Sunday Firsts

Yesterday was Zinger’s first day in nursery at church. Since our ward meets at 11:00 AM, our strategy was to get Z to sit long enough for us to take the sacrament, take her for a ride so that she can nap for about half an hour, then bring her back in time for nursery.

We were able to get her to sit for the first 25 minutes of sacrament meeting. She wanted to walk around and play in the chapel, but we held her close and whispered to her how important it was to sit still. As soon as the bishop dismissed the priesthood after administering the sacrament, Reilly took Z on a ride while I listened to people bear their testimonies. I may have also briefly scrolled through Facebook and read comments in a Salt Lake Tribune article about black women in the Church.

When sacrament meeting ended, I walked out of the chapel and found my family. I asked Reilly if Z got a nap. He said no. I was nervous. We walked our daughter to the nursery room. We let her walk around, and there were a couple of times she tried leaving the room. Once the tables were set up the nursery workers put out some books and puzzles, and Z began to play. She also saw some blocks and played with those as well.

The nursery leaders asked for her name. We told them Z was tired and wasn’t really used to other children yet. They assured us they were good at getting the babies to calm down in case of tantrums.

Before we left her, we decided to change her diaper so that the next two hours for her wouldn’t be interrupted. So I took her to the mothers’ room and changed her. Reilly and I took her back to the nursery room. We opened the door, we said goodbye, and there were no tears.

Suddenly, we were free.

Reilly and I headed to Gospel Principles class. We sat down in the middle of a story the teacher was telling. One of the first things we heard the teacher say was, “And [this guy], he was homosexual.” Then she wrote on the board: [guy’s name] – homosexul [sic]. Then she continued telling the story, which offered a few more highlights:

  • “Many of their kids were homosexual. I don’t know if it’s hereditary or what.”
  • “And [another guy] was 70 years old, and he’s still homosexual.”

The teacher kept making eye contact with me, so I didn’t want to give even the remotest sideways glance to Reilly to express how weird I thought the lesson was.

But then came a story that had some context:

  • “My son came to me and said, ‘I have to thank you for something, but I’m not sure it was even you. My brothers were always beating me up. I was always on the bottom of a pile. But there were times I felt someone lifting me up above the pile, and I could see my brothers below me, and the next thing I knew, I was at the table and there were milk and cookies. I want to thank you for that.’”

My impression was that the lesson was about families, but we missed the first ten minutes, and with 20 minutes left in the class, someone came in and asked us to be substitute Primary teachers. So we walked out of our Sunday School class, being somewhat amused but not knowing for sure what we were being taught.

We found out that we were teaching the CTR4 class, which consisted of three boys. They were rowdy, as boys between 4 and 6 years of age typically are. Between Reilly and me, our combined powers of persuasion made classroom management pretty easy. (If other parents saw us, they probably would have disagreed.) We had a short lesson about missionaries. We colored pictures of children holding Books of Mormon. One boy looked at the other boys’ coloring jobs and said, “Dude, that’s scribbling.” We folded these pictures into paper airplanes, and Reilly refereed the races. We also played football because that’s always an appropriate Sunday indoor activity. I interrupted their fun to remind them if their moms ask what they learned in class to say they learned about being missionaries. Wishful thinking, I know; I should expect them to tell their moms that they played with paper airplanes and threw a football in class. The final activity was drawing on the chalkboard, which surprised me with how long they kept quiet. We ended the class with a prayer. While one boy was giving the closing prayer, another boy was talking. To whom, to what, I don’t know.

I tidied up the classroom while Reilly picked up Z from nursery. I asked how she did, and Reilly said that when he opened the door, one of her shoes was off. One of the nursery leaders was blowing bubbles, and Z was trying to catch them. I imagined her reaching above her head, trying to grab those clear, drifting orbs. I smiled.

It seems Z had a great first day at nursery, with nary a tear. She also didn’t nap the entire day. (Reilly and I each took two naps.) And she cried for about a minute when she had to go to bed.

It was an eventful day for all of us. If today’s gospel principles lesson was about families, then maybe we could take our day and talk about how our respective experiences have brought us closer together, either because they were fun (stacking blocks and catching bubbles) or slightly chaotic (teaching small boys) or didn’t make very much sense (listening to bizarre stories in Sunday School). I don’t think there will ever be another Sunday like this one. I really liked it.

