Gargling up videos on (Them)tube and listening to an imported Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time soundtrack. My fingers are dizzy with palendromes: viriv, 7:57, lol. They reek of impotent minutes spent staring, wide-eyed, at the list of bands who haven't e-mailed me back. It's not my fault that the school I happen to attend puts a PG rating on any material submitted to the loosely associable newspaper. I need the responses, but I don't want to hear them.
I want to know if there have been any drastically deep meanings, metaphysical or not, to any of the songs. I don't want to know quite so much what the members like on their pizza, or what their favorite color is.
So I amuse myself with questions that I WOULD ask if I COULD ask. And I listen to my music. And I read my book. And I am one with the laptop.
-D
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
A Special Kind of Hell
There's a special kind of hell for people like my mother and sister who payed more money on costumes for our four dogs then I may have EVER payed on CDs.
Savannah-Tinkerbell
Romeo- A Cop
Buddy- A Ladybug
Bernie- A Hot Dog
These dogs wish death upon us as we roll endlessly with laughter as Bernie gets stuck in the doggie door, trying to escape our unstoppable ridicule. I tried, so hard, to stop laughing at these poor creatures...but...they look so darn cute!!! So I sit with my camera taking pictures of the dogs, whos tear stained faces break my heart and please my shutter.
And now, I answer the door to find little kids dressed as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Princesses. What's not as cute as children in such tiny costumes is children dressed like hookers.
"What are you sweetie?"
"I'm a gothic princess!!" The little girl squeaks, pulling her hyper mini skirt over her garder-belt, and re-adjusting the neon and black tube top. I just sort of look at the mother who seems to be in charge of the group and give her an eyebrow raise and a smile.
Even now I can see the little kids coming up the walk dressed as sheep and a shepard(ess?). Time to up the candy dose.
On a last note, today was good. That is all.
-D
Savannah-Tinkerbell
Romeo- A Cop
Buddy- A Ladybug
Bernie- A Hot Dog
These dogs wish death upon us as we roll endlessly with laughter as Bernie gets stuck in the doggie door, trying to escape our unstoppable ridicule. I tried, so hard, to stop laughing at these poor creatures...but...they look so darn cute!!! So I sit with my camera taking pictures of the dogs, whos tear stained faces break my heart and please my shutter.
And now, I answer the door to find little kids dressed as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Princesses. What's not as cute as children in such tiny costumes is children dressed like hookers.
"What are you sweetie?"
"I'm a gothic princess!!" The little girl squeaks, pulling her hyper mini skirt over her garder-belt, and re-adjusting the neon and black tube top. I just sort of look at the mother who seems to be in charge of the group and give her an eyebrow raise and a smile.
Even now I can see the little kids coming up the walk dressed as sheep and a shepard(ess?). Time to up the candy dose.
On a last note, today was good. That is all.
-D
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Come Down Fom That Sulfur Cloud
The essence of my life is redirected into three things: art, music, and my friends. I'm currently working on art, listening to music, and chatting with my best friend who's standing right behind me.
If this is hell, grant me eternal damnation. I'm a happy girl.
-D
If this is hell, grant me eternal damnation. I'm a happy girl.
-D
Monday, October 29, 2007
Crowsus
My latest scrap of art will be up as soon as I get the scanner running.
I'm proud of it. And I'd like to give a shout out to The Matches for inspiring my art...again...
-D
I'm proud of it. And I'd like to give a shout out to The Matches for inspiring my art...again...
-D
Lithium Lips
It's draining, this front I put on to contain my sanity. The people of school, the way the drip through attitude and can't contain their endless profanity...it's dumb.
I'm friends with everyone, it doesn't matter who they are, but...my mind is scattered. I can't even write this single blog entry.
On a lighter note, my iPod is working again, so I can listen to The Matches, MCS, and She Wants Revenge.
Concerts? Atmosphere last night.
How was it? Astounding. I take back alot of what I said about REAL hip hop. Nothing can be THAT bad if one song slanders T.I., Fergie, AND Tool. I'm a happy lady.
-D
I'm friends with everyone, it doesn't matter who they are, but...my mind is scattered. I can't even write this single blog entry.
On a lighter note, my iPod is working again, so I can listen to The Matches, MCS, and She Wants Revenge.
Concerts? Atmosphere last night.
