Existentialism is a philosophy that accentuates the uniqueness of the human experience. The existential philosophy posits the idea that no two people have the same experiences; no two humans are the same. The main concern of this philosophy is to understand how every person finds their identity through free will and personal choice. Just as no two people have the same fingerprints, no two people have the same life experience. To some, this might seem like we live in a lonely and isolated world, disconnected by our personal experience and alienated from others. However, I think that although every person has a unique story to tell, it is in this story telling that we find some commonality. That is why I love observing people on the streets or even in the halls of the college because I enjoy trying to understand a little bit about their experience. I observe their clothing, the way they walk, who the person is with, their body language, even the amount of eye contact they have with me as they walk by. All of these things give me a glimpse into their lives and tell me something about their story.

There is a restaurant in Crystal Lake that I sit at for hours watching the people who come in and out. The restaurant itself has a personality that is unlike anywhere else. The curtains that line the booths are blue on one side and red on the other with gold posts keeping them standing. The booths all have striped upholstery with a single dangling light fixture hanging over, to give each table a nice, warm glow. Each booth is just a little different from the next. The buffet is always exactly the same, not one item ever moves from its designated spot marked with a little ceramic tag. One of the many things I love about the restaurant is the music from the 1940s. I know exactly what to expect when I walk in every Monday and Wednesday. I will hear some of my favorite songs like, Ella Fitzgerald's Someone to Watch Over Me and Billie Holiday's God Bless the Child.

I know to expect the regulars sitting at the exact same tables, as well as the managers walking around, talking and handing out fresh garlic breadsticks, even if they see you are already having dessert. I am convinced the two managers are brothers. They both wear simple white button down shirts with ties that I imagine their kids gave them as Christmas presents. They are both jolly and round and they are always ready to strike up a conversation with you, whether it be about his morning of snow blowing, or about the often lethargic look on my face.

After taking residence in my usual booth across from the ICEE machine, I grab a cup of black coffee and scan the perimeter of the room. My nose is half stuck in my mug, inhaling the gritty, yet smooth scent of pure energy. I know that without my coffee, the impending migraine is bound to set it. As I am basking in the goodness of my mug full of liquid life, I see all of the regulars. There's the elderly woman reading a novel in her corner booth--always a new one each time I see her, and then there's the young boy who always comes in with his dad. The little boy has a mischievous grin on his face and I look down to see him stirring and swirling a strange blue-gray concoction inside a clear plastic cup. i watch as the colors separate only to realize he mixed two flavors of ICEEs. My next thought falls into my cup of coffee and splashes me in the face; I wish I were young enough to mix ICEEs. Instead, I sip my gown-up drink and sit back.

I love the restaurant because of the wonderful 1940s music that is always playing, along with the clientele who are mostly elderly. I imagine that is why they play the unusual music. The elderly couples who come in for lunch are always so nice, and they are always willing to share some of their stories with whoever will listen. I can tell by their enthusiasm that they are happy to have the opportunity to share their wisdom with their younger counterparts. All of the older folks who are regulars at the restaurant seem unburdened somehow. Despite their obvious physical ailments, some walk with canes, others with walkers, I can't help but sense that they have let go of their worries. They live completely in the present--not putting much thought into the future and only visiting the past to share their stories.

I had an excruciatingly long day, so I go straight for the dessert bar. I go all out by layering swirled vanilla and chocolate ice cream on top of the massive double chocolate brownie that has been daunting me since I walked into the restaurant. I finish off the decadent masterpiece by sprinkling some happy looking rainbow sprinkles on my snow-covered mountain. As I walk back, the clicking sound my own three-inch heels are making annoys me. Because I am so distracted, I nearly run into the nice elderly man who always walks over to my table to share stories with me, we both try sidestepping each other, both of us moving in the same direction. He looks up, smiles, and says, "Shall we dance?" We laugh and walk back to our tables.