A Dream about Lunch

Morgan Freeman was in my dream last night. He was homeless in Salt Lake City. I ate lunch with him every day. We didn’t eat by ourselves, though. About 6 other strangers ate lunch with me and Morgan Freeman. We passed around buckets of chicken and ice cream while we sat on a curb somewhere near the Gateway shopping center.

It took about a week in my dream to realize that I was eating lunch with homeless Morgan Freeman in Salt Lake City. Did the others know? Did they care? Once I knew that I was eating lunch with Morgan Freeman, I wanted to ask him all sorts of questions about his acting career. But no one else seemed interested in Morgan Freeman. They just seemed to enjoy sitting together at the same time every day to share lunch.

I don’t know where the food came from. It was fried chicken and ice cream every single time. And they came in large buckets. Not fried chicken buckets, but large industrial-sized plastic buckets with a metal handle. I don’t remember tasting the food in my dream. I do remember using a large metal serving spoon to scoop melted ice cream onto a thin paper plate.

No one talked during our lunches. The dream itself might have been completely without sound. Frustrating. Why have homeless Morgan Freeman in my dream if I can’t hear his distinguished Morgan Freeman voice?

During this dream, I couldn’t wait to go home and blog about having lunch with homeless Morgan Freeman. This dream was one of those moments that felt real, that felt like I was fully conscious.

So you can imagine as I emerged from deep sleep and broke the surface of wakefulness how disappointed I was that I didn’t really eat lunch with homeless Morgan Freeman. Think of the decreasing likelihood of the combination of these factors becoming a reality:

  • Homeless Morgan Freeman
  • Homeless Morgan Freeman in Salt Lake City
  • Homeless Morgan Freeman in Salt Lake City having lunch with moi
  • Homeless Morgan Freeman and I sharing giant buckets of chicken and ice cream on a SLC curb near the Gateway Mall

Virtually possible, but otherwise impossible.

Which is why it was just a dream.

The Poets I Know

My penultimate semester at BYU I took a poetry class as a complete novice. Along with the curriculum and the professor, a couple of classmates awakened me to the vast and diverse world of poetry. It blew me away, intimidated me. Our class would have weekly workshops and while they did have nice things to say about my poetry, classmates were often brutally honest and mercilessly constructive. It was hard not to feel discouraged.

I read a poem every day. Occasionally I’ll write down a tentative idea for a poem. I’ve fallen out of practice; it’s easier to read than write. It hasn’t always been that way. But it’s always been easy to write crappy poetry. Here, let me whip up a gross haiku for you right now:

vulnerable brain
months of oxidizing then
flaking rust matter

See? That took less than a minute. And not something I’d be proud to show even Stephenie Meyer.

There’s so much to love about poetry: taking it apart, slathering the language all over me, listening to it, reading poets’ advice. I support people who are good at it, who devote their lives to capturing beauty, tragedy in such a specialized way.

From my experience in the class, it seems some of the best poets also make the best academics. They think about issues from multiple and often-rare angles. With intense focus, they express themselves with clarity and power. I covet them so, so much.

But I also want to brag about my poet friends and acquaintances, because they’re brilliant.

My poetry professor, Susan Elizabeth Howe:

Imagination, as I have experienced it, can be part of and lead to spiritual growth, and imagination is the natural province of the poet.

Someone I knew as a computer person before he became a poet, Neil Aitken:

Neil Aitken is a poet of consummate grace and skill. His poems are acutely observed, unerring musically, sensual and lyrical. Filled with longing and subtle epiphanies, his poetry plumbs the depths of the human heart, and hints towards the heights of the human spirit. His writing accomplishes what Wallace Stevens suggested—that, in the best poems, “description is revelation,” for each of Aitken’s poems reveals the world anew for the reader.  — Maurya Simon

A friend I worked with at church in New York City, Javen Tanner:

. . . he thus takes up his poetic cross and wills us to follow as he forges a path through variations on these ambiguous realities to the end of preparing us for more lasting psychological and spiritual connections and consolations.

Former classmate and also a BYU soccer player, Conner Bassett:

When reading poetry out loud, you see the poem for what it is; half of the poem is the words, but the other half is the sound of it,” Bassett said. “Reading and hearing it out loud is a completely different experience.”

Another classmate, Kylan Rice. He seems to have a relatively new tumblr:

…Stop looking so
shocked at the grammy fat. Are we not
all a tapestry of garbled hearts?

I have a few other poet friends, but I’m having trouble finding stuff about them on the internet. Which usually doesn’t happen. You’ll just have to believe they’re also talented and incredible and very awesome.

Look these people up. During any time of crisis, these are some of the people you can listen to.

