be courageous

Today was a hard, hard day. On my feet. Lots of running around. Stress galore. But what I want to talk about are the good things:

a feeling of accomplishment
rittersport with strawberries and cream in the middle in honor of breast cancer awareness month
realizing the prescription I filled had a soothing pink cap
coming home to a pristine house
broken social scene on quietly
being in love
knowing I'm loved

An almost bad day turned into a really great one

between two lungs

No matter how long I live or love in Utah, Washington will forever be my home. I was looking for a bracelet with a set of lungs on it (odd I know, but it tickled my fancy to think of having a bracelet that reminds me to breathe now and again), when I stumbled upon MarKhed on Etsy. I love the lung necklace, in fact I love almost everything in her store. And I especially love that she made this:

I want one of her rings too. Oh. And her internal organ earrings (which includes a uterus! teehee!). Someone just buy me the whole store already. 

Depression and anxiety: great for losing weight. Not so great for skin and hair.

Remember these days? Yeah, me too.
Holy cats I miss my long, thick hair. And the days of makeup and flat irons and monthly brow waxing.





Months of stress and depression later, I'm 35 lbs lighter (maybe you can see it in my face, maybe you can't), but I dare you to try to get me to put on makeup or actually use a blow dryer on my hair. And the weight loss has left me with clothes that are baggy and unflattering, not to mention worn thin from the year that's passed since I last purchased anything new.

Is 23 this hard for everyone? 60 hour work weeks. No social life. Sick every other week. Tired all the time. No money for food. Does it end at some point?

Really though. I just want my hair back. That's all. I'll take the rest. Whatever. But can't I have my hair back? Please?

Media Addiction

Somehow my love of books has lately transferred to a love of magazines. Don't get me wrong, I'm still reading novels (I finished The Perks of Being a Wallflower this week), but for some reason, I find myself drawn toward magazines this week. In a matter of days I read May's Lucky, Vogue, Body + Soul, Glamour, Allure, GQ, Zink, and Elle from cover to cover. Not to mention two or three hair magazines. What's the draw? Well, firstly, fashion. The editorial spreads are the dessert after a meal of articles on summer trends, makeup and hair how-to's, health, culture and cities of choice. What have I learned? That outside of fashion ads and, yes, editorial spreads, most magazines feature normal women. Because guess what? That's who they're marketing to.

One of my favorite articles was in Vogue by Plum Sykes (author of Bergdorf Blondes) detailing the everywoman's plight against retail seasons. Namely the trouble of finding a swimsuit when its finally needed in July after all of them sold out in March. Or finding a winter coat in November when they all went out on the racks in mid June. Another favorite came from GQ on the benefits of finding a good local brew pub, rather than just picking your beer based on "whichever tap has the prettiest handle." I found Zink less satisfying than usual. I've read Zink as a makeup artist's magazine for a while, but lately, their makeup hasn't been that outstanding. And, in fact, most of their spreads have been in black and white, with either nude makeup or a simple smudgy "black" smokey eye. Boring. Allure, on the other hand, had a GREAT mini article on Belenciaga's Fall 2010 runway show, in which all the models had neon eyebrows painted on. I loved them!

Whilst flipping through the hair magazines we have on hand around the school, I discovered two things: firstly, what I want my NAHA entry to look like next year. And secondly, that I vow to someday find a way to work with Andrew O'Toole. The only photos I actually really liked in any of the hair magazines were by him. He appears to be for the AHFA's what Babak is for the NAHA's. And frankly, I'm impressed.

People can try to tell me what a poor self image magazines give young girls and women, and maybe that is true for some females. But for me, I find a lot of work inspiration in them. They get me excited to be in the industry that I am. And they provide a way for me to stay current when I don't exactly have the funds or the connections to make it to the New York, LA and Paris fashion weeks. YET.

So I'm going to keep on reading, flipping and looking. Because it's keeping me motivated. And, let's face it, at least slightly more educated.

Adam Hall

I feel like writing a sappy, gushy blog. If you're not up for that, then move along, there's nothing to see here.

I don't think I sing Adam's praises enough on here. He's one of the best people I know. He cares about people deeper than I can even fathom and he's more intelligent than just about anyone else I've met.

I love this boy's laugh, his brains, his face, his sense of humor. I love his huge vocabulary (and trust me, I don't know anyone with a larger one who uses their knowledge in every day conversation). He makes beautiful music and loves beautiful things. He's introduced me to more good movies than anyone else ever before. Sometimes I forget how impeccable his taste is.