I am quietly digging into my sugar coma-inducing sundae, listening to the elderly man who is telling a middle-aged couple and their two children a story about his past career. The man explains that he used to be a chemical engineer who worked on confidential, or as the man put it, top-secret projects. He told the couple about the company that he worked for and how they had a policy about what happened when he got sick. If one of the employees of the company got sick, they were not allowed to see their personal physicians. They were legally bound to only go to one of the doctors on staff. The couple shrugs in disbelief and the man responds by laughing and saying, "Hey, whatever, I'm still here and still going strong".

As he sits back down to his lunch, he dismantles two napkins to make little place mats for him and his wife then gets her another mug of tea. I imagine what he and his wife looked like when they were my age. And although I understand that their lives are so different from mine, I see something in their faces that makes me connect with them. Sometimes i think that we are all here at the restaurant talking, watching each other to alleviate the loneliness. Although existentialists argue that we are all alone, it seems like humans are constantly seeking companionship and community.

I have read Gilgamesh over and over. It is a story that was written a thousand years before the Illiad, on eleven clay tablets. It is one of the first recorded stories, and even here, one of the central themes of the story is the idea that human beings desperately search for a way to ease the loneliness. Enkidu, one of the two main characters in the story says, "Deep in his heart he felt something stir, a longing he had never known before, the longing for a true friend". Gilgamesh, the other main character, explains that he is looking for his double, his second self.

The existentialists may have it right; we may be trapped in our loneliness. But as I sit in this restaurant, I can't help but think that it may not be loneliness I fell, but instead solitude. We could all be looking for our double in an attempt to find someone else to bring into our isolated lives. As I sit in this restaurant watching everyone move around and share their stories, I can't help but feel connected to them in some way, because we are all searching for something or someone. So human beings may all indeed be alone. But on this day, in this restaurant, all of these people have found a common bond with each other that is absolutely undeniable. What is most special to me about this bond is the fact that it spans across multiple generations. Because I feel like such an old soul, I have come to appreciate and truly cherish the old knowledge and wisdom of the past generations whose experiences shaped the woman I am today.

After a long and strenuous day of working, running, and dealing with the usual insanity of the day, I sat down and turned on my favorite comedian, Conan O'Brien. On his final show, he made a surprising comment about young people being cynical. He said it was his least favorite personality trait. The reason this caught my attention was because of my New Year's resolution--to not be so cynical in 2010.

As with most New Year's resolutions, it was a swing and a miss in a record six minutes. I, of course, know my reasons for being cynical, but are there really that many other cynics in the world too? After all, if Conan said there are too many, he must be right. That got me thinking, why are young people so cynical? TV is always hopeful, what with the men objectifying women on shows like Jersey Shore. The music is also great, with lyrics about getting drunk and running away from responsibility. I choose not to buy into these things because they set the disappointed idealist in me on fire. But there must be people who watch it, because they are still airing the show.

I can't help but feel like this generation, my generation, set ourselves up for disappointment. Instead of singing about love, as Frank Sinatra did, we sing about drunken mistakes. Instead of enjoying television programming about overly hopeful, large families like the Bradys, we watch reality TV where the most commonly used words are covered by a beep or a censored bar over their mouths.

Maybe our generation is just spoiled. Maybe nothing will make us happy. Maybe we need to have all of our luxuries stripped of us before we can appreciate the endless opportunities which are presented to us. Boredom has become an epidemic in our society. Instead of remedying our boredom by incorporating fulfilling activities such as volunteering, which might make us grow as human beings, it seems young people would rather hide behind mind altering drugs and alcohol.

I hate to thing that my generation has no hope, but m experience so far hasn't proven this sad theory of mine wrong, yet. But I make it a point to try to put the pessimist in me to rest, impossible though it may seem. Has it worked yet? Well, as I said before, I made it six minutes into the New Year before making a cynical comment about the drunk texts I got minutes before the New Year's ball dropped. Maybe the light has gone out on my New Year's resolution, along with my hopes of becoming an optimist. Whatever the case may be, what is done is done and I can't change the feelings which were lying dormant, a time bomb waiting to explode. The 21st century has surely provided the ammunition needed to unleash it. It's too bad I couldn't have been born into an earlier generation.