Part of a Conversation on Martin Scorsese’s The Departed — SPOILER ALERT

The movie won four Academy Awards. It’s dark, but it’s funny in the right places. It’s vulgar, violent and bitter. It’s not for viewers who like blatantly happy endings. Or even subtly happy endings. If you like rats, though, this is for you.

The following is an online chat about the movie. It has been edited for clarity. Skip the rest of this post to avoid spoilers.

person 1: you watch de-potted?
person 2: yiss
person 1: whatchoo fink?
person 2: he shooted him!
  they all shooted!
person 1: he shooted weo in da heed!
  did mawk wahboag and awick bodween meek you waff?
person 2: yiss
person 1: they funny–but they say the f wodes and the c wodes a lot
person 2: wots of bad wodes!
I don’t know why these people chat in baby talk. They seem pretty darn cute, though. And insufferably awesome.

Move Along, Just Another Vague Post Here

Could two men have been more polarizing?

Thanks to everyone who voted. To those who didn’t: really?

One time on facebook I posted a biased article about a politician who said a very dumb thing about the very serious subject of rape, and the writer presented the article such that the this politician’s philosophy represented his entire political party. We all say things we regret, and we all latch onto the mistakes of those we want to lose to feel a sense of winning, advantage. We stand on any defeat — at any cost — to gain even minimal height. Definitely, rape is serious, but I wonder just how seriously we should have taken one (or several) politician(s) with a relatively fringey opinion.

I should have been more thoughtful about posting that article.

It must be so, so hard to be the President of the United States. I was president of the Free Club with some of my college roommates, and it was hard. All we had to do was get things for free. We could go to grocery stores and try all the free samples, get rebates, win prizes. I didn’t know how much responsibility I had.

I was nervous for both men. I was ready to support both men. Throughout this election season, I thought secretly, if one wins, couldn’t he appoint the other to be an advisor or something? A member of the Cabinet? Wasn’t one’s healthcare plan modeled after the other? Wasn’t that earlier healthcare plan one of greatest achievements of the one candidate? Couldn’t one use his business expertise to advise the other about fixing the economy? If one wins, couldn’t one consult the other in foreign policy or legislation deadlocks? What would our divided Congress do if these two men actually worked together?

What if?

What the if?

That’s not how politics works.

But that’s how we can work.

If our nation continues to divide, I won’t have a choice but to run for president of my square block in Orem, Utah. I’d construct a soundproof highway barrier that would reduce freeway noise and would still let my citizens see the sunset. I’d also reduce rent.

If we can’t at least seek to understand other points of view and acknowledge when others try to understand ours, then our nation will continue its downward spiral into a pit of poop.

If we sidestep accountability and responsibility in our own lives, families will crumble, and entire communities will landslide into the pit of poop.

If we pray for our country but are unkind to one another: pit of poop.

Are these two men standing on opposite ends of this pit?

Or are a better state and happier times a happy medium of something less poopy?

States of America, we are supposed to be United.

Let us make that true.

On Voting

My very first federal election is coming up. After changing my name and residence for voter registration, I looked up my ballot. There are a lot of names I don’t know. The only political commercials that air on television don’t even apply to my congressional district, and presidential commercials don’t even air around here because not enough Obama voters live here, so I guess Romney’s using the money he saved from Utah to campaign like crazy in other states where Obama has a competing influence. Which I know is Mitt’s biggest concern. I just wonder where he gets and how he keeps his tan.

Anyway, here’s what my ballot looks like. I’m about halfway done researching the list, which sort of helps, but it’s mostly overwhelming. I recognize some of the names from billboards. My votes may just boil down to whether I like the spelling of names or if I can write poems from the anagrams of names or if my favorite letter of the alphabet that day is A. It is no coincidence that the initials of my new married name are the same as Mitt Romney. So, I could vote that way. Also, I like the Yes or No questions for the judges. Nothing about voting in Utah, America is confusing in the least little way.

Happy First Day of Class, Dorks!

So maybe I’m on campus two hours early. And I had planned to buy books, because my order from Amazon is taking years. I was going to buy them then return them when the shipment arrived. I have a feeling this is a very common problem with Amazon. They might be getting angry letters from college students all over the universe.

As if college students know how to write letters.

Oh, but they do.

Just ask some of them.

Do it.

DO IT!!!

