GRYFFINDOR

"You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart."

Adams, Brandi

Aukai, Ka’onohiokala

Britos, Kaili

Egan, Alana

Hee, Christian

Kekoa, Kamanukea

Reeves, Tatiana

Tandal, Randy

The Cookie Guy, Kai

 

HUFFLEPUFF

"You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true,

And unafraid of toil."

Achong, Sienna

Aguirre, Nai’a

Ebanez, Aaron

Euken, Daniel

Ho’okano, Jonah

Mundon, Skye

Poepoe-Davis, Moses

Sagarang, Sarah

Sala, Megann

Tandal, Drew

Valentine, Punahele

 

RAVENCLAW

"Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind."

Aihara, Alia

Baxley, Belle

Doo, Taisha

Onzuka, Rayann

Pittaway, Jackie

Rawlins, Sean

 

SLYTHERIN

"Or perhaps in Slytherin,

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means,

To achieve their ends."

Aquirre, Falcon

Badayos, Raquel

Black, Cody

Kay, Cody

Marston, Zaida

Ortiz, Jasmine

Paik, David

Pratt, Briana

Peterson, Ilima

Saito, Ryan

K
What Katie Did - The Libertines

L
Layla - Eric Clapton
Liam's Got A Phone Call - A Very Potter Musical*
I'm not sure what's going on in this song, but it makes me laugh, soooooo...
Lola - The Raincoats
Luka - Suzanne Vega
LulU - Beatbeat Whisper

M
Lady Madonna - The Beatles
Maggie Mae - The Pietasters
Maria, Maria - Santana
I Dream Of Maria Antoinette - Love In October
Michael - Franz Ferdinand
Mona Lisa - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
Me And Mia - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
Try to guess who Ana and Mia are.
Our Retired Explorer (Dines With Michel Foucault In Paris 1961) - The Weakerthans
Molly's Lips - Nirvana
Murray - Pete Yorn

N
Natasha - Rufus Wainwright
Written about Natasha Lyonne, AKA the girl with the frizzy hair in American Pie who always had booze.
Making Plans For Nigel - XTC
Ballad Of Noah - K-Os

P
Pavlov's Daughter - Regina Spektor
Pearl's Dream - Bat For Lashes
Penny And Me - Hanson
Dear Prudence - The Beatles
Puff (The Magic Dragon) - Peter, Paul & Mary

R
Dream Life Of Rand McNally - Jason Mraz
Raoul - The Automatic
Worried About Ray - The Hoosiers
Ringo (I Feel Like) - Custard
Rose - The Feeling
Roxanne - The Police
Rudie Can't Fail - The Clash
Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer - Jack Johnson
A Message To You, Rudy - The Specials

S
Saint Simon - The Shins
Sheila - Jamie T
Stephanie Says - The Velvet Underground
Black Stacey - Saul Williams
A Boy Named Sue - Johnny Cash
Suzanne - Leonard Cohen

T
Teddy Picker - Arctic Monkeys

V
O, Valencia! - The Decemberists
Valerie - The Zutons
Valerie - Amy Winehouse
Produced by Mark Ronson, a cover of The Zutons. That song in 27 Dresses that all the Americans loved and all the Brits had heard one too many times.
Valerie - Panic! At The Disco
Another Zutons cover.
Valerie - Marshall Crenshaw
Not a Zutons cover!
Valerie - Reel Big Fish
Definitely not a Zutons cover.
Vince, The Lovable Stoner - The Fratellis
If you know anyone who smokes weed, download this if you know what's good for you.
Meet Virginia - Train
Virtue The Cat Explains Her Departure - The Weakerthans
Plea From A Cat Named Virtue - The Weakerthans
The Weakerthans like their cat.
Missing Voldemort - A Very Potter Musical*
Voldemort Is Going Down - A Very Potter Musical*

W
Walcott - Vampire Weekend

Y
Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, Pt. 1 - The Flaming Lips
I'm not sure how many parts it takes for Yoshimi to triumph over the pink robots.

