Owl Say

My mistakes came along because I have an indecisive heart.
How can one be a wildflower and a wallflower?
I will give a hoot.

New blog: blogger.com/owlgiveahoot

Needle me dee.

In the spirit of craftivity, I've decided to partake in crocheting. Grammie, my dad's madre, filled me in on the what's-what. After two hours in Hobby Lobby, out came the needed materials, neatly in hand. I haven't begun learning; however, with Thanksgiving break lasting a week and merely two weeks left of the semester, spare time is afoot.

Among other fabulous reasons to admire Hobby Lobby, a 50% off sale lingered around each isle. Being a thrift-seeker, I took advantage of this and purchase a nifty clock. Alice would be so dearly keen to my steal, I'm sure.




Grammie and Grampie harbored the house for the weekend. Since my dad urged my sister and I not to isolate ourselves during his padres' visit, I chose to read a book on the futon in the dining area-in view of the family. Brandon loaned me The Dark Elf Triologies months ago, but I faded away from the WONDER of reading once the first college season sprung into motion.
Each turning page drew me in: Will Drizzt lose this battle? Will the panther be maimed? How will Gaul defeat the blinded ranger? Either I'm a nerd, or this book is an adventure of its own. The latter might be the best decision, I'm not good enough to be a nerd.


I'd suggest this novel to anyone. Whether you dig fantasy (is this fantasy?) or not.
Lacking only a hundred pages, I'm off to complete this battle.

Pink Hot DAWGS

In lieu of egging houses or knocking door entries in quest for sweets, I spent my Halloween weekend assisting Brandon Jones in his grand move from Ridgeland to Ellisville. I found myself being quite the packer.
Fact: Walmart stocks boxes for 84 cents, neat.

While lolly gagging down the Walmart isles, I noticed a few interesting books that I may need to breach the piggy bank and order up.


Candy- Now, I'm no fan of The Hills or Lauren Conrad; however, this might be something to have handy if you're going on a long roadtrip or pumping up to go shopping.

The Happy Baker-A ginger teaching you how to mentally be gleeful with the powers of the oven and sugar? Well, obviously.


As well as other novels which I can't place. What an ideal memory I have.
Sometimes I go through withdraws if I haven't sniffed the scent of nappy, yellow pages.

Hopefully some trick-or-treaters ring the doorbell soon.
Handing out candy makes me feel like Jesus.
And as of now, I'm a rather ill King of the Jews.
I had 99 cent chili dogs from Ward's: bleh.

Candy for breakfast.

Last night,
Jones County Junior College hosted a nifty, scary haunted house in the down stairs of The Center for Humanities building. I legitamately claim the whole experience as frightening. When "monsters" are snatching your ankles, you sort of feel a hankering to use that two inch heel underneath your sole. Corbin (brief summary of Corbin McDavitt: current best friend, also a freshman at JCJC, hipster, comedian, super intelligent (Jones Ambassidors), sensitive. His mother, Lisa, is a hair stylish and is currently in CT donating her kidney. We have been paired since August, kudos to Catherine Woodyard.) and I sported some puns.

He spread the oinkment as a piggy in a blanket.





And I was devilishly eggcellent.
Obviously, everyone's thoughts were scrambled without me.
I was at the boil point of rad.










Afterwards, we hit up the candy. Nom nom nom. What a disppoint when I discovered gummy lifesavers are NOT sour in the least. Halloween is the reason America has such high rates of obesity. Halloween and Valentine's day...ladies.
Not having extra moola for a coffee in the morning is absurd. I stroll beside the coffee shop in the entrance of the library with sheer sulleness.
This weekend is about rot your teeth treats and even sweeter than sweet tricks.
As Josh Sundquist would say, "We should hang out sometime."

What's on tonight?

