Admit it. You missed me.

It's been a while since I posted, and I know what you're all thinking. 
Did I get boring in the meantime?

Well no. No I did not. 
That is, I discovered the wonders of Pinterest, which is almost as bad. And I finished a bunch of calculus, took some AP tests, completed my Personal Progress, wrote out far too many applications, became obsessed with classic literature, and made one or two life-changing decisions that ultimately landed me here:

My apartment is nice, my roommates and new friends are great, and the campus is lovely, and there are awesome mountains. The only things I have to complain of are the weather and the hiatus between Last Wednesday and Starting My New Job.

I leave you to ponder. First, a brief public service announcement.

Okay. I've given you a few tiny clues. Are you ready?
(No one reads titles, right?)

Last week was Sherlock Appreciation Week. This technically began months ago, and has been marked by many a happy hour on Pinterest and Netflix (no, I won't tell you how many), but I officially recognized it last week. Like Chocolate Fudge Peanut Butter Oreo Donut Appreciation Week, Sherlock Appreciation Week will likely continue indefinitely.

Sherlock is key to the British method of torture. For those of you who don't know, this strategy takes many forms (most inflicted by BBC) and has been lamented on many a fangirl site and deep in the abyss of Tumblr. I'll give a quick rundown of the Sherlock version here:
1. Have someone British write a really good book.
2. A century or so later, hire Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss (the dark lords of the BBC) to direct the show.
3. Include lots of talented British actors with accents and trenchcoats and scarves.
4. Film a three-episode season, ending in an inexcusably horrible cliffhanger.
5. Wait eighteen months or more in between seasons.
6. Maliciously enjoy the chaos that ensues on Tumblr.
7. Repeat steps 4-6

It's a terrible thing, and if you don't believe me you can ask Tumblr yourself. Proceed with caution. 
So there's my shout out to the world's only consulting detective. Remember,

What?!! There's a world beyond college? 
So I've recently been informed. Who'd have thought? This intriguing idea led me to some musings on my own future after college. It's frightening, figuring out what to do with my life. Fortunately, there's somewhere to start: We all want to make a difference in the world.
It's how best to make that difference that's the question.
As for me, I'm fairly sure where to start. I have a passion for biology that survived two semesters of AP Bio and was not even crushed beneath the four-inch-thick textbook. 

Molecular and cellular biology--the microscopic levels on which miracles occur--are endlessly fascinating to me. Take DNA, my favorite macromolecule.

DNA makes copies of itself. It releases messages and proclamations that send its minions scurrying about the cell to do its bidding. DNA holds the power of life in its coils. Sometimes it sends out military strike teams to crush minor organelle rebellions and restore order. Occasionally, it becomes corrupt, drunk with its own power, and attempts a takeover of the entire organism. And that's where scientists come in. I can just see future-Shannon peering into a microscope, clenching her jaw in grim preparation for battle as she mutters darkly under her breath, "I've got you now, little nucleotide insurrectionist. There's no escape."

Of course, the study of genetics isn't all about vanquishing the revolutionaries. Not at all. But I'm interested in studying genetic diseases for personal reasons. I have several physically disabled loved ones. My little sister, Laura, and my close friend Shea are both afflicted with Spinal Muscular Atrophy, which is a neuro-muscular joint problem that prevents proper muscle development. They both manage to do a whole lot more living in wheelchairs than most of us do on two feet, but the situation gives me pause for thought. Apparently I had a close genetic shave with the disease myself. A single wrong chromosome pairing and I'd be right there with them, alternately the life of the party (Laura's a very popular go-cart among small children) and boiling over with frustration at the world's lack of handicap-accessibility. Instead, I'm a mobile biped with a strong interest in biology and excellent wheel-evasion reflexes. And most likely a carrier of SMA, as well. Is it any wonder I'm curious about the double helix?

I had the amazing experience this summer of volunteering as a counselor at a Muscular Dystrophy Association summer camp for kids with muscular disorders. At the end of the week, there was a dance. Campers and counselors rocking out together. And even though half of the dancers were in wheelchairs, it was the best dance that I have ever attended. No one wanted it to end. The air vibrated with energy and enthusiasm, every kid full of the sheer joy of living, of moving and dancing in whatever way was left to them.

