17 Reasons Why You Should Worship Lord Voldemort as Your Lord and Savior

lord-jc
1. He was the son of a poor man who overcame his humble roots and rose to power.
2. He gathered together a group of people who acted as messengers of his word.
3. He was able to physically manifest himself in inanimate objects.
4. People tend to do crazy things under the influence of his written word.
5. His followers had a secret symbol to identify themselves.
6. He brought a message of change that spoke to people.
7. He believed in being pure…
8. He had an animal shaped ghost following him around.
9. He had conversations with snakes.
10. He came from a royal house.
11. He rose from the motherfucking dead.
12. He smote those who went against his word.
13. He began his rise to power by coming out of water.
14. To this day, some people do not say his real name.
15. he was born at the very end of December.
16. He came to conquer death.
17. He claimed to be equal with God.

lord-v

Think about it.

Banter from the next Judd Apatow Film…or not…

Zach: I got it. we’ll call my cousin alec.
cat: who?
Z: cousin alec.
cat: gay cousin alec?
Z: yeah
c: no. no. nonono.
Z: why not?
c. last time i saw him he told me that I had a fat ass
Z; that was like 5 years ago. and besides. he was drunk. and he’s gay. that’s like…what he does.
c. no, zach. no. put down the phone. zach…put down the phone. zach?
(fight ensues with the cell phone being tossed between the guys. finally cat is pinned beneath ben and we hear zach say…
z: alec! buddy! I need a favor. it’s kind of an emergency.

The guys are talking amongst themselves while they play a video game.

B; i mean, she’s got nice tits. that’s got to count for something
D: well, obviously. they’re tits
Z: yeah, but I mean you have to aknowledge the fact that she knows more about portal than I do.
D: that doesn’t negate the fact that she’s got nice tits
B: no, but it also doesn’t help the fact that she acts like a raging lesbian
D: a raging lesbian with nice tits
Z: Dan!
D; what?
Z: shut the fuck up. we’re trying to have a discussion here.
D: you’re not discussing anyhting. you’re talking about cat’s tits.
B: or lack thereof.
Z: ben!
B: what?
Z: just…fuck it. (takes a hit).
D: all i’m saying is that you can’t negate nice tits, even if you do like star trek
B: bullshit.
D: what?
B: i’m calling bullshit.
D: why?
B: you’re telling me that if some chick came up to you who looked like…pamela fucking anderson. you’d still tap that, even if she told you that she spoke klingon?
D: dude, if a chick came up to me and told me she spoke klingon, i’d fuck her then and there.
H: I fucked your mom’s klingon last night
All: shut up, herb.

Cat: I got asked out.
Z: what?
Cat; I got asked out.
B: by who?
Cat: a guy?
D: shit! (dan passes ben 20 bucks)
Cat: fuck you. yes, a guy.
B: I told you, motherfucker.
H: what are you going to wear, dude?
Z: what?
H: I said what are you goign to wear?
C: to what?
h: the date, dude
C: I don’t know.
H: dude, well you better figure that shit out, man. you can’t go looking like that. look at you
C: fuck off. (the guys are all staring at her) what? WHAT?
B: this may be the one and only time i ever say this…but herb’s right man.
D: seriously. i mean…dude.
C (Goes to mirror) what?
Z: they’re right. girls don’t dress like that, cat. I’m just saying.
B: seriously.
c: fuck!

