I feel like I wrote this

My boyfriend and I function in very different ways.  This usually gives us a great appreciation for one another, but when we have disagreements they get weird.

Me: you said “this thing”.
Him: I did not say that. You’re putting words in my mouth. 
Me: *thinks* I feel like what you said was “this thing”
Him: That’s reasonable.  I can see how you might feel that way.

Huh?!  To me, they’re the same sentence and mean the exact same thing; but to my boyfriend one is this statement of fact, and the other is an acknowledgement of irrationality.

It’s strange, words are unusually important to him, and it takes a bit to get used to it.  He remembers pretty much everything I say, whereas I can barely remember the topic of our last conversation.  And because I talk my thoughts through out loud, sometimes I can offend him with things I haven’t even properly considered. To me they’re just flyaway ideas; to him they’re these meticulously crafted statements of my truth.

He thinks in very linear, logical and rational terms; I think in impressions and concepts and vagueness and blurry distractions and running-on sentences.  So he will make a comment, and I will grab that comment, interpret it, and then tell him he said this completely different thing.

When discussing how we’ve upset each other this way I have to be conscious to modify my sentences to include “I feel like...” or else the situation will escalate.

I’m not very good at it though. I end up creating these long ridiculous sentences like “though I know you are not responsible for my feelings, I feel like your actions have contributed to my feeling this way and I feel like I wish you would hug me in these situations.”

I also believe that a hug can solve anything.

Anyway, he’s hugged me now, so we’ve got our resolution. I just find it interesting how we relate to each other. In hindsight I think we’re both a bit silly.

Or, I feel like I think we’re silly. :P



PS. Happy 83rd birthday Nana.  I miss you like crazy.  Like, crazy crazy.  I think about you all the time, and I love you. I hope you're happy and content where you are. Xx.

Aye aye

I don’t know why, but it bothers me when people use the subject of an email as the body. I feel sad for the body, starving for text! But then, I’m often the person who neglects to put a subject in which forces the other person to have to guess what my email is about. Who is the real jerk here?

That has nothing to do with what I want to write about today. Onwards!

Two weeks ago I had to drive out to Fyshwick to pick up some corporate stationery for work. The lady on the phone gave the address as “the red building next to Officeworks”. I got a little miffed because I can navigate much better using street addresses. So I drove out there trying to find “the red building” and when I got there there were 3 red buildings surrounding Officeworks and I facepalmed.

It got me thinking that I am much better when working in 2 dimensional planes than 3. The more dimensions involved the more cranky I become! Then I thought to myself that maybe it’s because I don’t see the world with depth because a) I’m usually depressed and having existential crises and b) my vision is pretty ordinary.

My mum tells me that one night, when I was around 2 years old; I had a lung infection and was kinda unwell. She took me to the hospital where the doctors and nurses judged her for her “over-reactive” parenting style, but admitted me for observation anyway. Mum went home for an anxious night’s sleep while I was left in the care of the judgemental healthcare providers.

During the night I stopped breathing. When mum came back the next morning I was in an oxygen tent and pretty much gave her the cold shoulder for abandoning me when I nearly died. Out of spite I’d also developed a lazy eye. Take that, mother!

(I joke; it was actually quite traumatic for everyone involved. Especially poor mum. I love you mum!)

Since that night I’ve been looking at the world like this:

Me 20-something years ago

Me 20-something minutes ago

So, because of my thoughts following my visit to “the red building next to Officeworks” the other week, I decided to visit the Canberra Eye Hospital. Oddly, the directions I was given were “the building across the road from Officeworks”... Facedesk.

(...and since when was Officeworks the pivotal landmark of Fyshwick? Were people really getting too uncomfortable with “two streets from Hello Sexy”?)

Anyway, my eye consultations came and went yesterday. Though I am a candidate for laser eye surgery, they don’t recommend it for me at my age because I'm probably going to get more longsighted over the next few years, and my condition will just return. I have a condition called Hyperopic Esotropia. Basically it means that my eye wanders when I focus. When I “accommodate” for my longsightedness, my eyes converge.

According to eyewiki (which is a thing!) the “disease may be preceded by illness or trauma; the illness or trauma doesn’t cause the disorder, but can precipitate its manifestation.” So mum’s story takes on some credibility.  I always thought it was a bit strange that stopping breathing made me cross-eyed, but apparently a severe enough childhood illness can trigger it.

