La Rousse

Though I like Paramore and their flame-haired chanteuse, Hayley Williams's got nothing on Shirley Manson, the original redheaded rock goddess and lead singer of Garbage. I happened to watch a recent interview she did on Craig Ferguson's show earlier in the week, and dammmmn -- for a 43-year-old, she looks almost twenty years younger. (And she got married recently! AND it looks like Garbage might be back together!!) I ended up watching all of her interviews on Craig Ferguson's show on Youtube -- really, at this point my ideal TV show would be to have Shirley Manson and Craig Ferguson bantering back and forth in their Scottish accents. They are HILARIOUS together.

Shirley's just one of those girls I think I'd love to meet in person. I looked up her Facebook page and I've read some of the notes she's posted. Who knew she loves Silversun Pickups and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Guess who else loves Silversun Pickups and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs? (Hmm... let me guess... which band is on the header of this blog? And which band's song title is in the About Me section of this blog?)

I suppose it might be considered "creepy" or "weird" that I've spent a good chunk of the afternoon reading her posts, but it's amazing how much you get to know somebody by reading their writing. She's classy as well; she wrote a post defending Taylor Swift, noting that Swift's detractors jumped all over her when she wasn't pitch-perfect at the Grammy's, but they forget that Swift carved her way to stardom on her own terms as a legitimate songwriter. And considering my own recent reflections on Miley Cyrus, I agree with Shirley a hundred percent.

And she writes poems!!

A STAG

A stag stands his ground on a lothian field
Caught between Morta and Artemis
Locked in bitter combat
Who shall be queen of this waste land ?
Sod wet and heavy as he waits
Head cocked on high alert
Watching rain pelt dirt
And the birds pecking

God is nowhere to be seen
Late for his shift
In an unsurprising no show
He goes unmissed
We curve inward against the wind
And wrestle our rage into points
Sharp as glass
That could rip the wrist
Faster than you can blink

Red granite etched in gold
Nestled there alone
Row upon row of cold grey stone
You stand out a mile in death
As you did whilst you were living
Bright as a smile and a little rude
In this most somber of settings

Satisfied that all is in order
We bundle ourselves and head home
A straight hit along the old edinburgh road
To cups of tea and shortbread biscuits
Everything in its right place
But with something missing

The stag snorts and lets leash
A plume of steam
From each wide nostril
Mystical cryptic beast
Stamps his feet
And holds his ground


S.A.M 2010

Sigh. You know what would be awesome? If I could have a dinner party with Shirley Manson, OLIVIA, and T.O.P. all at the dinner table and we'd all understand each other perfectly because there would be no such thing as a language barrier. They are all such funny, charming, inspiring musicians -- I can only imagine how freaking awesome the dinner conversation would be.
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It suddenly came back to me -- how I ever found Garbage in the first place. She was still my debate partner then. We were in the debate room listening to her iPod, and I fell in love with Garbage's "Why Do You Love Me."

There's always these little moments when I suddenly remember that Sophelia was once Juliet Kitteridge and that she was Rose Mortmain and how it all fell apart like a tragic retelling of Violet and Claire and how sometimes I see our old photographs and wonder what went wrong. I remember how we wrote vignettes to each other in e-mailed letters, and how I was still in the phase where I imitated Francesca Lia Block, but Rose had always been real. Always, always.

Sophelia's Weekly Five, Edition II

Despite the fact that I have plenty of homework that I have yet to start, I was trying to find "textual evidence" to prove something to G. Instead, I ended up reading through all the old xanga subscriptions I saved in my e-mail account and then ended up rereading my old xanga posts. Plus, I spent nearly an hour earlier arguing with my mother about journalism issues. And so because my head is rather jumbled at the moment and I don't feel like doing homework, I present to you:

Sophelia's Weekly Five, Edition II

1. Who the hell is this?! Pt. I
I don't know if it's the fact that I am called a "senior" has anything to do with it, but why do I feel so nostalgic and old these days? I'll get to xanga later, but let's focus on something else first. This weekend, my father went spelunking in the deep cavern known as our downstairs walk-in closet and unearthed the ancient video camera that has not seen the light in a decade. He decided to convert all the VCR recordings into digital WMV files on our computer, and so I can now watch videos of my bratty little self on the computer.

It's probably not saying much, considering I don't meddle with illegal substances, but watching old videos of yourself is probably the trippiest experience ever. Especially the ones when you're a baby -- I watch myself ripping the pages out of a book and arbitrarily stacking plastic cups, and I sit there in front of the laptop thinking, "What in the blazes was I trying to do??"

It also forces me to realize I was probably a pretty bratty sister as a kid. There's a video where my idiotic brother was trying to stuff my head into his shirt, and then I screamed like a howler monkey and head-butted his chest. And I was also ridiculously skinny and lanky as a kid. What the hell happened.

