"Converting all your sounds of woe into hey nonny nonny." -Much Ado About Nothing

Today, I HURRRT.

The entire day I felt like I had a great big furry rabid raccoon inside my stomach, and the only way to keep the raccoon from escaping and tearing innocent bystanders to pieces, I had to trap it inside me by gritting my teeth tight and allowing it to tear me to pieces from the inside out.

And it HURRRRT.

***

Alright. I'll give it to you straight. I didn't get the part I wanted in a play I auditioned for. "Much Ado About Nothing".

...yeah. I know what you're thinking...

"Are you KIDDING me?! What the heck is wrong with you?! I thought your mother had died or something! Yeesh! You no good, melodramatic little bleeder!"

I know. I know. It sounds silly to me, too. I mean, there are so many worse things that could happen to a person. That are happening to people. And I choose to get pouty over a play while there are millions of people walking around without shoes or food...

But...this still SUCKS.

I love Shakespeare. My love of soccer came and went, my passion for ballet flickered and died, my dream of becoming a world famous bagpipe playing-unicyclist-underwater basket weaver lost it's appeal, but Shakespeare...oh, baby. That boy is here to stay.

A few years ago I saw my first Shakespeare play. Macbeth. I intended to go, sit in my chair, promptly fall asleep, wake up to clap at curtain call, then go home and sleep some more.

I was in for one helluva night.

Never before had I been so shaken by a play. By the time it was finished, my whole body was pulsing with electricity. That night, I laid in my bed for hours, looking into the darkness and wondering "what the crap is happening to me?!" The madness, the injustice, the pain, the grief, the honesty, and the beauty of all that had been portrayed came together to...oh, I don't know. Reshape my soul or something. I couldn't believe the effect that a PLAY was having on me. But I knew it was good. And I knew that if theatre were ever to have a place in my life, it would be to do for others what Macbeth had done for me. I wanted to show people something real and make them feel alive and change them.

Shakespeare had given me a buzz, and I wanted more.

And so the frenzy began. Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, Much Ado, The Merchant of Venice, a Midsummer Night's Dream, Hamlet, etc...all these stories had that same magic, and the more I read, the more I wanted to do it, to be in a Shakespeare play.

So you can imagine my delight when my drama director announced he would be putting on a Shakespeare play this year.

Long story short, I let another play in before Shakespeare. One of my favorites. Harvey. I played Veta. It was wonderful. I auditioned for Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice. My audition rocked. I got a callback. My callback rocked.

I didn't get a part.

I suspected I would not get Beatrice. I knew I could cope with that. I had not suspected that I would get nothing. I simply loved Shakespeare too much. Laura ending up with nothing was unthinkable. Incomprehensible! Heresy!

But it happened.

So, yes. It sucks.

But if I really love Shakespeare as much as I say I do, am I really going to let this be the end?

Really?

I'm not going to be bitter. I'm going to be envious for a while yet, and I'm sure there is going to be some more pain...

But I WILL not be bitter.
For Will.

Fin.

"Let's take a look. A book look." -Strong Bad

(Picture courtesy of Pinterest. Oh, Pinterest.)

For the past 3 months, I feel like I haven't done any reading for myself, not really. I mean, Lord of the Rings was marvelous, My Antonia was rather beautiful, and Harvey was fun to read over and over...

and over...

...and over...

...and...

ooo-vvv-eee-rrrrrrrrrrr...

But I decided I needed a break from reading the required stuff and just the required stuff. I decided to celebrate "Read A Couple Of Hype-ey Books And Just Hope They Don't Completely Suck" week with The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.

And I am pleased to say that I was pleasantly surprised.

I mean, for one thing, the John Green book was autographed by John Green.



I seriously considered stealing the book and giving it to Sister-in-Law-Liz for keeps. Maybe I ought to. Hmm...all I'd have to do is buy another copy of the book, switch out the covers, peel off and relocate all the stickers, duplicate the signature...

Holy crap. It's totally doable.