It’s pretty naff. I hated wearing my glasses when I was a kid. I had these horrid things with bars down the middle to stop my eye going in. I also wore an eye patch for a bit. I had this book about “Sam the pirate” and he had an eye patch and pretended he was a pirate. I didn’t want to be Sam the pirate; I wanted to be Sam the pretty 20/20-visioned princess. Sam the pirate liked playing in the dirt and climbing trees and that was not what I was about at all!

I've always been a snappy dresser!

I reckon it was my preschool teacher who saved my eyesight. She put glitter on my glasses and told me they were fairy princess glasses. I wore them a bit more after that, enough to ensure that as an adult I receive information from both of my eyes; if it wasn’t for her my left eye probably would have quit the band.

Now days when I see young children wearing glasses I get a little teary. I was in a book store and was looking at a book about raising your children (like a normal 20-something childless woman does) and there was this page called “your child and glasses”, and I just burst into tears. I have a detrimental amount of empathy.

I’ll probably be in glasses for the rest of my life now. I suppose having worn them since I was 3 years old I don’t really know much different. I can’t help feeling a little “why me?” about it though.

But, y’know, it’s all part of my journey. I rationalise everything with “oh, it’s just part of my journey”. Go back to the commune, hippy! Sigh. Sometimes I wish it was acceptable to just feel my emotions without them needing meaning. But it isn’t, so that’s how I roll.

Today is my mum’s birthday. Happy birthday beautiful mother! I know we butted heads about me wearing my glasses when I was a kid, but thank you so much for winning those arguments! I’m so glad we chose each other – you’re one of my best friends and I love you a million! oxox

My beautiful mum with me and my brother

Edit: Mum just sent me an email, apparently I was a little younger than I thought. "For the record you were not much older than one because I was pregnant with Tom.  I suspect it was sometime between your first birthday and Tom being born, so I would say the middle of winter July or beginning of August 1986.  You poor little thing."

On the brain

Top of the evenin' my lovely lurkers! It’s been a while.  I’d love to say I’ve been busy, but to be honest I’ve really just been playing a lot of Guild Wars 2.  I don’t even really play it properly, I run about taking screen shots of my character wearing different armors.  It’s like Barbies for grown-ups.

"Hey guys, don't mind me, I'm just dying to take this photo of myself!"

However, I did tear myself away from my laptop and went out for dinner with a couple of my girlfriends last week. (How good is friendship?!)  The thing that's stuck in my mind from our conversation is that we all confessed to be feeling jealous of women who have babies.  While it’s not good to hear I’m not the only one that feels this way, it is comforting.

It’s strange, because other women having babies doesn’t mean I can’t have babies.  I suppose it limits the fish in the sea, but it doesn’t rule out the possibility that I could one day be a mum. It’s just... I dunno. Why haven’t I yet? What are they doing that I'm not? (Aside from the obvious...)

There’s this intense ambivalence raging inside me.  I want a baby and I want my life to be easy, but these two ideas seem mutually exclusive.  I don't want to decide to have a baby and then regret that decision.  I don't want to decide to not have a baby and then regret that decision.  I don't want to make a decision, but there is a lot of pressure on me (out of nowhere it would seem) to make this choice RIGHT NOW.

I never even thought having babies would be something I’d have to make a decision on. I always assumed it would just happen - when the time is right.  As I get older I’m starting to see that there isn’t a right time.  I always thought I’d (1) get married; then (2) have a baby.  Step 1 doesn’t seem to be happening and I’m considering just "c'est la vie"-ing my way over to Step 2.

It seems my whole 20s I’ve been searching for someone who would love and care about me and who I could love and support in return; a "partnership" of sorts one may say. Now I’m approaching my 30s and I feel this shift towards this need to care for someone in a more nurturing fashion.

I guess it’s just that accepting and loving a person (another adult with their own experiences and views and set ways) is different to creating, accepting and loving a person (who has with their own experiences and views and set ways). I suppose.  I'm not sure though.  How can I be?  I'm not a parent.  I don't know.  You're putting a lot of pressure on me to explain myself, blog!

I think my fear is that I always thought my purpose was to be a mum, now I'm starting to worry that my purpose is to desperately want to be a mum but never realise that dream.  If that is the case then, well, I suppose that's my story. But it would be a sad story indeed.  I'd have to rewrite it with philanthropism (ewww gross! Don't be bringing that altruism in here Missy!)

