I saw Les Misérables performed live today at the Utah Shakespeare Festival in Cedar City. You don’t know how I felt. You can’t know. I haven’t talked about Les Miz as much as Wicked, but I love it. I adore it. That music makes me want to run around and jump off a cliff because it’s so good. And I finally saw it performed.
It was fantastic.
Right before it started I had a moment of fear that it was going to suck. I was so afraid.
It was fantastic.
I cried. I never cry at performances. I cried. I cried when Gavroche died and then when they showed him on the barricade, and then during “Bring Him Home.” I knew the story, but I was not emotionally prepared.
Jean Valjean was definitely good, but better in the second act.
I LOVED Javert. LOVED. LOVED. LOVED. He was so utterly and completely wonderful. I liked whenever he took off his hat, though he should not wear red bandanas. I loved how physically he always seemed to command the stage. And of course his voice….ah! I just wish I could tell him that and then follow him around for the rest of my life. Is that so much to ask? “Stars.” And every other line he sang.
Marius was good, I just hate his character and that’s not his fault.
Same goes for Cosette, although her hair looked ridiculously fake.
Eponine was great, and I am her. Her death started off the first of the tears, I should note.
Fantine was good. I liked her. I’ve never really thought her character was that memorable, though that’s not a popular opinion.
The little kid who played Gavroche was absolutely adorable, although his accent (Cockney, for some odd reason) was so thick I didn’t know what he was saying most of the time. As I said, his death killed me with him, and then when he was dead on the barricade I just lost it.
The student leader, Enjolras, was totally hot, in case you were wondering, and that guy can sing. He got shot waving the red flag of freedom, and then he was draped down the front of the barricade horribly.
I thought the Bishop and the Foreman were both great, although obviously in very different ways, because they’re very different characters, haha. I just don’t have much to say about either.
There were two sign language interpreters and they were fun to watch. They were definitely performing with their faces as they signed.
The ensemble was really talented, and I loved how they danced and sang and whatnot and they rocked it.
Okay, Javert is obviously the best. I adore him. But I saved these two for last, because I didn’t expect to love them. And did. The Thenardiers. Especially Mssr. Thenardier. I. Adored. Him. He was so despicable, and I loved him for it. I can’t explain it, he was HILARIOUS. So funny. SO FUNNY. And once Amber pointed it out to me I realized that she is totally right: he did look/move/act like Timothy Spall (aka Peter Pettigrew and that sidekick guy in Enchanted). Very ratlike. His wife was hilarious as well. When they exited for the last time in their crazy rich people makeup he bowed and we were all screaming and clapping because we love them, and he was like, "Stop," with his hands, and then, "Oh, go on," and bowed, and I love him.
Basically I want to stalk this show after Wicked. I LOVE IT. I’m seriously considering going down in a month or so to see it again. And I vowed to Amber that I will always make the Utah Shakespeare Festival a part of my summer.
It was fantastic.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Wicked, Theatre, Magic
[ Written July 21 after seeing Wicked for the first time in two years ]
Wicked last night was amazing. Wicked, even. I love the show. But I realize that I expected it to be exactly as overwhelming and intoxicating as the first time I saw it. I wanted to be a Wicked virgin again. Before the show I literally shook with excitement. That feeling was replicated at the end of "Defying Gravity." But I have changed since the summer after my senior year.
The sheer pageantry of Wicked is unbelievable. I had the incredible opportunity to go backstage after the show. I *touched* Galinda's bed, Elphaba's broomstick, and the Wizard's machine. I saw, sitting on a green mannequin head, the black witch's hat that Nicole Parker wears every night. And what I wanted, most of all, was to be a part of it. I wanted to stand backstage and take in the chaos-- the quick changes, the scenery drops, the life pulse and heartbeat of the show. As a seventeen-year-old girl, I was thrilled just to sit in the audience and lose myself. I am still thrilled to be near this production, but now I analyze every member of the ensemble and want to learn and apply and do. I want to actually appreciate the complexity of the dance numbers the way only a member of the company can.
I watched Nicole Parker running through a scene with Nessarose before the show started and realized that she has done it thousands of times. But she will run it again and again and again if need be. Julie Andrews had a teacher that taught her, "The amateur practices until he can get it right. The professional practices until it can't go wrong."
