetry? Blogging about things that don't necessarily matter to anyone (even myself, sometimes)? I don't know.

Realistically, I probably am nowhere near 10,000 hours of writing, but I see this as a reason to write more and to keep writing. Maybe this whole "keep a blog for school because blogging is the next big job market and thing that will put bread on your table so you don't resort to becoming the next (who am I) 24601" that I keep hearing isn't just because, yeah, one day I might get a job with a company because they need someone with experience with blogging. Maybe it's an easy way to cumulate some hours of writing so I get the suck and lack-of-experience out of my system.

So, what do I write about? 

This is the hard part. You see, I am always listening. Always watching. Always wondering what's going to happen next. That being said, I have years of blackmail at my disposal. This, mind you, is one of the amazing perks to being A) an ignored and forgotten middle child and B) someone no one truly considers a threat. I could write about that thing that someone did or said while totally wasted. About equal rights for the left and right boob during awkwardly irresistible encounters with second base etiquette. About every inch of oppressed anger and frustration that lingers in my veins. About my failed attempt to steal the wedding band of the lead singer of Switchfoot during a gig in Oklahoma City.  About car wrecks and sprained ankles and unappealing ankle tattoos on PE teachers and casseroles that didn't give my intestines the heebie-jeebies and books that made me laugh and cry at the same time and how I got matching bruises on my shins and roadside attraction spankings on family vacations. I have a lifetime of stories to tell, but where do I dare to begin?

I need an excuse to write. I need prompts. I need inspiration. I need someone to say, "Hey, tell me about that time...." and trigger multiple heart attacks due to the stress of having to actually talk about an era of my less-than-enthusing life. I want someone to ask to be told about something. Otherwise, these stories may go completely unheard and, consequently, forgotten.

Sure, this blog post is an excuse for me to write, but I feel like that's okay. I've used this blank canvas for other things. Why not use it to increase some writing time? I see no harm in that. Actually, all blogs should be an excuse to write.

The things tales, stories I've mentioned in this entry may one day be read or heard, but, right now, I think I'll keep them to myself. Save them for a rainy day... When I need another excuse to write. 

Stranger in the Mirror

Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize the person looking back. I've grown accustomed to seeing the same pudgy, greased, insecure girl in the reflection, but, recently, that image has changed drastically. The problem with altering your physical appearance after years of being in the same state that only changes with age is that there is a point when one day it is almost like nothing has changed at all and the next, you wake up and don't recognize the person in the mirror. It's frightening. Everyone else can see the change happen, but, due to the whole "I am with myself every second of every minute of every hour of every day," it takes time for your to see major changes.

For the last couple of months, I didn't see the difference between being 165 pounds and 145 pounds. I felt like I wasn't changing despite what the devilish numbers on the scale said. That's what the mirror told me, at least. I'd touch my shoulders, my collar bones, my ribcage, my hips, and I could feel bones that I'd never really felt before. It was like I was a little kid at a new and unfamiliar playground and I just wanted to find out what there was to see that I'd not seen previously. I wanted that adrenaline of touching untouched hot metal constructions. It was new and exciting to finally feel like I could figure out what my body was made of because before it was an ugly glob of cold mush that I had to lug around everywhere I went. I didn't understand that there was more to a body than cellulite and fat cells. Because that was all I had ever known.

This morning, I was sitting in my Professional Writing class (totally half-asleep due to the freaking time change), and I was starting to nod off when I looked down at my legs. Suddenly, I realized I had really small thighs. I was struck with this "Holy shit! When did I get these?" feeling. Then, just as fast as the image came, it disappeared. If you don't understand how one moment I can see one thing and the next, see something totally different, I can't explain that to you.

Sometimes, before I get in the shower, I'll look at myself in the mirror, and I'll catch a glimpse of how I am at the present time, and it's shocking. I probably almost cry every single time. Weight loss (and weight gain, depending on your circumstances) can be such an emotional experience for many, and I totally understand why. For better or worse, seeing the old, familiar machine that is your body change is like changing costume or reading from a new script. It's different, and many don't know how to react to such a drastic thing.

I finally feel like I understand (roughly, of course) what women and men with Body dysmorphic disorders see when they look at themselves. They see one thing when everyone tells them that they look like something else. Everyone can tell me that I'm tiny or thinner or that I look amazing, but I don't always see that. Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I see the girl I was almost a year ago. I know that's not the case, but the image is so real, that I understand why so many people believe it. 

I still love myself, though. I love my body. I cherish every bit of it. I love that I have full use of it. I love every scar, every hair, every stretch mark. Sure, I may not be able to witness every single pound shed and muscle grown with my eyes right away, but I have faith that one day, I'll see with clarity.

A body can be a cage sometimes. Yeah, like that Arcade Fire song, guys. But it's your cage. Make it a home, not a prison.