Halloween is supposed to be a fun day where you dress up as, I don’t know, a plastic bag or a princess, and get fun size Skittles from generous neighbors. (Don’t be the person who gives out toothbrushes. Never be that person.) Now, I don’t know if it’s just me, but it seems to have changed since when I was a little kid. Suddenly, many Halloween costumes are things I’d feel weird wearing alone in front of my own mirror. People are going out to parties, some may be toilet-papering someone’s house. When did this happen? Did I totally miss some transformation from cute little kid to mature adult? I remember, as a little girl, promising I’d never be the teenager who eggs someone’s house. If society is expecting me to be that person, I’m going to prove it wrong. I’ll go trick-or-treating with my three friends and go to bed before midnight.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that holidays and fun events are being twisted. Thanksgiving, a time to remember our blessings, has become a time to eat until we feel sick. Notice that the very next day, Black Friday, is when people are trampled to death trying to get early-bird discounts. Christmas, for Christians, is supposed to be a time to celebrate the birth of our Savior. What has it become? One of the greediest, most materialistic holidays ever. (And yes, greed and materialism are rampant in many Christian homes just as they are in many others. I speak from experience.) Oh, how could I forget Easter? Stuffed bunnies, getting sick on marshmallow Peeps…it’s insane. It’s insane, also, how much these holidays are used for marketing. I could write fifty blogs on how advertising and marketing are affecting us in profound ways.

Anyway. As all the fun holidays are coming up, I felt that I needed to rant that. Wake up, America. Jeez.

I remember keeping a prayer journal in third grade–a little green and blue notebook with pages full of nine-year-old hopes and dreams. My prayers usually started with my list of requests, and they ended like this.

“…and please help everyone in the whole world who’s hurting right now. Amen.”

Even back then, before life really slammed into me, I knew that there were people out there going through pain unimaginable to my young heart. I knew that the world was a hurting place, and I wanted it to be not as hurt anymore. It was just like that.

I’m constantly trying to help people, even if it’s just smiling at them or having a quick conversation with them. When I see someone else crying, I want to start crying, too. I wish there could be some way for me to reassure them, just be there for them. People, humans in general, are so broken. Everything’s upside down, and it hurts my heart.

I think I’m going to pray like a third-grader today.

The dictionary definition of apathy is “a lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern,” and the definition of numb is “deprived of the power of sensation.” While that’s true, I prefer to combine the definitions into one: When one wants to do nothing but lay around all day eating pizza and searching for a Smoothie King of emotion, not even bothering to brush the crumbs from their bed.

One Saturday earlier this year, I woke up and didn’t want to do anything. I’d been sick, so that definitely contributed to it, but my fever had been coming and going; my physical strength had been mostly regained. Still, I didn’t want to see anyone, go anywhere, or engage in any sort of activity that involved getting out of my pajamas and/or the house. So I didn’t. I laid in bed with a slice of pizza by my right and my iPod by my left. My day was spent trolling the Internet and pretending it made me laugh, eating more and more pizza without bothering to take care of the plate or the crumbs on my sheets, and staring at the ceiling wondering what the point of anything was. The next day, after I was recovered from the illness, I spent the entire day watching movies on the couch. The day after that was spent staring deep into the harsh light of my laptop, eyes swirling around as I faked a chuckle at my own trolling and added exclamation points to the end of my texts to make people think I was enthusiastic.

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My music tastes have drastically changed through the years. Well, sort of.

Before fifth grade, I didn’t really listen to music on my own. It was pretty much whatever was playing in my parents’ car, and also High School Musical. Well, I was introduced to music (and YouTube) with “Fireflies” by Owl City. Then in sixth grade, I got into Justin Bieber. That was all I listened to–Fireflies and Justin Bieber. By seventh grade, I had branched out into One Direction, Bruno Mars, and even some rap. Don’t judge me.

In eighth grade, I had this music-changing realization that pitch-correction exists. That drove me away from pretty much all pop music ever (which is sad, because there is some good pop out there). I wanted music that I could relate to, so I got into the screaming “there is no love” stuff. Also some classic rock, which is good. But mostly the darker stuff. I developed an unnatural hatred for the music I used to listen to, and I liked to shove in people’s faces that I hated what they listened to and that they should stop. I did that for several reasons. Here are some (not in any order).

I was ashamed of my old self and wanted to destroy any remnant of who I was.
I was angry with myself and wanted something to take it out on.
I was angry at everything and everyone.

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When I was in fifth grade, I attended my friend’s eleventh birthday party. It was supposed to be a really fun, cake-eating, party-all-night experience. (This really meant staying up having stuffed animal fights until midnight. We were so hardcore.) I showed up feeling happy and excited–I had even brought my favorite pajamas that I’d gotten for Christmas a few years earlier!

Almost as soon as the party had started, I started getting this feeling that the other party guests felt a strange animosity toward me. My suspicions were confirmed when we started playing the M&M game (I don’t remember the rules, probably because it was the lamest game known to humankind. Shh, don’t tell those girls). I think I pushed my hair behind my ear or something, and the other guests looked at me like I was the grossest person ever.

“Ew! You can’t touch the M&Ms! Go wash your hands! Ew, that’s so gross!”

Confused, I obeyed and went to the bathroom to wash my hands. Neither my hands nor my hair were dirty. I washed my hands anyway, though. Maybe there was a bug in my hair. I don’t know, I thought. Wait, wouldn’t I have noticed that, though? When I came out of the bathroom, all the party guests were laughing like it was going out of style.

News flash: washing your hands is hilarious.

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