I Don't Find This Entertaining

So, I was going through a list of prompts I have written for blog posts to write, and one simply states, "Nothing ignites my fight or flight reflex more than musical chairs." Nothing else. No hints to a story I wanted to tell, or some experience in which I discovered this fact, just that "nothing ignites my fight or flight reflex more than musical chairs."

But, really, does that need explaining? Do you really need an anecdote here? I'm pretty sure musical chairs ignites some sort of primal instinct in everyone. There is no way to take a game of musical chairs lightly: every game is a game to the death. Even bowing out early in the game to avoid the slaughter is like giving natural selection a helping hand.

I am a woman of the 21st century, I have the capacity for higher intelligence and live in a world full of technology and education and thought: I SHOULD NOT BE SUBJECTED TO SUCH OUTRAGEOUS, INTELLECTUALLY DEMEANING ACTIVITIES. At least not without considering the ramifications of such intense anxiety on my psyche. Or, you know, taking a Xanax. 

In Which I Realize My Art Of Professional Placement, And Am Proud

So, my cousin is getting married and my mom is happily helping along with reception decor and planning and such, which means not only is it all over the house, but Mom often pulls me in when she's making something for my opinion/help.

Just now, for example, she was decorating a "G" with shells and such (it's a beachy-themed wedding), and after coating it with a layer of tiny beige shells pieces, she asked me to come take a look. Several questions thus ensued, "should I outline it with this? Or this? Or these beads?" "Should I fill it in or sort of scatter things?" "Big shells or little?" and many more that had my imagination spinning and not grasping anything. After three minutes of complete bafflement, Mom started placing shells, and I simply began rearranging them, flicking off ones too small or two dark, picked a few small beads from her bowls and placed them just so. And, voila! Under ten minutes we'd figured it out.

And that, my friends, was the very first time I understood my own talent. Because I had started out feeling like nothing was going to make that thing pretty (not that it was ugly, I just had no optimism in the materials around), and then being able to do my thing, and see the results, I understood that there is something to this "having an eye for art, for placement." It's the first time that I saw something I had made (or, well, mostly me), and understand that it really isn't something Mom or anybody can make. Because that's what I've thought all this time-- that ANYBODY could be doing what I do, making the frames, (because, hello, it's just glueing things down on a frame) just nobody DOES because they have more important things to do in their real lives with real jobs. That if people just tried it, they'd produce the exact same things I do. 

And maybe, on some level, that's true. There are surely some people out there who are artistic and creative and could make some awesome frames. But maybe a lot of people WOULDNT. Their quality or look or whatever wouldn't be the same, because, apparently, "they don't have an eye for ________." Placement. Color. Art. 

But I do.

Huh.

The Process Of Picking A Name For My Etsy Store

So, I've recently overcome some of the defining hurdles with Etsy that have been holding me back from selling my frames and stuff, which is rad. I still have a ton of work to do, and I'm petrified of the whole process because of my perfectionism, but I'm really, really trying to get this going.

So, sweet, right?

Wrong.

My progress has screeched to a stop as I've encountered, once again, the horrid process of coming up with a name for my Etsy shop.

Dun-dun-DUNNN!!!

I've said it before, and I'll say it a million more times: I cannot title things to save my life. I'm surprised my essays for school never got docked for having such overly-pathetic titles. The documents saved on my computer are all labeled "uh" and "argh" and "jfjjdjcnfkslsjdj" because my brain literally goes blank when it comes to titles. I wrote my journal as a Word document as a teenager, and I called it "fruit loops," because that's what I happened to be eating as I wrote the first entry. (I aimed to subsequently name the next volumes of my personal journal after other cereals, like Frosted Flakes: Holly's Journal Volume II, but I have yet to continue writing a continuous journal, so there goes that idea).

So, how in the world am I supposed to name something as large and important as my Etsy shop? (Side note: will you judge me if I start referring to my website as a shoppe? Because I totally want to be   A pretentious wannabe bloke who adds extra letters to things).

I've literally lost hours of sleep over this. So many hours. You see, it can't just be any old name. It has to tell what my product is: picture frames, preferably something jewelry or seashell themed. It has to be creative, because Etsy is known to be creative. (Like, I once saw a shop-- shoppe?-- that was all hand-knit things, called "Too Legit To Knit" which I thought was BOMB... this is a reference to cult classic movie Hot Rod, if you didn't know, FYI, and it's absolutely PERFECT) And it has to be something I'm not embarrassed to say out loud. Like, I thought I had one figured out like 2 years ago, and I told my aunt and grandma, and they were both totally underwhelmed and I got totally insecure and embarrassed... Embarrassed enough to wipe whatever that name was right out of my head, like it never existed. So it has to pass the Grandma test. Not that she has to like it, but I can't feel foolish saying it to her.