My Re-occuring dream

It’s one of those dreams you keep having and even in the middle of your dream you know “this is going to be scary” The entire dream is like a movie played out in my head. There’s a narrorater who sounds like the guy who does the voice overs for movie ads and his name is Jim. I don’t know why I know that but I do.
It starts out with a view of a simple blue farmhouse somewhere .All the windows and doors are boarded up and there is a big huge fence around the property. The ‘camera???’ pulls up and shows the full house while  Jim  explains that in the olden days, an evil witch lived there. The ‘scene’ goes into flashback and it shows the evil witch casting spells on people. Then a bunch of people come with pitchforks and stuff  and set her house on fire, with her in it. Jim explains that her spirit is trapped within the house and that’s why it’s boarded up. If anyone ever left one window open a centimeter, her spirit could escape and do evil all over, but her spirit can only be released at night..
The the scence changes to a beautiful spring morning, present day. A group of archeologists are trying to learn about all the different things that happened in the town, and they hear about this old, old house that has been boarded up since the day of this fire. But the weird thing was is that the house is perfect. No burn damage at all. The legend says that the house repaired itself useing the evil power of the witch. One of the young archeologists figure out that if this is true, the house will still have everything in it that a 15th century farm house would—exactly set up in a perfect example of living. So they decide to check it out.
They go into the house and check it out. Jim explains that they spent the entireday there. You see images of the stuff in the house–a butterchurn, a old table, candles, weird skulls and things…but the wierd thing is is that everything is perfectly clean. it’s like someone is still living there. One of the archeologists thinks that’s really creepy, so they decide to leave.
By this time, it’s night. You see them leave, and Jim takes over again. He then starts talking about how everything is back to normal and that the witch is securly contained. Then the “camera” pans over to a window open slightly. A cool breeze is blowing the lace curtains around inside. and then Jim says “Or is she?”. Then an ungodly shreiking fills the air and I wake up. Odd.

Just…something….

It was late. Not the early-morning hour where one’s not quite sure whether to specify the hour as early or late, but late. The summer air was thick with lingering humidity from the day, and the only breeze that stirred was from the droning electic fan that sat on the table accross from the bed.
It was clear that this was to be a sleepless night, and the cotton sheet tangled around her feet only added to her frustration. It was too hot for the simple sheet, but too cold without it. She kicked herself mentally for not remembering to take the little white pills that helped her slip into sleep so easily. It was too late for them now–she’d just have to do it on her own. The glare from the cheap alarm clock next to her bed reminded her that there were only 6 hours left until she has to get up–at this rate, she was never going to get to bed.
She turned over onto her side, and waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was some light–an ugly, orange light that radiated from the light post in the alley, that somehow, even from behind a garage, a tree and a drawn window shade managed to beam streaks of the ugly light into the room and cast shadows on the wall. Fantastical shadow, not theatening, just interesting. As a child, she would watch these shahows for hours, interested to see how they would cavort and stretch before the rising sun chased them away and she was forced to find other, more sutable entertainments for someone her age.  She reached out and examined the cool, bumpy plaster that had gone through three different coats of paint.
Indicicive, that’s what she was. There had been the pure white, but it was easily soiled. Then there was the pink, but she had quickly outgrown that. Lastly was the plan for four different colored walls, but her practical mother has quashed that dream quickly, and seafoam green had been chosen.
But in the semi-darkness, she could still she the areas under the window sill and above the closet where the green had not been perfectly applied, places where the white and the pink bled through. She had hidden these carefully from her mother, wanting to please her, hoping that her carelessness would be overlooked. It had been.
She looked at the glowing red numbers, squinting at the sudden glare
The number 12 was sturdy. It was thick and bold..even on the digital clock, it was unconsciously the center..it stood for something.
She hated the number 7. It was limp, useless. It seemed to symbolize all of the failures–school, job interviews, later, auditions–each time, the alarm had carefully been set for 7:00, and every time, she had walked out sobbing. She was destined to be unlucky, especially when it came to things she wanted.

The Start of Something…

its an interesting feeling, knowing that you’ve faded. it brings up several issues, some of which are either than others. How do you explain to your mother? your friends? how do you go about describing the knowledge that you have become grey? it sounds rediculous, some sort of emo indie hipster slogan for saving the environment through laundry. “I’ve gone grey” isn’t exactly a phrase we hear on a day to day basis.
The idea, then, is rather than trying to escape the feeling, accepting it and using that knowledge to fufill whatever goals and aspirations we may have. Admittedly, there are days when I don’t want to have goals, or dreams, or aspirations. I just want to sleep. but the true power lies in taking the first few steps out of bed, however hesitant they may be.
The best part of all of this is that there is always room for failure, always room for regression. it’s a natural part of life. It’s hard to reprogram your DVD burner–reporgramming your life to color is something that takes finesse and dedication. it won’t happen overnight.
But what exactly is this grey? It’s a feeling of general dissastisfaction, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s a feeling of perpetual melencholy, of wistful longing for some better. It’s fucking depression.