Anyway, they're just some quick thoughts on the matter.  I keep coming across books and blogs about the subject - the universe is clearly trying to speak to me so I  thought I'd reply in my muddy disjointed can't-she-keep-her-thoughts-linear way. Back to screen shotting!

The weighty tower

Two weeks ago I gave myself a Tarot reading which had “The Tower” as the final outcome.

The Tower, for those of us who don’t buy into divination, (which is pretty sensible really – Tarot and astrology work for me because they let me see things from a different perspective, a sort of mindfulness technique I developed for myself… (Mindfulness, for those who don’t buy into psychology, is a technique to pay attention to your present experiences without judgement, and accepting them for what they are))

…

Where was I?

The Tower

Oh yes.  The Tower represents the tearing down of belief structures.  It is the moment where we discover a shocking truth which shatters our perceptions and makes us reassess our beliefs. 

“Pfffft, what a crock!” I said to my Tarot reading.  “My life is amazing!  Work is fantastic; my boyfriend is super nice to me; I’m purchasing lots of books… Really, there’s nothing that could tear this solid structure apart!”

I stood up from the table, turned around and saw it in the corner of my eye – the device which assigns all my self-worth. I’d been avoiding it for some months, but suddenly I was allured, compelled and my curiosity took hold.  

I stepped on the scales and my world came crumbling down.

Curse you Tower!

Before this revelation I’d suspected I had put on a little winter weight, my clothes were a bit tight and I was generally feeling quite frumpy and uninspired, but the number that flashed before me was far larger than I expected. 

I cried.  I went into work feeling sorry for myself; embarrassed that everyone there could see me with this “winter weight” bulging over my regular-Sam sized pants.

I decided ‘losing weight’ wasn’t going to cut it this time.   I have lost weight so many times in my life, and I always manage to find it again.  When I lost something as a child, an adult would usually come over and help me find it again, and I believe the same thing has been happening with my weight.  (Damn adults always bringing me back my unwanted kilos!)

So I’m enacting a lifestyle change.  I’m tearing down those old habits and structures and I’m rebuilding myself. I’m going to the gym, drinking more water and I’ve stopped having seconds.

And I’m feeling good. (Birds in the sky, you know what I mean).  I’ve lost a few kilos already and my aforementioned amazing life is just getting a little more smiley.

The Tower is a scary card to draw in a reading. Unveiling a truth which will violently alter our belief system is frightening, but it is also liberating.  It allows us to find what is stable and reliable; what will stand rather than fall apart. Now I can build something from a solid foundation, and I get to design it myself!

This time my tower will stand with its head held high and its measurements with a perfect waist to hip ratio!

Dreams and reality

About a week ago I found my old online diary circa 2004-5.

I’ve been reading through it and it makes me feel quite sad.  Though much of it was adolescent attention seeking with some very cringe worthy content, it’s apparent that I was in a lot of pain.  

I never had a strong sense of what I’m meant to do in this world.  I was a floaty dreamy kid, I’ve always been a little off the planet.  I’d go about singing and spinning in circles and fantasising that I was really a princess and soon my true parents (the king and queen of some elegantly named country) will come and find me and I will live the princess life I was destined for. 

My disconnect with reality hit a wall in my early teens when I was told that I had “gotten really fat”. I looked in a mirror and for the first time I saw how my peers saw me.  Or how I thought they saw me, thinking about it now I realise I’d swung to the opposite side of the pendulum.  But I sure wasn’t a princess.  Princesses didn’t get fat.  It was then that my glass bubble of illusions and dreams shattered and I hated myself for not being rescued.

So in my teens I felt like I had been robbed of a childhood.  I’m not sure why, I definitely had a childhood;  but because I’d spent my days dreaming and not being present, I entered my teens with these new “I missed out” and “life is not fair” paradigms. 

And it’s true.  Life is not fair because dreams are not reality. 

So I spent much of my teens grasping for this childhood I seemed to have slept though.  And then suddenly, I wasn’t at school anymore and I had no structure or accountability.  I drank a lot, I partied a lot, and I wrote it all online. 

Now I read it with my 27 year old eyes and feel sad for this poor misunderstood girl.  Not misunderstood by the world, but misunderstood to herself.  

I want to give her a hug.  