Theatrical training, the small amount that I've had, hasn't killed the magic of theatre for me. It has changed in a difficult to explain kind of way. I may not have many moments where I am completely convinced that a show is real anymore, but I constantly marvel at the skill of the performers and the strength of the script and the beauty of the songs. I watch the conductor and applaud the stage crew and wonder at the choreographer. I stand in awe of the story that Wicked tells, and that is brought to life in front of me in a performance never to be duplicated. I notice how the actors adjust to laughter and change their vowel sounds and have bonds with each other rivaling those of a family.
I disagree passionately with the usher who asserted that no stage show is as good as a movie. What is wrong with this woman? What fails to entrance her? To memorize an entire show and perform night after night after night is a talent found in only a certain kind of person. You have to be dedicated. The show must go on. You must know the technical aspects of the show so well that the magic snaps back into it. Pick it into tiny, separate, working gears and analyze it until you have learned all you can. Reassemble and oil it until it flows smoothly. Play it a hundred times. You will learn more. The actor who worries about lines is an actor who hasn't yet found his character. Both the magic of imagination and the hardness of reality are essential. The actor who skips practice will not be the performer the character deserves.
It's a peculiar paradox-- a character is nothing but ink on a page until a flesh and blood person takes up the script and speaks their words aloud, and yet they are something more. I can feel a kinship with a character without saying anything, without seeing the play, without knowing how someone else has represented them. I can't make them me, I have to find the part of myself that is already them. Johnny Depp nailed it when he said, "With any part you play there is a certain amount of yourself in it. There has to be, otherwise it's not acting. It's lying."
There is a marvelous physicality to the theatre-- being able to reach out and touch a real, live person, and yet tehre is that unbreakable fourth wall. Many different people can play a part, and they all capture a different aspect of the character. Perhaps only in putting them together can the true person shine through. Perhaps not even then.
Why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves onstage and tell someone else's story? It's not only the lure of the spotlight and the audience. A singer with a self-titled album is more like that...we thespians are something else. When I put on a costume and feel it against my skin and cover my face with makeup I am putting myself away for an hour or two. Life on the stage is living out fantasies, doing things we'll never do in real life. Theatre is emotionally honest, must be emotionally honest, or it will invariably fail. No one wants to see a show about someone they cannot believe in. I can say things on a stage-- true things-- that I could never say in real life, and it is not shocking or taboo. We celebrate the secret revolutions in everyone's soul.
I honestly do not know how good a performer I am. I only know that there is something in me that clings to it as tightly as anything I've felt. One of the very, very few things I ache for as badly as mutual love is to perform. Does anyone-- *can* anyone understand what a radical statement that is? I have agonized over which I want more, because I honestly don't know. I always had an inclination towards the theatrical, looking back. It's funny, because I never thought of doing it beyond school shows. But I wrote and performed plays with my siblings, and I always loved the theatre. But even in high school I thought I would be a librarian. I guess I still could end up that way. But although I say it was my senior year and Into the Woods that made me change my major, the seed had been there for years. Something made me audition for things every year, wanting it every time.
My mother once told me that she doesn't know where I got all these dramatic tendencies. I am flattered. Not because I don't want to be like my mother, the most amazing woman I know, but because this is something I know is wholly my own. There are so many musical theatre lovers, but I don't really believe that anyone can share my adoration. (I'm sure every one of the others would say and believe the same thing.)
Musicals are more than poetry and melodies, so much more. They are alive. There is fire and passion and magic there.
"There's a broken toe for every light on Broadway." -Kristin Chenoweth
Wicked last night was amazing. Wicked, even. I love the show. But I realize that I expected it to be exactly as overwhelming and intoxicating as the first time I saw it. I wanted to be a Wicked virgin again. Before the show I literally shook with excitement. That feeling was replicated at the end of "Defying Gravity." But I have changed since the summer after my senior year.
The sheer pageantry of Wicked is unbelievable. I had the incredible opportunity to go backstage after the show. I *touched* Galinda's bed, Elphaba's broomstick, and the Wizard's machine. I saw, sitting on a green mannequin head, the black witch's hat that Nicole Parker wears every night. And what I wanted, most of all, was to be a part of it. I wanted to stand backstage and take in the chaos-- the quick changes, the scenery drops, the life pulse and heartbeat of the show. As a seventeen-year-old girl, I was thrilled just to sit in the audience and lose myself. I am still thrilled to be near this production, but now I analyze every member of the ensemble and want to learn and apply and do. I want to actually appreciate the complexity of the dance numbers the way only a member of the company can.
