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It seems like there are two types of happy people. There are the happy people that make me jealous of their happiness (these are the people that I want to trade lives with), and then there are the happy people that make me feel happy too (these are the people that I want to spend time with).

I’m not sure what differentiates the two (What makes me jealous of some people and happy for others? Why isn’t everyone’s happiness contagious?) And I’m not sure what category I fit into (Do I even fit into a category? Do I have enough happiness to be considered a happy person?). But what I do know is that I want to be happy (Or is it “happier”?).

The question now is how. How can I make myself happy?

I don’t want to pretend to be happy (I tried it; it was too hard). But not everything makes me happy. And I can’t expect the happy people to always share their happiness with me if I don’t make them happier in return...

FYI, the dictionary has a function. Some of you should try using it.

Living people, you can’t say, “I literally just died.” That sentence will never be true.

Castilleja students, you can’t say, “I literally flunked that test” if you got a B. You metaphorically flunked it.

Teachers, you can’t say, “If you don’t have time to read the whole thing, just peruse it.” I’m not going to have time to read it thoroughly if I don’t have time to read it.

I know everyone makes mistakes. That’s fine. Mistakes are great if you learn from them, but some of you probably don’t know you’re even making them.

Sometimes I like awkward situations, because they can create bonds between strangers.

Once when I went on a train, the lights went out. All the people who were reading looked up from their books and made eye contact with the strangers around them. They shared a – for lack of better words – bond of confusion. Where were the lights? 

When I went to a restaurant, I saw a woman rifling through the trash. I made eye contact with a stranger, and we bonded over our mutual confusion. What was she looking for? 

When I went to the DMV to renew my permit, I watched a woman retake her ID photo about five times. The people in line didn’t look too happy about it, but the rest of us exchanged eye contact and slight grins. I knew we were on the same page. We were bonding.

It’s fun to feel connected to others.

Maybe we won’t ever see each other again, but we had that moment, and in that moment we weren’t strangers.

I like dances. I like the darkness and the thumping of the music. I like not knowing who everyone is. I like running through the clump of sweaty people in the middle just so I can appreciate the cooler air and space on the outside. I like being able to dance as wildly as I want. I like sleeping in and feeling sore the next morning. I like looking at all the photos and thinking that that was a night well spent.

You know what I don’t like? I don’t like that my dad always asks me if I danced with a boy. I don’t like that he sounds disappointed when I tell him “no”. I don’t like that he thinks that I have bad social skills because I don’t accept dance invitations from strange boys. 

No, Dad. That’s not how it works. 

Someone who only has read my blog might think I’m an “open book,” because I share some personal information in my posts. But I feel like a blog is just an online journal, and it’s there for me to express myself, so I should open up.

I am not always “open” though. In fact, I’ve been told that I’m quite mysterious. Some people have a hard time figuring out what I’m thinking, and many often think that I’m intimidating, or they assume after meeting me that I do not like them. I’m not sure why.

Sometimes I wish that that wasn’t the case. Sometimes I yearn for someone to approach and confide in me. Trust me with her secrets and implore my advice. It’s a shame that I hate making promises and give terrible advice.

I know I’ve mentioned this in a previous post, but I want to bring it up again:

I don’t think age is that important. Sure, it can be good to know at times, but other times, why does it even matter? 

I think it’s cool that a seventh-grader has an  “I <3 Harry Styles” shirt that’s similar to mine. That doesn’t make my shirt any less cool. It means that we both have good taste. 

One of my favorite parts of Arts With A Heart this year was getting to spend time with my sixth-grade buddy. She’s a really cool kid. I’m not ashamed. 

On the other side of the spectrum, there are some wonderful senior citizens out there. I encourage you to check out a senior center sometime. Some of them have really interesting stories. 

Finally – and I’ve saved the best for last – I had my first kiss over break (!), and it was with a *drum roll, please* freshman. But that didn’t stop it from going well! 

Every once in a while, I’ll find a song that I love. For a while it’s been “Elephant Gun” by Beirut. I don’t know why, but I think it’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. I feel an urge to sway emotionally. I also want to fly. Not very many songs have that effect. 

Unfortunately, this feeling doesn’t last forever. I always move on, eventually. No matter how much I love something and how much I think it’ll last forever – it’s just a phase. I used to love cereal so much that I would eat some for multiple meals each day. Now, if I’m lucky, I only have it a few times a month. I prefer eggs. 

Want to hear an ironic story?

In 2010 when I went to Maui for a family vacation, I met a boy named Braedon on a waterslide. We became friends. Simple enough.

Here’s where the irony comes in.

His father is a celebrity. He used to live in my city, and even though he moved, he still lives nearby. After the trip, on the plane ride home, our seats were next to each other.

A few emails and three years go by. 

I’m back in Maui for a family vacation, and whom do I see in the hot tub? Braedon. Turns out he’s also on a family vacation again. He hasn’t changed a bit, and I recognize him easily. He recognizes me as well. It is as if no time has gone by and nothing has changed.

How crazy is that! We live so close and never see each other, but when we go back to where we met, we’re reunited. I find that so unbelievable.

On top of that, I also ran into two other guys I had met there years ago and Ms. Seroff (who was also on my flight home)! THE IRONY!

I like proper grammar. I like it, because it’s right, and I don’t like being wrong. 

Before Castilleja I used to be wrong. I didn’t know the rules of proper grammar, especially not how to use commas properly; I would sprinkle them everywhere, because I didn’t know what else to do. I was just hoping my teacher would be lenient, and she was. 

Now that I’m older, my teachers can’t be as lenient. They start docking points. Luckily, they also start telling me what I'm doing wrong and how to be right (something my other teacher didn’t do).