He's sweet and gentle. Loving. So incredibly attractive from head to toe.

Basically what I'm getting at is that I love Adam Hall up, down, and all around. Inside and out.

And I think that needed to be said for all the world to hear! (or rather, read)!

Adam Hall, I love you.

Lately

So since my last post, which was what? About three weeks ago? I've maintained my voracious reading habit. It's gotten a little outrageous, but whatever. I'm enjoying my sense of escapism.

After finishing Catching Fire, I started Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, who also wrote Remains of the Day, which I'd like to read at some point I think, assuming its still being published? Amazon only has used copies. Never Let Me Go was good. Creepy. But interesting. And though I didn't feel particularly connected to any of the characters throughout the book (most of them are not very likable), the ending still managed to be heart wrenching. I was left thinking about it for days after.

Once I finished Never Let Me Go, I found my way to Barnes & Noble and discovered they have, or at least had, a sale for book clubs. You could buy two novels and receive a third one free. So I picked up The Elegance of the Hedgehog, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, and The White Tiger.

I started with the Elegance of the Hedgehog. I got about a hundred pages in, but I had a few problems. Firstly, this is probably the most French novel I have ever read. It's a translation, but many French slang terms and French pop culture references have been left in. Secondly, I found I'm not nearly well versed enough in Philosophy (particularly which philosophers said and wrote what) to catch about half of the jokes. So, I put it down and intend to go back with a pen, a pad of sticky notes, and a dictionary at some point.

I decided instead to read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. That's a mouthful. It was sweet. It's written as a series of letters in the two to three years after the end of World War II. It seems WWII books keep finding me. At least lately they've been slightly different variations on WWII views. This one was about the channel islands just off the coast of France that were occupied by the Germans. And of course it was also a love story. I gobbled it up. Not the most educational book, but also not the least.

Finally I read The White Tiger in less than a day. It was, by far, my favorite of the three. A little background as to why: in the tenth grade, I took biology. As part of our biology course, we watched a video on overpopulation. A major portion of the documentary was on India. After that, I used to daydream about being able to go to India and fix things. Mainly I wanted to set up an orphanage and school for girls in India, girls being essentially worthless there due to how the dowry exchange is set up and how hard it is for them to find work outside the home.

Since then, I've actually had a lot of problems with the way India is run. Though I find Hinduism interesting, the oppression brought on by the caste system appalls me. As does the obsession Americans have for India as an "enlightened" place, and Indians have for America as a "modern" place. India caters to the rich by putting their money into malls, hotels, and other tourist attractions. But they spend almost no money on their infrastructure. Most of India doesn't have running water or electricity, it's filled with bad roads and corruption. The poor in the big cities are forced to breath in pollution and shit outdoors, while the small percentage of rich Indians spend money on American goods and attempt to look and live like western white people. It's sickening.

In any case, The White Tiger is about one man's journey from a lower caste, through the corruption of land ownership and politics, and into the western ideal of business ownership. He changes from servant to master. But what's ultimately depressing about it, is that though he does his best to be fair and honest in the end, he has no choice but to work within the system, rather than fight it. All he can do is to hope for a better India, as distant as that may seem.

Next on my list is Life of Pi. Not sure what I'll read after that. Maybe try out some Zadie Smith. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them. I am trying to make it through the books I have on my shelf, but I'm willing to throw in a few others here and there.

This really has been fun. I'm learning a lot and remembering what I loved so much about literature classes in school.

"there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her"

I haven't really had time lately for the internet. Saturday evenings are usually my catch up moments. I was reading a friend's blog and suddenly I'm craving the smell of crayons on a coloring book.

I've been reverting to my "old" self lately. High school me. Or some variant there of. It's a person I've actually missed greatly.

When I started at BYU, I thought books were everything. Then I moved away from home and suddenly people were everything. It's taken me five years, but I'm finally balancing back out. The pendulum has peaked on both sides, and is now maintaining a steady middle. Or at least has been for the past couple of weeks.

Since the end of February I've read: The History of Love, Everything Is Illuminated, The Hunger Games, The Book Thief, and currently, Catching Fire (the sequel to The Hunger Games).

The difference this go around is that my pretense is gone. I no longer feel the need to make a statement with the books I'm reading, something I felt necessary during my insecure teenage years, when I thought a strong understanding of the classics should far outweigh any gravitation toward modern authors. I'm reading what interests me.

