THE WORST FINALS EXPERIENCE?

It's ten in the morning but I've been awake since six. My heart is pounding but I'm not sure if it's the caffeine I've been practically injecting into my veins or my nerves eating me away. I imagine a little ball of anxiety rolling around and colliding with the walls of my brain and with every hit he yells "OW!" in protest. For anxiety I would think he would come up with something more unique than "OW!" but hey... it's his decision and who am I to confront my own anxiety.

Here I am waking up at six o'clock. I'm fabulous. 

So here I am... sitting in the theater lab going over my lines a dozen times. Once with my eyes open, another with my eyes closed, and the last one with one eye open and the other closed. If there was more time perhaps I'd try some kind of fancy yoga position and speak them in Korean while juggling. I know these lines. Hell, I've went over them so many times I could write a novel off of them.

That's why when it was my turn to go up and preform in front of the class I wasn't nervous in the slightest. At least until I opened my mouth, spoke the first minute worth of the monologue and then started stuttering and making up my own configurations of what I believed to be words.

... I'm pretty sure it sound something like,

"Dan and I both have dates tonight which would normally scare me but blerg a der ah. Hergie derble? Ah, Hergie derble blash."
What? I'm pretty sure those are not words.

Yep.... I blacked out! Your very own public speaking performer Amber Allegrucci royally messed up on the lines she woke up two hours to practice for!
Bringing back memories of when I was singing the national anthem (which is at a way higher pitch than I can sing in!) at our senior awards night. One of the worst nights of my life , not even including that....

"Okay," I thought, "It's finished. That's another final down."

I told myself after messing up on the theater final that I should reward myself with some buffet food and while I was eating calmly and trying to think about anything other than what had just happened a couple sat behind me and immediately starting impersonating Kermit the Frog while speaking into a banana.
It was fine, I loved it, for the first minute or so. It wasn't until I sat there and listened to them practically spitting food into each others mouths that I realized I was sitting next to two squawking birds.

All right. I'll just head back to my dorm, listen to some music, and maybe write a short story or two.
I walk back to the dorm, in the rain, and finally I start feeling at peace with the thought of being able to see my roommate and tell her what had happened.
I opened my door and thank god my roommate was there! I actually laughed as I recounted what had happened. She reassured me and told me it wasn't as nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

When she left, my dorm neighbors decided to play some video games that must have inflicted some sort of mental reaction that makes them open there mouth and bark like sea otters.
To which I replied with a vine (RaggedyAmb) I apologize for the language friends, family, and future employers. Now I'm sitting in my room, curling up under my sheets, and trying to find something to distract me from whatever my final grade in that class will be now.

Don't worry. It's almost over! The summer is within reach!

Cheating: Down Low

You love. You love so hard that it feels like your heart will either fly out of your chest or sink to your toes. When you speak to your lover it's like you have your own language. A special collection of your favorite words and sounds made just for your ears. The way they walk towards you always seems like they're running. You strive to look your best so when he/she glances at you for even just a second you'll look just the way they like. You lay next to them and drink in their smell. You close your eyes and feel their warmth. It's so special, it's all so beautiful. So much more beautiful than anyone else has ever described.

And now it's over. The moment you find out that heart that held so much love drains out so quickly  you begin to shake. Words crash into each other and you try to speak but there is no way even making a sound will help. This doesn't make sense. This doesn't make sense at all. They would never do that. They would never do that to me. It's impossible. I know them. I know them better than anyone else.

Anyone who has ever been cheated on, abandon, or replaced holds onto that love that they shared with their partner. Which is strange because you would think that hatred would just overcome someone in this sort of situation but in my person circumstance I hated myself more than anyone else. All of the good memories are washed over with some strangers face. Your lips on his and then his on hers. Your lips on hers and hers on his. Your lips on his and his lips on his. Your lips on hers and hers on hers. It hurts the same. We all hurt the same.

I hated how easily it was to be replaced. How simple it seemed to say goodbye.


Dreams become filled with terrible images of them smiling and laughing at you, your heart crawls to your throat and strangles you whenever you see this person now, whether it be the cheater or the one he/she cheated with. It won't go away and it's everywhere.
Sometimes you cry so hard it doesn't feel like you will ever stop and other times you can't cry at all and you hate yourself for it.

Depression sets in.

Your weight drops

You turn pale

You don't want to get out of bed.

Your grades sink.

Your work becomes nothing but a signature.

You go to bed thinking about it. The sun sets. The sun rises. You wake up thinking about it.

No one else understands.

No one else knows.