I love listening to stories my grandmother tells me about when she was a young woman living in Ukraine, and then later when she came to America. She tells me about the weekend dances she would go to, the way she would dress in a way that was feminine, yet modest and understated, and the way the men would be so chivalrous and respectful when they took her out. I swear I was born in the wrong decade; it scares me how I relate more to my grandmother than to my contemporaries. Things have changed so drastically since then. I wish I could have seen the way people interacted and the state of the world, especially during World War II. I may simply be an old soul. I suppose it's possible I might have just been just as cynical back then as I am now.

In a world of promiscuity, relentless boredom, and fast food, I find solace in books and personal blogs. i have found what can only be described as Cynics Anonymous. It is a place for cynics to vent. I figure if i can't overcome what my friends call my snarky cynicism, I might as well meet other people who think like I do. It's nice to know I'm not alone in my quest for people who have lost faith in the human race.

Our morals as generation Millenials have dropped almost as low as our pants. The quality of our entertainment rivals the quality of the processed Hostess foods we consume. And our ability to communicate is almost as limited as our attention spans.

I can't change people's ways. I can't petition to stop airing the television shows that I find despicable. I can't stop the music that streams over the radio. And I can't make women have respect for themselves. I can only change my state of being. I can read instead of watch TV. I can sing the songs that I wish played on the radio. And I can have respect for myself as a woman. Gandhi once said "Be the change you wish to see in the world". I can be the change I wish to see in the world. Not for anyone else, but for me.

Since kindergarten, we are taught to respect our elders. Or so we think. What we are subconsciously taught is to obey the demands of those in the dominant position. Is this fair? Not in my opinion. My homeschool tendencies tell me this is the result of abused power on the part of the adults.

This power is abused not only in the school systems, but also in the workplace. This conditioned blindness starts when children are most impressionable. It starts as soon as children are enrolled in school. This is not to be mistaken for simple behavioral conditioning, I don't mean to suggest that guidance from parental figures is a bad thing, I am not talking about adults teaching manners. That is a whole different story.

To give an example using the school system, take the nasty case of discrimination that took place at a local middle school. Students who wore black were forced to open their lockers so security could search them for razor blades. They were then asked to pull up their sleeves to check for cut marks. They had no reason to check these students, they were simply singled out because they looked a bit different. This search was illegal not only because they did not have probable cause to conduct a search and seizure, but also because they profiled the students. While these actions were appalling to me, what was even more shocking was the fact that the students willingly complied with the unfair demands without a moment of question or hesitation.

It makes sense that this illegal activity did not raise a red flag in their minds, they have already been conditioned to comply with whatever the authority figures demand. This is not the first time I've encountered this nor will it be the last. I would provide you with other examples but I really shouldn't go there. I might get in trouble with my authority figures.

Sometimes I feel as though I have a devil and an angel on my shoulder, only, the angel has been replaced with a second devil. It's as though the angel died in a pool of cynical gray matter. But my devils are different, one is the badass homeschool chick who goes against the grain, and the other is the caged animal with the pasted on smile pretending to have the utmost respect for everyone and their actions. Not to sound overly dramatic, but dealing with incompetent authority figures hurts me in a way that I cannot describe. I think a piece of my soul dies every time I witness this unfortunate situation.

Trapped is what we are. Escape, though we may dream about it, is not an option. This experience is not an isolated incident. This state of mind is present in most work environments as well as most academic institutions. There are a few ways to cope with this agitating truth, I use my cynicism as a shield against the chaos and stupidity of the things I cannot change.

How can I be expected to respect people who have no respect for me? We all know who has the power, it is the person holding the paycheck or the red pen to the grade book. I may not be able to take charge of situations, but I can learn to deal with the incompetence of those who do.

