Elsewhere is Here

A Puzzle That Won't Be Fixed

2012-02-10T23:29:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, I saw my life crash down around me
In the middle of the fabric section at Walmart.
Funny place to leave sharp shards of a life.
As I leaned down to pick them up,
Toss them into my bag,
I noticed the faces of my college friends in one,
My high school clique in another.
The generic face of someone I've never met,
Topped by strawberry blonde hair.
A glimmer of a bad date,
And another of a good date gone bad.
A mother who can (but won't) support her daughter.
A sliver of school drew blood from my fingertips
And tears from my eyes.
I had worked so hard to pick all those pieces up,
And put them back in the shape of my life,
But they kept slipping though my fingertips,
Slicing the flesh,
Before I could get them over my purse.
I finally realized I wouldn't get them all,
So I left some of the most unimportant pieces behind.
Now I'm sitting here at this desk,
Examining them.
Which ones fit where?
I can't seem to find the school piece,
But I'm sure I grabbed it.
And without that piece,
The piece with my friends evaporates.
The sharpest shard,
The one with my mother's face on it
Leaves no room for the school piece.
Some glass,
Like the large one with the generic face,
Seem to overlap much of the other pieces.
And then I saw the shape of my life:
A compass.
My compass is broken.
I've lost my direction.
I don't know how I've managed to get home;
Or is this my home?
It certainly feels more like a prison,
The screens on the windows acting as bars.
The piece that had been missing since before the break in the store
Now stares up at me,
Laughing as I grasp frantically at the pieces,
Cutting myself even more,
Just looking for that school.
He should be happy about that.
And then I see the needle.
The bent metal that reflects the familiar blonde hair and brown eyes.
The best friend long gone.
She smiles,
Nodding towards the piece that overlaps,
Then looking up toward the heavens,
And I get it...
I think.

8/4/08

Shoplifters

2012-02-10T23:19:00.001-08:00

There were two of them tonight. Two. And it wasn't even busy. So they screwed up my conversion. And on of them called me a bitch. Signs of shoplifting:

Well, I won't tell you all of them, for those of you looking to get ideas. But I will tell you what got my attention tonight. The first girls had large, open bags.
They also looked like they "shopped" at higher end stores, but they were looking in clearance for a gift.
When someone takes a certain number of clothes into the fitting room, then comes out with less than what they went in with.

Anyway, the first two exhibited the first two signs as well as others, the last one exhibited the third sign. While I followed the first two around, they noticed that I was watching them, then went to the counter with an item, to do a price check, called me a bitch, and left without buying.
The second lady that came in was visibly upset, but she had some bags on her as well. She took six items into the fitting room, and came out with five, and gave me four. I checked her room for the last item, a pair of black sweatpants that I had set in there when I started the room for her. I asked her about them in a lower voice, like, "Hey, I noticed you didn't leave those pants in the room. Did they work out for you?" She told me she had already put them back, and I told her that I didn't see her come out of the fitting room, but I must have missed it. She still told me she didn't have them, so I stopped asking, and continued following her. When the last customer had left, she pulled them out of her bag, along with the hanger, apologized several times, and gave them back. I told her that it was okay, that it "takes a lot to give things back." "I'll never come back," she said. She quickly exited the store without another word. She continued to look back to see if I was still watching her, and she looked remorseful, so I hope what I said and my trust in her to do the right thing had an effect on her.
The one thing that I wonder when shoplifters come in is do they steal because they need the clothing, or because they need something to pay the bills, or to trade for drugs? It's the same question that we asked at the service project that I went to to serve the homeless.The question was do panhandlers really need the money? So what if they need the drugs? That is what they need at the moment. Maybe they need to clothe their children. Maybe they need new, clean clothes for a job interview. Maybe they need a coat to stay warm.
Then I think about it some more. And there are agencies that help with those things. A person shouldn't have to resort to crime to make their lives work. And resorting to crime, often makes their lives worse, makes it harder to get a job.
Anyway... just my musings. Maybe that's something I can do with my life.

I Feel Like Such a Badass Right Now.

2012-01-22T22:51:00.000-08:00

I could be silly and say "and the reason is you" (quoting Hoobastank, of course), but I think that's an awful song, and while you are awesome, just for sticking around to read my stuff, or wait, that might be all me setting off the view counter, in which case I am brought back to my original point, that I am a badass.
The real reason is because I caught a shoplifter today. Red-handed. By myself. Okay, my boss helped a little, but mostly by myself. Here is the story about how I caught a thief, and my first ride in a police car:
I was working with my boss, HC, and this lady came in with a big coat and a backpack on. She was wandering around gathering items, and I was watching her to make sure she didnt steal anything, because usually people who take backpacks shopping are shoplifting, and same with heavy coats. As she shopped, she raised several red flags, so HC and I were both trailing her. I started her a fitting room, and she brought back a few more items to try on. She went in, and I checked on her twice, both times bringing back more product. By this point, she has five pairs of jeans, two red sweatshirts, and three black vests. So I ask her if I could take the stuff that didnt fit, and she agreed, and handed over two pairs of jeans, two vests and one of the red sweatshirts. Anyway, I knew she had a sweatshirt, a vest and two pairs of jeans left in the room with her. That's about $150 worth of product. A few minutes later, I heard a zipper close and she came out, looks surprised that I'm standing there, then closes the door behind her and books it out of the fitting room hallway. I immediately looked in her room, and saw she just left one pair of jeans, and she's booking it to the front door.
I told my HC, and she tried to stop her and asked for the stuff back three times, then we called the police. HC watched her cross the parking lot into the parking lot of an adjacent building, and within ten minutes or so, a police officer came into the store to ask us to come identify the suspect. I accompanied him to the car, got in the back seat (which was very uncomfortable, by the way. Don't get arrested.) and we drove to the parking lot. We stop, and the other police officer pulls the woman out of the car, and sure enough, it is the woman who stole. He also brings the black vest from my store to the window and asked me to verify the product, and sure enough, it was our product. Shortly after the incident, the other police officer brought the clothing the woman had taken back to the store, and HC and I received statement sheets that we need to fill out for them to pick up tomorrow. It was a very exciting night.

2012-01-20T20:18:00.000-08:00

So I have a few new updates to share. First off, I did not get the Assistant Manager job at EB, as expected/promised. This was due to nepotism. Yes, I am bitter. However, I won't dwell on it. ...Who am I kidding? Yes I will, but only until my life gets better than the life of the person who got the job, because I truly deserved it, and I was the best candidate for the job (according to my boss, who was supposed to make the decision, but was strong armed into choosing the other guy). Anyway, this has led me to a variety of things. I will be going to grad school sooner than planned, I will be trying to find a better job elsewhere (as in screw my current company, they don't deserve me anyway) as an assistant manager, because believe it or not, there are other companies hiring for that position, and I received a traveling red dress. I've also started attending church again. That's a big step for me, since I've spent the last three years or so questioning God's existence and being angry at Him when I did believe in him. Firstly, I guess I should start by saying that I have decided to go to grad school to be an attorney, a mediator, or a clinical psychologist. This means either law school or basic grad school. Woohoo! If I choose to go to law school, I'll probably end up back at WU. They are less expensive than Berkeley, even if I was a California resident. If I go for clinical psychology, it will be at UW, which is kind of ironic, seeing as it's the opposite of WU. lol.
Second and only other piece of information that needs other explanation: The Red Dress. Think Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but with a Red Strapless ball gown. Basically, Jenny the Bloggess at www.thebloggess.com is a badass, and started this trend of taking pictures in a red ball gown, simply because she wanted to, and because it would make her happy. She had to share the dress with other women in need of confidence, strength, hope, faith, self-esteem, and empowerment. Needless to say, the dress was worn by many amazing women of different shapes and sizes, and it started to wear out, so Jenny has purchased two more red dresses from the proceeds of her store, and she tweeted about it. This sparked a flood of offers from random strangers to other strangers, giving their strapless red dresses to women in need. This happened right about the time that I was denied that job, when my hopes were crushed. Miraculously, I found a dress on flickr in my size (18 if you need it). The lady who found the dress at Goodwill was not too far from where I live, and she just shipped it to me, no payment or shipping reimbursement requested. It arrived right before I returned from California, and aside from my chest being too heavy for the boning in the dress, it fit perfectly! I had no idea what I wanted to do in the dress. I thought about going snowboarding, but I didn't want to ruin it for the next girl. Then it snowed. A beautiful bland background to emphasize the color of the dress. So we drove to the nearest waterfall, took some pictures, then I played on some trains in a train museum in the same town. It was a wonderful day, and I had a blast, in part because of the red dress, but also because I had the two people I love most in the world, and I was able to let loose and enjoy myself, because I was a badass for a day. Here are some pictures:

Possibly one of my favorites

The uncomfortable-looking guy standing next to me was a Chinese tourist who wasn't sure about having his picture taken with a crazy American girl who decided she liked running around in fancy dress clothes when it's freezing out. But his wife wanted the picture, so whateve. I figure that's what he had to say about it too, only the Chinese equivalent.

Also, we happened to start a trend, because the place we were standing was closed (as in roped off with a sign that said "Closed due to ice. But nobody ever got good pictures without breaking the rules. So we were rebels. And apparently leaders of other rebels. We could have started a cult.

Finally, one of my favorites (this is saying a lot because my mom gets photo happy when she gets to take her camera out and she took 107 pictures that day. So four is a small piece of the pie). I love this picture because it is so daring, and I am wearing something else that makes me furiously happy: My pointy, pink high heels. They're kind of like Cruella deVille's shoes. I always told myself that I would never buy shoes like that because they look so uncomfortable, and I am all about comfort over fashion. However, I found these in a thrift store, and they are hot pink (same color as they are in the picture) and they made me so happy that I HAD to have them. Especially because they were basically free, compared to other shoes that are similar.

So that's my red dress story. If you need this dress, and you are a size 18, please leave a comment with your email and I will get in touch. I promise it will bring you as much joy as it has brought me.

In Response to Newt Gingrich and His Comment About Poor Kids Having No Work Ethic

2011-12-17T11:02:00.000-08:00

I recently read a fellow blogger's post about Newt Gingrich's speech that included very ignorant and some might say racist comments, some of which included: poor kids "have no habit of showing up on Monday, no habit of staying all day, have no habit of 'I do this, and you give me cash' unless it's illegal." He also commented that kids coming from really poor families have no one around them that works.

Mr. Gingrich has no fucking idea what he's talking about.

Seriously.

First of all, I would very much like to know if what he says comes from experience. Firsthand experience. It's highly doubtful that he actually lived through poverty, and the reason I say this is because it takes a lot of old money to run for president. For some reason, I'm pretty sure he's been at least middle, if not upper class for his entire life.

Secondly, I would like Mr. Gingrich to know that I grew up in a low-income neighborhood. My parents were divorced when I was three, leaving my mother, who had graduated Summa Cum Laude with a degree in Apparel, Merchandising and Textiles to fight for every job she ever had. She worked her fingers to the bone, metaphorically and physically, trying to provide for our family of two. There was even a time when she had three jobs at one time, working literally 80 hours in a week. Through the years, our little family has grown, and my family has gone from low-income to middle class. The family income runs somewhere around eighty thousand dollars a year.

Now, Mr. Gingrich, let's look at me: I graduated 11th in my class of 275 in high school, while taking the only three AP classes that my high school offered, a feat that only one other student tried. I maintained straight A's through high school, and passed all three of my AP exams, achieving a top score on one of them. I started working when I was 12 years old, because my mother taught me that if I ever wanted anything in life, I had to work for it. At 16, I took a trip to France that I raised the funds for. When I returned, I began working my first "real" job in retail sales, and I maintained that job while I was attending high school and earning top grades. After high school, I took up two more jobs to help me pay for my first year of college at a prestigious, private, liberal arts school. I attended this school by making the money myself, and on merit scholarships. I achieved a 3.2 GPA and graduated last May with my Bachelor's Degree in Psychology. I spent the last year working for a non-profit organization that helps crime victims through the criminal justice system, while also working a full-time job to support myself and my unemployed fiance (who came from a mid- to upper class family). I think it goes without saying that I held down a job throughout my college years.

Now let's talk about kids from middle and upper class families, shall we? Many of the students that I went to school with in high school had never done a day of work in their lives. My town is built on the middle class, so over half the people I went to high school with fall into this category. Most of them have settled on staying in our hometown, going to a two year school, getting married and repopulating. Some have decided to go to four-year colleges, but their parents have paid all the bills. I have not seen ANYONE work as hard for what they want as people from low-income families.

Mr. Gingrich, if you want the popular vote, for God's sake, know your fucking audience. Because most of this country is outraged at the things you've said.

Thanks for being this year's Sarah Palin. Maybe when you lose, you'll leave politics completely and write a book about how hard it is to be upper class.

Signed,
A girl from a poor family.

Letter to S.A.

2011-11-22T01:24:00.000-08:00

For your information and deciphering purposes, M.R. is my stepsister, B.J.A. is my stepmother, B.A. is my half-sister, and C.A. is my half-brother, and T.L. is my stepfather. The only changes that have been made to this letter since it was sent have been the initializing of names to protect identities.

Dear S.A, January 11^th, 2011

Firstly, I would like to address the lies that you sent in your most recent email to me, which I received January 10^th, 2011. With regards to my address, you have a valid address for me. I am aware of this because earlier in December I received a Christmas card from you and B.J.A. to my school address. Not only that, but you have sent packages to me in the past to that address as well. You also contradicted yourself in your email, saying you didn’t have a phone number for me, then telling me you left a message on my voicemail, knowing that I do not have one. And about the last paragraph: That was very manipulative. I never agreed to send you a copy of my financial aid statement, but to appease you, I have enclosed it with this letter.

I have been meaning to write this letter for the past nine years, but I have never had the courage, strength, or motivation to do so. Throughout the years, I have been screwed over by you time and time again, most recently, the past four years with my tuition payments. Every year, you have dragged your feet with sending the payment, and you even fought me in court before I started college to try and not pay. Every year, you have been late in paying you part to my tuition, causing me stress and guilt-tripping me as well. The way I see it, you feel that by not paying, you cause my mother more financial stress. However, this is not the case. The only person you are harming by not paying is me. You have never treated me right as your daughter, and this is only the first in a long list of problems that I have with you.

I don’t agree with the way you treat B.A. and the kids, another reason I am writing this. While spanking your children with an object is not illegal in Washington (I would know, I tried to report you to DHS: Child Welfare, because I am a mandatory reporter), it is against my moral code, considering you never disciplined your kids before they were three or four. I disagree with this punishment because you have threatened me with the same punishment once, implying that you know how to not get caught by saying “Is isn’t abuse if I don’t leave marks.” For that incident, in eighth grade, where you threw my textbook and my soda, had we lived in Oregon, I could have filed a report and had you charged with Harassment and Menacing, mandatory arrest misdemeanors. As an abuser, you might say that this event didn’t happen but I remember it as clearly as yesterday, and you might say that it wasn’t your fault, that it was my fault because I made you angry by disrespecting you. However, the truth is that you are making excuses for a choice that you made. You could have accrued the same charges when you told M.R. that you would make her baseball bat as red as her sweatshirt.

I am upset that there were no consequences for your behavior that day, and I regret that I cannot prevent similar occurrences from happening with C.A. and B.A, and possibly even B.J.A. if nothing has happened to her yet.

I know you will continue to be and act the way you are, and this letter will upset you, but I can see that you haven’t changed any from the time that mom was with you to now. You once told Mom that if she left, she would leave with nothing but the clothes on her back. This is a symptom of domestic violence. You were using me against her, and I will never forgive you for that. Your pattern that you had with Mom continues with B.J.A. I see it in the way she reacts with you, and I see it in your own behavior. I can even see it in your kids, to a certain extent. Did you know that C.A.’s late development is a symptom of your abuse? And B.J.A.’s response to your question, “What are you doing?!” which had undertones of “Are you stupid?” in the restaurant when you came to see me at Willamette in my junior year confirmed this: “What do you want me to do?” I recognized that with a simple question, she was deflecting a blowup event, something that is part of the wheel of domestic violence. You were setting her up for emotional abuse out of something that was logical for her to do, and she could feel it, because in the 6 or 7 years that she has spent married to you, she has internalized your pattern of emotional abuse, and can therefore predict when it is coming. I would strongly advise her to leave, however, if she is determined to stay with you, she has devised a great mode of survival, a safe way to deal with you. While I do not support her decision to stay with you, I do support her coping methods, and I sincerely hope that someday, you do something drastic, like the baseball bat incident with M.R., so she has the courage to leave you. Your behavior within your family is unacceptable, which is why I am choosing to remove myself from it.

In the years that I lived there or was visiting, you would walk in on me and M.R. when you knew we were changing or in the bathroom in various stages of undress. You used us to do your chores, and things that you, as a parent were responsible for. You forced me to babysit, but gave me no authority. You forced me to show you my underwear when I was about thirteen, an age that I was fully capable of picking out my own undergarments. You were not a normal father, especially not when you had me sitting on your lap while you were sitting on the toilet.

I am constantly on edge, ready to defend myself against your attacks on my morality, I have when you come visit me or guilt trip me into visiting you, and I hate the time I spend at your house, especially when I cannot accomplish the things I came to do, like see my best friend’s grave. I hate you so much, and the hatred increases exponentially when you make fun of my fiancé’s last name, heritage, and call him a “sand nigger.” The only reason you think I could do better is because you are racist.

I have known for years that you don’t love me, that you don’t even know the meaning of the word love. You know the meaning of manipulation, and think it’s synonymous with love. Sorry sir, that is not how it works. Throughout my life, you’ve used me as a tool for your manipulation of my mother, and you’ve played my conscience into feeling guilty for actions and choices I have a right to make. I am sick of the manipulation. I am sick of the emotional abuse, and while your wife may stand for it, I will not.

You kicked me out of your house the night you refused to take me to the hospital after I fell off the horse, neglecting your duties as a parent. I could have been seriously injured as a result of that accident, and B.J.A. could have lost her nurse’s license by giving me your prescription of Vicodin like she did, and you could have been charged with Child Neglect for not taking care of my injuries properly. I could have been seriously injured for all you knew, and you didn’t want to get me checked out. Sounds REALLY loving to me.

I know that you will continue to place the blame on others, the way you blamed mom for your problems (like, you think B.J.A. has no common sense, and that makes you angry, or the house wasn’t clean, so you have a right to be angry (PS: these are not excuses for the abuse you put her through, even though they might seem like valid excuses to you)) as well as do the other things typical to abusers, and I know that I cannot change you, and I cannot show you you’re wrongdoing when your eyes remain so firmly shut. But I can hope that laws will change for B.J.A, C.A, and B.A.’s sake.

