Saturday, February 6, 2010

So yea...it's been a while

So I am finding that inspiration to write again is creeping back up, after months of struggle and soul searching....
I can't lie to everyone. After the 'Eloquent Venting' post, every time I sat down to write, the only themes that would come to mind were negative. And I didn't want to bore you with all that, and I was sick of hearing myself complain to be frank. So I waited until things got better.

So around the third week of January, I started to reflect on why things were so bad. Why was I so unhappy? And I came to a bunch of conclusions about travleling, and how exploring the world really does force you to explore yourself. And it isn't always easy...it's a tiring, long frustrating process....

Although it has nothing to do with Orleans, I will share my thoughts anyway.

I feel like I'm drowning. Sitting in my room, in between vomiting fits from a mysterious French disease called “gastro”, I am forced to reflect on my circumstances. But I know it isn't exclusively the gastro that has caused this feeling of helpless suffocation...it's a sentiment that has been brewing for a while now.

Why did things seem to make so much sense when I was younger? I mean the fluidity of thought, the ease of creative writing, and the conceptualizing of the world around me...'beyond her years' was something I was used to hearing. I would skip gym class to write in high school...it was cathartic and miraculous, the words that flew out of my pen in the empty showers of the girl's locker room. The artwork I produced and displayed for the world to see in the hallway by the theater was my shining moment...the offspring of my hand, heart and mind.
Then it slowed in college. The writing I mean, with the exceptions of a few beginnings of stories and poems that were pretty good, but never finished. What happened to the days of hours spent in front of the computer when I was a child, furiously typing as if the ideas were being channeled through me by some higher being? At least, in college, I would draw. Oh the things I would draw, sitting amongst the throng of faces around me...bored, listless, and uninterested to the tiny man below who droned on about subjects no one cared about...the 'diploma factory' sucked out my inspiration for writing, but I used this time to 'doodle' in my notebooks to the fascination of everyone around me. 'You're the girl that draws?' they would say to me. 'I watch you in class all the time...it's so much more interesting than Professor ___”

In Africa, the drawings flew out of my pen faster than I could help it. Women in regal boubous, with high cheekbones and proud, knowing smiles...bearing babies on their backs, or stirring a pot of 'gerte chafe.' The scenes around me were absorbed through my pores and emulated through my pen...political cartoons of corrupt leaders rooted into the ground, while dozens of black figures tried in vain to cut him free. Drew a picture of Antoine from his favorite photo; glasses, gangster look, and black and white scarf around his neck...and a glass of something that appeared to be alcohol. I wonder if its still displayed on the back of his door, after everything we've been through...

What I mean to say is, this was me. This is what I considered myself. A mix of drawing, writing, painting, and poetry...and it was nearly all dry. At least I was still singing in the shower. But no one would know it.

Now in France, I am here...and that is all I can say. I exist. I float through my days, unannounced like everyone around me, a pretty face in a crowd. A bit sarcastic, a bit vulgar, with some surprisingly witty and intelligent things to contribute at dinner.
What kind of person am I? What link do I have of this factory of insight and creativity that I once was? What about the small little girl inside of me, bursting with ideas? What do I think? I know what I feel...but it is a haze of vague sentiment...fear, loneliness, uncertainty, instability...and I can see no conclusions in front of me. I feel like I'm lost...like I've been lead astray on a side path. When was the last time I drew? In the teacher's lounge, attracting patronizing and mildly interested stares and comments...especially when I tried to revive the face of a generic Senegalese woman in my head that I try over and over to recreate, and she is never just right....and these days I seem to be getting farther and father away from successfully representing her on paper...
Why am I not inspired? Why is it that I feel like my precious insights are a decayed, lost cause? When I pry my fingers within my soul, I find that it's tired. Tired with life. Tired with trying.

