My Boyfriend is Actually a Super-Spy

Cody is a weirdo, but of course you already knew that. My point of stating it is merely to explain, in some part, why he 1. Wants a trench coat more than anything else in the world, probably, and 2. When he gets sleepy, his life goals shift from "doctor and family man" to "James Bond, Tracy Draco in his arms, heroically jumps from an exploding building along a zipline to rescue the entire world. As he walks away, valiant once more, he acknowledges the fated success with a subtle whip of his super snazzy trench coat."

Despite never wanting to actually go see a spy movie, this seems to be his persistent life mission. I'm not quite sure why. He shows little other evidence of being mentally deranged. I think he may actually be a secret agent, and this is his way of telling me, but then again, he's really throwing me off with his catastrophic inability to keep a surprise.

He tries really hard, though.

It was a gold sword.

But I'm convinced that all of this is just a red herring to distract me from the fact that he really is CIA's most gallant agent, a Coeur de Lion, in all his fearless glory. You see, I've been keeping case files, and I'm sure with the mounting evidence, there's little one can do to disagree with me in this. Beware the following, m'lady, for these are surely...

Signs That Your Boyfriend is a Special Agent

For all these reasons, I find it an indubitably inerrant conclusion that Cody is, in apodictic fact, a super spy. This comes as a shocking realization to me, despite all the warning signs. Oh, how could I have been such a fool? I've fallen for the relational guise of this- this-- person sitting on a throne of lies. There's no pamphlet of "So your SO's an SA". There's no standard procedure for starting such an audacious argument.

1. Firstly, I'm upset because he didn't include me in this--  I've seen a Mission Impossible, I know the general plot of Taken, and I'm loosely aware of Goldfinger-- I KNOW HOW THIS WORKS! And thus, I'm definitely qualified.
2. Secondly, I can build a dang fine robot, thank you very much. No need to leave me out.
3. Thirdly, I am your girlfriend. How dare you, Cody. At least let me pack you lunches when you go out to take down the SPECTRE empire.
4. Since you weren't even considerate enough to provide me with a consolation pamphlet, as aforementioned, I made my own.

Of course, I realize that he may not actually be a spy, but in light of the overwhelming evidence, I'll have to dismiss that minuscule possibility.

You see, he even talks to me about it, a little.  There's a global empire called Ingress, of which there are two factions: the Enlightened and the Resistance. He definitely got into the mess of this heated battle first, and called for my support amidst the fierce opposition. So, I tried to join, but unluckily, I found out at the very beginning that we have much different perceptions of what is "awesome". No, no, not in the way you think-- I didn't think the game itself was stupid. Basically, here's an overview: The Enlightened want to help Shapers infiltrate the earth, to help humankind evolve and possess, well.... enlightenment. The Resistance fights against the Shapers to save earth from the destruction of humankind, but the Enlightened say that they're just afraid of the possible change.

Here's the debate that ensured.

• I think you should be on the Resistance with me, so we can be on the same team. I want us to work together.
• Resistance? Are they getting their faction names from every cheap spy-action cliché ever?
• Well, when you think about it, "Enlightened" sounds pretty stupid, too.
• At least the Enlightened aren't driven away from the betterment of humankind by a raging paranoia.
• AT LEAST THE RESISTANCE IS SAVING EVERYONE FROM DEATH!
• There are worse things.

What you wouldn't guess about this argument, however, is that Cody won. He seems to do that every time, somehow, because I'm merely concerned with making my point, and after which I concede and do whatever it is I said I wouldn't, without so much as a complaint. It's a nice arrangement.

In the months that followed, Cody developed what can only be labeled as a fixed, pathological obsession with Ingress. It's gotten worse as time goes on, and I feel like eventually I'll be taking him to a psychiatrist, bawling as I confide that he hasn't stopped playing for six weeks, and he'll be tapping at his phone whilst dashing through the halls mumbling about "portals".
Yet, it makes me happy. You should see him talk about Ingress-- his eyes light up, he smiles broadly as he shows you the game's progression, he talks about strategies for the future and adventures he's been on as, for a moment, his heart knows that he's fulfilling his buried dream of being a spy. It's so precious. The game may be fun, yes, but my favorite part about it is how happy it makes him. Watching him let out a whoop of delight as he streaks across a field to get to his next portal is a highlight of two things: How dorky he is, and how adorable he is. Adorkable.

Let's cut the mushy-gushy stuff. Today is Christmas!

Why do I point that out? Well, since our families will both be busy over the break. Cody and I arranged to exchange gifts on the 19th. What he didn't know is that I lied when I said I had to cancel plans. I feel a little bad about this, but not too much, and you'll see why in a minute.

It has been claimed, several times, that I am an "all or nothing" person, and this is about a true of statement about me as "You read books sometimes". The 'sometimes' diminishes the actual weight of the statement, and from it you wouldn't guess that I read books in ardor, without ceasing. It's the equivalent of "Tis but a scratch". Likewise, the statement of "All-or-nothing person" should be altered into more precision, thus becoming "YOU ARE A LAVA OR ICE DRAGON". That's the amount of all or nothing I'm talking about. A lot.