I’M SO DANG EXCITED ABOUT TODAY AND I HAVE STUPID CRUSHES ON BOYS WHICH IS TOTALLY RIDICULOUS WHICH IF YOU WANT TO KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT YOU’LL HAVE TO ASK ME IN PERSON OR IF YOU LIVE FAR AWAY OR EVEN IF YOU’RE CLOSE BY YOU CAN CHAT ME OR CALL AND I’M LOOKING AT CLASS SYLLABUSESESESES AND ALL THE LEARNING AND IT ALL LOOKS REALLY COOL AND I CHECKED MY BLOG SPAM TODAY AND WAS COMPLETELY AMUSED AT ONE OF THE MESSAGES AND  HERE IT IS SO THAT IS ALL AND EVERYONE HAVE A LOVELY AND WONDERFUL DAY AND I LOVE YOU AND I JUST LOVE YOU.

Some Randoms

The whiplash is mostly gone, but new and weird pain has shown up in my knees. And my scabs are starting to itch, which in some ways, is so much worse than the pain.

After we came out at the end of the trail on Saturday, we loaded our bikes onto the doctor’s truck, and we headed back up to the trailhead where the other car was parked. People started transferring bikes from the car to the SUV. It was barely a 10-minute ride and I thought it was funny how we spent three hours on a trail for such a short return. It was definitely worth it.

People were chatting, and all of a sudden I felt dizzy. And the back of my head tingled. And everything was washed out in white light. And I thought, [bleep], I’m about to pass out.

I didn’t faint, though, but instead squatted where I stood and lowered my head and closed my eyes. I began to wonder if this was a result of the fall, if hitting my head had to do with the dizziness. It scared me a bit.

People kept on chatting, and I stayed seated. Then someone might have looked at me–he must have–and then he asked if I was okay. And I told him that I was dizzy. And the other stuff I was feeling. And he said that I had altitude sickness and that I should take two aspirin and drink a lot of water. That the aspirin would thin my blood and allow oxygen to travel more easily through my body blah blah blah fishcakes.

Someone gave me two ibuprofen and said it would do the same thing as aspirin. I dropped the pills from my palm into my mouth and drew some water from my Camelbak.

We boarded the white SUV and the driver blasted the air conditioning and I positioned the vent next to me to blow on my head. Someone told me how to recline my seat, so I leaned back and closed my eyes for a bit.

Within the first five minutes of the drive back to Duck Creek Village, some nausea sneaked up on me. I began to think how I would tell the people in the car how I was going to throw up at any second: could we pull over please, I’m about to vomit. Or that I’d just roll down the window and blow chunks and hope not to ruin the paint on the car. But, I continued to lay back and focus on the conversation around me, and soon the nausea subsided.

The sensation of the entire experience came back only one more time, and I worried that I would have to drive for four hours to Provo in this condition. Yet, my body adjusted to the altitude, and once I drank more water and had something to eat, it wasn’t so bad.

The drive to Provo was great. Thunderstorms booming and tumbleweed rolling across the interstate. Playlists and Radiolab podcasts. Mountain biking that morning and 8 hours of hiking the day before worked me hard, but maybe adrenaline kept me alert. And pain rode with me the whole time. Soreness had begun to settle into my joints and muscles. Mostly my shoulders.

I didn’t interact with very many people today. Maybe a total of two lines in Google Chat, and one response in facebook. All this morning.

I began rereading Atlas Shrugged. When I opened to the first page of Ms. Rand’s tome this morning, a familiar-weird-bad taste returned to my mouth. I was 18 or 19 when I read it the first time. I was only 17 when I read the Fountainhead. It’ll be interesting to see if my opinions have changed over the years. Writing: fine. Story: fine. Propaganda: whatever. I mean, it’s hard for me to understand how this woman could hate women so much; how her philosophy was JUST SO COOL once upon a time. If I take everything she says with a grain of salt, then I will also need a good prescription for high blood pressure. Or I won’t have to wonder why I’m retaining so much water.

I want scones. Real scones from England.

May’s Super-duper Song Review: “Baby” by Justin Bieber

I had heard of Justin Bieber over a year ago. I’d seen pictures, listened to soundbytes. I’m not one to predict the staying power of any 21st century artist or musician, especially if his testosterone switch hasn’t flipped on yet, but am I EVER SO GLAD to be living in the era of this phenomenon, the “fever.” How can you not love him, his angelic voice, his wispy hair? His smooth dance moves? All before puberty, ladies and gentlemen. Can you imagine what kind of magic will unleash once thicker fuzz appears on his face? Until nearly two months ago in Africa, I did not know the power of this man-boy until a throng of fellow female college students started singing his songs. What a mighty blessing that was. Now, I will never forget him.