Most everyone calls themselves Green, but no one is really Green. Recycling a bottle is not going to make a difference. The planet is collapsing one oil rig at a time. My throwing away a can of Monster is not going to kill the earth, it may not be great for the earth, but it's not going to make a big difference. Everyone has seen the news, everyone knows how devastating the oil spill in Louisiana is, that is what makes a difference on the environment.

But pretending to be Green is easier than outwardly saying it is out of my control. Let's all just pretend and carry around our cute little Recycle Tote Bags around. What the hell.

A friend of mine came to me with his own theory today. He said that our generation should be called The Blue Generation. He said that this generation is the over-diagnosed, over-medicated generation. It seems as though everyone has a diagnosis nowadays, if you're not Bipolar, you're ADHD. If you're not suffering from Major Depressive Disorder, you're suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorder. When we're blue, we run to the psychiatris or the psychologist. It's almost as if people need to have a disorder to blame their behavior on.

Whenever it's exam time for my Abnormal Psychology class and I pull out my DSM-IV-TR--the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders--I can't help but feel like this is a little overboard. Sure, there are people who are legitimately mentally ill, I don't deny that, but there is a fine line between being unique and quirky and being mentally ill. I swear, there is a disorder for every strange behavior on earth. If I got a diagnosis for every quirk I had, my psychiatrist would have enough money to retire after an hour long session with me. Then I would be taking a bottle of pills everyday. Pull out the Benzodiazepines, the Thorazine, the Monoamine Oxidase Inhibitors, the Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, get the pharmacist pumped and ready for a lifetime of business from me!

Maybe in a few months when I'm strung out on Benzos and Opioids I can go see a new psychiatrist in rehab. Let me tell you, The Green Generation is bullshit. We are the Blue Generation. Our moto is "Drown yourself in meds to get you out of bed". Feeling sad? There's a pill for that. Can't sleep? There's a pill for that. Loss of sexual appetite? Ask your doctor about those pills you saw on TV.

For more information, see your doctor.

Sometimes, lists can kill you. Plans can kill you. Some people can live by not planning and predicting the future. People with type A personalities can’t help but figure out their to-do lists, some for the day, and some for the near future and some for the future that is far out of sight. Alongside the detailed lists usually comes a person who over thinks everything. The person who can’t do anything without first thinking about what reaction might come out of their action.

Unfortunately, I am unable to live my life without a list. A friend and I finished talking about dealing with things that are out of our control. Then we got onto the topic of summer. I explained that I am going to have a great carefree summer; I said I was going to tan, live out of a beach bag, and make a couple bad decisions. Then I noticed a smirk slowly appear on his face which turned into a giggle. He noticed the confused look on my face and then told me that I had already planned out my bad decisions. I planned to be spontaneous.

I didn’t think about it like that at first but I realized he was absolutely right. I can’t help but make a plan for everything in my life. Without my cell phone calendar on hand, I think I might fall in a catatonic state. I have everything planned down to the last second. I make to-do lists that cover everything right down to sleep. I could say I do this because I like bringing order to chaos but I don’t know if that’s actually accurate. Maybe it’s not so much that I like order in my life, maybe I am just trying not to mess anything up. By knowing my every move before I make it, I can figure out what the consequence may be. Theoretically, this isn’t a bad thing. But do my lists interfere with my ability to have fun?

This kind of reminds me of a song called Got My List from an obscure independent movie called Dakota Skye. There’s a phrase in the song that plays over and over in my head like a broken record. One more day we’ve made it through now, got my list, got my list. I like how that sounds, and while I appreciate its attitude, I don’t think it quite applies to me. I can’t take life a day at a time.

Character flaw? Probably. It makes me think that I should change it. But, once again, I’m using that dirty word. I am planning to change that part of myself. I hate that it has become a habit that I can’t kick.

