it's saturday.

tonight, i don't have the usual format of a post, because 


(wait for it.)


some of my essays have been accepted to literary magazines! 


therefore, i spent every waking moment trying to write a summary about myself (which makes me feel weird.) you know, the summary at the end of essays that tell about the author. like they only live organic, wear rain boots without socks, have three chickens named after characters in russian literature, and get inspiration for their writing after staring into the sun for a full three minutes. yeah, that kind of summary. 


BUT. i do leave you with a list i have just recently created. it is the ultimate list. it is a list of all the things i would do if i were to find myself at home alone for the night. but in reality, i kind of do them all the time. but i am also spending the night alone. so bummer. 


things i'd like to do tonight:

drink empress of japan 
(because i'm fancy, uh)


sing. loudly. (in the shower.) 
preferably britney spears. 


paint my nails. 


write a novel about awkward one night stands, peyote, three piece suits, mangos, and a man known as pepe. 

learn how to dance like beyonce.


save the galaxy from impending doom. 


pen an indie song about sweaters, beer, and summer love (that always goes wrong). 


and then go to sleep. 
the end. 


this song is rather fitting. don'cha think?

there was a man on fire.

and brick killed a guy.


but seriously. 


at the moment, i am greatly anticipating the arrival of five (5) books. three (3) of which create the single greatest series of all time (Inkheart) one (1) is required for english to teach us the dangers of human trafficking (because we have no idea) and the final one (1) is "Girls Like Us" which is a bio of three (3) foxy mamas (Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon) who changed the world of music and really just the world, speaking in generalities. 


And on that note, I would like to post an  "oldie" because it is a review on yet another book that i love dearly. 

Notes from a liar and her dog.

Hello, my name is Ella Greer, and I have the mark of Pollyanna on my forehead. According to my swell Literature teacher, this does not include the connotation that I wear my hair in pigtail braids or sport dowdy, ankle-length dresses. But I choose to believe that she picked this nickname for just that, because I choose to believe the good and I tend to forget that the world could be evil as well. This theory has been proven many-a-time, from my refusal to believe the true meaning behind May Day, to my horrific finding of the real character of Benjamin Franklin. But this article has nothing to do with celebrating fertility or one of our founding fathers walking around Pennsylvania in the nude (or, in the words of Mrs. Sellers, nak’d), but it does have everything to do with James Frey, the author of the oh-so-scandalous A Million Little Pieces, and how he betrayed me.

                It appears to me that not only is James Frey synonymous with fraud, but he is also linked with Oprah Winfrey’s scathing reviews. Let it be known, I despise Oprah Winfrey. No, really. I detest the woman. She is the one human that does not fall under the Pollyanna Effect, no matter how many cars she gives away. This being said, when the tumultuous situation of James Frey lying to the world and ripping away the hope for drug addicts was swirling about, I immediately jumped onto Frey’s side of the fence. Why did I do this?

                Dwight K. Schrute once said, “An enemy of my enemy is my friend.” So to put it bluntly, Oprah is my enemy, James Frey is her enemy, and therefore James Frey is my friend. Even though I did not even know who this James Frey guy was. Welcome to America.

                 A few Oprah episodes later, Winfrey found other people to humiliate and kids in high school focused on being indie snobs with skinnies and scarves; leaving Frey and his fifteen minutes of Warhol-deserved fame long forgotten.

                It was not until over the summer when I received my drivers license and headed off to the library (yes…I know, that is why I am Ella Greer and you are not) that James Frey, my friend, found his way back onto my “must read” list.

                The turquoise cover caught my eye. My heart dropped, I gave a cursory glance around the library (True Life: I am a ninja), hoping that no one else saw it. A Million Little Pieces stood there on the For Sale cart, and I dropped Brisingr to run off to my car to retrieve the fifty cents (due to stealing being frowned upon in our society).

                Armed with my new Manchester Orchestra c.d found in a sketchy used bookstore, I began to read the harrowing novel that had eluded me for so long.  I almost understood what Lost junkies feel like, for the next three days were a blur, and all I could think about was James, Lilly, Leonard, and all of the other you-almost-forget-they’re-addicts characters at a rehabilitation center in Minnesota. I grimaced when Frey underwent root canals and cavity fillings without anesthesia, I shared the joy when the guys were able to watch the UFC fight and eat hot wings, my heart broke when I read the last page, and I felt like I too, fell off a fishing boat.  His grammar (or lack thereof) and not-so-random random capitalization alone was enough, for it seemed as if he mapped out a Punnett Square crossing E.E Cummings and James Dean. His disregard towards indentions and quotation marks made the story that much more riveting, and was proof yet again that not all writing must be in MLA format, nor does a writer need to prove himself or herself as a writer before being allowed to throw those rather obnoxious grammar rules where they belong (in all senses of the phrase). He wrote his experience as he saw it.