Z
Team Zissou - Seu Jorge


Songs I forgot to include in A-J
Cassius - Foals
Asking Cho To The Yule Ball - A Very Potter Musical*

Daniel - Bat For Lashes

Ginny - A Very Potter Musical*
Falling For Ginny And Hermione - A Very Potter Musical*

Harry - A Very Potter Musical*

Dear Jamie...Sincerely, Me - Hellogoodbye
Jason - Sufjan Stevens
Jessie's Girl - Rick Springfield
The Boy Looked At Johnny - The Libertines



* Not recommended that you download unless you have seen A Very Potter Musical. If you want to see it, it's up on YouTube. And if you've read or seen anything Harry Potter...see the musical.

A
Goodbye, Mr. A! - The Hoosiers
A charming little ditty I listened to while preparing for my LD Debate final.
Adelaide - The Old 97s
Adrienne - The Calling
Alfie - Lily Allen
Andy's Chest - Lou Reed
Lou Reed loves drugs. Hence, the most random love song I have ever heard.
Amber - 311
Not about a girl named Amber. Oh well.
Brimful Of Asha - Cornershop
'Cause everybody needs a bosom for a pillow.
Ashley - Cake Like

B
Baba O'Reilly - The Who
Tell Balgeary, Balgury Is Dead - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
Earth To Bella (Part 1) - Incubus
Belle - Jack Johnson
Mystery Belle - The Fumes
Black Betty - Ram Jam
One (Blake's Got A New Face) - Vampire Weekend
To Bob Ross With Love - Gym Class Heroes
Brandy Alexander - Feist
Brian Wilson - Barenaked Ladies
Mr. Brown - Bob Marley

C
The Sons Of Cain - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
Cassiopeia - Joanna Newsom
A Painting By Chagall - The Weepies
Chelsea Dagger - The Fratellis 
Come On, Claire - Aberfeldy
Clint Eastwood - Gorillaz
Colleen - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists

D
Daniel Cowman - Regina Spektor
Danny Boy - Black 47
Daria - Cake
Dolly Dagger - Jimi Hendrix
Domino - Van Morrison
Not really a name either, but...maybe it is in Italy. 
Dora Goes To Town - Andrew Bird

E
Eddie - Rocky Horror Picture Show
Come On, Eileen - Dexy & The Midnight Runners
Eleanor, Put Your Boots On - Franz Ferdinand
Eleanor Rigby - The Beatles
Emily - Joanna Newsom
Emo Phillips - Arrah And The Ferns
Erroneous Escape Into Erik Eckles - Of Montreal
Eryn Smith - The Matches

F
See Fernando - Jenny Lewis

G
Why, Georgia - John Mayer
Gloria - Van Morrison

H
I'm Henry The Eighth I Am - Herman's Hermits
The never ending song. The never ending catchy song...

J
Jack Killed Mom - Jenny Lewis
Jack Slap Cheer - The Matches
Hit The Road, Jack! - Ray Charles

Something JACKIE this way comes...
Jackie - Placebo
Jackie - Violin Road
Jackie - The New Pornographers
Jackie D - Capotones
Jackie O - The Hepburns
Jackie Blue - Ozark Mountain Daredevils
Jackie Sixty - Black Box Recorder
Jackie And Will - Swearing At Motorists
Jackie Big Tits - The Kooks
Apparently The Kooks know Jackie Pittaway.
Jackie Wilson Said - Dexy's Midnight Runners
Jackie Wilson Said - Van Morrison
Jackie, Dressed In Cobras - The New Pornographers
Return Of Jackie And Judy - Tom Waits

Damnit Janet - The Rocky Horror Picture Show
Jenny, Don't Be Hasty - Paolo Nutini
Johnny B. Good - Chuck Berry
Me & Mr. Jones - Amy Winehouse
Hey Jude - The Beatles
Judy Is A Punk - The Ramones
Me & Julio Down By The Schoolyard - Paul Simon
Gay love? Criminals? Who knows.
Check Yes, Juliet - We The Kings

