Without further ado, an introduction:
My name is Diana.(2) I am as beautiful as you can possibly imagine, if not more so.(3) I voted for Barack Obama three times,(4) and, while I support many of his policies, I am afraid I cannot condone his practice of tucking his t-shirt into his track pants when he plays basketball with the Secretary of Education. Otherwise, I am quite open-minded, especially when it comes to religion(and doesn't it always?). As an agnostic gatherer-of-wisdom, the only fast rule of my philosophy is that I cannot, as a human -- and thus limited -- being, fully comprehend the overarching metaphysical truths of the universe. But I can say with certainty that my viewpoint is the best and awesomest one. Other perspectives deserving honorable mention include, in order: 1)Buddhism, 2)Atheism (but not Mean/Angry Atheism), 3)Quakerism, and 4)the Buffyverse.(5)
Now it is time for you to read the footnotes, if you haven't done so already. Here they are:
(1) Does not imply any endorsement of this blog by Misha Collins, nor on the part of his proxies, heirs, and/or minions.
(2) I refuse to show identification, but could, if forced to by law, prove that, by law, this is true.
(3) Not guaranteed, but likely.
(4) Primary, caucus, election.
(5) I hope no one thinks I am seriously trying to rank religions in order of their bestness. As everyone knows: only a special meeting of Jesus and the Joint Chiefs of Staff can do that. Besides, I'm still not entirely sure what a "Buffyverse" is.
You should really read the footnotes as you read the text. Not that you didn't. No, I trust you. Now back to the introduction:
I am afraid of only three things: being trapped in small spaces with large groups of people(6), people(7), and dolls(8). These footnotes are longer so here you go:
(6) At Timpanogos Cave in northern Utah, a park ranger unlocked the heavy wooden door to the first prison cell-sized chamber of the cave and let in about twenty people, myself included. Then he stepped in with us, pulled the door shut, and locked it. We were supposed to be letting our eyes adjust to the dark, but I began to panic, breaking out in a cold sweat and going weak at the knees. I bumped my way through the barely-visible crowd and asked the barely-visible ranger if there were any way for me to not be so close to the other people. "Well," he said, "You could be at the head of the line or at the back. At the back of the line, you'll be the last to get out of the cave system, but at the head of the line, you'll have to go into each chamber by yourself and wait alone with the door shut while everyone enters the previous chamber." (This is a preservation precaution since wind from outside sullies the cave features.) I chose to be at the head of the line. The ranger opened the door to the next chamber, the first in a series of narrow, unlit, man-made tunnels. He and I went in alone, and he shut the door behind us. Then he shone his flashlight at the next door. I approached it, opened it, stepped through, and in shutting it behind me, I sealed myself into pure, silent blackness, all alone in the stony depths of the mountain. At once, my anxiety lifted. I felt a remarkable calm I've never experienced in any other time or place -- the deep peace of being alone. Then I heard the others file into the tunnel on the other side of the door. Soon the park ranger came in, and we moved through another door. Going ahead was a good choice. At every room change, I got to enjoy a deep breath of cool air alone in the dark. Then, still alone, I would flip on the lights and see all around me the ever-astonishing wonders rendered by calcite, water, and time.
(7) My fear of people surprises me, considering that I, myself, am a person. But it oughtn't surprise you; after all, you did find me on the internet, blogging to an audience of one. Two, if we count the Googlebot.
(8) At one of the few slumber parties to which I was ever invited, I and the other girls were unrolling our sleeping bags in the living room. One girl began to cry. She couldn't imagine having to spend more than a few seconds in that room in the typical half-light of sleep-overs, much less trying to sleep there because the walls and staircase were lined with more than three-dozen trophy heads, representing a wide swath of the animal kingdom. (Many were endangered species I recognized from my favorite coloring book, Endangered Species.) "Oh, I'm sorry, I hadn't considered that," the hostess' mother said. "Y'all can sleep in the extra room upstairs." We dragged our sleeping bags up the carpeted staircase, carefully avoiding the projecting horns and antlers. "Oh, this is so much better," said the girl who had cried, as she entered the room. I was the last up the stairs, and as I waited on the landing for the other girls to arrange their bedding, I peeked in. Both of the two walls that I could see had floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves, and all of those shelves were crammed with dolls, all staring out into the room with their glass and plastic and painted-on eyes. Needless to say, I spent the night among the oryx, the okapi, and the addax.
But no, I would like to be honest with you above all, so I must say that I am much more afraid of many other things. Problem is, my second rule of survival is: 2)Never let anyone know your worst fears. (The first is: 1)Never sit with your back to a doorway, but I stole that from Frank Herbert who stole it from feng shui. I tried feng shui as a hobby once, but activating my southwest corner didn't do shit for me.) I pretend to have many hobbies. Some of my more impressive fake hobbies include playing music on several different instruments, philately, the extensive study of dozens of foreign languages, and neuroscience. In reality, I listen to CD's while dusting my piano, hoard stolen stamps, use only my French, Italian, and German books (and occasionally my Portuguese and Russian Berlitz tapes), and skim psychology textbooks for clues as to how I became a neurotic basket case. As such, I take adult gummy vitamins and tell myself they are anti-anxiety drugs. Unfortunately, I read that the placebo effect eventually wears off, so they aren't working as well as they used to.(9) I take no other medications, unless you count Taylors of Harrogate Earl Grey, which I consume in doses so high they would cause anyone with a lower level of tolerance to drive on the left and say "sarnie" instead of "sandwich".
You have bravely endured a long introduction containing copious footnotes. (I hope you liked the part about the addax.) In appreciation of your patience in sticking with this essay, I will cut the body short, which isn't as violent as it sounds. Collins states, "In the body of your essay you present your data and make your arguments. This should be mostly quotes... and numbers." He then recommends the use of a formula. I don't understand the one he provides, so I have made my own:
Number of months since I last ate meat
+ Number of months since my last paycheck
+ Age in months of my newest pair of jeans
+ Number of months since I last went on a date
= 174.3 (or, in metres Celsius, 14.5 years).
Fortunately, the meat number is the biggest, but sadly, that number is not 174.
On to the climax:
One day in fourth grade music class, a boy told me that he had a large knife hidden in his desk and that he was going to use it to cut me up after school. I cried and cried, and my friend Stephanie told the teacher. Stephanie and the boy and I were then sent to the counselor's office where I cried some more. The boy's desk was searched, a far-more-than-sufficient knife was discovered, and the boy was expelled and reenrolled at a different school. Six years later, in high school, the boy and I shared a history class, but neither of us brought up the knife incident. Later that year, oddly enough, he stepped into a bathtub, covered himself in ketchup, and portrayed a fatally-stabbed Jean-Paul Marat in a student presentation on the French Revolution. (I would have said "ironically" instead of "oddly enough", but I'm not sure if this turn of events counts as irony. I would still like to give you some real, honest-to-goodness irony some day, if you'd be okay with that.)
Now I'm supposed to conclude. I'll be as honest as possible. I know I'm not the best blogger, but this was my first time, and if your comments are constructive and not too discouraging, I can write a better entry next time. I hope you'll be here for that. If you won't be coming back to me, can you send someone else who might like my blog more than you do? I'd appreciate that. And don't forget to leave a comment!
G'bye now!
Love you!
(Too soon?)
Ooh, the last footnote:
(9) If only I were joking.