God-Awful Teen Movie Script Bit

The Wanna-Be
By Catie Osborn

Scene 1: Alarm clock sounds. Good Charlotte’s “The Anthem” comes on. Cut to two feet swinging out of bed onto a floor strewn with clothes, papers and the bottom of a guitar. At Cue, Voiceover begins.

Voice (JACK)
My name is Jack Milester

Throughout entire introduction, a boy (JACK) is getting dressed in full punk attire and going through his morning routine.

JACK (VO)
I am your typical middle-class kid. Except for one thing–I have no place.

Cut to JACK coming out of his home. He grabs a skateboard from the porch and proceeds down the walk. He attempts to do a trick on the curb and falls flat on his back. The camera pulls up in an arial shot as JACK continues speaking.

JACK (VO)
So this is the story of my life–I got to school, go to work, and I don’t belong anywhere.

CUT to large, grassy commons of a high school-different group of students mill around, never interacting.

JACK (VO)
So this is my high school. John Adams high. It’s okay. I mean, we’ve never had any thing interesting happen, but we survive. It’s a typical high school with your typical cliques.

(As each group is names, a shot of each one is shown)

JACK (VO)
In fourth grade, my teacher brought in an ant colony. The ants all had a specific purpose. Food gatherer, soldier, queen, stuff like that. The way I see it, these cliques all support each other, but never really interact. They keep to themselves and are hesitant to let an outsider in. We first have the Jocks. Self explanatory. Next, we have the cheerleaders as sub clique of the popular kids. These are the people who rule the school. And believe me-it doesn’t matter who you are or what you do. Because for no matter how long, even for a moment, you’ve wondered what it’s like. You’ve wanted to be them. You want to have admirers, attention–you want to be the guy everyone cheers for as you score the wining baskets, and you want to be the girl every guy would kill to date.

Camera pans over to separate area of the commons. Here, the groups mentioned below are shot as before.

JACK (VO)
Next, we have the untouchables–so called because you are either in or you’re out. You can’t be a deep dark poet and be a jock. It just doesn’t work. The poets and drama kids are the mysterious  ones. No one understands their poetry or their photographs, and everyone knows they really don’t like coffee, but they put up with them because one might just be the next Longfellow. The nerds are my personal favorite–not because they’re fun to beat up, but because they’re the kids with an actual future, and they’re the ones with their heads in the toilet most of the time. The bullies, stoners, gangstas and posers are all so names because its exactly what they are. Here, some intermix, but everyone else stays away.
Then there are the gifted few with the tale of total acceptance–no matter what they do, each group accepts them as their own. They fit in as well with the poet as they do with the punks.
Shot of  group of beautiful girls.

JACK (VO)
That’s her.

Camera pans around girls to another girl, sitting by picnic table in a wheelchair, reading a book.

JACK (VO)
No, she isn’t a supermodel. But she’s perfect.

We finally see JACK’s face. He heads towards the girl. It’s obvious that he’s nervous and socially akward. The girl spots him and smiles.

EMILY
Hey Jack!

EMILY smiles and wheels away.

JACK (VO)
She knows every student by name. Girls are complicated beings, aren’t they/ they pretend to like you, or pretend to hate you, or laugh instead of cry or cry instead of laugh….it’s like they do exactly the opposite.

Bell rings and students start to go into the school.

JACK (VO)
(As he talks, camera follows JACK into school and to his locker!)

We are about to venture into the realm of high school. High school is a crazy thing. People tell us that high school is the best time in our lives –but then why is it so damn boring? And you’ve have to find your place right away, or you’ll be branded as the weird kid all four years, and then you’re screwed. I’ve tried nearly every group–but it just didn’t feel right. I can’t play sports, I can’t act, I can’t skateboard, I failed poetry last year and I’m socially akward.

