Crayons Can Melt On Us For All I Care

That is how I feel at this point. Crayons can melt on us for all I care. Everything is crazy right now with graduation and finals. Again. crayons can melt on us. Unless they're poison crayons. Then that would be bad.  Extremely so. I mean, who wants to be covered in poison crayons? Anyways. Whatever. 

I want to have a Disney movie marathon. My sister is watching Cinderella right now, and earlier she watched The Emperor's New Groove. And now I want a marathon. Any one interested?

(a picture for your benefit)

This is quite possibly the most random post I've ever written. Mainly because I'm avoiding my anatomy homework. But I really should get off the internet and work. But I really don't want to. Oh well. Maybe I'll get my Hogwarts letter, or the TARDIS will show up in my yard, or I'll walk into my closet and find myself in Narnia. That would be nice. Or maybe my cup will magically refill with coffee. Sorry, I'm rambling. 

This made me laugh. Hopefully you can see it. 

If not, take my word for it. It's funny.

Also, before I go, the title for this post is the title of a song by Relient K. Here are the lyrics. 

(Trust me. Watch the video.) Enjoy! =)

Until a later time when I don't have homework hanging over my head, 

Robin

Wedding Day!!!

Well. I am even later than usual in posting. My only excuse is that I have been crazy busy, but I haven't posted since last month...so that seems like a lame excuse. But worry not, dear readers, I have not abandoned thee!

Anyways, with this post I bring you the promised wedding pictures! Enjoy!

While she was getting her nails done, she made Caitlyn feed her.

On the way! 

Flower girl and ring bearer.

That's all for now, guys! Hope you enjoyed the pictures!

18

Last Sunday was my birthday. I turned eighteen. I am a legal adult. I can vote, drive after midnight, for all legal purposes I am considered an adult. Since last year I have been dreading this day. A friend told me a long time ago, when I was turning thirteen that age is just a number. It doesn't really signify anything. But while I know that as far as numbers go eighteen is not much different than seventeen, in my mind it is so much different.

Seventeen saw the start of senior year, my first college experience, moving up a level in gymnastics. I went to Croatia for the third time, I got baptized, I started attending college Bible study at church. Seventeen was a good year. It rested comfortably between two big birthdays: Sixteen and eighteen. At seventeen I was still "one of the highschool kids" and I liked it that way. It was comfortable.

Eighteen will see me graduate highschool, the end of my time in gymnastics, start college full time. Eighteen will force me out of my comfort zone. It will see me become "one of the college kids". And honestly, I don't know if I'll like it that way.

Seventeen was a good year. Eighteen scares me. But at the same time I look forward to what this year will bring.


P.S. I'll post pictures from my sister's wedding (which was the day before my birthday) as soon as I can get some onto my computer!  

A Heartless Hero

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope"

"Then I'll continue to not make that mistake"

...

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one."

~ Sherlock and John, The Great Game

When I watched this episode and heard those lines, I paused netflix. I looked at my mom, and I said something like, "That was the best line of ever!" I like it for what it reveals about Sherlock. To the world, even to the person closest to him, he shows the face of the heartless brilliant detective. To him, crimes, murders are nothing more than cures for boredom. People have even said so to him. People call him a freak, a psychopath, even John calls him heartless. 

But his response to John's question reveals something about him that no one else ever sees. The softer side; the side that cares without caring. He cares enough about them to help them, but he knows that to be efficient in solving the mystery, he cannot care about them. He is a paradox. He doesn't care because he cares. He acts like he doesn't care so that he may work more efficiently. He does one of the hardest things a man can do: He does not allow himself to care. And no one sees it. At best, others assume he is apathetic. At worst, they see him as a freak who takes other people's misfortunes and uses them to entertain himself. He rejoices in a murder committed and is discontent when there is no crime to solve. And so people call him heartless. 

He tells John that heroes do not exist. And he says that if they did, he would not be one of them. He admittedly doesn't care for people so that he may help them, and so he says he would not be a hero.

But Sherlock is a hero. A heartless hero.

So, obviously, I've started watching Sherlock. But just so everyone knows, I have not seen past the end of season one! So no spoilers please!! (Although I AM dying to know what happens!)