I like to think writing is like making a sandwich. Begin with a blank sheet of paper, proceed to fill it with the meat, or the subject of the piece, and then add the lettuce, which is like the garnish of the piece, then the author adds in their own personal flavor by adding in some condiments. The beauty of the extra spices comes from knowing that their spices are unique. No one will be able to recreate their exact recipe because it reflects their life experiences. Creative writing is made up of a simple subject that is quickly turned into something so different, the author marinates in the subject matter until it is suitable for their taste. We can experience, and I use the word experience with purpose, a piece of literary subject matter that many other authors have written about before, and still be able to find the beauty in the literary art because of it has sheer originality that makes readers want to hear more of.

I have begun writing a piece without knowing what I was writing about. I have written sonnets that start by describing food then turn into a narrative about finding inspiration for new thoughts. I have begun journal entries by describing how I have nothing to say, then, without my knowledge, turn into an in-depth piece about finding beauty in things I hate. If I had known I could write without knowing my subject before, I think my creative abilities would have developed sooner. I would never have thought that writing without a vision could turn into the best piece of writing I’ve ever produced. I never would have thought the ramblings of my mind would actually be published in a newspaper. But now I understand that the blathering in my mind is actually the best raw material I could ever hope to discover.

One of the best things about writing is switching to the role of the reader. There is nothing better than making a gourmet sandwich, then taking a big bite out of it. We write and we rewrite, but not after reading it first. It is all about the taste testing. We may feel the need to write and entire book full of ideas, sleep on it, and then decide we’d rather have a nice bonfire using those burned out old ideas of the day before. We might write it all out, feel overconfident about the piece, show it to an outsider and after gauging their reaction, and make another trip outside for another bonfire. There is nothing wrong with doing so; it is creative expression in movement. Sometimes it may take a wrong turn in Albuquerque, but there is no harm done. It is simply a lesson learned. Life is to be lived, felt, loved and explored. Life is meant to be shared, if not shared with other people; it should be shared on paper. From paper, it can go anywhere, to anyone, with no limitations.

My entire body is encased in ice. I can feel the cold, wet, densely packed white liquid-like substance absorbing into my clothing. I wiggle my limbs in an attempt to create a simple yet unique piece of art. Having no artistic ability, drawing inside the lines seems like a safe way to go. I push away with my arms and legs enough of this cold substance to consider my masterpiece finished. But the toughest part of my task is to peel myself away from my creation leaving just enough of myself behind, but not leaving a footprint that is too big. I finger-paint two little dots with a sly looking line beneath them at the top of my Sistine Chapel; as though it were the final cherry on top of a decadent sundae, or the laminate that is spread on top of the final coat of paint. My snow angel has a personality, and I watch her as she greets the cars that whip past her on the street.

The scrumptious texture of its chocolate coat

With crunchy pieces nestled through the bar

Delicious heaven makes my taste buds jolt

Its timeless taste is sure to make it far.


I find it too alluring to avoid

These sweets will threaten to intoxicate

Big doses make you feel quite paranoid

And make your tummy quake and ache and ache.


Do not miss out on this fantastic treat

It may not be around for very long

Imaginations need something to eat

Feed mine, it needs to sing a different song.


My mind is hungry for a brand new thought,

A novel thought, one that cannot be bought.

With it being such a wonderful day, the entire college campus was outside soaking up the fantastic, or rather pathetic, Midwestern spring. My southern friends laugh at me when I say that the weather is beautiful because they are used to far better weather. When I walk outside, I see bodies strewn all across the lawn, faces up with sunglasses shielding their eyes. I see another group loitering in another area. There is a strange dynamic among them; I notice an odd distance between the people in the group. Then a strange thought crosses my mind. I'm going to do my own little social experiment.

Knowing no one in the group, I decide to walk right into their social connect-the-dot group. Judging by the slightly puzzled looks on their faces, they are surprised and a little confused by my forwardness. The next thing I know, the group rearranges their diagram to let me in. Once again, still awkwardly spread out. The conversation is about guilty pleasure music from the '90s, which is one of my favorite topics. So, of course, I jump in with some of my favorite ridiculous tunes in my collection. Very soon after, the group breaks off one by one, and before I know it, everyone is back inside. I check the time and figure out that there were no classes starting. So, why did the group break up so quickly? Did my intrusion make the situation uncomfortable? Who knows, I just love my odd social studies.