One of his timeless classics is “Baby” featuring Ludacris. It is one of the most enigmatic, soul-transforming chef-d’oeuvres that has ever been created. EVER.

Let me show this to you in a fancy, new window.

First, this song is sad. BUT LISTEN TO THE SONG! It has a fast beat and the melodic phrases go up a short scale then back down the scale. It intends to stimulate brain activity, like Mozart. Think of the beginning of  “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” as the notes ascend then descend. The remarkable thing here is that Justin is not performing as a string section of a chamber orchestra. He’s doing everything WITH HIS VOICE, with much aplomb!

You know you love me, I know you care
Just shout whenever, and I’ll be there
You want my love, you want my heart
And we will never ever ever be apart

Can you feel the confidence? I would be beside myself, completely lovestruck, if someone told me what I know and what I want. Why, yes, I DO KNOW that I love you. And it’s great that you know I care, but I wonder if you know what I care ABOUT? YES, YOU. Well, of course I want your love and your heart. I was beginning to think the era of the mindless woman submitting to the domineering man was gone, but fortunately this song is restoring that mentality to full force.

WHENEVER! WHENEVER! WHENEVER!

Um, Justin, where are you? You said you’d come.  What am I supposed to think when I call for him and he doesn’t come? How does he distinguish between what I want and what I will get? HE DOESN’T. EVERYTHING IS SO SIMPLE: IT’S THE SAME FOR HIM. Is he setting conditions for eternal togetherness? I want his love and his heart, therefore, we will stay together forever. That’s all it takes. That’s what I’ve done wrong all these years. I should have wanted a beautiful 16-year-old boy’s love to ensure my life’s happiness.

Are we an item? Girl, quit playing
We’re just friends, what are you saying?
Say there’s another and look right in my eyes
My first love broke my heart for the first time
And I was like…

Uh, oh. Showing insecurity, are we? VERY INTERESTING PROGRESSION. I love how one can experience such a wide range emotions and experiences in this stanza. IT’S OKAY IF HE DOESN’T REALLY KNOW IF HE’S IN A RELATIONSHIP, BECAUSE NOBODY REALLY “KNOWS” THAT KIND OF THING, ANYWAY. Uncertainty, just-friendship, doubt; shock from finding out there’s another love interest; falling so hard for someone that he becomes the victim of a big-time high-school jilting. This perfectly captures the high-school adventure of crushes and heartache, but I can’t really feel sad, because the tune is so happy, at least within the half-octave range it provides.

Baby, baby, baby oooh
Like baby, baby, baby nooo
Like baby, baby, baby oooh
I thought you’d always be mine (mine)

One of my favorite things in high school was when people called me “baby.” Nothing made me feel more like an adult or more accommodating of my desire to be independent. What I also appreciate here is the anguish I feel in the “oh”s and “no”s, like he’s going through a type of denial–an important part of grieving–in the loss of his very first love that he absolutely truly thought he would love and be together with forever and ever and never mind that he’s dancing like an elf and making weird faces, because THOSE are DEFINITELY NOT reasons to break up with somebody.

Baby, baby, baby oooh
Like baby, baby, baby nooo
Like baby, baby, baby oooh
I thought you’d always be mine (mine)

Apparently, the suffering is so deep, this part of the chorus needs repeating.

Also, not a coincidence this video is shot in a bowling alley. It’s a place where lots of teenagers hang out, and it incorporates the metaphor of the strike. Which either could mean striking out or completely scoring. And whatever kind it means depends on individual situations. Way to integrate relativistic philosophy into a song. IMPRESSIVE.

I ALSO LOVE HOW MODESTLY DRESSED JUSTIN IS IN THIS VIDEO. I know he is sparing my eyes from his rippling muscles and he wants me to focus on his boy-choir voice and that army dog-tag necklace. Because he happens to know how much I respect the military and have a weakness for men in uniform, plus, since he’s engaging my mind with the composition of the song, his conscientious dress only serves to make me smarter. He’s freaking brilliant.

For you I would have done whatever
And I just can’t believe we ain’t together
And I wanna play it cool, but I’m losin’ you
I’ll buy you anything, I’ll buy you any ring
And I’m in pieces, baby fix me
And just shake me ’til you wake me from this bad dream
I’m going down, down, down, down
And I just can’t believe my first love won’t be around

May I take this moment to compliment Mr. Bieber’s lip-synching abilities. ALWAYS SO SMILEY!