And it truly does feel that way. It honestly feels like you're screaming in a room crowded with people and no one is bothering to look your way. Our love was so deep. Our love was so pure.

But honestly, and just hear me out, if someone left you for someone else after you've given them your everything then maybe you should take some of that everything and give it to someone else because you are not worth that. You are worth so much more. And for you to be feeling the way you are about it means that you were the one with the heart in the relationship. YOU WERE THE ONE WHO MATTERED. So now you take the time to plug your heart into the wall and recharge because you need all of you to find someone who matters just as much as you do.

Good luck on your adventure.

How My TERRIBLE TEACHER Became The Reason I Write.

There are certain questions that hook onto the loose latches of my brain and send me to galaxies far away.
My favorite latching question is one that I don't get to ask frequently due to the lack of writers that I have within reach of contact.

"What was it that influenced you to start writing?"

When I asked a few friends on Facebook what is was that influenced them, I received some interesting answers. Emotional relief, changing the world through words, and even a certain song encouraging someone to make a change.

It's a question that I never got around to asking myself and now, years later, I realize that a lot of the terrible and lonely things in life created something so beautiful.
I'll rewind back to the horrible nightmare that was third grade

In third grade I had a TERRIBLE teacher. When I say terrible, I mean the sort of terrible that places a child behind moving bins in the back of the class because she can't comprehend math and is too afraid to ask for help. I've had my desk tipped in front of the class, my seat moved into the hall, and holiday parties taken away from me because of an inability to stand in front of the class and recite the multiplication table.

I'm gunna have to say, the similarity of this cartoon character and my teacher is remarkable.

In third grade there is nowhere to run from a teacher in a school filled with people who know you, your entire family, and where you sleep at night.
Everyone knew me as the girl who just couldn't learn. When the other kids would talk to me they would speak much slower as if I was the scared foreign kid in class.
Of course, they were wrong. I might not have known my numbers but I damn well knew my words. I was brought up by older parents and a brother who would rather hang out with boys. The only person I had to talk to was myself. It's amazing because I agree with everything I have to say! A beautiful friendship!!

My mom had to DRAG me out of bed in the morning to get me ready to go to class.
The only joy I had throughout the day was when I would get to scribble in my note book or sit by my only friend at lunch (love you Lea♥).

Well, every year in December my high school has an event called "Santa's Workshop.", and during this day different classes would get called into the Health room and look through the isles of cheaply made toys and gadgets that the PTA moms would nudge you to buy.
I never went to these because I was terrified of asking my mom and dad for money. All of the cool kids got twenty dollars to splurge on plastic trinkets and I wanted to have that joy of bringing the toys back to class and have everyone wonder what I got!
 Money is a silent topic in my family. If it's given to you, take it and appreciate what you have. If you ask for it, you won't get it.
I asked and for the first time received! It was amazing. Ten dollars. I nearly cried.

What a terrible kid I was going and buying candy, a tablet, and a nice pen. It was all for myself and when I brought it back the kids weren't interested in what I had anyways. I can't exactly remember but I don't think I cared.

While they sat and played with their plastic poppers and toy cars I sat at my desk and began writing. I have no idea what it was that I wrote and why I wanted to write it down so badly but I did. I wrote and it felt so good. Often times I would look out the window and imagine a handsome silhouette boy grabbing my hand and showing me how to dance on the wires of the telephone poles. I've written so many stories about this boy that I wouldn't be surprised if that's what I was furiously writing about.

It was only after the teacher had taken away my notebook that I realized I had written nearly a half an hour after recess had ended.
"This is going in my drawer until later when I get ride of it." She placed my tablet in her drawer, slammed the compartment closed, and locked it in tight with the key. The kids laughed. It was always funny when the stupid girl got yelled out for doing a stupid thing. How could someone not notice the teacher was talking!? Silly girl with her silly thoughts!

I didn't have the courage to ask her until the hourly break if I would get it back at the end of the day, like usual.
"No! It's going in the garbage this time along with the rubber bands. Didn't you hear what I said earlier?" What she meant by "the rubber bands" was my feeble attempt at making a giant rubber band ball in my desk. I got pretty far if I do say so myself.
"Not even with my parents permission?"
Oh, how she yelled at me when I asked that,
She took away my writing and yelled at me in front of a group of peers that already thought I was denser than a fire hydrant. I hated her. I hated her so much. I was afraid of her. I was terrified.