Unless a Barbie Princess film is showing on the big screen, once upon a time is nary heard in this generation. Books have become obsolete in the views of most teenagers. With the help of handy dandy new technology, television is replacing the mighty novel. The reason most teenagers allow the boob tube to absorb their minds and leave zero time for book reading is that these in-between-adulthood-and-childhood gals and guys have grown up in a world of visual learning, they neglected to watch Barney and use their imagination, and they generally just wish to keep the obesity rate in an upward slant.
“Read chapters 1-7 on the Scarlet Letter, and prepare to be tested on this material next Tuesday,” said Mrs. Patti Smith, the English teacher. Now, two options are introduced to the students: read those tedious chapters page by page or rent the 1979 original movie directed by Rick Hauser. The movie would be the obvious choice. Of course this is not due to teenagers being lazy, oh no, never! Visual learning has been a part of their life since their mothers stuck them in front of the Care Bears hoping they might stop whining about McDonald’s. Nowadays, high school teachers are required to hand out Learning Style Tests. The results of these tests basically allow the teacher to know whether the majority of their students are visual, tactical, or auditory. Visual-learning stands out like a purple dinosaur in a field of sheep. Colorful notes flooded with creative doodles are passed down the aisles. Power Point presentations that spin, whistle, and shine with designs are shown to the class for inspiration. Signs featuring fluffy, white-haired professors plaster against the biology lab walls. With school supporting visual learning aids, where is the encouragement to read a book coming from?
Barney introduces children to the art of memorizing information through lyrics, the belief that not all dinosaurs are extinct, and, most importantly, the Barney Bag! The Barney Bag was full of nifty things to help the imagination flourish. A typical Barney episode would have children reenacting their most enjoyed books or reading recipes on how to cook up something creatively yummy. Barney showed children that if they put their minds to it, they are sure to do it. Apparently, teenagers of the I NEED IT RIGHT NOW generation do not want to waste their precious minds using this mythical word called imagination. Adventuring vast places, transforming into a totally new person, experiencing something unlike reality just by flipping through book is just too much for a teenager to grasp. Oh, golly, no! Teenagers want to watch endless hours of no-brainpower television, simply because they did not spend quality time with Barney. Where is that imagination? Supposedly still in the Barney Bag, because teenagers certainly do not possess any.
While the imagination is tucked behind some cob webs, the teenagers sit. Where do they sit, but none other than the couch, oozing into the cushions, with their mouths obliviously wide open. What better to accompany them during this zombie-like stage than a heaping pile of grub? America is nationally known as the country of gluttons. Anyone could easily state that America host millions upon millions of morbidly obese citizens. Teenagers thrive to be patriotic. These proud, brave teenagers diligently labor to keep America on the highest of ranks. Instead of using those fingers for turning pages in a book, all ten fingers, and possibly even toes, grab a hand full or fifty of some crunchy Doritos or dip a donut in some sausage gravy. If a teenager stopped for five minutes to eyeball some words, he might lose concentration on what he was about to snatch from the refrigerator shelf.
Teenagers think with their eyes, seeing only what the brains yearns to munch. To question a teenager’s reasoning for tossing books under the mattress to clear a space for a larger screen television is obscene! What Americans should do is support teenagers as they derive all their ideas and thoughts off what the media spoon feeds them. If the rest of the population would join the teenagers and throw another book into the burn pile to roast up some more hot dogs and marshmallows, this world be as beautiful as a reading rainbow.

I want to be Handy.

Some of my generous friends lead me discover a few nifty Non-Profit Organizations (NPO):

To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

World Vision is a Christian humanitarian organization dedicated to working with children, families and their communities worldwide to reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty and injustice.
World Vision provides hope and assistance to approximately 100 million people in nearly 100 countries. In communities around the world, we join with local people to find lasting ways to improve the lives of poor children and families.

TOMS SHOES: With every pair you purchase, TOMS will give a new pair of shoes to a child in need. The TOMS mission of giving shoes has attracted other brands, resulting in unique and successful collaborations. Ralph Lauren sold co-branded Polo Rugby TOMS, giving a matched pair with every pair sold. Element Skateboards has issued limited edition TOMS + Element shoes as well as a One for One skateboard. With every skateboard purchased, one will be given to a child at the Indigo Skate Camp in Durban, South Africa. It is TOMS’ hope that as our One for One movement continues to grow, more and more companies will look to incorporate giving into what they do.

(RED) is a simple idea that transforms our incredible collective powers as consumers into a finical force to help others in need. (RED) works with some of the world's most iconic brands-including American Express, Apple, Bugaboo, Converse, Emporio Armani, Dell, Gap, Hallmark, Nike, Penguin, StarBucks- to make unique (RED) products and giving 50 percent of their profits to the Global Funds to invest in HIV and AIDS programs in Africa.

Falling Whistles gives a small window into our world’s largest war. Originally just a journal written about boys sent to the front lines of war armed with only a whistle, readers forwarded it with the same kind of urgency in which it was written and demanded to know –
what can we do? The Falling Whistles campaign launched with a simple response – make their weapon your voice and be a whistle blower for peace in Congo. Read the story and buy the whistle. Proceeds go to rehabilitate and advocate for war-affected children. Share their story and speak up for them.
Together, we’ll become the voice of a growing coalition for peace in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Art Feeds is dedicated to empowering children through creativity. Art Feeds uses music, art, writing, and performing arts for the development and creative expression of children. We are here to help children explore their love of Art and better express themselves through art and imagination. We strive to live by the lessons the children of Art Feeds teach us. These are to- Love Naively. Give Generously. Be Foolishly Compassionate.
Through music, art, writing, photography, dance and performing arts, Art Feeds teaches children how to express themselves in a positive and uplifting manner. The focus is to make a difference in each child’s life through art, mentorship and community. Our goal is to create a Community Art Center open to children for daily mentorship and access to all supplies needed. The Art Center will be dedicated to the positive expression of children, development of creative passions and encouragement of active participation in all mediums of Art.

