Anyway, upon arrival in my lonely house, my sister plopped down on the couch while I laboriously unloaded the car (since my Dad's shoulder is still dislocated). After I was finished taking in the big stuff and Mancove and Nicki managed to muster the energy to grab a few bags of food and a puzzle or two (I pity them, really, I do), the three of us plopped down on the couch and got caught up on all the television shows we watch that Nicki probably shouldn't see. But her first movie was Star Wars, so as the youngest child, she gets to do things early.
Now since I am a borderline fanatic movie buff (yes borderline; I like to know things but I don't worship them like the little boy worshipped his ferret in Shredni Vashtar or like Daniel Radcliffe's character worshipped horses in Equus, although that was an absurdly sexual relationship so that was probably not the best reference), my sisters and I requested a trip to the local cinema to see Julie & Julia. The movie looked interesting, but even if it didn't I was going to see it. I knew I was going to see it before I even knew what it was about. I knew I was going to see it during pre-production when I stumbled upon it while idly roaming IMDb. Because even if every review said it was terrible, I am legally obligated to seeing all things Amy Adams. And almost all things Meryl Streep (I'd say all things but I can't see too many R rated movies and she's just got so much it's overwhelming, I haven't been alive long enough to see all her stuff, I'd need to devote a year of my life to that and I'm far too easily distracted to do such a thing).
Anyway, Amy Adams inspired me. I guess technically Julie Powell inspired me. But that's why we have movies, to tell the unknown tales of inspiration that few people hear. To recognize the people brave enough to live a life worthy of the screen by telling their story to the world. And actors and actresses? We need them to tell the story. So in all technicality, both Julie Powell and Amy Adams inspired me through their tale of a person who wrote a blog. And it got me thinking... I could do that. I'd just need a purpose. So I sat down and I thought... and thought... and thought... and thought. But I couldn't, for the life of me, come up with a purpose. I got so frustrated, I just wanted to throw something at the wall. I mean, Julie Powell seemed to think of her purpose in seconds. She liked food. She'd blog about food. She'd blog through Julia Child's cookbook. And *BAM* she had a blog.
In a way I did have that moment, back when Basil and I decided to make a blog. But we - or I since it seems Basil has abandoned this blog *tear* (she'll return, I hope) - failed to give this blog a purpose. And if I can't even think about something to write a blog for, what am I living for? What's in the center of my little orbit of life? What do I revolve around, what excuses me from reality for moments when I'm doing it? And as much as I thought, I couldn't think of a thing. I have no mission, no goal, nothing to work towards. And that just leaves me feeling empty.
I was hoping that maybe, while I wrote this post a purpose would come to me. I would suddenly replace that emptiness with a goal and *BAM* I'd have myself a blog. But that didn't seem to go as I planned. And now that's a really sad(-ish) note to end this post on.
Dang.
But then again, who needs a purpose? I mean, it's not like I'm unaccomplished. I'm just starting high school and I've already won the American Legion Award, been elected to the board of a national organization, started writing a novel, experienced loss, experienced love, sang in the All-County Chorus and played in All-County Band, won 3 medals in Science Olympiads (with my awesome partner Basil and best friend Mango), danced in the rain, turned a cartwheel, been to Jamaica, seen a rainbow, had a my eye glued shut by my doctor, performed 3 NYSSMA pieces in the same year, discovered a passion for musical theatre, won the triple jump in a track meet, learned a lot about cinematography and the movie industry, stayed up until 4 AM, cursed in British, worn my clothing inside out and backwards, rolled down a hill, caught (and accidentally killed) fireflies in a jar, painted my hand bright green, flattened a stuffed animal, followed my heart, talked to a stranger, shared a cookie with an old woman, been stung by a jellyfish, seen Mexico, learned to snowboard and skateboard, wrote a song, walked on my hands, skinned my knee, raced a snowplow down a hill, worn mismatched socks, screwed up a friendship and leaned how to fix it, took responsibility for my actions and learned it's okay to be wrong, co-founded the TSO... in short, I've lived. I've lived my movie of a life and I'm planning to keep on doing so. And everyone's life is worthy of a movie... we just have to write our own screenplay.
And my producer says I don't need a blog with a purpose. It's perfectly fine to blog about nonsense. And if you have a problem with that, do what all great people do when they don't approve of a movie: blame the writers. Or the director. Which ever ones' name is easier to pronounce.
Oh hey, I did find my little happy ending. Yay!
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