How was it? Astounding. I take back alot of what I said about REAL hip hop. Nothing can be THAT bad if one song slanders T.I., Fergie, AND Tool. I'm a happy lady.
-D
Thursday, October 25, 2007
D is for Drama
Losing affection towards something that was, for any amount of time, a staple part of your life is hard. For me it is, at least. It's different if it's a slow change; like going from wearing black every day to very rarely wearing it. For me it's my drama class (or theatre arts, but that's demeaning its drama-filled style). I use to LOVE drama. I woke up every morning for the class. I got some pretty good parts.
That was until this year, Advanced drama, when I realized that there actually is more to my life than drama. What a mistake that was.
I decided to focus on my future and occasionally do homework for other classes. So I would try out for parts in a play and not get them. Not because my audition was bad, but because I'm not the popular kid. I'd do the set design, but it wasn't good enough, because I'm not a perfectionist. I got seriously ill, and aparently that was code for "I'm ditching out on my responsibilites in class. Please shunn me!" So fine. If it's going to be me vs. the rest of the class, bring it on. I'm going down in a blaze of glory!!! And I'm taking my art supplies and iPod with me.
Watch out SHS Drama, here I come.
-D
That was until this year, Advanced drama, when I realized that there actually is more to my life than drama. What a mistake that was.
I decided to focus on my future and occasionally do homework for other classes. So I would try out for parts in a play and not get them. Not because my audition was bad, but because I'm not the popular kid. I'd do the set design, but it wasn't good enough, because I'm not a perfectionist. I got seriously ill, and aparently that was code for "I'm ditching out on my responsibilites in class. Please shunn me!" So fine. If it's going to be me vs. the rest of the class, bring it on. I'm going down in a blaze of glory!!! And I'm taking my art supplies and iPod with me.
Watch out SHS Drama, here I come.
-D
Rusty Gears
It just occurred to me that the art that I posted on here refuses to show up, ever.
So, I'm with Tablet in hand (or on lap, if you want to get technical) and I'm cranking out another piece of sloppy art. I'll have if up by tomorrow night if I don't get side-tracked.
-D
So, I'm with Tablet in hand (or on lap, if you want to get technical) and I'm cranking out another piece of sloppy art. I'll have if up by tomorrow night if I don't get side-tracked.
-D
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Obsess and Get Over It
Reading between the lines is no more a challenge for me than breathing, at least today. More often then not I sing lyrics to songs at frantic and mindless paces, humming tunes that sometimes make no sense to me. But online rumors of the band members past/present flames cause me to re-read, to idealize theoretic situations that are codependent on the warm coffee that slides down my throat. Coffee in the afternoon that is. But these insane thoughts of truth laced with gossip guilts me. Am I going to be THAT sort of fan? Will band members hate me for making up their private lives to fullfill my need for completed lyrics?
Why can't it be like the old days, where poodle skirts were guiltless as they swayed to simple lyrics like "I'll ask Sally out at the hop." Everything was completely filled in, in that single line: what he wants, what he's going to do, who he's going to do it to.
I'm aggravated, my CD's skipping, my caramel stash is empty, my coffee's gone, and I just realized that my vegan makeup costs $3.00 more than everything else. At least I've got my SWR tickets.
Maybe I'm overthinking things. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm right. But who would correct me if I was wrong. I know the background to many bands music (generally by asking), but sometimes my respect for a band outweighs my guts and I'm forced to digress back into my imagination. It actually makes me sad that I don't have anybody to spill my thoughts to or with. To discuss the great divide between idealogy, music, and literature. The mutton-heads in my community don't think so deeply(expressed by my explaination of a book, gaining only the response "I really don't care."). -D
Why can't it be like the old days, where poodle skirts were guiltless as they swayed to simple lyrics like "I'll ask Sally out at the hop." Everything was completely filled in, in that single line: what he wants, what he's going to do, who he's going to do it to.
I'm aggravated, my CD's skipping, my caramel stash is empty, my coffee's gone, and I just realized that my vegan makeup costs $3.00 more than everything else. At least I've got my SWR tickets.