1. Garrett Hedlund


2. Pharrell


3. Andre 3000


4. Jensen Ackles


5. Chris Lowell


6. Gael Garcia Bernal


7. Jim Sturgess


8. Joseph Gordon-Levitt


9. Lee Pace


10. Ethan Peck


11. Milo Ventimiglia


12. Jared Padalecki


13. Tuki Brando


14. Heath Ledger (=[)


15. James McAvoy


16. Victor Webster


17. Jake Gyllenhaal


18. Gabriel Macht


19. Andy Samberg


20. Daniel Radcliffe


21. Rodrigo Santoro


22. Ewan McGregor


23. Zac Effron


24. Elijah Kelley


25. James Purefoy


26. James Franco


27. Seu Jorge


28. Brad Pitt


29. Rafi Gavron


30. Gabe Saporta


31. Travis McCoy


32. Brandon Boyd


33. Ioan Gruffudd


34. Jason Mraz


35. Lupe Fiasco


36. Jonathan Rhys-Meyers


37. Travis Fimmel


38. Justin Nozuka


39. Penn Badgley


40. Emile Hirsch


41. Charlie Cox


42. Ben Barnes


43. Michael Pitt


44. Luke Pasqualino


45. Nicholas Hoult


46. Drew Fuller


47. Daniel Henney


48. Jason Momoa


49. Hugh Dancy


50. Hunter Parrish

She has not eaten for days.

This small, pale creature with her awkward shock of black hair, springing from a frame so lithe and naked she doesn’t dare move lest her hunter return with her meal. The apartment lies in disarray around her, watchful eyes invading the silent corners of her spaces, stringing their silver nooses from wall to wall, encouraging her to swing.
One day she will.

Her forever gone dark figures, nevermore ripping the sheets from her limbs, nevermore her screams unfiltered in the country skies, nevermore their laughter pealing through her mask, her gag, her hair free only to spill onto cold, bare mattress. Instead, her axe man, he comes every night to leave rusty traces of his fingers in the grain of her door. His breath, hot on the keyhole, sends the wind and whispers of the rivers to creep slowly towards her, wrapping the dripping fingers of those drowned souls around her toes, her hair, her bedposts. The abyss calls to her, and it is always darkness.

When he leaves her, she devours what he leaves on the threshold, sucking the color from the rivers of crimson on her front door. Her lover, he calls her name through the panels of her door, his axe-laden fingers burning bloody holes in the frame. Her ancient name, her true name.
When she does not answer, he leaves her the spoils of his sacrifices. Scarlet clothes, strands of hair, morsels of fingertips. The soft underside of thigh. A week’s harvest on her doorstep.

She will eat for days.

Then she wages war on her prickled enemies, shattering their fragile pathways from lamppost to footstool, letting their wives and children climb back up her throat, their many feet kicking the hills of her tongue on their gradual descent into Hades, the melodies of their sins unfolding through the reddened music he leaves for her under the eaves of her door.

Police reports will later say that she lives alone, but this is not true – a decrepit band of memories sleep in the soft curves of her mind, warding off reality and pushing her deeper into the pits of hell. They never permit her to wear sheets or clothes, even on the coldest nights, always worried of elapsing back to the nether years past, always concerned for her freedom to move. Even in her sleep she thrashes in violent rebellion to what used to bind her constantly, and in the waking hours she moves from corner to corner in frantic obsession, pinning down the dark corners, terrified of light.

Screaming is useless.

You ought not to try.

Now be a good girl and roll over.

"Shake the tree of life itself and bring down fruits unheard of." - Edwin Arlington Robinson

It’s strange how when I buy things for others, I end up keeping most of them. This is possibly an example of my inherent selfishness. I am willing to accept this. I bought the card for my friend Lia randomly on a trip, only to rationalize that what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her and therefore it was acceptable to keep the card for myself. And it’s true – Lia still loves and adores me. That sounded slightly egotistical – it probably was. If this were a sitcom or even someone else’s life, I’d return to her the card along with everything else I have kept over the years, and she, through her tears, will forgive me. But I’m not and she’s not. I’m keeping it. I’m also probably going to hell.

But at least I’ll have my Edwin Arlington Robinson quote to give me company.

I don’t want you to think I’m going to hell just because of a silly card. Believe me, I’ve kept many things: underwear, lotion, shirts, jewelry. A plethora of items. To be honest, I love them more than the things that were originally intended for me, because I rescued them for myself. When you sacrifice a shred of your conscience for something, no matter how small and inconsequential, you value it more. I value it more.