International Justice Mission is a human rights agency that secures justice for victims of slavery, sexual exploitation and other forms of violent oppression. IJM lawyers, investigators and aftercare professionals work with local officials to ensure immediate victim rescue and aftercare, to prosecute perpetrators and to promote functioning public justice systems.

Invisible Children uses film, creativity, and social action to end the use of child solders in Joseph Kony's rebel war and restore Northern Uganda to peace and prosperity. We use the power of media to inspire young people to help end the longest running war in Africa. Our model has proven effective, and hundreds of thousands of people have been called to action through our films and the volunteers that tour them.We are made up of a tireless staff, hundreds of full time volunteers, and thousands of students and supporters. We are young, we are citizens of the world, we are artists, activists, and entrepreneurs. This fall, we are using our voice to ask President Obama to spearhead efforts to bring peace to Northern Uganda. We are mobilizing a generation to capture the attention of the international community, and make a stand for justice in the wake of genocide.




I should learn to love a little stronger, like black coffee with no sugar.
One day, I'm going to own a coffee shop fourished with red, yellow, black, and white hand prints. In this shop, I will support all non-profit organizations. This is what I want in life. Everyone who visits will dip their hands in paint and leave their handprint against the stone wall, leaving their mark. Make your mark.

What She Doesn't Have (Book Idea)

"It doesn't matter; it never mattered." Breathing, it just happens for some, absent-minded; it just happens. For others, though, it's an art, an inquired task. In, out. On, off. When eyes are closed, winced from clogged lungs, the count down begins like a line of racers digging their heels into the gravel at the sound of the bullet. Three breaths in, four out. Somehow, it fails to be enough. Piling up in an ungodly matter, bursting in a putter-patter of exhaling, minus the inhaling, that's what just happens. Remember, remember the in and out, remember. Blue in the cheeks, from the bruises, the ones that come from choking. I fibbed again, through gritted teeth and a half-hearted sigh, "It does not matter."
She gave me a maudlin glare, unbelieving.
"Mom, just go on your date, enjoy yourself tonight." I could feel the asthma yearning to weave over my vealed disguise of approval.
Uneasy, her eyes flickered, questioning my permission, "If you are sure, then I'm about to leave; all I need is to dab on some perfume." Perfume, really, since when do you use that garbage? It wasn't fair, not to anyone, especially my father. "Of course, mom," my redundancy was beginning to be irritating, "I want you to party hard." I knew my teasing would convince her. She needed to leave the house so I could call Kitty. I needed Kitty. I needed to hear her stories, the stories full of romance, drama, girls who can't dress well. Somehow, listening to her tales made my body feel gambol-like. I began growing pallor as my mother shut the door to leave. 7:06, she has four more hours. Dinner. A movie. That's it, and then she's back again. Four hours. I might even be asleep by then.
Usually when mom used to have a last minute call for girl's night, Dad and I would cuddle on the couch with non-fat yogurt and organic cheese crackers. He was clever enough to know that grub was the way to win my love, as if it is a prize to achieve. Now, though, it's just Cheshire and me. Cheshire, the once active, playful kitten, lay like a sloth at the edge of couch, avoiding my palm as I attempted coaxing her fur with affection. What type of cat loathes being pet? Cheshire, that's who. I wish I would have been one of those little girls who refused to throw away her baby blanket (omit the doll because those were never my style), but I wasn't. No blanket. No father.
As I listened to the phone ringing, I counted the tiles on the kitchen floor for the tenth time in a week. "Hello, is Kitty home? May I speak with her?" It was easy to be polite to Kitty's mother, always so chipper and optimistic. "No, sweetheart, I'm sorry, but she's out with her boyfriend this evening." Wonderful, Kitty. "Thanks." Click. I didn't want to wait for another apology; my breathing was too heavy as it was. Hello, insomnia. Hello, night. Hello, mom's date who I didn't even get to catch a clear glimpse at through the second story window as he waited in the car for her to come out to him. What happened to the gentlemen-knocking on doors, holding hands was too frisky to dream of, ties were required. Hello, My name whatever you'd like it to be because I'm feeling vulnerable tonight.