Someone echoed a statement I haven't heard directed at me in years: "Wait, are you starting ANOTHER book? Didn't you just start that other one yesterday?" In my defense, the last two and the one I'm currently reading are all young adult novels. Not exactly the hardest thing to read, but one of my favorite genres by far. When I thought I wanted to be an editor, young adult novels were my career goal. They're just so adventurous. And these days, adventures outside my own routine life are exactly what I'm in need of most.

(p.s. the title of this post is a quote from The Book Thief.)

Sometimes the universe decides to stop being so mean to you.

Finally. A break, a cresting, if you will, and a pause between waves. Which means Finally (for you), a not so negative blog post.

We filled both the basement and the vacant room, and just in the nick of time. HALLELUJAH! I'm actually really excited about our new roommate. She seems super sweet. Appears she's been through a lot (like the rest of us), and is coming out the other side. She and Adam get along great, which is really nice since I'm so rarely home. She's a little older so she's responsible and clean and all the other things I'm striving to be.

Anyway, really this is just conjecture since she's lived here all of three hours. But overall I'm really pleased with the way this all turned out. It's been insanely stressful. I feel like I haven't slept in weeks, and I've got stress knots in my shoulders, but I'm finally coming out of it, and just in time for my birthday. I'm so glad the universe saw fit to provide me with a little reprieve to start my 23rd year on better terms.

Things I'm looking forward to: Nicholas French and Phillip Wilson. Thanks to my tax refund (of which I got all of my monies back), I'll be able to afford to take both classes. Now that I've put together my resume, I realize just how important it is to have advanced education. I've been dying to take both of these classes since I started school, and now I finally get to. Nicholas is in just a few weeks, and Philip is in June. Both wonderful things to look forward to.

Life is on the up and up. What a relief!

"When you are young, you think it will be solved by love. But it never is."

"Everything snapped into focus. It's one of those unforgettable moments that happen as a child, when you discover that all along the world has been betraying you."
-Nicole Krauss, The History of Love


This isn't the best or even my favorite quote from that book, which I reread this week and which is one of my favorites, but it's how I feel these days. As if the world has betrayed me. "Be kind to people" it said. So I was kind. "Give" it said. So I gave. "Trust" it said. So I trusted. And now, "We've so easily fooled you. How could you have listened to us?" And with a broken heart, I'm forced to see the error of my ways. To wonder, also, how I ever could have listened to such an unreliable source.

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I want or need. And that's scary. I don't know how to recover from the blows I've received. I don't know how to deal the blows that are necessary to fight back. As always, I want to run away, but that has never worked, why should I think it would work now? So what is my solution? I don't know. Or maybe I don't want to know. Probably the latter.

I'm balancing too many stones. Half have fallen already. I suspect the rest are whispering conspiratorially, waiting for the moment when I least expect them to bolt. But deep down I also suspect it's my hands that will revolt in the end.

When Music Happened to Me

I didn't exactly grow up on "good" music. More like top 40 and disco. Coming into my own - musically - wasn't easy. I had nothing to go off of. No wiser older siblings or free spirited parents to guide me. At 3 my favorite artist was MJ. The Way You Make Me Feel was my first favorite song; the first video I recorded and watched over and over and over. So what happened? How did I veer so far left? How did I swim up river and escape into increasingly distant tributaries?

Before I begin, it's important to point out that from 3 years old on up, I FELT music. It was a physical experience. When a song connected, it was akin to a full body high. I don't know how else to explain it. From my earliest memories, it's been an obsession. When all I had at my disposal was the radio, I'd wait on pins and needles for that one song to play that made everything else disappear for 3 minutes and 30 seconds. That one melody that made each day worth living just to experience one more time. I'd become euphoric. I needed everything and everyone to stop so I could enjoy those few moments of pure elation. It was physical, spiritual, emotional. Anything but rational.

Now, the album I see as being the keystone in my revelation and movement from popular to anything-but is Bringing Down the Horse. It's the first CD I remember buying on my own with whatever birthday or Christmas money I had. I was only 10 or 11 at the time, and no one else I knew liked them. I know for certain no one convinced me to do it. It had nothing to do with needing acceptance from other people. It was one of the first purely independent choices I remember making. I mean, they were on the radio, but everyone else I knew was more interested in whatever Kube 93 (Seattle's token rap/hip hop station) was playing.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I was deeply intrigued by rap and hip hop both, but having parents who were religiously conservative, I wasn't exactly allowed to listen to any of it, let alone buy it, thus limiting any possible venturings into the genre. So the Wallflowers were my first dip into untested waters. And I must say, it went quite well.