My point: You kicked me out that night, saying you didn’t want me to be there if I didn’t want to be. Well, I didn’t then, and I still don’t. I don’t enjoy visiting you, I don’t enjoy staying at your house, I don’t enjoy when you visit me. You have destroyed our relationship through the years, and that is something that I pity you for, because maybe if you had known, I wouldn’t be writing this, because you might have stopped. For years, I have been sick of going home to my mom, crying because of the latest asinine thing you’ve done. However, as a result of the destruction of our relationship, I am choosing to remove the drama that you create by removing you from my life and discontinuing all correspondence with you. I understand that in so doing, you will spread lies about me to our family, like Grandma and Grandpa, and all my aunts and uncles. I also understand that this is part of your abusive nature, and that you will try and contact me. This is the last letter I will ever send you. I will not be sending another email. I will not be visiting your house any more, nor are you welcome at mine. With this letter, I have enclosed two money orders; the first is to pay my debt of $57.88 to AT&T, and the second is for $140.00 your last means of control over me, and I am requesting that you never contact me again. I will be changing my phone number and address. If you try to find me in the future, please expect this action on your part to result in a restraining or no-contact order. I am doing this as a result of your actions. You may be my father, the person who donated the sperm. We may look alike and have the same last name. You may consider yourself the father of three. However, you lost the privilege of being my dad long ago, and will soon legally lose the privilege of being my father, because T.L. and I are signing adoption papers later this year.

Have a nice life.

Let me also explain some of the psychosexual effects that his abuse had on me and my siblings. C.A. is my younger brother (half). I was thirteen when he was born, and he developed in a similar manner to me. He had problems with development and bedwetting like I did. I began masturbating when I was in the 6th grade, but I was putting things inside me by first grade at the latest. I wet the bed consistently until 6th grade, and then on and off throughout high school. I had accidents when I was out playing with friends. All of these things are very clear signs of sexual abuse. In fact, my mother was concerned for the longest time that one of my uncles was abusing me. She took me to several therapists, waiting for me to disclose, but I never did, because the things my father did to me seemed normal at the time. He would watch me as I slept, he would walk in on my step-sister M.R. and I when we were undressed, or getting dressed, or even when we were in the shower, and for each instance, he made an excuse for the things he did. He forced me to show him my underwear the first time I bought thongs when I was thirteen. He had threatened me, he had threatened my step-sister, and my stepmother, B.J.A. didn't believe us when we told her, or she minimized the severity of the situation, because my father managed to talk her over to his side. He constantly disciplines using an implement of some sort. The list goes on and on.

Update on the Stalking

2011-11-22T01:09:00.000-08:00

So, my mother and I were talking in the car the other day, while we were carpooling to work, and she was saying the answer to where S.A. was getting all of his information hit her like a ton of bricks one evening.
Let me introduce you to J.C... J.C. married my grandmother C.H. when I was a senior (?) in high school. None of my family members knew much about him when they got married, so we were all okay with it. All we really knew is that all his children were assholes, but he seemed pretty decent. Since the wedding, J.C. has revealed his inner asshole. He yells at my grandma in public, talks to her like she is stupid, underestimates how advanced her Alzheimer's disease is, and doesn't really seem to give a shit about C.H. in general.
To give you an example, J.C. accompanied my grandmother to my graduation from college last May, and apparently, he fell asleep during the ceremony, whined the whole time, and then wanted to leave without me "because he was cold." What. A. Fucking. Jerk. During my graduation dinner, the subject of S.A. arose. J.C. sympathized with S.A. for God knows what reason. Said we (my mom and I) were too hard on him. Most of the rest of my family knows that there is some bad blood there, though all of them underestimate how much. At my grandmother's wedding, my uncle D.H. had a beer with him in a bar. S.A. has tried to get information from my uncle M.H. and his wife, D.H., and every other relative that lives on his side of the state. Most of them, for the majority of the time, have said they don't know anything, or have refused to give him any information regarding my mother and I. However, he is getting his information somewhere.
Mom thinks it's J.C.
J.C. sympathizes with S.A.
J.C. is very similar to S.A.
J.C. is a giant slimeball.
Is more motive needed? Mom tells Grandma stuff about me, J.C. delivers that information to S.A.
This is what I was talking about when I was saying that I feel so alienated from my family. Now, because he's prying, and sucking all of my family into his little game, I have to refrain from telling my family members all of my news, my contact information, everything, if I don't want S.A. to get ahold of it. And it's all a way to suck me back in.

I promised a couple posts ago that I would post a letter of what I wrote to him, and you can judge for yourself what kind of person he was, whether or not I had the right to excommunicate him, ect.

Safe Haven

2011-11-11T22:53:00.000-08:00

The boys are both out of town, Dad at work, AAS at his parents in California, so my mom and I got to spend some quality time together tonight. I expressed my concern that I am controlling and abusive like my SA, and she said she can't see it. I guess I've been successful in my vigilance in being aware of my thoughts and controlling my actions. We ended up talking about how he is finding my information. I went through facebook and blocked anyone that he might have contact with on MR's friends list. I'm hoping that this might solve the problem. I suspect that he is getting a hold of my texts, as I have already discussed. I told Mom that I felt like he was still alienating me from my family, even though I was no longer involved with him. She said that's his little game that he plays. The game that he plays to get you sucked back into his fight. And he's sucked in my aunt. Anyway, she said, "How do you think I feel?" She then explained that it feels like an invasion after having the house free of anything having to do with him for the past four years, and now all of a sudden she's hearing all about him, and everything has gone back to the way it was after she had divorced him. She said to "leave it at the front door. Don't talk about him, don't think about him, don't worry about him."
This is a safe place. It will always be a safe place. He cant touch me here.

Life Back With My Parents

2011-11-07T09:38:00.000-08:00

Quick update on the S.A. front: my father (S.A.) has gotten to my aunt. What I mean by this is that he has convinced her that "he still cares," and she has been trying to convince me and my mother to send him a wedding invitation. The answer is flat out, NO. Especially because he seems to be cyber-stalking me. He told her that he was getting all of his information from the internet, which is funny, because I told no one over the internet that I was moving. What I think might be happening is that he is using my phone somehow, and getting access to my texts. I feel like no part of my life is being unobserved, like I'm on a reality TV show with some kind of horrible ending. I don't know what he's going to do, or where he's going to strike next.
On a happier note, I ran into Mr. D., my high school AP English teacher, the other day. My check engine light went on in my car because there is something wrong with it, so I took it to a mechanic, and they did some work without telling me what they were going to do and how much it was going to cost. So I was there, picking up my car, and Mr. D. was waiting in line behind me. Now the thing with Mr. D. is that he has his favorite students, and then he has the rest of the people in his class. When I took my AP exam, I got a 3, whereas the favorite students got 5's. I was never a favorite, and I was only in the class because I wanted to get into a top school, and rise above the rest of the SW high schoolers who really didn't care about school. Apparently, Mr. D. grouped me with the rest of the school anyway. This is what he thought of me, via a letter of recommendation:

"Dear Scholarship Committee:
"J.A. was my lovely surprise this year. I was her teacher three years ago in Regular (non-Honors) English 9, and after seeing her work I told her I was disappointed that she had not opted for our brand new Honors program (P.S. this is not true, but I did sign up for Honors courses starting in my sophomore year.) When she told me last year that she was considering taking my Advanced Placement English class in her senior year, I expressed grave doubts; I was worried she just did not have the background. Nonetheless, she persevered. She currently has an 'A' in the class, manages to surprise me at every turn with the quality of her work, and is one of the hardest working, intellectually passionate students in the class. I have to make it clear how rare that is. Usually (and this is a little sad, I suppose) a student begins high school right squack on the same track on which they end high school. J.A., on the other hand, has made such a huge step up from freshman year that I still cannot quite believe it at times.

"My only worry about J.A. is that her hard-working but quiet and unassuming nature might cause her to be overlooked in the whole scholarship process. She, however, does not seem to be worried at all. Her college attendance and college success are not contingent upon money nearly as much as they are contingent upon her passion and ambition. But still..... right? Please consider her as amongst the top candidates at the school for this scholarship.

"Now she is almost giddily excited about the college application process, applying even to several colleges which are beyond the hopes of a student with her background and test scores. She is aware of the challenge, but so in love with the idea of furthering her eduacation at the best school possible that she doesn not care. All three of her AP teachers (we only offer three AP classes!) are thrilled by her passion and her hard work, and we all share the hope that she will end up at a university which deserves her joyousness in living and learning. Thank you for considering this fine young student. Please email me or call if you have any questions.

"Sincerely,
T.D."

Anyway, Mr. D. convinced all of us that top schools were good, that they held a lot of potential about helping you get jobs after school, and that student loans were okay, and everyone has them. I was convinced. So I applied to the best schools I could, and was accepted at all except one. NYU, Boston University, Willamette University, CWU, all of these schools accepted me, and Mr. D. was shocked, especially by NYU. Luckily, one of the private schools gave me a great financial aid package, and I was able to attend. Fast-forward four years, to me, graduated, but living with my parents, working as a Sales Associate at my high school job, just waiting for a promotion, and $30k in debt. I'm so glad I took Mr. D's advice about student loans.
Anyway, we ran into him at the mechanic, and he was very surprised to see me home, and not out on some epic adventure. I told him I graduated, and that he was actually at my graduation, which he didn't seem to know, even though I had been standing right beside him for about a half an hour, waiting for my turn to say hello, all the while, A.A.S., standing behind me, urging me to just do it. Let's just say I felt very justified rubbing it in that he overlooked me because of his favorites, and that I graduated, despite what he thought of me, and that I am planning on attending grad school next year, my top choice being UW, where they waive your tuition, my second choice being SPU. My mother couldn't stop at that, being the proud mother that she is. I was headed out the door, and Mom stood there, still talking; "Oh yeah, she graduated with a degree in psychology, and she has been volunteering with Marion County Victims' Assistance in the District Attorney's Office, and she's been doing really well, and, and, and," and I finally had to pull her out the door. As we were leaving, Mr. D. said, "Well, if you would like to come talk about applying to grad school, and preparing for the GRE's, feel free to drop in."
My reply came at the same time as my mom's, and we said the exact same thing: "I think I'll be fine, but thank you."

Moved back in with my parents.

2011-10-25T17:28:00.000-07:00

So, I moved back in with my parents, which means that I have direct access to the internet. This means that I will be posting a lot more, I think. Since moving in, I have set up my bed, and pretty much nothing else. I have not seen anyone I know, I haven't done much of anything except for laundry, which is something that desperately needed doing (Alex was out of boxers). Our room is beautiful: The only trace of my younger self that is still here are the pictures I had taped to my door in high school. We took a walk around town today to see what had changed and I was amazed at all that had. Stores had moved, gone out of business, people had moved, ect. It was a weird little trip down memory lane.
As you know, I ceased contact with my father last January. However, when I moved in, I found that he did not necessarily cease contact with me. Mom found out from my aunt that he was asking her if she knew that I was moving home: Something that I didn't tell anyone who is connected with him. He's stalking me, and I'm not happy about it, which is another reason I'm starting this blog up again.
When I lived in Oregon last year, I worked for the Marion County District Attorney's Office as a victim advocate for victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. Since finishing college, I have decided that I want to work with child victims of these crimes to effect change using therapy animals. I will be going to grad school for this, and it is really something I have been interested in since middle school, the time when I became aware that what my father was doing was abuse. Not only that, but he groomed me for sexual assault so well, that it wasn't until I was writing my "stay away" letter to him that I realized that what he had been doing to me was also sexual assault.
That being said, I would like to pass on information to women who think they are being abused, and to sexual assault families. It is my hope to get involved with a domestic violence shelter in my new home, or with the DA's office here, and I will be updating all the way.

We Are Like Jenny and Victor

2011-04-11T19:17:00.000-07:00

Alex and I keep having this conversation that he and I are like Jenny The Bloggess and her Husband Victor. For those of you who are new to the blog Alex is my ornery betrothed. He steals the warm blankets from me all the time so I freeze to death. But that has nothing to do with today’s conversation.

This morning I was eating breakfast while getting ready for work, and we were discussing the hamster we adopted that I have deemed defective because it isn’t cuddly like it advertises with its fluffiness. I was telling Alex that we need to return it to Petco, because it is defective.

You need to know that Alex is just as crazy as I am. We keep an empty fish bowl on our mantel because I made the mistake of wanting to own a fish that I forgot to feed half the time but miraculously survived living with me for 3 months. Anyway, it died, and now we just keep the bowl full to confuse people. Which, as far as I can tell, only works on people that have recently smoked pot (Alex’s friends, not mine). Only all the water has evaporated, so I guess the fish drank it all or something. Anyway, what spawned this conversation about the devil-rat was that Alex pointed out that we needed a new fish.

I told him that we needed to take back the defective merchandise, and Alex proceeded to inform me that we would probably end up on Not Always Right, the customer service blog that we read occasionally (for Alex, it’s a little more than occasionally I think). Then he monologued the following conversation:

“Hi Petco Employee, we’d like to return this hamster that we adopted from you because it isn’t cuddly and doesn’t like us. Can you refund us the money, or give us a better, more cuddly hamster that’s easier to catch?”

And I told him that’s not the way it would go. No, it would go something more like this:

“Hi Petco Employee, we need to return this hamster because it is from the devil and hates us, and is planning to launch a nuclear coup on us when we are asleep.”

And the Not Always Right story, according to Alex, would continue like this:

*Boyfriend walks out of store*

Edited: Boyfriend to Cashier: “Sorry my girlfriend forgot to wear her tinfoil hat today to let people know she’s crazy. We’ll try to remember it next time.” *Escorts girlfriend out of store*

Is it bad that I really want to try this now?

2011-02-15T09:50:00.000-08:00

It's definitely been awhile since I posted last, and I know it's on my Bucket List to post 200 times on this thing, and I'm in my last semester of college, so I guess I should start posting again. Well, plenty of new stuff since I posted last: I've been promoted at my new (as of November) job, I'm writing my super exciting, super cool thesis that will allow me to graduate this spring (if my professor ever sends me notes back, and I excommunicated my father, which I guess is another thing I can cross off my Bucket List. I sent the letter last month (January 11, 2011). I'm calling that day my freedom day. But it doesn't feel like freedom. Here's something I wrote:

"Hi, my name is X.
I'm a victim of y.
My freedom date is MM/DD/YYYY."
Together: "Hi X."
"Hi, my name is M.
I'm a victim of n.
My freedom date was MM/DD/YYYY."
Together: "Hi M."
My turn.
"Hi, my name is..."
Shit, what's my name?
Has his crime
Destroyed that much of me?
Where's my ID?
It says JA,
but that isn't me.
"My name is J."
What am I a victim of though?
What was the crime?
Dammit, why is this so
Confusing,
Difficult to Remember,
Difficult to Accept.
Maybe I don't want to remember.
Maybe I don't want to accept.
Fine.
"I'm a victim of domestic abuse and
Child Molestation,"
if that's what you want to call it.
I don't know if I would call it that.
Molestation is such a dirty word.
I don't want to be associated with that.
It's what pervs do,
It's what bad people do.
It's the stuff offenders tell their
VICTIMS
Not to tell about.
And he never told me not to tell,
So that must mean it wasn't,
or was it?
God, this is embarrassing.
Who am I talking to?
God must not exist.
He wouldn't have let this happen to me.
Whatever.
"My freedom date was 1/11/2011."
Only I don't feel free.
I feel guilt.
I feel sadness.
I thought freedom was supposed to be a
Good feeling,
like
Happiness
or
Joy.
So why do I feel lost,
like I'm in a large field with no landmarks on the horizon
or anywhere around me?
Lost with no name.
It's like Waiting for Godot
This is pointless.

I wonder if the slogan here is
'One day at a time'
like in AA.
Only here, we're not addicts,
we're victims of "addicts".
Mine's not an addict. He only did it to me.
He just has better excuses than
Others like him.
And better ways of hiding it,
And a better threshold for the
Boundaries
between
Getting Caught
and
Remaining Not GUILTY.
What he did is so much less than
Any other defendant.
But so much more
Because it's gone
Undetected,
and will remain so.
Maybe my letter was a bad thing,
Because it informed him he was
Borderline,
and needs to step back.

I look out the window and see a
Brick Wall.
Impenetrable.
Unwavering, despite my efforts.
No.
This isn't freedom.

2010-09-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

Seeing that I told you all that I would be back once school started, I'm a little behind on my posting.
Here's a little bit about what you missed while I was gone:
Alex moved in. Interning at the DA's office was so rewarding, and I am 3 weeks away from being finished. My job at JewelryShop sucks, and I hate my boss, but have made some awesome friends. I'm back in school, and the workload is a little heavy for all the things that I am juggling, but once my internship is over, I anticipate having a little more time on my hands for things such as homework. I have an interview at a nearby EB, the company that I have worked for on and off for the past five years. I am excommunicating my father, finally, after he put me through hell, worrying about whether or not I was going to have to sue him for the money that he is court ordered to pay. I'm doing some night work for the Stillings', and other than that, things are going pretty smoothly.
So, now onto school. I'm taking four classes, but only 3.5 credits. Right now, school consists of Mondays and Wednesdays, starting at 9:10 with an art class, then an English class that does a lot of reading (all Pulitzer prize-winning novels), and finally ending at 4:00 with a Personality Psychology Seminar. I love the art class, though I'm not too good with art. In fact, my latest escapade in the art world had to do with basically a white sheet of paper, colored almost all black with charcoal, except for a little bit of gray on the sides. Definitely epic. So not good. I'll post a picture later. My teacher said, just as we were leaving class, "I'm not going to grade these until Wednesday, so if you want to add anything to them..." I just thought, man, if I add anything to mine, it's just going to be one big, charcoal-y mess. When you see the picture, it will be funnier, I promise.
The literature class is also very amazing. Right now, we just finished Beloved, the book that I was trying to put off reading for the longest time because I thought it would be painful. It was, to some degree, but it was also very delightful. I had a good time reading it. It's about a ghost, basically, of a baby, who comes back to haunt her mother. Quite an interesting and original idea. Next, we're going to read the Shipping News. I've already started because I wanted to get a head start on the semester, so I bought my books about a month in advance, and started reading the one that looked most interesting. I also have to read The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz, and Olive Kitteridge, by someone I can't remember the name of right at the moment.
As for personality seminar, not so much. He assigns so much reading, and most of it is really dense, so I rarely get it all done. Not only that, but I don't understand a lot of the stuff that he says, but I'm too embarrassed to ask for clarification. *shrug* I suppose I'll get through it.
Finally, I'm taking the first part of my thesis class, which is a little scary at the moment. I am so not looking forward to writing that 20 page paper next semester. I thought theses were supposed to happen when you were in grad. school! Not in undergrad! Man, if I'm stressing now, think what it will be like when I actually start writing.
Also, I feel so accomplished today. I finished most of my and AS's laundry last night, so the laundry monster of monumental proportions is finally under control again. It took 4 hours! I didn't know it was possible to have that much laundry! Since school started, it has been easier to do it. While we still don't have a car, we can walk our laundry to the school (not far from the house) and pay 5-10 dollars to do seven loads of laundry (including drying!), as opposed to the 15-20 that we were paying at the laundromat, which was also a $5.00 bus ride away.
I love this. I love the freedom that I have now, even though I am working my ass off and taking odd jobs and such. Doing my laundry outside of my home, paying rent and my own bills, and the other downfalls are just a small price to pay for my life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

2010-07-24T11:10:00.000-07:00

It has recently hit me that I am four posts away from meeting my goal of having 200 posts, and not only that, but I haven't posted at all for the month of July. As of today, multiple things have changed in my life. AAS moved here to Collegetown a couple weeks ago, then, while setting up care with his new doctors, he landed himself in the hospital so they could kill the clots in him. So, he's been here since Tuesday, and I've been able to spend two nights with him. His family, luckily, was visiting, so they have been taking me back and forth from Collegetown to Hospitalville (an hour each way). They have been paying for dinner, they took us shopping for the things that we needed in our house.
DA internship is going extremely well, and I love some of my cases, and hate others. I can't stand my job at Zales, but I love the people I work with. Yesterday, I told my boss to not get hit by a car when she went to go get her lunch of pizza and soda. She stopped and gave me a look like, Did you really just say that? while my co-worker M. and I cracked up. I've made excellent friends with a girl named TM, soon to be TY, and ended up at a strip club for gay men, where all but one of the strippers were straight. (It was her bachelorette party). I'm totally stoked for her wedding, and also, the last wedding I went to, (LR and DH) Alex urged me to go try for the bouquet, and it's funny, because I actually caught it. Funny thing is, he's already told me he plans to propose in the next year. Freaking Awesome. :). We won't get married for a long time though, til we're 26. That way, he can stay on his parents' insurance plan in case something like this happens again. He's considering going into nursing, which I think is a good idea: more pay, better health benefits, and he'll be working in a hospital ALL THE TIME!
I love having him in the house. He's currently looking for a job, a hard thing to find in this dick-faced economy, and in the process, he cooks, he cleans, and best of all, he freaking LOVES me. And I love him... so much. Long distance worked for two years (a little less than), and now he's here, and he lives with me. *glee!*

Yo, Dudes.

