today, i dropped my first class.

actually it was friday. but today sounds more dramatic. here are the pros and cons of dropping that weighed heavily in my mind for approx 28 seconds:

pros:
1. the class is phil 112: making sense of ourselves. i'm no shelley morgan. i'm no hippy.
2. the recitation for the class meets at 8 am on friday morning. last thursday night i stayed up entirely way too late chilling at the d's end of summer dance party. i ended up getting about 4 hours of sleep. i need at least 11. either the dance party's gotta go or the 8 am recitation. i'm a really good dancer.
3. if i miss one lecture i automatically fail. sometimes a girl's gotta skip. this girl especially.
4. being present at each lecture includes not being on facebook. one of the lamest things about me, besides the fact that i recently had a friend understand my lizzie mcquire reference, is that i love facebook. and if the class is not inspiring me, i have no choice but to resort to learning unhealthy amounts about my friends and their friends. and their friends' friends.  if caught on facebook once, i would fail the class. i cannot, with a clear conscience, promise that i won't get on facebook.
5. another requirement is that i have to submit my notes electronically at the end of each week. my notes are consistently embarrassing.
6. 10-15 people out of 200 will get an a. does it look like i am in the top 5-7.5% percent at carolina? (don't be fooled by that awesome percentile math).

cons:
1. the prof wears harry potter glasses and is bald.
2. i wish i was shelley morgan.

the weirdest intro to a blog.

I’ve always been a Beth. 

We sat in the den, six petite brunettes piled on the couch that spilled its cotton candy stuffing, the oldest french-braiding the littlest' hair. 

“Ouch, Sage. Stop pulling so hard!”

“If you’d just sit still, it wouldn’t hurt, and I’d already be done.”

“Seriously guys, I’m trying to watch the movie,” Rebecca projected from her spot three people away. Her eyes had never even left the screen, but everyone knew not to speak another word. Instead they listened as Rebecca spoke the words along with Jo March, “We're both stupidly stubborn, especially you. We'd only quarrel!”, with a sincerity which made me wonder if she truly believed she was turning down Laurie’s marriage proposal. 

It is quite impossible that six sisters would grow up adoring anything but the wonder that is Little Women. Yes, Narnia was enrapturing. But there wasn’t anything like watching your very life acted out in front of you in a timeless classic. I knew each and every emotion they experienced, not just because I watched the movie weekly, but because I had lived it. Unfortunately, my mind was a bit skewed in which part I actually lived.

I recall watching Jo suck the juice out of her clementine slice as her right hand wrote brilliant words in her candlelit bedroom. The image haunted me incessantly. I truly believed that Jo was the future version of me. I pictured myself as I watched her tie up her manuscript, tuck a carnation into the string, and slide it under the professor’s door. I idolized her as she took the pear from the mailbox, and held it to her lips. She was wild, exciting, and fearless. Everything I was. Or so I thought. 

One day, upon watching the final scene where Professor Bhear proposes to Jo under his shielding umbrella, we decided to do it. It was time. We matched characters to ourselves. We began with Amy, the youngest and notoriously most rambunctious. Everyone agreed that she was somewhere between Kiersten and Caitlin, depending on the day. Next, we deliberated over Meg, the oldest. Meg was a wise character, put together, with a little bit of spark. Clearly, Sarah Jane. We moved onto Beth, purposefully saving Jo, my Jo, for last. I began to pick at the cotton candy and tried to wait patiently to be crowned Jo when I heard my name and realized that I was in fact Beth, the sickly but content sister. I should have known. There were plenty of clues. 

I should have known ever since I was christened Anna. Because I was born after Kiersten, my parents wanted something “simple” and “easy to spell”. Translation: they wanted something boring. And something boring they found in “Anna”. 

If the name thing should happen to escape me, I was surrounded time and time again with obvious displays of my very Beth-ness. Whether it was through my mom force feeding me nutritional drinks to rid me of my frail appearance or my insatiable tendency to cry, I should have known. I was born a Beth and ever since I have lived and breathed everything Beth. I’ve learned, with the turning of time, to embrace it. Jo is simply a shadow of a dream I once had. The dream to be a world-renown writer, men pursuing me incessantly, and me having the ability to turn down their handsome proposals. Nay, that dream is dead. And this is the story of my life, as Beth.

okay so this isn't really just a spur of the moment blog post that i whipped up. it's the intro to my autobiography. it's all i have so far. yes, i am aware that i am weird and maybe a little self-centered. sue me.