I watched Nicole Parker running through a scene with Nessarose before the show started and realized that she has done it thousands of times. But she will run it again and again and again if need be. Julie Andrews had a teacher that taught her, "The amateur practices until he can get it right. The professional practices until it can't go wrong."
Theatrical training, the small amount that I've had, hasn't killed the magic of theatre for me. It has changed in a difficult to explain kind of way. I may not have many moments where I am completely convinced that a show is real anymore, but I constantly marvel at the skill of the performers and the strength of the script and the beauty of the songs. I watch the conductor and applaud the stage crew and wonder at the choreographer. I stand in awe of the story that Wicked tells, and that is brought to life in front of me in a performance never to be duplicated. I notice how the actors adjust to laughter and change their vowel sounds and have bonds with each other rivaling those of a family.
I disagree passionately with the usher who asserted that no stage show is as good as a movie. What is wrong with this woman? What fails to entrance her? To memorize an entire show and perform night after night after night is a talent found in only a certain kind of person. You have to be dedicated. The show must go on. You must know the technical aspects of the show so well that the magic snaps back into it. Pick it into tiny, separate, working gears and analyze it until you have learned all you can. Reassemble and oil it until it flows smoothly. Play it a hundred times. You will learn more. The actor who worries about lines is an actor who hasn't yet found his character. Both the magic of imagination and the hardness of reality are essential. The actor who skips practice will not be the performer the character deserves.
It's a peculiar paradox-- a character is nothing but ink on a page until a flesh and blood person takes up the script and speaks their words aloud, and yet they are something more. I can feel a kinship with a character without saying anything, without seeing the play, without knowing how someone else has represented them. I can't make them me, I have to find the part of myself that is already them. Johnny Depp nailed it when he said, "With any part you play there is a certain amount of yourself in it. There has to be, otherwise it's not acting. It's lying."
There is a marvelous physicality to the theatre-- being able to reach out and touch a real, live person, and yet tehre is that unbreakable fourth wall. Many different people can play a part, and they all capture a different aspect of the character. Perhaps only in putting them together can the true person shine through. Perhaps not even then.
Why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves onstage and tell someone else's story? It's not only the lure of the spotlight and the audience. A singer with a self-titled album is more like that...we thespians are something else. When I put on a costume and feel it against my skin and cover my face with makeup I am putting myself away for an hour or two. Life on the stage is living out fantasies, doing things we'll never do in real life. Theatre is emotionally honest, must be emotionally honest, or it will invariably fail. No one wants to see a show about someone they cannot believe in. I can say things on a stage-- true things-- that I could never say in real life, and it is not shocking or taboo. We celebrate the secret revolutions in everyone's soul.
I honestly do not know how good a performer I am. I only know that there is something in me that clings to it as tightly as anything I've felt. One of the very, very few things I ache for as badly as mutual love is to perform. Does anyone-- *can* anyone understand what a radical statement that is? I have agonized over which I want more, because I honestly don't know. I always had an inclination towards the theatrical, looking back. It's funny, because I never thought of doing it beyond school shows. But I wrote and performed plays with my siblings, and I always loved the theatre. But even in high school I thought I would be a librarian. I guess I still could end up that way. But although I say it was my senior year and Into the Woods that made me change my major, the seed had been there for years. Something made me audition for things every year, wanting it every time.
My mother once told me that she doesn't know where I got all these dramatic tendencies. I am flattered. Not because I don't want to be like my mother, the most amazing woman I know, but because this is something I know is wholly my own. There are so many musical theatre lovers, but I don't really believe that anyone can share my adoration. (I'm sure every one of the others would say and believe the same thing.)
Musicals are more than poetry and melodies, so much more. They are alive. There is fire and passion and magic there.
"There's a broken toe for every light on Broadway." -Kristin Chenoweth
Monday, June 4, 2012
DISNEYLAND
My family and I just returned from an AMAZING vacation to the lovely country of California. Yes, it is a different country.
I've always loved Disneyland, but there was something even more special about it this time. Every single moment seemed to be filled with wishes and stars and magic. The spirit of Disneyland is so youthful and happy. I love the rides, and the memories, and the statues, and the cast members. I love looking around and not being able to see out into the "real world". I love being with children, and laughing, and screaming, and letting myself be emotionally honest. I love putting on my Mickey Mouse ears and feeling that I, like Peter Pan, will never grow up. I fell more deeply in love with Disneyland than I thought was possible even for me.