2010-06-21T12:22:00.000-07:00

I'm peacing out for the time being. I'm working at the DA's office in the Victim Assistance Division, and as a result, my life has become too interesting to write about. The other stuff is just boring in comparison, which is why I believe no one reads this damn thing. I will post random stuff here and there, but it will be rare, and I will pick up my once a week ritual when school starts again in September.
Love y'all.

Finally.

2010-06-05T20:13:00.001-07:00

Neither of these postcards were sent in to PostSecret by me, but both of them describe pretty adequately how I feel. The one exception is that I had my loving and amazing boyfriend, and my fantastic mother as well as my TV show and movie companions. It's been a hard year, but it's looking up, folks. It's looking up.

New Place, New Life

2010-06-04T14:19:00.000-07:00

It's been SO LONG since I posted last that I felt like I owed my one devoted reader a new article. I found myself a new place. YES! That is right. I found a new place to live, one away from the crazy old woman, one of my very own. It's very small. It's very dirty. But it's very mine. I have lots of new friends in my new place. Many of them are spiders, alive and dead. I let one live today, because my mother said that I shouldn't waste time and energy on such a small spider. I told her that the only reason I waste time and energy on even the small ones is because I don't want them to end up in my bed, which, by the way, is very close to my living room. The kitchen is attached to the living/dining area, which is attached to my bedroom, which is attached to the bathroom. I'm learning all of my new house's quirks, like not drinking the water, and that the facet leaks slightly when you turn on the cold water, and the heater makes funny noises when I turn it up past seventy (only for a moment, and I only did it as a test). Also, the kitchen smells like gas when I cook, and the cupboards and drawers really need some contact paper. My parents are coming here for my uncle's wedding in two weeks, so I'm making a list of stuff that I want them to buy me when they get here. A plug for my tub is one of those things, because the handle that is supposed to stop the water from leaking down the drain doesn't work. You are lucky if you even get it two inches full for a bath.
It's weird sleeping in my own house on my own. The first night I stayed there, I got scared, because earlier that afternoon, I had been sleeping on my newly made bed, basking in the sun, when a creepy guy knocked on my window, and asked if I wanted a beer. When I said no, he asked if I wanted a Coke. When I refused that too, he asked if I wanted an iced tea. I turned that down also. He looked unconvinced, and somewhat dejected. I closed my window and got rid of him. Later that evening, I had opened my shades again, and I caught him walking past, when he had no reason to. Creeper. So I talked to my landlord. Turns out the guy is a felon who was staying with his mom. A felon for kidnapping. Ha. No wonder the only thing he was offering me was a drink. Bastard was trying to drug me. Anyway, Landlord talked to his mom and had her kick him out. Thank goodness. I don't think I could live next to a creeper for a year.
I did all of my dishes today (that I have unpacked so far). I was shocked to see that I actually had a sink! When I was done, I had five wet dish towels on my hands, with no towel rack to hang them on. Believe me, that's on my list. I also started to clean up my living room. Now you can see slightly more dirty brown carpet than before. And no, the carpet isn't brown because it's dirty. Mom said she was going to bring a carpet cleaner down from up North when she comes in two weeks. That way, I can get my carpet cleaned without having to pay someone for it.
Best things about my new house:

I can stay out as late as I want, or leave as early as I want, and I don't have to greet or bid adieu to someone I despise when I come and go.
There is no biddy with unlimited access to an annoying call button on a walkie talkie that I am responsible for.
I can decide what to have for dinner, at what time, and I don't have to have something from every food group on my plate.
No one is around to tell me when to clean, where to clean, or how to clean.
No one is around to interrupt me when I am doing something important, or something I care about, which hasn't been happening a lot lately, since all I've been doing is working at the DA's and at Zales. But still.
I can shop for my own groceries, and plan meals that don't disgust me, like "Pork and ginger ragu with squash," shit like Chrys used to make when she came down from Alaska.
There is no one around to correct my grammar, tell me that it's "she and I" and not "her and me".
There is no one around to interrupt me when I am speaking to correct my manners. I can scratch my damn feet at the dinner table if I so choose. Oh wait... what dinner table? Oops.
There is no one that I have to serve hot meals to, who will jabber on until her food gets cold, then complain passive aggressively about the cold food.
I get to buy my own milk, good milk, milk that doesn't taste like it has gone bad the moment you open it.

This is the top ten. If I think of anything else, I'll add it.
Also, I think it's notable to mention that I am getting closer and closer to my 200th post, something that was on my Bucket List, a few posts back. Take a look if you don't remember, folks.

News... and Spam

2010-05-22T07:28:00.000-07:00

So, spam is, for the most part, untraceable, correct? Sure it is! Not. I've been getting a lot of spam in my email as of late, and I've just been clicking the unsubscribe button. But today, I noticed something funny about my spam. It had another girl's name on it. Another girl that I happened to know. It started like this:

Dear L.
Thank you for signing up for a speeddate account...

Okay.... what the fuck. First of all, my name isn't L. Secondly, I know someone named L. who would have indirect reasons to spam me (she's friends with MZ and AK). But it cant possibly be her, can it? LB? NAH! So I click on the link to investigate further, see if whoever was a douchebag put a last name down. No, there wasn't a last name, so my suspicions weren't confirmed... right away. I then noticed that I had a profile picture. I looked at the picture, and what do you know! It was a previous profile picture of the same "friend" LB on facebook. So I called her on it. I cant wait to hear what her answer is. Dumbass. If you're going to spam someone's email, at least do it in such a way that it's untraceable.

In other news, I started my new job at Zales yesterday. Good stuff, except I don't know anything. Two teenage girls walked into the store last night, and one was like, "my mom's birthday is coming up, and I want to buy her a ring." So, the jewelry consultant in me was like, great, I know nothing about jewelry right now except that it sparkles and is pretty. What would be the first question I would ask if I was legit? "What's your price range?" Great question, JA, but you don't know ANYTHING about any of this jewelry. Luckily, she said she didn't know, so I told her I would let her look around, and if she had any questions, she could ask. She didn't and left the store shortly after. I fail at consulting. But I'll get better.

Less Unfortunate

2010-05-17T19:50:00.000-07:00

So, last week was shit week.
This week is infinitely better.
I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders
Like all my prayers have been answered.
Not only do I have a place to live
(At least for a month),
But I also landed a job,
Selling jewels and beautiful things.
I'm moving in a week.
Quitting my shitty job.
AAS is moving in in a month and a half.
Exciting to be together,
Finally,
After almost two years of being apart.
The DA internship is going well,
I'm getting more and more cases every day.
Keeping busy,
Just the way I Like It.

Life is finally coming together,
Fitting all the pieces into the puzzle.
My motivation has returned.
My sense of self
My sense of accomplishment,
My sense of direction.
Things feel like they will be okay.

The Series of Unfortunate Events: My Life Edition

2010-05-10T16:30:00.000-07:00

The one thing in the past week that hasn't sucked was the Nickelback concert, but I want to end this post on a happy note, so I'll save that bit for last.
So, the Nickelback concert was on Saturday, and when I went upstairs after dinner on Sunday, KS caught me and was like "J, we have some news for you." That's pretty much when I knew they had found someone to take my place working for MS. What she told me that the lady wanted to be moved in by the first of the month, and I realized that I only had two weeks to get a job and an apartment, that's when I panicked. So today I went job-hunting... and made quite possibly the dumbest mistake ever: I handed out resumes, and the last store I gave my resume to was the store that I realized the objective was the wrong objective. I had forgotten to proof-read it before I printed them out. And what, darlings, did that objective say, you may be asking yourselves. It said this: "To gain experience in the psychology field with victims of domestic violence, sexual assault, and young victims, while learning about the court system." I kid you not. The lady looked at me and was like, "Your objective doesn't state that you want to go into sales," with that are-you-stupid tone of voice. I had seen it before she did, and felt like an idiot already, and told her that I printed out the wrong resume. I had given out nine other resumes. Epic. Fail.
So I go home, and change, and then go to check out a house, but the renters that I would be subletting with couldn't get into the house because her freshly cut keys wouldn't work. So I took the applications on good faith that it was pretty on the inside, and with the knowledge that it's in a nice neighborhood, and went on my way to see the next little studio apartment that I had a meeting for. I was there about 20 minutes early, so I found a comfortable tree to sit against, and ended up witnessing a crime! Yeah, some kid broke the glass of a car window and jumped in and stole something. I'm a good citizen, so I called the police and filed a report. I just feel bad for the people who the car belongs to. How are they going to pay for it? Oh well, guess that will teach them for parking on the street in a sketchy neighborhood.
Now, for the Nickelback concert. Two words: Fucking. Amazing. Sick Puppies opened for them, Shinedown followed Sick Puppies, and Breaking Benjamin came third. All of them were pretty good bands. Then Nickelback took the stage. OH. MY. GOD. AWESOME! They had this curtain up around their stuff that had the Dark Horse logo displayed on it. When they started playing, fireworks went off, and I thought someone was shooting at us! Then they dropped the curtain and started their set off with the most perfect song to start a set off with, Burn it to the Ground!

"Well it's midnight, damn right, we're wound up too tight
I've got a fist full of whiskey, the bottle just bit me
Oh
That shit makes me bat shit crazy
We've got no fear, no doubt, all in balls out

We're going off tonight
To kick out every light
Take anything we want
Drink everything in sight
We're going till the world stops turning
While we burn it to the ground tonight
Oh

We're screaming like demons, swinging from the ceiling
I got a fist full of fifties, tequila just hit me
Oh
We got no class, no taste, no shirt, and shit faced
We got it lined up, shot down, firing back straight crown

We're going off tonight
To kick out every light
Take anything we want
Drink everything in sight
We're going till the world stops turning
While we burn it to the ground tonight
Oh

Ticking like a time bomb, drinking till the nights gone
Well get you hands off of this glass, last call my ass
Well no chain, no lock, and this train won't stop
We got no fear, no doubt, all in balls out!"

Totally all in balls out that night! They had THE MOST AWESOME pyrotechnics, as well as great music! They played all my favorite songs, even songs from like, ten years ago! Seriously, one of THE MOST AMAZING CONCERT EXPERIENCES OF MY LIFE! The best concert orgasm ever! Chad Kroeger was funny, telling jokes and stuff the whole time. Lighting was amazing, the band was giving away free beer and tequila to the people on the floor. It was simply AMAZING. More later.

Know How I Thought Everything Was Going So Great? Yeah.. Not So Much

2010-05-08T11:58:00.001-07:00

Last time I updated you, I left you with my schedule up until next Wednesday, I think (end of finals). I took my driver's test, and failed on these grounds: I signaled when I started, but I guess she didn't catch that, because she marked me down on it. She marked me down for an unnecessary stop at a corner where there was no stop sign, which I thought was unfair because there was a vehicle parked that was impeding my vision, so I couldn't see a stop sign, if there was one there, and I was therefore being a defensive driver. Apparently I didn't pay enough attention when I turned, because she marked me down for observation. She marked me down for my lane use, in both observation and position. I checked over my shoulder every time I changed lanes, but apparently she didn't get that, and when I was going down a residential street, it wasn't marked as a two-lane street, but apparently it was, because I was driving in the middle of what I thought was a one-way street, doing exactly the same thing as the guy ahead of me. That bastard made me fail! Then she said I moved into the left hand turn lane too soon, which I think was bullshit, because I entered about a car length from when the yellow lines stopped. She said I took my corners too fast, and that I sucked at backing up. And to top it all off, she took me through fucking construction! I saw the flagger, and I had time to stop, but she warned me to stop before I had the opportunity, which was my automatic failure. Thanks bitch. Have a shitty day.
So that was my driver's test. Then came my birthday. I turned 21. The first part wasn't so bad. I went out with friends who are less than 21, and we had dinner, they sang to me at Red Robin, and it was fun. After that, I had made plans to meet up with people to go to the bar for my first time. No one showed up. I already knew I had no friends, but seriously? I'm offering to go drinking, and no one wants to take me up on that? My friend, H. told me that she was going to be late, but she never called. So I went to the bar anyway, and did the whole rite of passage first drink bit. By the time I was done, no one had shown up yet. So I paid my tab and left, feeling like crap. Just as I was leaving, my father calls. I told him no one showed up, and he was like, "Call your Uncle D. (Oldman)." I knew Uncle Oldman would love to have a drink with me, and two drinks in a half an hour told me it would be a good idea to call him at 10pm. Not so much. A), he had already had a few drinks, so he couldn't come in to Universitytown, and B) 10pm is late for him. He gets up early in the morning. My alcoholized self didn't think about this. But I told him what happened, and he was pissed that my friends didn't show up, and my mom tells me he was pissed that I went out by myself anyway. So he insisted that he call someone and have them pick me up and take me home. That someone turned out to be my cousin, DH. DH and I have nothing in common. And I felt bad for having to have him come and pick me up. I kept telling Oldman that I could get home by myself, and that if it made him feel better, I could call my boss and have her come and get me. He wouldn't have it. "Too many methheads around." Apparently he doesn't know about all those late nights that I spend at school. So yeah. That was a shitty night.
Yesterday was alright. I sat in the library all day working on a paper outline. Still haven't done the paper yet, but I'm preparing for a "Don't go out by yourself and drink" lecture for on the way to the concert. Mom says I was wrong to do it, because the bartender could have slipped me something. What she doesn't realize is that I watched the bartender make my drinks, and I watched my drinks once they were in front of me. I was fine.
Then there was yesterday. I went to look at an apartment, and got into a fight with AAS. Fun. Shit.

2010-05-04T11:40:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I told you guys and myself that I would post at least once a week, but at least I'm not that far behind. I just have a lot of big stuff happening! For instance, I'm going to look at an apartment today that's about a mile and a half from the school. I am scheduled to take my driver's test tomorrow in Stown! So excited, and not sure if I'm ready. My birthday is Thursday, I'm turning 21. I also have a paper due Thursday. I'm going to a concert on Saturday night to celebrate my birthday, and then I have a paper due on Monday, as well as a final exam on Monday morning. Following that, on Tuesday I have a paper due, and my last final is Wednesday morning. Then on Thursday, I start at my internship site (technically I've already started because I already have a case. But whatever. Technicalities, right?)
I'm stoked for the summer. AAS MOVES here in July, which is less than TWO MONTHS from now! I'm busy looking for a place for us to live, and hopefully the place I applied to will accept us, but as of right now, I'm still looking because I haven't heard from the landlords. I'm also looking for a new job. I had two interviews a couple weeks ago, and I'm supposed to hear back from both companies sometime soon, but I haven't yet, so I should get my ass back into applying for more jobs. I might be changing my schedule for next semester around a bit too. We'll see what happens. I supposed I gotta do what I gotta do to make ends meet, right?
Stuff is scary though, knowing that soon I will have to start paying about $200 dollars for an apartment, and that as of right now, I don't have the funds or the employment to do so. Well, I have papers to get to, but I'll probably just end up watching House. Go me.

Panic Mode. Let's Avoid That, Shall We?

2010-04-28T17:06:00.000-07:00

The fact of the matter is, I have finals in two weeks, and three presentations that I have to give on Monday, as well as people that I have to meet with regarding living situations, and interviews. Plus, I haven’t been there for the past two weeks anyway, thereby losing all authority I have over the other scene shop workers. And I suck at explaining things. And people don’t listen to me. So much for everything my mom told me about my being a leader and not a follower when I was little. The fact of the matter is, between my upcoming presentations, my job interviews, and my potential roommate interviews/viewings of rooms and houses, and my evening job, I don’t have any time to work for the next two weeks.
As soon as I turned in my notice, it hit me how stressed I am right now. And I guess it wasn’t really turning in my notice, because giving notice consists of letting your employer know that you will only be there for two more weeks, and that is kind of pointless for my situation.
To give you an idea, here is my finals to-do list:

Women and gender paper (half done)
Women and gender powerpoint (wont even be started until Sunday night)
Language Learning and Acquisition (LLA) powerpoint slides
LLA paper
LLA unit three paper
Russian lit novella
Russian lit paper topic
Women and gender test
Russian lit paper
Driver's test
Practice for Driver's test
Psych internship paperwork (mostly done, I just need to write a page on what I have to do for my internship)
Then there's actual finals.

Now an idea for why I am stressed:

The length of my to-do list
Three presentations due all on the same day
At least 6 psych articles to read before Sunday
Prep for my driver's test
I'm now unemployed
I'm looking for a house/place to live for myself and my boyfriend (harder than you would think, because most places that we can afford, the landlord or housemates are opposed to taking a couple, and I can't afford many places like that on my own.
I can't get a house/place to live without a source of income, and believe me... they check for that.
I have to get a cheap place that isn't far from University, in a good neighborhood. This is difficult to find, because all the places near University are either expensive, or are in a neighborhood that I wouldn't want to be biking home alone at night in without a machete or handgun.