I want to go back in time and let her know that things are not as significant as she thinks they are. 

I want to tell her that she is valuable, and that it does get easier.

And I want her to know that even though “this is her” and she “doesn’t care” who reads this, she will be very embarrassed by it one day. 

Oh Sammy.

Horrible people

I can completely understand why people develop avoidant personalities. It is so much easier sitting in your room lurking on the internet than it is to go outside and potentially encounter a horrible human being.

Last night I ventured out and had such an encounter.

I was waiting in line at a fast food place behind this horrible woman who was holding up the line talking to her friend instead of placing her order. I was getting annoyed so I decided to just go wait it out in my car. I was waiting for a couple of minutes when the horrible woman started walking to her car, which unfortunately was parked next to mine. As she got into her car she opened her door into the side of my car, while I was inside! She looked into my car and noticed I was in it and had this look like shit, sprung.

So I got out of my car and looked her like WTF? Then she started abusing me saying, “It was bound to happen" because I had parked next to her. How was I supposed to know she’d be too fucking fat to get into her car without damaging someone else’s property? The car park was full and it was the only spot left, I was well within the lines, and yet she managed to completely turn it around and make it my fault that she scratched my car.

Anyway, she drove off and I burst into tears. I wish I had more than one coping mechanism; bursting into tears is pretty ineffective any time after the age of 6.

Of course, I came up with a good comeback about 10 minutes later.

I hate confrontation though; I probably wouldn’t have used my comeback even if I had thought of it at the time.

I’m disheartened. I wonder if chancing a horrible person is like hearing a negative comment – for every negative comment about yourself you hear, it takes 5 positive comments to make up for it. Is it that for every horrible person you meet, it takes 5 decent people to restore your faith in humanity? Because right now my faith is pretty shaken...

lifestyleovercancer

This morning I went to the funeral of one of my classmates. It was incredibly sad. We’re 26. We are not old enough to die.

He was a great guy. I remember him playing the clarinet in my music class. I took music in years 11 and 12 so I could pick a different instrument to study each semester and would never have to learn anything higher than 1st grade. My semester of “voice” yielded the worst results. Probably because I decided singing the Sydney Olympic opening ceremony song by Nikki Webster would be significantly enhanced with sign language and interpretive dance. At the time I was miffed that I didn’t make it into the school choir so I gave up trying to sing properly. I’m defeated very easily.

It was reflected in my final marks.

And in my life generally.

But Jerome was a proficient clarinettist, (no interpretive dance needed to spice up his performances!). He had these backing tapes that he’d play along to, which they played at the funeral today and it took me back to sitting on the floor of the newly built music centre watching other students play. That room did need more chairs.

It’s odd. Just this weekend I was forcing my boyfriend to watch old family tapes of me (I’m great at entertaining!), and I was trying to find one of my recital pieces to prove that I can mash keys on a piano with some accord, when I came across a video of some people in my year doing their recitals and Jerome was there playing the saxophone.

Then the very next day I find out he’s passed away.

It’s funny how life sometimes gives you hints, and when you look back on things it’s kind of like “oh that makes sense”. Like dreaming about the world ending, and then the world ends.

In his last year he wrote a blog. He was so thoughtful and intelligent and it really shows in his writing. He was passionate about life. He shouldn’t have got cancer. Life is incredibly unfair. http://lifestyleovercancer.com/

I recommend reading it. A man coming to terms with his mortality in his mid twenties - what a terrifying thing to have to do! His words are heartfelt and inspiring.

Mine are spasmodic and lack direction. Or have too many directions. I can’t tell. They kinda just do what they want. Pfft, words.

Better the devil you know

Last year I went to the UK and discovered (among many discoveries) that I missed a few of the basics when it came to to my social etiquette. I am horrified and ashamed that I so brazenly went about offending people; it seems I’m quite the jerk.

For example: No one ever told me it’s polite to announce you’re retiring to the bedroom for the evening. The Sam method is to slink off mid-conversation hoping no one notices you’re not there anymore.

The problem with the Sam method is that I’m such delightful company that my absence does get noted.

One of my weaknesses is that I hate saying goodbye. I’ve been seeing my therapist for the last seven and a half years partly because I have this fear of being abandoned, so she can never suggest it’s time for us to maybe wrap up maybe if I wanted. I have another psychologist who I’ve seen twice now, and already I’m thinking, “How can I keep up the crazy so I don’t have to ever leave?” Which, I recognise is its self kinda crazy.