A s

Super Sweet Time-Travel-y Story Thing…

Chapter One

She bolted down the shadowed alley, her short brown hair hitting her cheek as she twisted to look behind her. She was still being followed. The sun was setting in the distance, creating the eerie half-light that now lit the open street ahead of her. She ducked behind a dumpster and peeked out. She spotted two men in suit casually strolling down the alley and grimaced. Hoping for the best, she crouched low and ran, stopping behind a giant van that was parked across the street. Her sneakers splattered in a puddle and she cursed as she felt her socks absorb the moisture.
She’d been out shopping all day, stopping at the local bookstore to admire the display of her new book and to check her mail at the post office. She’d noticed the men in the bookstore, and had hardly given them a second glance. It wasn’t until she noticed the suspicious looking shape tucked into one of their socks did she panic. They’d found her again.  This time, she’d missed the warning signs. She’d have to improvise.
Muttering  quick prayer to whomever might be listening, she crouched low and began to creep down the street in the opposite direction of the two men. Suddenly, the men crossed the street and studied the row of parked cars. She froze, trying desperately not to breathe too loudly as the larger of the two men spoke.
“We’ve been tracking her for days. Let’s just leave and wait for her to go back to her place, and take her back from there”. His deep voice implied his authority over the his smaller counterpart, but  it seemed his partner had an idea as well.
“What if she finds out that we’ve been ordered to watch her? That book of hers—this is serious business she’s gotten herself into. We’ve got to take care of this, and now”. With a furtive glance around him, he reached down to his shoe.
From her vantage point behind the car, she could clearly see what she had feared–a long, narrow wooden object about 8 inches long. It was a wand. He was one of them. There was no time to think. She could tell that this was serious, that she needed to get out of there–and quickly. She began running at a low crouch behind the row of parked cars, and finally reached the bus stop at the end of the block. She grabbed a disgusting old newspaper from underneath the bench and hid her face, glancing every so often from behind the damp pages to check on the men. They were still arguing.
Finally, the bus wheezed to a stop and she jumped on, excusing herself as she pushed past a few people on the way out.  She dug in her pockets for change, paid the driver and walked to the back, trying to keep her face turned away from the windows on that side of the street. Finally, she reached the back sat down, sighing. She rubbed her face with her hands and watched the two men as the bus pulled away.

Chapter Two

When she arrived home, she immediately grabbed her backpack and duffel bag and began throwing in everything important. Her laptop, notebooks, purse and keys and money went into the backpack, and some clothes and other assorted junk went into the larger duffel. She had done this dozens of times before–there would be new clothes and new copies of her favorite books—only what she truly needed went with her. She frantically dug under her bed until her hand made contact with a wooden box, which she carefully wrapped in a sweater and shoved deep into her backpack.
She had her hand on the doorknob when she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. She cursed again under her breath and set the bag down. She hit the button and the message played.
“Hi, Em, it’s Jane down in publicity. Listen, the kids are loving your book. We’re looking to perhaps have you go on a short publicity tour. Nothing too fancy–just a couple of stops on some local television stations and then maybe a press conference if sales keep picking up. I’ve got all the information ready to go, so just give me a call when you get this. Thanks a lot!”
That message being played, Emily stopped and considered her options. She could go out and make a run for it, pick up and move and hope to keep a low profile, or she could agree to the publicity tour and buy herself sometime–they wouldn’t dare try and touch her with so many people around. Plus, she might be able to find a friend to stay with in the meantime.
Her decision made, she picked up her bags and glanced back at the comfy apartment. It had been one of her favorites, but it was time to move on. She dug her cell phone out of her back pocket, and dialed.
She took a deep breath and tried to steady her voice.
“Hi, Jane? It’s Emily. I got your message. No, I’d love to.”.
Twenty minutes later Emily was seated in a plush glass and leather office decorated with posters of best-selling novels. Two huge bookcases stood like guards behind a desk, at which sat a tiny woman with a mess of curly blonde hair. Emily was sitting cross-legged in one of the huge leather chairs that sat in front of the desk, toying with a sample action figure she’s found in the lobby.
“Thanks so much for coming in, Em. I really appreciate it.” Jane was a perky twenty something who ……

Terrible Screenplay Idea

Scene 1: Airplane Hangar. In foreground, a giant, half-built airplane looms up out of the half-shadowed bunker. Camera flies up and over the airplane, showing the construction progress. Camera moves down and around to the other side of
the plane, where a news reporter is filming against the giant wing of the plane.