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Late, the word lingers like a butterknife with nothing to spread. You woke up at 7:30 instead of 5:00: late. You entered the mandatory board meeting fifteen minutes after you were supposed to speak about puncuality: late (and a hypocrit). You haven’t had your menstral cycle in six weeks: late. You spend the night at a fellow’s house to leave your daugher with a horrendous crook in her neck from slumbering on the couch while waiting for you to return home at all hours of night: late.
Once, when Matthew decided that I wasn’t enough for him, my pal Kris gave me a little encouraging doodle, on it read: “Silence is pure. It draws people together because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking.” When my mother stammered in at eight in the A.M. from her supposed to be quickie date, the silence was stale enough to flatten my Dr.Pepper. I was not comfortable. (Note to self: Edit Kris’s quote)
The staring contest was drying out my eyes, and unless I pulled out some secret interrogation equipment, no explaining would commence. No excuses, that is. Silence is Pure.
Pure:
1.) Free from anything adulterates, taints.
2.) Simple, mere.
3.) Utter, absolute.
4.) Faultless.
5.) Blameles.
6.) virgin or chaste.
7.) absolute or theoretorical.
Silence is pure. Silence is pure. Alternatives: silence is…virgin. Let’s go with the shindig. Virgin. Even I would accept an LOL expression at that little sweetheart.
Breaking the ice, mom screeched at me, “AH, you lose!” Unfazed, I looked at her with my strongest, dead-panned facial expression, “Pardon?” “Well, you blinked.” She’s nervous. “Congrats, mother.” Oh, how she loathed me calling her mother. Chipperly, she jigged around the room like Cheshire when I trick her into sniffing cat nip for my late, insomnia caused, nights’ entertainment. “What do I win?” her grin infuriated me. “Well, mom, judging by the results of last night…probably aids.”

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Dreams are indispensable. A lack of dream activity can mean protein deficiency or a personality disorder.

The pounding of rain could not be heard next to the thud in my chest. My tears were filling the floor, like Alice not able to reach the key to enter Wonderland.
"I can't lie to myself anymore, you aren't enough. You've never been enough. I won't pretend; I'm stepping off this stage. The lights are turning off; find another dance partner." His shoe marks imprinted into the wooden floor, as if he weight ten zillion pounds.
"This isn't a show, Matthew!" This wasn't plausible.
"Not anymore, it isn't." Calm. His face was completely calm.
"Matthew, I need you. You need me."
"You will never be enough for any guy. Never."

Gasping, my pillow was soaked from my unnerving feelings. I held my eyelids, trying to recall the dream. It was so accurate, so realistic. Grabbing my phone, I dialed his number. "Please, Matthew, don't do this." "What are you talking about? Go back to sleep." And just like that, his voice was gone, and I pressed my head into my sheets will a screech. My fingers gripped the mattress, with pain. Could eyelids close tighter? Could tears burn warmer? Could this be love? Could. This. Be. Love.

...you will never be enough. Shake the legs, shake the legs. Shaking them somehow works like a dream catcher, casting the nightmares away. Forgetting the memories. Forgetting the memories with every kick of the leg. Please, Please, let it go.
I snatched my notepad into my lap and searched for a pen. Barely legible, I began to get high. I began to comply with my addiction.
Some people resort to drugs, rebellion, hatred. My escape is writing. From time to time, my words don't form in an understanding manner. When you first fall in love and you can't breathe; you feel like your lungs can't handle it. The feeling of knowing that all you want is to live for another person just causes so much urgency, breathlessness. And when you're writing with that same passion, of love, it causes fragments. You can't breathe; you can't write. When you are writing with hatred, which is found to be more aggressive than love, the pen can cut through the paper, forgetting even apostophes.

