The White Album…

        …is the name of the current issue of the Voltairean Literary Arts Magazine, which my school publishes and which does, indeed, include my soaring essay on the glories of masturbation. There have been a few doubts expressed regarding the existence of said essay, so to prove my veracity (at least in this instance), I am posting it here, sans citations. Enjoy. In as many ways as you see fit. I won an award for it, and by “award” I mean a mention by the Editor at the back of the magazine. And I quote:

“Best prose: Melanie P. 

 Best poetry: Zach S.

 Only rant, and subsequently the best: Kelly L.”

        I was thinking earlier about happiness, because - as you know - it’s been niggling at me that I can’t seem to grasp it. I felt sad earlier, so I went to my room where I could be alone. I fell to my knees and pressed my forehead to the floorboards, which were freezing, and said, “Okay, this is it. I am it. God, you are it, too, and I need to recognize that you are in me so I don’t feel so alone.” That got me thinking about creativity, and suddenly, I remembered that I used to believe the only way to be truly happy was to be constantly creating something.

        Which makes sense, because when I’m engrossed in writing, or drawing, or painting, or collaging, or crocheting, or singing, or dancing, or playing my piano or pennywhistle or accordian, or crafting papier-mache bookcases, I often “wake up” to find myself smiling. I like schoolwork, too, but it’s different. Schoolwork I do in order to learn specific facts, and for rewards - such as As, and a degree, and maybe a future kickass job. Schoolwork feels extrinsic, whereas - obviously - the things that bubble out of me come from within, are generated solely by me. Input, output. The input affects the output and the output in turn affects the input and it all creates a unified circle, with no broken places that have sharp pokey ends.

        In all my Jungian searching, I’m also rediscovering what an asshole I can be at times because I’m so screwed up. And oh, I am truly screwed up. But what’s nice is that I’m not really any more screwed up than other screwed-up people are, so it’s not like I’m special, and in fact it comforts me to know I’m in good company. I like the idea that I’m the same as everybody else while at the same time totally unique. I like that I can say stupid things and act stupidly and do things completely “wrong” and still be okay. I finally get it. Or, I’m finally getting it. I think it’s going to be a long haul to self-actualization, thank you Abraham Maslow. But I’m on my way.

        Speaking of something on the way, can you believe Thanksgiving is next week already? Who else hates shopping for Thanksgiving food? It’s boring even talking about it. I like having our friends over, but I wish it was for any other holiday. Like Halloween. Which is a strange sentiment to utter, considering my current rants on gratefulness and happiness. See? Screwed. But I think you guys are awesome. I’m thankful for YOU. kiss!