From there I moved on to The Goo Goo Dolls, then Cake. Cake was my first concert. Well, the first one I count anyway. The first one I had tickets to. I was 14. Awkward. Unsure about life. And not really finding any satisfaction in the top 40. I still spent a lot of time listening to the radio. Every evening from 3:45 to 10:30 was spent in my room with the radio blaring. But it just became less and less "spiritual," if you will. Few things on the radio felt like what I was finding elsewhere.

So with my musical passion craving new avenues, at 15 I found myself trying out "fringe" musicians sneakily (alt rock mostly). I had no idea at the time what Napster was, but an uncle of mine did. So I'd put together a list of songs I wanted to try out, (think Foo Fighters and Ash) and he'd burn a CD for me. None of my friends knew. I was too unsure of myself to risk being labeled "uncool." And in my school, the only people who were "cool" were people who had all the words to the latest single memorized.

From a secret love of alt rock, I eventually moved into what I discovered was labeled "Indie Music." It took me a long time to find a term that fit my evolving tastes. The enlightenment fell into my lap unexpectedly. I'd turned the TV on to some shitty version of MTV called FUSE. They were playing music videos (something the real MTV stopped doing somewhere in the late 90's when it discovered reality TV), and without meaning to, I'd somehow stumbled upon a collection of videos that magically all fit my taste perfectly. I sat, enthralled, memorizing each band name as it came up in the bottom corner. The Strokes, Campfire Girls, Queens of the Stone Age, The White Stripes, etc., etc.

To my consternation, the collection suddenly ended. But thankfully, there, on the screen, was the title for the group of videos they'd been showing. "INDIE." I stared. I connected. And without knowing the implications, right then and there, I labeled myself an Indie Girl. From that moment on, a voracious search for more of what I liked ensued.

The next year a good friend burned a copy of The Photo Album by Death Cab for Cutie for me.

My life as it is now, unbeknownst to me, took it's first huge shift onto it's current path one year later when a good friend burned a copy of Death Cab for Cutie's The Photo Album for me. I took that album to England and listened to it one night in a hotel room in Leeds. After that first listen, I listened to it every morning and every night I was in England. And then every day thereafter. It changed how I felt about the world. Later that year Transatlanticism came out. The same friend played it in my car. I rather rudely asked if I could borrow his brand new CD to burn a copy (because I didn't know at the time where to buy it. Tt wasn't at the corporate music stores yet). He reluctantly agreed, and I had one of the most beautiful afternoons and evenings of my life.

Somehow finding Death Cab is what finally convinced me to let go of the radio. I stopped caring about anything mainstream. I immersed myself in an entirely new culture. Indie became my religion. Death Cab, my bible. The fans were my people. I joined the message boards and found a group of outsiders just like myself. People who got it. Who understood the music. Who felt a physical connection to it. I hadn't known anyone else like that before. And I hadn't listened to anything that described my life so fully before. It fit like a soundtrack.

As each of the bands I loved became mainstream, I moved on to more and more obscure artists. And these days, the music I love most is weird and unlike anything that can be heard on a radio station. I'm an "Indie Elite." A snob. I despise hipsters and the vapidity that has taken over my generation. I grope for music that still tries for meaning both in melody and lyric.

And yet, I find that euphoric connection to albums, artists and songs less and less as time goes by. The things I feel love for are few and far between. I don't get excited like I used to. And it's made me feel a little empty. I don't spend hours lying in bed or on the floor or between headphones listening to the one or two bands of the moment that make me feel alive and so excited I can barely breathe. I haven't decided if this is due to a lack of time, a lack of depression or a lack of being alone. But whatever it is, I miss those full body highs. I miss music happening to me the way it used to. Who am I if I'm not obsessing over the new and the next meaningful musical experience of my life? I sure as hell don't know. Because from 3 to 20, it's all I had.

Things that make me sad

Well, sad/frustrated.

The scratches in my new wood floors that took Adam 4 days to install.

The ink splotches, scratches and stains on my darling dining room table and chairs that took me forever to pick out and that I lovingly put together. They were probably my favorite pieces of furniture and now they're all scuffed and damaged and covered in food particles to boot because let's face it: people don't take care of things that aren't theirs.