When my mom got the letter that I was repeating the year, that I had failed, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for hours. I cried until my face turned red and the snot drained out of my nose. I cried and pleaded to God to make the school think I was smart. I told him I was too afraid to tell the teachers myself and asked him to do it for me. I told him I'd make the honor roll and make my parents proud. I asked him for a second chance. I begged him. I'm an alter server, I put money in the basket, I sing in the choirs, I'm a good girl. Please don't make me a failure. I never wanted to be like this, I just wanted to be average.
My grandparents would be so ashamed, my friends would go on without me, and I would never be the smart person my brother was.

I went on to repeat the year, my mom demanding a different teacher. I was blessed with a new, amazingly understanding teacher.
The school assumed that my math grades would reflect my reading and writing regardless of my advanced scores so I was placed in remedial reading for nearly the remainder of my elementary career. I wasn't removed from the day and night tutoring until my sixth grade teacher read a report I had written and sent it to the guidance councilor.

Soon, I found myself sitting in the guidance councilors office with her gave me mountains of mints to stay preoccupied while she finished her calls. When she finished she looked down at me and smiled. I thought I was in trouble.
 There was no way the kid would have ratted on me because of the caterpillar incident so quickly, right?

"You know you are very gifted, Amber."
"Thank you."
"Do you know what for?"
"No."
She lifted up the essay along with the drawing I had finished in class only the day before.
"I would have never guessed this was your writing. Amber, honey, you're at the reading and writing level of a highschooler."

I was dismissed. I swear when I walked back to class it felt as if every cloud in the sky was stapled to the bottom of my terribly ugly light up shoes.

I went through thirteen years in that school district and out of those 52 quarters (minus the strikes) I never made honor roll. I didn't graduate with that golden sash and my name wasn't announced with an amazing list of scholarships and awards on the graduation stage like I promised my late grandma Allegrucci.
I'm sorry you couldn't see me in college, grandma. I wanted you to see me do well.

But, no matter what grade is slapped on a project or what letter is written on an essay I know I have my writing. I have these dreams that I can interpret through my finger tips. It's truly some sort of magic. If that doesn't make me feel even the least bit smart then I might as well be the biggest idiot in the world!

A Story About Autism

-Taste the Music-

People are afraid of the dark because when the lights are out there are so many things that can’t be seen. Rod Sterling once said, “There is nothing in the dark that we cannot see when the lights are on”. I was never afraid of the dark but I am afraid of things I can’t see. All of these things that I can’t understand or interpreter. Those are the scary things and in a world with so many different people and so many different ideas there is so much that I can’t see. I’m blind. I’m so blind.

            I have a brother named Dustin who has these terribly big blue eyes that are always fixed on something that I cannot see. He reaches his hands up and touches things that are nonexistent to my world. Perhaps it’s some sort of light that warms him, or a kite that is flying just above his head. I could only imagine all sorts of floating things that could distract him from the ground.

            The thing I love about Dustin is that he doesn't see people for their physical form. I've seen little white babies shriek at their first encounter with a black person and vice versa. I don’t know where it comes from or why it’s there but we fear the different. Dustin doesn't. He’s not a part of the “we”. He’s not a part of the “us”.  He is Dustin and he lives for Dustin where as I am the big brother who lives for everyone else. I am the business man of society, everyone else is a consumer, and Dustin… he’s Dustin.

            I wish I could find more words to describe him but he’s not really a child of literacy. When I watch him sometimes I think I could write for a hundred lifetimes about who is and what he does but when I actually sit down with a piece of paper in front of me it becomes much more difficult. No word can capture the colors he sees and the worlds he touches. For now I’ll stick to my thoughts. Maybe one day I’ll collect enough of them and organize them on a sheet of paper but until then it will be internal.

            After our parents death I took Dustin in. At the time I was eighteen and he was only ten. Now I’m climbing towards my midtweeties and he’s in his teen years. He has so much rage that he doesn’t understand. These feelings are too human for him and he expresses it with this terrible rage. That’s why I think he does what he does. He does it because we are all built like little robots with different and unique systems. Dustin’s a bit short circuited, or perhaps we are the ones with the short circuits. The system isn't operating correctly. It can feel the commands. It can feel the need to complete something but the controls are different. The buttons are lost.

            He doesn't talk much and when he does most people can’t understand him. It’s easy to pick up his language but it’s hard to find someone who actually takes the time to.

            I’m sitting, at this very moment, at one end of our long dining room table and eating something that has taken me way too long to prepare based on the fact that we very well do have a personal chief.

            Dustin will only eat with music playing and every so often he will request a certain band to be played. Tonight’s request is the entire BeeGee’s best hits album.

            “Dustin.” I say. He doesn't respond.

            “Dustin, why is your mouth open?” He opens his mouth even wider and closes his eyes.

