here comes the sun, and i say, it's alright

I didn't write about the most historical (god how I hate that word now) presidential inauguration in American history, for which I was physically present.
I didn't write about my playing Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream, a performance I have dreamed of delivering my entire life.
I didn't write about my internship at CBS, or my stint with KCRW, that's landed me everywhere from the East Wing of the White House with the Obama transition team to the Senate building with Tom Daschle.

I'm choosing to write about death. And community. And meaning.
Not about making sense, or faith, or belief.
But about death on earth.

I work at a day camp. I work at the same day camp that I went to as a kid, that all my brothers went to. Not only did it define my childhood, but I have had the best summers of my life working there. I'm not going to try and describe how the camp works, what an overnight is, Tournament Day, Gus' Games, Scoobedy-doo, staff broomball, or Family Night. I'm not going to try and tell you about the best day of last summer, when I participated in a foot NASCAR race, complete with a George Bush cut out, men in sleeveless shirts, and a pit-stop where I got Pop-Tarts shoved in my mouth and sparking cider sprayed all over me. By not being able to explain it, by not being able to capture in words the effect this place has had on me, I hope that only acts as a testimony to how incredible, in the truest sense of the word, the community is there. For 6 weeks, you are inseparable from the 50 other staff memebers and the 250 campers, you become friends with the unlikeliest of people, and for 6 weeks you let go of inhibition and let yourself jump in a kiddie pool in front of hundreds of parents, singing about pool parties and dancing with intertubes; but for the rest of your life you are part of a family. This past summer, there were days I'd show up to work and feel more at home than when I woke up in my bed that morning.

That family just lost two members.

I feel strange detailing it all here. I don't know the ethics of naming these people and how they died.
There's something I can say though. Curt and Nick were as vital, as cherished, as loved as any father or son in a family. Day camp is a place made not by a few people, but by everyone who has and does work there, by every camper and counselor who has sat at Big Tree, hated watermelons after Tournament Day, knows all the words to "Magic Penny" including the fact that you have to sing the chorus repeatedly even when asked to stop, and can find their way to Jolly Roger's Cave in the dark. These men were two of those people. They were a kid's counselor, they were a counselor's mentor, they were a staff member's broomball teammate, a superhero, a screaming banshee, an expert at pie-ing others, and themselves, in the face.

As a camper, I mourned the loss of my favorite counselor as he moved on to bigger and better things, i.e. law school, and could not understand why someone would rather spend their life pursuing an actual career, when they could be playing Wild Kingdom with me in the Little Hills. I was an odd camper-most of the 'cool' girls from my class were in my group, and considering how strange they thought I was during the year, I figured summers wouldn't change that, and took to bringing books to camp so I'd have something to do.
All it took was this counselor giving me a killer nickname and sitting next to me at lunch, and I put the books down, ready to jump in the pool for Sharks and Minnows.
He might not think that meant anything to me, although I still talk to him from time to time, and he still calls me by the nickname that gave me enough confidence to make friends. To this day, when I get emails addressed to Sweet Shrimp, I can't help but smile. All it took was six weeks, one counselor, and two words.

Curt and Nick did the same for countless campers. Made them feel part of a family, part of a whole, gave them a place to be entirely themselves and entirely comfortable with that. Cliche? Maybe. Wildly important to anyone between the ages of 6 and 11? Absolutely. Camp is somewhere you are loved no matter what, accepted no matter what, and have the time of your life no matter what. While people graduate from camp, they never really leave. They visit, they have awards named after them, they have kids of their own and you see them in the carpool line.
Curt and Nick have left camp. And while they never will be forgotten, there is a huge hole that cannot be filled. When I picture the overnight, I see Curt sitting by the fire, talking about his days on staff, and the importance of day camp. I can see Nick directing the cars through the carpool line, kids draping off of him like a human jungle gym.
I can't see camp without them. It's like trying to picture home without my mom in it. Impossible. Heartbreaking. Unsettling.
It is hard to be so broken up thinking about a place that has brought me so much joy.

This is the first summer I won't be working, the first summer I won't be an active part of the family. But my younger brother will be on staff, and my youngest brother will (hopefully) be a camper for the first time. Camp will be different without Nick and Curt. But, knowing the camp family, we will be stronger. We will continue to create memories, to build a family, and to have the best summers of our lives.