In a shock announcement this week my work buddy Holly decided to resign, effective Friday. Then Minister Rudd one upped her with his announcement to resign. Then Prime Minister Gillard announced there will be a leadership ballot. Holly started a chain of events that escalated dramatically!

I really like Holly; we had some fun times together. She is a bright shining star and I liked basking in her reflective glory. And being quite a loner, it was nice to have a friend 7.5 hours a day, 3 days a week. So her sudden departure caught me off guard and I was a little… let’s say cry-ey.

Change happens, and it’s usually a good thing - change prevents stagnation, but I’m so terrified of things being worse. I don't want to know what work is like without Holly.

I don't initiate change. I'm more reactive and respond if a situation calls for it.

I'm like water! Water responds to its environment. Like when it's poured into a container; it will move with the gravity and will take on the shape of the new container. Water doesn't sit there and go, "you know what, today I think I'll be a tsunami!” It waits for an earthquake to motivate it.

If no one’s there to push the water, it will stagnate and taste funny.

Similarly, I stay in situations – even the ones that make me miserable and taste funny – because I like the familiar and am scared of things being worse. It’s better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

And that’s why I go to bed without saying good night.

Doggone

Last year my New Year’s resolution was to read 12 books. I frantically upheld with my resolve with a couple of days to spare. This year my resolution is to write 12 (or more) blog posts. Starting… now.

Yesterday I was at my dreamy man-friend’s place and we decided to go out for lunch. As we were heading out the driveway I noticed a handsome pooch on his porch.

“DESIST DRIVING” I called out to my man-friend as I rolled out the door to greet the man’s-best-friend.

Okay, I didn’t say, “desist driving”, nor did I roll. It was more a “hang on, is that a dog on your front porch?”

Anyway, I got out to greet the lost canine. I named him Huxley.

He was beautiful. He was docile and friendly. A tan cattle dog, with a grey muzzle, I would have picked him to be about 12 years old. He was stocky just like Max, and in a way he reminded me of my childhood pet.

A few years ago I remember my friend being devastated because her dog had died. I was appropriately sad for her, but in my head I was like, “it’s a dog, it’s not like you lost a limb”. When Max died it was like I lost a part of myself. It is a pain like no other. It still is.

There’s this song by Sia called Lentil which reminds me of him. I cry every time I hear it. I’m glad that no songs remind me of my nana - boy would we be in trouble!

I remember being about 13. I was a mess at 13; I was fat and awkward and fit pretty much all the criteria for being emo (except for having cool hair, curse this fair mane!). I remember lying on the floor one afternoon, and Max came over and lay with me.

He sat there with me through my crying and my need for him to be there and he just understood me.

I remember thinking *this* is love; I will never love anyone as much as I love this dog.

Pretty deep for 13. Sadly I wasn’t wrong.

There’s an innocence with the love of a childhood pet which can never be recreated. When we got Max I was 9. I had never experienced a heartbreak, a severe disappointment, any loss at all. My heart was open and bountiful.

I participated in a dog walkers club with a few of my friends in primary school. You had to have a dog to join, and Max was my ticket in! We used to explore the Aranda bushlands and give each other homemade medals for the “best dog” and other arbitrary achievements which changed on a weekly basis.

Max could’ve won all of them. He was smart, handsome and funny. I remember one afternoon my cousin was chewing on the end of a piece of straw she found, and Max was interested in what she was doing, so he slowly climbed up the couch to get to her mouth and he gently took the straw from her. The look on her face was priceless.

I have lots of Max memories. And still a lot of Max love.

Max died in June 2010.

I was at work when mum called me and told me we would be putting him down that evening. My supervisor at the time had a dog, so naturally let me leave to be with my childhood companion. There’s a camaraderie with us dog-lovers.

Max was getting senile, but his love for mum was keeping him alive. He followed her everywhere; through the arthritis and back problems and unfortunate incontinence. That dog was a model of devotion.

Mum’s mum (my nana) was dying and going through chemo, and was due to live with my parents in under a month. It was too much to ask for mum to look after both her mother and a dog who loved her too much, so we made the call to let him go.

The procedure was sad. Max didn’t take his eyes off mum. The vet came out with the green syringe and we all hugged and kissed Max goodbye. He was so calm. He licked my hand goodbye. When the needle went in it was as if he was just putting his head down to go to sleep. It was unreal.