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Without Kitty, what would I do? "This is rad! I am beyond stoked that you got accepted into Alabama. That'll be just darling for you," I truly meant it, even though I felt too bitter. "Really? Aw, won't this be wonderful? I'll be attending where my father before me did, and, well, of course I've already become friends with some other students from summer college, and..." her voice trailed off as I thought of my own selfish scheme. Unfortunately, my lips refused to participate with my plot. don'tleavedon'tleavedon'tleave. I turned my face toward the window so she wouldn't notice that giant alligator tears were swelling in the tips of my eyeballs. ...eyeballs, what a neat, odd word. Eyeball.. so simple... "Hey, Chicka, stop zoning out." I let out a weak laugh as I squirmed awkwardly in the leather chair, my legs had glued themselves to the bottom of the seat. She always knew I lolly gagged into thelandofthelost when I was sensing fiasco. I didn't want her to see my pain, but I forget how transparent my skin is with her hazel x-ray vision staring through my pores. She reached her freshly painted nails over to my hands and squeezed, "You'll always be my best friend." "We will always be bee eff effs," I retorted her. "Would you like to stay for dinner at least, or do you need to be going to your casa to spend your last few hours of jail time with your padres?" "Well, I know how you loathe rejection." And that part was especially true.
Suddenly, without warning, my mother's knocked flew through the beads that were draped over my open doorway; she demanded that I explain the letter on the our kitchen bar. I struggled to not make it obvious that I was a tad bit relieved that my mom had interrupted our fair-thee-well sad fest here. Crying was weakness. Crying was something to be done in private (even if this was Kitty).
On the top of the mail basket lay a tiny purple envelope. Nothing mysterious. Nothing odd. Nothing particular. I realized fast that my mother had torn open the sides of this letter already. Privacy: she should invest in a dictionary and learn the meaning of said word, along with a few others. As I unfolded the letter, a familiar smell tickled at my nose from the paper.
"Dear Love,
I miss you. Gosh, being apart from you is torture. It is pure torture. I'm not sure how much longer I can deal with such a departure. You are most certainly my best friend, don't tell your mommy, though. I'm sure that old gal would be envious. How's Cheshire? Laying off the 'nip, I hope. Let me know how you are. I look forward to it. I love you, darling.
Truly, your father."

I dropped the letter, and felt a cold drip slip down my neck and onto my blouse. I gazed to my mother's direction without seeing anything at all. Kitty began tugging at my shoulders while faint voices filled my ears.

The walls were white, and the TV that was placed at eye level was set on The News. The smell of hospitals always felt homey. As I collected my thoughts and tried to recall how I was in this bed, half naked, I glanced over to spot Kitty. "Well, what a way to steal my goodbye thunder, girl." Like an ex boyfriend that just won't quit blowing up my phone, the lingering query reappeared: Without Kitty, what was I going to do? Especially now. Very much so now.

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People want many things, but lonliness is not one of them.

lone·ly:
1.affected with, characterized by, or causing a depressing feeling of being alone; lonesome.
2.destitute of sympathetic or friendly companionship, intercourse, support, etc.: a lonely exile.
3.lone; solitary; without company; companionless.
4.remote from places of human habitation; desolate; unfrequented; bleak: a lonely road.
5.standing apart; isolated: a lonely tower.

It's shown on many billboards, signs in the hallways of high schools, notebooks, cutsie school supplies: "Stand apart, be different." Zilch times did I see "Warning: this may lead to loneliness." Else wise, I might have decided to take up my mat and slumber with compliance. Loneliness. Loneliness. Loneliness. The less drab it becomes, as it lingers off the tongue. Lown-lee-ness. A certain boy in my first period pronounces it with a draw Loan-leh-nest. Everything becomes humor once spoken with a hick lingo. I would rather be lame than to join the wagon. No, thanks. I'll continue saying nine as none and ten as tin. Hm.

Lately, I've been hearing voices. Now comes the "uh oh, she's a loon" card, I know. It is absurd, I wouldn't want to explain it to any given Joe. What shall I do? Ring up Doctor Donnie and say, "Listen, can you hear her? She is taunting me." I don't enjoy whiteness. If I wasn't a fruit loop before, I would be afterwards, due to the lack of imagination and color. It's a blank canvas that my hands would pointlessly itch to cover. If it is caused by loneliness, would sending me away to an empty room be the solution? I think not. Silence is key, or actually I've heard it was knowledge. Knowledge to be silent. Perhaps that's the reason that the Silent Game was always so effective as a child. Points, mother.

Loneliness. Sometimes, it's what strives us to be more. Sometimes, it was condones us to be less. Sometimes, though, it makes you sick.
Sick? Yes. And I never thought bulimic girls felt loved anyways.

He is the Bee, and I am the honey. I'd say I'm pretty sweet on him.

Jones Soda (Jonesing for a Jones is their slogan), a marvelous beverage to be consumed, is rated at an all-time seven in my book.