Nick and Curt, I miss you both, and I hope wherever you are, there's an abundance of rubber animals and a good game of peaceball going. I hope you left for the same reason my favorite counsleor left-for things bigger and better. We'll hold down the fort, even when the Suprisingly Untalented but Rad try and invade. And we will remember that the kids come not for the hills, not for Big Field, not for the all camp waterfight. They come for the counselors, for their camp family, and for the best summer of their lives.
And for you, we will keep giving it to them. And ourselves.

polo zoology

Weird Al Yankovic is not someone I ever thought would inspire me to deeper thought. Make me laugh, yes. Send me into a frenzy of research not assigned by a professor? Most definitely not. But, I must concede, his poetic ballad "Buy Me A Condo", has raised a burning philosophical question for me. The lyric "I gonna get me da T-shirt wit' de alligator on" really sparked my interest in an aspect of the prepster lifestyle often gone unnoticed: Why are the preps obsessed with tiny animal emblems on their clothing? Lacoste has the alligator, Brooks Brothers the sheep, and Vineyard Vines the pink whale (along with the rest of the animal kingdom in fantastic colors). Is it some sort of secret society symbol? WASPs and PETA unite?
Being from southern California, I really thought I'd encountered every stereotype you could possibly imagine right outside my door (and a couple inside the door as well). Surfers, hippies, yuppies, soccer moms, gangsters, Hollywood insiders, Hollywood outsiders, hipsters, scenesters....But it was only when I came to GW that I realized the notable absence in my hometown: the prep. There are no boat shoes, no pink polos, no summers at the shore or winters at the lodge in the City of Angels. For those of you from L.A., picture a regatta passing the Venice Beach drum circle, rasta men cheering them on as they float down the hepatitis-infested L.A. river. Imagine trying to wear a cable knit sweater on a 65 degree Christmas Day, or a set of pearls with your wetsuit in April.
So I'm not a scholar of the WASP traditions, but I'm a keen observer of their practices here in the borderline south, and while the culture as a whole puzzles and intrigues me, this zoo of animal logos is one that seems to have no consistency, no root in their monogrammed past. So I did a little digging, and have constructed the Non-Prep's Guide to Polo Zoology, for all those as fascinated with the WASPs as I am.
Brooks Brothers had the first animal logo in the prep kingdom, and (not surprisingly) the one that makes the most sense. The "golden fleece" or "magical flying ram" had long been a trademark of the British wool merchants, who jacked it from Greek mythology. Brooks Brothers stuck it on the tag of every blazer, and thus begins the textile domestication of animals.
But, as we can glean from history (and fashion) the seasons change, and as they do, animals emerge from hibernation and migrate out into the open. Animal insignia migration patters suggest that at this point in history, they moved from their hidden lair on the tag, to a place prominently stitched over every prep’s heart. The first to make its way there was the alligator.
Rene Lacoste, nicknamed "The Alligator" after losing a tennis match and an alligator suitcase along with it, invented the polo in 1933. Tennis-garb was generally hot and uncomfortable, and Lacoste developed a light, loose-fitting shirt that maintained an air of class while on the court, and decided to trademark the shirts with his own alligator symbol. While there seems to be an internal debate at Lacoste whether it is a crocodile or alligator, the little green guy has appeared on the polo ever since as the first example of prominent label display.
Twenty-two years later, Minneapolis-based Munsingwear (an underwear and military supply company) introduced a similar design, called the "golf shirt" to the American public, through a line called "Original Penguin". Their excuse for having an Arctic creature as their mascot is rather morbid: a Munsingwear salesman saw a flock of penguins in a taxidermist's window, and bought one on a whim, taking it back to the office with him and affectionately naming the stuffed thing "Pete". Everyone took such a liking to the animated little guy, they glorified him on every golf shirt in America.
Next up we have Mr. Ralph Lauren. After leaving Brooks Brothers, he realized that in order to successfully make a mark in the prep fashion collection, he needed one thing and one thing only: his very own animal. But without a tradition, a nickname, or a cute story, Mr. Lauren was at a loss. However, with his astute marketing sense, and a love for homonyms, Ralph decided to take the easy route: put polo on the polo. And so it came to pass, the tiny polo player and his horse to sit upon our shirts. Let’s ignore the fact that polo players only started wearing polos after a few years of envying the comfortable tennis clothes (although I’d argue that polo isn’t going to be a comfortable sport, clothed or otherwise). We’ll dismiss the notion that he has violated what seems to be an "animals only" rule in the prep logo world by putting a player upon the horse. All those blatant offenses aside, he succeeded in creating the most recognized fellow with a mallet that could ever appear on your chest.
At this point, over population and mutation fostered deviation from the standard animal/prep kingdom. Vineyard Vines, a popular Nantucket-based clothier, appropriately chose a whale for its mascot….and turned it pink. J. Crew, not being able to commit to one creature, decided to let the zoo loose on everything, stitching pants with ducks and dogs, crabs and lobsters, trout and foxes. Some mutants branched off and devolved, birthing the unwanted step-children of the prep collection, Abercrombie & Fitch and American Eagle.
While I have yet to discover the greater answer to why exactly they chose animals and not hieroglyphics, my study of the WASP tribe will continue in earnest. Now educated in polo zoology, all I need is a Cuisinart and some wall-to-wall carpeting, and Weird Al and I can stir gin in the bath and quibble over which yacht to take to the vineyard, with our trusty alligators over our hearts.