What is the color of desperation? It’s called Justin Bieber. I LOVE how he encourages emotional awareness, despite his denial. He’s in pieces, and he needs the girl to put him back together. BUT she also wants him to shake him, which you would think defeats the purpose of the Humpty-Dumpty repair, but he’s having one of those falling-down dreams, which means he’s losing control, and he needs the girl to help him gain control. I LOVE how specific he gets with his promises: I can shout WHENEVER, for me he would do WHATEVER. His level of commitment completely blows my mind, especially when he expresses that he wants to buy me anything, ANY RING. I LOVE the idealism he has, and this definitely reveals my ignorance of Canadians, because it seems that they propose or betroth or declare everlasting love well before they graduate from high school. It is because of his idealism that he’s in disbelief.  BUT, he’s also really good at being able to tell what his love interest knows and wants. This song is TIGHT.

YET, this song does imply a little bit of optimism with “first” love. There will be others. And you’ll most likely be dumped by them, too. This song prepares people for reality!

And I’m like
Baby, baby, baby oooh
Like baby, baby, baby nooo
Like baby, baby, baby oooh
I thought you’d always be mine (mine)

Baby, baby, baby oooh
Like baby, baby, baby nooo
Like baby, baby, baby oooh
I thought you’d always be mine (mine)

Has anyone ever considered the effect of using the word baby for nearly half the words of the refrain? It is a serious jolt to the brain. It establishes a certain expectation in the listener, a point of focus. I now turn my head whenever someone says “baby.” This song is a great conditioning tool if you ever want stop thinking your name is whatever people normally call you.

[Ludacris:]
Luda! When I was 13, I had my first love,
There was nobody that compared to my baby
and nobody came between us or could ever come above
She had me going crazy, oh, I was star-struck,
she woke me up daily, don’t need no Starbucks.
She made my heart pound, it skipped a beat when I see her in the street and
at school on the playground but I really wanna see her on the weekend.
She knows she got me dazing cause she was so amazing
and now my heart is breaking but I just keep on saying…

What I love about rappers’ interludes is how they introduce themselves. This particular section demonstrates the power of girls over boys. And, it’s sort of dirty if you try to connect certain ideas to teenage boys, so I will probably just skip this part. But yes, teenage boys are capable of feeling the drug-like effects that girls have on them. It’s fascinating how boys are really truly the victims throughout this song. Girls should really feel empowered and in not any way degraded by this song at all.

BUT the rapper and Justin Bieber have matching dogtags. Not the least bit ludicrous.

Ooh! Dance-off! These dance circles are universal, and it’s important that all the cool and able dances show off their moves in the center, and it’s especially important that somebody in the circle knows all the words to whatever song is playing at the time. BELIEVE ME: IT DOES HAPPEN. Just ask Africa.

Baby, baby, baby oooh
Like baby, baby, baby nooo
Like baby, baby, baby oooh
I thought you’d always be mine (mine)

Baby, baby, baby oooh
Like baby, baby, baby nooo
Like baby, baby, baby oooh
I thought you’d always be mine (mine)

I’m gone (Yeah Yeah Yeah, Yeah Yeah Yeah)
 Now I’m all gone (Yeah Yeah Yeah, Yeah Yeah Yeah)
Now I’m all gone (Yeah Yeah Yeah, Yeah Yeah Yeah)
Now I’m all gone (gone, gone, gone…)
I’m gone

One of the last stages of grief is acceptance. Contrast the “no” with the “yeah”s at the very end of the song. Compare the agony of Justin Bieber in this song to that of T.S. Eliot’s in a couple of lines from the Waste Land:

No: “I will show you fear in a handful of dust” and Yeah: “these fragments I have shored against my ruins.” SO MUCH ALIKE! I’m pretty sure Justin got most of his inspiration from T.S. Eliot. That’s just one more reason to love this song with all my heart and soul.

Tragic. Awe-inspiring. All in such a happy little tune. I WANT TO FEEL SAD IN A DANCE-OFF ALL THE TIME AND GO BOWLING AND THROW STRIKES AS MANY TIMES AS POSSIBLE TO SCORE AND REEK OF DESPERATION WITH A SMILE–A FADING SMILE–UNTIL I AM GONE, GONE, GONE.

WHAT A SUPER-DUPER SONG! SMARTER NOW!
May’s rating scale:

SUPER DUPER!

More mediocrity!

Medially mediocre

Trying too hard!

DUPED.