Unfortunately, in the category of romance (a word upon which I will now go to vomit), I'm usually a "nothing" kind of person. I view it as more of a best-friendship, and not a lovey-dovey thing. I'm calculated about my words and very precise in the way I scrupulously avoid being clingy or over-affectionate. I do care, deeply, I just have a deplorable tendency to want to make it seem like I don't. And poor Cody, then, is one of those knights in shining armor who gallantly arrives only to find that the princess is more interested in eating pizza and watching Netflix than attending a royal gala. He does pretty well at being accommodating, though.

This guy does so much for me, and he's such a sweetheart all the time. He's been stressed lately, though, over school and friend problems and such, and I've decided that it's time for me to stop coyly playing the "nothing" card. He deserves far more than I've been giving him or could ever give him, but I'm going to keep trying. I'll do it because he's amazing, my best friend, probably the closest thing I have to a personal adviser and/or psychiatrist, and he keeps me from doing incredibly stupid things like walking to the cafe in the snow in my pajamas because I want a chai tea at six in the morning.

I made this.

It's an Ingress-schemed scavenger hunt that stretches through the mall, ending at the sushi place he really wanted to go back to. Along the way he got movie tickets for whatever he wanted to watch (He ended up picking The Martian), money for treats at Cinnabon (which we used to buy more books), little letters at every checkpoint, and $20 worth of anything he wanted at Barnes & Noble (true to his secret agent theme, he chose a book called "Mini Weapons of Mass Destruction"). His guide was an actual, declassified spy manual from the 1940s; and the adventure ended with me paying for dinner and giving him his actual Christmas presents. Also, my family was in on it, and my sister Jackie had the master plan in case he got lost. It took hours and hours of preparation

A little too much thorough thought. And yet, I managed to screw it up.

I am a largely impatient person, and due to a personal lack of foresight, which lead to a lack of walkie-talkies, I had no idea where everyone was and thought they were being too slow. So, I decided to tail them-- I ended up bumping right into him as he marched his way to Vans for clue number 3. Almost literally. Was my reaction to play it cool and act like it was purposeful? Heck no. I panicked, shrieked, and dove behind a kiosk.
I know, I know: "Good thinking, Julia, that surely didn't make him notice you even more." This is the number one reason why I'll never be allowed to go on a secret mission with him-- I don't know how not to be flamboyantly obvious.

But somehow, he loved it. He was tearing up when he finally got to the sushi bar at the end, and I couldn't have been happier to see him (as I said, I'm impatient).

I know this post has been long, but the conclusion is this: Cherish the people close to you. Never try to mask how you feel, when there's so much to gain from loving others. Those who should really be the important ones will appreciate your extra effort, and you, for it.

There's nothing to be lost by showing that you care-- besides a little dignity, you know, if you're really bad at surprises. 

The Unstable Quadrants of INFP Agression

I read on one MBTI website that INFPs are either non-confrontational or moody and extremely explosive. I'm not sure I quite agree. Not that the website was bad! It was great. I love the posts, you're awesome, bless you, I appreciate your contributions, make no amends; I don't mean to insult. Well, see, INFPs as I observe them have several levels of anger, which I like to separate into quadrants:

So, as you can see, these four quadrants are derives from a combination of two variable statuses: subtle vs dramatic, and anger vs annoyance. These are the traits of, respectively, "expression" and "emotion". Of course, there are many other categories and contributing factors, but this table represents INFP confrontational styles at their simplest. Allow me to expand upon the characteristics of each of these various factions:

The Egyptian Queen of Thanksgiving

Allow me to explain to you the series of events that lead to me being out in the below-freezing landscape of my frosted backyard at some unholy morning-ish hour, in my pajamas and muddy slippers, stoking a fire made almost entirely of fizzled matchsticks, and roasting a charred lump of mystery substance embedded with wood and ash.

The night before, I had been sitting in a crowded theater watching Mockingjay: Part Two of the Hunger Games series, with my sister, boyfriend, and dad. The show (which was to be amazing) hadn't even started yet, though there was a considerable dent in our tub of popcorn, when the trailer for Gods of Egypt came on. I don't really need to explain this. The title is much like that of Spy Kids-- it is largely self-explanatory and leaves little room for actually watching the movie. There are gods, and they are of Egypt. That's it. Cue tension and CGI and cinematic music. The important thing about this trailer actually has to do with a book I had when I was 8, or something. It was thin and outrageously pink. In it were various articles such as how to make homemade lip gloss or acorn boats or successful attempts at flirting (I never got the hang of that one). If variety is the spice of life, this book was that Taco Bell tamale that clings to your intestines until it erupts in a fiery inferno of agony.

One of these articles was titled "How to be an Egyptian Goddess". I think you know where this goes.

