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I’ve over thought my childhood addictions

Lately, I’ve been on a Gossip Girl kick. Namely because Netflix, and everybody knows what Netflix does to you.

Which means that since Gossip Girl is six seasons long, I’ve been watching this show for ages and ages. I mean, for forever.

For.

Eh.

Ver.

So, imagine me, last night, somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3 am, watching Gossip Girl over and over. I read the books in their entirety from when the first one was released in like…2001 or something, until the last one came out sometime during college. Thus, I love the books, I love the show, and I know it like the back of my hand.

Or so I thought.

(Insert ominous music here)

I’m one of those people who will watch a show over and over. I’m one of those people who reads books over and over.  I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone through a series despite knowing it so well. But I was watching Gossip Girl last night and this happened.

Remember Eva?

THIS CHICK. She comes into Gossip Girl and saves Chuck from a gunshot wound despite being a random chick in Poland. It’s bizarre. And I’m watching her, and for some reason, she’s bugging me more than normal. There’s the normal botheration, where I’m so angry at her for screwing up my favorite fictional characters universe. And then there’s this weird thought in the back of my head, like I know her.

It’s that terrible moment where you see someone on the street and you know you know them so you smile, but you can’t remember why you know them so you’re just this idiot smiling at this other person trying to remember things before you pass them by and are branded as the smiling idiot on the street.

So, I Google her. Because it’s entirely possible to Google an actor in 2014, even if you can’t Google the random person on the street to find out why you know them.

FREAKING FLEUR DELACOUR.

And I cannot believe that I missed this. Sure, it’s probably normal that you don’t realize one actor is in two completely different things. Sure, it’s probably fine that the dots didn’t connect because it’s just Harry Potter and it’s just Gossip Girl, and I do have a real life outside of books and movies and things.

Thankfully.

But seriously. I could not figure out how I missed this.

She's a witch, Hotchy.

That’s about when I went off the deep end of pop culture.

Fleur/Eva

 

And that was Tuesday. 

POST SCRIPT RUN ON SENTENCE. I’m sorry I haven’t blogged but it’s stuff like this that is reasons I haven’t and HAVEN’T YOU MISSED ME or ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED or something like that.

 

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Basically, my journals are my horcruxes, but not really.

If you haven’t read Harry Potter, you might wanna go the fuck away. One, because WHY NOT?! Two, because there’s sort of spoilers in here. Like seriously. Come back when you finish the series.

I’m such a pack rat, guys. Seriously. I save fucking everything.

I have all of the Blue and Whites from when I was in high school (that’s my high school newspaper). I have old corsages from dances. I have wristbands from particularly memorable nights out. I have ticket stubs. I have the chapstick of the guitarist from Sanctus Real from a concert I went to in high school.

I’m not kidding. And that is so fucking creepy. I’m embarrassed that I’m not kidding.

Among all the hubbub that I keep though, there is something that if you know me, I mean really, really know me, then you know I have these.

Journals. Scads and Scads and Scads of journals.

“It’s not a diary. Diaries lock. 12 year old girls keep diaries. This is a journal.”

That was my excuse to people, who thought it was strange that I was a 14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21, etc year old, carrying around a blank book to scribble in. We’ll see how you feel if I ever publish these beauties. Mostly, I just always wanted to be writing. Short stories, poetry, gossip, crush of the year/week/day/hour/minute when someone brushed me on the stairs. My 3rd period Honors English III teacher was THRILLED that I was always writing, although I think she wouldn’t have been as enthralled if she’d read some of what I’d written.

i’m trying not to think of you now

but i’m wringing out the towel

and every drop drips your name

and your face

and god

i wish the sun would dry you out

drive you out

drive me in and love me

(excerpt from a poem from 2003)

But I couldn’t stop. Years later, I look at these journals, and I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Do I want to get rid of them? No. Would you? It’s a pile of reminders of who I was, or who I was when I didn’t know who I was, or just memories of times and changes and people that I might lose otherwise.

But other than that? It’s a pile of books gathering dust under my bed.

Until.

I was reading Harry Potter, for the 210394823 time. Because it’s Harry Potter, and that’s what you do.

So, I’m reading HP, and I’m crying, and I’m trying not to drip my tears on my book, because I totally turned down a night of underage drinking in college to get the damn thing at midnight, when my friend Mohawk texts me.

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Like any 20 something folks that grew up in the mind of J.K. Rowling, we begin discussion of the book. He, of course, brings up the second best Headmaster in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Snape. Snape. Severus Snape.

Which would be well and good until…

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And now we come full circle.

Journals.

Not just gathering dust under the bed. But useful when needed to one up someone in a debate on if or if not you considered Severus Snape to be a very, very bad man, or else you know…

Boom.

Boom. Courtesy of like journal…#34 or something.

I’ve never been so thrilled to have kept these books all these years.

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P.S. Dear J.K. Rowling,

If you happen to write another 7 books, could they maybe be about Sirius going through Hogwarts? Or James, or Remus, or Lily? I’ll settle for anyone except for Wormtail, cuz douchecanoe.

XO,

L.A.

 

Lima Gamit

Baguio City.

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It’s raining, so that means it’s time for blogging. That, and iMessage has decided to be a pain in the ass and stop working. I mean, it might be all my technology trying to be nice to everyone back home, since me texting you now means me texting you at seven am, and really, who is up now? Or else, maybe it’s trying to be nice to the interwebs and give you another blog from me.

…which in case you didn’t notice, isn’t even totally necessary because GoldDust exists!

But since the rain and the douchebaggery technology, here are five things I’ve learned since being in the Philippines.

1. The Boo knows more Tagalog than I probably ever will.

The title of this blog is roughly “five things” in Zambale, according to my mom. I asked her to spell it out for me, and Boo just started counting. He can get up to at least twelve. I can say “thank you.”

2. The day is twelve hours. Exactly. Or almost.

Sun rises at 6 am. Sun sets at 6 pm. My sleep schedule is all sorts of weird.

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3. Vacation hair.

Totally forgot to bring shampoo and conditioner. If you remember my post about my awesome packing skills, this isn’t surprising. However, the intense heat plus lack of conditioner plus hair being up in a ponytail/bun/braid all day equals me looking like this:

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4. I’m totally kidding. It just looks like this:

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5. A learning lesson for you:

“Salamat” means thank you. And now you know about as much Tagalog as me.

And this is why you shouldn’t use facebook anymore.

I was on facebook today, which I really only use for stalking purposes and photo storage, but mostly the stalking, because I don’t take photos like I used to.Image

I’m scrolling down the page, when I notice my sidebar.

FIRST. Christian Singles.

Geez, facebook. I think to myself. I’m technically Catholic, but since my religious views say “Lord Stanley,” I suppose you just made an educated guess.

SECOND. Lingerie of some sort.

Wtf, facebook. I glare at the computer screen. You just gave me an ad for sad, lonely people, and now you’re telling me to go get some lingerie? Who am I going to wear the lingerie for? Is it to boost my self esteem, because you probably know how self conscious I am.

THIRD. Photography classes.

Now this is just getting creepy. I’m backing away from the computer. Clearly, facebook is trying to get me to use the said lingerie become a porn star or something.

…Exactly what are you trying to tell me, facebook?

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Go check your ads now. You know you’re curious.