Anyway, felon-ous contemplations aside...these books really didn't suck. They took me two days a piece to finish, each a lovely, easy breezy read. Both were pretty well written (The Fault in Our Stars is so clever. John Green writes some of the wittiest dialogue I've ever read) and were darn good stories. I realize they are far from perfect. I had several issues with The Night Circus (mostly with the romance aspect. 'Twas much too fluffy. It practically ruined the whole book for me. However, the parts that weren't nasty love bits were so magical and fantastic that I could forgive and forget and keep reading). The real appeal was how easy it was to get completely sucked into these little worlds. I didn't have to think hard to understand what I was reading. Hours would pass without my notice. The escapes were absolutely mindless.

Sometimes it's good to be without your mind for a bit.

Oooh. How Proverbal.

Dam.

Angsty rant alert.

I think that I am overthinking this.

Part of the reason why I’m stuck is because I keep saying it to myself, over and over and over. “I am stuck, I don’t feel real, I am lost.” And instead of trying to fix it, I feel helpless and sad.

This has got to stop, obviously. But how?

I wish I could go somewhere for a while. Just me. I wish I could drop everything and hole up in a cottage in the Lake District with nothing but books and some vinyls and a stocked pantry of food. I’d go for walks and write and maybe paint things…and somehow figure myself out. And learn to be a pleasant person. But no. I’ve got to finish Harvey and school and everything and learn to be pleasant here and now. In Icetown.

Bleh. Fire and brimstone.

Hmph. Maybe I should really curse. Out loud. Loud and long and clear. Ala Hugh Laurie. Would that make me feel better?

...Maybe. It's worth a try.

Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn. Damn.

Well, look at that. A dam of damns. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I'm dammed up. There's just too much going on inside of me and it is building and building and building and the pressure is becoming too much and soon I'll explode in a big nasty mess all over everybody.

But maybe, just maybe...an explosion would be a good thing. It would mean I could rebuild. Start from scratch. Like a blank piece of paper, "fresh with no mistakes in it" as Anne Shirley would say.

But...how?

Dammit.

Lady, this isn't what it looks like...

*Ahem.*

Today, my body said "Hey! It's getting too quiet around here. I'm gonna feel like crap for no reason at all! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!!" My stomach was doing a conga dance, my head had a wind-up-cymbal monkey inside, and my eyes had balloons inflating behind them. I tried to brave this all the way through church, until finally I could bear it no longer. I hunted down my mother, got on my knees, and begged her to take me home. "I can't, I'm sorry," she said. I hung my head in agony. "Here, take this to the kitchen and get a glass of water." She reached inside her purse, pulled out a Tangerine Emergen-c packet, and thrust it under my nose. I balked and gagged (Emergen-c=The Devil's Juice. It is akin to drinking a combination of club soda and perfume. Except worse). She bribed me with a Werther's Original. I went to the kitchen, Emergen-C packet in hand. Once there, I raided all the cupboards and could find nothing but some tupperware and a bottle of whipped cream (expired, gosh dang it). I took out the smallest tupperware I could find, filled up my cup, and poured the packet in. The water quickly yellowed and fizzed ominously. My nose wrinkled in disgust. It looked like...well...how can I say this politely...urine. I closed my eyes and said "Werther's Original, Werther's Original" like a mantra before taking a big 'ol swig. I'll spare you the gagging and heaving that followed...sufice it to say, it was not my cup of tea. I kept sipping away, praying for the end, when a woman walked in the kitchen door. She looked at me, then at the tupperware of yellow fluid in my hand. Her mouth opened slightly. I looked from her face to the tupperware. "Oh. Oh, no." I thought. But I didn't try to explain. I simply said "Uh...Hello!" and continued to sip the conspicuous beverage. The woman looked away, grabbed a pitcher, and filled it up at the sink, avoiding my eye. She shuffled out as quickly as she could once the pitcher was full, almost forgetting to shut off the water. I watched her go, still not saying a thing. I polished off as much of the drink as I could muster before returning to Mother and reciving my much deserved Werther's.

That poor woman...she'll think of me every time she passes a kitchen. Or a bathroom.

Moral of the story: Things are not always what they seem.