What I didn't understand, at the time, was that the page on being Cleopatra incarnate was utter satire. It was as if the adults writing the book were simply experimenting with what unsavory activities they could inveigle small children into. I was too busy worrying about how to procure gold and slaves for my pyramid production. Additionally, bat feces, for the signature swoop of mascara-- I was a little less enthusiastic about that one, but you know, whatever it takes. Anyways, after many, many, many failed attempts to cajole my sisters into fanning me with palm leaves and feeding me grapes (somehow, they were a little less than thrilled at this idea), I finally conceded and let my dreams of glorious queenship die.

Or so I thought.

Watching this commercial in the theater, my mind started to do this weird scheming thing that I don't know quite how to explain, besides the fact that it's completely illogical and often concludes with me doing something completely ridiculous, like pouring glitter on my head.

See what I mean? It doesn't follow any rational pattern, and it doesn't make sense to anyone else. But I realized, in that most vital moment, that to fulfill my wayward childhood dreams I would have to, 1) Write solely in ancient hieroglyphs, 2) Wrap myself in toilet paper like a mummy, 3) Beg my sisters to fan me with palm leaves, exploiting their guilt for not doing so in the past, or 4) Make ancient Egyptian food from scratch. Number four seemed easy enough. I was pretty set on the whole paper mummy thing, though. More on that later.

So, anyways, of course there came first and foremost the preliminary research. I had checked out just one book from the library which happened to pertain to this subject.

And four on physics, three on reflexology (one of these in Spanish), one on time theory, three fiction, one on meteorology. Oh, and that one ornithology journal. Librarians fear me.

I will be honest. I didn't even research that much. It was 7 in the morning and I, goshdarnit, was going to be a certified Egyptian princess before that afternoon. The recipe I used was derived from the images on the walls of the tomb of Senet, illustrations meant to carry living memories and experiences into the afterlife, that now in the future produce a vivid picture of ancient life. Crush the grain with sticks. Remove the husks through a sieve. Using a grindstone, crush the grain finer until you have a heap of white flour. Mix the flour with enough water to form a soft dough. Knead the dough by hand or by treading on it gently. Tear off pieces of the dough and shape into rounds. Cook directly over ashes-- Once the bottom of the bread starts to brown, turn over and cook the other side. 

Oh goodness. I had no idea what a sieve was and and could not even be remotely persuaded to walk on my food, which only serves to further confirm my theory that I would have quickly died of starvation in ancient Egypt. If the whole "frogs everywhere" thing didn't send me packing before that. Well, anyways, if the Homeowners Association happens to ask you, that's why I was outside looking for sticks this morning and returning only with soggy tumbleweed (Gotta love Eastern Washington).

I got out a mortar and separated the chaffs before pounding the grain to pieces and feeling like a horrible, heartless monster. Picture an orphan baby grain separated from its mama wheat plant. And I, the merciless villain, just crushed it. Give me my callous psychopath badge now, because I surely deserve it.

Those little baby wheaties deserved a peaceful, swift end, with all their pyres (that comes later, in baking the bread..... Too soon?) Instead, for fifteen minutes, I ground with the arguably useless pestle and delivered a lifetime of torture within their last moments. My arms were sore and probably about to fall off, yet still, the little grains were intolerably stubborn. The nerve of them. Impeding my ability to become Remenkīmi royalty. I hadn't slept enough to achieve rational thought and contemplated crying to sway the wills of the obstinate grains until I just gave up and used a blender. Far less torturous, for everyone involved.



At this point in the escapade, I am standing in the kitchen wearing fuzzy, pink earmuffs and feeding wheat to a ferociously growling Vitamix blender. I am jumping up and down in my toesie socks to "encourage" the wheat to flour-ize faster. My face is puffy from suffering a cold, and I'm so doped up on cough medicine that I can't keep my eyelids from drooping, and my stuffed sinuses are rattling like kazoos as I hum "Eye of the Tiger" (again, to motivate the wheat). Oh, but wait. I haven't even gone into the abyss of Arctic ice outside yet. It gets more fun.

With that, my flour's made. It's a heap of off-white powder in the blender and it's wafting up through the air like smoke. Except not. Because it doesn't smell as nice, and doesn't make you cough as much, even though you're still coughing. My lungs were spasming a little and I felt like I'd just murdered thousands of grain babies, but.... Yeah, there's no but. Heartless monster, etc. When I looked outside, I honestly thought it was going to be far warmer than when I was collecting tumbleweeds earlier. I don't know why I claimed this obstinate, unfounded belief, but looking back on it the following turn of events seems rather obvious.

I was going to build the best fire the world had ever seen. And in that moment, the world snickered. I would most definitely not be doing that. Not only was the fire going to be a miserable catastrophe, I would get frost nip and a mild case of the grouchies. I trooped outside with all my materials, and suddenly-- the temperature.

I am a frail person with a 5'2" frame whose primary reliance in cold is in her ability to borrow her boyfriend's hoodie, through a lot of begging. It's November, and I've yet to acclimate to the cold. Vaguely Californian in spirit, I cannot handle when my home's internal temperature dips below 65 degrees, let alone the polar wasteland beyond the door. Let alone wearing thin pajamas, toesie socks, a sparkling personality, and perfectly white slippers. I am also very stubborn, which will probably get me killed eventually, but not today. I hope this explains, for the most part, why I locked myself outside in this boreal desert to experience "the realities of living in nature" (which apparently is a suburban backyard in the late fall).

Well, really.... I just had to go back in the house to survive. But I wasn't about to give up.

Just like that, I was trapped in a glacial tundra wearing nothing but pajamas. I have done far more imprudent, arguably foolish, things, but this was pretty rash of me. Honestly, the only reason I did it was because the whole time I was keeping up an internal dialogue of "this might make a good story". Why did I run off in the woods that one time? Plot development. Nobody should ever, ever trust me with even the slightest amount of decision-making. I am extremely misguided.

So there I am, kneading the flour into freezing cold water, the melting frost seeping through my pajamas into the goosebumps plastered all over my skin. My fingers are almost too stiff to continue working the dough as blasts of icy wind shred through my body and whip my hair over my eyes. It's too early for this crap! But then I remind myself-- this is how they used to do it, and unless I want to earn my wuss patch, I'll have to put on my big girl boots and cope. Eventually, I do complete the task, albeit significantly less ebullient than when I began. I toss some dough to the ducks, who aren't quite sure what to do with it.

In case you aren't familiar with my hometown environment, it's like the wild west, minus the cacti. There are tumbleweeds, rolling hills, deep valleys, and the occasional rattlesnake. Lots of people wear cowboy hats. And, we're either amidst a horrific windstorm or recovering from one, constantly. Add windstorm as the girl in her pajamas searches wildly for more tumbleweeds that aren't covered in frost to use in her sorry little excuse of a campfire. The girl only finds one tolerable brush before she realizes, that in a distraction involving approximately 10 minutes of chasing wild birds, that she is halfway down the hill, in someone else's yard, and the sprinklers are turning on. In frumpy pajamas, and once white slippers that are stiff with globs of mud.

Yes, as you know already, that girl was me. I sprinted back to my yard, tripped, got up and kept sprinting, and finally returned to checkpoint wielding only one moderately damp tumbleweed. It was measly and a tad embarrassing, but I set up a tiny fire structure of wood chips on the concrete patio anyways. At this point I discovered that my trusty old strike anywhere matches were all duds. All of them. Of course, since I'd locked myself out of the house, I couldn't really get anymore, which seemed quite foolish to me at that moment as I could practically feel the hypothermia creeping up on me bit by bit. Thankfully, as a small child, I wanted to be an action hero and taught myself how to 1) run in high heels, which has proved very useful and 2) pull off screens, pry open windows, crawl through an opening several feet off the ground, borrow my grandmother's keys, forcefully unlock the house only to find that there was another unlocked door, etc.

Okay. New matches. As it turns out, I need exactly sixteen of them for this procedure, because of the wind and my desire to smother the fire to absorb its warmth into my cold, dying little body. I was past the point of no return. My fingers were so numb that I didn't feel my thumb get burnt.

But then, out of the depths, the clenching jaws of despair.... fire. Bestowing gentle light and radiating warmth upon the weary, hope to those of frozen hearts, loving charity to all that accept the generosity of this precious gift of life. So beautiful. So resplendent. So forgiving of the cold.

My grandpa probably had no idea that he would walk outside that morning to see globs of gelatinous, charred bread-like substance heaped atop a miniature pile of coals and failed matches, tended to by me. Okay, let me rephrase that-- he's vaguely aware of my partial insanity, but he definitely had no idea that I was camped out burning half baked goo on the patio. For this, he responded fairly well. Just like the usual; shrugging to admit defeat and backing away slowly. He didn't comment at all on the fact that I was wearing "BFF" footie socks (that I bought for myself), or that I had soggy slippers solidifying by the fire, or that my eyes were swollen shut and my face was blotchy with the shade of a tomato that won the county fair. A most unwelcome scene.

He did tell me to go inside. I said, "Never." How dare he suggest that I succumb to the elements and give in to failure. How could he not see that my destiny for royalty hinged upon this very moment?! Never mind that my fingers couldn't move or feel! Never mind wood pieces and ash were stuck to the soft underside of the bread! Never mind that a lock of my hair was dangling in the fire! THIS WAS DESTINY, AND DESTINY NEVER GIVES IN! (I went inside).

The rest of the baked bread I topped with mozzarella cheese, spinach, and sliced olives (a bit tastier than the recipe that was provided, I must say). This whole "just flour and water" and "worsening cold symptoms due to 'prolonged exposure to below-freezing temperatures'" thing has got me thinking. The generations of the past command respect simply by existing. If I had to mortar grind all my wheat, I would quickly be sorted out as a weaker specimen. I would, for many reasons, hypothermia among them, be very dead. Without modern conveniences, I doubt the vast majority of us would last in any measure of the same luxury or ingratitude. Look at this. We've got stoves, packaged flour-- grocery stores!-- running water, indoor heating, access to books... Thanksgiving has passed, and in its place is the avarice of the shopping season. Black Friday is to appreciation as the Black Death was to human life. It's so inconceivably shallow and hypocritical that we turn in one day from giving thanks for everything we have to craving an insatiable amount of "more".

We've been blessed with the ability to take things for granted.

But let's not do that. Let's be grateful for the glorious wonder that is a Vitamix blender. For shoes, for family, even for locked doors (because, hey, that's a sure sign that there are doors). Thank goodness that we don't have to cook turkey over coals. Yet, with privilege comes opportunity to extend our blessings onto others. This holiday season, I'd encourage you to give the plunders of a dollar store trip to something called Operation Christmas Child. There are those far less fortunate, children who have never experienced the joy of a gift, and through one small act we can impact countries away, for the better. These shoe boxes filled with even the most inexpensive of presents can bring joy to the life of little ones whose countries are home to turmoil and distress. What better way to celebrate the meaning of gratitude than by giving?

And who knew my 8-year-old aspirations to become Cleopatra would lead to this?

Yet, since I failed at making the bread exactly as the recipe on Senet's tomb intended, or without a whole lot of episodic complaining, I am forced to resign to option two of my diabolical Egyptian princess scheme. Let me tell you something about human nature: No one likes to be woken up at 2 in the morning by a person who, for whatever unspeakable reason, wants to be wrapped in toilet paper. Additionally, other people do not want to receive a text that says simply, "I feel like I'm allergic to excessive amounts of hemp pulp. Is that normal?"

Please do not do these things.

I am begging you.

You will perhaps say that you've never thought of doing such things, but then I suppose you'd also not be the kind of person who tumbles down staircases in zipped suitcases, so shame on you. Anyways, I was a toilet paper mummy for the extent of time it takes to dance to both "This is Halloween" and "What's This?" and with everything considered, I feel like that grants me the official title of a Princess. Finally. After years of insatiable agony, my childhood dreams have been actualized and I can now go on to live a fruitful exis-- Hey, I wonder what it takes to become a Duchess?

The Care and Keeping of Popular Culture

It's no secret that I practically stalk the mailbox like a mighty lioness lurking on the suburban savanna each mid-month until the fated issue of Popular Science arrives. After which, I seclude myself in my room for hours, because it seems that I invariably become frustrated that no one shares my ideals of proper magazine etiquette. It's really not their fault. I'm extremely and annoyingly picky.

My suggestion is this: if you're going to read any glossy-covered publication, pick something you genuinely enjoy so you won't be tempted to do something awful to it like marking up the articles to circle things for your wish list.

Or better yet, just make sure I'm not around to have a psychological breakdown over the state of your reading materials. (Actually, you can buy a BB-8. I think Cody deserves one for putting up with me all the time, though he protests that I'm not mean as I depict myself to be. Psshhh.)

There are many magazines that you'll want to avoid and others you'll more want to pursue. I've created this curative guide to some of my favorites: The Week, Sky & Telescope, Popular Mechanics, American Cinematographer, Car and Driver, The Atlantic, Bird Watching, SciFiNow, Book Page, etc. In the end, it's just important to pick based on articles rather than cover, and what you find to be interesting rather than what's on the popular rack. Popular Science is actually the only magazine I ever get through, on occasion at that, but it's nice to have a favorite that's your go-to in waiting rooms. Sometimes you don't have enough time to read a whole novel or non-fiction, and it's best then to just immerse yourself in an article or two for your free time. Whatever the case, it's great to stumble across gems such as "Inside the Mission to Pluto". 

That's the great thing about magazines: There's something for the interests of everyone. But there's something, a darker side, that I'd like to discuss. In the light of humor, of course, if I may. There are many publications out there that have extreme tendencies to inspire identity crises or influence a person against their true interests into something I like to call, "The Celebrity Black Hole", from which in time no thought escapes. It's not wrong to enjoy popular culture in music, TV shows, movies, literature, you name it-- Of course! It'd be hypocritical of me to say no when I was practically drooling over the trailer to the new Star Wars. However, I would much rather study what inspires and interests me than keep up with the Kardashians. This isn't because they're bad people, it's just because I'd rather know what's going on in Paris than, say, the lives of the Duggars.

With that in mind, here are some

New Taglines for Popular Magazines

Although it's definitely not my area of interest, I recognize that it can be enjoyable to cozy up to a gossip column every now and then. However, these types of magazines can be detrimental in a number of ways.

When I was in sixth grade, our drama group used the library as a green room during productions. Since we were anxiously awaiting our cues from the baby monitor positioned at the central table, we couldn't get too immersed in any particular book or conversation. It was for this reason that I picked up one of those gauzy teen gossip magazines sitting in the rack directly beside me.

For an eleven-year old girl with a bizarre mix of social anxiety and attention craving, this magazine couldn't have come at a better time. Or, if you're not in the marketing of such a company, you'd say it couldn't have come at a worse time. Within these articles you're slammed with a high-pressure string of contradictory advice and ideals. Some tell you that you have to be self-confident to be liked, others tell you you're nothing compared to the celebrities. Articles simultaneously convince you to enjoy gossip but never spread it, to be this cultural ideal of "sexy" that is impossible let alone disgusting to perpetuate onto preteens, to be pure but to know exactly how to give a killer make out session in the school locker-room. These magazines can only seem to agree on one thing: It all comes down to who others say you are. Apparently all that matters is if you buy the "in" clothes, date a popular guy, hang out with the cool kids, stay in the know; and no one seems to care about the real you.

Self-consciousness, sensitivity, and insecurity of identity were already prevalent in my sixth grade psyche, and these magazines were like a shot of steroids to those ugly manifests of my stumbling years between child and adult (which I'm still a part of, but thankfully the only issue now seems to be not finding any footie pajamas in my size). Tween magazines, on the whole, promote the idea that your body makes up who you are and "more importantly" how others perceive you. Sheesh. Isn't it great to tell little girls that right about the time they slam into an awkward growth spurt or start to develop pimples?  Additionally, masses of studies have shown that magazines, more than any other form of media, are directly related to the development of eating disorders.

I suppose that makes me a statistic, doesn't it? This is the part of the story where I confess that I struggled with anorexia and messed up my metabolism in a way that still impacts me today. I developed ulcers, too, because I ate so little that my stomach acid burnt through its lining. No, the influence of magazines definitely wasn't my whole reason. I was also seeking to stable my topsy-turvy life with the only thing I thought I could control: my body. Where did I get the tips that told me I could eat ice cubes to fool my body into curbing the pangs of hunger? The same media that told me I wasn't good enough until I was perfect on the outside. 

70 percent of normal weight girls in the US consider themselves to be overweight. 35 percent of American girls between the ages of 6 and 12 have been on at least one diet. 

Hollywood celebrities are presented infallibly as role models. Information on beauty maintenance is far more prevalent than that of health. There are titles of articles that couldn't not send up at least some minuscule red flag: "You Specifically, Yes You, The Girl Reading This Magazine. You Aren't Attractive." Such messages are plastered all over modern media, aimed directly at teenage girls (though teenage guys aren't exempt from the cultural scrutiny, either); but nowhere are they as prevalent as the magazines preying upon young children or teenagers with low self-esteem. If I have to read one more "21 Ways to Make His Thighs go up in Flames" targeted towards my age group, I'm going to flip a table.

Why? Because these magazines feed you information that guys only want perfect smoking hot virgin sacrifices (that sounds suspiciously like some cult, actually), but at the same time, they supply tips for kissing in hallways and having physical relationships that your parents don't find out about. I may be a prude, but hear me out. Even if you don't agree with abstinence, it's indisputable that these mixed messages and constant streams of such "sex tips" send one very strong message: Guys like girls who are sex objects. Picture yourself as fourteen again. Picture your parents picturing you as fourteen. Or whatever else works. And then picture yourself being perpetually bombarded with this message that you only exist to attract and pleasure the opposite gender. 

It's wrong. It's just plain horrifyingly wrong.

Let me send a message to the pretween and teenage girls out there: You don't exist to be arm candy. You are unique and beautiful, talented and inspired and don't you dare let anyone tell you that you are anything less than that. You have goals and purpose, a personality that's all your own, and meaning beyond what society confines you to. You're a princess. A FREAKING PRINCESS. Oh, and guys, don't think I'm letting you slink away. Culture also tells you some pretty fantastic lies. You don't have to be muscular or hyper-masculine. You can be afraid or sensitive, enjoy "feminine" things, need to lean on others-- it's not a girl thing, it's a human thing. Don't let anyone tell you that you don't deserve to be cherished for who you are, too. You're a gOSHDARN PRINCE. 

YOU'RE ALL ROYALTY. OR DRAGONS. BE A DRAGON.

This article is titled "The Care and Keeping of Popular Culture", but it should really be the care and keeping of you. It's so easy to get wrapped up in appearances when we become entrapped in the warped perspective of our society. It's far too great a burden to believe that you're not worth anything unless you look, talk, or act a certain way. When it comes to real people, it isn't a matter of getting their thighs burning (wouldn't that be horrifically uncomfortable??)  If you want to get someone's heart burning, just be yourself. The right person will be the one who appreciates you in the entirety of who you are. 

And who you are, well.... That's just absolutely incredible.

Welcome to the Abandoned Garden

Why I Hate Astrology (And Not Because I'm a Leo)

I'd like to open by saying that I would probably be obsessed with astrology if I was anything but a Leo. By some saving grace, I landed within a sign that is completely, 100% against everything about me. Because of this, I can laugh horoscopes off with striking ease. Myers-Briggs, though influenced by self-perception, has the victory on the side of accuracy, and the only area in which astrology overcomes it is in the sheer amount of material published.

My typing of Leo calls me masculine, fixed, and fiery. Believe me hun, I'm only fiery after Chipotle. Besides that, I'm an emotional wreck all the time, quite indecisive and changeable, and love flowery things with a burning passion. The only thing that fits me in this sign has to do with cats!

The problem I find with astrology has to do with how vague it is. In the profiles for the various zodiac signs, most people agree with the majority of the material they read, because it's purposefully written to apply to everyone. This is a type of 'cold reading', and it's used by all kinds of mentalists, psychics, and fortune-tellers to imply that they know more about you than they really do. In demonstrations of "divination" and such, it's a combination of information so vague that it applies to over 90% of people and a quick analysis of discernible features such as age, clothing, religion, race, etc. This makes your believe that the so-called psychic knows more about you than they really do; and maybe I'd pay for someone to stereotype the heck out of me, Shawn Spencer-style, but not under the guise of "fortune telling".

Here, try this: "I sense an older male figure in your life, who wants to know you better... While you may have had disagreements in your life, he still loved you". Was it applicable? If so, you're with the vast majority. It's far more difficult to find someone that statement doesn't apply to. It's part of a technique of cold reading called 'shotgunning', and I stole that little tidbit above straight from Wikipedia. There's many other psychological tricks-- the Froer effect, rainbow ruse, hot reading, warm reading-- the list goes on and on. Astrology has wavered from the path of an astronomical art and become nothing more than a profiting ruse, a regular Wizard of Oz. So, why do we fall for it again and again?

The leading explanation is surprisingly quite obvious-- our brains are hardwired to search for connections and reward us with endorphin when they're found, however fallible. This is the ultimate cognitive bias, and when we're cold read by some astrologist, our brain searches for and savors every minuscule connection. We ignore all the outliers, even if the connections we make are the true outliers. We tend to discover what we come in looking for; if you drive down the road specifically looking for red cars, you'll notice them far more. This perceptive gifting can become a biological advantage or an intellectual failure.

Now, I love the poetry of the archetypes. Together they are a web weaving meaning through the cosmos and soul to the flickering lights in the night sky. I find artwork representing these figures undoubtedly beautiful, and I've even collected some pottery of the sort. Oftentimes, when I surpass my usual indolence, I'll base minor characters on the astrological predictions for some randomized birth date. At best, however, astrology is a poignant epistemiological or general psychological study. The basis of the underlying cognitive bias is this-- we tend to cherry pick the facts to fit whatever we've predetermined, what we want or expect to see in the data, no matter what evidence there is to the contrary. Pattern recognition is, at its base level, a survival skill that connects the neuron pathways in our brain and helps us derive a course of action based upon data acquired in the past. It's been put to its worst with astrology, which inspires against the very logic this neurological process was designed to achieve!

Look, it's a common stereotype that Leos loathe their stereotypes because it damages their pride that the stereotypes call them too prideful. But that's a mouthful, and I'm here to put it to rest. I'm pretty sure no one likes to be called a self-centered, melodramatic, vacuous, ego manic, begrudging, sadistic coward. This strikes to the core of my being. Who I really am despises these traits, calls for kindness, gentleness, selflessness, humility, wisdom, spirituality, and bravery in protecting everything I hold dear.  Leos are said to be chronic cheaters with little regard to others, who give generously only for recognition. No. My sister, for one example, is solidly in the midst of Leo-- and she's one of the most genuinely generous, thoughtful, and selfless people I know. Besides that, I can forgive the occasional egotist with a compassionate heart. Leos 'discard you like trash when you don't fuel their ego', according to one astrology forum. To this I say:

Have we come so far only to let ourselves and others be defined and so confined to this crude capitalization on cognitive bias and cruelty of assumption?

My heart aches for those who allow their lives to be dictated by interpreters of stars looking to cash a profit. I empathize with the driven Cancers who are told they must be weak, gentle Aries who are told they must fight, intuitive Tauruses who are called simple-minded, and all the others in this twisted zodiac. Libras, you are not superficial. Gemini, you are not disloyal or fickle. Pisces, you are not over-sensitive. Virgos, you are not domineering. Scorpios, you are clement. Aquariuses, you are kind. Sagittariuses, you are wise. Capricorn, you are giving.

And my dear fellow Leos, let no one deceive you. You are not inherently selfish, no alignment of stars can dictate the person you are. You can be shy and compassionate and live to help others. You can also be loud and generous and spend your time spreading joy. You can defy your stereotypes, all of you, Aries to Pisces and all the way through. No one is exact, unchangeable, or fully understandable. You're unique and unpredictable.

Now go out there and get 'em, cuties!

Touching Time

Inertia is a property of matter that dictates that an object will stay in its current state of rest or motion until acted upon by an outside force. It is my belief that our minds are very much the same. It is for this reason, to continue in a trajectory of thought against the friction of fatigue or indifference, that this morning I opened a random volume of my encyclopedia set to an undetermined page and allowed my finger to fall by happenstance on the entry of inertia. So now here I am, surrounded by physics books (and I was ever so close to studying the industry of meat packing).

Now, back to inertia. The property of inertia states that an object will move, indefinitely, at a constant speed and direction until some outside force accelerates its motion to make it slow down, speed up, or turn. (If I hear one more person talk about this mythic "deacceleration", I am going to lose my last measure of sanity). One such force is friction, which affects two objects against each other. The force required to affect the movement of an object will depend firstly on that object's mass-- this can be defined, simply, as the density within the volume of an object, or in a sense, the amount of matter it contains. The official definition of mass is the property of resistance to acceleration.

 However, weight and mass are not the same! The measured weights of these two objects are included for comparison of density. On earth, it is simpler to measure the relative weight to determine the mass-- the explain how these two terms are different, picture weighing a bowling ball on your bathroom scale and then taking it to the moon. On a scale there, it will weigh far less than on earth even though the mass is the same. The object, despite its weight, retains its relative resistance to acceleration.

The greater an object's mass, the harder it will be to act against its inertia. If you've got to have either a bowling ball or a soccer ball flying at the same velocity towards your face, which miserable experience would you opt for? If you're not psychologically unsound, you'd choose the less excruciatingly painful one-- the soccer ball, which is lower in both mass and weight. Or, you'd run in the other direction and refuse to participate. Your face definitely won't exert a large enough opposite force to stop that bowling ball whatsoever, but either way you'll end up with a broken nose and a definite concussion. Bad news, Scott Sterling.

Well, similarly, this is why trains can't break fast. It takes a lot of force to stop that mass-momentum combo!

Another thing that influences the effort involved in changing an object's speed or direction is how quickly that change is made. It's harder to change momentum suddenly rather than gradually. If you're going around a go-cart track at 30 mph and you try to turn a corner or slam the breaks, you're going to spin out and slam into a pileup along with both of your sisters that results in multiple neck and back injuries from the sheer impact of the accelerative (fun story, that one). On the other hand, if you slow down gradually to turn those corners, you'll remain safe and have no fun and no friends.

Inertia is Newton's first law of motion, and thankfully, indisputable physical laws transcend the inevitable test of time. You can demonstrate inertia by dropping an apple on someone's head an observing how the impact against their cranium alters the object's acceleration (and the speed at which they will yell at you). OR, you can do what I did, and conveniently "borrow" someone's deck of cards and their wallet to demonstrate this property of physics. 

Place a card on top of a glass of water, and a penny on top of the card positioned over the center of the glass. Flick the card away, and the coin falls into the cup! Now the water is poisoned by excess copper and zinc. You're welcome.

Even though the card is flicked away, the penny doesn't travel along with it. This is because of inertia-- even though the penny was affected by the friction of the card moving against it, inertia dictated that it stay in place, until gravity pulled it down into the cup. That's also why you can set your mom's fine china on the table and yank out the tablecloth from beneath it without any collateral damage. That is, if you're skillful enough. (Please don't try this, I'm grounded for five months).

Can you imagine a world without the blessing of inertia? It'd be utter chaos! Sudden movement and inefficiency of force would reign an unparalleled kingdom of insanity-- take one step and you can't stop sliding; no one hit that ball and now it's hurtling across the room; heavy objects fall faster than lighter objects and Galileo was made to look like an idiot; jump and the whole planet moves; etc. It'd be, to say the least, interesting. Normal societal function would become obsolete in the wake of a universe descending into what would possibly literally be the dark ages in which not even photons would obey the properties of matter.

As we know it, matter exists in three dimensions, all of which we can sense and exist within. However, as the book Flatland and many others pertaining to the subjects of geometry and theoretical mathematics speculate, we have the privilege of partially viewing the fourth dimension as an incomplete representation within our three dimensions. This fourth dimension transcends all we can comprehend. To simplify the theory, let's break it down into two dimensions.

You now exist as a square on a plane of only length and width, something you wouldn't know unless you'd existed in the third dimension to look down as yourself from above. If a person, existing in three dimensions, were to stick their finger through the plane, it would appear as a circle (Though, as depicted in Flatland, to you the square it would appear as an unending, variant line).

Can we truly predict or even comprehend how the influence of a fourth dimension would appear in our three-dimensional perception of the universe? Well, some physicists theorize that this fourth dimension is time. Time can be warped, such as by the infamous singular gravity of a black hole, as can physical objects that can be stretched, squeezed, or even torn apart atomically by the intense pressure of such a gravitational pull. Light cannot escape. Time is not immune.

And, time is relative, both metaphorically and physically. One hour on a planet influenced greatly by the gravity of a black hole may be years to another planet in the outside realm. But the stream of time is not sped up or slowed, it is merely stretched, bent, and dis-configured into the delicate fabric that comprises our universe. Space-time is warped and disoriented by the energy and matter in it-- a measurable effect, such as how light waves bend when nearing the sun. This causes the sun to appear where it isn't. This theory is known as General Relativity, and perhaps time, then, is subject to the geodetic effect.

(Click the picture for a pertaining article)

It is altogether incredible and unbelievable. What if time, like physical matter, possesses inertia? What if it is, in the fourth dimension as well as our own, physical? Could it be influenced by force? Is it moving as a vector, continuous plane or indefinite line? Is there an original force that set the object of time into motion?

Can we touch time?

Such questions crave hope of answers. The law of the human pysche is that true curiosity can never be satisfied, and I hope it is so, for then there is no force to act against the perpetual motion of learning. Alas, we are Babylon.