Why is it tired? Why am I not happy here, in France? The first time I was here, I loved it...it was my first prolonged time away from the 'vile' United States – a whole month – and by 'vile', I now know that I meant, from all that was familiar and constraining...free to open my mind and my eyes to new horizons, new people, new thoughts, new ways of life. The cuisine had danced on my tongue, even simple tomato salads...the fruits and vegetables seemed even more ripe, so much more delicious...and I damned the genetically modified produce of the U.S. - chalked it up to capitalism and profit obsession, sacrificing the simple aesthetic pleasures and quality of life. It was like a rebirth. What else could I be missing in the world? Fashion, simplicity, richness of history, appreciation for the arts.
Those are the impression I remember about my 2007 trip to France – I still remember being shocked when the concierge saw me drawing downstairs late at night and was appalled that I had never been to art school, and had no intentions of doing so...how could I waste such talent? Because I had grown up in the wrong place at the wrong time..the western suburbs of Chicago, especially a young, business-oriented one like Carol Stream. Which is why that one Sunday after church during my Junior year of high school, my parents followed me into my room, shut the door, and 'had a talk with me'....two hours later, I had decided to go to the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, a state university with 40,000 students, where they had gone.
My hometown is not exactly the most conducive place toward encouraging and rearing a successful fine artist. My teachers would always say I would go somewhere, either with my writing or my art...and where have I ended up?

Not that I am disappointed in what I am doing. It takes gumption, and courage, of course, to get up and leave a place and start over somewhere else where all the rules are different – and in a foreign tongue – it's the sort of fearlessness that is rare these days...especially when compared to a place like Jefferson City Missouri where I spent my summer selling cellphones, where people my age, and fresh out of high school, get hitched and start reproducing right away...with no imagination for what else is possible.

My first trip to France had planted a dangerous seed within me. Dangerous? I will explain in the paragraphs which follow. Encouraged by people who said, 'this is the time to travel – you're young, it's time to enjoy it!' I nurtured this seed with unabashed curiosity as much as I could. I was on the brink of obsession – my head filled with thoughts such as 'the trip I had just been on, could have been better'...'I should have better spent my money elsewhere....going to Brazil maybe? Japan?' Someone went to Mongolia...I was filled with jealousy. Someone else found a program that would take her to India for 6 weeks to engage in an intensive language course to teach her Hindi....if only I had known about this program...Someone else had managed to land a State Department internship in Washington D.C. over the summer.....why had I not invested in this opportunity??

But in the days after the trips I had been on, I had time to sit on my experiences, marinate them in my head, and come to certain conclusions. After the fact, I realize that they have shaped me as an individual – molded me into the woman I have become today. Each voyage has picked me up, dropped me off, and taken me on a whirlwind of sights, sounds, faces and events that have been welded together at the end and changed me forever.
And then they dropped me off again at 1042 Mountain Glen Way, at my parents' house, where everything is eerily familiar....as if these places have been only a dream – in some cases, a nightmare – and reality is still the same, predictable routine...safe and rigidly habitual, where my parents mow the lawn and Tyson plays in the yard with his ball. We eat from the same kitchen sets, sit on the same couch to watch the same movies, and I sleep in the same bed with the same comforter I have had since I was young. It's a strange feeling to be amongst people who remind me of a time where everything was certain, everything was clear...the bliss of ignorance, if you will...a time where yearning to see the world had not yet manifested itself – to where it had not yet shaken my foundation to the core. It was lonely, from the first trip back from France...something had changed, and no one else seemed to understand. My parents had still been in their microcosm of familiarity...while I had been challenged, jolted, and kicked around in France for a month. My French had improved, and my eyes had been opened...and they only saw me as the same person prior to the trip. This was frustrating and unnerving for me, and I didn't know how to react...it only seemed to drive a chasm between my parents and I. I would witness the same thing happening with my sister, when she returned after her senior year of high school abroad in Australia.