So, I thought I'd share my wins and (mostly) losses in the never-ending, bane-of-my-existence, process of naming my Etsy shop.

A few months ago, as I was under the influence of antibiotics that made me drowsy, I came up with a list of names. Here are some of the winners I discovered a few days later on my phone:

Sassy Shells and Fancy Frames

Special Snowflake Products

Jazzy Junk and Stuff

... And my personal favorite: Pimpin Picture Frames

Now. Though I laughed at those, and was confused at others that I didn't bother to put on here, I knew I did have one winner-ish: Sassy Shells and Fancy Frames. Meaning: it said what my product was, it had alliteration (score!), and the true selling point, my mom liked it. So, for a few months, that's what I had unofficially officially named my shop. 

But guess what happened when I went to officially name my shop on Etsy last week? IT'S TOO LONG. I CANT USE IT. 

*mutters mild bad words under breath*

Okay. This is okay. I can work around this, right?

WRONG.

I try simply "Fancy Frames". Not all of my frames have shells anyway, so who really cares, right? Nice and simple. 

NOPE. The name "Fancy Frames" belongs to someone else.

DRAT.

Okay. Alright. Well, not ALL my products are frames. I've blinged out, like, 3 sea shells before, and they were AWESOME. And, really, I do use a lot of shells in my frames. So I try. "Sassy Shells".

NOPE. Someone else has claims to Sassy Shells. (Really? I'd like to see your sassy shells. I doubt the amount of sass they possess has nothing on my evacuated sea-created husks. Mmmm-hmm, grrrrrrl.)

What the Fletcher Jones am I supposed to do now?

Technically, I've been rooting for "Jazzy Junk and Stuff" since the beginning. However, I don't think it'll do good for company or customer morale to refer to expensive, hand-crafted products as "junk." 

"Pimpin' Picture Frames" comes in a real close second in my book as well, but it doesn't pass the grandma test. Well, actually. That's up in air. It's about 50-50 that she'd either think it was funny or not get it. But my Aunt probably wouldn't. I'm most concerned about the Ellie test, however. I can't have her going around telling her primary teachers about her favorite aunt's rad website if the word "pimpin'"s in it. I think it'd be adorable, but Steph probably would object.

So. Once again I am nameless. So, dear friends, family, readers, I'm out of ideas, and I'm totally turning it over to you. I beg, I plead, I implore, please come up with an excellent name for my Etsy shop. I'm so totally over this process.

Please, help a girl out. If I have to go something utterly lame and generic like "Holly's frames," I think all my creative juices will evaporate and die and my hopes and dreams shall be no more. Please, y'all, do it.

Things I Love

My family.
Ellie and Cameron, my niece and nephew.
Also: Peterson baby #3, who is still a bun in the oven, sex currently unknown.
Books. Or: really well told stories.
Donuts.
Makeup. Which I wear for no one but myself, simply because I like it.
My cat. All cats.
Cat videos on the internet. The adorableness is neverending.
Anything and everything by my favorite author, Maggie Stiefvater.
Dr. Who! I'm only a million years late to get on the bandwagon...
Girl Scout Cookies.        
The Google Chrome swear filter I found last night. Tumblr is much safer now.
Making other people happy.
The Avengers! Loki and Thor and Captain America and Tony Stark.
Pretty shoes you can actually walk in.
Target.
Daisies.
Wedding planning on Pinterest.
The sound of rain.
Bursting bookshelves.
The journal I keep of random thoughts I have. And I mean random. I mean, with the strange things I talk about here, think of the random stuff that's in there... It's awesome.

In Which I Suffer Injections and the Humiliation of Being Rejected by a Homeless Man

This week has been pretty full of shots and needles, and I'm pretty done. 29 shots of Botox into my head and shoulders on Monday, then 8 steroid shots in my back and a blood draw today. Not that I'm complaining, I'm so glad that I have these medicines and therapies availble to me--they really do help me feel better!!

But, you know? Ouch. That was all quite painful. 

Also, I tried to give a pan-handling homeless man my Happy Meal today, but he didn't want it. That was odd, depressing, and slightly humiliating all at the same time. Like, "oh, okay. I'll just be over here, eating my white trash food. The stuff that apparently is so awful homeless people would rather starve than eat it." I mean, what the heck kind of food snob was he? It was a Happy Meal! I wasn't throwing around Quarter Pounders with cheese and other artery-cloggers on a bun. There are apple slices in there!