Maybe I'm overthinking things. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm right. But who would correct me if I was wrong. I know the background to many bands music (generally by asking), but sometimes my respect for a band outweighs my guts and I'm forced to digress back into my imagination. It actually makes me sad that I don't have anybody to spill my thoughts to or with. To discuss the great divide between idealogy, music, and literature. The mutton-heads in my community don't think so deeply(expressed by my explaination of a book, gaining only the response "I really don't care."). -D
Monday, October 15, 2007
Serving Size: 3 Words
I don't eat things to be monitored. If I WANTED to be monitored while consuming, I'd have lunch in the local missle silos' cafeteria. (The missles are used to protect the Sahuaros and the road runners. Arizona has little to its name, we gaurd what we have with out lives.) In any case, I was trying to have a small snack of rainbow goldfish when I noticed something in bolden text on the side. Squinting, I read it aloud:
"Goldfish brand crackers. Serving size: 18 goldfish."
I was thrown for all sorts of loops. Is obesity so alive and well that kids (well known demographic of the Goldfish brands) are told how many they're allowed to eat? This sparked my thought process. What else am I given orders to eat?! The pantry held the details...
Saltine crackers: 4
Banana chips: 12
Pretzels: 15
Pixie Sticks: 1 color per tounge
*Peeps Marshmellow birds (dark subject much? Eating tiny birds...): 1 per year
They're limiting my hunger. Sustaining my appetite. Holding back my stomach. It's not fair. The lights are changing on the world, and we're all just hungry for more. My solution?
Eat 20 goldfish.
-D
*1: Did you know that the sugar used in Peeps is so condensed that eating a peep damns it to your stomach for a full year. That's right. If you ate a peep right now it would sit in your stomach for 365 days. That's can NEVER be healthy. I try and avoid peeps.
"Goldfish brand crackers. Serving size: 18 goldfish."
I was thrown for all sorts of loops. Is obesity so alive and well that kids (well known demographic of the Goldfish brands) are told how many they're allowed to eat? This sparked my thought process. What else am I given orders to eat?! The pantry held the details...
Saltine crackers: 4
Banana chips: 12
Pretzels: 15
Pixie Sticks: 1 color per tounge
*Peeps Marshmellow birds (dark subject much? Eating tiny birds...): 1 per year
They're limiting my hunger. Sustaining my appetite. Holding back my stomach. It's not fair. The lights are changing on the world, and we're all just hungry for more. My solution?
Eat 20 goldfish.
-D
*1: Did you know that the sugar used in Peeps is so condensed that eating a peep damns it to your stomach for a full year. That's right. If you ate a peep right now it would sit in your stomach for 365 days. That's can NEVER be healthy. I try and avoid peeps.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Down the drain insane
I had a moment tonight. A less than disturbing, yet more than fulfilling moment.
I was sitting in my bedroom-well more of my ONCE bedroom that I had left for a happier life-and I felt that insane urge to draw. Sadly, all I had was my cheap pen that I kidnapped from the Hilton and a sketchbook that contained nothing more than drawings I had made in a mental attempt to impress a certain muse. This muse is a lead singer and a far superior artist to myself, so I keep those drawings bound. I digress.
My drawing involved a sink and, being that I wasn't sure off the top of my head HOW to draw a standard sink, I moved my very simple art studio to the bathroom, perching my self uncomfortably on top of the toliet lid. As I crouched, scribbling out the best sink I could, I began to think (a dangerous weapon in my world). I thought about alot, starting with my muse. That rolled onto art, which turned into taking an art class, which morphed into what I would to for education after high school, which changed back into "will I ever send my muse this art? Will I be laughed at for it, or praised through text, shading the rolling of eyes at how many people send him their futile attempts at art?!" And I broke a little bit. I dropped to the floor, crawled myself and my notebook to the carpeted corner, and cried. It wasn't a necessary cry, but more of a cry that came from everything snowballing up in my head.
I tossed my artbook away from myself, fearing the useless shredding of my pictures, and wept like a two year old on the floor. I started talking to myself, talking myself in and out of thoughts that weren't true. Demeaning myself. Lifting myself up. Feeling little. And, after a few deep sobs I had it again, that drive. That need to draw. I didn't stop, not for anything, not to put on music or pull my hair off of my tear stained face; nothing. I ended up drawing the best picture of my life.
Out of the drain of the sink spilled the inked in thoughts in my head: Shawn Harris, school, art, failure, success, future.
Hundreds of times the words repeated, filling the page and emptying the pen. Damning themselves to a future spent bound to my artbook.