capture the flag

Raise your hand if you played capture the flag as a kid.
Alright, everyone. Good.
In any round of capture the flag worth playing, there's a moment where one entire team is trapped on the other side, save one person. Their fingertips barely maintain contact with the tree deemed "jail" in order to extend their limbs to a maximum point, hoping this gives the only 8 year old left on their home side a better chance of tagging them free. Or they link arms, forming a chain from the tree, which generally causes consternation and philosophical debate on what contact is and if you are really touching the tree by the transitive property that you are touching someone who is touching the tree.
Point being.
You're all trapped at that tree, staring at that the kid on the other side. Now it's usually the smallest one, so he's fast, but he's also that loser who never even gets close to the line and doesn't have the hand/eye coordination to pull the flag of any intruder, even though he can outrun them easily. But he's played a few times now, made a few glory moves, learned from the couple of 10 year olds passing on their wisdom and strategy, and so there's a chance. It's slim, but hey, the kid might just have what it takes to free the other side.
And it feels like you've been standing at the tree FOREVER.
"Just run!"
"Get us out!"
"Just get caught and get it over with!"
But that kid wants to prove himself.
And in most cases, he doesn't. I mean I was usually that kid, so I know the feeling well. You think you're coming to your glory moment as you decide, "This is my time! I will blaze through the army of pre-teens and free all my teammates who will then love me and invite me to all the cool parties and maybe let me sit with them at LUNCH!"

The only difference is, this time it actually worked. He actually made it to the glory moment. Barack Obama got across the line, beat back the defenders, faced the odds, and freed everyone at the tree. That's the only way to describe the feeling I had as people poured out of dorms and bars, windows and doors, to flood the streets of DC screaming, crying, hugging, and chanting: "Yes we did!" That I'd been standing, trapped at this tree for years with everyone I knew. We'd resigned ourselves to losing, to being cornered and powerless forever. And this rookie with unlikely prospects didn't hope he'd free us, he decided to. There was no room for loss. This was going to be the moment. And it was. We ran back to our side of the field completely elated, without regard to who was what status on our team, but overjoyed that we finally had a fighting chance again, that we were reunited, and we had this kid to thank for it.

There's another recognizable moment after this one. It comes just after the pure, unabashed, uncontrollable joy. Real prisoners who have been let out of a jail with real bars have said the same thing: when you get into the real world, you're not sure how to react. When you're back in the game, there's this moment where you're not even sure what to do with the joy, and with the opportunity you've been given. The reason I haven't blogged about this until now is because having all this totally pure joy at something I cannot physically touch or interact with or feel the immediate benefits of, having joy because of an electoral count, because of something I've never really cared about until now, was almost uncomfortable. I didn't know what to do with all this happiness for something that always seemed so distant from my personal life. With this past week, I've settled into a comfortable, confident hope that things will be better in the next four (and hopefully eight) years. Not just for my country, but for me and my family on a personal level. I was able to assign that happiness a physical cause, and now, I can focus on doing my part to help my team get the flag, to not get caught, to put forth the best effort to win.

5th grade politics never fails to comfort me.

some lists

Things I like:
When guys call girls they think are hot "bombshells", giant $1 cans of Arizona iced tea, Los Angeles, my blue leather jacket, insomnia, Barack Obama, philisophical phone calls, punching bags, when people understand, extra cheese on french onion soup, when people forget your name and just ask again for it instead of calling you "hey....you....", neon orange bras and their corresponding comments, grand pianos, people-watching, when it's above 75 degrees in the middle of the night, The Mountain Goats, letting go.