Or

Don't ever drink Tangerine Emergen-c where anyone can see you. Ever. Better yet, don't drink it at all.

That's shocking!

Something incredible happened today.

Friend Amanda was whispering a scandalous story concerning babershop music into my ear, and our heads were quite close together. Friend Ben came walking by and decided he wanted to hear the tale as well and shoved his head in between ours. I heard a snapping noise and felt a smacking sensation on my neck and promptly sprawled to the ground. At the same moment Amanda shrieked and Ben lept back several feet, holding his ear. In all the kerfuffle, there were several cries of "What just happened?!"from victims and bystanders alike. As it turns out, Ben's ear triggered some sort of major shock-chain between the three of us.

It's true.

Life will never be the same for any of us.

Bathroom=Magic Room

My High School is a freezing, frigid building. I cannot understand it. It feels like the interior of a refrigerated boxcar. When I tell people this, they shake their heads and say “Oh, Laura. The building is state of the art. There are heaters EVERYWHERE. You’re just a surly teenager.” They’ll rue the day they said that, mark my words. They’ll wish they could take those words back when I go into hypothermia in the middle of Algebra, lie down on the carpet, and die.

But there is one room within this great icebox that is blissfully, wonderfully, fantastically warm. My friends…I speak of the girl’s bathroom. More specifically, the girl’s bathroom on the first floor. It’s absurd, really. And magical. Typically I only go to into the bathroom when it’s absolutely necessary. But now that winter’s here…I go in there and never want to leave. I won’t even realize how cold I am until I round the corner, push the door open, and feel the heat wave wrap me in a loving embrace that pulls me in and holds me captive (a very willing captive, ‘tis true) until the last possible moment when I have to fight its tantalizing grip out the door. When the door shuts behind me, I hear a voice that says “No! Come back! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” I almost turn back. Almost. But somehow I muster the courage to fight back the tears and keep walking. Then I have to stop in the middle of the hallway and try to defrost the tears that have just frozen to my face. I go to class and shiver through the entire period. Then the bell rings, and I’m off like a bottle of diet coke and mentos to the room that has become my Wonderland, Narnia, and Neverland. It welcomes me back with open arms and holds me close until I am forced to leave once more.

Oi…what a vicious cycle. It pains now me even to write it. Why do I do this to myself?! If I had any sense of decency, I’d say “To the devil with education! It’s so overrated,” take a comfy chair, some books, and a lifetime supply of ravioli and Nutella into the first floor girl’s bathroom of my high school and never come out again.

Oh my goodness...you have absolutely NO IDEA how tempting that is. No. Idea.

Laura Elise and the Great Big Polyp

Well. This ought to be an adventure.

In July of the year 2011, I noticed that I was having a wee bit of trouble breathing out of my left nostril. It was troublesome, but bearable. Over the next couple of months, the stuffy-ness increased and evolved into pain. By September I was feeling much discomfort in my sinuses and other nasal areas, and the pain was becoming more and more cumbersome every day. I went to the doctor who mentioned something called a polyp, but dismissed it and prescribed a spray to treat the inflammation. I did some research on polyps anyway, and found that they are non-cancerous, benign tumors that grow in mucusy areas. No one knows why they happen, they just happen.

A week passed, and one afternoon, I excused myself from my English class to blow my nose in the bathroom (Mr. English Teacher doesn't have tissues, you see. Maybe I ought to have bought him some for Christmas...). After a solid minute of nose-blowing, some projectile came flying out of my nose. I took a look and found something that fit the description I'd read about polyps (a slimy object that bears resemblance to a peeled grape). I was disgusted. And jubilant! I had conquered my nasal foe. I called my mother from the bathroom stall to tell her the happy news.

As the days went by, I started to feel much, much better. Weeks passed. Months passed. Everything felt fine and dandy...until the last week of December. I started to feel some familiar but unwelcome sensations in my nasal area. I had my suspicions, but I quickly pushed them from my mind and distracted myself by gorging on my Grandmother's chocolate truffles. But no amount of truffles could erase what my research from months before had told me: that polyps come back. I knew what had to be done. I told my mother. Reluctantly. Because, you see, when you tell your mother about a medical problem, she'll take you to a doctor. And doctors tell you things that you don't want to know and show you things you don't want to see and stick CAMERAS UP YOUR NOSE THAT YOU DON'T WANT THERE!!!!!

