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
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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.

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.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
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.
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.

Friday, October 29, 2010
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."
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."
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
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.
“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.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
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.
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.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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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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Tuesday, March 30, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 26, 2010
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 anadult. 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.
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
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.
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