-D
I was sitting in my bedroom-well more of my ONCE bedroom that I had left for a happier life-and I felt that insane urge to draw. Sadly, all I had was my cheap pen that I kidnapped from the Hilton and a sketchbook that contained nothing more than drawings I had made in a mental attempt to impress a certain muse. This muse is a lead singer and a far superior artist to myself, so I keep those drawings bound. I digress.
My drawing involved a sink and, being that I wasn't sure off the top of my head HOW to draw a standard sink, I moved my very simple art studio to the bathroom, perching my self uncomfortably on top of the toliet lid. As I crouched, scribbling out the best sink I could, I began to think (a dangerous weapon in my world). I thought about alot, starting with my muse. That rolled onto art, which turned into taking an art class, which morphed into what I would to for education after high school, which changed back into "will I ever send my muse this art? Will I be laughed at for it, or praised through text, shading the rolling of eyes at how many people send him their futile attempts at art?!" And I broke a little bit. I dropped to the floor, crawled myself and my notebook to the carpeted corner, and cried. It wasn't a necessary cry, but more of a cry that came from everything snowballing up in my head.
I tossed my artbook away from myself, fearing the useless shredding of my pictures, and wept like a two year old on the floor. I started talking to myself, talking myself in and out of thoughts that weren't true. Demeaning myself. Lifting myself up. Feeling little. And, after a few deep sobs I had it again, that drive. That need to draw. I didn't stop, not for anything, not to put on music or pull my hair off of my tear stained face; nothing. I ended up drawing the best picture of my life.
Out of the drain of the sink spilled the inked in thoughts in my head: Shawn Harris, school, art, failure, success, future.
Hundreds of times the words repeated, filling the page and emptying the pen. Damning themselves to a future spent bound to my artbook.
-D
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
They look so...human
I had a thought tonight that deeply overwhelmed me, so I'm putting it on here before the mess of words astound themselves right out of my head:
I came to the conclusion tonight that the musicians I look up to are giants.
I've met my fair share of "rockstars" (though some neither rock, nor are typical stars), and I've never once squealed or muttered incoherent phrases like, "I effing luv you guys! U r SO hawt!!" Not even once. Some of these stars I've even been lucky enough to say, "yeah, I know them, they're on speed-dial." And I'm blissfully greatful for being able to say that. But, for awhile, I was beginning to think that I'd lost out on something big in my life. While others around me were ecstatic to have a chicken-scrath signature on their white Vans of a band they barely knew, I was sitting by,jaded, holding my personalized art that the band had written "thanks for paying for dinner!" on. I wasn't freaking out, I wasn't crying, I wasn't even wide awake. Meeting these bands, to me, was like meeting a teacher: I knew they'd be around, so why get so wigged out?
That was until something occured at Warped Tour this year (I know it's not very substantial, having a "Warped Tour Changed My Life" story, but oh well). I was standing in line for a very routine signing, I had made something for the band to sign, I was melting in the Phoenix sun, and I was...well, giddy? (So childish a word with so pointed and vivid a meaning) I was, for the first time, going to see one of my very favorite bands up close, The Matches. But, I was starting to grow impatient. It was 106 degrees that day and I wanted some water, sue me. But finally I heard the seven trumpets of a well vocalized little girl in the front of the line, thus signaling the approach of the band.
And that was when I had the moment that I had feared would never happen:
I stood among giants.
Seeing this band that inspired my artwork and influenced my frame of mind on more than one occasion, standing (clad in bodygaurds) a few mere feet away from me was astounding. They weren't REALLY giants (I'm 5"8/ tall for a girl), but the way I always invisioned them and looked into them made me feel like nothing. They were giants and I was but a mere human standing in their shadow. Other bands were just normal people because I looked to them as such; I sang along to their music, related to their cries, and went on with my life. Meeting those people was easy. This was shockingly hard.
My place in line scooted closer and closer to the table, and I was gripping the bandanna that I had hand painted so hard that I could feel my nails pushing at the fabric and digging crescent moons into my palms. The people around me were oblivious to the occasion, and I heard a disturbing amount of girls saying, "I just saw them today, they're so gorgeous" and I think I understood. I knew how other people felt when I went up to band members and hugged them so ho-hummedly, bands that they themselves worshiped and idolized. Bands whose guitarists I called wen I broke up with my boyfriend or got the lead in a play. Bands who I saw as friends, confidants, family. In that split second, when I realized all this, inching closer, it happened...
I squealed.