I wonder if this was a fluke situation or if everyone is really that shy. The usual greeting among my foreign friends tends to be a big bear hug followed by a conversation within close proximity. It really isn't a difference, it is really more of an opposition. My foreign friends are the exact opposite of my American friends. I suppose I'm simply used to that type of social interaction and that is why this strange encounter was somewhat of a curveball. I look forward to partaking in more proximal studies--possibly in different settings--in the very near future.

Peace, Love and Good Juju,
The Disappointed Idealist

Everyone at some point in their life will feel the need to pass judgment on others. Let's be serious, it has happened to everyone more than once. Many people will lose a friend, a significant other, or in extreme cases, a son or daughter due to a lack of understanding. Even though sometimes it is necessary, it does have the power to ruin a perfectly good relationship. Often times, people will let their judgment interfere with a good thing. I imagine that some will share their opinions in hopes that their friend or loved one will re-adjust their actions or way of thinking about things. However, what the opinionated person doesn't understand is, actions speak volumes about character. One's opinion won't change their way of life. By sharing concern, it may have a negative affect that won't hurt anyone but the person doing the judging.

Sometimes, reasons for concern are needed. When someone's life is in danger due to a poor decision, I know sometimes it is hard not to interfere. We all want to help, even though it may come back to bite us in the end. But it gets sticky when people's own beliefs interfere in matters that are not life threatening or life altering. The question then becomes, when is it right to interfere in the lives of others?

Part of being unique is having a distinct set of morals. In my experience, people with similar beliefs gravitate towards each other. It is the only way to truly get along. When someone else's values directly counteract with mine, it is tough to overcome such a duality. A phrase I often find myself mulling over is opposites attract. While I don't completely disagree with this statement, I feel like the definition should be two-fold. Yes, people do attract others who are different from themselves. I know I could never spend my entire life with someone who is identical to myself. But I would also go crazy if my partner disagreed with everything I believe in.

Everything boils down to how much conflict one can deal with at a time. Everyone is forced to put on their socially acceptable oxygen masks. Everyone is forced to keep some things to themselves. We have to reserve our judgment otherwise we would be alone, forced to live the life of a social outcast. Without a finely tuned filter, we would be alone.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
The Disappointed Idealist

Abraham Maslow created the hierarchy of needs, a five step pyramid that leads to the highest state of being, self-actualization. Maslow believed the most basic needs are physiological, such as food, water, shelter, sex, and sleep. The next level in the pyramid is safety, meaning financial stability, health, well-being and personal security. The third level of the hierarchy stresses the importance of social needs, like family, friendship and intimacy. The fourth level of the hierarchy focuses of esteem. And at the final level of the hierarchy is what Maslow referred to as Self-Actualization. Maslow believes we cannot reach Self-Actualization until we have satisfied all of the other needs.

This makes sense; we need food, water, human contact, etc. But does everyone have the opportunity to reach Self-Actualization? If everyone does reach that level, does it last throughout their entire lives or do we fall back down the ladder we just climbed? Most people go through ups and downs in their life, they lose family, friends, they are unable to afford shelter, but then there are up swings where they are able to get control of things again and regain some of the things they lost. I wonder if we aren't just playing a mean game of Chutes and Ladders. We work hard just to slide down the ladder again.

I also have to wonder if we can boil such a large topic down to a small chart. I think Self-Actualization means something different to everyone--that is part of what makes us unique individuals. While everyone does need basic necessities like food and water, some people have a different idea of what else they need in their life. The nice thing behind this rigid idea is the knowledge that you are just one of the many people working towards this higher state of consciousness. Some people wait patiently for it, other are more interested in challenging life to a duel.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
The Disappointed Idealist

Being a homeschooler, I never had the high school experiences that are apparently a crucial part of the growing up process. So my friend decided to give me an experience that I likely will not ever forget. Last week I attended a high school dance.