I came away feeling that working for Disney would be a dream come true. I'm not sure how to get there (and I've always said that I wouldn't want to live in California), but if Walt Disney has taught me anything, it's that dreams can come true.
I've always loved Disneyland, but there was something even more special about it this time. Every single moment seemed to be filled with wishes and stars and magic. The spirit of Disneyland is so youthful and happy. I love the rides, and the memories, and the statues, and the cast members. I love looking around and not being able to see out into the "real world". I love being with children, and laughing, and screaming, and letting myself be emotionally honest. I love putting on my Mickey Mouse ears and feeling that I, like Peter Pan, will never grow up. I fell more deeply in love with Disneyland than I thought was possible even for me.
I came away feeling that working for Disney would be a dream come true. I'm not sure how to get there (and I've always said that I wouldn't want to live in California), but if Walt Disney has taught me anything, it's that dreams can come true.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Daisy Girls
Today I read a blog post about sandpaper.
http://www.theotherdentist.com/2008/12/song-about-sand-paper.html
This is my response.
When I was a little girl, I had a poster on my wall with a vase holding roses and a single daisy. It was captioned “Be Your Own Kind of Beautiful.” As I grew up, I developed a love/hate relationship with that poster. I knew very early that I was a daisy. There is nothing wrong with daises. Daisies are pretty good flowers. But when all the guys want roses, it kind of (okay, more than kind of) makes you want to be a rose too.
Daisy girls are great friends. We can recite along with The Princess Bride and Disney movies. We would rather discuss Star Wars than go shoe shopping. We read, and have strong opinions about many topics. We wish on dandelions, stars, and 11:11. We love baking cookies and talking to kids. We laugh out loud and sing in the car.
But for whatever reason, we don’t get asked out, although we like to think of ourselves as not altogether repulsive. We wonder if the problem is with our looks or our personality, because we’ve berated ourselves about both. We certainly try to meet the first three requirements when it comes to being “cute, modest, intelligent, and ninety meters away.”
I was both comforted and depressed to learn about sandpaper guys. My first emotion was relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I have a chance of a good guy liking me, even if he has never tried to hold my hand.” It’s certainly nicer to think, “He hasn’t called me because he is scared to,” than “He hasn’t called me because he has forgotten that I exist.”
But after the second reading I had to ask, “Why? Why won’t you call her?” Gentlemen, we’re waiting. Some nights we stare at our phones mentally willing them to ring. And frankly, we’re not likely to turn up our nose at an invitation that comes via facebook message or a text.
Let me tell you something. When a girl is consistently the only one initiating contact, it does nothing for her self-esteem (which is already not the greatest). She gets to thinking very quickly that if you wanted to talk to her, you would talk to her, and she is making an annoyance of herself. Daisy girls are not exactly glamorous, you know. Awkward was probably the word you were looking for. We have strange quirks that make our roommates laugh and say, “Oh, that is so you.”
We are the girls without boyfriends. Most of our experience in the dating world has been facebook stalking while being stuck solidly in the friend zone. And we are lonely, although we don’t advertise the fact. As wonderful as chocolate and Wuthering Heights are, they do leave something to be desired. We have started coming up with names for the twelve cats that our Cat Lady future holds, and use humor as a coping mechanism.
Sandpaper guys, I salute you. Heaven knows that there are not enough genuinely good guys in this world. In your own words, you are “Too good to settle for the easy ones, too stupid to go for the right ones, and too cowardly to go for our dreams.” But if you won’t go for your dreams, who will?
“One day our time will come. One day…”
Believe me when I say that I understand how this feels. But if you won’t do anything about your singleness, I guess we’ll all have to be lonely forever.
You admit that girls probably like you, but that you are “too nice to try.” Try! You are over intimidating yourselves! Daisy girls don’t want to end up with the “smooth” guys, anyway. We don’t need the most creative date in the universe, but we do need you to set up that date. As much as I’d like to break the touch barrier by jumping into your arms and exclaiming, “I’m already in love with you, just don’t screw it up!,” that’s not how it works.
Look, guys, I know I'm not the most gorgeous girl you will ever meet, or the smartest, or the most talented. But you can rest assured that I will see you in a way that rose girls won’t. A rose girl may take your efforts for granted, but I promise I never will.