Things I don't like:
Inferiority complexes, when girls refer to each other as "bitch" in a way that's supposed to be endearing, crushes, memorizing lines, anyone in California right now, class before noon, pretty girls who make it look effortless and the guys who like them, being an open book, the very end of asparagus where it's all stringy, being broke, promises, letting go.

the death of class and other weekend musings

Halloween might be the personification of the death of class, especially on a college campus. I was walking in my golden track shorts and Dancing Elk Condors tee (for those of you who missed the reference (or the movie altogether), Michael Cera from Juno), and a baseball team passed by me. I'm not sure what league they play for, but if you tried to slide into home plate with the booty shorts and heels these girls had on, I'm pretty sure you'd rip off your first four layers of skin, break your ankle, and flash the catcher. I was under the impression Halloween was when the spirits come to play, not the strippers. I'm unclear on when "dressing up" became "barely dressing". Someone enlighten me?
While it's most apparent on Halloween, I find culturally this generation is somewhat devoid of class. I was up in New York a few weekends ago with my mom, her boyfriend Chris, and my cousin Emily at an absolutely beautiful penthouse apartment 25 stories above Times Square. I felt almost wrong being in that apartment, like a stain on a white linen couch. I dressed nice just to sit around eating pita chips, French chocolates, and drinking champagne, and felt guilty about anything remotely unclassy I'd done in my life. That whole weekend felt like a very classy movie: a horse show in New Jersey, tapas on the Lower East Side, martinis in Hell's Kitchen, a glass and silver penthouse, museums to see original Babar drawings. Forgive me for being theatrical, but I want my life to be like that all the time. At tapas, over crab artichoke dip and vodka citrons, Chris asked Emily and I what we did with our friends when we went out. Answers included Bars, hanging out in people's rooms, live music, talk...
"Dancing?" Chris asked.
"You mean nearly getting impregnated and in danger of having 7 different STDS by the time you leave the club? Cuz that's what dancing is now."
Now I know we're not the first generation to walk on the raunchy side; the jitterbug and jazz music were considered low-class, risque, even dangerous in their day. But going to a club now is like asking to get mock-raped. So is that going to one day be considered classy? And if so, what will be considered sleazy? It's an upsetting future to think about. I would love to go back to the days where men wore slacks and button-ups, girls wore dresses and heels, and it wasn't considered pretentious to sit around listening to jazz. When guys held open doors, and going out dancing meant getting dressed in your best and having a partner who's face you actually saw once in a while. I am by no means a traditionalist, nor is this a comment on social ettiquite between men and women. I just think there's something to be said for carrying yourself with dignity.
I'm not saying we need to be pretentious-I felt classy sitting in a Cheers-esque bar with Emily, eating nachos and downing Yuengling. It's not as much a matter of what you're doing, it's the way in which you do it.

And now for something completely different....

Weekends in college are usually underwhelming (10 Things anyone?), or at least mine are. But what I find interesting is that the good moments are never where I think they'll be. I went to two parties this weekend, both were costume parties with people I love, and were expected to be the highlights of my three precious days off.
Despite one party being rave-themed and thus lending itself to being a highlight, it didn't come until this afternoon, six minutes away from the end of the radio show I'm on at GW, Vibrations of Nations. In the control room, there are these office chairs. None of them are intact. They're missing arms, parts of the cushions are ripped out, they have no restraint on how far back they lean...naturally, this makes for endless entertainment. Wyatt and I tend to rock out when we've got a good playlist going, and he played a song this week, Sandcastle Disco by Solange, that lent itself to just that. It is the best dance song ever.
Especially when your partner is a broken office chair.
It was a movie moment. Again, forgive the theatrics, but two college djs rocking out to funk with their broken office chairs?
That's part of what I love about being on the radio. While I get to share my passion with as many people as will listen to the show, I don't have to actually perform or be "on" for anyone. Sure, you can watch us be ridiculous via the webcam, but I can't see you. And yet I get a response as if I were in front of a crowd. Listeners IM me throughout the show, complimenting the playlist, giving me great tidbits about the bands I can then share with everyone on the air, or introducing me to new artists I might like, and will probably play in the coming weeks. It's put me in touch with people I don't necessarily talk to, and people I look up to are complimenting me on my work. Plus, I can come in there a complete mess, but the rhythm of pushing all the buttons, logging the show, chatting with Wyatt and everyone who's listening, I feel completely calm when I leave.
It's a good place to be-I'm doing my own thing, while still connected to everyone, still contributing something to life on this planet.
Speaking of which, I've gotten a lot of requests for the playlists from the show. Here's what we played this afternoon (in the order we played them, and going title, artist, album):