            “Taste the music. Louder. Louder.”  He responds. I stand up from my seat and turn the volume up as loud as it can go. The entire house is erupting in eighties music. The silverware is bouncing on the table, the floorboards feel as though they are being vibrated out of place, and Dustin is sitting in the midst of it all just tasting the music. I wonder what it tastes like. The music.

--

This is an exert from a fictional story written by Amber Allegrucci. 2015 

--
If you or anyone you know is affected by Autism send this their way.
""Autism isn't a processing error. It's a different operating system."

Dear Diary,

"At school we had to take a test that would tell us our most probable future career. Everyone take a look at Amber Allegrucci the 'professional birthday party clown'. My mom is going to be so proud."

"If there was a way to teleport from my bedroom to the bathroom I would be a happy costumer."

"My writings are my prized possessions. I've written since I could hold a pen and each and every one of my characters are my friends.... until dad throws out the giant box of stories I've written since I was nine. Then the characters die a little, right? Damn."

Can I technically say I've written seven books? No? Okay.

I think a lot of people think keeping a journal is like in the movies where the beautiful protagonist writes all about her boy troubles and then somehow those pages she's written all about how amazing his butt looks in football pants gets plastered all over the high school halls.
No. No. No! Just no!

While I'm sure we would all love that sort of story and have the gorgeous football player sweep the young dorky damsel off her feet you also have to think about all of the other pages written in this book.

I know very well that if someone opened up my journal they wouldn't have the slightest idea how to react. Why is this?
Well, I don't always stick to writing in my journals. Sometimes I just slap down whatever jumps out of my mind. If I'm feeling angry maybe I'll just pull out an old crayon, press it down nice and hard on the paper, and color the entire page black.
 If I'm hungry I might right the word CHEESEBURGER multiple times until I actually come across a cheeseburger. Perhaps in a few minutes following my cheeseburger discovery I'll be writing BLLECKKK BLEEARRGGG UGGHHHH.

This one's more recent.

Keeping a journal has always always always been a great way to figure out how the wheels turn. Think of your mind like a giant machine with intricate pieces of mechanics that fit perfectly into each other. As we all know, machines don't always work the way we want them to (cough...Windows ....cough). Maybe something gets stuck in the spokes somewhere.

Well.... now what!?

Open up your journal. Look back at what has been building up over the past few weeks. Fights with the parents? Stress in school? Can't pay the bills? You'd be surprised how we can over look our own emotions until the very last minute. By then anxiety strikes.
If you can't exactly figure something out, write. Just write whatever comes to mind.

After losing my grandma during my Sophomore year in High School I fought with myself over what death was and overcame a lot of anxiety I faced towards what would happen and where I would go after I was finished with this life. I also had a difficult time thinking of all of the things I wanted to share with my Gram and how I wouldn't get to show her everything I've achieved after her passing.

Growing up it's easy to forget who we once were and how we once thought. I never knew I felt this way about so and so and I forgot how much I looked up to my big sister or brother. You might look back one day and appreciate how far you've come. All of the little challenges that surrounded the bigger ones and all of the accomplishes that have been forgotten somewhere in a sea of time and faces. All of these moments we've forgotten. Opening up an old journal is like opening up a door to the past.

Apparently I practically lived at the theater when I was younger.

Are you feeling a certain color today? Yellow... maybe pink? Good, grab a crayon and start scribbling. Make it sloppy, nobody is judging you here. It's your own sanctuary. A little piece of your mind on a sheet of paper. Yours.


It's crazy how different we all are. How so many different thoughts and ideas just come through at different times and how so many different emotions shine through. So many thoughts and reactions. It's scary. It's sad. It's beautiful. It's wonderful.

Find yourself! Have fun! Keep a journal!

The Old Forge accent.

THE OLD FORGE ACCENT

"You're from New York, right?"

Uh....New York?

As I've mentioned in my other Old Forge based blogs I've lived in Old Forge for my entire life in the old Allegrucci house. An Allegrucci has lived within these walls since Italian was the main language spoken around town.

When I was a little girl my grandma Allegrucci, who lived in the second half of the double, would have my older cousins, aunts, and uncles stop by for tea and a chat about the old times. Of course, with my grandma being extremely stubborn she stopped having these little get-togethers in fear of not being able to hear who she was talking to, or having to put on makeup and if you can't understand politics you should at least look good while pretending to listen. But before that the visits were a weekly treat.

My grandma was my favorite source of comedic release in this boring old town so every morning I would check to see if my great aunt's car was outside or if my uncle Sonny was parked in the front lawn again by accident. To see my grandma talk about things like taxes and politics was always fun. Sometimes her face would match the red color of her hair after a few hours.