Brandon Jones. Brandon Keith Jones: Also known as BEE; it fits like leather, Italian shoes after they break-in to the soles of one's feet. This cat has all the works of a water hose, with the tricks of a sprinkler. Granted, I never, beforehand, considered him on the charts of someone for me. Initially, I cockily stated that "he would be minep;" however, I never once quelled my conceit long enough to realize that my words were a plausible reality. Oh, sure, no one is impeccable, indeed. My only leery fault with this lad is that he is thirty, soon to be thirty-one; and I am eighteen; that's boarder-line of legal through the officer's sunglasses. I would, without hesitation, be delighted to disclose that age is but only a number: that meaningless phrase would be false (regardless of my denial orally of said fraud). Brandon is an adult. Despite his humor, adventurous demeanor, sly sarcasm, and easily switched giggle-box, he has still skipped upon the stones in the river that I have yet to even notice are flowing ahead of me.
My fit: I would fancy a fellow who experiences things with me; he shall know me as I change. Seeing as how I've gained so much maturity in the previous two years, the chances and aims of me being this me are slim as an eighteen wheeler crossing an ancient bridge.

Sure, Brandon knows himself. He isn't digging the whole harlot scene any longer. He is in it to win it. Will not the lads my age be that way in a few years as well? Can I not wait for them? Are they not worth my waiting? Brandon, eleven years ago, was in their converse shoes: chatting about sexual intercourse, teasing his pals about parties they attended, committing numerous douche bag activities. After a decade of growing up, he's the Brandon that I know well and find agreeable.
Confused as to if he'll still like me after a month: where I am.
In a healthy relationship, whirled in a sense of peace: where I wish to be.

PLEASE LET THIS ONE STAY FOREVER.
Aside from age, aside from status, aside from anything, I really like Brandon.
I want this to go somewhere.

Baah.
I need a white chocolate mocha latte' with two shots of expresso--and make it snappy.

Wassle, a lot like hot orange juice.

When asked to tell about myself, these are the results:

1. I've never kissed a girl, but I like that song a lot.
2. Mushrooms + Spinach = favorite pizza topping.
3. This summer was the first occasion that I ever ate sweet potatoes or toast.
4. I bruise easily.
5. An exceptional vocabulary is my only preferrence with fellows.
6. Love is a question of truism to me.
7. I would gag if someone gave me roses.
8. I want to own every type of pearl jewelry ever made.
9. I am going to adopt at least two kiddos eventually.
10. My last name is Portuguese.
11. I will purchase every Disney movie EVER created. It's a must-have.
12. Orange is a gaudy color. Granted, no rainbow is complete without it.
13. Drinking alcohol has never been something I craved to do.
14. Salt Water Fish > Usual Gold Fish.
15. The Peace Corps. laden my immediate future.
16. My first cat was named Peanut: because it was gray like an elephant.
17. Pet Peeve of mine: "a" before a vowel instead of "an."
18. Jokes--corny ones--and puns are quite puny; I use them as often as apropos.
19. I WILL be an English teacher AND work WITH Catherine Woodyard.
20. I prefer pens, not pencils.
21. Never will I dress in the norm style of attire.
22. Politics intrigue me.
23. I air-type words as people converse with me.
24. I have about 20 pairs of shoes that I've never worn before because nothing that I own matches with them.
25. Ya'll will never be in my vocabulary.
26.I carry chalk in my purse.
27.I wish I were Alice from Alice in Wonderland.
28.I want to visit Japan and,thus, speak Japanese.
29.I've never been hunting.
30.Please, just call me Captain Grammar.
31.I am ready for, frightened of, an actual relationship.
32.I tried being a vegetarian for a year---fail.
33.I have had the same cellular device number since seventh grade.
34.I have eaten a pig's tail before.
35.Bobby Pins = necessity.
36. Jones Soda is the only type of carbonated beverage that I ingest.
37.Jogging = best form of exercise.
38.I envy people who are able to have eating disorders.
39.My sister = most important person in my life.
40.I want to learn how to play piano and guitar well. Soon.
41.I belong in the 1950's.
42.I'm a little OCD.
43.I collect pennies.
44.GINGER BABIES = obsession.
45.I enjoy watching soccer, guys playing soccer (fo'sho).
46.Catherine Woodyard understands me more than my Caddie, my kitten.
47.I believe in Karma.
48.I only started to acquire a craving for coffee because I believed it'd make me a more sophisticated reader; I was correct.
49.I haven't cried in a long time.
50.Gluttony is a sin, Jesus will have to forgive me.

I've seen more spine in a jelly fish.

"Do fish get fried when lightning strikes the ocean?"
Really fish do get fried if they happen to be in the area of the strike, but because the ocean is vast and lightning is dispersed into the water for only a very short distance, most fish are only stunned. If lightning was able to travel in water and not be dispersed would you want to go to the beach?

