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we're already 5 days behind...who knew?

*Makeout Month*

is April 25 - May 30

go get it on...;)


the beginning of the end-so why am i sad?

as i sit here, typing away on my laptop, on my front porch, i'm basking in the sun of 5:22pm and as the wind flows over me, the smell of lilacs fills my body from the bush just by the road. perhaps i will get a little color here before i blind people's eyes with my beautiful dutch whiteness. it's almost perfect...almost.

as i should have expected, even though i've been looking far ahead to leaving morgantown, i should have known that leaving would be bitter/sweet. and more than just my apartment and the beautiful hillsides, i have met some amazing people here that will be sorely missed. as 'dead week' comes to a close (the week before finals) and finals week is the only week left before students leave for the summer, i have very few chances to spend time with my beloved students, and this makes me sad.

today, my students gave me a 'going away' party, fit with pizza, snacks, soda and even an icecream cake...a card went with that just might make me cry. they kept waiting and watching for me to cry while reading they truly have been a blessing from God this year for me, and many of them i consider friends...young as they may be:) they had meant the party to be a surprise until one of the students let it slip...they are so cute!! and with one last trip to get icecream, and a movie in one of the laptops while we all squeezed on one couch to watch...the year as we know it is over. next week is finals, and so schedules will be different, and the week after, no students at all. and so, the beginning of the end.

i looked with little to no sadness at my last two classes this week. some students i'll never see again in my entire life, and it really phases me none. (my good friend wasn't there). i'm proud of my accomplishments and excited to be finished with it all...7/8 days of internship, two weeks til the big day of graduation and 20 days till i get to see my sis, bro, dad and mom. sounds like a plan to me, yet i will mourn the end of my GA. even with some crazy bosses who did make things difficult, the kids couldn't have been better.

i need to make plans for tonight..otherwise i fear i'll be quiet and pensive all evening. that's probably not the best of all situations:) and in all truth, after spending 2 years here, i'm glad that there is something that i'm sad to see go:) You will be missed, you will be missed.


2081 or 2006?

Harrison Bergeron
by Kurt Vonnegut (1961)

THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.
Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April, for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.
It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.
George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about.
On the television screen were ballerinas.
A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.
“That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,” said Hazel.
“Huh?” said George.
“That dance – it was nice,” said Hazel.
“Yup,” said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very good – no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.
George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.
Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.
“Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,” said George.
“I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,” said Hazel, a little envious. “All the things they think up.”
“Um,” said George.
“Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?” said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,” said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday – just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.”
“I could think, if it was just chimes,” said George.
“Well – maybe make ‘em real loud,” said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper General.”
“Good as anybody else,” said George.
“Who knows better’n I do what normal is?” said Hazel.
“Right,” said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.
“Boy!” said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?”
It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.
“All of a sudden you look so tired,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.” She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the bag for a little while,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while.”
George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,” he said. “I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a part of me.
“You been so tired lately – kind of wore out,” said Hazel. “If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few.”
“Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out,” said George. “I don’t call that a bargain.”
“If you could just take a few out when you came home from work,” said Hazel. “I mean – you don’t compete with anybody around here. You just set around.”
“If I tried to get away with it,” said George, “then other people’d get away with it and pretty soon we’d be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”
“I’d hate it,” said Hazel.
“There you are,” said George. “The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?”
If Hazel hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn’t have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.
“Reckon it’d fall all apart,” said Hazel.
“What would?” said George blankly.
“Society,” said Hazel uncertainly. “Wasn’t that what you just said?”
“Who knows?” said George.
The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, “Ladies and gentlemen – ”
He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.
“That’s all right –” Hazel said of the announcer, “he tried. That’s the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.”
“Ladies and gentlemen” said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred-pound men.
And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me – ” she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.
“Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen,” she said in a grackle squawk, “has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under–handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous.”
A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen – upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.
The rest of Harrison’s appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever worn heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H–G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.
Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.
And to offset his good looks, the H–G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle–tooth random.
“If you see this boy,” said the ballerina, “do not – I repeat, do not – try to reason with him.”
There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.
Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.
George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have – for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. “My God –” said George, “that must be Harrison!”
The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.
When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.
Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.
“I am the Emperor!” cried Harrison. “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!” He stamped his foot and the studio shook.
“Even as I stand here –” he bellowed, “crippled, hobbled, sickened – I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!”
Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.
Harrison’s scrap–iron handicaps crashed to the floor.
Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.
He flung away his rubber–ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.
“I shall now select my Empress!” he said, looking down on the cowering people. “Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!”
A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.
Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all, he removed her mask.
She was blindingly beautiful.
“Now” said Harrison, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!” he commanded.
The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. “Play your best,” he told them, “and I’ll make you barons and dukes and earls.”
The music began. It was normal at first – cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.
The music began again and was much improved.
Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while – listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.
They shifted their weights to their toes.
Harrison placed his big hands on the girl’s tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.
And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!
Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.
They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.
They leaped like deer on the moon.
The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it. It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling.
They kissed it.
And then, neutralizing gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.
It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.
Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.
It was then that the Bergerons’ television tube burned out.
Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George.
But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.
George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. “You been crying?” he said to Hazel.
“Yup,” she said,
“What about?” he said.
“I forget,” she said. “Something real sad on television.”
“What was it?” he said.
“It’s all kind of mixed up in my mind,” said Hazel.
“Forget sad things,” said George.
“I always do,” said Hazel.
“That’s my girl,” said George. He winced. There was the sound of a riveting gun in his head.
“Gee – I could tell that one was a doozy,” said Hazel.
“You can say that again,” said George.
“Gee –” said Hazel, “I could tell that one was a doozy.”
Harrison Bergeron


when the celebration fades


could it be fate?