I’m not a kleptomaniac. I don’t (blatantly) steal. I am not the type of girl who stuffs things in her pockets to avoid paying for them. I just don’t pass the things I pay for on. It’s not stealing. It’s much like avoiding telling the truth. Yes, some people could argue that’s lying. But who wants to talk to them anyway? Those are the people that grow up to be the teachers that complain about toe cleavage.

I’m rationalizing.

My card isn’t sentimentally significant. Yes, it would hurt if I lost it. But in reality, it’s not the card, physically, that matters. It’s the quote, and the quote is in my head now. The card merely sparked the thought. The card is not a family heirloom, and I did not work hard to get it. In fact, it’s a festering example of my immature theory that I am still the center of the universe. My possession of this card was born of immorality. It’s frivolous, unimportant and insignificant. But it’s something I treasure above all. Not all the things a person treasures have to be morally righteous, and I have come to accept that too. In truth, letting a bit of my morality go was freeing, which is possibly another reason why I love this card. It gives me permission to accept the fact that I am human – inherently flawed and inherently self-absorbed. And, true to the quote, inherently determined to shock you with something new and interesting.

Because honestly, that is really all I want to do in life – bring something new and fresh to the table, to make people doubt themselves, to make people sweat a little in mysterious places, nervously. To make those obsessed with toe cleavage and telling the truth purse their lips and write angry letters to the editor. To shake down fruits unheard of. Ugly, rotten fruits, and plump golden ones. Something fantastical and amazing that the people around me have neither seen nor heard before. Fruits that taste like asphalt, fruits that taste like sandpaper on your tongue. Fruits that make the taster violently sick, or fruits that make every person munching simultaneously orgasm. Fruits that make the news, that build and break cities, that disprove your innermost theories on life and make you question why you even exist. Because preconceived ideas were built for breaking. Preconceived ideas on morality were constructed so I can tell you that in all honesty, my great grandmother’s ring box doesn’t mean as much to me as this card. Yes, I would probably miss it more if it physically broke or got lost. But if I lost this shred of rationalization, this idea loitering in my brain, the concepts that this card represents, I would be lost, devoid of an important conviction. Ring boxes lack conviction.

I will shake the tree of life itself and bring down fruits unheard of.

So, have you read this essay before?

Have you?

American Airlines Flight 25 from Logan to LAX. Formerly Flight 11, but the negative connotations of that one after September 11 were bad for business.

Or so my little sister told me, watching me pack my bags, her glasses reflecting the stark white of the computer screen. Sitting here now, pumping Pulse Of The Maggots into my veins, the only thing I can see is bearded terrorists holding plastic knives to my throat and making the pilot transform this flimsy shard of metal sometimes known as a plane into a submarine. I know it’s horribly racist of me. I also know there are no oceans between here and Los Angeles. I don’t care. My personal safety is at risk, here. I’d like to live to see the frothy shores of the Pacific, thank you. I would fall to my knees and worship the legions of silicone tits and discarded needles if only I get to see them one more time.

Pull through for me, Jesus. You know you want to.

Streams of my fellow passengers flood the aisles, making me want to fight my way to the surface and claim some clean air for my lungs. I try to distract myself, scrolling through the contents of my iPod, a Christmas gift from my family. Slipknot…the Ramones…Queen.

Pink Floyd. I wish I were comfortably numb.

I barely get the chance to lean back a bit and build my own wall when I hear a small thud on the seat next to me. I crack an eye open, squinting at the seat who has met an ass, who is connected to a – oh, Jesus.

A sorority sister. The demonic spawn of Miley Cyrus and Elle Woods. Born of hairspray, festering in the pink lagoon of terry cloth leisurewear. My worst nightmare.

My new best friend.

Judging from her Invisalign and Colgate smile, this is going to be one hell of a five hours. And judging from her glistening pucker, she has just consumed a bucket of goo. Oh, God, she’s talking. Why can’t she talk to someone of her own social caliber?

“Hey, I’m Laura.”

“Mmmmfph.” Do not, under any circumstance, make eye contact.

“Do you mind if I put the arm rest up? It always digs into my hips when I sleep. Kind of like my ex boyfriend, if you know what I mean…” Nervous giggle.

I do not know what she means. Suddenly, the sleeve of my jacket is increasingly interesting.