2. Who the hell is this?! Pt. II
As previously mentioned, I just wasted a good amount of time reading not only the old xanga subscriptions in my e-mail account, but I also started rereading my old xanga entries. Some hilarious things I noticed:

• In nearly every daily digest, there is somebody who complains about how unfair their parents/siblings are and then threatens to kill him/herself.
• People loved posting quiz after quiz about the most useless information nobody in their right mind would even care to read. Because really, I don't care if you prefer biceps or calves/thighs (I'm not joking; this was one of the questions).
• One of these days, I want to invite G and Rogue over and we can browse through all the old BHMS photos, because some people have completely grown up. It's really quite amusing to see everyone back when they hadn't hit puberty.
• Similar to the whole 25 Things craze on facebook, there was a fad I call 15 People, in which you wrote about how you felt about 15 unnamed people. Which really was a stupid fad. I can imagine it would be fun to write, but it basically resulted in a bunch of hurt feelings and misunderstandings. You would feel bad if someone you thought you were friends with did not include you on the 15, and then you would feel like shit if someone talked crap about someone that sounded eerily like you.
• I find it really interesting how I got a pretty good amount of comments back then. There were two posts in a row where I received 17 comments. The record was the one with 35 comments. I guess I can proudly say that my entries were not laundry lists of my schedule for each day, but were they even that interesting? Then again, the fact that I've been spending so much time looking through my old stuff probably means my entries were entertaining, if not downright idiotic.
• Middle school drama is ridiculously melodramatic.

I have to say, I was a very strange child. Though I thought this was actually kind of clever (and I'm only posting part of it):

Friend Most Likely to...

Serve cheerios at her wedding reception: G

Have a nervous breakdown and run off on a murderous rampage, but only after stealing every Sanrio squishy eraser and inhaling every single flavor: A

Make billions of dollars by selling overpriced water to people in the desert: C (I don't really understand this one)

Become a Power Ranger: J (or this one. Must be some inside joke I don't remember)

Become a Disney movie singer who donates most her profits to charities concerning the rights of cows: Rogue

Become the most wanted terrorist in the world known as Orrenishi with the command over the petrifying Streaking 88s: J'nette

I actually think it would be really fun to write an updated list of these. Since I'm an aging senior and all.

3. If my life had an alternate ending...
I could totally see us saying these exact words again this year for graduation, if it weren't for the inconvenient fact that she has completely changed, that she's probably already moved to Bolivia for all I know and that she is a complete stranger to me now.

sweetlikelem0ns: im reading ppls xangas adn it seems like they have promo dresses and such already picked out
sweetlikelem0ns: i have noo idea what im gonna wear
sophelia: i dun give a shit
sweetlikelem0ns: great
sophelia: i really dont care
sweetlikelem0ns: we should show up nude
sweetlikelem0ns: make a statement.
sophelia: if it wasnt semiformal
sweetlikelem0ns: muahah
sophelia: i would wear cargos
sweetlikelem0ns: haha
sophelia: maybe we should show up wearing tuxedos and mocassins
sweetlikelem0ns: xD
sweetlikelem0ns: and indian head dresses
sweetlikelem0ns: just for the heck of it
sophelia: and we can do an indian chant
sophelia: ...in tuxes
sweetlikelem0ns: and bring war paint
sweetlikelem0ns: and paint ppl's faces
sweetlikelem0ns: with blood! scrwe the paint
sweetlikelem0ns: yeah. that would be fun.
sophelia: bring a staff with disembodied heads on the end
sweetlikelem0ns: start a bonfire in the middle of the dance and let it burn the whole night while we dance around it..with our indian chants..in our tuxes..with the moccassins
sweetlikelem0ns: they will envy us

4. Why I would never be an editor as a profession
Don't get me wrong. I love being one of the editors in chief of the school newspaper. But I really hate all the bureaucracy a high school newspaper has to deal with. Long story short, I spent an hour debating with my mother about whether or not I should let a certain article be published. In the end, she convinced me to not publish the article -- but I only agreed up to a point, because her advice was practical. To be honest, my anger at a certain person has still not subsided, and so I wanted to give the article's author a chance to attack/defend.

My mother asked me why I don't write a column if my writing style is much more honed than some of the other writers on the staff. I replied that in my opinion, editors in chief should avoid publishing their own work as much as possible. Then we got into a whole argument about my philosophy about columns as an editor, but that's not the point. In truth, there are times when I wish I had a column. Since I generally grade the columns this year, a lot of times I find myself thinking, "If I were writing this, I would do this..." and then I would have to shake off that thought. As a writer, I hate it when people start rewriting my work and cut out things and change words without my approval. As a result, I don't think I was meant to be an editor, because I am so reluctant to do what I hate to other writers.

5. My Least Favorite Movie of All Time The Film Faceoff columnists of the school newspaper are debating about The Greatest Film of All Time. I felt like getting into the spirit and taking the opposite direction.

I'm sure there are plenty of terrible movies out there -- but I wouldn't know, because if I knew they were terrible ahead of time, I wouldn't bother watching them. There were some I was coerced into watching, like the original The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe movie, with actors in gigantic animal costumes two-dimensional animations of griffins and ghosts, or the film version of Farenheit 451 in which the Mechanical Hound looked no more deadly than my Roomba. But the fact is, these movies were tolerable in that the terribleness was so knee-slapping funny. So for my criteria of the worst movie, I picked a movie that was terrible to the point of making me want to cry.