Contrary to what some people believe, salt water is a GOOD conductor of electricity! Anything containing ions is a good conductor of electricity. Pure water (meaning ONLY hydrogen and oxygen molecules) is a poor conductor. The reason salt water is a good conductor is due to the charged ions from the salt (Na+ and Cl- ions). You may be thinking "then why can I be electrocuted at home if we don't have salt water?" Well it's because your home water isn't exactly pure - there are several other ions and minerals in it. (Free ions means free electrons are available to flow and create a current in water)

They do. Every year around 7000-10000 lightnings strike the sea around the world and and when this happens most of Earth's marine life dies. Luckily fish are are fond of sexual intercourse and the sea life grows to its peak numbers around summertime.

Ask anyone who has been shocked and they will tell you that salt water is a very good conductor since our bodies are mostly salt water; great conductor. Salt water fish/wildlife do not just make up for their loss by having a reproductive free for all, it takes years to replace damage to any part of a reef system. Most Lightning strikes happen in open water where there is almost no damage the the ecosystem and whatever fish is hit is not fried but boiled.

There are conductors, semi-conductors and insulators in this world. While fresh water is a good conductor due to the impurities in it, salt water is only a semi-conductor and the lightning dissipates faster than it does in fresh water. But even in fresh water the lightning only travels so far before it too will dissipate.
Most people think that water is a conductor and that that is why it causes people to die from electrical shock when exposed to it. This is untrue.

My answer is two fold. First of all pure water is an insulator. When it is mixed with impurities those impurities are actually the conductors, not the water. Second electricity always takes the path of least resistance (It will travel through the material that is most conductive).

If your in a pool of water and the lightning strikes most of the charge won't travel through the water, because it is an insulator. It will travel through you the conductor. You are the path of least resistance (especially if your touching the bottom of the pool or the side of it). That is why people are killed in a pool from lightning strikes. Most of the people that survive such strikes were probably floating in the water, not touching anything else but the water (thus not completing a circuit).

I would suggest that most fish in the ocean do not get killed for this reason. Salt water is a very good conductor and as such the salt water pulls the path of the electricity from the lightning bolt around the fish, not through it. I would add this as another reason among the others.

When someone is in a bath tub and an electrical item is drop in and that someone is electrocuted is because the the path of least resistance is through touching the bottom and sides of the tub. The water is mostly insulated from the current so it travels almost entirely through the human body.

"If marriage means you fell in love, does divorce mean you climbed out?"

A divorce is like an amputation: you survive it, but there's less of you. Oh, how the seasons change. What once was green, now is harvest galore. What once was a pathway to love is now just a pothole in the street. Jordan Hamilton is shady like a palm tree. That book sure was a short, disappointing one. I will not be suggesting it to pals.

May God Save The Queen.

Drip, Drop. Drip, Drop. Today is a rainy one: dark and damp.
I was jamming to some Christmas carols and decorating this afternoon as I sprung alive in a splendid mood. The soccer game was cancelled, thus I had more time to focus on college sort of things. Such as applications! UM (Ole Miss) and JCJC (Jones County Junior College) to be specific. I think as long as money finds me, I'll find my way to college. I feel as though all matters shall pan out nicely. Last year, I was a fret over most all things. This year? Anxiety is rare (like Mr.Clean with hair).


Oh, Canada. Our home and native land.

"Everybody's nuts, some of us just see it more clearly."-Elvis.