And what am I going to do to keep from freaking out? Good question:

I will remember that I most likely have a month or two to find another job and a place to live.
I will remember that I most likely got the job at Zales
I will remember that AAS is coming, and that makes everything better
I will remember that Uncle Oldman will help me out if I need it
I will repeat my mantra, "Que sera sera"
I will take things step-by-step
I will take deep breaths
When I start to freak out, I will take a break
I will remember that God will provide me with a home when I need it.

I hope this will work. I hope things will turn out alright.

Challenged World Views

2010-04-27T19:26:00.000-07:00

Above: Degas's "Bather"

I stood at the bus stop today
Feeling totally out of place in my fancy dress clothes
Amongst all the low-income citizens,
Mentally and physically disabled persons,
And the different races.
Though, I guess I shouldn't have felt out of place...
I'm one of them,
Just a sheep in wolf's clothing.
I placed my bike on the bicycle rack,
Climbed onto the bus,
Paid my fare.
They could tell that I don't usually ride,
I didn't have a monthly or weekly pass.
I pulled out my book,
The one I'm reading that has an essay in it
About Degas and the female nude.
I turned to the spot that I had marked,
The spot with the painting Bather on it.
A girl sits next to me,
About my age.
She's dressed like someone you would typically think of as
White Trash.
She must have glanced over,
Because she commented,
"I love that painting."
It was of a nude woman... so I thought she was being crude
I thought she didn't really recognize the painting.
Then she said,
"He's a great artist. Degas."
The wind blowing outside the bus
Could have blown me out the window
And left me in the bus's exhaust.
"Yeah," I replied. "I'm writing an essay on him for a class."
"For college or for high school?"
"For college."
"Cool."
"Yeah."
"I wanted to go to art school. I got a couple offers when I was in high school.
But I was three credits short of graduating."

I guess it just wasn't worth it for her.
She moved on after a short conversation,
Leaving my
Preconceived misconceptions
On the seat next to me.
I didn't like them enough to want them back,
So when I got off, I left them there
For some other snobby bitch to pick up.

Update, and My Story.

2010-04-24T11:03:00.000-07:00

Alright, alright. It’s been awhile since I last posted, and I guess I owe you an update. As of this moment, I have four places that I am seriously considering for me and AAS when he gets here. I am going to check one of them out on Sunday hopefully. I think that that will be the right place for us, if they like us well enough. I think I landed myself the retail job, but I have an interview at a bank on Tuesday. The manager who interviewed me asked me to sell her the pen she was using, and I was like, hmm, it’s a clickie pen… Then I turned to her and said “Manager, this is a great pen, because you can use it with one hand. You seem like a busy woman, so when you come into the office, and you have coffee in your hand and need to sign something immediately, it’s one click with the hand you’re holding the pen with, and you’re in business. Besides, look at the lovely color of the ink!” She said to me, “If you can sell me a pen, successfully, in 30 seconds, you can sell anything with training.” She also told me that she’s “still interested if [I’m] still interested,” which I am, because I need something that pays the bills, and I need it in a hurry.
Yesterday was my first day at the DA’s office (for my internship), and I am proud to say that not only did I take my first call (SCARY, at first) but I was assigned my first case, and successfully completed the first steps that I needed to take for that. I also got the fancy little key-card thingie that magically unlocks doors when I wave it like a wand in front of the little black doo-hickies next to them. I also set up my phone line, and felt like an idiot when I had to ask a secretary how to turn off my computer because it kept automatically restarting when I shut it down. It was ghost computer.
Speaking of ghosts, the WDC concert is this weekend, so I’ve been teching it up x.hardcore.x all week this week. Last night was Opening Night, and I feel proud to say that I designed a damn good light show with what I had available. The stage manager of SA helped me A LOT, and taught me how to do stuff that AHarv never taught me to do while I was working in the light shop. I knew how to focus lights before I started working in SA, but I didn’t have any experience with bounce focusing, which I did successfully the first time on the second light that I tried. I also got experience in setting up microphones, and such like that. Seriously. Great experience. He watched the show last night (the SM of SA) and gave me kudos for successfully pulling off so many light cues for one show. The only problems that I’ve been having with this are these three damn lights. They’re in the very back, and they come on at random, and go off at random. We in the business call this “ghosting”. Hence the “speaking of ghosts” earlier. We managed to get to the last song (out of 12 dances) before the ghosting lights came on. I think that that is pretty damn good.
Finally, this week was sexual assault awareness week. I went to “Take Back the Night” in Campus Chapel after rehearsal, and no one was there anymore. I still went in, with the intention of praying and processing. What ended up happening was another person who was at my rehearsal came in late, and I ended up telling him my story, and crying about it for the first time. Like I told him, I have difficulty with it, and complicated feelings about it:
It wasn’t night. It was day. He had just asked me to be his girlfriend, and I liked him well enough, so I said yes. I told him before anything happened that I didn’t want to have sex, so he did everything but. Many things I was uncomfortable with. After my sexual assault training with the DA’s office, I realized that even the steps before the actual thing occurred were considered sexual assault, because I felt violated. It’s why I never liked receiving head. I never said yes. Then he started pressuring me. Pressing up against me. To the point where I knew he was going to rape me. He didn’t have protection, because we weren’t having sex. This is where it gets confusing. I got up. I dug in my drawer for a condom. I handed it to him. This was to protect myself. Now, I ask myself why I didn’t just leave. I was up. I could have/should have just put my clothes back on and left. The DA training says when women ask questions like that “You did what you had to do to survive.” I didn’t say yes to him. But I didn’t say no either.
When my mom returned home that night, I told her what had happened in my bedroom earlier. I guess take back the night wasn’t the first time I cried, because I cried when I told her. Do you know what she said to me? She reminded me of how many men I had slept with in the past year. She told me I was being promiscuous. She called me a whore.
Now, my mom and I were close. Still are. So you can see why I started to believe her. Why, for almost two years, I believed that it wasn’t really rape, that it was just a bad sexual experience. Then I took the DA training. I realized that my feelings of being violated were valid. Friends and relatives often blame the victim to distance themselves from it. This is what my mother was doing by calling me a whore, by telling me I was just being promiscuous. I realized that that boy had touched me in the confusing way, not the good touch or the bad touch. The confusing touch. And my responses to said touch were just as confusing.
He left hickies on my neck. I had to wear those for at least a week. And every time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of what happened. I was reminded that I had been a part of this, that I didn’t know what that part was. But I did know that I didn’t want it, and I did know that I felt like crap because of it.
And just now, because of what she said to me, just now, I am able to process what actually happened to me.

Changes

2010-04-16T07:26:00.001-07:00

Big changes have been happening recently. Seriously. Unless you're me, you have no idea what this feels like. Most of you are used to reading this blog and hearing me bitch about random things. I have been unhappy. No wonder I bitch. Well, I'm beginning to change that.

I gave notice with KS, and will be telling MS on Sunday that I will be moving out no later than August (I'm going to shoot for/plan for earlier, because I want to get the hell out, and I have to be ready to go with, like, a week's notice). This is exciting, because I finally get to live on my own, determine my own schedule, and be more in control of my life. And this will be a good thing. I will be responsible for my own rent, which scares the hell out of me, but I will make it. Which brings me to my next point.
AAS is finally moving up here. We're going to live together. This is AMAZING, I can't believe it's happening, I can't wait, and like the above change, I am scared shitless (He says he is too, so it's okay). (PS, shut up Microsoft word. I used the proper form of "it's")
Being responsible for rent means getting another job. With my days full of 8-5 shifts, I thought this would be nearly impossible, and that with the recession, neither AAS or myself would be able to find jobs. However, I walked into Zales yesterday after taking their little "Do you have a clean criminal record" test. I passed, and with the number of hours I am looking for before I move out, they are ecstatic to have me, and asked for an interview immediately, but I'm pretty sure I have the job. I will have to work only on weekends though until I move out, or ask KS for the time off.
My new fish is not dead, and I haven't decided on a name for him. (okay, this is less exciting, but my next point was the DA Victim Assistance position, and you already knew about that, and having to get my Driver's License, which, by the way, the DMV in this county is a bastard because they wouldn't let me take my driver's written test, because my transcript wasn't sent to me. Dick move, guys. Dick move. See, they didn't actually specify that I needed to have it sent to me. They just told me that I needed the transcript. I cried, and kicked my bike with flip flops on, and now I have a blood blister. Yeah… I wasn't very smart right in that moment.)
Also I got all the classes that I want for next year, but I can get rid of two, if I want to decrease my tuition and my financial aid, and I have all MW classes if I just get rid of the hard one of the two.. I'm so tempted, but if I want to go to grad school, they're going to see that I took two 100 level classes, and two 400 level classes, which would look bad for me. But I definitely don't want to be stressed.

More updates later, as things progress. I've found a place that would be willing to take AAS and me in August. J

Editions

2010-04-12T18:42:00.001-07:00

Couple of new things:

First off, I got a new fish. His name is yet to be determined. At the moment, I'm torn between Ghandi, Maximus Decimus Meridius (from Gladiator), or Dog. He's a betta, aka, a fighting fish, so it would be ironic to name him Ghandi, fitting to name him Maximus, and I thought it would just be funny to name him Dog, because I had to walk through the park when I was bringing him home.

Secondly, and possibly more excitingly, I got the internship with the DA, which means that I can cross that off my Bucket List. I'm STOKED, and I just about called today to see if I could take a case as a volunteer, even though I don't start as an intern until May. Then I remembered how much stuff I have to do between now and my birthday (in May) and decided that maybe it wouldn't be a wise idea. Something else that just occurred to me is that they probably wouldn't let me because I don't currently have my driver's license and they don't take people without their licenses, which brings me to my next point:

By May, I will have my driver's license, for the first time ever (unless I fail, but I am praying please please please don't let me fail, because if I do, I can't have my internship!) which means that I will be able to cross that off my list! Yay!

Anyway, I'm registering for classes for my second to last semester at University, and I'm stoked, but also nervous that I won't get the class that I want.

More updates later.

Braveheart Wasn’t Really That Brave

2010-04-04T11:02:00.001-07:00

Well dears, it's been a little more than a week since I posted last, but I have some sad sad news. For those of you who have grown attached to Braveheart the Fish, this might come as a shock. Braveheart the Fish wasn't so brave. Despite Braveheart's brave heart on the journey home, he died Wednesday evening. He was floating on his side when I got home from school and when I caught him to take him out, he started moving again! He was swimming on his side, but he was still moving, so I hurriedly took him out, thinking that I needed to change the water in his tank, and I put him in a smaller bowl of untreated water to see if I had put too much treatment in. He laid there for a little while, moving occasionally, but by eight pm, Braveheart had moved his last gill. So I sent him to heaven via the U-bend in my bathroom.

Has anyone else had a fish die, then flushed him, then had to pee and felt bad for peeing "on the fish"?

I'm getting a hamster next time. They tolerate more and live longer.

The Tale of Braveheart… the Fish

2010-03-28T13:32:00.001-07:00

Instead of working on my homework that I will have absolutely no time for next week, I am going to be a bad student today and tell you about the recent goings on in my life. First of all, spring break was last week. Guess what I did! I stayed here, in UniverCity and worked with MS, while training for the DA internship that I might not even get. Yes, I know I keep tacking that last bit on, just to keep my hopes from rising to a level where it will suck if I get rejected. Because of this training, I have learned more about domestic violence, sexual assault, murder, and victim psychology then I ever thought I would need to/want to know. I was fingerprinted for the first time (and I think they smudged the last bit, so I might need to run out to the sheriff's office one day, you know, 20 miles from my house with no car, to do it over again. I have also been forced to confront the demons that have been hiding inside me about my own sexual assault. And on top of all this, the hardest part of this job, I can't share with anyone else, and that is the stories. The stories about the victims. I nearly started crying in my training the other day because of one of the stories, because I could picture my mom in the place of the victim, saying the same thing. It's hard to listen to, and it's confidential. Ruff stuff.

So now it's the weekend. I've been making up for the tough stuff (you know in the Chicken Soup for the Soul books, how they always have a section on tough stuff? Yeah, most of the victim stories about the cases belong in that section) by eating pizza, watching movies and House marathons, and buying a fish. That's right. A fish. His name is Braveheart and I got him yesterday at the pet store for 27¢. Mhm, 27/100 of a dollar. Including his bowl and water conditioner and everything, he actually probably cost me more along the lines of about 20 bucks, but I think he was a worthy investment.

A couple of weeks ago, I was Stumbling on the internet with StumbleUpon and I came across a quote from Carl Jung that depression can be treated by caring for something that is living. At the time, I was feeling like crap, partially because I've been having issues with self-worth and how that correlates to friendship, and the perception of how others view the self. Anyway, I stumbled upon this, and thought that maybe a pet would be an automatic friend, someone I can talk to and tell all my thoughts and fears to, when in all actuality, it would be me talking to myself, and processing my own thoughts aloud to an animate object that can't actually understand me. So his name is Braveheart.

Originally, I was going to get a beta. I like betas. They're beautiful, you can keep them in a small bowl, and you rarely have to change the water. You don't need a filter or air bubbles for them. They are simple creatures. When I got to the pet store, I found a beta that I liked: a beautiful grey-ish blue with bright blue where his fins attached to his body, and red at the tips of his fins. He was absolutely gorgeous. Then I noticed that there was a hole in the top of the container that he was in; a hard plastic container, like something that you would purchase the employee-made potato salad in at Safeway. This kind of container is not something that would be conducive to keeping a fish alive for an hour on a bumpy bike ride home. So I rethought my purchase a little. Should I come back on a day when I can catch a bus here, or when I can get a ride? Do I really need a pet? I guess not, but I really want one, and I really want to get it tod—ooh goldfish! Oh my gosh, they're 14 times less expensive than the beta! But a beta is prettier. But I can get a goldfish home safer if they put them in one of those plastic bags that they give you at the fair when you win the coin toss. But goldfish are so common. But betas aren't really active. I really wish I could have a hamster, but I don't think it would be easy to hide it and what if it escaped like Snowball did that one time, and someone found out about it and told MS? I think she's be pretty upset about a rodent. But goldfish only come in one color—wait, no they don't! They have grey ones in the tank too!

Anyway, the debate in my head went on like this for awhile, and I did seriously consider a hamster as another option. I finally asked an employee to explain what I need for a basic tank for a goldfish, my mind not quite made up yet. I finally put away the beautiful beta, and asked the man who was helping me to get a fish out of the tank. He asked if there was a specific one that I wanted. I didn't really care, they looked all the same to me, until I saw him. The pretty white goldfish with the orange on the top of his head and a spot on the top of his fin. The associate fished (insert repressed amused snort here) my fish out of the tank, and deposited him into the bag (score!) that would be his home for the next 3-4 miles, the next 45 minutes, which might have been the worst of his life. I had all the equipment (which included two pounds of gravel (black, to accent his white color), a tank that I had thriftily purchased at the thrift store next door, a small plant, water conditioner and treatment, and fish food, along with the stuff that I had brought with me) in my bag, which was quite heavy, and the fish in the bag the pet store gave me (because it gave me a little more to hold onto than the bag he was housed in). I figured he would get squished if I put him in my purse with the other stuff, so I held onto him the whole ride home. I'm sure he was traumatized by the motion of the ocean in the bag, so when we got home, I made him comfortable right away. So comfortable, in fact, that he stopped moving for the rest of the day. I thought he was dead.

Later in the evening, I fed him a little when he started moving again, and he got quite active. Now he's moving and swimming and cute, and hence the name Braveheart. I think if he wasn't brave, he wouldn't have made it, and I would be flushing Braveheart and going back to the pet store on Thursday to get another 27 cent fish. Hell, I still might go back to get another one. Forget what the man said about one fish per gallon. I'm sure two fish will be fine in my tank.

I told my mom that I bought a fish yesterday, and I can't remember the whole conversation, but I think when I mentioned that I was calling him Braveheart, she was like, "What??" and asked me why I was naming a fish I was going to eat. I think she thought that I had gone mad for sure at that point, because I kept using the word we to refer to myself and the fish, so I told her about my trip to the pet store. She got it then. I also told her about the little boys who were laughing at the mice, two of which were holding on for dear life to the wheel while one ran. You can imagine what that scene was like. Although, I will admit that I laughed too.

Mandatory Reporting, My Ass

2010-03-25T09:03:00.001-07:00

So, here's the deal: after listening to an attorney who works for the DA (called a Deputy District Attorney, or DDA) talk for an hour about mandatory reporting, I was basically shamed into reporting on my father. I didn't tell them it was my father; I asked what you should do if there was a conflict of interest, like if you were dating someone who was abusive to their children. I called Washington's DHS, and found out that what my father has been doing all along is not abuse. Let me take you back 7 years for a moment

I'm in a car, and my father is threatening to whip me with a belt. "I'll report you to CPS for child abuse if you do!" He said, "It isn't abuse if I don't leave bruises."

Okay, back to the present. I was discussing this with my mom last night, and we both have the idea that he probably looked it up to see how far he could go before he got in trouble, thereby enforcing his status as an abuser. I learned yesterday in training that they did a study on the heart rate, perspiration rate, and breathing rate of abusers. The researchers sent the victims in with their abusers to provoke them, and just before the abuse happened, they stopped the experiment. What they found was that the abuser's heart rate, breathing rate, and perspiration rate all went down. The abuse cycle had a calming effect on the abuser. He plans it every time!

Also, I got fingerprinted for the first time. There was more that I was going to tell you, but I can't remember at the moment. Will post again soon.

Mandatory Reporting

2010-03-24T07:49:00.001-07:00

Okay, for those of you who read and don't know, I am applying for an internship at the DA's office. I'm not totally clear on the boundaries here, but either now, or if I get it, I will be a mandatory reporter for cases of known child abuse and neglect. This means that if I don't report something, I could get in serious trouble. As in, be held in contempt and receive jail time. Fun, huh? So here is my problem. My father is emotionally abusive to his family, but mostly to his wife. He has never hit her, myself, or my step-sister, even though he has threatened to several times. He displays many characteristics of an abuser (because he is one) but doesn't batter. As far as I know, there are no laws against this in Eastern State. However, he has spanked his children when they don't do what he wants. He has spanked them with a spoon. A wooden spoon, from the kitchen.

Now, when he threatened to beat me with his belt when I was in the 8^th grade, he told me that I couldn't report it to CPS because it wasn't abuse if he didn't leave bruises. This is where I'm torn: I know that his logic is false, but I don't know how far it has to go before it is considered abuse. Does spanking a child with a spoon constitute as discipline, or as abuse? And if I did report it, who would I report to? Telling the DA of my office wouldn't do much because they have no jurisdiction over the county that my father lives in. If I reported it to CPS in Eastern State, what would they do? Would they tell him that I reported him? Do I get in trouble if I don't report my own family?

Old Woman

2010-03-23T19:38:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, living with MS is like living with a child. I was thinking this the other day when I was helping her with the bath. I hate doing this. She gets the bathroom extremely hot, she splashes everywhere, she wears wax earplugs so she doesn't get an ear infection, and she has me wash her back and her hair. I was literally thinking while this was happening, Dear Lord, I am NEVER having children.