Firstly, I acknowledge that I would not have hated this movie so much if it weren't for the fact that I am in love with the book. Children's book, be damned! I love Ella and Char to death, I love the tragedy of Ella making Char hate her so that he can be safe from her curse, and I love the ingenious twist on Cinderella at the end with the three evening balls. As far as I am concerned, that story is perfect as is.

With that in mind, I admit I did not have very high hopes for the film -- but I have to say, I did not expect the film to fall so frighteningly short. Now, I would understand if a director decided to cut out parts from the novel -- after all, it would be difficult to include everything from a Harry Potter novel into a two-hour movie. But no! The director not only omits my favorite scenes from the book -- he adds completely useless characters and plot lines.

Firstly, the central conflicts of the book focused on Ella's curse, her relationship with her stepfamily, and her decision to reject Char's love so that she can protect him. But apparently this wasn't enough for the screenwriter, who decided to give Char some trouble by throwing in an evil uncle with a talking snake. HELLO? Did somebody decide to make Claudius from Hamlet torment other princes as well? As far as I could tell, the only point of having the evil uncle character was to somehow force Ella to attempt killing Char, which she manages to resist and thus breaks the spell -- not what happened in the book at all, by the way. And actually, the way she broke the spell in the movie was so stupid to begin with. If all it took was to yell "You will no longer be obedient!" to the mirror, why didn't she figure that out ages ago?

Secondly, in the book, the magical book Mandy gives Ella will always show a new story, letter, or diary entry whenever she opens the book. Amazing thing, no? And what does the movie replace it with? A TALKING BOOK THAT IS REALLY THE CURSED LOVER OF ELLA'S FAIRY GODMOTHER. Really, how is that necessary?

Thirdly, the movie omitted so many of the best scenes. I cannot believe they completely got rid of the masquerade ball in which Ella disguised herself as Lela in order to see Char one last time, instead replacing it with a stupid murder plot by an evil uncle. They threw out the scenes when Ella and Char slid down the bannisters, when Ella and Char first met in the cemetery, when Ella breaks her curse by forcing herself to say No when Char asks her to marry him. Instead, they concoct a pointless journey for Ella to wander about.

And finally, Char is so unattractive. If there's any movie that desperately needs a remake, it's this one.

And that concludes Sophelia's Weekly Five, Edition II. I really should have been doing something more productive.

Don't Read Old E-mails This Late at Night

I miss Rose.

I miss the letters and emails, even if they had snips of rock songs here and there. We wrote so similarly yet differently. Rose's vignettes were lighter, full of optimism and love. Juliet's vignettes were dark, brimming with mourning and heartbreak. There was something fun about exchanging letters with someone who wrote so beautifully.

I miss the crazy midnight conversations on instant messenger, asinine arguments over sunbeams versus moonbeams and daisies in an abyss. Xela Aidyl Studios existed only through AIM.

I miss the laughter and grumbling we shared at every OPP tournament, how we revised our speeches constantly because we were always so unsatisfied with our writing. I wrote the darker stories of heartbreak and loss; now I scream every time someone reminds me of my hideous "Pretty Girl" speech. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was her domain; she was the Lily with the Peace Sign, two bouncing pigtails at every speech tournament.

I (almost) miss the crushing pressure of Policy debate we shared as partners. We bullshitted our way through League, beating a Varsity team to everyone's surprise. We were the slackers that acted like goody-goodies. Half the time, we didn't know what was going on in those heated debates, but we watched each other's backs in those fights.

I miss watching her break those hearts - the endless line of suitors from middle school, her shocking lapse-of-thinking first boyfriend, all the way to the TA in our ninth grade World Cultures class whose first sentence addressed directly to her was asking her out.

I miss the crazy and wild days of eighth grade, when we listened to nothing but "Yellow" by Coldplay and goofed off in Yearbook every single day.

I miss the Rose I once knew, but I cannot find the Juliet I once was. There is no way to turn back time, and this is how it was supposed to end.

Juliet's Last Letter

Dear Rose Mortmain,

You left with the autumn's golden gilded pages, the scent of coffee and chocolate lingering in a trail of whispering footsteps. I watch your figure growing distant, ascending somewhere I cannot belong.

You could taste the scent of other flowers out there, superficial pleasures of crystal sugar petals and wisps of perfumery, meeting the Lilly, the Daisy, the Orchid, because you are Rose. Why stay rooted to the soil to the dirt when the sunlight favors your beauty and no one will notice those prickly thorns?

I am Juliet. I watched you turn to plastic, dancing in that plastic masquerade, surrounded by those faces we worshipped and those faces we hated. The pendulum heart once swung in my favor has now recoiled.

I waited a year for your reply but by then the mask sunk into your skin.

Without you, Rose, Juliet no longer exists. Juliet lives through letters, but without correspondants, letters are but memories fading to dust. Girls in black moth dresses sifting through our dust. Who? Rose Mortmain has long disappeared.

A Capulet once followed a Montague to the grave.

Die Juliet.

-J. Kitteridge