In a fraction of time it was over. I had passed my item down the line, smiled for a picture, conversed briefly and unsteadily about how goddamn HOT it was, and was shooed away from my giants. I just stood there grinning. Not because I was going to go masturbate to the idea that I was so close to them. Not because I could shove my experience into peoples faces....
But because I had met giants.
-D
I came to the conclusion tonight that the musicians I look up to are giants.
I've met my fair share of "rockstars" (though some neither rock, nor are typical stars), and I've never once squealed or muttered incoherent phrases like, "I effing luv you guys! U r SO hawt!!" Not even once. Some of these stars I've even been lucky enough to say, "yeah, I know them, they're on speed-dial." And I'm blissfully greatful for being able to say that. But, for awhile, I was beginning to think that I'd lost out on something big in my life. While others around me were ecstatic to have a chicken-scrath signature on their white Vans of a band they barely knew, I was sitting by,jaded, holding my personalized art that the band had written "thanks for paying for dinner!" on. I wasn't freaking out, I wasn't crying, I wasn't even wide awake. Meeting these bands, to me, was like meeting a teacher: I knew they'd be around, so why get so wigged out?
That was until something occured at Warped Tour this year (I know it's not very substantial, having a "Warped Tour Changed My Life" story, but oh well). I was standing in line for a very routine signing, I had made something for the band to sign, I was melting in the Phoenix sun, and I was...well, giddy? (So childish a word with so pointed and vivid a meaning) I was, for the first time, going to see one of my very favorite bands up close, The Matches. But, I was starting to grow impatient. It was 106 degrees that day and I wanted some water, sue me. But finally I heard the seven trumpets of a well vocalized little girl in the front of the line, thus signaling the approach of the band.
And that was when I had the moment that I had feared would never happen:
I stood among giants.
Seeing this band that inspired my artwork and influenced my frame of mind on more than one occasion, standing (clad in bodygaurds) a few mere feet away from me was astounding. They weren't REALLY giants (I'm 5"8/ tall for a girl), but the way I always invisioned them and looked into them made me feel like nothing. They were giants and I was but a mere human standing in their shadow. Other bands were just normal people because I looked to them as such; I sang along to their music, related to their cries, and went on with my life. Meeting those people was easy. This was shockingly hard.
My place in line scooted closer and closer to the table, and I was gripping the bandanna that I had hand painted so hard that I could feel my nails pushing at the fabric and digging crescent moons into my palms. The people around me were oblivious to the occasion, and I heard a disturbing amount of girls saying, "I just saw them today, they're so gorgeous" and I think I understood. I knew how other people felt when I went up to band members and hugged them so ho-hummedly, bands that they themselves worshiped and idolized. Bands whose guitarists I called wen I broke up with my boyfriend or got the lead in a play. Bands who I saw as friends, confidants, family. In that split second, when I realized all this, inching closer, it happened...
I squealed.
In a fraction of time it was over. I had passed my item down the line, smiled for a picture, conversed briefly and unsteadily about how goddamn HOT it was, and was shooed away from my giants. I just stood there grinning. Not because I was going to go masturbate to the idea that I was so close to them. Not because I could shove my experience into peoples faces....
But because I had met giants.
-D
Monday, October 8, 2007
Hold...hold...
I had a discussion with my mom the other night about different ways different things impact our lives. For instance, books. Books are a very detrimental contributer to my life and my sanity. Without them I'd comprise my essays and text messages with incoherent sentances like, "R u here? C u in 5!" Getting texts like that generally overwork my reading skills for a small message and end up going unanswered. Without books I wouldn't have the excessively tuned vocabulary that I hold so very dear. In fact, I probably wouldn't be in any way witty either (but I source a large amount of that to Gillmore Girls. See, I have weaknesses too).
But I digress...
When my mother and I started talking about what influential books we've read, she spouted out the idea of starting a book club at my school. I scoffed and wrote the idea off because my school's known for quite a few great things. Not one of those things involves literary joys. The following few days I ended up, one way or another, in the activities office looking at clubs I might want to join. Lo and behold, at the bottom of the list was a book club!! I was duely shocked, and decided to attend the next meeting later in the week.
Wednesday
I end up in one of the schools nicest classrooms with a sheet of this years reading material. Upon glancing over it I was so disgusted that I didn't even take a seat...
Book 1: Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen
Book2: Holes
Book3: Harry Potter
Book4: Maniac Magee
(these books had packed the club? Why?)
Maybe I'll just stick to the Spin.com book club and wallow in the fact that my school let me down. Or maybe I'll get over it and finish re-reading 'A Million Little Pieces.'
-D
But I digress...
When my mother and I started talking about what influential books we've read, she spouted out the idea of starting a book club at my school. I scoffed and wrote the idea off because my school's known for quite a few great things. Not one of those things involves literary joys. The following few days I ended up, one way or another, in the activities office looking at clubs I might want to join. Lo and behold, at the bottom of the list was a book club!! I was duely shocked, and decided to attend the next meeting later in the week.
Wednesday
I end up in one of the schools nicest classrooms with a sheet of this years reading material. Upon glancing over it I was so disgusted that I didn't even take a seat...
Book 1: Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen
Book2: Holes
Book3: Harry Potter
Book4: Maniac Magee
(these books had packed the club? Why?)
Maybe I'll just stick to the Spin.com book club and wallow in the fact that my school let me down. Or maybe I'll get over it and finish re-reading 'A Million Little Pieces.'
-D
Sunday, October 7, 2007
You-Kuh-Lay-Lee
I was at school not too long ago and I noticed one of the new foreign exchange students wandering the halls aimlessly and, being a good-natured fool, I asked her if she wanted help around. She looked at me and smiled a mindless smile and said a broken,
"Hello! My name is Shui-Beig!" (I checked the spelling)
I couldn't help her much because my Chinese/Japanese/ Thai (which ever it was) is limited to typical American slander ("Domo Origato Mr. Roboto?"), but she was able to comment on my Ricky Martin tour shirt that I was wearing!
"Do you like Ricky Martin?"
"Yes, yes! I saw him last time I visit USA!"
"Oh! Where did you see him?"
"I saw him in Ar-Kansas!"
I had to have her repeat that for me.
"Ar-Kansas!"
I had a moral dilemma: explain that it was pronounced "Ar-Can-Saw" with the risk of sounding like a rude American who shoves people’s mistakes in their faces, or simply say "I've never been there"? I felt bad NOT explaining the difference.
"Oh, um, it's actually pronounced 'Ar-can-saw' not 'Ar-Kansas.'"
"No no no no. It 'Ar-Kansas.'"
It hit me that this was actually a losing battle. We Americans had been duped by our own language, one-up'd even. We will be put in eternal shame because, yes, the word should be pronounced "Ar-kansas." It's spelled that way. And if THAT'S wrong than shouldn't "Cans-ass" be said rather as, "Can-saw?" I just stood by this adorable little girl feeling like a mook. I pointed her to her 1st class and left her. I was humiliated. What if she had asked me if I liked the state capitol Puh-hoe-nix? Or if she had spouted out "I really enjoy Tuck-sun!!"
Where has the language gone?
Gone to Satan everyone.
When will we ever learn?
-D
"Hello! My name is Shui-Beig!" (I checked the spelling)
I couldn't help her much because my Chinese/Japanese/ Thai (which ever it was) is limited to typical American slander ("Domo Origato Mr. Roboto?"), but she was able to comment on my Ricky Martin tour shirt that I was wearing!
"Do you like Ricky Martin?"
"Yes, yes! I saw him last time I visit USA!"
"Oh! Where did you see him?"
"I saw him in Ar-Kansas!"
I had to have her repeat that for me.
"Ar-Kansas!"
I had a moral dilemma: explain that it was pronounced "Ar-Can-Saw" with the risk of sounding like a rude American who shoves people’s mistakes in their faces, or simply say "I've never been there"? I felt bad NOT explaining the difference.
"Oh, um, it's actually pronounced 'Ar-can-saw' not 'Ar-Kansas.'"
"No no no no. It 'Ar-Kansas.'"
It hit me that this was actually a losing battle. We Americans had been duped by our own language, one-up'd even. We will be put in eternal shame because, yes, the word should be pronounced "Ar-kansas." It's spelled that way. And if THAT'S wrong than shouldn't "Cans-ass" be said rather as, "Can-saw?" I just stood by this adorable little girl feeling like a mook. I pointed her to her 1st class and left her. I was humiliated. What if she had asked me if I liked the state capitol Puh-hoe-nix? Or if she had spouted out "I really enjoy Tuck-sun!!"
Where has the language gone?
Gone to Satan everyone.
When will we ever learn?
-D
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