Sometimes living with MS is like watching grass grow. We sit down to eat dinner together every night, and I have grown up with my mother, who eats so fast, it's like she's taking a vacuum to her plate. Therefore, I have inherited her ability to snarf down a whole meal in about 15 minutes. This also comes from practice during my shifts at Big Retail Store when I go home for breaks. Oftentimes, I only have 15 minutes to eat, and therefore need to eat faster. So you must understand the agony that I go through, being on the verge of ADHD, unable to sit still while I watch an 80-odd-year-old woman take five minutes to chew each of the 15 quarters of ¼ inch sliced cucumber that pepper her salad. You can understand why I can't sit still for that long.

Sometimes living with MS is like living with a TV that stays on all the time, whether you're in the room with it or not, constantly spewing useless information that you can't really change whether you want to or not, and no matter what channel you turn it to, you rarely find anything interesting. MS reads the paper. She watches political TV. And therefore, she always has the most useless information, or information about stuff that I already know about. And when she is energetic, she will call me every five minutes to spout this useless information.

Sometimes living with MS is like living with a pet you don't really like. For instance, you bought this little football dog that you thought would make a nice, small, less-mess pet, but all it does is bark all the time, ask to be let outside, and whine to be fed. While MS doesn't ask to be let outside, she'll call me ten minutes before she's actually ready for bed to do things that I cannot do until she is ready for bed, and in bed. Like a dog, she doesn't understand that when she stands in your way, you can't do what it wants you to. She'll call me down so I can watch her sit on the toilet for ten minutes while she changes her clothes, and I am taskless. And then, like the dog that stands in your way, she won't get all the way into bed, so I can't take her fucking socks off.

Sometimes, living with MS is like living with an old woman. Oh, wait. That isn't a simile.

Absinthe Eyes

2010-03-19T09:50:00.001-07:00

There I sat on the corner of 14^th and Center

After the long walk from the shelter

In my shabby coat, and my tattered, unbrushed hair.

Cars passed.

People spat at my sign from their windows.

They don't get that I can't get a job

That I don't have an address

That I don't have a place to take a shower.

On top of all that, I don't have a speck of green.

What a cruel day to be homeless.

Then she walked up.

With her blonde pixie cut,

Her green shirt and brooch.

Definitely the type of punk that laughs

With her absinthe-colored eyes.

Her piercings reminded me

Of the rainbows that leprechauns frequent

She got close enough to pinch me,

The tradition of the day.

She leaned down

And pinned a bill on my shirt.

Twenty dollars.

"There's your green for today," she said.

She disappeared around the corner,

And I had a hot meal for the first time in a week.

List Three?: Top Ten Bands I Would Love to See in Concert

2010-03-18T15:48:00.001-07:00

John Mayer
Nickelback (bought tickets to see them in May, my uncle and I are going for my birthday!)
Keith Urban
Brad Paisley
Relient K (I saw them with Switchfoot a little over a year ago. Hearing the opening chords of "Meant to Live" was epic!)
Jason Mraz
Dierks Bentley
Daughtry
Dave Matthews Band
Big and Rich (their cds are pretty awesome, and I think they would be funny, as well as their factor of badass musicosity)

Saint Patrick, Among Others

2010-03-17T13:51:00.001-07:00

I would have to argue that St. Patrick's Day is probably the dumbest celebrated holiday ever. Saint Patrick was supposedly the patron saint of Ireland, but did you know he was actually British? He was taken from Britain as a slave by Irish raiders when he was 16. Apparently while he was there, he had an epiphany that he should be a monk, and he was able to go back to Britain to train. Finally he ended up in Ireland again, this time by choice. Was he crazy? If I was captured when I was 16, and I managed to escape, the last thing I would want to do is go back! So now that we have established the fact that he was a monk, let's just reiterate that he was British before telling everyone that Ireland made him their patron saint. So now, when we celebrate SPD, we're actually celebrating Ireland. Regardless, it's supposed to be a day that honors a saint, right? Well, I hardly think that a monk would approve of people in another country partaking in food-colored beer in his name. I don't think Ireland even makes green beer. And on top of all this, where the hell did the leprechauns come in? And what about holidays for every other saint in the canon? Why don't they get their own celebratory days? And the pinching for lack of green clothing? WTF? Actually, I think that last one comes from one too many mean-hearted children who are beaten at home and need to take it out on the less-liked kid who always forgets to wear green. Guess I was that kid.

Despite the rant about SPD, I do have a poem that I am currently composing about it that isn't a rant in the slightest. So just hold out with me until I get it done and I'll publish it for you.

The people on sustainability council at my school were serving "sustainable" SPD cake today. It was chocolate with green frosting and green sprinkles. But it wasn't the cake that I am so concerned about, it was what was under it. These people, representatives of the sustainability council were serving their cake on paper plates. You read that right. Paper plates with plastic forks. I could understand the paper plates if we had a compost bin at my school. But we don't. And the plastic forks? Straight into the landfill. Way to go, sustainability council. Way. To. Go. Also, if the idea of sustainability is to limit the cutting down of trees, then why take their sticks off, just to annoy the ducks at the stream? Sticking 760 twigs in the ground all around on the bank of the stream isn't making a good point if you defeat the purpose by being contradicting in making your point.

Finally, I saw MZ with some guy today. I felt this uncontrollable urge to warn him that she's a douchemonger pig-bitch that will treat you nice until you think you're her best friend, and then turn around with her real, asshole best friend and stab you in the back. Whenever I see her with a new friend, I get this desire. I also get the desire to publish it on the internet, but I refrain from… oh, wait… no, I guess I actually do that. But not so that anyone knows who she is, or who I am (well, besides those of you who actually do know me personally). Anyway, while fighting this urge, and also the urge to untie her sling (she did something to her arm recently; I kind of want to hit it and see how loud she screams. Wow… no wonder they didn't want to live with me. I'm mean), I started thinking. If she and AK are the outward assholes (meaning, I may be an asshole too, but at least I'm good at hiding it until I'm anonymous), and they are the ones who did the wronging, why am I the lonely one? Why am I the one with no friends, when they have all sorts of new friends?

Anyway, wait for the poetry. It will be coming soon.

Creative Writing Exercise, Inspired by Carrie at Carrotspeak

2010-03-16T17:44:00.001-07:00

What it comes down to is that Carrie at Carrotspeak is taking this creative writing course, where the exercise was to make a list of facts about yourself, someone else, the world, little known facts, ect. and then write an essay around one of them. So, here is mine:

See this? Here, on my skin. See it? That little tan spot? That one is from the horrible sunburn I got at Blue Lake when I went camping with my family. It was the first and only time I ever owned a bikini, because my boobs were too big for anything but a bandeau, and after that summer, I started middle school, where self-esteem was an issue for all girls, and the one thing that I happened to be self-conscious was the slight belly that stuck over the edge of my bottoms. I could barely sleep that night because it hurt so bad.

These two on my face, right next to each other, are from that time on the playground during the summer that I worked for Best SELF, the time that I was asking Luis, a twelve-year-old trouble maker about the meaning of a certain Spanish word that came up in my reading for AP English, which wasn't really age appropriate, if you know what I mean. This is a child who I sent out to run (as punishment) for swearing. So when I asked him this, you can imagine that I was slightly surprised when he wouldn't tell me what it meant, seeing as he swore all the time anyway.

And this one? On my arm? This one is from tramping around the fields chasing cattle with CMA on her parents' dairy farm when we were ten. I spent the night at her house that night, and we pulled mattresses out into the yard to sleep under the stars. We nearly got mauled by Bob, the Saint Bernard that they kept as a dog, for some reason. The thing really belonged in a horse pen, if you ask me. I guess the reason we were so freaked out by him because not only was he so big, but he slobbered a lot, and we fed off of each others' energy.

I got its twin the next day, when we went swimming in that pond her dad dug that summer. I remember he rented a tractor to dig it out, and the first few years, it was so deep, but as it settled, the dirt filled it back in again. My dad and her dad strung a rope from a tree that we could swing on as high as possible, which wasn't as high as the boys could swing, because they were bigger than we were. Some parts still stayed deep, and as the summers past, we swam in the parts that stayed deep. We would also use inner tubes to float down the stream it created.

This one, on my cheek, right next to my nose, I got from the Life Teen campout at the lake, when CMA's sister, BA, had to share a bed with me, and asked if I wanted to feel her hairy legs. She proceeded to rub them against my bare skin. I always thought she was a weirdo, but hey, I guess she fits in with the rest of the family.

Oh! Look at this one. This is the one I remember the best. Here, on my shoulder. I got this the last time I saw CMA. I had just stormed out of my house after a sunny day spent mostly outside, but then having to cook for my father. He said something to me that night that really upset and hurt me. So, I left. CMA and I were planning on going out to the movies that night anyway, but we changed our plans without telling our parents and ended up in serious trouble. I got mad at her, because she never told me about the curfew that she was supposed to abide by.

She didn't make it to day I got the next freckle. She died one January. Thank God I don't have a freckle to remember that by, I can remember it clearly enough already.

Anyway, tell me what you think!

2010-03-11T19:22:00.001-08:00

When pet peeves get you down, what do you do? That's right, you blog about them. This post is dedicated to pet peeves, and even though other people expressing pet peeves might be a pet peeve in and of itself, but I promise that you will commiserate, as well as add your own. On top of all that, I will make a post of things that I love some other time.

People who have opinions so strong, that they don't let others with a separate opinion get a word in edgewise.
Pointy faces that resemble rats. These people tend to be really snotty.
Overarched, overshaped, overwaxed eyebrows.
Bigots.
People who are lazy with their spelling. (I'm talking about stuff like "i 8 diner alredy. r u going too the movies tonite?" Seriously, would it kill you to go back to elementary school and do the dumb spelling assignments where you had to write each word three times, only this time do it right and make it stick.)
Grad school choices.
Uggs. (The name says it all: "ugg")
Pants tucked into boots. (Especially when paired with number 7. This fad is just dumb)
Wearing nothing but tights or leggings as pants to class.
Overly lazy people who want to get paid, or do get paid for doing nothing.
People who text in class.
Being put on the spot/having to give a public speech or presentation. (I failed the spelling bee. Twice. On the first word. All because I was nervous. Not because I was a number 5.)
Having to put your finger in an empty lotion bottle to get the remains.
Passive aggressive people who pose their requests as if they were your idea. "If you would like, you can make a pot of tea for me."
Any tapping or repetitive motion, either regular or irregular.
People who think they're right all the time. (These people are usually number 1's too)
Wet shoes and socks that keep your feet cold.

Lately I've been making a lot of lists. I don't know what's going on, maybe I'm just compartmentalizing a lot of stuff. But I also have a list about badass movies that I want to add to my overly girlie collection, I have a list of top ten bands I want to see in concert, I have an ongoing list of things that I absolutely lovelovelove. All of these will be coming in due time. Yay!

2010-03-10T11:06:00.001-08:00

So, I'm taking this class called women in the arts, and we're examining closely the lives of women who didn't get enough credit for their artwork when they were working. I've found that so far, most of the articles that we have read in this class have seemed fairly accurate in their portrayal of the female artists, that is until we started studying Fanny Mendelssohn/Hensel. She had a brother, Felix, who was also a composer and was said to be the most influential person in Fanny's life, and judging by her letters to him, I would argue that this also is fairly accurate. However, in every article that I have read about the siblings (save for one), the author (who is often a feminist) will paint the portrait of Felix as the villain, the person who discourages Fanny not to publish her compositions. However, in an article that I read for today's class by someone of the name of Kimber, she presents a completely different take on things, with supporting evidence, unlike many of the other articles that I've read. Most of the other articles construct their arguments by speculation and speculation alone, and pick and choose the letters that support their theories from the letters between the Mendelssohn siblings, and completely disregard all other evidence that provides counters to their arguments.

Now, the people in my class read the ones without evidence, or with very little evidence, and automatically assume that this is the true story of Fanny, that her brother held her back from publishing, and completely criticize the article that actually provides evidence. I hate these people. This is the problem with taking feminist classes.

Swirling Stuff Mixed With A Weird Mood

2010-03-09T11:50:00.001-08:00

Well, I've certainly had a lot to think about for the past few days. Like I described to AAS the other day, it's like there is a hurricane in my brain, and the clouds are everything I'm thinking about with the epicenter being me and who I am as a person. I guess I'm kind of going through existentialism. What does it all mean?

But anyway, on to the swirling clouds: AAS thinks I should start considering myself as a bisexual, because he thinks I am a little. I don't know though. There are things that point to the possibility that I might be (like, I think its weird watching guys masturbate) but on the other hand, I couldn't see myself doing anything with a girl besides kissing, experimentally. AAS says that my tendency to tell my female friends that they look hot in some outfit supports the idea that I am or might be, but I argue that it's simply platonic, like a compliment.

Another thing: I had an epiphany when I saw MZ with her dad the other day: She was only friends with me because she liked the parties I want to. Seriously, the only reason she was sad that PV and I broke up is because she would miss out on the parties that he threw, and she got angry when I wouldn't take her to a theatre party because she would have to take her brothers. Her younger brothers. Her brothers that are in middle and high school. She told her mom about that, and her mom was pissed at me. Wtf? Underage kids (more underage than MZ and I) at a drunken theatre party? What if the police came? The people hosting the party would be in bigger trouble than I would and would hate me forever for bringing people who don't even go to our school to their party. I was not okay with this, but apparently MZ's mom was. Some mother. I wonder if MZ told her mom about what she said about me with AK and the others. Maybe then her mom would think she was the bad kid, and not me. Ha. I wish. Like my mom told me I was the bad one when I found out from my roommate (how I found out is relevant but unmentionable. Just know that it was bad, and I was bad for doing it). Oh wait. She did tell me I was the bad one. I guess that does make MZ's mother a shitty one.

I think it's just something with me and mother's other than my own. I guess I don't think that there are any other mothers better than my mom was to me, (including me, sometime in the future).

Finally AAS and I are fighting right now.

Guess that's it. Just stuff. Swirling stuff mixed with a weird mood.

Hey Everybody, It’s Bad Joke Friday!

2010-03-05T10:40:00.001-08:00

And the bad joke of the day is as follows:

A man was waiting for his wife to give birth. The doctor came and informed the dad that his son was born without a torso, arms, or legs. The son was just a head!

But the dad loved his son and raised him as well as he could. Eighteen years later, the son was old enough for his first drink. The dad took him to a bar, tearfully told him he was proud of him, and ordered the biggest, strongest drink for his boy. With all the bar patrons looking on curiously, the boy took his first sip of alcohol.

Swoooop! A torso popped out!

The bar was dead silent, then burst into a whoop of joy. The father, shocked, begged his son to drink again. The patrons chanted, "Take another drink! Take another drink!" The bartender shook his head in dismay.

Swoooop! Two arms popped out!

The bar went wild. The father, crying and wailing, begged his son to drink again. The patrons chanted, "Take another drink! Take another drink!" But the bartender ignored the whole affair.

By this time, the boy was getting tipsy. With his new hands, he reached down, grabbed the drink, and guzzled the last of it.

Swoooop! Two legs popped out.

The bar was in chaos. The father wept with joy. The boy stood up on his new legs. He stumbled to the left. He stumbled to the right. Then he stumbled through the front door and into the street, where a truck ran him over.

The bar fell silent. The father moaned with grief. The bartender merely sighed and said, "He should have quit while he was a head."

Haha! This one, while morbid, makes me giggle a little. Feel free to comment with your own bad jokes!

Also, I'm stuck at home with MS all weekend, so don't be surprised if there are a few venting posts here by Monday.

A Letter to a Bitch.

2010-03-02T22:34:00.001-08:00

MS, Darling.

I hate you. I hate when you correct my grammar, and interrupt me when I'm saying something to do it, even though you say I'm rude for "playing with my toes at the table," even though I'm scratching them because they itch. I hate when you guilt trip me for having a day off when Kathryn comes down, because I have a RIGHT to a day off. In fact, by state law, I have a right to an hour lunch and two ten minute breaks because of the length of the shift that I'm working. However, I have to be in the house with you at all times, or at least close enough to come running when you press the call button. I hate it when you change the rules on me and say that something is my responsibility when it wasn't made explicit that it was my responsibility. I hate it when you call me every five minutes when you know that I have homework to do, just to tell me about something in the paper that you find interesting and that you want me to read, even though you know I don't have the time, because of my homework load. I hate when I heat your dinner to boiling hot, and then you tell me it's cold, 15 minutes after I have given it to you, without even taking a bite. I hate when you think that everything can be done on your schedule, even though my sleep cycle starts before you're ready to go to bed. I hate it when you get mad at me for being impatient when it is 9:30 at night, and you haven't finished your dinner. I hate it when you treat me like I'm stupid, a recurring event, I might add, like I don't know what grapes look like in the fridge, or that I didn't check all the drawers and shelves for a specific cracker. I hate it when you pry in my life, when I'm already so pissed at you that I don't want to talk to you. I hate it that I can drink two glasses of wine and STILL be stressed out by you. I hate that you ask to do something that you could do after you are ready for bed before you let me get you ready for bed, just to make me wait. I hate that you are dead set on making me do something that I hate doing, just because you know I hate doing it. Make T. do it; all she does all day is sit on her ass anyway. I am here for one reason and one reason only: because my friends that I was supposed to live with deserted me, and started talking shit about me behind my back. Not because I like you (who the fuck does???), not because you need me. Because I can't afford to live on my own. Because my ex-friends are assholes, and didn't have the guts to show me they were to my face. I would rather be homeless than live here. I would rather starve than live here. I would rather live with five assholes who hate me and don't depend on me, than one asshole who does, and won't leave me alone for five seconds, and then says she does so much for me, when you're really just a bitch. That is all.

Fuck you.

JMA

P.S. Calling AAS fat makes him want to beat you to death with a pineapple. Also, he thinks that every day I don't murder you is a miracle.

2010-02-28T09:58:00.001-08:00

Today is a day when I hate my life. I hate my job, I hate where I live as a result of having said job, I hate my housemate, and I hate myself for being so despicable that I don't have any friends that I can keep so I can be in a different living situation. I am so frustrated with where my life is going right now, and I hate waking up on Saturday and Sunday mornings to the doo-doo-doo-doo-doo scale notes of the walkie-talkie call button. I hate MS, I can't stand her. The first thing that she says to me this morning was "I'm going to watch this program and the program after that, and then I want you to help me with a bath." I hate giving her a bath. It's hot, and she takes FOREVER. And not only that, but KS is coming today, and she usually comes about 10:30, so she'll be here soon. When I made MS aware of the fact, she replied, "I would rather have you do it than K do it because she has other things that she needs to do today." KS is her daughter. KS comes down to relieve me so I don't go crazy and beat her mother to death with a pineapple, or any other fruit for that matter. So, today is my day off. And yet MS feels that I shouldn't get one. Thanks, dude. I never should have taken this job. But if I hadn't, where would I be now?