Reporter: I’m standing here in front of the nearly completed Boeing 17-68, the largest and most complex plane ever constructed for international use. With only 3 weeks to go untill it’s maiden voyage, many critics of this multi-billion dollar project
say that it will an impossibility to complete this project on time.

Camera pulls back to reveal the scene on a flat-screen panel in a lush office.

Reporter: The plane is being called the “peace plane” by many. In a historical precedent, the Boeing company has invited over 50 world leaders and dignitaries from various countries to hold an international peace conference on board during the flight. Only 36 have accepted this invitation as of yet, but critics are already concerned about the type of security required to —

Scene 2: Office The screen goes black. Camera pans 360 to reveal a man sitting at his desk, phone on his shoulder and remote in hand. He is not happy.

Man: No. I told you at least three times that we needed —- I understand there are certain issues that can— yes.. No. Look. This is time sensitive material. I want it tonight. Be there at eleven or not at all.

He slams down phone, and yanks open a drawer. Inside, we can see blueprints, newspaper clippings and photographs. He reaches through the assortment and pulls out a box. It is a small, “security” box lined with eggshell foam with a tiny cut-out, about the size of a postage stamp. He clips it shut, and stands. He takes out another, almost identical box from another drawer and opens this. Inside is a gun. He removes it and hides it in his coat, and leaves the office.

Scene 3: Night. A Starbucks. The man is sitting at a table, enjoying an overpriced coffee delight. He is on his cell phone, talking in low tones.

Man: (on cell). Yes. That’s correct. I should have it in my possesion in—

He looks up as the door opens. A shifty looking guy in skeezy clothes enters. This is Jay. He has obviously noticed the man, but is trying to play it cool. He meanders up to the counter, and the man quickly ends his call, and watches Jay as he recieves his drink. Jay stands akwardly, realizing that he’s going to have to interact with the man, but he doesn’t want to. The man quickly intervenes. He stands.

Man: Good to see you.

He (not that gently) steers the guy to his table.

Man: I assume you brought the mercahndise?

Jay: Mercahndise? What is this…the Godfather? Why don’t you just say the chip?

Jay smirks. He rumages through his knapsack and holds up a thermos. He shakes it, and a rattle from the inside assures him that chip is inside.

Man: So you want to be cute. Let me ask you—do you enjoy your kneecap?

Camera pans to the underside of the table, where we see that the man has placed his gun point-blank against Jay’s leg.

Jay: Oh…now what are you gonna do? Shoot me? Right here in Starbucks. Why, I expected more than that. Besides..you want to keep me mobile…I might just slip…and the chip might just happen to fall into a sewer grate or something.

Man: That would be tragic. Especially because that chip is worth more to me than your pathetic existence. I’ve got your check. Take it and go.

From under the table, the sound of a cocking gun can be heard. Jay, however, shows no fear.

Jay: Why you gotta threaten me all the time, man? I’m just trying to do my job, and you’re always all up in my grill, trying to scare me. Why you gotta be like that?

The man slams an envelope down onto the table. Jay delicately slides it accross, and obviously yet delicately opens it and checks the amount. He looks up sharply

Jay: I thought you said three—

Man: I had to take off a smart-ass tax. I hope you understand.

Jay is pissed

Jay: I’m sorry, too, man.