He’s now buried in our front yard. I think about him often.

These memories made me instantly fall in love with Huxley. My boyfriend and I took him to the pound, and I was a bit teary seeing him so trusting and enthusiastic. The pound-keeper scanned him for his microchip and I stood with my anxiety and worry that he would be homeless.

But he did have a home – next door as it turned out. So we drove him back home and parted ways with him.

I miss being able to love without restraint. Unfortunately I am convinced that it is not possible to love the same way you love before being hurt. Maturity makes us stronger, yes; but it also robs us of our undying devotion and belief in others. http://loveisacunt.blogspot.com/2006/08/just-once.html

Now it’s many bottles of wine later. Huxley turned out to be a Buster. He’s safe and that makes me happy. I miss my old dog, but I am a better person for knowing him while he was alive.

This post is for you Makkiby, Xx.

Samantha 0’eleven

On Mondays when people ask me, “how was your weekend?” I freak out a little, mostly because I don’t actually do anything, and Monday seems to be regale-adventures-past day. I’ll usually laugh with my mild hysteria and say, “oh, I read a book, hahahah, how funny! Again! My how this keeps happening!” but behind my jovial exterior is an endoskeleton of sincerity. And calcium.

I don’t understand how people haven’t realised how awkward this is for us both.

“So Sam, how was 2011?”

Let’s just say that every 7 years you have a bad year, and I’m not looking forward to 2018.

With any luck, in a year the world will end.

“Oh Sam, don’t be so melodramatic!”

Oh. Okay.

This year a lot happened. And nothing happened. I spent a lot of the year lying on the floor waiting. Waiting for time to pass. For each moment to end. Not even waiting for something, waiting for nothing.

Having depression is like that. A long string of nothing with anticipation for more nothing.

So, things that happened in 2011 (on top of the nothing):

I had some cosmetic surgery. Clearly my nose is much hotter this way.

"How you doin'?"

My nana died on February 15^th. She had a metastasis of a breast cancer she conquered in 1985. I’m so glad she did recover back then, because my nana was my hero and I couldn’t imagine how my life would have been if I hadn't had her to confide in and to offer me advice. She was an amazing networker, clever strategist (if not a little manipulative) and an eternal optimist. In my adult years I learnt she was also quite cheeky, and had a bit of a devious sense of humour.

I love my nana and I miss her very much.

Me and my nana being hot stuff at a family gathering in 2007

Then, in a fit of grief, I ran away to a different continent. I discovered I am not a well traveller and spent half the trip trying to get an early ticket home.

Perspective ;)

Perspective :D

Perspective :'(

And that triggered the depression. If I don’t enjoy the wonders of exploring the world, discovering new things, new people, new cultures, well, what really is the point? Life is wasted on me! I don’t deserve this privilege of existing while other people with so many dreams and so much potential to do good in this world are thwarted because of overpopulation – and my contribution to this overpopulation! I suck dry these resources and opportunities for others while having no desire to participate in the experience of living.

My body followed my mental state, and I spent a lot of the year physically unwell; and to top it off I’d fallen in love! Quelle dommage!

Some good things did gone came of this year. I treat myself better now; I’m not so hard on myself, and I eat much healthier (and lost 10kgs doing so!).

I have a wonderful job which I am passionate about, not just the communications work I do, but the philosophy of the whole organisation. My boss is amazing; intuitive, motivating and inspirational! He really gets me. My colleagues are also incredible; genuine, caring and helpful. I love being part of my team.

I also discovered how great my friends are. I secretly always knew, but this year confirmed I have wonderful taste in confidants.

Exhibit A: Friendship

And I discovered astrology and tarot. I know I shouldn’t put weight on the positions of heavenly bodies or drawings on some cardboard, but I find both these things give me insight and different perspectives on situations. I can look at a card and say, “oh, maybe I am being a bit too idealistic.” or look at the sky and think, “Mercury’s in retrograde, probably a bad day to hold a presidential election.”

Note: I did not hold any presidential elections in 2011.

So, the year was okay. I’ll give it a 6.5/10, which is the same score I gave Breaking Dawn Part 1. It’s okay, but I won’t be going out of my way to experience it again. Also the end wasn’t well thought out.

And that’s the end of that chapter.