After walking into the room just outside of the dance floor, I quickly found my best friend waiting to greet me with the familiar warm hug. After the embrace however, the feeling of eyes drilling holes in the back of my scull as well as burning through my dress and heels was overwhelming. The incredibly strong feeling of discomfort was coursing through my veins. The feeling was unpleasant, instead of the natural cooling sensation of adrenaline running through my veins, it felt more like icicles. The night was off to a fantastic start.

The dance floor was an experience all its own. My initial reaction after scanning the entire room was that of surprise. The girls and boys who were standing in the room before had now filed onto the dance floor. Once they began dancing, it was as if they were animals that had just been let out of their cages. The modest girls that I had seen just minutes ago outside now had their dresses hiked up to their stomachs dancing with their partners in a manner that made me want to avert my eyes. This was a mating ritual. Watching this made me realize we are nothing more than animals with the ability to speak.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop

When people tell me to grow up, I begin laughing to the point of tears. It's funny to me because I have to wonder what do people really mean when they say grow up? I know that it is a phrase that is widely used, or perhaps overused, and I believe that people don't really know what they mean when they say it. What does it mean to grow up and act like an adult? One might say acting like an adult means going through life with years of stress weighing down the spring in their step. Or one might say acting like an adult means taking on excess responsibility muttering things about taxes and pension plans.



The reason this caught my attention was because of a recent encounter with a group of high school students. My best friend who is in high school invited me to go to dinner with a group of his friends. At this dinner, we made the usual small talk, in an attempt to get acquainted. I had a nice time, as I thought the rest of the group had too. Later, I had a discussion with my friend about how he thought the night went. His reaction to the night was unexpected. He told me that his friends thought I was too mature. I made an effort to find topics that we could all relate to, but my effort may have proven to be a lost cause after all. The topic of conversation wasn't the issue, I was told that it was the smaller things that counted more. The example my friend used to illustrate why his friends thought I was was too mature was that I "ordered my food like an adult at the restaurant". The question that has lead to endless sleepless nights remains the same, is it such a bad thing to be mature?


Sometimes I wish I could categorize rapid maturation as a mental illness. Maybe call it something like Early Onset Maturity (EOM). To some it really is a flaw. When a young person is deemed smart and responsible, or dare I say, mature, they are guaranteed to hear a few audible gasps resonating around them. To this day, no evidence has shown being mature at a young age is a bad thing. I try to keep my eyes peeled for a study that will determine the potential problems that may arise from Early Onset Maturity. We will have to see what the professionals say.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop

I write a paper. I make sure my margins are 1" all around. I make sure my font is the standard 12 pt. Times New Roman. I make sure my sources have been cited. I make sure there is only one staple, because I know two staples will get me docked 5 points. The paper means nothing to me. The topic is standard, with no originality or room to be creative. Citing my sources alone took me longer than writing the paper, what with the double checking of each period and underline. I edit, print and repeat.

I know that that at the end of the paper, I'm one step closer to getting that grossly overpriced piece of paper that acts as the ticket to my future successes. But I can't help but question if that piece of paper actually makes me more qualified to succeed in my chosen profession. The only quasi-answer I can come up with is that it shows my dedication. It shows that no matter how monotonous the paper, or how trivial the multiple choice Scantron exam I take, my piece of paper will show Yale Medical School that I have the ability to apply myself and stick to my goal.

I know every student who sits beside me in class has a way to cope with the stress, and sometimes the boredom. We pick up crutches that help ease the pain, like coffee for instance. This beautiful habit is the one that will help you to write the paper you forgot to write for your morning class, it will help you deal with the teachers that give you bad grades just because you disagree with them, and it will help you fall asleep. Decaf that is.

Without these coping mechanisms, college students would drown in a sea of syllabi, using their Macbooks as flotation devices. But in the end, when the degrees are given, and the first pay stub is framed on the wall, it makes it all seem worth it. Or at least I hope that is how it goes. If not, we can at least have an arsenal of random knowledge to throw around the dinner table at Thanksgiving.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop

I sing Jazz. I sing Jazz because it makes me feel like I can escape the 21st century if only for five minutes. I believe music is the most truthful depiction of a generation, and because I feel like I am not actually from this generation, I listen to the music of a generation I can relate to on a more personal level.