Living with people I hate, that's where. At least they would leave me alone. I would be living practically the same loner lifestyle that I am living here, but substitute one housemate that depends on me for five housemates that don't depend on me for anything but rent, and who I hate equally. Yes, I think that I would be much better off with MZ and AK.

Summer Reading List

2010-02-27T10:43:00.001-08:00

Maybe it's a bit premature to be thinking about this, but I guess all the sunny weather has got me thinking about summer already. Too bad it's only February. I have so many things to look forward to! The concert right after my 21^st birthday, training for an internship (cross your fingers for me that I get it!), AAS coming (REALLY cross your fingers for me on this one), and other stuff that I know not yet of. But come summer, AAS will be moving here, as some of you know, and if I get aforementioned internship, I will start in May. So, I have to have awesome books to read over what is sure to be an amazing summer. And here they are!

Running With Scissors (Augusten Burroughs)
Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
Nickolas Nickelby (Charles Dickens)
The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
The Big Over Easy (Jasper Fforde)
The Fourth Bear (Jasper Fforde)
White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
Faust (Goethe)
The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Hawthorne)
Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
Ghost (Henrik Ibsen)
An Enemy of the People (Henrik Ibsen)
The World According to Garp (John Irving)
The Almost Moon (Alice Sebold)
Pygmalion (George Bernard Shaw)
Five Quarters of Orange (Joanne Harris)
Q & A (aka Slumdog Millionaire (PS: I am in love with this movie!) Vikas Swarup)
Atonement (Ian McEwan)
The Bible—I will be able to cross this off my bucket list if I get it done!
Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky)
Ahab's Wife (Naslund)
The Brother's Karamozov (Dostoevsky)
Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)

I know this is an insanely long reading list (considering the length of most of these books, and the fact that my boyfriend will be living in the same state as me, so I will be able to see him whenever I want), and I know I am ambitious, but I really hope I can get it all done.

Now for books that I would recommend for a GREAT summer reading list:

Catch 22 (Heller?)
Feed (Anderson)
Anything by Shakespeare
Envy (Olesha)
Anything by Jasper Fforde (the ones I've read are his Thursday Next series)
Waiting for Godot (Beckett (and though it's spelled Godot, it's pronounced /godoe/)
Cyrano de Bergerac (Rostand)

I'll probably think of more once I post this, but hey, posts can be revised, right?

2010-02-25T21:45:00.001-08:00

A homeless man offered me help today. The irony does not escape me.

I was at the west entrance of Nordstrom, locking (or trying to anyway) my bike to a post. I was nicely dressed in khakis and my winter coat, and I had just my purse with me. (I had an interview, so I was toting around all the stuff that is normally in my backpack in my mid-sized purse). The purse wasn't in my way, but maybe it looked like it was, or maybe it just looked like I couldn't get the lock on right. Anyway, while I was in the process of locking up so I could go into Nordstrom, a man who would probably be escorted out of Nordstrom, or at least watched like a hawk, approached me, with his sleeping bag in its carrying case, and a small tote, and asked if I needed help. This was surprising to me, because I didn't feel like I was having trouble; I fight with my lock on a daily basis. I politely declined with a smile, and the man went on his way. As he walked away, I thought of the ten dollars that I had in my wallet, then about the food court in the mall, and wondering when this man's last meal was. I watched his retreating back for a moment before remembering that I was in a hurry, and that I needed to get going. So I went on my way as well.

Now, I'm thinking back to the man I met briefly today. I don't know his name. I don't know what his story is. I can only assume that he has a place to sleep tonight, and that he has somehow managed to get a meal. I guess I realize now that God was calling out to me, because shortly before this occurrence, I rode past a man from my school who is part of IVCF, and he was carrying around a bag full of peanut butter sandwiches and juice boxes, handing them out to people who looked like they were homeless. As I found out at Summit, they don't always look it. There was a lady I met who buried all of her stuff every day so it wouldn't get stolen, but every time I saw her, she was impeccably dressed, hair done nicely, and she biked everywhere. In fact, I confess I was wondering why she was at Saint Leo's for food. I thought maybe she was just having a hard time and needed the money she would spend on food for other bills. I was sure she had an apartment, or some sort of permanent living situation. When God called to me and told me to invite her to the dinner that the Summit kids were hosting at our temporary house, I found out that she actually lived in a tent, and needed to be back at her tent before dark so her stuff wouldn't be stolen. I was amazed, and I learned that the face of homelessness doesn't always have to be a dirty one.

In hindsight, I wonder if I should have let that man help me with the lock. Even though I got it fine by myself a second after I said no, maybe helping someone would have given him some pride, some feeling of self-worth. And if I had let him help me, maybe that would have led into a conversation about whether I could get him something to eat?

My heart breaks for these people. I feel it must be my life's work to help them, by opening a shelter. And here is the irony: the exact type of person that I should be helping is offering me help.

So, the lesson, I guess, would be to stop next time. Listen. Allow the person to help, even if I think I don't need it. Maybe the offering of help is for something else. Maybe it isn't that I needed help with the bicycle lock, but I needed help coming to this realization. Maybe this person offering to help me, was unknowingly offering me a chance to help him.

Courageous. The word of the evening for the homeless demographic. I could have met him with a disdainful gaze for all he knew, because he was carrying his life's possessions in a sack on his back.

Bucket List

2010-02-23T20:00:00.001-08:00

A.K.A. My Life's To Do List
This is a project that I did with my class in high school, and I've kept the list, and mentally added things to it here and there. So here is the original list, and as I remember the things that I mentally added, I will add those as well.

~~Attend Haverford Willamette University.~~
Teach in France
Grow my hair out (I wish there was a way to double-cross this out, I've done it several times now.)
Graduate from high school
~~Graduate from college~~
Go skydiving
Visit England
~~Excommunicate my father (this one isn't something I'm proud of, but I have my reasons)~~
~~Change my name~~
Visit Paris again
~~Track down Fanny Dore~~
Complete 2 out of 3 AP classes with at least a B (Not to brag, but I ended up with all A's in those classes)
Do a board grab off a jump while snowboarding
Take a photography class
Have a child
Marry a man who is good for me
Get contacts
Contact Wayne and Judy (Paris)
Buy a car
~~Get my license~~
Write a book
Visit Italy
Read the Bible from cover to cover
See part of the Iditarod race
Meet someone famous
Go to Creation West at the Gorge
Ski at Chamonix
Gallop on a horse without falling off
Run on a daily basis (for a summer)
Visit 25 states (I have five under my belt at the moment)
Get a breast reduction
Drink green tea daily for 6 months
Snowboard until I am physically unable to (age-wise)
Live in a city
Eat dinner in the Space Needle
Meet "The Waiter" (waiterrant.net)
Visit Switzerland
Eat frog legs
Go snorkeling
Hit a hacky sack five times, consecutively
Read Anna Karenina, and all the other books on my bookshelf that I haven't read yet.
Ace my chem. final (this was in high school)
Learn to speak Italian
Do as many of the "100 Funnest Things to do at Walmart" before I get kicked out.
Tell my father a very bad thing
Take a road trip
Learn to play piano better
Buy a grand piano
Buy a big house for my piano
Somehow connect the poems for my English final
Study in a foreign country (probably won't happen)
Rent a limo
~~Write 200 posts on my blog (I'm on my way!)~~
Be quoted
Snowboard at Chamonix
Snowboard at Whistler
Snowboard at Big White
Take my little sister (the older of the two) snowboarding
Moon someone
Go skinny-dipping
Make a will
~~Get an iPod~~
~~Keep up on homework this semester (this is an ongoing endeavor)~~
~~Keep up on workload Senior year (this was finished then, but I start Senior year next year too, so I won't cross it off)~~
Go to Disneyland
Kiss the Blarney Stone
See the Book of Kells
See the Great Wall of China
Walk up the steps of the Eiffel Tower
Elope, or have a big wedding
Learn a new word every day (for one year)
Apply to Haverford University
Choose and apply to grad schools
~~Move in with AAS~~
Try a bizarre food, other than frog legs
Work at a boulangerie
Participate in the Penguin Dip, in Clear Lake, WA
Go on a cruise
Sleep naked under the stars
Pick out my burial plot
Go to dinner with CR
Get my tongue pierced
~~Get my tattoo for Cass~~
Send myself flowers
Date a French guy
Sleep next to a man I love
Visit Scotland
Major in French
Education
~~Math~~
~~Psychology~~
~~Theatre~~ ~~Psychology~~
Have my portrait drawn
Visit Denmark
See the Grand Canyon at sunrise
15 hours of community service
20 hours of VisComm (another high school thing)
Apply for Best SELF job (I got this one)
Move out
Montana trip with Grandma
Sing karaoke
Get streaks in my hair
Yodel in Switzerland
Drive my kids nuts, like my mom did to me
~~Get the internship with the DA (I have an interview on Thursday)~~
Conduct a research project
Spend two months backpacking around the world
Have a post card that I sent to PostSecret published, either on the website, or in the book.
Experience Holi in India, even though I am not Muslim or Hindu.
Have fun at Fete de la Musique in France one year.
Buy a mask for Carnivale in Venice
Graduate from grad school
Get a kick ass job as an attorney, a mediator, or a clinical psychologist.
Go speed dating.

Warning: some of these are no longer relevant
Date a French guy—This is irrelavent. I am currently with the most wonderful guy in the world, who complements all my bad qualities with all his good ones, and loves me just the way I am. I don't want anything else.
Go to dinner with CR—This one has been removed because it is no longer possible. I met CR when I was a sophomore in high school. When I met him, he had just signed up for the military, and was getting ready to head off to Marine boot camp. He had just finished dating this girl, KW, and his hanging out with me made her jealous, to the point of calling me a whore (I never slept with him, or anybody for that matter. She just didn't like the fact that he had kissed me. Once). Anyway, so he went to boot camp, and I wrote him six or seven letters while he was there, and he called me as soon as he got out. When he wrote to me, several times, he mentioned taking me to dinner so I could meet his brother, showing me that he was alright with commitment. However, when he got home, he was very non-committal, and I essentially had to force him to pin down a date that we would do something romantic together. Dinner, a movie, breakfast, whatever. So, we had breakfast, and I was under the impression that we were dating, since he was back, and we had been before he left. Nope. The same day that we went on a "date" (the breakfast date), I found out that he had "cheated" on me (He slept with his ex before he even tried to contact me to let me know he was in town. (There's lots of angsty poetry about it on my blog in places. Check it out. Or not. It really isn't that good. Anyway, back to the story). As a result of sleeping with this girl, he sired a son. Less than a year later, he committed suicide. I found out over the phone.
Get my tongue pierced—I don't really want to do this anymore. I think this was a teenage thing, and since Cass died, I would much rather get the drawing that I designed in her memory tattooed on me. I thought this was going to happen for my birthday, but it turns out that this internship (mentioned above) is unpaid, and as a result, I won't have the money to do it this year. Maybe I'll get it done on the five year anniversary of her death.
Apply to Haverford University—This was originally my top choice in schools, but I never actually applied to it because I got hooked on another school before the deadline and completely lost interest in Haverford. Besides, aside from the fact that I don't really fit at Willamette, I'm pretty happy there, and I like Salem well enough.
Learn to play piano better—I started taking lessons in 6^th grade after I started teaching myself. My father and stepmother decided I needed lessons. When I went back to live with my mom, well, she was a single, low-income mom, which isn't to say that she was a bad mom, because I think that God saddled us together because she's the best I could have gotten (meaning there are no others like her, which I'm sure is the truth). Anyway, because she was a single mom who didn't make much, she couldn't afford for me to continue in piano. No big deal. While I liked playing an instrument, I didn't care for it THAT much and I don't really miss practicing.
Buy a grand piano—Again, what would I use it for?
Buy a big house for my piano—This, I think, was mainly for the prestige. I'd rather have a small cottage. Easier to clean.

Anyway, I have an interview for that internship on Thursday. Wish me luck, and if you're religious, pray that God puts me where I need to be. Also, I have a test on Monday, and found out last Friday that I got an 87.5% on a test in my stats class (the mean was 83, I think). It's been a good week.

Hey Everybody! It's Bad Joke Day!

2010-02-19T09:06:00.000-08:00

How do you catch a unique rabbit?

Unique up on him!

Feel free to comment with your own bad jokes. I love 'em!

What Is Up With That Crazy Weather?

2010-02-17T10:51:00.000-08:00

I don't know what's up with that crazy weather in the eastern states, but something sure is, and the weather has been weird here too. Oregon weather reminds me of a song by Relient K (who, by the way I saw in concert two years ago!): "Lately the weather has been so bipolar and consequently so have I." It's true. While the eastern states have been getting all sorts of snowstorms and stuff like that, Salem has been everywhere from rainy and 40 degrees to bright and sunny at a lovely 61 degrees. I LOVE it. But something about it is screwing with my internal clock. I've been so exhausted recently that I've been neglecting my blog, my webcomics (yes, I am a webcomic nerd) and my homework, and apparently I'm not the only one who is feeling it. On top of all that, I'm looking for and submitting my applications for internships right now, when I can find the time (i.e. Thursdays), and the one I'm really hoping to get is a victim assistance position with the State DA's office (that's district attorney for those of you less savy). Basically I would hang out and help victims find stuff they need, as well as accompany them to court. I would get all kinds of experience with different types of victims, so it's a big opportunity for me, and because it's a job with the state, I'll have a great reference on my resume for the future. In fact, it also might lead into a job with the state in the future. So I'll be applying for it on Thursday, and I hope I get it. Wish me luck, and pray for me!

2010-02-11T15:30:00.000-08:00

My great grandma died this morning.
Why do people say passed away? It's such a silly phrase, "Passed away."
Like she left, and it's possible for her to return...
Died is much more finite.
It has more finality to it.
More weight.

And why is it that one can be extremely upset,
Shaken,
Wronged,
Saddened, for one person's death,
But not for another's?

Is it because she was old and therefore it was
expected?
Is it because I didn't really know her that well?
Is it because she didn't have much life ahead of her anyway,
Or because she was sick and her quality of life
Wasn't all that good?
Is it because I know that she's in a better place?
Maybe.

Then I think about all the good that she did.
Raising my grandmother and her siblings,
Encouraging her children to lead good lives,
Boiling it down to
Me.

Grandma,
Enjoy heaven. Say hi to Grandad for me.
Love you.

So here's to two great old folks in the afterlife.

The Dream

2010-02-04T21:24:00.000-08:00

This "is such stuff as dreams are made on,"
She thought to herself as she drew water from the well.
Nightmares that is.
She puts the droplets to her eyes,
Drawing them under her lids,
Pulling them shut as to keep the tears from escaping
Back into the wishing well.
The well that is full of dreams and wishes,
One tear for each of the fallen.
And here she stands,
Holding the tears for the dreams next to fall
Just like she grasps at the wishes,
The saltiness slips from her hands.
She understands now
That designing for Shakespeare
Is a dream that is six feet under,
Because the Bard has been long gone for awhile now.
Keeping her eyes closed,
She can't see where she walks...
By touch alone, she digs the hole for the next dream,
Splintering her hands on the rough wooden handle
Of the rusted over spade.
The dream lands in the hole
With a soft thud from its weight.
And the tears fall again,
Back into the well,
Mourning with the other droplets
Another deceased dream.

Greener Pastures

2010-02-02T20:30:00.000-08:00

"My dear, I don't give a damn,"
Said the sheep that was being raised by wolves.
They had her looking this way
And that way.
Never finding the patch of grass
That would prove to be the most nutritious.
It was always out of reach,
On the other side of the fence.
She would be forced to don the skin of wolves,
And tear into the flesh of other sheep like herself
To get her allotted amount of protein,
To keep herself alive.
And the wolves return her sentiment
In fewer words
That are well-disguised as caring
And understanding.
Before, she used to kid herself
That the wolf skin she tied on every day
Was her real skin,
Was the way she was supposed to look,
The code of conduct she was supposed to follow,
The fun she was supposed to have,
The burden that she was supposed to bear.
Then Fun became Pain,
Conduct became Optional,
Burden became Death,
And the skin became just that:
A covering of who she really was.
And she realized
The grass on the other side,
Isn't always green.

Morphine Dreams

2010-02-02T01:24:00.000-08:00

Fully alive and awake one minute,
Fading quickly into sleep the next.
Jealousy guards the inanimate-ness you take on
When you slip into those
Morphine Dreams.
Envy watches you escape your life
All your problems
If only for eight hours,
As you fall into those
Morphine Dreams.
And I...
I just watch as you go goofy,
Working out phrases that
Aren't
Quite
Right,
And that I know you wont remember
In the morning
After all those
Morphine Dreams,
Wishing I could join you in your
Morphine Dreams.

A Finger to the Theatre Dept. at SmallTown University!