Blissful silence. Then, rushing guilt. She was just being friendly. But honestly, who in this day and age names their child Laura? I shift a bit in my seat, reaching into the front pocket to find an in-flight magazine.

Of course there is none. Just instructions on how not to die in the event of a crash. At this point, I’d prefer a crash. Where are the bearded terrorists when you need them?

Light brown eyes peering through sheaths of mascara, boring holes in my face. If looks could masticate, my face would look like Freddy Krueger’s. I can hear my mother’s voice in my head. Morgan, you are going be next to this girl for the next five and a half hours. Be sociable.

I looked up. I offered her my right hand.

“Sorry, I’m Morgan.” Try to smile.

“Nice to meet you, Morgan.” She offered me her left. Her right was busy unzipping her bag. On her left glowed the thinnest gold band I have ever seen in my life.

“Going to meet your husband, Laura?”

“This old thing?” She left her hand hanging in suspension before my face. “No. But my boyfriend did give it to me.”

“Oh.”

“The ring finger is the only place it seemed to fit,” she said, with a wistful sigh. “I just suppose its fate.”

“It’s an adjustable ring.”

“Oh.” She quickly withdrew her hand.

Los Angeles, where are you?

“Wait, he wore a condom, right?”

My words dropped to the floor faster than my plummeting heart. She rolled her carefully lined eyes at me through the bathroom mirror, crouching over the toilet, her dress hiked over her shoulders. I washed the glitter off my hands, watching it chase itself into the drain, swirls of color running away from me, scared.

Our childhood, escaping. Running from our music, from our friends. From our broken hymens. I couldn’t blame it. I’d run too, if I could.

Not thinking of anything else to do, I dipped my head into the cold rush of water. Water barraged my nostrils, sending me reeling, sending me sputtering. She was talking, but I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to hear her. Finally, in as passionate a physical torment as a mental one. Panties around her ankles, she stared at me. Telling me things I refused to comprehend. I loved her; I hated him.

It’s not as though I didn’t know it wasn’t going to happen. Her, vivacious and wild, chopping and dyeing and coloring and dancing, smiling, laughing, having sex with good looking guys in their vans. It followed, in the way “sorry” follows “let’s just be friends”, in the way I followed her through innumerable awkward moments and social dodge ball. But I couldn’t follow her to the back of his van, behind the bumper stickers, below the rusting roof. I had once, face pressed against the cold glass as we reeled off into the stars and pavement, cigarettes singeing our fingertips, laughing at everything. My spinning head thinking this blissful innocence would last forever.

Or maybe I was just too in love with her.

I pressed my hot hands into the cold tile, digging my fingernails into the grime and mold, forever dying them disgusting colors. She was silent and standing now, looking at me with her confusion apparent on her face. Curling her upper lip, she spoke to me in sounds I could finally comprehend.

“I don’t see why you’re being such a spaz, come on, please – you’re overreacting.”

I knew I was. But just to hear her say it – in that voice she uses when she’s frustrated but trying to sound sympathetic – made her seem monstrous to me, a roaring Godzilla over Tokyo. My inner Japanese wanted to run, screaming, eyes wild, back into the party, back into the droves of girls in pajamas singing NSYNC into their hairbrushes and loudly abusing the springs on my bed.

My inner terrified observer won. I ran. Of course she didn’t love me like that. My inner publicist, denying, denying, denying, had ruled my head and heart for all these years. Thinking maybe, after she kissed that last boy in the movies, she would see. But it wasn’t her who wasn’t seeing; it was me.

It was a horrible sight. I couldn’t stand any more. I would rather see the pillows of the couch than this right now.

Doors are hard to slam when you feel so weak.

Decades later, when the party died down, when the last of the guests had snuggled up to her teddy bear desperately wishing for it to turn into a prince, her cold fingers found my waiting shoulders, her voice finding its natural home in the curves of my ear. Complacent and three inches tall, I curl into her arms at last. Forgiveness in its highest form needs no words.

“It was quick,” she said finally. “Said he had to go home and help his brother with his math homework.”

My throat birthed the smallest of giggles. Looking fondly up at her, I smirked.

“Well,” she conceded, “at least that was his excuse.”

Of course she didn’t love me the way I wanted her to.

But at least she didn’t love him like that either.