That's what they have to offer, and I learned its value. I want to offer something back to them. To Laura, the best sister I could ask for, who's been my constant friend and playmate throughout the dozen or so moves our family has made around the country. To Shea, my regular plotting buddy, who has more adventures to offer the world than anyone I know. And to Tyler, my camper and friend from MDA camp, who in one short week became like a little brother to me. 

After college, I want to enter the field of genetics as a researcher. There's so much within the cell that we don't know about, so much to learn! 
If there is research to be done, if there are discoveries to be made, if there exists the slightest chance that I can help find cures and change lives, then I hope to pursue it. I can think of no better difference to make in my community, nation, and world.

So today I was talking to my friend about dogs. I don't know why I do this. All of the dogs considered are future dogs. And that hurts. But here they are.

Yes. I love big dogs. But there is one dog that no one will ever be able to beat. Simply because he IS the best dog. 
(If you want to argue, take a number. If you CAN argue).
Supposedly he's a Pomeranian/Jack Russell mix. But those of us who know him know better. There's clearly some fox/fruitbat/llama/piglet/fish/cat in there too.

Let me introduce you to Marshmallow.

If this image sends a thrill of fear through your heart, then you probably spent your evening the same way I did mine.
Babysitting.
Yes, I agreed, rather rashly I admit, to babysit some children while their parents enjoyed a dinner prepared by some of our youth group. There were only three children. Two of them are master escape artists. The other one is my little brother, who generally requires at least one and a half babysitters all by himself. 
The night went something like this:
6:30 PM:
Arrive at church. Enter nursery armed with little brother and additional babysitters. Entertain little brother.
6:35 PM: Other children arrive. Several babysitters pop in and out, but only one stays.
6:40 PM: Fellow babysitter called away. Does not return. Rugrats begin making escape attemps.
6:45 PM: Floor recarpeted in toys. Children play more or less contentedly, if not entirely peacefully.
7:04 PM: Cub scouts begins. Rugrats attempt to sneak out under cover of 8-year-old boys. Recover rugrats and return to nursery.
7:10-7:45 PM: Largely peaceful playtime. Snacks distributed. Children grow restless and resume escapes.
7:46 PM: One child, having reconnoitered the gym during escape attempt #57, suggests that "we should go play in there."
7:46:10: Babysitter considers.
7:46:12: Babysitter recalls her own childhood and confinement to nurseries.
7:46:15: Babysitter makes executive decision. Orders cleanup.
7:50 PM: Toys cleaned up. Babysitter and rugrats proceed to gym.
8:05 PM: Having enjoyed brief games of soccer and freeze tag with the children, babysitter congratulates herself on wise decision.
8:05:30: Young men finish activity early and proceed to gym for weekly basketball game.
8:06 PM: Babysitter readies children for a second round of soccer.
8:06:05: Young men enter gym.
8:06:06: Babysitter briefly welcomes the company and help. Children attach themselves to young mens' feet. Young men attempt to extricate themselves.
8:06:07: Young men are unsuccessful. Situation descends into chaos. Children are having a wonderful time. Babysitter revises her opinion of young mens' childcare skills. Shepherds rugrats back into gym and observes spectacle.
8:08 PM: Babysitter relinquishes idealism and begins to enjoy herself. Shrieks of laughter echo from the gym. Babysitter accepts ice cream sandwich from sympathetic Young Mens leader. Hopes that dinner guests are having a nice time.
8:17 PM: Minutes have lengthened themselves into hours. 107 hours after commencement of duties, babysitter is released. All children and young men have survived.


8:20 PM: Babysitter recalls rash promise to serve similar duty tomorrow night.

Once upon a time there was a guy who went on vacation with his family. While on vacation, he would be sure to check back with his family every few days to show them his fish pictures. The rest of the time, he was hard at work deceiving fish; depriving them of their well-deserved peace of mind and occasionally their carefree lives. To compensate, he threw lots of food-like substances into the water, though these generous gifts always came attached to small pointy objects.
 
The Old Man had little inkling that this inspiring pastime would irreversibly influence his eldest daughter and her blog. 