I am a daisy girl. And when you love a daisy girl, she gives you her whole heart.
http://www.theotherdentist.com/2008/12/song-about-sand-paper.html
This is my response.
When I was a little girl, I had a poster on my wall with a vase holding roses and a single daisy. It was captioned “Be Your Own Kind of Beautiful.” As I grew up, I developed a love/hate relationship with that poster. I knew very early that I was a daisy. There is nothing wrong with daises. Daisies are pretty good flowers. But when all the guys want roses, it kind of (okay, more than kind of) makes you want to be a rose too.
Daisy girls are great friends. We can recite along with The Princess Bride and Disney movies. We would rather discuss Star Wars than go shoe shopping. We read, and have strong opinions about many topics. We wish on dandelions, stars, and 11:11. We love baking cookies and talking to kids. We laugh out loud and sing in the car.
But for whatever reason, we don’t get asked out, although we like to think of ourselves as not altogether repulsive. We wonder if the problem is with our looks or our personality, because we’ve berated ourselves about both. We certainly try to meet the first three requirements when it comes to being “cute, modest, intelligent, and ninety meters away.”
I was both comforted and depressed to learn about sandpaper guys. My first emotion was relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I have a chance of a good guy liking me, even if he has never tried to hold my hand.” It’s certainly nicer to think, “He hasn’t called me because he is scared to,” than “He hasn’t called me because he has forgotten that I exist.”
But after the second reading I had to ask, “Why? Why won’t you call her?” Gentlemen, we’re waiting. Some nights we stare at our phones mentally willing them to ring. And frankly, we’re not likely to turn up our nose at an invitation that comes via facebook message or a text.
Let me tell you something. When a girl is consistently the only one initiating contact, it does nothing for her self-esteem (which is already not the greatest). She gets to thinking very quickly that if you wanted to talk to her, you would talk to her, and she is making an annoyance of herself. Daisy girls are not exactly glamorous, you know. Awkward was probably the word you were looking for. We have strange quirks that make our roommates laugh and say, “Oh, that is so you.”
We are the girls without boyfriends. Most of our experience in the dating world has been facebook stalking while being stuck solidly in the friend zone. And we are lonely, although we don’t advertise the fact. As wonderful as chocolate and Wuthering Heights are, they do leave something to be desired. We have started coming up with names for the twelve cats that our Cat Lady future holds, and use humor as a coping mechanism.
Sandpaper guys, I salute you. Heaven knows that there are not enough genuinely good guys in this world. In your own words, you are “Too good to settle for the easy ones, too stupid to go for the right ones, and too cowardly to go for our dreams.” But if you won’t go for your dreams, who will?
“One day our time will come. One day…”
Believe me when I say that I understand how this feels. But if you won’t do anything about your singleness, I guess we’ll all have to be lonely forever.
You admit that girls probably like you, but that you are “too nice to try.” Try! You are over intimidating yourselves! Daisy girls don’t want to end up with the “smooth” guys, anyway. We don’t need the most creative date in the universe, but we do need you to set up that date. As much as I’d like to break the touch barrier by jumping into your arms and exclaiming, “I’m already in love with you, just don’t screw it up!,” that’s not how it works.
Look, guys, I know I'm not the most gorgeous girl you will ever meet, or the smartest, or the most talented. But you can rest assured that I will see you in a way that rose girls won’t. A rose girl may take your efforts for granted, but I promise I never will.
I am a daisy girl. And when you love a daisy girl, she gives you her whole heart.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Beauty
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJ_fkw5j-t0&list=FLRH7IFkedR3leDXMRKjH5jw&index=1&feature=plpp_video
I can't stop pushing Replay (seriously, I've probably listened to this thing fifty times in the last two days). I adore Beethoven, and I fell in love with "Secrets" almost two years ago (that can't be right. I'm not that old.) Combine the two.....perfect. Beautiful.
“Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its Secrets, for that and knowledge can raise men to the divine.” -Ludwig van Beethoven
Speaking of beautiful, I just finished a book about Hedy Lamarr, popularly known as the most beautiful woman in the world, during the forties, at least. And I must admit that I would have written her off as a gorgeous know-nothing had I not learned more. She helped develop the technology that today makes usage of your cell phone and GPS possible, as well as military grade communications (though they never publicly acknowledged or thanked her) and the scanner at the grocery store, among other things. You go, girl.
"Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid." -Hedy Lamarr
I'm sorry I judged you, Hedy.
I can't stop pushing Replay (seriously, I've probably listened to this thing fifty times in the last two days). I adore Beethoven, and I fell in love with "Secrets" almost two years ago (that can't be right. I'm not that old.) Combine the two.....perfect. Beautiful.
“Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its Secrets, for that and knowledge can raise men to the divine.” -Ludwig van Beethoven
Speaking of beautiful, I just finished a book about Hedy Lamarr, popularly known as the most beautiful woman in the world, during the forties, at least. And I must admit that I would have written her off as a gorgeous know-nothing had I not learned more. She helped develop the technology that today makes usage of your cell phone and GPS possible, as well as military grade communications (though they never publicly acknowledged or thanked her) and the scanner at the grocery store, among other things. You go, girl.
"Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid." -Hedy Lamarr
I'm sorry I judged you, Hedy.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Various
Spring is here, and change is in the air.
I'm starting a new job as a banquet server at the Lion House; I was officially hired today. I am psyched for the whole not working on Sunday thing. I haven't been to my ward in a long time, and it's an awesome ward. I am also looking to pick up a second part-time job, and I have positive feelings about one of them. We'll see.
I am *so* close to being done with War and Peace. Only about two hundred pages left. Yes, a regular novel may *be* two hundred pages, but when you've got eleven hundred under your belt, two hundred doesn't seem like much. I kind of want to linger in it, though, because there's nothing like reading a really good book for the very first time and honestly not knowing what's going to happen. You have your desires and fears, but you don't know. And then there's a plot twist, and you're like, "Whaaa?" I wish I could remember the feelings I had reading the early Harry Potter books for the first time. That's been so long, I can't remember not knowing what happens in them.
General Conference was so good. Lots of emphasis on families and service.
I shared the awesomeness known as Cinder Edna with my roommates Amber and Jill tonight. They loved it. I honestly think every young woman should have a copy of this book. Fantastic. If I can find The Rumpelstiltskin Problem I'm going to lend that to Amber. Might have left it at home, though. That reminds me, I need to get a copy of Howell's Moving Castle. It's been a while since I've read it, and I LOVE that book.
So, yeah. I'm not the depressed emo that I sounded like in the last post. Not all the time, anyway, haha. Sometimes you have to let out the sadness, otherwise half my music library wouldn't have a purpose for existing.
I'm starting a new job as a banquet server at the Lion House; I was officially hired today. I am psyched for the whole not working on Sunday thing. I haven't been to my ward in a long time, and it's an awesome ward. I am also looking to pick up a second part-time job, and I have positive feelings about one of them. We'll see.
I am *so* close to being done with War and Peace. Only about two hundred pages left. Yes, a regular novel may *be* two hundred pages, but when you've got eleven hundred under your belt, two hundred doesn't seem like much. I kind of want to linger in it, though, because there's nothing like reading a really good book for the very first time and honestly not knowing what's going to happen. You have your desires and fears, but you don't know. And then there's a plot twist, and you're like, "Whaaa?" I wish I could remember the feelings I had reading the early Harry Potter books for the first time. That's been so long, I can't remember not knowing what happens in them.
General Conference was so good. Lots of emphasis on families and service.
I shared the awesomeness known as Cinder Edna with my roommates Amber and Jill tonight. They loved it. I honestly think every young woman should have a copy of this book. Fantastic. If I can find The Rumpelstiltskin Problem I'm going to lend that to Amber. Might have left it at home, though. That reminds me, I need to get a copy of Howell's Moving Castle. It's been a while since I've read it, and I LOVE that book.
So, yeah. I'm not the depressed emo that I sounded like in the last post. Not all the time, anyway, haha. Sometimes you have to let out the sadness, otherwise half my music library wouldn't have a purpose for existing.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Hope ya know, we had a hard time.
♪ I have died every day waiting for you....darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years....I've loved you for a thousand years.... ♫
Some days you just want to cry, and then eat all the chocolate in the world while Taylor Swift sings sad songs.
This is one of those days.
I don't know how anything is going to turn out, and I'm scared.
Some days you just want to cry, and then eat all the chocolate in the world while Taylor Swift sings sad songs.
This is one of those days.
I don't know how anything is going to turn out, and I'm scared.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)