2010-02-01T20:43:00.001-08:00

This is mainly a post to collect my thoughts so I can write my letter of resignation to the Theatre Department. So this all started at the beginning of this semester. I took a job over the summer that pays room and board, and then some. Well, I started working this job, you know, the one where I take care of MS at night? Okay, well I informed the Theatre Department and all its asshole, manipulative, controlling, jerk-on-your-chain faculty members that I had this job, that I couldn't quit this job because that is what was keeping my bills manageable for the year. Without this job, I would not be attending STU, let alone be majoring in Theatre. This was when I was still a major in that Godforsaken department. Anyway, I asked for a lower commitment production assignment, something that I could get done during the day without a lot of commuting (like the props managers have to do), and they complied, giving me scene shop hours. What that entailed, because of my already overloaded schedule, was cutting back on my work study hours, you know, the ones I get paid for? The ones I use to pay my college tuition? Yeah, those. I finished the job that I had to do, 6 hours a week, and then 6 more per week that I got paid for (I couldn't do any more than that because if I had, I surely would have died from exhaustion. I had essentially 12 hours of work study a week, and an additional 17 hours a week for class. I literally had no time to think for the first half of the semester. Less than 10 hours of free time during the week, and I had to drop a class because it was too much). Anyway, I was working 12 hours per week, only 6 of which I got paid for, unfortunately. I needed more hours so I could pay for school. Anyway, I busted my ass, trying to get everything together, and still stay with the theatre department as a major. I quickly realized that I couldn't do it all, and couldn't do anything meaningful/get the work experience that I needed to make a life for myself in theatre, and therefore met with the theatre department to ask if it was even plausible to still be a theatre major. I had the idea that I would take the rest of my classes and finish the major academically, and then after my senior year, I would come back, work full-time, and do my production assignments, and that would be all I would be enrolled for, and I would graduate a year late. The theatre faculty shot that idea down, and told me it would be better for me to be a minor or just participate when I can and not be academically involved in the theatre. In fact, one of the professors even said "J, putting all personality differences aside, I don't think you should be a major." Reasonable advice, not very professional. Anyway, about halfway through the semester, the show opens, my production assignment is done, and I am out of a job. Basically, the person who is in charge of the scene shop said that she didn't have enough hours to keep people on, and the only people that she had hours for were the scholarship students. This is irritating, because I all of a sudden went from having barely enough hours to scrape by, to having no hours at all. I was laid off. Great, because, you know, there are so many open jobs on campus halfway through the semester for work study students, and believe me, I was looking. Then, a few weeks later the faculty released the 2009-2010 theatre handbook of rules and regulations that govern the theatre department and how it is run. Every student is expected to read through it and sign off that they read it. So I get to reading this book, this handy little handbook. And you know what I find? What's that? You don't know what I found? Well, let me tell you that I found all sorts of fancy, contradicting rules. For instance, "academic excellence" comes first. You are supposed to maintain good grades. Alright. I can do that. What's next? "Your commitment to the theatre department." This means accepting all roles given to you, and fulfilling them according to the description in the handbook. Okay, sounds alright, except where does work come in? Oh, that's right, after those two. Scholarship hours and work study are to be fulfilled AFTER the other two. So, basically, you pay for school after you go. Somehow, I think that if you can't pay for school, they kind of kick you out… Oh, and on top of all this? You're supposed to get enough sleep and stay healthy! HAHAHAHA YEAH RIGHT! WITH WHAT TIME??? For those of you who aren't familiar with the theatre and its workings, rehearsals are at night, and even designers, who don't need to be at rehearsals put in a lot of time and effort into making the show great. For example, the stage manager and assistant stage manager? 4 hours of rehearsal every night except for Sundays. Same with actors. And on top of all that, the SM and ASM are in charge of EVERYTHING. This is a HUGE time commitment, and I personally know many SMs and ASMs who have nearly failed their classes because they've had to be at rehearsal. And this is without work study or scholarship hours. Now, where do those hours factor in at? How can you factor in those hours? When you need at least 12 hours a week to pay for school after working three jobs over the summer, how the hell are you supposed to squeeze that in without hallucinating from sleep deprivation, and still manage to keep up with classes and your production assignment? Okay, so, I was dropping the theatre completely at this point. I met with my advisor, CH, and told him this, very angrily, I might add, because I was furious that I wasn't able to do what I wanted with my life because what I did with my time was dictated by how much my father pays for my education. Well, unlike a lot of your little angelic theatre majors, Daddy doesn't like to pay my tuition, even though he can afford to pay it all, and therefore, I HAVE to have a job to pay my bills. Unfortunately, my job is in the evening hours. That takes up a lot of time. Thanks for understanding, douchebags. When I met with CH to angrily tell him that the theatre department is discriminating against people from low-income families, he convinced me after a long conversation, to take a sabbatical from the theatre department for a semester. This was after my production assignment had been completed, and after I had been laid off. I had also made him aware that because I had been laid off, I couldn't afford to pay for school anymore, and that was stressing me out. He encouraged me to talk to my boss, RS, about it, and see what she could do for me. By the time this was happening, I had maybe two or three weeks left in the semester. When I talked to RS, she was gracious and said that I should have said something sooner. She made a deal with me that she would make me the scene shop supervisor, and raise my pay for Spring 2010 semester. Great. Thanks. I really appreciate it (without sarcasm). Winter break comes and I go home to work at my usual job. Whoohoo. I come back, and resume work in the scene shop. We've been in school for three weeks now (this is the start of the third week) and the theatre faculty have posted the production assignments for the semester. Assuming that I was on sabbatical from the department, I didn't take the time to check it, that is, until a Miss JA greeted me with "Hey! Fellow follow-spot ops!" (meaning I would be operating the spotlight with her for the show). Needless to say, I was very confused and upset because I am supposedly on a leave of absence from the theatre. I marched myself up to the hallway that contains all the offices of the theatre faculty members, and looked for ONE to talk to. None of them were there. I emailed CH, told him I wanted to meet with him. Apparently he emailed me back while I was working, and then ended up running into me when I was working and we had our little meeting that I had requested right then and there. I told him that I thought that I was on a leave of absence from the department, he looked confused and insulted, almost. I told him that my understanding was that to meet the requirements of the minor, I needed to have six productions under my belt. Not necessarily more, and no less. He said he would talk to RS, my super for the shop work, and also for my field of interest in the theatre, lighting design. He talked to RS, and came back to me with this message:

"JMA,

I'll admit that your request earlier today took me a little by surprise. I spoke with RS this evening, at the earliest opportunity, and at some length about your request to be given a "leave of absence" from production responsibilities this semester. We both thought we had done that last semester. We gave you a light load last semester on production, and even gave you a quarter credit for taking on the dance concert lighting assignment.

RS and I are agreed that it is hard to understand or accept your request to be excused a production assignment and yet to expect to continue your work as a shop supervisor. A shop supervisor, by definition, is a partner in setting that code of responsibility and accountability on which the department - the company - runs. The pattern that your request sets for the company is that it becomes acceptable to pick and choose the work you do, the projects you work on and the level to which you participate. Clearly if that became the model of operation we would soon collapse as a viable company. We need all hands to enable us to stage the production of this Kabuki play to the level at which we can all be proud. RS needs someone on the follow-spots who understands the instruments and what they can do. That is why she asked for you for that position. At the same time it also accommodated you need for a relatively light production load.

Furthermore, you should bare in mind that the guidelines of a minimum of six productions for a minor is just that ... a minimum ... It should never be considered the bench mark for the least you can get by with.

If you still feel that you cannot fulfill your assignment as defined, I would suggest you talk to Rachel directly, who is both your work supervisor and the primary faculty member in your designated field of interest - lighting design.

If we need to talk again, I'd be more than happy to meet and chat further.

C."

Okay, given this message, and the information I've just provided you with, please explain to me how it was that they supposedly "gave me a light load last semester," and given me a "leave of absence" that I had requested two weeks before the end of the semester. Can you understand why I'm pissed?

I Vow to Write Letters Differently

2010-01-29T10:49:00.001-08:00

So, I was in my Women in the Arts class this morning and we were discussing women in the Middle Ages, and the letters they wrote. We were asked by the professor where Medieval women might have gone to learn to write letters. We went off on a tangent about how the students in the class learned to write letters, and about how there is a formula for each and every letter you want to write. One woman put it interestingly: "When I was in elementary school, we learned how to write 'Thank You' notes, and in those, we were supposed to start with a greeting, then thank them, then say something nice about them, then thank them again and end the letter." When she put it like this, I came to the realization that letters are so prescribed, that no one really says what they want to in their letters. They never have, and never will. So from now on, I will not follow the rules of the letter. I will write my name and return address on the envelope, and the receiver's name and address on the envelope, and when I get to the actual letter writing part, I will say exactly what I mean and nothing else. Niceties only if I mean to say them, and not to humble myself or uplift the person I am writing to. My next letter will be very similar to my blog in that it will be a random smattering of things, things that include silly little tidbits about what I think about during the day, as well as the purpose for writing the letter, but my next letter will be anything but prescribed. My next letter will be personal, a letter from the heart.

FLDS and Polygamy

2010-01-22T10:39:00.000-08:00

So, this week's post I kind of stumbled across in the form of the National Geographic that comes to my house every month. MS, the woman I work for, is always pointing out interesting articles and television programs that I might want to watch on public television, in the newspapers, and in magazines. I don't often take her up on the idea because I'm not to keen on politics (what she is normally interested in), or I don't have time, considering my homework load. Well, we were eating dinner when she brought this article to my attention, and I was interested and had to stay until she was finished anyway (she eats really slow, but I suppose I've gotten used to it). Anyway, I was reading this article and was fascinated by the responses of the wives. Apparently the men have to be sanctioned by the LDS (Mormon) leaders and declared holy before they can marry plural wives. First of all, the feminist in me noticed that only men are allowed plural marriages, but then I thought about the purpose of it: supposedly, they are building up God's kingdom. The sole purpose of a plural marriage is to procreate above and beyond the call of duty. Must be nice for the guys. All the sex they want! Anyway, the second thought I had was about how the wives respond. There were the typical responses (like depression in the first wife of one man. Apparently she rarely came out of her room, except for meals, to do laundry, and to watch Shirley Temple shows on television. Talk about a sucky situation). Some wives left. But then there were other, more unusual responses, such as happiness and rejoice that you have sister-wives. Some of the wives become best friends. They care for the children, help with all the work, basically all the things a woman does in a traditional marriage. One of the women had a sister who was marrying the same man because he was "a good man and I just wanted her to know the same kind of happiness I had known." One of the women confessed that she wasn't sure that all the wives were happy about plural marriage, but they regard it as "God's Law". She said that overcoming the jealousy that one feels is part of the test of plural marriage, and another way for her to overcome a challenge that God had sent her way. When I read this, I thought, wow, this woman has the right idea. By thinking about something she is unhappy about, she views it as just another test that God has sent her way, and because of this, she overcomes. Now, I am opposed to polygamy because I follow a different religion, however, I think that this can be carried over to other parts of life. For example, the escapade with MZ and AK: I can look at that as a "they ruined my life" kind of thing, or I can look at it as a challenge of forgiveness (which I have, it's just an example). Aside from that, the thing that surprised me most was the joy that some expressed about having sister wives. I know I couldn't do it.

Making a Difference Monday

2010-01-18T23:51:00.000-08:00

...Alright, it was Sunday, but does it really matter what day I did it?
Now for the story:
We (being my mom and I) were driving back to Collegetown yesterday because I started school today. We were pulling off the freeway into Cousville when I saw a man sitting on a walker holding a sign that said something along the lines of "Homeless Vet". Well, there was a Safeway nearby, and as my readers know, I have a big heart for the homeless. While my mom was filling up the tank with gas, I walked over to Safeway, bought a box of cereal bars and a few bananas to give to the man. Mom wasn't quite finished at the pump, so I walked over to the old man.
The first thing I noticed was that his hands were shaking. I handed him the box of cereal bars, along with the bananas, and told him I thought he might need breakfast, then gave him ten dollars (the biggest bill in my pocket), to buy himself some lunch or dinner later that evening.
The old man took it and said "God bless you. Thank you."
I turned and walked away, wishing I could do more.

2010-01-11T23:03:00.001-08:00

I don't know if you guys have facebook, or if you have noticed yet, but lately all the women (and some of the jokester men) have been posting neutral (and some not so neutral) colors on their statuses. If you haven't heard or learned the reason yet, or don't get it, these women have failed. The statuses are the colors of their bras. Yes, their bras. Still don't understand? By putting the colors of their bras in their statuses, these women were hoping to raise breast cancer awareness, and they were planning on making the men wonder why they were putting colors in their statuses. Now, this is a bad way to raise awareness for breast cancer on many levels.

Colors are arbitrary adjectives. They can be used to describe anything. By making your status a singular word, the only thing you are succeeding at is confusing people about the subject you deign most important, the subject that you are most passionate about, the subject you have actually concealed by confusing everyone. Assuming we are going to stick with keeping the bra theme, a better way to support breast cancer awareness would be to post the noun that the adjective is describing and maybe state the reason for posting this. For example: "I am wearing a pink bra today to support breast health and to remind all the women in my life to get their annual breast check this month." This way, the person posting is stating his or her cause, while also sticking with the theme of doing something cutesy that relates to the cause.
By discussing the color of bra one is wearing, one is drawing attention to the breasts. In doing so, the person speaking is objectifying herself, calling attention to her body as an object, and away from the real issue, which most participants would claim to be breast cancer. This is similar to the new "Save the Tatas" commercial that the Breast Cancer society has launched on the United States.
Link here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CQI1tzkwpkI

If you notice, roughly ninety percent of the video focuses on the woman's body and the reactions of the people standing around. Only ten percent is spent on the woman's face. This video, and the title of the ad campaign ("Save the Tatas" or "Save the Boobs") make the cure for breast cancer about saving the breasts, and not about saving the person, they take away the face of the person, her true identity. In line with trying to correct the objectification of the women in these ad campaigns in the first point, to correct this, I would suggest a commercial that focuses on the woman and her family, not the woman's body, or how other's react to the woman's body. Breast cancer comes in many forms, from large-chested women to small-chested women, from young to old, from big to small. It is rather random, and I think that the ideal awareness commercial demonstrate that any woman can be a victim of breast cancer.
My final point, about why this was a dumb exercise, is that no other cancer gets as much publicity as breast cancer. Pancreatic cancer is certainly more deadly, and claims more people. We have feminists and women who all want equal rights to men, but they continue to single out the leading cancer in women only? What's the correction for this? Start publicizing for men to get prostate checks. Tell people to have their lungs scanned for masses every five years or something, tell people to check out the insides of their mouths, ect. Bring the same amount of awareness to the other forms of cancer.

I support breast cancer, but I am not about to participate in some silly, self-revealing task that has absolutely nothing to do with breast cancer.

On another note, I spent the day with my mom today. We went shopping, deposited my paycheck (YAY!), got my hair fixed (one side was longer than the other), and went shopping. I got a teapot/cup set, you know the cool ones with the teapot that sits on top of the cup, and you take it off to pour the tea. It was three dollars, along with four books that were half price (meaning, like, $1.00 and $0.50 books) including volume two of THE COMPLETE WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE! EXCITING, ESTATIC, AND FULL OF PLAGIRISM! Bet you all did not know that Shakespeare stole his work from Seneca, who stole from the Greek playwrights! Yeah, it's a big conspiracy theory with lots of evidence. You should read my paper for theatre history for all the points. So, according to Shakespeare, it's okay to steal writings from a dead Roman playwright (that would be Seneca) and publish them as your own, but it is not okay to steal your dead brother's wife and make her your own? Haha, yeah, literary joke.

Boyfriend and I are back together! YAY! In said thrift store, I also found something new for his Valentine 's Day gift. It's nothing big, but I figure it's something he needs. :) He decided to use Prefixes for a song!

Anyway, nothing really that new this week. I got sick, and had to stay home from work for two days. I have three more shifts between now and Sunday, and then I go back to school and start classes on Monday. Luckily, I found a copy of Anna Karenina in the bookstore in the Channel Town nearby for my Russian Lit. class, and I've started on it so I don't have as much reading to do once classes start, but it isn't very interesting, and I get distracted easily. I think I have ADD sometimes. For example, I can't just watch movies now, I need to be doing something on top of watching the movie, like playing minesweeper. Until next week,

JMA

Letters to the Years

2010-01-04T22:06:00.001-08:00

Dear 2009,

I just wanted to say thanks for all the fun times. You were born with a bang, and a great one at that. Good snow, that turned into a flood, that resulted in some panic about keeping some travel plans. However, 2009, your weather didn't deter me, and I had a blast doing things that I never thought I would do. You held a lot for me, 2009. While a lot of bad things happened, several good things resulted. Like my friendships' demise with MZ and AK, and my friendships' development with AS, SL, PT, and others. Out of the expired friendships, a passion was spawned to help the homeless at Summit, which has led to a possible internship in India within the next few years. 2009, you were filled with ups and downs, family visits, close friends, interesting classes, and new experiences. I'm not sure how I made it through you, but I did, and I would like to think I'm a better person for it. Thank you.

Love, JA

Dear 2010,

Let me just take a minute to introduce myself: My name is JA, and I just wanted to let you know what I expect from you and myself in the coming months. I expect hard work and motivation. I expect you to present me with opportunities. I expect us to be friends, expect you to present me with the good things in life, like close friendships, supportive family, wonderful self-confidence and self-esteem, and a great 21^st birthday in May. I can't wait for all the exciting things that we will do together, and 2010, I ask you please, to provide for those who are less fortunate, to improve for them as the months pass. Oh, and 2010, welcome.

Love, JA

2010-01-02T23:34:00.001-08:00

Sorry it has taken me so long to finally get something posted here. I've been busy since finals' week started three weeks ago. Anyway, new stuff up now. Will try my best to update at least weekly this year. That's my resolution.

Prefixes

2010-01-02T23:32:00.001-08:00

Within a thirty-second time span,

I had a prefix added to my title.

It's hard to believe two small letters,

A small part of a word…

Can make all the difference in the world

To the way a word drops off the edge of your tongue

To the way it bites your taste buds as it dives into open air

Exposing itself to the world to what it really is.

Ugly.

Painful.

Harsh.

Just like that burn you got on your arm,

The one you can't remember getting,

But know it must have been painful to get a blister that big.

You know you did this for a reason…

But the pain is so overwhelming that it consumes you mind

And you can't remember why you did it,

Or how you got to where you are now.

Autobiographies: Part Dos.

2009-12-14T15:22:00.000-08:00

This is going to be a short blurb, because I have a paper to write, and a test to study for.
So what I was thinking today is how do you end an autobiography? It isn't the end of your life, so what do you say? This is where I am now? This is what I learned so far? What if you haven't learned anything? Though, if you haven't learned anything, what's the point of even writing an autobiography.

On the Good News side, all my Christmas shopping is done. AAAAAnd it's "Making a Difference Monday," inspired by the blog [carrotspeak]. My good deed for "Making a Difference Monday" was donating blood this afternoon. YAY! Oh, and for next post, remind me to talk about Salem streets. This is more for me than you, but if you talk to me.. yeah. Bye now!

Morbid Post: Don't Read If You're Squeamish

2009-12-09T15:22:00.000-08:00

So, I don't know what inspired this, but I was thinking about death this morning, and how it IS in fact possible to die from a broken heart (not necessarily because of a break up, but maybe because Gram died early one morning). And it isn't just if you kill yourself, out of depression and despair. I was thinking, as my tear ducts decided to activate as I rode down the derby track this morning, that it is possible to die of a broken heart but only if you are outside in beyond freezing cold weather. This also has a lot to do with the images above (which, define where I am, one of the VERY FEW times I post things like that), how the Chicken Fountain froze each little drop that fell upon the rocks implanted in the fountain, slowly building on each frozen bit, amalgamating five or six inches of straight ice. Now, imagine your orifices are the fountain openings. You start to cry when you get the undefined terrible news. The tears trail down your face as far as they can go before they freeze to your face, and they keep coming, building one on top of the other, making your face a formation of ice, and eventually freezing your eyeballs. And of course, your nose is running, so the liquid snot would freeze on your face, possibly over the opening that is your mouth, and the rest would freeze in your nose, making it impossible to breathe through your nose. Finally, if your snot didn't freeze over your mouth, you will try to breathe through your mouth, and it just wont happen, because all of the saliva has frozen over. Now, if someone finds you, you would be rushed to the hospital, but it only takes so long to suffocate.

This post is really morbid. I'm going to end it now..

Fractured Fairy Tales

2009-12-07T16:15:00.001-08:00

What a klutz, that Fairy Tale.

She tripped one day,

Her feet got in her way when she was mountain climbing.

She tumbled,

Rolling down the hill,

Destroying all the progress she had made;

Twisting her plot,

Breaking both her characters,

Fracturing her ending.

Essentially shattering everything,

Things that had grown in her since she was born from her author.