Not actually having any time to be home and enjoy the house I've put so much work and love into.

Not having enough money to eat healthily. I've been living off of whatever Adam has around and Cup Noodles.

Not having time to watch much by way of movies. I've been in the mood for either Miyazaki or Fellini. Rather peculiar cravings, admittedly, but it is what it is.

So that's my little whine fest for the moment. Sorry. Annoying, I'm sure. Just having a bit of a hard time lately.

On the bright side, I'm really enjoying work. I've put a lot into getting dispense organized and recognizing and pointing out some of the places we're leaking money, so to speak. I really care about this school and I want it to succeed because I want to succeed.

I'm also doing well in school. I'm on my April grid despite it being only February. And I'm learning more and more about color every day. Which I love!

I'm also going to try to start an exercise program next month with some girls from school. This technically means less sleep and less time at home, but I feel like it'll give me some much needed energy. And hopefully it'll help me stop feeling so grumpy and mad at people.

I've lost about 25 lbs since starting school and I'm hoping more exercise will help me drop some more. Goal? To need an entirely new wardrobe by the time I'm finished with school because nothing fits. I'm getting close now, really. But I'm going to have to keep wearing what I have until I have some money for things like that again.

Anyway, if you're still reading, thanks for caring. I just needed a little vent session. These are definitely (annoyingly I'm sure) getting more frequent as I get more overwhelmed. But with a little exercise and some more time settling into my crazy schedule, I'm hoping my mood will improve.

Los Angeles

ISSE. Great fun! I learned a lot. Best lessons: how to cut long layers dry, and how to make color look good without taking 2 hours for foil placements and processing time. Both from Karg and Blackwell's class.

I did my makeup every day this weekend, including at 4 this morning before catching the bus to the airport at 5. I haven't worn makeup in almost a month. I'd forgotten how much I love it.

Disneyland is great, but never go on Splash Mountain after the sun goes down. It's really uncomfortable to walk around with soaking wet pants for three hours.

I've been thinking about what I want to do after school. I have some options. And I hope to have them figured out by the time I graduate. I'd love to take some Vidal Sassoon finishing classes to help me with cutting and foil placement. But I'm sure I won't have the money for those right away. In the meantime I'm going to have to stick to videos I think. Anyway, I really want to work at a high end salon. Maybe that's snobby of me, but I just agree with the way they run things.

For instance: I want a color line that has separate tones, not premixed ones. I'm excellent at color formulation. I'd like to put that to good use. I also want a salon that has a chair in the color dispensary, because I don't want my clients to see how they look in a cape with foils all over the place. No one looks good like that! I want them to see the finished product, not the in between.

I want to sell high end, organic and probably vegan lines. I thoroughly believe that what you put on your skin is nearly equivalent to what you put in your body. I don't want harsh chemicals in my body, and I certainly don't want my skin soaking those chemicals in through cosmetics.

I want to be a dry cutting stylist. I think it's soooo much better if you can learn how to do it well. Buuut, I also want to do free form. So I'm going to have to learn how to combine the two.

Anyway, just a few of the things on my mind lately. My goal for the next few months: to bring in some new clients at school and work on my retail and client retention skills. Those are the most important if I want to land a job at a good salon when I'm done with school. I also really really really want to take Nicholas French's class in March. I've been waiting for this class to come so I hope I can save up the money to go. I think it would help me infinitely in photoshoots.

I'm back to cold Utah weather now, but LA and ISSE will not be forgotten! And I'm excited to get back into the swing of things.

Sidenotes

I still get peevish when I want to wear something of mine a past roommate has taken. Mostly hats, shoes, and a smattering of American Apparel goods.

If you're a declared "film major," you should probably know something about film. And not just the billion dollar movies that top the box office every weekend.

When a haircolor doesn't turn out the way you expected, the first rule, according to Milady's Cosmetology text book, is "Stay calm. Do not panic." I find this is also true when life situations don't turn out the way you expected. Sometimes I forget the first rule.

I find I'm a "quiet music listener." Something my parents probably would have disputed in my teenage years. But many car rides with various "loud music listeners" later, I am led to believe I really do prefer music to be played quieter than most.

I'm worried about my grandma.