1. Mafia feat. Eugene Hutz- Acquaragia Drom- Rom Kaffe
2. Either/Or-Elliott Smith-New Moon
3. Heckuva Man- The Sweet Divines- Soulshaker Vol. 5
4. Thank You Mario But Our Princess is in Another Castle-The Mountain Goats-Black Pear EP (free online!)
5. Pepper Box- The Peppers- Pepper Box
6. Fake Tales of San Francisco-The Arctic Monkeys-Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
7. Deep Blue Sea- Grizzly Bear- Friend
8. I Believe in You-Cat Power-Jukebox
9. Lie Next To Me- The Blakes- The Blakes
10. Shopping Trolley-Beth Orton-Comfort of Strangers
11. Evil Bee- Menomena- Friend & Foe
12. Love You Madly-Cake-Comfort Eagle
13. Salty Dog- Cat Power- The Covers Record
14. Taper Jean Girl-Kings of Leon-Aha Shake Heartbreak
15. Hang Ups feat. Abdominal- Speech Defect- Come for da Funeral, Stay for da Food
16. She's Fantastic-Sondre Lerche-Phantom Punch
17. No Man Worries- Speedometer (feat. Ria Currie)- Four Flights Up
18. Heretics-Andrew Bird-Armchair Apocrypha
19. Guerreiro- Curumin- Achados e Perdidos
20. Cigarettes Will Kill You-Ben Lee-Single
21. Multiply- Jamie Lidell- Multiply
22. See Fernando-Jenny Lewis-Acid Tongue
23. Eanie Meanie- Jim Noir- Tower of Love
24. The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1-Neutral Milk Hotel-In an Aeroplane Over the Sea
25. See You At The Lights- 1990s- Cookies
26. Cristobal-Devendra Banhart-Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon
27. Sandcastle Disco- Solange- Sol-Angel & The Hadley St. Dreams
28. Ses Monuments-Sea Wolf-Get to the River Before It Runs Too Low
29. Hey-Pixies-Doolittle
30. Phantom Punch- Sondre Lerche & The Faces Down
31. Electro-Socket Blues-Rogue Wave-Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist Original Soundtrack

Enjoy :)

serial monogamy

While I have been made fun of as a relationship addict before, I hadn't heard the term "serial monogamist" in any academic setting until last week. I was pretty sure it was just the kind label my friends had come up with for the vastly insecure and ridiculously needy person I can be to try and make me feel like my craziness had some legitimacy.
Turns out it does.
And turns out I'm not crazy.
At least not this time.
According to my biological anthropology professor, the entire human race is genetically built as an army of serial monogamists, jumping from one serious, long-term partner to the next, rarely settling with one person for life. While we psychologically and emotionally embark in the world to find that soulmate, biologically, we want to reproduce. So we're constantly at war with our natural instinct.
No wonder the world can be such a miserable place.

How is it that we continue to love in light of the idea that we are built to move on from it?

Every time we love, we hope it's our last. No one enters into a relationship of any kind thinking, "You know, this will end, and probably not so well." You don't buy a Rolls Royce with the intent, or even the thought, to crash it. In fact, you probably consider yourself such a great driver, or the car itself to be so magnificent, that it is almost impossible for it to be wrecked in any manner. Because you take such good care of it, wax it everyday, keep it locked up in a temperature-controlled garage, somehow that negates anything bad happening to it. We're in denial from the beginning, unreasonably optimistic for our own happiness, or else it'd be impossible to start if we knew the outcome would be terrible. In reality, the best outcome we can hope for in a relationship is that one person in it dies; the car just stops working. Or I guess if you want to cite the incredibly realistic film "The Notebook", then the best outcome we can hope for is to die simultaneously. And frankly, when I'm getting off the phone with someone I love, "Hope you die when I do!" doesn't seem to be the kind of romantic, endearing message I want to send.