ok, so today i ate an apple. but before i did, i twisted the stem you did in 2nd grade, and still do when no one's looking because you're still curious if it will actually mean anything. it comes, and surprise of all surprises, what name to i think of first that starts with the letter B??? you got it, Buck...and so...Buck, if you're reading this, i think we should get married and live happily ever after, just to prove to all the 24 yr olds...uh...i mean 2nd graders, that the whole apple-stem-twisting-'THE ONE'-finding little scheme works. ok? so pick me up at 6...i'll be ready and waiting ::wink::


practice makes better

so it has been pointed out to me that perhaps my 'lenten reflection' hasn't quite sunk in enough (evidence found in my last two postings) maybe i do need to reread the "lenten Reflection" a few million more times. letting go and trusting in grace is probably one of the hardest things to do. the thing is, letting go doesn't mean standing back and waiting for everything to fall into place, b/c i firmly believe that while sometimes that happens, most of the time it doesn't. most of the time, nothing happens by itself. and so, it's hard to let go while so much of myself seems to still be so invested. i put hard work in, i want to know that i'm going to get results. and i want to know it now...or i'll fret over it until i do know. control freak?? who, me? never. handing over that control to a belief is hard, seeming impossible even, and yet, even with small amounts, it feels better. like a weight is lifted. i don't have to carry it all by myself.

FOR THE RECORD: i do think that worry and fret are normal human emotions that we can't completely eliminate with trust in grace, providence, and an imminent Being. that said though, i obviously still have a long way to go. giving over that worry, believing that something will work out because Someone much greater than me is in control is quite relieving. i still have plenty of work to do, but at the end of the day, i believe my hard work will be blessed, even if everything doesn't turn out how i would like, or think it should.

so, don't think i won't freak out again, cause i will, and i know that's ok...but ultimately, i DO know that i'm not in this alone.

cliche' anyone??


job hunting's a bitch

ok, so i feel like i spend hours at a time and don't really get anywhere. i do still hope that chicago is a possibility, seeing as it's the only place i have been looking...but seriously...i'm either incredibly overqualified, or underqualified. you'd think that with a master's degree and lost of patient experience i could find a counseling job somewhere, but there seems to be a large gap between positions that require a BA in some counseling/social work related field, and one that requires licensure or certification in one area or another. i can apply for licensure as soon as i take 3 more classes (not part of my master's program), and i can apply for my CADC (certified alcohol and other drug abuse counselor) and my MISA (mental illness/substance abuse) certifications with 2 more years of paid counseling experience, 150 hrs of supervision, etc. and you gotta love this>>all this info can be found through the IAODAPCA--the Illinois Addiction and Other Drug Abuse Professional Certification Association (i put my 'CAPS LOCK' on to finish that acronym). how i'm supposed to get 2 years of counseling experience is beyond me, b/c no jobs let you counsel without your CADC or MISA. Damn Illinois.

So, i've also applied to about 15 patient access/registration positions, going on the experience i have from the hospital this past year. but that puts me in a position i already have and don't need an MA for. and don't get me wrong, i have no problem starting at the 'bottom' and working my way up...i just feel like the bottom i'm gonna have to start at is the same place i could be without two years spent in god-forsaken morgantown, without thousands of god-forsaken dollars spent for this education, which i'm still not convinced i need. well, not in Illinois anyways.

ok, i know i needed the MA, but just call me frustrated and in need of an internet-job-searching break.

now i'm gonna go study for my NCE (national couseling exam) that is to take place in 8 days. shit...i gotta get on it!!

someday this will all end and it will have been worth it...for one reason or another!


in this time of Lenten reflection

"Sojourners (magazine) has written much and often about the abuse and cheapening of grace. In many ways, it is the place where we began. That concern still stands; cheap grace continues to be the greatest affliction of the churches.

"Radical Christians [not meaning conservative, right-winged Christians], however, face another problem. It is the tendency to seek justification in our lifestyle, our work, our protest, our causes, our movements, our actions, our prophetic identity, and our radical self-image. It becomes an easy temptation to place our security in the things we stand for and in the things we do, instead of in what God has done. It is a temptation to depend on things other than God's grace.

"'For by grace you have been saved through faith; and this is not your own doing, it is the gift of God - not because of works, lest [anyone] should boast (Ephesians 2:8-9).' Grace is the logic of a loving God. There is nothing we can do to earn it, win it, or deserve it. Grace is simply a gift, not a reward. We can receive it only by faith, not through good works.

"Grace saves the prophetic vocation. The knowledge and experience of grace can ease the seriousness with which we tend to take ourselves. Grace can restore our humility, our sense of humor, and our ability to laugh at ourselves. All are regularly needed by prophets.

"To trust grace is to know that the world has already been saved by Jesus Christ. It is to know that we cannot save the world any more than we can save ourselves. All our work is done only in response to Christ's work. To receive the gift of grace is to let go of self-sufficiency and to act out of a spirit of gratitude.

"Radical Christians must pursue more than a successful strategy; we must seek a deeper faith. Only then will we have the assurance of salvation, not because of what we have accomplished, but because we have allowed God's grace and mercy to flow through our lives."

This article was adapted from Jim Wallis' reflections at Sojourners' Ash Wednesday service March 1, 2006.


i want it that way--a must see

Video: Backstreet Asians......???
by samsizzle23


maybe another day

Ok, so i deleted my last post because, while i did think it amusing , it was also it's gone. sorry for those of you who saw it...and for the curiousity of didn't miss much.

i have nothing intelligent, witty, interesting, funny or remotely worth saying i will not even try. (that of course, assuming that what i usually have to say is even somewhat intelligent, witty, interesting, funny or worth while. and i'm big enough to admit that i know my posts don't always fulfill criteria to be placed under any of those categories...but...)

such is life