Anyways.

So now I'm going to jump into bed early with a box of highly caloric Girl Scout cookies and watch Dr. Who.

Yeah, that's right. I'm following up a Happy Meal with Tag-A-Longs. What now, old man? WHAT NOW?!

Birds Invading My House

So, that's twice now a bird has flown into my house and gotten itself stuck. 

So am I secretly a Disney princess? Or are there just really dumb birds occupying my neighborhood?

Thoughts on the Fictional Bipolar Character Theodore Finch and his Resulting Actions

So. I have deep thoughts to share. Because of book, which, hey, is one of the main purposes of books: to make you think and talk about the things you think about. So here I go. Saying the things I think because of this book.

This book:

All the Bright Places

by Jennifer Niven

The Publisher says:
"The Fault in Our Stars meets Eleanor and Park in this exhilarating and heart-wrenching love story about a girl who learns to live from a boy who intends to die.
Soon to be a major motion picture starring Elle Fanning!---(WHAT?! THIS WILL MAKE AN AWFUL, HORRIBLE MOVIE, THIS IS NOT A GOOD IDEA, PEOPLE, YOU SHOULD REALLY RETHINK THIS)
 
Theodore Finch is fascinated by death, and he constantly thinks of ways he might kill himself. But each time, something good, no matter how small, stops him.
 
Violet Markey lives for the future, counting the days until graduation, when she can escape her Indiana town and her aching grief in the wake of her sister’s recent death."

(Basically, Finch and Violet become friends and do a school project together where they have to explore their state and they go to all these random, awesome places in Indiana and learn how to live and are happy and fall in love and it's good.)

My Thoughts:
Well. This book. This book, this book, this book.

This one really got me. Meaning it both really shocked and upset me, and it also got the real essence of my life, my mind, my past experiences with mental health issues.

Typically, I say that those with mental health issues shouldn't read books about characters struggling with mental health issues. It just screws you up. Even if you're doing perfect in your life, the struggle of the characters really brings you back to low times and it can be really emotional and simply tough to go through. But, you know, I saw the cover, and I thought it would be more about getting over grief and learning to live and happiness and sunshine, and, well ALL THE BRIGHT PLACES in life.

But no. No, no. Finch is bipolar. He has manic depression. And I was mystified and so full of awe at how the author was able to perfectly portray the feeling of OTHERNESS and restlessness that comes with being bipolar. It was like seeing my teenage self come to life on the pages, the risk taking, and the searching for and obsessing over mysterious concepts that don't quite make sense, the feeling that there is some OTHERNESS to you. That you have to run, you have to go, you have to DO SOMETHING. Regular existence is simply not enough. You have to search for more. 

I desperately want to know if Jennifer Niven has manic depression herself, because it was so spot on. I was completely enthralled by the accuracy, and it was pretty scary. I mean, I was Finch as a teenager. Only I was Finch on the inside, and was secretive, and I hid it a lot better. But I eventually got help. And I'm NOT Finch anymore. I still have depression and anxiety and all the normal issues of life, but I don't have that crazy OTHERNESS driving me anymore. And I haven't thought in a while just how horrible it was to be ruled by it, and how grateful I am now that I'm okay, that I can go through a day and feel satisfied with my existence. That the restlessness is gone.

Sorry, I'm rambling. But I want you to know how affected I was by Finch and his character.

And then he committed suicide.

I broke.

Because that could have been me. I was Finch, and I had that choice of stick it out or end it myself, and I CHOSE TO KEEP GOING. 

But Finch didn't. And it really shocked me. I suppose I really had faith in him and thought he was going to tough it out. I thought his "attempts" were the OTHERNESS wanting to do things no one else does, be on the edge, feel the feeling of ALMOST. Because that's how the book opened-- Finch was on the bell tower, and I was convinced that he wasn't actually going to do it (he meets Violet then, and helps her through a panic attack). But then again, I guess I'm an awful judge of other's suicidal choices. I don't know, it's just a sort of emotional electrocution when a character that you've identified with, a character you've decided represents the teenage you KILLS HIMSELF.

So as I finished the book last night, I used up a box of tissues as I reflected. I guess I was so upset because I was remembering how awful it was. Because Jennifer Niven was able to describe what I felt to a T, which means that other people feel the same way-- that not only I experience this. Because nobody should have to go through this. If you can't trust your mind, the world is the loneliest place. Because this happens, in real life. Because people do feel like there is no other option but to end it all, and they do. Because people get left behind, wondering what they could have done. Because they COULD have done more. Because of the stigma mental health has. Because people don't want to be labeled. Because there ARE things and people out there that COULD help, but they aren't taken advantage of. Because we don't have ENOUGH resources to help teens and (and adults) with depression and mental health issues and people suffer because of it. Because people are killing themselves, and that's just not right.