I’ve learned from my mistakes. I still do.

It feels great to be right, and I want to share that feeling with the people who are wrong. That’s why I like to correct other people’s grammar mistakes. I’m not trying to tell them that they’re wrong; I’m trying to teach them how to be right. I’m trying to help them. 

Some people don’t appreciate my help. I know that. They call me annoying or a snob, but they don’t tell me to stop, so I continue correcting them. It’s something that I would’ve appreciated when I was wrong. 

Dear Peter Pan,

Please kidnap me and take me to Neverland, for I am not ready to grow up.

I am not ready to take the SAT Or get my license (and not just because I need to get a permit first). Or be “too cool” for winter formal – or all Castilleja dances for that matter.

Take me to Neverland where I can be carefree. Where I can fly instead of drive. Where I can dance to my heart’s content without worrying about what others think.

I don’t want to grow up.

I don’t want to get an unfulfilling job with a long commute. Or get married and have children. Or be bothered with making sure my “image” is upheld.

I don’t care about any of that.

I want to go to a place where magic still exists. Where I can go on adventures everyday. Where I can be young forever.

Lately, as I’ve been conditioning for lacrosse, I’ve realized how out of shape I am.

I told myself to stay in shape, but I didn’t. Why? Because I have a very relaxed relationship with myself. I don’t like to leave my comfort zone if I don’t have to. I’m basically a pushover and a bully in one. The pushover says, “Work out,” and the bully says, “No,” and the pushover says, “Okay...” and that’s the end of that.

I am totally satisfied with letting myself down though, because there are no consequences. What am I going to do? Hold a grudge against myself? Give myself a time-out? No.

I am not satisfied with letting other people down, because they’re not pushovers (or at least they won’t always be). I can’t bully them into forgiving me forever.

So if you want me to do something, then tell me that. I’ll be more motivated to do it for you than I will be to do it for myself. 

I had heard rumors that SDLC was a “deep” and emotional trip, but it wasn’t until the closing ceremony that I realized why. 

Someone was telling a personal story, and people all around the auditorium started raising their hands in a “rock on” sign. I didn’t know what the hand sign meant (It wasn’t “rock on”), so I asked the guy sitting next to me. 

He looked at me and said, very simply, “love.”

That's when it clicked for me. These people love each other. The girl on stage was a stranger, but nevertheless about 1,000 teens from all over the world loved her. They didn’t need to know who she was in order to support her. 

I thought, “These are all beautiful people. Why isn’t the rest of the world this supportive?” 

I couldn’t think of a kinder group of people or a better place to be. This was it. This was my confirmation that people who are genuinely nice actually exist! It was so wonderful that I cried. A lot. I didn’t even care who was talking or what they were saying. I was too preoccupied admiring their supporters. There was so much love everywhere!

I felt complete.

This is Darwin. He’s pretty popular on the Internet, because he’s well dressed and can brush his teeth... Oh, and he was found wandering around an IKEA store on Sunday.

He was picked up by Toronto Animal Services and taken to a monkey sanctuary. His owner is trying to get him back, claiming that their “mother-son” relationship cannot be broken. Whether she gets him back or not will have to be determined in court.

It’s like the plot in “Rise of the Planet of the Apes.” 

So where should he go? 

On one hand, his owner was taking seemingly good care of him (before the incident on Sunday). Why shouldn’t she get to keep him?

On the other hand, he’s a wild animal. He could carry diseases, become more trouble as he grows (he’s currently only seven months old), and he would live a more “normal” life with other monkeys. 

They are both valid arguments, but I choose the latter.

He’s unpredictable; it’s safer if he’s in a controlled environment. She can always visit him.

I would love to raise a tiger cub, but I can’t offer a tiger all that it deserves.

The definition of a “celebrity” is a famous (well-known) person.

So when celebrities accept awards and say, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for all my fans,” they’re right! They wouldn’t be famous if no one knew about them.  So if a celebrity’s career depends on his fans either liking him or something he does (and if he cares about his career), he should care about his fans. He should want to please them.

That’s why I’m a fan of Hoodie Allen. I may not know all his songs, but he’s nice to me. Many celebrities say that they love and appreciate their fans, but Hoodie shows it. When I tweeted him, he tweeted me back. When I met him and asked for a picture with him, he let me take one. He had to go, and I was taking a long time (camera problems), but he waited patiently.  And then, when I posted that picture on my blog, he liked it and followed me.

He didn’t have to do any of that, but he did. He showed me that he cares, and I appreciate that.

At a school in Arsal, Lebanon, some children are painting bodies.

They’re traumatized and probably don’t even know a lot of what is going on.

For example, 10 children were killed because there was a government air raid near their playground. They were probably just minding their own business, playing – it’s a playground; that’s what you do, – and they didn’t have enough time to react. Why would they expect to get bombed on a playground? They weren’t doing anything wrong.

They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They all are.

They’re in Syria during a war, and they’re children.

Until they’re older/more mature/do something wrong, they shouldn’t be in that situation.

It’s Thanksgiving, so I’m going to go ahead and tell you some things I’m thankful for. 

Basic needs and family aside...

I’m thankful I have all five senses.

Sight – probably the sense I need the most.

Hearing – voices, my cat’s purring, and music. I really need music in my life.

Touch – I had to get surgery over the summer. I cried, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. I felt nothing, and that nothingness is scary.

Smell – Abercrombie and Fitch would be in trouble if their customers couldn’t smell. Their cologne is my favorite part of the store.

Taste – Maybe I’d be a healthier person if I couldn’t taste anything, but I wouldn’t be a happier person. I love food.

I’m thankful I’m not handicapped. 

I’m thankful for hot showers and my bed.