...but I'm getting ahead of myself.

After I confessed to Mother, she said the dreaded words: "Alright...let's get you in." A week and a half later, I was sitting in a chilly room with the sounds of some man next door puking his guts out filling the air. Then a short man (with a nasal voice, funnily enough) bounded into the room. He introduced himself as my doctor, and bid me tell him my story. When I was finished, he said that the thing that had come out of my nose was not a polyp. I disagreed, and he disagreed with my disagreement (and got the final word, blast him) before forcing a pair of pliers into my nose and flashing a light inside. He said that he didn't see anything and that he wanted to take a closer look. He walked to the counter and pulled out a bottle connected to a six-inch tube which was whirring ominously. He proceeded to tell me that it was a decongestant/anesthetic that was going to taste quite awful. He handed me a tissue, stuck the tube up my nose, and fired away. He somehow managed to spray it into my eye. Don't ask me how. But that man sprayed me in the eye and didn't apologize. He tossed aside his infernal weapon and started talking very fast about heaven knows what and guestured for me to follow him. Blinking wildly, I followed him through a door in the wall and into the puking man's room (puking man was gone by this time. So was the puke, as far as I could tell, which was some comfort). Doctor man showed me something black and snake-like that was approximately a foot long and informed me that it was a camera that he was going to slide up my nose. I stared at it, noncomprehending. THAT was going into my NOSE?! He tapped a moniter connected to the nasal Anaconda "That is here," he said, "so that you can see what I see." My stomach did several back-flips at that. I did not want to see what he was going to see. But I didn't get a chance to say so, because without further ado, he shoved the camera up my right nostril. I did not collapse onto the floor writhing in agony as I had expected. The anesthetic whatsit spray was doing its job (just the same, having a numb-my nose with a camera inside was not pleasant. I pray that you never feel the sensation). I watched the screen in a daze while the Doctor Man played tour guide ("You see that great, big bump? That's your 'Something Latin and Fancy.' That makes all your mucus..."). Then, suddenly, we saw it. This great, shiny, slimy, silvery mass. I gulped. The mass on the screen came to life and blew up like a bullfrog-balloon-monster. ICK. doctor man simply said: "OH. Yep! That's a polyp." He slithered the camera out, and I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he pushed it up the other nostril. He found the Bullfrog-Balloon-Monster in the catacombs of my conk once more, pressed a button on the monitor, and a second later, a printed polaroid glamor shot of the thing came whizzing out. He removed the camera from my nose (and didn't put it in again, bless him) and tossed the polaroid aside. Then he stated that the polyp was so huge that medicine was useless, and that I would need surgery. I'll be honest. By this time, I was near hysterical and nearly burst into tears. He began to explain the procedure, how complicated it is, and how things hardly ever go wrong. Potential brain damage and death were mentioned. "But that hardly ever happens!" he reassured me. Then he moved on to recovery. I will be on drugs and out of school for a WEEK. The first two days, I will be bleeding continuously from the nose. When recovery week is over, I will be given a nasal spray to use. Everyday. For the rest of my life (Oh, great. Yet another foreign object to shove into my anatomy. HAVEN'T I ALREADY FILLED THAT QUOTA?!!!) He then told me to see a nurse-woman about scheduling a C.T scan, and then I was free to go. At the desk on my way out, I saw that same Mister Doctor Man re-enacting the emergence of my Bullfrog-Balloon Monster for another Mister Doctor Man. They were both laughing heartily. I don't see what was so funny about it. *Shrug and a sigh.* Doctor humor.

Well, that's all. Now I just have to mentally prepare for the surgery and try to block out all those episodes of House where things go terribly, terribly wrong. Serves me right for watching too much television.

(p.s. Here's to Doctors: those lovely men and women who tell us to never stick anything up our nose so that they can do it for us.)