Posts

Dear friend,

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Dear friend, The Perks of Being a Wallflower  is everything .  I thought we'd start there. On November 17, 2017, I posted my first words on The Avocado and Me . I was barely fourteen-years-old; about six months from now, I'll be eighteen. There are some things I think you should know. First and foremost, I don't actually like avocados very much. I've had avocado toast maybe five times, and it's good, but it has never been and will never be my favorite. Semi-burnt toast with butter and blueberry jam, yes. The name just sounded nice at the time. Secondly. I am not proud of and will not reread much of what I've written here. Some of it makes me feel ashamed. This has been both a burial ground and a garden -- all of it hurts, a little. I am so grateful you are here, but know your presence is also deeply uncomfortable. I write what I feel incapable of voicing. When I write, I do not imagine you on the other end. It is strange to have people so close to the core of wh

American High School

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There is a girl from Denmark called Cornelia, and she is lovely. Cornelia has blue eyes and strawberry hair. She came to the USA last year as an exchange student. Backstage, before a theatre performance, Cornelia told me all the things most exciting and surprising about America: hot Cheetos! She shined at the mention of dating and boisterous, bubbly teenagers. Prom and milkshakes and varsity jackets; football and parties and pancakes; big tests and big mouths and big dreams. In fact, she has a whole YouTube video on her exchange student experience - you can watch it  here . I've been thinking a lot about the stereotypical high school experience, media portrayals of the same, and how they compare to my own. There are glaring stadium lights, paper airplanes. I picture Sam and Patrick and Charlie having a late-night meal at Kings, and Lady Bird, emotional, in a Sacramento car. Cassette tapes. There are Heathers (the movie) and Heather (Conan Gray). Boxed wine, cheap beer. It's all

Thank Goodness It's Over.

 That's all. Also, Amanda Gorman is amazing. Happy Inauguration Day, everybody.

Re:Good Things.

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My dad says my blog posts are morbidly depressing, so let's make this one decidedly... not. This year, I made a solid $4.21 on Redbubble. Someone bought a phone case I designed. T'was a turtle in a puddle, holding an umbrella. It definitely sang of spring-time. I definitely drew that in five minutes before dinner. But hey, someone bought it! By someone, I mean my friend, Austyn. Knee dislocation by sneezing. I did that. Twice. A genuine feat of nature. My school started to incorporate more diverse books into English curriculum - right now, we're reading Between the World and Me  by Ta-Nehisi Coates. Though I'm not impressed by the effort being put into teaching these books (see my rant from early December), I'm happy they're there. It's a start. Abby got into an amazing youth apprenticeship program; she'll probably go in for construction management, and I'm so proud of her.  Outside my window at our new house, I have my very own Snow Queen and a who

Kissed

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With the exception of Taylor Swift's (second) new album, the world doesn't feel so Christmas-y. It was cold.  I was outside in my polka dot pajama pants and Waffle-House-trucker flannel. It was nine in the morning, a little overcast, and the aspen trees were clapping their skeletal hands. I've been gracing my neighbors with haute couture for all of quarantine - at least the trees appreciate it.  The snow was floating down with all the time in the world; the pine trees, evergreen, were frosted; I was listening to a cheesy Kasie West rom-com. It was all so romantical. On that sweet, sweet note, I pulled up my pajama pants, puffed a breath of icy air, and proceeded to scrape clumps of dog shit from the gravel. Today was the second to last day I'll ever pick up dog shit here; this time next week, the house I'm writing from won't be my home anymore. It'll belong to the daughter of the family from Jordan with a pretty name across the street. I've been saying g

Twenty Questions

Hi, everyone. It's been a while.  I am angry. I am angry because my English teacher had us play twenty questions over Zoom. "Twenty questions to guess where I am!" she said. "I may or may not be in the country!" "Belize?" "Nope!" "Nicaragua? Also who's that girl in the background?" "Nope! That's Riley, she's taking pictures." "Is Riley single?" "She's hot, right? Keep guessing!" She's in Costa Rica. She showed us the palm trees, and her friends' vacation home. Her hair is frizzy with humidity. None of the friends she's staying with are wearing masks. In twenty questions, I asked in my most sickly-sweet voice, "Why did you have to travel?" because maybe something happened. Maybe she had to go. Sickly-sweet because the teacher-student power imbalance is very real.  My English teacher is in Costa Rica, not because a loved one is dying, or for a medical procedure, or e

voice memos

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I think voice memos can tell a lot about a person, maybe more so than pictures. Pictures we expect people to see, so we look pretty. We smile nice. Not voice memos. No one goes around sharing voice memos, unless 'they' is 'me' and the voice memo being shared is a Muppet rendition of We Three Kings. Really, though. I think there is a certain level of gravity here. I have an iPhone SE, and it runs out of storage every, oh, I don't know... let's say 3-4 hours. I'm always deleting things to make room for something more. Those things are sometimes voice memos. Picture the scene: I'm lying in my bed at 12:41 in the morning because I belong to the John Green school of adolescence. I'm trying to download Shantaram  by Gregory David Roberts, the audio book that made me late to choir (how does an audio book make you late to choir, you ask? When your Spanish teacher keeps you after class and sings its praises in six-part harmony). Download. My phone shakes its