One day, whilst hard at work sitting in a lake and companionably tormenting fish with his equally dedicated brother, the Old Man felt a hard pull on his line. It was, he decided, a snag. Then the snag had a tantrum and the Old Man revised his opinion. It was a decent fish. The Old Man and the decent fish skirmished for a while as the dedicated brother made a few strategic casts in attempt to rouse the decent fish's great-granddaddy. His efforts unfruitful, the dedicated brother pulled out his camera and started taking video. When the decent fish finally came forth from the water, the dedicated brother nearly fell out of his float tube. Fortunately for posterity, no one fell in the water and the film survived. 

The decent fish turned out to be a 30-inch trout, weighing 12 lbs and 11 oz. The sort of trout that could easily be misclassified as a salmon, and probably would have been if it hadn't been pulled out of a small reservoir in Southern Utah.   

After a few more hours of successfully tormenting additional fish, the Old Man rushed joyfully back to his family, and even paused to bestow a few perfunctory hugs before shoving them out the door to see the giant fish with its tail sticking halfway out of the cooler. There was much rejoicing. Everyone cooed over the beloved fish and plotted its tasty demise. 
The Old Man slipped away and was fishing again before dawn.


In ensuing months, the Old Man would often pause in his studies, lean back in his office chair, close his eyes, and smile. No one ever had to ask why.

His daughter would never be able to quite rid herself of the family fishing lifestyle enough to live a normal life. And though he continued to feign indifference to the contents of his daughter's blog, the Old Man dropped frequent hints that somewhere in history, a fish needed its story told.

I'd like to talk today about a serious issue affecting our society. One way or another, we have all been impacted by this ongoing tragedy. 
Yes, I think we can all sympathize with the following unfortunate circumstance. I'll include an example here.

[Texting/chat conversation begins]
You: Hey, what's up?
Buddy: Not much lol, how r u?
You: Oh, there's not much going on except *insert witty and humorous remark here*
Buddy: lol
You: So...did you do the trig homework?
Buddy: No. did u
You: No, after spending upwards of 2 1/2 hours struggling with the square root of pi i finally gave up and went to eat the pumpkin kind
Buddy: lol
You: ...did you have a good summer?
Buddy: yep lol
You: what did you do?
Buddy: not much lol


Now, we've all come across this at one point or another. And it is this problem that I would like to address today. I would like to reach out sincerely, from the bottom of my heart to those among us who have the problem of excessive LOL-ing, and just say this:
You make me want to cry.

LOL is a conversation stopper. There is no way to get around that. Not that a stray LOL can poison the conversation on it's own. Disaster only strikes when you say nothing else to continue the conversation and temper the insincerity of the LOL. To say lol and nothing more of any significance is to rob a conversation of inertia and bring it to a perilous, squealing halt. It is to force the other person to attempt to both provide power and direction to the conversation, and if you're as short as I am you can barely reach the steering wheel, let alone the gas pedal.
To inflict this herculean task on any friend, let alone the most beloved of friends, is a terrible thing to do. Here's a little peek into the mind of the tormented friend:
"He's...not really saying anything...
He's...still not saying anything....
You know, I don't believe she's actually laughing out loud.
Either she doesn't reeeaaallllyyy want to talk to me or she's just too lazy to respond properly...which is odd since she initiated this conversation...
This is awkward.
Don't my friends love me?
I can't squander an entire day's quota of witty remarks on this one undeserving individual! It's a waste of valuable resources!!
...I'm going to go do more important things, like play spider solitaire."


Now I'm pleased to report that this unfortunate scenario has not in fact inflicted itself upon me as of late, nor, happily, do I have any specific names in mind. If I did, I wouldn't be writing this post. I don't want to alienate any friends. I also believe that this infirmity visits itself upon us all from time to time. Sometimes we all have long days, and no strength left to put any effort into conversation. We all have to overcome that. And I truly believe that there is hope for habitually excessive LOL-ers. But it's going to take a lot of support. It's going to take friends who care, friends who aren't afraid to stand up and say No. 
I believe that as a society, we can overcome this.
Thank you.

Comment or like if you can relate. But if you respond with "lol" then I'm going to lock myself in my bedroom for the rest of the week with an extra-large bag of candy corn, shut the curtains, read sad stories, and play depressing music.