I'll never forget seeing the old antique cars of my uncle Sonny parked out front ( a different one every time ).

I'd be so excited to go next door and see him that I would run over without my shoes on.

The screen door would open but I was too short to be seen through the window so it would always give my gram a good scare.

"Jesus! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" She'd say.

"No."

"Look at this child. No shoes, messy hair, is that a sauce stain on your face?" She'd lick her fingers and wipe away the red stain on my cheek.

"Hey you. Tirarsela*. Look at you! What are yah, some kinda animal?" My uncle Sonny would say.

"No."

"Is that all you say?"

"No."

"She's a different one, Glor. A real pistol." I remember him laughing with his gut and then saying something in Italian. The two of them, my grandmother and my uncle Sonny, didn't speak Italian like their parents before them, but instead knew only the words their parents would say to them. That means they only knew the curse words, and demands like "take out the trash."  and "where's your brother?"

From the old Italian relatives I'd notice something a bit difference about their speech. Their vowels were harsher than people from other places. Even harsher from those in the nearest city of Scranton which was recently marked second place in the Gawker poll of America's Ugliest Accent.

http://gawker.com/americas-ugliest-accent-has-come-down-to-pittsburgh-vs-1646594002

Dog - DAHG

Water - WAH-DER

Come on - Come AHN

There - DAER

Three - TREE

H - HAYCH

Bottle it up - bott'l et up.

Here's a good one. It's more of a dialect - 

Don't yell at me. - "Don't be hollerin' at me."

God, if someone with this accent ever gets into an argument with you I would just pack up my bags and get out of town. Every time that harsh "A" comes through it's like a punch in the face. Very stern and very demanding just like the people who used to live here.

Here's the weird thing about it. Only some Old Forgers have it.

It's a deep and thick accent. Either you have it full blown or not at all.

I could say out of the 74 people who graduated with the OFSD class of 2014 only about four people had this accent.

Now in Bloomsburg, there are four Old Forgers who attend the University here.

I speak to three of the four, one being my boyfriend. Each have been born and raised in Old Forge just like me and yet the only hint of the accent I hear is in my boyfriends speech. It only comes through every once and while but when it does I notice it immediately. 

If you'd like to know where your accent most likely derived from you can take the quiz below and once you're finished a heat map will appear showing you the most relocatable locations with your accent.
CLICK:  How Y’all, Youse and You Guys Talk Quiz
*opens in a new window

Tell me about your experiences with the Old Forge or Scranton accent.

Has anyone commented on it?
What are some words you say a differently than others who don't have this accent???

 **Tirarsela - 

To put on airs, or to show off/boast/act superior, can be translated to darsi delle arie in Italian. Literally, to give oneself airs. That is the nice way to say it, or the proper way, but there are also more colloquial (less elegant) ways to say that a person is acting superior.

Surviving Finals Week

Everyone has been receiving their "Finals Survival Kit" care boxes this week because, as I'm sure you've guessed already, finals week has smashed its way into my happy sunshine land.

I don't care about the candy you get in those things. I don't need that to survive! I want someone to send me my blankie and a little old lady who will make me those little pillows that say "Keep Calm and Study On". #Whereareyougramma?

Tis the season for no sleep, hair loss, and weird cravings for fried chicken. That last one might just be me.... Mmmm chicken.

The lounges are full of students with their faces plastered to their laptop screens, the library looked like some sort of World War Z scene where all of the zombies are stressed out university students, and the coffee shops around town are sending in troops for backup.

This is what us college students do. We get on this extremely expensive roller coaster, make sure it has everything we need and possibly change seats if we feel other wise, go up and down and up and down on the ride and then - BOOM - Holy shit, mega loop in the track. Here's where it gets good. You just ate a double beef burrito from Two Minute Taco and More up the road. Buckle up junior because this loop is coming and coming fast.

Little Becky sitting next to you is prepared for this but you, oh no, not you. You had no idea the loop was going to be this big and now you're in front of it and that burrito is making it's decision to see the sunlight again.

So now what? You can't just throw up all of that burrito, it was expensive after all. Looks like you're going to have to find a way to keep it in. Gotta suck it up, there's no going back now after all. 

And as that loop approaches we are all holding on for dear life. Except for Becky. She always has her shit together which is good for her. Dammit Becky.

Oh, did you click on this link to find a way to survive finals? Whoops. Keep looking, I'm a terrible person to ask. 

I suppose we should all do the thing that we haven't done since high school SAT's. Study Study Study.