Noticing my internal struggle with the ball of clay in front of me, my art teacher attempted to soothe the battle with these words, “It was once said that the great sculptors took a block of clay and simply carved out everything that was not a man.” They did not help, for I am Ella Greer and I am a wannabe artist. But, I like to think that those very words helped James Frey, for he took thousands upon thousands of words and characters (the grammar type) and simply deleted everything that was not A Million Little Pieces.  The writing style struck a chord within me, that for the entire month of August, everything I wrote for English was composed as such.

 Having already discussed the story with my Literature teacher, we established that there were nuggets of truth within the walls of Hazelden, and I desperately wished, in my Pollyanna way, that everything was true, yet just a touch exaggerated. I wished for it to be true, that is, until the last page, when I found myself thanking Frey that he lied his bum off.

For the first time ever, I almost found myself relating to the robot known as Oprah Winfrey. Here I was, knowing full well that the novel was a work of fiction, yet longing for it to be otherwise. It could be compared to the movie 500 Days of Summer. The narrator clearly states that it was not a love story, but did the viewers listen? No, and by the end of the movie, most sat in shock, staring at the blank movie screen, wanting with all of their little hearts that it was a joke, and the real ending would begin shortly. Like those who are infatuated with Romeo and Juliet, they wish that Romeo and Juliet stand up, shake the dust of the tomb off, and laugh as they shouted “April Fools!” But wake up those two star crossed lovers did not.

All in all, I believe James Frey and I can still be friends. A Million Little Pieces was still fantastic, regardless of the controversy that surrounded it. A person worthy of reading it, however, must have an open mind, and must not be a literature snob. 

listen to this because it is awesome. and it's wednesday. 

the panera chronicles.

in my english class, the study of confessional poets is full steam ahead. 
and my new assignment was yet another poem, so setting up camp at panera and writing with my regular french vanilla coffee and blueberry bagel made perfect sense. 

My skin is paper mache

Layers of newspaper 

are more malleable than clay:

even after the glue hardens. 

When we hold hands we combine

the articles of a 

preacher and a gay man.

Like us they stand side by side. 

I am Queen of the World,

I'm a whore on the street. 

With all these words glued onto

my bones, sleep is exhausting. 

There are times I feel you don't say all you mean

but I've never read you for a liar. 

The truth is written, right there, on your knee. 

I said, "I love you." You replied, "Two dead in fire."

listen to this song because it's great. the end. 

accidental activist.

today, in english class, i became a poet. 


bam. 


In the dog days of summer behind his parent's house
we lifted our faces to the sun and spoke of Aldous Huxley. 
I mistook the beer for wisdom and looked on in wonder
as he chain smoked and quoted Jack Kerouac. 
"I think Bob Dylan and David Bowie had a thing."


The water ran cold, and as we sat in silence in the bath-
a deranged novelty of sepia rust stains and a tired faucet-
I peeled off what was left of my summer skin. 


He snored behind me as I watched the street lamps flicker down below. 
I prepared for what was to be a cold December. 
Sometimes we're not as beautiful as we think. 

"feeling good was good enough for me."

sheena is a punk rocker.

in case you haven't noticed, i am fascinated by the bad girl. not the connotation that the term "bad girl" conjures today (cough, rihanna, cough) but what the moniker truly means, to be a bad ass. one of my favorite books, "Lulu Meets God and Doubts Him," has the line "she was the girl they wrote rock'n'roll songs about." the girl the book is describing is simply marvelous, she is captivating, people hang on her every word. I wanted to know her, I wanted to be her. 


so when the assignment was to write whatever we wanted, the sentence came to mind. i finished the essay four hours before it was due and it was a terrible nightmare the entire time, but it was returned with good marks and my professor even said she was impressed!


so ladies and gents, today i present to you a seminar on how to be a bad girl. 