Writing can be hard.
Don't misunderstand. Words tend to fit together like, well, they were meant to go together. But to really write write well you have to have that spark. 
Writing without that one tiny speck of inspiration is like an Oreo cookie without the creme or a vertical asymptote---pointless.
Our schools, of course, tend to promote this sort of writing. They strip your paragraphs of sentence fragments and unconventional ideas, squeeze it into a 5-paragraph format, and force you to repeat all your points at least 3 times, all the while trying to promote an appreciation of good literature. Good literature, the kind you're supposed to analyze in unimaginative essays, thrives on a page rich with all of the elements present in bad essay writing. It's like trying to research coral reefs by standing on a rock and peering into the water. And the rock is next to a duck pond. It's a different world entirely.
Some of the restrictions, thankfully, are lifted when one enters an AP English classroom. We were even instructed not to write a 3-body-paragraph essay. (The downside of this is the 4-6 page requirement). So today, when my class was conducted to the library, equipped with essay prompts and computers, and left to our own devices, something changed.
As always I teetered on the knife's edge. Write a decent, conventional essay? Or dare I unleash that elusive element known as style, and present to my teacher a work of..of art? (Okay, let's not get too carried away. It's still English class after all). 
Ordinarily I would choose the former option, and trudge sheeplike down the dry and well-beaten track worn by thousands before me.
But today, something inside me snapped. Perhaps I was made careless by the heady whiff of freedom from 5-paragraph essays. Perhaps I was determined to do full justice to the marvelous piece of literature I was responsible for analyzing and presenting to the world (okay, the english department). Perhaps my natural arrogance, badly suppressed throughout most of my education, finally broke free of its chains and rose to the occasion.(After all, it is senior year).
Today I would do something great. Today I would write something great. Today, I would take the road less traveled.
In one swift movement, I burst my fetters, began my essay and never looked back. I was unstoppable. Some of the inspiration that must have drifted to Shakespeare with his quill and Twain through his typewriter lent wings to my fingers as well, and words streamed across my Word document as though they would never stop. (Then the bell rang for a fire drill, but...yeah that's not important at this point). A bit of philosophy here, just the right touch of satire there. Beauty beginning with a mere two sentences, two paragraph fragments graced with personality, no mention of the book or author until I was darn well ready. An introduction to my introduction.
I can do stuff like that. I'm free now.

Today has been perhaps one of the most interesting of my experiences in high school. Imagine having classes with 30 glazed-eyed zombies, who instead of flesh or brains consume Monster drinks and candy corn at a terrifying rate. Whatever it takes to stay awake. 
That's right. Today was senior sunrise.
I got up at 3:30 this morning to host a large breakfast for some friends, after the "Let's go to Dennys at 3 AM!" idea was vetoed by a higher power. While hanging out with friends is always fun, it was also an experience made somewhat surreal by the early hour. But I hadn't seen anything yet. 
Now, I'm used to slight sleep deprivation. I have become perhaps as comfortable with the dawn as a determinedly non-morning person can be. The reason for this is my early-morning seminary class. Therefore I was in the position to be a relatively alert and entertained spectator for most of the day, set apart from the slow-moving, amoeba-like mass of my classmates. 
No one who went to the sunrise stayed awake all day. (Unhelpfully, teachers in two classes chose today to show movies). Most of the seniors were in fact at Dennys at 2 AM and some pulled all-nighters for the occasion, regardless of the fact that the school event did not begin until five nor the sun rise until 6:30. (My best friend and I skipped out on the actual sunrise to go to seminary at 6. But I digress).  So when our semiconscious and still blanket-wrapped conglomeration of students moved from class to class, it was with squirrelly attention spans and much gulping of energy drinks that we settled in. 
By midafternoon, however, my smugly detached demeanor began to wear off. Physics class. I can only imagine the peals of evil laughter that must have rung out in the counseling center when the decision was made to place Honors Physics after lunch. And thus it was that I entered that elusive state known as "out of it". Needless to say, this was unhelpful for the physics lab we were supposed to be doing.
I doodled during the entire class period. Every few minutes I would look up and scratch a few notes onto my lab sheet, and gaze dazedly upon the data that appeared as if by magic on my partners' lab sheets between my lapses of concentration. By the end of class I had filled a page with what my perceptive and forgiving teacher labeled "stream of consciousness art", including a sketch of a deranged lemur, and my lab partners had garnered a pageful of mass measurements. Success all 'round.