When the lights fade away on the stage, the lights fade on my life as a 21st century being. I feel as though the mic I am about to sing into becomes an old fashioned mic that more resembles a cheese grater, than a modern mic. I feel like my modern shirt and blue jeans melt into a beautifully flowing, long, black dress that belongs in a small, dimly lit nightclub. When I sing about a woman scorned, I swear I can feel the lyricist's scorn flowing through me and into the microphone. I have the ability to become whatever woman sang the song before me, and It feels powerful.

While Jazz is the music that inspires me and while Jazz is the music that I believe my voice was designed to sing, it is a style that few find seeping into their record players, or rather CD players. Instead of singing about what I love, I find myself falling into the abyss that is Pop music. Sure, I put a little Blues spin on it, but no amount of scatting can ever change the fact that it is still fundamentally Pop music. I don't love the new Pop genre. I don't love it because I don't feel it. No amount of vocal skill can ever replace the lack of feeling in a song. If the singer doesn't embody the song, they are simply not as good as the singer who can embody it, and feel it.

Or at least I thought that was the case. Yet time and time again, I sing a fantastic Jazz song from 1943 and I lose the singing competition. Then the following year, I choose a current Top 40s song, and I win. I may win that handy little cash prize, but I lose the love I once had for my craft. I know the times change, and music is bound to follow in the same path, but I can't help but feel a little disappointed. Maybe I am simply an old soul that hasn't let go of a past life, I don't know. All I do know is, singing means the world to me, when I sing what I feel, when I sing what I want. What I want to sing is Jazz, I hope someone will listen.

Peace, Love, and Good Juju,
Issa Pop

If you own a computer, you more than likely have a Facebook account. That magnificent social network that you can't help but have open in at least one tab on your computer. We laugh, we cry and we tend to use abbreviations to express our feelings. It is the place you go when you have nowhere to go on a Friday night, but need to pretend you do by updating you status as "____ is having a BLAST hanging with my best friends!" Even though you are actually laying on your bed eating leftover Chinese food and watching infomercials with your cat.

Then there are those friends, you know who you are, that pour out their every problem and traumatic childhood experience into the status line. You know, the box that simply asks you, "What are you doing?" Then there are those who feel the need to make sure the worldwide web knows where they are at every moment of the day. I can only assume they do this because they are worried they might get kidnapped and they feel safer knowing people know where they are at all times. After all, it's not like people really care where they are ever minute of every day. Then there are the creative, and rather deep friends who express their emotions by using other people's lyrics to express themselves.

But in my opinion, the most interesting portion of this social phenomenon are the comments we are expected to leave on other people's work. If our friends are feeling sad, are we expected to console them in front of everyone and their mother? Or do we settle for a more intimate setting by calling and talking on the phone? Or we could use the crowd favorite, the "like" button, and move on with little to no effort. But then the next time you see them in person, do you awkwardly wave and do a little dance around the fact that you never wrote back to their quasi-suicidal status on Facebook? Too bad Facebook didn't come with an etiquette handbook. It could have saved us a lot of painful and emotional friend deletion. Nothing leaves a mark like being a victim of defriending.

I'm a person who focuses on the face to face interaction. Come on now, I don't know if you are actually laughing out loud, and enjoying our conversation, or if you are just a skilled liar. And if you RSVP as attending to a Facebook event invitation to my dinner party, and I order you a catered dinner, will you actually show up or were you trying to be polite? Because you just wasted 30 bucks of my hard earned money. Do me a favor and don't lie. It's just rude.

We love Facebook because we can be "In A Relationship" without ever having to see the person. We love Facebook because it's cheaper than getting a shrink. And we love Facebook because it will always listen to our petty problems, when no one else will listen.

Peace, love, and good juju,
Issa Pop