Just before France, I had been on my first voyage alone, without parents - to Israel on a 10-day Jewish heritage, all-expenses paid, 'Birthright' trip with 20 other young Jews, and learned about a country which first and foremost, was not necessarily the war-torn hell that is shown on the news. It is a land where the Bible stories that I had learned in bowels of my church as a child at religious school, came to life...stone cities that glowed with an ancient sunlight, expansive deserts where kings of the past seemed to linger in the ruins of their castles, looming mountains covered in violet flowers and caressed by gently-flowing waterfalls...and new cities which spoke of a recent past still stinging with tragedy and hope...the Holocaust and subsequent, seemingly-endless bloody battles for the right of Israel to exist as a dignified State, not simply a refuge for the Jewish people. We were forced to confront this reality as Americans, after a night of partying in downtown Tel Aviv, when a young Israeli and his friends came up to us, the beer reeking on their breath....”You Americans, go back to America, you don't belong here,” he was saying, and when we retorted, “We're all Jews!” he replied, “You don't even know what it's like to live here, to have to serve in the army. Would you ever serve in our army? You come here for vacation only, then you leave us again to deal with the Holy Land on our own.”
It is a country filled with normal people, living admist an opposing, dynamic political situation...and learned the meaning of desperate fascism in the face of complete annihilation. When the mother asked to speak to us students in the cemetery where her 18 year old son has recently been buried, with tears spilling down her face, I learned that ideals can come between even a mother and a son...and that the ideal for a Holy Land was worth risking not one, but 3 out of her 4 children's lives.
I learned about Jewish identity, and was struck when I realized it being imposed on me...and that I was no longer a generic girl named Danielle of 20 years old, I was an American woman with responsibilities toward certain social identies, and that there were impositions placed on me by various societies. I had accepted this when I broke down into heavy sobs at the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem, and identified with the murdered faces of Jews in the exhibits.
I remember, however, I was the only one during Sabbath discussions who did not agree that the importance of marrying a Jew and raising a Jewish child should be rated a 10/10. My reasoning is that a child should be nurtured to think for itself, and this is independent of the religions of their parents. My upbringing as a “cashew”, as I was nicknamed in school – 'Catholic+Jew', had served me well:). When I was more content to sit and observe, instead of to wave my Israeli flag high in the air during a huge rally at an arena involving fireworks and the Israeli national anthem...I was looked at incredulously. I recognized propaganda, and although I tend to side with the Israeli point of view in the question of a Jewish State, I didn't want to be herded into an opinion with the masses, like others in my group.

Barely having time to contemplate these experiences a part from making a DVD of my photos and music collected from the trip, I was off again to France. The first 10 days were spent discovering Paris, and trying not hard enough to understand the vast rift that existed between my mother and I...the source for constant bickering, crying, and eventual separation for a few days during our trip. I felt exasperated by her, and frustrated by her lack of maturity of understanding of me as a woman who was 'much' older, internally, than the 15 year old she was stubborning conceptualizing me as.
Once I watched her waving me goodbye on the sidewalk outside the hotel that Sunday night, as I drove away with Charlotte Deniset and her parents (the exchange student who had lived with us for 10 days the year before), I felt liberated, yet a bit uneasy. I was finally able to retreat into myself, my own ambitions in France, my own potential, my own reflections and reactions to the place around me without having to worry about arguing with my mother. I remember at the time, at age 20, I didn't even feel bad about this.
The road began to wind into the woods outside of Paris toward the countryside, like a snake in the darkness, gliding effortlessly into the unknown with no chance of turning back. I embarked on a trip that would challenge me linguistically, mentally, emotionally and culturally. Facing racist, anti-American grandparents, stigmatized as an American living in “Bush's country,” learning how to communicate in a strange language that was very different from the textbooks I had mastered in American French classes, and melting into the rhythm of a culture and mentality that was not my own...was tiring, frustrating, horrible....and wonderful. I had changed a little inside...wearing my beautiful silver necklace on the plane that clasped my neck, dripping with cubic zirconium flowers, and a skirt I had bought on the l'Ile d'Yeu, I felt like a 'melange' of two worlds...and I was confused for a French girl by the woman next to me o the way back to New York. I remember that my heart burst with pride.

I came home for only a week, before packing up again to move into my new apartment at the University of Illinois in Champaign. I immediately began making arrangements to embark on my next voyage; Ecuador, with a student international service club called International Impact. I used funds that my parents had been saving for me as a buffer fund for any extraneous things I wanted to do outside of academia, plus money I had saved from working as a lifeguard...$1,300 in all. On December 28, 2007, only four months after I had returned from France, I left for Ecuador for almost 3 weeks.