The soft, rainbow colors had sunken under the horizon and with its exit had come ravishing dots of stars scattered from west to east in the sky. I had never experienced such an immaculate appetite for cotton candy. The wind nipped at my ears as I nuzzled my soon to be Popsicle fingers into my blanket. I found it quite ironic how my blanket was the exact shade of green as that smooth, damp grass. It was almost as though they meshed, lying together: blanket and blade. Giving into the urge to be indoors and away from the crisp winter air, my feet made footprints into the earth as I crept across the soccer field, heading towards the street that my tiny, brick house dwelled upon. I would like to call it a home, but I never knew such a place. Home is where the heart is, I’ve heard. Supposedly, my heart was always else where. I gazed at the exhibit of stars once again, before stepping onto the street at last; I was fully aware that once the street and I met, my vision would blur away from that marvelous sky- thank you bright street lights. Blowing a kiss to the heavens, I wondered how epic actually kissing the sky would be. I imagined that it would be something that someone would find rather impossible to forget the passion of- no matter the effort.
How everything was so black at only six p.m. was beyond fathom. I questioned the sky of the mystery. As usual, no response. I believe if ever the sky did answer me, I would have felt even a more intense level of insanity. Reminiscing it all now, to hear the sky’s voice would have been the least of what I had fret about within myself. A cold, empty space filled my chest where my once bubbly heart thudded every night. Mellow dramatic? Probably. Over exaggeration? Probably not. It was that night I felt the revelation that I was concerned with the fact that I didn’t care. What, you may ask, did I not care for? Might you have a rock nearby? Perhaps, just perhaps, a significant other, rising success in schooling, or even friendships flourishing? Those. I cared for nothing of the sort. To be frank, my own being didn’t turn a twitch for me. This cold, captivating night, though, switched on some electric charge that made me want to pursue swimming the arctic channel, golly. “So, I won’t hesitate, no more, no more. It can not wait; I’m yours” stunned me into a frenzy as the song busted through my pocket. My cellular device was ringing its Jordan Hamilton ring tone. I swiftly glided my hand into my pocket and retrieved the noisy piece of technology. One message read, “How are you, Amanda Lee?” The question lingered as though he had asked me how many craters were on the moon. How am I? How am I? Well, Jo, I am not so well. I just realized that I committed a serious felony against my sister, my best friend Catherine and I just together came to the realization that we are nut cases- most likely should be somewhere seeking mental aid, my parents are constantly on the brink of divorce,oh! And I am pretty sure I don't believe in love . . . yeah, that wasn’t going to be said. My brain must have been on autopilot because it glided my fingers over the buttons for a reply, “I’m dandy. How do you do, Jo?” Dirty, disgusting filth of a human, I am. I wouldn’t mind all those lies that had spread like butter over toast to be shared about me nowadays. I deserved it. I needed it. Who is to say that criticism doesn’t help a gal? Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you? KICK ME.
The door handle was nearly iced over as I entered the house to find my family huddled in full view to the television. Television was truly never my cup of tea, neither was family time. Oh, how I’ve changed, the difference inside was unbearably evil. I drug myself to the back room, the last one on the left- my parent’s bedroom. They never used the blasted space. So for my benefit, I conquered it as my own. The cheetah print comforter appeared so vibrant against the mocha brown pillow cases, the lighting so crisp from new light bulbs. The City of Ember came to mind and I instantly was wishing sunshine was beaming through the cream colored curtains instead of the dark, lonely, dim moon that served as a grim excuse of light. I didn’t want the light bulbs to burn out and leave me slave to the hold of the moon. What would I do: if the moon suddenly quit doing as it did; if it may explode or orbit to another galaxy, if the light all in the blink of an eye ball just vanished into a stark other place: how would I survive? I suppose I would never know that I was so alone- not being able to see. Knowing what you don’t see is incredibly impossible.
“Seeing is believing," I once read that in a book.
It is said that God is never seen. However, I commend you that we are his body, the church. His hands, his feet, his words. I believe that’s why it is so important for Christians to show that they are who they claim to be. It proves with actions that God is real. God. That’s exactly who I needed to be discussing the issue with instead of aimlessly chatting with my kitty about how I was baffled with the weather. Honestly, who has conversations about the weather? Old people who have nothing more to make the moment not awkward with- that’s who.

Hey, I think you're groovie; do you wanna see a movie?

Hannah Montana Movie = muy excellente (pretty sure that excellente isn't Spanish, but I can turn on my "imagination" with that one). I attended it with Catherine Woodyard, Mary Woodyard (her fifth grade sistahh), and Brittany Richardson. As a cliffnote, I never saw Brittany R. and I being pals; that's why you never say never. The movie was initially sold out, so I bought a ticket for another movie and "snuck" in. I've never done that before in my life. It was terribly frightening. I thought that I was for sure getting kicked out of that joint (snazzy). After the nice movie, I ate a hugee baked potato. Potatoes make me bloated, for the record. I think that Catherine and I are going to be veryy close friends. I can't see myself NOT being better friends. She likes Frank Sinatra for chrissakes! If watermelon isn't sweet, I don't know what is. (Where does sugar come from?) Hmm. .Chad text me. He's barely acknowledged me lately. I think his heart is moving on, to bigger and better. Well, maybe not better. (yes, better.)
I don't feel such remorse, though. I like the fact that I've been incorporating myself with Jennifer and Jade again. They both used to be such a big part of my life. I don't see why I ever decided to toss them to the side for Kristin and Adriane. They're both grand girls, but recently, it's almost as though I am not as near to them as previous dates would seem. I blame this on quitting Track. Curse exercising for all it's worth!
Anyways, as I was saying, Chad text me. There's pretty much nothing that I like more than looking down at my phone and have "Everything" on the screen. The butterflies that occur are phenomenal. Sweet Action, truly, I have found.
I'm still falling- falling isn't the thing that hurts. It's the crash. So, I intend to avoid the whole "ground" part of the scenario. Catch me, you fool, just kiss me.

Life's a climb, but -with you-it's worth the view.
P.S. The word "car" comes from Carriage, interesting.