Although I don't play video games all that often (Farmville excluded), I tend to become obsessive about ones I do play. I cannot stop playing or thinking about playing until I've beaten the game. It's a compulsion.

I'm starting to really like Anime (though I've only seen a little). Please don't judge me. (Or do, I guess. It doesn't really matter, does it?)

Being a girl is wonderful and terrible.

Wonderful: having maternal instincts that make one more likely to care for and about people.
Terrible: having maternal instincts that make one more likely to feel obsessively protective of people one cares for and about.

Wonderful: the opportunity to create, bear and mother children.
Terrible: including but not limited to pissy, crying, blubbering, bloating mood swings; blood oozing out one's vagina; the tearing of one's genitals in order to produce the above mentioned children, making it not impossible to pee but impossible to clean oneself without the use of a spray bottle because toilet paper is not an option; uncontrollable vomiting from gestating said children; drooping, dripping boobs; and of course, menopause.

Wonderful: the innate love of things that are perfectly miniature, soft, smooth, delicate, and all around adorable.
Terrible: the not so innate, paralyzing necessity to be perfectly miniature, soft, smooth, delicate and all around adorable so other people will love us.

Wonderful: having boobs and hips and all around curves.
Terrible: the ease with which weight is gained and, post-childbearing, is practically inevitable.

These are just a few things.

Now to you boys who want to say "being male is just as hard!" I say:
Yeah, yeah, wet dreams. Spurting semen once every few weeks during your adolescence seems a lot less inconvenient than gushing blood for an entire week once a month from ages 10 to 60.
And unexpected boners? Annoying and embarrassing yes, but more embarrassing than standing up and walking around only to have a complete stranger point out you've got a telltale red stain on your bottom? I think not.
Bringing home the bacon? With the number of stay-at-home moms that are being replaced by stay-at-home dads, I'd say that's bunk.

During my non-crazy-emotional-pms moments, I do actually really enjoy being feminine. But sometimes I wish I was a boy. Sometimes I wish I could have played in the mud and climbed trees without fear, that I could walk around without a tampon shoved inside my purse for emergency moments, that I didn't have to worry about getting my clothes dirty or stained, that a skinned knee was a battle wound to be proud of, not something that made me tear up. It's not easy being a girl. All I can really say, I suppose, is that I'll take what I can get and try to be thankful for the rays of light that seep through the sometimes misery that is being a woman. There are things that make femininity livable, even if they don't exactly ever even out.

I really should be sleeping

I have work early in the morning. But upon my last email check of the day, I discovered a comment on a rather... well... infamous blog post of mine... that my "articles" are getting much better than they used to be. I'm not sure that's true, but I went back to check anyway. And I realized I've had this little blog for two years now. That's much longer than I'd expected. It's been a great little place to air my feelings and share the things I like or love.

I'm still not sure that my posts are getting better, but I'll tell you the main difference I see: I'm actually a real person these days. I'm not trying to be anyone, I'm just me and I'm happy with that. For once. I've come to terms with many of my imperfections, and this past year especially has forced me to face a lot of my own insecurities and weaknesses. I've grown very much since Snappy Little Alligator started.

I had a thought while falling asleep last night. It was this: there aren't very many grown ups in the world, are there? There are a lot of adults who pretend their age matters and that gives them certain rights, but really, those adults are probably more childish* than most. And some think they're so grown up because they've got degrees or some kind of high paying job. But what a grown up really is... well... what I think a grown up really is... is a humble, kind, forgiving person, who has experienced the world in all of its glory and darkness, and can not only face their own follies, but tries with all their might to correct whatever foibles they may have. These grown ups do not make excuses, they do not expect others to do for them what they can do for themselves, they do not waste what precious time they have on things that simply do not matter.

More than anything, I'd like to become one of these people. Not necessarily because it's better, in fact it seems more wearying really. But because now that I've seen the difference between the grown ups and the children, I don't see how I could ever again be ok with acting like a child. The times when I slip back into child mode, I come out of it realizing what a mistake I've made. It's too glaring now for me to go back to the way it used to be.

* I want to note that when I say childish, I do not mean childlike, which in general is a positive term. In this case, child and childish are rather pejorative terms, sadly. I mean that those who are most childish act like spoiled brats who should get everything their way. Few are that bad, but from what I've noticed, most humans are on a sliding scale of childishness, with very very few achieving adulthood. The problem is mostly that no one is aware nor willing to consider their own childishness; they only want to point out some one else's imperfection.