I came to grand conclusions on my trip to Ecuador as well. Apart from falling in love with the country; with its dense, humid, green jungles and sagging mountain valleys beneath thick white fog, and towering waterfalls above heavenly crystal streams...it was as if it was out of a picture book. I loved doing zip lining over the valley, high above the trees, doing the 'superman' trick with the handsome Ecuadorian guide...letting the tiny droplets of fog prick my face as we soared through the air. We climbed a volcano and peered over a vast, empty interieur where there was a beautiful, gigantic lake. We navigated through the densely-packed market of Otavalo, where everything from intricate wooden pipes, to interesting instruments made from turtle shells and coconuts, to alpaca sweaters for $12...it was sights and sounds galore.
As far as my own frustration and annoyance with the other students in our group – 11 girls mostly younger than myself, I realized that there is a specific way to behave in other countries...and that their behavior did not stand as a exemplary model. That in traveling, one becomes an unwilling ambassador, and one must be conscientious of how we are perceived by others. Singing Disney songs while working in a field of endangered baby trees in front of exclusively Spanish-speaking locals, is embarrassing. They bought loads of colorful native scarfs and wore them all at once, parading around like ridiculous little girls playing dress up in public...mispronouncing things on the menu in a loud and mocking voice, and then collapsing in fits of laughter. The girls took forced pictures with indigenous beggar woman on the street, as if we were taking pictures with Mickey Mouse at Disney Land. They were loud, crass and ignorant, drawing attention and stares of a negative nature, everywhere we went. My horror and humiliation with being associated with these 'typical' conspicuous, ignorant Americans was overwhelming; I tried my best to stay disassociated from the group, far away from the rest of them.

It was then that I realized the strange irony of volunteering abroad; the idea that privileged white westerns descend from on high, a world of wealth where luxury has become the unappreciated norm, to do their 'part' in helping the the world of the poor...something that eases their collective guilty unconscious, and something to gloat about to their friends back home. It is a purely selfish act, no matter how much one consciously likes to convince themselves that it is selfless.
How does one sincerely expect to 'make a difference' after taking a 'vacation' of two weeks to Ecuador to do a 'service project' on an organic farm; shoveling manure, milking cows, and hoeing corn? These girls, and the other American volunteers at the farm where we were working/living, were not interested in consorting with the locals...getting to know the Ecuadorians as individuals. They played with their children, but that was the extent of their interaction with the people we were 'helping' and learning about. I, in contrast, got the distinct impression that we weren't descending to charitably help these people...which is a patronizing attitude, implying that these people can't help themselves...but rather that we were observing...and sometimes even getting in their way – techniques they had perfected and tasks they were much more proficient at carrying out than we were. At times they even seemed annoyed with us. This became evident when after a day of singing Disney songs and obnoxious laughter and giddiness, our Ecuadorian overseers came in the next day with a radio before we arrived, and began blasting Spanish music. I asked them if it was because of our singing the day before, and he grinned, looked away, and nodded.

The exception to this generalization, is the English man who had given up a successful career in Europe in his mid-20's to live in Ecuador full-time, and to dedicate his life to helping the cause...even to the disappointment of his parents, who had been visiting at the same time we were there. I had had a heart-to-heart with his mother, and she expressed her regret of his decision.

Senegal was the mother of all my voyages. Preparation for what was in store for me was minimal, and I even considered not going at first. I remember being terrified in the days before I got on the plane, imagining the worst things happening to me. Meeting with a friend who had done the trip a year before eased my mind a bit, and even made part of me excited. I had limited experience with my Congolese immigrant friends, as part of the immigrant help club between French-speaking African immigrants and U of I students...so I knew that there was a colorful, joyous side to Africa that was usually left undiscovered by the Western world. I remember trying to remind myself that it wouldn't be all 'Hotel Rwanda' and 'Blood Diamond.' That the 'joie de vivre' that the Congolese kept reminiscing about in longing nostalgie, was something that would be self-evident when I arrived.

Everything was different. It wasn't even the faintly similar, familiar world of Europe, as it had been in France...in France, white people resembled 'Us' in America – or at least the Chicago suburbs where I had grown up - and architecture reminded me of U.S. big cities....and cuisine was mostly recognizable from restaurants in the United States, only with superior quality. Senegal was 180 degrees opposite from everything I had known and grown accustomed to.

I remember writing that I missed all things familiar, in the first few weeks. I missed a world where at least French was spoken most of the time, so I could understand what was said to me...unfortunately, even though Senegal is a French-speaking country, officially in business, administration and politics, they speak Wolof in the home. I couldn't understand my family most of the time...and they were a family that had hosted countless other 'toubabs' (white people) like myself. They did not bother to translate for me, and took only a mild and amused interest in the fact that myself and the other American girl had trouble learning how to eat with our hands, for example. We were just ghosts in a family...their home was obviously a hotel. I knew I had a long way to go to crack through their perception of me...which I came to realize right away;
I was a nothing...a package deal that they knew all too well...they expected behavior from me that I felt unfair and imposed. They expected me not to speak with them, not to make an effort to hang out with their children, not to make an effort with learning Wolof, not to understand Senegalese culture, and not to treat them like real human beings. The stories of American students before me who had shown mostly unintentional disrespect, prissy attitude problems, crumbling under frustration and pressure, refusal to participate in typical cultural activities, etc, made me embarrassed of how they had planted this misconception in their heads. I knew I was not this way...and I would show them I was different.

I would stay long after the dinner plates were cleared away to discuss life and philosophy and social politics with my host father, Ignace, who would become louder, jollier and more passionate as the night progressed and number of wine glasses increased. I allowed my host sisters to braid my hair...the first time they had ever done this with a toubab...which took 11 hours. I would hang out at the neighborhood bar where my eldest host brother, Jean-Marie worked, and enjoy the live music and converse with his friends. I would even bring my fellow students from our development program there, and the tiny bar would be filled with the excited sounds of English...and they were happy to have our business so often.
I would stay up late in the family room and have often heated arguments and conversations with Antoine, the 23 year old son of the family. We would watch 80's American horror movies dubbed in French, and French comedies, laughing until our stomachs hurt. He would make me 'faire face' touchy, delicate subjects such as race relations between blacks and whites throughout history, and western female obsession with being skinny...and I would get so upset at times, that I would leave – especially the time he told me I had a 'gros ventre' (big stomach), just meaning to tease me a bit. He had no idea how sensitive this concept is. I realized I had a complex about this...and throughout the rest of my trip, especially with my second host father in Fatick, the small town where I did my microfinance internship during the second 2 months...I learned to slowly shed my insecurities about being thin. My host father would constantly try to complement his skills as a host, by saying that I was “obviously well taken-care-of,” due to the fact that I had “gained a lot of weight since I had stayed with them.” and to “Eat...white women never want to gain weight, I don't undersand it. A skinny woman is sick...it means she is upset and has a lot on her mind. A woman should have a meat on her bones.” For the first time since I could remember, I was “bien dans ma propre peau.” (felt good in my own skin). I was proud of the curves I had...and judging by the attention I got from men every time I left my doorstep, this was well appreciated around me as well.
Here's some interesting conclusions that I had written in my memoires in Senegal, during my last few weeks...after months of rewarding struggle that had ripped out my insides, forced me to examine everything I had grown up with, my social coding that I had taken for granted...modify everything I believed in to its core, and stuffed it back in me with abruptness....

In Senegal, we don't say please or thank you...in fact there doesn't exist a work for “please” in Wolof. I never realized how much Americans overuse the word “please.” Americans add it in all the time, to spice up whatever we're doing with someone else. The more times we say please, the more polite we think we're being. I've learned that here in Senegal, it's just completely unnecessary...after I while I realized that I'm wasting my breath. “Please” and “thank you” are understood. In a world where family, friends, and community means more than an American can understand unless they've lived here amongst it...you are responsible for other people. Saying please is a waste of time, because the other person is expected to keep you in mind and look out for you. It's their responsibility, in a way, and they're happy to do it. They know that they're supposed to tear off some fish and drop it in your portion during lunch if you haven't eaten any in a while; it's jumping up to get you water when you say you're thirsty without being asked; it's handing you a spoon before sitting down; it's offering you a seat when they see you're there's something you need or want, someone else around you has already thought of it...and is running to get it for you. You don't usually have to ask. If you do, it's just “jox ma samma_” (give me my), or “mayma ko” (give it to me). And people pass it without a second glance. Hardly ever say thank you unless it's something unexpected, like a gift. If I said thank you every time someone did something for me or gave me something, I would be spending half my day saying thank you's. Once in a while it's nice, quietly, so the person giving you whatever it is, can hear – it isn't something everyone else around needs to hear. Somehow this has made it more sincere, more special, than in the United States. Saying please in the United States, and thank you, acknowledges that the other person didn't have to do something for you, and that it's something out of the ordinary. That they're taking time out of their day, their life, their busy schedule – and that's what makes it so nice of them to do something for YOU. Here, it's part of life...if normal behavior to give and to receive. Which makes it not necessary to acknowledge all the time. I hope that's clear, and you all don't think “Wow, the Senegalese are really rude.”
After a while, you realize you're the only one judging yourself. Everyone here wants me to gain wait. And when Yaay sits around proudly without a shirt on, comfortably lounging around after a meal, her rolls displayed to the world...no one gives it a second thought. They tell me that it means you're eating well, that you're living well, and you're enjoying life. All the skinny girls around here want to gain wait, and the larger women definitely are more proud than smaller women. They walk around with an air of importance, and say that skinny women are “sickly” and “not in good health.” Their idea of “good health” here is completely the inverse of the United States. We think that thin and fit is “good health,” and they think that a good amount of padding is good health. One could argue that scientific knowledge of health in the States overrides theirs, or lack their of – but people here are definitely more satisfied mentally, emotionally, with their physique and self-image. They are more confident, and Anorexia/Bulimia is non-existant...eating-related disorders and disease doesn't exist. One could argue that this point alone is a point in favor of the Senegalese idea of good health. Added with the fact that I am not constantly bombarded here with advertisements and TV ads 24/7 telling me about the next best way to lose weight – because of course I want to lose weight, like everyone else – in time for summer bikinis, or in general. The next big diet, the next big success story, the next talk show host that's going to showcase someone who's lost a bunch of weight, the next best deal for Lifetime membership to “get in shape!”. I am not bombarded with advertisements for watches or purses or cars or other unrelated merchandise, sported by another stick-skinny, starved European model with hollowed and sunken eyes...branded as the idea of beauty. This is not beautiful. This is sick. The fact that we emmulate this idea day in and day out, and that most of the female population in Europe and the United States, since they do not adhere to this unreachable standard, walk around all the time with complexes and self-hating tendencies and lack of self-esteem – is even worse. This is not normal, it's not natural...and people in Senegal emulate the Woman for who she is, by nature...squishy in certain parts, curvy, and healthy. She is strong, powerful, confident, and fat....and in this way, she is beautiful. Beauty truly is on the inside here, since exterior beauty is shown by beautiful clothes and a full-figured appearance. Not makeup, not liposuction, not anything. People look the way they were meant to look...by God, if you want to look at it that way, or by Nature. Some women are missing teeth. Some women are missing eyes, or their eyes look in a strange direction. Some women are missing noses. Some women are just not that beautiful, and wouldn't get any attention at all in the United States. But they filter in and out of my life, coming into our house at night to chat and laugh and mingle with my family and I...and this is natural. Every person is treated with dignity and respect, regardless of their appearance. I also do not have a mirror here, apart from a tiny hand-held mirror I bought so I can put in my contacts. It has been a month since I have seen my body, in it's entirety. And it's refreshing...I've almost stopped caring. The other day my host dad told me I've gained weight since I've been here. When I went back to Dakar, they said I had lost weight. My guess is my host dad in Fatick told me this in order to compliment me – telling someone they've gained weight is a good thing. I found myself wondering which was true...had I gained or lost weight? I even felt a sense of panic...I don't want to go back to the United States fatter than when I arrived! I don't want to look like these gigantic women wearing boubous proudly! But then I realized...why do I care? Why do I care which one it was, if I got slightly bigger or smaller? This isn't a big deal! When I catch myself touching my stomach and wondering if it's bigger, or squeezing my love handles after a large meal...I look around me and realize no one else is paying attention. It's just me that's judging myself.

It was in Senegal that I realized that I was just a little bit racist. It went deeper than just a tolerance of 'racist jokes' amongst my friends and family in the States against black people...it was the fact that I still thought of them as a “them.” I didn't understand, and therefore was intimidated by people like Malcom X, and thought, like most of my suburban white family/friends, that rap music was meant to scare white people and that it was in some way, a threat to all that was decent and civilized. I thought rappers weren't quite a waste of space, but I did turn my nose up at their hardly thought-provoking lyrics and images of women shaking their behinds, wearing thongs, the antichrist of feminism.


So I've uprooted myself once again, struggling to keep my head up in a wave of bureaucracy, paperwork, stingy foreigners, hidden social coding, expectations, living paycheck to paycheck, and keeping on task with my job. Unfortunately, this takes a lot of my time...and for some reason, when I think about sitting down and writing, usually these thoughts are immediately overtaken by the idea to go out with my friends somewhere.


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