Jay slowly removes the thermos from his backpack, and unscrews the top. He overturns it, and the chip slides out onto the table. He then takes his coffee and goes to dump it onto the chip, but before he can, the sound of a silenced gun is heard and Jay screams. The man slides the chip off of the table and into his pocket as Jay continues to scream. The camera pans down to the floor, where his shoes walk through the blood and around the feet of the concerned patrons.

A Canadian-Belgian Jew, or How I met my birthmother

It all began with Lithuanians. Drunk Lithuanians, specifically. At a wedding.
Well, not real Lithuanians, nor was it a real wedding, but a group of us had been portraying them for about 5 hours when I sat down next to Colleen Winters and started chatting.

We didn’t talk about anything that particularly impressive, except that we got to chatting about our relative adoptions and the facts behind them. It was an interesting conversation, but I thought nothing of it.
Then, the next night, I went home and was talking to my mom and we somehow got talking about adoption, and I mentioned that Colleen and I had discussed meeting our birthmoms and our opinions about it.

My mom said “would you ever like to meet her”?

I said “Well, I guess? Just to see, you know. I mean, I have questions I’d like answered”.

So my mom left the room and came back with a letter that was postmarked May of 2007. It was a letter from my birthmother, who for sake of clarity will now be called Krista. Because that’s her name. In the letter, she wrote to say that I was free to write her should I have any questions, and she wasn’t trying to take over my life, but she’d love to hear from me.

So that was weird. So then I did what every responsible person would do. I Googled her. I found her in the first 3 minutes of searching, and a couple of cross indexes made me completely sure.

I debated for awhile. I mean, I was happy not knowing, but there is always that just sort of…wonder. I thought about when I was working at the court house and I had realized I had access to the birth records. I wasn’t sure what to do, and I remember Mex told me that this was something he couldn’t help me with–that I had to do this totally on my own….and now, the situation had come completely full circle..I was staring at the door to my birth mom, this woman who I had wondered about for so long…and it was completely up to me.

I decided to email her, while simultaneously freaking out to Steph, Andrew, Brittney and Abby. After about 10 revisions, I sent the email, kind of introducing myself, telling her a little about me, apologizing for emailing but hell if I was going to snail mail that shit.

So the next day, I heard back from her. It seemed like she was really nice, and she told me a little bit about herself. That was when things got Twilight Zone weird. Turns out Krista had gone not just to the same high school as me, but the same grade school, as well. Her parents were best friends with my grade school music teacher. She knew people I knew. I had been in a play with my sister and never known it. That was the weirdest part, I think. I had always thought that since I was born in Springfield, MO, my birth mom was far away. It turns out she was just visiting her sister when I was born.

So we exchanged emails for awhile, and then she asked if it would be alright if she called me. So she called me later that night,(while I was at the KFC drivethrough) and she seemed really nice. She mentioned that she might be in the Quad Cities that weekend because her daughter Zoey had a speech meet and could she call to do lunch? I said yes, but I didn’t really think anything of it until she called me at 3 on Saturday saying that she would be in town in a few minutes.

I suggested we eat at the Olive Garden, and after frantically trying to figure out what the hell I was going to wear (with help from Abby) I rushed over to the OG after stopping only to get flowers. So we met up, and it was a very surreal moment.

This is her…its just really, really weird still.

First off, she’s got GREAT fucking hair. And she’s really pretty. Which is good to know :). It was just weird–I had dreamed of this moment for so many years, and all of the sudden I was rushing out the door and my hair was a terrible mess and I didn’t know what was going to come out of it. (At least I didn’t get kidnapped like in Annie as Abby and I had previously discussed). And then I was sitting across the table with the real, live Amanda Virginia…who wasn’t Amanda Virgina at all, but a happy, friendly woman who I really liked.

But so we had lunch, and it was great. We got along very well,but I had to go to Godspell so I had to leave earlier than I would have liked. And I realized that I had forgotten to ask the most important question. What the HELL am I?

So I emailed her again, and survey says….Canadian/Belgian Jew!
Well, the Jew is by technicality only, but Goddamn it, I’ve joked about it long enough I’m embracing it.
See, my (birth) Grandmother was Belgian, and then immigrated to Canada, where she married my (birth) Grandfather who is German/Irish/English.
Then Krista married a Jew.