The Girl They Write Rock Songs About

Remember to keep an ice pack on the hickey and have second thoughts about the boy that gave it to you, good lovers never leave marks; dab your lips with foundation before applying the red lipstick otherwise you’ll look like a clown before the night is over; is it true that you lost your panties?; the walk of shame is never okay, leave the party before you’re left; this is how to hold your liquor;  always know where your panties are, or you will never like the way they come back to you but I never lose my underwear and I’m never ever the one left; girls like us don’t cry, we bite our lip, flip our hair, and saunter away; eat the ice cream if you want, just be sure it’s not because of a boy; it’s okay to leave questions unanswered, no one cares about a girl who gives all of her secrets away; sunbathe topless, tan lines are for the goody two-shoes; this is how to reply to the girls who call you a slut I wasn’t naked, I was wearing his shirt; use liquid eyeliner to create the cat eye so you don’t end up looking like a raccoon; this is how to smoke a cigarette to make your voice sound raspy; this is how to write a song about a man that has done you wrong; this is how to sneak out of the house while your parents are downstairs; this is how to sneak into the house before your parents notice that you’re gone; this is how to hide all evidence that you did not spend the entire night in your room; this is how to toe the line of being a tease and a slut; this is how to cure a hangover; remember that boys like the chase, once you let them catch you they won’t like you anymore; it’s the good girls who keep diaries, girls like us don’t have the time; this is how to hide your music collection from your parents; remember to save all of the desire for revenge for a song, only sluts start drama;  this is how to escape the small town that suffocates you; this is how to move to the city; this is how to become the snarky waitress that the regulars love; this is the freedom you feel once you realize your life will be nothing but art and music and friends from this moment onward; this is how to get out quick when things get too serious; the staples of our closet are Levi’s, converse, and band tees; this is how to turn your apartment into a refuge for underground artists and musicians; there is nothing sexy about being a sloppy drunk or a sloppy lover; when at a concert, dance with your hips only; sluts chase the band, girls like us live with the band; if you don’t have to wrestle with your pants when you put them on, they’re not tight enough; sluts talk about other people, girls like us talk about ideas and places we’ve been; the way I see it, we want to live this way forever, and the good girls are the ones who die young; this is how to use the hairspray to give volume but not make your hair stiff; girls like us don’t call boys, nor do we have to worry about boys ever “forgetting” our number; be sure to keep the songs written about you for your grandchildren to hear and know that there is truth behind the stories; but what if no one writes a rock’n’roll song about me?; do you really mean to say that after all of this you are not going to be the kind of girl they write rock’n’roll songs about?

watch this, because it's awesome. 

love is what i got.

this post was meant for valentines day, but alas i was too caught up in enjoying the day that i never did find the time, sorry about that. and for more bad news, the essay that you are about to read isn't a new one, for it is what  you would dub "an oldie but goodie." i wrote it last year in high school when my english class was asked to write about our definition of love. now that a year as gone by, i still stand by my definition, and maybe you'll agree with it too. 


"if you're a bird, i'm a bird."

Love. Known of but not known, a celebrity of sorts, everyone wants it but no one knows it, no one knows why they want it, what they want. But they find themselves longing for it anyways. I want love. Not angry, violent love. Certainly not jealous. None of that, “she was my first love, I will always care deeply for her, but I love you too, babe,” nonsense. I want a sundress and blazer sitting quietly on a park bench reading and watching the picnic-ers, dog walkers, and rollerbladers. A bicycle built for two on the boardwalk with sand in my shoes, sun on my face, death cab for cutie in my ears. An exchange of secrets along with mix tapes. Split of the newspaper over a milkshake with two straws. Corny knock-knock jokes, goofy sing-alongs, and Chinese fire drills at red lights. The drinking of straight black coffee under the pretense that we are grown-ups engaged in the discussion of ideas. Standing, hand-in-hand, in front of a piece of art at the museum, gawking and then sharing a smile, being struck instantaneously by the overwhelming knowledge that it was much like love, something spoken about at parties, meant to give the allusion of a philosopher, an authority, for everyone should smile and nod their heads in agreements, for they have no clue what you are talking about. And much like mouthwash, if it burns it must work, if an idea does not make sense, if it is not tangible, it must be a philosophy. Something worthy enough to agree with in hopes that you too will be seen as an intellectual giant. Swaying to and fro on the porch swing, sipping sun tea, mere guests of the orchestra that is birds, joggers, and VH1 top twenty countdown. Saturday afternoons spent at the library in hopes that the rain will hold off until after the paddle boating adventure.  I don’t know how this is to happen. but when I ponder all the many possibilities in the duration of the lovely class of mathematics, proof that the universe revolves on the laws of irony, I do believe that as he and I paint the story along with the walls, I will say, “and I do believe that I knew that it was you I wanted to be walking next to.”      

this is a link to my favorite love song. it will become your favorite too, i promise. 

time warp.

hello!


confession, due to a recent discovery of "time warps" a time in which the local frozen yogurt boutique announces a time of fifteen minutes when frozen yogurt is free, my friends and i have done nothing but play candyland, drawn on chalkboards, and indulged ourselves in yogurt (my favorite being the original and gummy worms.)


because of this, very little else has been done, so all i have is a link to the two brand spankin' new articles that i have written for the inkwell. but take heart! (literally, monday is valentines day) for i have just recently turned in my english paper and i can't wait to share it. 


click here to read about the student organization, HOLA (which is rather fantastic, armstrong is teeming with heroes.) 


click here to read about a performance based on the lives of eleanor roosevelt and martha bethune. 

i am in love with a man by the name of tom lehrer.