So. The book was good. It was a good description of what it's like to be bipolar. The plot was alright. The characters were decent. The emotional level was intense. But the ending helped pull things together emotionally (so I was able to pull myself together and stop bawling into the side of my cat). But it brings up a real life question: there are kids out there who are thinking about killing themselves. Who are you to them? Are you a peer egging them on? Are you a teacher not paying any attention? Are you a family member refusing to see the signs? Or are you a friend who tries to do something? Are you someone who sees the signs? If so, don't just wait to see if it gets better. You may not have any time left to wait. Say something. Show them how much you love them. Show them how important they are to the world. Just be there for them. Ask them questions, let them talk. You just may save a life.

Now Accepting Alternate Methods of Payment

"Hi, Ma'am, would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?"

"Would I?! YES. Give me 2 Thin Mints, and a Tag-A-Longs, ooh, and a box of coconut ones. How much is that?"

"Only two years of tuition at a private out-of-state college!"

"Whoa. That sure went up."

"We're also accepting blood contracts for the eternal servitude of souls this year, too."

"Nah, I can't, I already sold my soul to Nutella. How about my firstborn? Would you take that?"

"Yeah, that should work. We'll give you 10 boxes."

"Sweet!! Best deal ever!!"

In Which I Am Frustrated Because I Can't Remember Why My Dream Was Awesome

Have you ever had a really good dream? One of those really good dreams that you realize is a really good dream while you're still dreaming? So, while half asleep, you tell yourself to go over and over the dream so you can remember it when you wake up? 

Of course, then you wake up, and you're like "... What the heck?" Because not only is it completely bizarre, but you don't remember 95% of it, despite the remembering-exercises you did in your semi-conscious state.

Yeah. Had that happen last night/this morning. It's one of those moments when you really start to question your own sanity. Because even when you DO remember, you realize just how WEIRD your dreams are, and it's slightly disturbing that you found them amazing and delightful on some unconscious level. You know? 

I don't know. Maybe if I remember more from last night I wouldn't be so cynical. But I don't remember. I remember images, and can see clips of my dream, but I have no idea what the plot was. No, that's not true. I think I remember what the plot was, I just don't remember why I was so obsessed with it. Why I wanted to remember so I could write it down when I woke up. 

Sigh.

I used to have very vivid dreams. I remember blogging about them in, like, the eighth grade. They were so random and looooong, and I'd remember a ton of it in the morning, so I'd tell my friends before school so we could all have a laugh at my crazy mind. I still remember some of them quite vividly. I remember my first nightmare vividly, too. Okay, it obviously wasn't my FIRST nightmare, but my first registered nightmare in my recollection. I remember my sister helping me go back to sleep after a nightmare when I was probably 6, when she told me that she took the scary thing in the nightmare and made it funny. Like if you have a nightmare about alligators, you change your dream until the alligator becomes your friend or is doing a funny dance. I like that memory.

New Year's Resoloutions

Nobody ever really follows through with their New Year's Resolutions. I mean, if they did, the world would become a progressively better place every year if we did. Or we'd all be skinny, at the very least.

I never really make resolutions. I think of things. Like, hey, I should totally try and do more of such and such. Or be more mindful of this and that. Never exercise. I learned that one early.

I love seeing other people's random resolutions on the internet. Like, one I've seen a TON of is "wear more black." Wow, really? You can make resolutions like that? But, seriously, why black? I guess the idea seems chic, but the implementation usually more drab and slightly goth. I mean, if anything, I'd resolve to wear more color. Then again, I'm pasty and black and I do not get along.

I also like "be nice to myself." What does that even mean? I mean, props on the super ambiguousness so at the end of the year basically anything can count, but seriously? My version of being nice to myself would be indulging in cake for every meal and letting myself not feel guilty, or perhaps splurging on a whole new wardrobe I did not need but wanted. "Hey, Holly, why did you rob that bank and spend all the money on books and chocolate milk?" Oh, you know, I was being nice to myself.

But my most favorite resolution of all is the one I've adopted for this year: drink more water. I love that this is an acceptable status. I feel like I'm getting away with something awesome! I mean, it's basicAlly saying, "Drink more of the one liquid substance on earth essential to living." It's like resolving to breathe more air. Hey, do you think I can use that for next year? 

This tops the charts though: