Dear Diary: I'm Ten

Cody turns to me and says, "Julia, please get off Sims, we're watching a movie." To which I respond, "You bought me the DLC-- and now I have to take care of my horses, or they'll die. I'm not a monster, Cody."

He calls it an addiction, which means he's never truly seen me around non-rhyming poetry accompanied by vivid watercolor on Tumblr, which constitutes the true meaning of addiction to me.
Nonetheless, he pervasively considers Sims to be the very thing that eats up all my time and causes me to say such things as, "Yeah, my wife died today, along with the Goopy Carbona burning, which is really more unfortunate because then I had to go out for lunch but hey at least tonight I'll win the Gold Digger challenge," which he deems to be at the very least, disconcertingly bizarre.
The one thing I've learned about playing video games around Cody is that there is an exponentially positive correlation between the more I try to emulate him playing SCP Containment Beach and how increasingly disturbed he becomes.

Yesterday, I was shuffling through some notebooks of mine, and came across a journal entry, dated January 18th, 2011; it conclusively proves that this has been a long-lasting epidemic of mine, and something quite to be feared.

Mom's CBRC [local gym] goal is still in effect. I wished it wasn't. 3 hours of my Monday were spent at swimming lessons. Let me get this strait [sic]. It is not easy to do a whip snap kick. Whip snap kick is a fancy way to say, 'Oh, and by the way, want to drown?' especially if you swim 400 meters. Ring swimming, which I invented, is no easier, The only difference is that I didn't learn it, I taught it. The only thing to do in ring swimming is tie your feet and legs together. BINGO! The only downside is that my sisters call it mermaid swimming. It isn't. I am a magical creature of the deep and mermaid is too blah for who I am. Majestic.

3 hours in the pool means 'Pay for our gym membership to become an actual prune! After which, be forced to get more wet in the showers!' because that's exactly what happened. After all that swimming, all I wanted to do was play Sims. But of course not. We were going to do something better.

Rollerblading. And I didn't fall once, because I'm awesome, and so I bought myself one of those sticky hand things. No one wanted to be friends on the couples skate. I had food though and it was better. Going there includes an Extra Large Pizza and a Bottomless Rootbeer Pitcher [sic, with the capitalization]. But the entire time, all I could thing about was Sims. Glorious Sims. Sims is all I can think about now. Sims, Sims, Sims. I have a family and they eat spaghetti together and I made my dog on it so she isn't dead anymore [oh good heavens]. 

It's a drug, I tell you! And I'm an addict, along with my sister Olivia [Note: I made this part up because I was butthurt that she wanted to play it for ten minutes, thusly keeping me from Sims time, and so I concluded that she was addicted and should be on regulated usage of the computer]. So that's where I spent four more hours of my weekend. My mom called me in for dinner but my Sims family of us was having a sit down meal for once and I couldn't miss it. In this game I'm a really great cook and I have a boyfriend named Nick and that's my favorite part. I'm going to break up with him though because he isn't pretty enough for me.

 Sigh. This is a more deep-rooted issue than I realized. Younger me admitted what I could not, yesterday, that I'm interested in fantasy life because I can do the impossible-- such as cooking in a microwave without setting it on fire, sometimes, or looking good in a bathing suit, or attending social events without hiding in the corner. I guess it shows me a little more of who I want to be, in the worst way possible.
When I look at all the experiences I could be having-- such as, a sit-down dinner with my actual family-- a game just pales in comparison. Maybe Cody's been trying to tell me that he'll go on a date with me irl if I'll stop complaining about how the celebrities at a cafe in fictional Riverview didn't recognize me as a celebrity from my newly created ska band ("Look at this, I have one star! They should at least ask me for an autograph, shouldn't they?!")

Right now, it's a good time to pause and engage in real life.  I could have a boyfriend named Nick if I wanted to, but I'm sure he still wouldn't be pretty enough for me.

Oh My: Part One

And its original title:

Disco-y Spiders, Orphans, and Flirting with my Best Friend's Love/Twin

At this point, you may be wondering what this diverse collection of topics has to share in common. It all begins, somewhat chaotically, with a troubling confession to my parents when I was but eleven years old. I offer it to you in script format. In the future, I'd like to be played by someone who looks like a young Liana Liberato.

It is somewhere around 8pm in the Dobson household. JULIA reclines languidly on the sofa while her MOTHER and FATHER discuss thoroughly unimportant things. Suddenly, she sighs, as through a wistful yet unobtainable knowledge, and turns towards them.

JULIA

Mom, Dad.....

They ignore her. 

JULIA (CONT.)

I'm.... (COUGHS)

They ignore her still, unaware that she is probably dying of a rare infectious disease, or something of the sort.

FATHER

Yes, Julia, what is it? (DISTRACTED)

MOTHER

Julia....? (LONG PAUSE.)

JULIA

(SNIFFLING WITH RESIGNATION) 

My dear parents... Mom, Dad...

They rush to her beside, suddenly aware of the gravity of the present situation. JULIA's face turns pale with the ghastly sight of the life that lies before her.