BAM.
So it’s the wrong side, and I’m not even entirely sure that she was talking about my birth father, but either way. Still cool.

So….that’s the story. It’s still a little weird, and I don’t really know how I feel about the whole situation. I mean, on one hand, I’m really happy about meeting her, but there are just a lot of weird emotions involved. We’ll see what happens, I guess, but for now, I’m pretty happy with the way things have turned out.

It’s like making a new friend, really. I mean, I’m not looking for a new mommy. I am quite happy with the one I have. But now I have a younger sister named Zoey who is a senior in high school, who likes theatre and music and is on the speech team, and a younger brother and sister who are twins named Samantha and Teddy who are 8. Samantha is chunky and dorky, and Teddy is skinny and covered with freckles and wears big gold glasses. I also have three aunts and an uncle. Krista has a boyfriend named Dean who knows a lot about flowers and picked me out daisies for when she first met me because he thought they were fun and I seemed like a fun person.

So, it doesn’t end with Lithuanians, but at least now I don’t have to keep telling the story over and over.

My Study Abroad Essay

There is something to be said about the fact that I learned to read at a very young age. Perhaps it is not entirely true that it changed the course of my life, but I can say for certain that it opened up a world vastly different from my own earlier, I think, than my parents intended. Instead of Sesame Street, I watched documentaries about the great princes of Egypt and the deep jungles of Africa. Instead of reading Where The Wild Things Are, I read the great classics and dreamed of the day that I too could travel and write great books.
For me, England has always held a special fascination. Some of my favorite memories are of warm summer nights spent pouring over Charles Dickens’ accounts of London and dreaming of spending foggy nights solving mysteries out on the moors with Sherlock Holmes and Watson. This is why, 17 years from that day when I awkwardly stuttered out the first few lines of my first read words, I am struggling to choose the right words to express how deeply I want to study abroad in England.
My decision to study abroad has not come lightly. As a theatre major, my classes are only a part of my education–the productions I audition for and participate in also become part of my learning process as an actress. Giving up an entire season was not a decision I made lightly, but I know that the opportunities I will have in England far outweigh a few lines on my resume. As a life long lover of Shakespeare, I cannot begin to describe my excitement at the prospect of literally walking in his footsteps and studying where he lived and worked.
Many of my friends and family have asked me why I have chosen to study at Edge Hill University rather than in London. There are many reasons, from the differences in culture and town living to Liverpool being chosen the 2008 culture capital of England. (Also, as a huge Beatles fan, I am not opposed to living only 20 minutes away from the birthplace of their music!) I also especially liked the fact that Edge Hill has a dance and costuming program, two things I greatly enjoy doing both as a past time and as part of my training to be an actress. Also having a quality theatre on campus (and a beautiful studio space) makes it feel more like home. In addition, I have been a writer for several years now, and when I looked at the course catalog, I was enthralled by the many writing courses and especially the cross-disciplinary courses that cater to many of my interests. I hope to leave Edge Hill with a better knowledge of British culture and British literature, especially newer authors and playwrights that I may not be exposed to here in the Midwest.
Several years ago, I had the good fortune to meet an elderly gentleman who had lived in Coventry for many years. I would pester him with questions about every aspect of English life, and he was more than happy to regale me with fantastic stories of his life and of the adventures he’d had traveling through Europe as a young man. As a young girl, I wanted nothing more to experience what he had, to see the sights that he had seen–and now I have that opportunity. I can actually see the moors that Emily Bronte told me about in Wuthering Heights, I can hear Shakespeare’s immortal words spoken on stage at The Globe, or spend the day eating real, authentic fish and chips where T.S. Elliot might have written his poems.
I think I am most excited for the little things: picking up on the differences between local accents, trying my first cup of real English tea, picking out the perfect souvenirs to take home, honing my photography skills and shopping the famous shops of London. But most of all, I’ve realized that this is my chance to finally see my dream of traveling and writing great books become a reality, and I want that more than anything.