Until I know whether or not anyone dies, 

Robin   

More Poetry

This is what happens when I go to math class in the evening with a lack of sleep.

Math Class

Numbers and letters swirl,

Across the board they spread. 

Teacher speaks words I cannot comprehend.

My head dips, my paper moves.

I can't think, 

A great fog covers my head.

And my mortal form demands sustenance.

My mouth opens wide in a yawn.

A spaceship, a sword and a coffee

Pop in amidst the numbers.

Click my phone, find the time,

Another 45 minutes to go.

I wish I had my calculator,

I love my teacher's markers.

Only four minutes have gone by, 

Which rhymes with five.

Peas and pods and variables

None have anything to do with me.

I have the TARDIS on my phone!

It's 5:08, time is running slow.

Late to bed, early to rise, 

Definitely does not not make a man wise.

Papers, words and grammar all in one night.

Sleep? It's overrated.

So. More poetry. I was thinking I might dedicate one day to poetry and write a poem once a week. Because, surprisingly, I'm finding myself enjoying this. Good idea? Bad idea? Let me know what you think!

Until I've had sleep, 

Robin

Stick Girl

Once upon a time, there was a little girl.

Stick Girl was a happy child. She liked to play pretend; she would pretend almost anything. 

She imagined herself as a pioneer on the Oregon Trail, a sailor on a ship, 

an Elf in Middle Earth at the time of the War of the Ring, a Jedi apprentice who seemed a magnet for trouble.

She imagined herself as an orphan in an orphanage, part of poor British family in London, or an inhabitant

of CandyLand.

When she wasn't pretending, she was writing stories or reading stories. 

But no matter how many different lives she led, she knew who she was; she never wondered who she was.

She was sure.

But at last, the inevitable happened.

Something Stick Girl had always dreaded.

She began to grow up.

It was subtle at first.

She almost didn't notice.

But when she did, she railed against her fate, but she could not change it.

Until one day, when she realized; the change had come whether she wanted it or not.

Now she looks more like this:

And she is no longer sure.

She leads less lives than she did, yet struggles now to find her place.

She asks, "Who IS Stick Girl?"

Something she used to be sure of.

She still writes stories, and she still reads them, but much else has changed.

It's been years since she last pretended she was a Jedi, or any other of those things.

School, work and sports have taken up much of the time she to spend playing.

Instead of playing pretend with her friends, now she simply sits talks.

Most of the time she is still happy.

But other times, she wonders.

"What happened?" She wonders.

She cares for things now she never did before: Her hair; her clothes.

She struggles to find herself, despite that now she lives only one life instead of many as she did before.

Sometimes she wishes for the old days back.

The times when everything was simpler.

A time when she could be whoever she wanted and still be herself.

She wonders when everything changed.

And she wonders why.

It's a Monday

Today at school I got bored. And so I did the same thing I always do when I get bored: Pick up a pen. Only today, I did something a little different. I wrote a poem. Or tried to. You see, I'm not all that good at poetry, and I don't know that this even counts as poetry, since it doesn't follow much of a pattern, and doesn't really rhyme. But it came straight from my head of it's own accord, and was inspired in half from a character in a book. (If you name the book and character, I will send you chocolate through my computer screen) Anyways, here it is!

Screams

He weeps,

He holds death

In his hands.

They haunt him.

Screams, screams.

The voices of many,

Voices of the Lost Ones

The lonely assassin.

They haunt him.

Screams, screams.

He closes his eyes.

Still he sees them;

He cannot hide. 

They haunt him.

Screams, screams.

He sees their faces,

Blood drips down,

It proclaims his guilt.

They haunt him.

Screams, screams.

Sharp blade of steel,

Instrument  of death.

He holds in his hand.

They haunt him.

Screams, screams.

He wonders, "Why?"

Bloody footprints 

Trail behind.

They haunt him.

Screams, screams.

They hurt him. 

His soul twisted

In agony cries.

They haunt him.

Screams, screams.

And there you have it. I promise I'm not like suicidal or anything. It's just easier to write sad stuff than happy stuff. But I am not depresses; I swear! That's all for now, so have a lovely Monday, everyone! Except it's a Monday, which makes that statement a complete contradiction, but whatever. =)

Until I can think again, 

Robin