JULIA

(WEAKLY)I'm...

MOTHER

What is it, darling, what?! (CLASPING HER HAND)

JULIA
I'm a thespian

MOTHER lets out a hollow scream and faints, falling to the floor. FATHER stands, fixated in shock, as JULIA disappears within the fog of a smoke machine to the sound of beating drums and ENSEMBLE vocalizations.

Okay, so it didn't really go down like that. Believe me, I would have rented a fog machine and hired backup dancers if I could have. But for a vaguely emo and decidedly penniless sixth grader, that's as good as it gets.
That's right, everybody. I, an introvert, became..... *gulp* an actor. Er, -ess?
When I was little, we always had these reader's theater productions based on rhyming children's books, healthy living lectures mimicking some structure of inspirational humor ("Hey, it's me, your friendly carrot! I restore your eyesight and replenish vitamin A to keep you strong and healthy!!"), or depictions of historical events involving only white males. I still remember the first play I was in.

Ugh, give me a break, okay? I was only four in my breakout role. It was reader's theater-- How was I to know that it wasn't my line? Who, if anyone, instructed me not to use the readily available table as a prop?! Needless to say, I didn't gain any more acting experience... until around fourth grade. I was in a commercial. Staring awkwardly into the camera, nearly falling over on my bike, with no lines.

In fifth grade, the spotlight beckoned me yet again! In my school, Lewis and Clark Elementary, there was an annual musical commemorating the Louisiana Purchase and the grand expedition it inspired. I was Sacajawea! .....'s understudy. To be fair to the casters, they chose wisely. I assumed that everything would go smoothly and didn't even bother to memorize the lines; and was rejected from the school talent show because I "sung like a braying donkey". Thank you, American educational system, for bequeathing a young child with such a spicy tidbit of self esteem. Thank you also for depicting the Native Americans as overly simplistic in mind through your vapid dialogue and giving the speaking role of Sacajawea to the palest white girl in the school. Well..... c'est la vie? And she was a pretty dang good singer. 

But that year, I also played Mary Todd Lincoln. With actual. actual. aCTUAL LINES.

And let me tell you a thing. There's a scene where she holds Lincoln's hand. Now, for a rampantly religious fifth grader, this is a full-on staged scandal! They say "anything for the art", but surely this does not extend to the holding of hands !? Blasphemy, impropriety!!!

It also.... would have been kind of cool if his hand wasn't so slimy and gross, or if every other girl in my class didn't have a flamin' crush on him.

It was difficult to recover from the incident.

For those of you who are interested, one of my very worst fears (beaten only by the whole "dying alone" thing) is chiratophobia. It means, literally, fear of touching hands. I do happen to know the back story with how that developed. As a small child, I literally believed that someone could access my thoughts if they touched my bare skin, particularly my hands; and that guttural terror has resided with me for years. To this day I still jolt if someone brushes against me.  Anyways, back to my bout of soul-wrenching horror.

I thought, by this point, that I was DONE with acting. But here's the dealio.... The stage consumes your soul and drags you into everlasting penance, even at your first taste of fifth grade glory.

And so it was that I joined choir in sixth grade, the shyest girl in the class year; known for the stacks of books that piled above her head and a voice so soft that she could barely be heard at a shout.
Auditions.
Oh, brutal auditions.
Singing in front of a jury of the amassed sixth grade. It was lunch time, the cafeteria was jam-packed; I was shaking and pale green in color. I was the first up. Everyone knew it was me behind that thin curtain that separated the lunch room from the drama department, and since we were lined up outside to be taken in individually, no amount of plausible humiliation and its accompanying anxiety was spared.
The music director played some scales on the piano for me to sing along to-- and then stopped me early. I felt so nauseous that I could hardly breathe; and let me tell you, choking on vomit during an audition is not the way to go. Well, then it was time to sing a capella, a song of my own choice in front of this carnivorous society of my peers. Oh goodness. I could barely stand it.
And so, I began. Stepped, somewhat falteringly, away from my grip on the piano lid, and cleared my throat with a little, agitated wheeze.
With one note, suspended shrill in the air, the crowd evaporated from all existence. There wasn't a me anymore, just a song, drifting through everything that existed in conscious, nothing left to settle on. A scared little voice once, now belting out "Set Fire to the Rain". And then..... silence. I stepped back into my body, open my eyes, descended into reality. Chills swept over me.

I'd.....  failed.

My face flushed redder than a chameleon on a hot coal. All I could see were the faces staring up at me, and, wincing, I prepared myself for the inevitable jeers, the mockery, the scorn, the ridicule in the hallways..... and was met with applause. High fives from everyone as I stumbled offstage, dazed.
I wasn't the shy girl. I wasn't donkey-voice. I was a girl who could sing.

(Is that undoubtedly the creepiest thing you'll ever see on a blog? Oh, yes. You're welcome.)

Part Two of this fantastic yet somewhat deluded adventure will be published in March 2016!