By evolving to be unrealistically optimistic, we cope with the fact that all good things come to an end, and badly. By that I mean, we never want good things to end, so when they do, it's bad simply because it's over, and anything on top of this that goes wrong just adds to it. Our unrealistic expectations for our own happiness creates a blind spot. It's not huge, just enough to keep us somewhat ignorant of the tragedies in life. For example, if I tell you right now that in 500 years, everyone and everything you love will be dead and gone, your mind immediately discards that idea. Perhaps you're even angry with me for even mentioning it, for burdening you with the thought. "Why be so pessimistic? Don't focus on the future, live in the present."

Let's be real here: if I told you that you were going to die in 3 hours, and I knew it for sure, you would not be enjoying the moment. You'd run around calling every person you know to tell them whatever you really think of them, you'd be eating an entire box of donuts and having as much sex as physically possible. Think of the lottery, or gambling. Upfront, when we buy the ticket, they tell us that it's nearly impossible to win, that the odds are stacked against you, and yet, against all rationality and logical thought, we play. "Someone has to win, right? Why can't it be me?" As you quickly make up a bunch of reasons why you above anyone else should win this complete crapshoot, you're ignoring the fact that you and Joe the Plumber have exactly the same statistical chance of winning.

Crank up the intelligence, would be the first solution that comes to mind with all of this. Be more aware of the consequences of our actions and our environment. But without the blind spot, you've got a dying breed of humans drunk and stoned out of their minds, lying on the floor watching Dawson's Creek reruns and trying to forget everything awful about their existence, which would be impossible given that they have no filter. It's called depression. You would never start out in a relationship if the depressing end was staring you straight in the face. Thus, we'd never reproduce. Voila. Extinction. It's the process of evolution that's made us slightly stupid with optimism, in order to keep the race alive.

But remove yourself for a moment. A relationship ending cannot be considered bad (remember my earlier definition: anything good that ends ends badly simply because we do not want it to end so we're not getting what we want), it's just there. Everything ends. Everyone dies. And everyone will be alone when that happens. So let's know that somewhere in the back of our minds. Be prepared. Think about loss not just when it's happening, so it doesn't seem like then end of our lives when it strikes. Let's not let ourselves be crushed by the weight of loss. We will get up, and do it again. Not necessarily because we want to, but because we're built to keep looking, keep hoping, keep searching, and to keep going. Simply by being human, we are much stronger than we let ourselves be.

And on that warm and fuzzy feel good note, I bid you all goodnig....good morning.

bewitched, bothered, and bewildered

Today's Case: Can Eb actually control the universe with her thoughts? Evidence provided within the last week has raised questions, and thus we put it to a jury of her peers to judge whether or not she's got telepathy with the world.

Take these four scenarios:

Evidence A:
I was walking across the street in the middle of the night, stressing about what all those guys in three piece suits on Wall Street are worrying about right now: money...and more specifically, how I don't have any of it. Just as I am contemplating setting up nice box in the Lincoln Memorial and eating Kraft Mac and Cheese for eternity, a guy drives by in a black Porsche, roaring up 24th Street, and throws something out the window.
$20.00.
Granted, it was rolled up and dusted with a lovely white substance, but it was $20.00 all the same.

Evidence B:
Inspired by the fantastic film "That Thing You Do", I asked a friend of mine the last time they were really kissed. Not an "Oh hey my tongue is in your mouth and it kinda tastes like beer" kiss, but really kissed by someone. We determined it'd been quite too long for both of us, and that we didn't necessarily want Prince Charming, we just wanted to be reminded what a good kiss feels like.
Judging by the standing evidence, I'll the jury conclude that story for themselves.

Evidence C:
Lucky me got to interview Ben Kweller for WRGW last week. Turns out we have something in common: we both get intense nosebleeds at the most inopporutne moments, shedding amounts of blood that would make that whole sacraficial cutting of oneself for a divine blood offering in the Aztec culture completely painless, not to mention we'd be exceedingly popular with the deities.
Three minutes later, it looks like a murder scene in the station as my nose starts pouring blood.

Evidence D:
I have a class with a guy I used to date, and every day on the way, I pass his building. Last week I thought to myself, "Weird how I walk by his building to a class we have at the same time in the same place and I never run into him. Watch, now he's gonna walk out the door just cuz I said that."
Ask and ye shall receive.

Based on current evidence, I ask the jury to reach a verdict: Can Eb actually control the universe with her thoughts? She has now been asked on numerous occasions for unicorns, boyfriends, A papers, and a cookie. Unfortunately, it seems as though this power does not take requests. So is it something that links money, kisses, nosebleeds, and ex-boyfriends?

Has the jury reached a verdict?