Fairy Tale's bones are broken,

She lays there

Fractured, fragmented Fairy Tale.

She's in a wheel chair now,

Never fully recovered after her fall,

Looking up to her growing baby sister,

Expecting so much,

But knowing her sister's identical destiny,

Knowing she will amount to so little,

Yet encouraging the small girl's big dreams.

Insights from my Theatre History class.

H.M.’s Brain and Soapbox Races

2009-12-03T18:07:00.001-08:00

Today is historical. The brain of H. M. is being cut into slices. For those of you who don't know who H. M. is, he is a famous psychological case study. He had epilepsy to start out with, and in the 1950's, they didn't exactly have the best idea about how to treat disorders like epilepsy, or depression for that matter (for instance, lobotomies). Anyway, because H. M. was an epilepsy patient, doctors and psychologists decided the best treatment would be to remove his amygdala. However, in the process of removing H. M.'s amygdala, the surgeons also took out parts of H. M.'s hippocampus and parahippocampal gyrus. Now, the hippocampus and amygdala are the main parts of memory. So, you can guess what happened. Ever since his "treatment," H. M.'s epilepsy was controlled, but he had problems with his long-term memory. He still had access to his working memory (short term, could remember lists of words, up to six or seven words long), and access to his procedural memory (long-term memory of skills, according to Wikipedia). But his long-term memory and encoding of events into his long term memory was impaired severely. Think 50 First Dates, but a guy, and not dating.

Anyway, the neuroscientists at UCSD (University of California, San Diego) are in the process of cutting H. M.'s brain into paper thin slices and putting the slices between glass to preserve them. It's pretty disgusting to watch, actually.

Anyway, onto another random thought: I was riding down the soapbox derby, thinking about physics. Yes, physics. I was riding down the derby thinking that soapbox racing was so very corrupt. The kid whose soapbox weighs the most, or the kid who weighs the most, or the parent who cheats and puts bricks in the child's soapbox always wins, because the way you know if something is going to go fast down the hill is not how big the wheels are, but how much wait is on them, because, as I learned in my physics class, the weight is what propels the car down the hill. I just looked at the rules online, and the rules say that there is a weight restriction for the child, and a weight restriction for the car with the child in it. But it didn't say anything about weighting the car down to the maximum weight possible. K. S. says that's cheating, but I think it's just a means of finding a loophole, and making the system work for you.

Autobiographies

2009-12-02T14:45:00.001-08:00

So, I actually got the idea for this blog post the other day while I was watching scenes in my acting class. In one of them, there are two people who are on a date on Valentine's Day, and the problem is that one person, who is an origami expert, and knows everything about the other person, an origami expert to a lesser degree, who has detailed his life in the written word and made it available to the public. Anyway the first origami expert knows all these personal things about the other origami expert because she read his book, so it is made increasingly clear that the man cannot hide anything from the person he's on a date with, and cannot swing anything bad that has happened to him in his own favor. This situation made me realize that by doing this, by writing an autobiography, you can't hide anything. People read your book. They know all about you. The only time this would do more good than harm would be in the case that you're a celebrity, be it a social or political celebrity, where your life is speculated about all the time anyway. Like Hillary Clinton, or Taylor Swift.

Writing an autobiography puts the author at a disadvantage to the rest of the world because in writing an autobiography, the author is bearing his or her soul to the rest of the world. After writing an autobiography, you have no secrets.

Aside from this blog, I don't think I would write and autobiography. A.) I don't think anyone would read it, and B.) if someone did read it, well, if it was a best seller (this is a blog, I can dream big), I would have to be dating someone that I really trusted and have friends that I really trusted (because people would judge me for the things I have to say), or publish under a pseudonym because the world would know all my secrets, and it would be impossible to spin anything the way I wanted it to be seen. Besides, if I wrote an autobiography, I would want it to be about something that mattered in my life, like Summit, but to a larger extent. I would want it to inspire people to do something bigger with their lives, even if they didn't believe in God the same way I do, even if they were Satanists, or Buddhists, or Hindi. The world needs more of selfless acts of kindness. I use selfless because random implies that the acts are done only every so often, and does not exclude that the acts could be done for one's own personal gain. There are so many people out there who give to charities to make themselves feel good, or so they can tell other people that they give to This Charity, and That Charity.

Obama says in his book,

"An autobiography promises feats worthy of record, conversations with famous people, a central role in important events. There is none of that here. At the very least, an autobiography implies a summing up, a certain closure, that hardly suits someone of my years, still busy charting his way through the world."

When Obama's autobiography was published, he was 34 years old. I am 20, starting my 22^nd year in May. Not nearly old enough or having enough experience to write an autobiography. Besides, with all the shit that's happened to me (which is not nearly as much as could have happened, and not nearly nothing to complain about (meaning "a lot" is a relative phrase)), I think I would send my audience the wrong idea about myself. With all the things that have happened to me, it would make sense for me to be a very negative person, but I'm not. So I sit with Obama's quote: Nothing extraordinary has happened to me to merit an autobiography. I have not had a conversation with a famous person, I haven't held a central role in an important event, I have no feats worth recording. Just thoughts.

Some People Sing, I Think About Weird Stuff

2009-12-02T14:05:00.001-08:00

So, I met a Satanist the other day. Haha, what a weird way to start out a conversation with myself. "Hey Self, I met a Satanist the other day!" Anyway, I met a Satanist the other day. Weird beliefs, those ones have, or different ones, anyway. Different than my own. I looked Satanism up on Wikipedia and got a general idea. Basically, there's theistic Satanism, and atheistic Satanism. In theistic Satanism, they believe that Satan is a "supernatural deity" and they actively worship him. In atheistic Satanism, the people believe that they themselves are God of their own universe.

I was actually thinking about this while I was in the shower the other morning, which is a weird thing to do in the shower, but hey, some people sing, I think about odd things. And I was thinking mainly about atheistic Satanism. I was thinking, if we were all the God's of our own universe, and as this person that I met, let's call him Z, as Z says, "I allow you to exist." So, how does that religion work? You get a lot of people in one room who are all Satanists, let's say a Satanist's Convention, and they all believe that they are the God's of their universe, but their universes are overlapping, who is allowing whom to exist? And how do Satanist's account for all the other people in the world? If they are the deity, how did they create someone they don't even know, their name and everything, across the world? Why would you keep the bad people in the world? Why would you allow someone you don't like to continue existing? How would you explain learning?

Secrets: Everyone Has Them

2009-12-02T11:45:00.000-08:00

So, today I have many things that fill my head, but there will be one post for each of them eventually. Right now, and only because I have time, I want to focus on this video that I was sent from the PostSecret community. Everyone has a secret, and I think that is something that makes us human. The ability to feel emotions, and let our emotions judge who we're going to share our hearts and minds with. I have a secret... I was raped. I only say this now, because before, when it happened, I was silenced by someone telling me that I was just being overly promiscuous. And I believed that person. I know now (after taking a women and gender class) that just because I convinced him to wear a condom, the fact that I was unwilling still made it rape. I'm still confused about a lot of it, so please don't ask questions. I'll work through it. Wow, I definitely did not mean for this to be a "mysecret" day.
What I meant to say originally, was that the girl who speaks starting at 3:29 reminds me a lot of my old self. The self that MZ and AK knew. She says, "I'm a lot better before you really know me." That was true for me. MZ and AK knew me deeply, they knew my soul, my being. And others, outsiders, knew my shell. Others thought I was so great. MZ and AK knew better. And now, after them, I've grown. Naomi Nye puts it so well in one of her poems: "I grew another head/with better ideas/inside my old head." This is what happened to me, and I hope something similar happens to the girl in the video. Now, I find that her secret is the exact opposite of mine: I am a lot better after you really know me.
Secrets. Some of them are funny. Some are deep. Some are scary, and some are so very private. But we all have them. And it's a beautiful thing. And PostSecret is so necessary because of the way so many people relate to the secrets that are posted. Sometimes, I wish Frank would post more than twenty. Sometimes, I wish he would post them all. And all the time, I wish I had his email so I could communicate to the people who send their secrets in that they are not alone, that I wish so much that they could know that I have the same secrets, and that I feel the same way. Maybe that will be my next postcard.
Also, quick shout out to my first (official) follower. Thanks for reading.

P.S. Sorry about the width of the video. I tried to make it fit, but it wouldn't.

I am really NOT religioust

2009-11-18T13:07:00.001-08:00

Meaning, I do not discriminate because of religion. But this is my second post about Jehovah's witnesses. And I happened upon this thought last night when I was reading the Christmas issue of Women's Day magazine. I know, I know, it's too early to be thinking about Christmas, but I can't help it because I work retail and because all the magazines send out their Christmas issue in November! So, I was reading the section of Woman's Day where women were discussing their best Christmas ever, and one of the women was talking about how the best Christmas she ever had was when she and her husband had nothing but a small tree because they had just moved to Beijing. I thought back to my most memorable Christmas, and what came to mind was when I was living with my mom in second grade, the year that we house-sat for a rich family who was off in some hot city like Palm Springs, for the winter. I remember how she took scraps of wood and a few nails to make me a very simple box with a shelf inside, and a cross-piece to hold the shelf up. This simple box was a dollhouse. Nothing fancy, in fact, it was painted plain white, with no other markings, "left for [me] to decorate". I got a few dollar store accessories, but in truth, it wasn't really that much, and yet I was happy with it, as this American couple in China was. I started thinking about Christmas now, and how I ask for and get basic stuff, like socks, underwear, and snack foods (for study breaks), and I rely on getting that stuff at Christmas, because I am a poor college student, but those are the essentials, and I feel bad asking my parents for it because they are already contributing so much to my education, or as much as they can anyway.

So how this relates is that I had some friends when I was growing up that were practicing Jehovah's witnesses, which means, for those of you who don't know, they don't celebrate holidays. This was hard for me to understand because I was so accustomed to giving gifts for Christmas and birthdays. We were kind of on the same plane of socio-economic status so the daughter and I had a lot in common. But she had two brothers, and therefore they had less money. Thinking about it now, I depend on my parents to give me the essentials that I need for school, like paper, socks, underwear, ect. And now, I think about how neglected children in Jehovah's Witnesses families might feel. I think about how they get their essentials if their parents don't give them essentials that much..

Just a thought.

Tribute to Strings Tributes

2009-11-17T11:43:00.000-08:00

This isn’t really deep or interesting, like I try to be when I write here, but today, something I am excited about are the strings tributes that I just got. I first heard a strings tribute in my friend’s car on the way to Lucky’s Chinese Restaurant, where we were to get orange chicken, the best in my small town, and quite possibly the world (that last statement is very typical of everyone who has ever had orange chicken, but goodness, it is true for me. Best orange chicken on the face of this earth). Who even came up with the idea for orange chicken, anyway? Who thought, hmmm… oranges and chicken. This is what I have in my refrigerator. I know, I will put them together and they will taste fantastic! PRESTO (or the Chinese word for “presto”)!
Anyway, this post is not about orange chicken and its lovely deliciousness, but about string tributes, so back to the subject. Anyway, I was riding in my friend H’s car, and this song on a mixed CD (yeah, CD. Remember those?) comes on, and it’s just violins. But after a moment of listening, I hear the faint tune of Girls Not Grey by A.F.I. so I was like, “H, A.F.I. doesn’t play stringed instruments (besides guitars and basses) do they? And she said “No, this is a string quartet tribute. Badass, huh?” “Yeah, completely,” I replied, and I just listened to it, and imagined the words there. I don’t know if any of you have ever heard the Pickin’ On series that does bluegrass covers of country songs, sans mots, but it’s kinda like that in the sense that they take rock songs, and do covers of them with a string quartet, and again, without words.
Just to give you an idea of the awesomeness that is the string tribute, I will tell you what I found: Sweet Child of Mine (Guns N Roses (if you don’t know this song, I am ashamed of you)), Money (Pink Floyd), In the End and Numb(Linkin Park), Hands Down (Dashboard Confessional (okay, I guess they do non-rock songs too)), How You Remind Me and Someday (Nickelback, and I love it. Full of badassery and amazingness), Here Without You (Three Doors Down), Dream On (Aerosmith), Clocks and Yellow (Coldplay), Wonderwall (Oasis), Bohemian Rhapsody (Queen, and you had DAMN well better know this one), Be My Escape (Relient K), Dare You to Move and This is Your Life (Switchfoot), ect. I cant go on listing them because I know you’re important and have lots of better things to do than listen to me go on about random pointless shit. So, for your pure enjoyment, I have posted a link to Bohemian Rhapsody, the string tribute to Queen, and for those poor souls who don't know the awesomeness of Queen, may God have mercy on your soul. Listen to it. Seriously.

My Experience with a Psychic.

2009-11-16T22:06:00.001-08:00

Let's just say that it was interesting, to say the least. This evening, Alan Cable, a radio personality on a station I listen to (from far away… I listen on the internet) hosted a psychic, and apparently he does this every night and I just don't listen enough. Anyway, the point is, I was sitting here thinking, I don't have anything to ask a psychic, I don't believe in them anyway and then I thought of something. God has been calling me to India (I think) and I have been thinking a lot about it. Anyway, I decided to call in and ask this psychic if I was going to go to India within the next two years (because the next time that I would be able to go would be between now and after I graduate from college with my degree in a year and a half. Now, let me tell you, calling in is no easy feat. I had to hang up and call again SIXTY-NINE TIMES before I got through. We're talking mass busy signals. Anyway, Alan picked up and asked what I wanted to ask, and I told him my question and he puts me on hold, and before you know it, he's back on the phone with me, asking my name and my question. Here's how the conversation went:

Alan: Hi, what's your name?

Me: J.

Alan: And what is your question for Sylvia the psychic?

(is it just me, or are all psychics seemingly named Sylvia?)

Me: I was wondering if I will be going to India within the next two years.

Sylvia the Psychic: Yes. Yes, you will be going to India, and you will be meditating a lot there.

Me: Oh really? Will I be doing anything else?

Sylvia the Psychic: Yes, yes, you will be meditating a lot, and you will have a large spiritual awakening.

Alan: What are you going to India for?

Me: Oh, it's just a career choice.

Alan: Well, what do you want to do?

Me: I want to open a shelter for the homeless, using art as catharsis.

Alan: Well, you are just a great person. Have a great night!

Me: Thanks, you too. Bye.

This, if you have been following my blog, kind of follows what I want to do in India, but isn't quite the focus of what I want to do there. I won't be meditating in the most used sense of the word, and if I am meditating, I will be meditating on what God is telling me, and what I read in His word. But she didn't say anything about "bind[ing] up the brokenhearted, proclaim[ing] freedom for the captives, [or] release[ing] from darkness the prisoners." (Isaiah 61:1) She didn't say anything about the work that I would be doing there, taking children out of the brothels and slums, working creatively with them, ect. This makes me think that all it takes to be a psychic is a little general knowledge of the world and some really good guesswork that can be backed up with logic. In fact, several of the calls that I, as a listener heard her take, the person asking the question answered it his/herself. Anyway, my guess is that Sylvia the Psychic knew that India had the Taj Mahal in it, and that there are two dominate religions there, both very strong. Therefore, my situation is so specific that all she had to go on was guesstimates. So, I said thank you and hung up. But I started wondering… why do people believe and depend on psychics so much? Psychics make their money by creating self-fulfilling prophesies, meaning, they put an idea of what the person wants in person's head (because the person often asks a leading question with a yes or no answer). Because what the psychic said was what the person wanted to hear anyway, the person works harder to make what the psychic said happen, or if what the psychic said was vague, it is easy to interpret the psychic's answers the way you want to, molding them to the outcome you got or you wanted, like I did with Sylvia the Psychic's answers, therefore fulfilling the prophesy that was made, and further reinforcing your belief in the psychic. For example, a woman who wants another baby is going to try harder to have another baby if the psychic tells her she will, and she will give up, or not try as hard if the psychic tells her that she won't.

And I got to thinking, maybe people believe in psychics because they need something to believe in to be secure with themselves in the world. Maybe it just makes them feel better, knowing what is coming. But while I was thinking this, I was also thinking that atheists say the same thing about people of religion. We're just two different groups of people. Psychics and their followers have psychic books as their Bible, and they have self-fulfilling prophesies as their miracles, and they depend on what will happen in this world instead of what is promised for the next world, where as Christians follow a God that is not of this world, we have a sacred text, miracles like the one I witnessed (a girl's knees were healed by God through a group of people), and we depend on what is promised for us in the next world and live by a code. I've often wondered if we're all worshipping bastardized versions of the same God, imposing our own prejudices on our religion, making the differences between religions. Maybe this is sacrilege, but it's a theory.

I am very much a socialist.

2009-11-15T22:10:00.001-08:00

I had a big long rant about this all typed out, then my computer restarted itself, and it was therefore deleted before I could post it. I can't bring myself to type another one, because I know that it wont be nearly as good as the last one. So, I am going to post a website explaining why I am a socialist and just suffice to say my most important point. Being homeless induces a cycle: Homeless = no access to showers on a daily basis = not clean and dirty clothes = bad first impression when applying for jobs = no interview = no job, and the cycle repeats. These people also have to worry about finding food on a daily basis, and I know when I spent the night homeless and had to find food the next day, it took me the majority of the day just walking from the yard I slept in to the hospitality kitchen and back to the house I was staying in for this service project. Anyway, here's the website.
http://www.zompist.com/meetthepoor.html
Thanks for reading, yo.

Back into the Shell

2009-11-05T10:19:00.001-08:00

I am a turtle.

I can feel myself being pulled back into the shell that is my body.

To steal another's words,

I'm not in a good place right now.

I don't care about class.

I'm not hungry,

But I eat because my headache doesn't go away if I don't.

All I want to do is sleep.

I am a turtle,

With no control over my withdrawal,

And my shell is so uncomfortable when all my limbs are inside.

Perspectives

2009-11-04T12:40:00.001-08:00

It feels like your life's crashing down all around you
Let me ask if it's really so bad
Look at the world in it's suffering
Can you honestly tell me that know one else could understand
All of the hurting inside

Why can't you see that freedom is sometimes just simply another perspective away
Who could you be if your lens was changed for a moment,
Would you still be the same

A young child looks through a great stained glass window
Watching the people go by
Everyone seems to be wearing a red coat
His mother sees jackets in white
Now he can't understand why does she see it this way

Why can't you see that freedom is sometimes just simply another perspective away
Who could you be if your lens was changed for a moment,
Would you still be the same

Yesterday, you really couldn't see
By changing your angle a new world would be
Revealed to your once blinded eyes by moving a few degrees

Why can't you see that freedom is sometimes just simply another perspective away
Who could you be if your lens was changed for a moment,
Would you still be the same

~Kutless

This is how I feel right now..
"Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life!...How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!"

Random Thoughts of the Day

2009-10-29T10:46:00.001-07:00

The thought of India is filling my head. I cant seem to think of anything else. I'm in my history class, and I cant concentrate. I keep thinking about what God is doing in my life, and gaining hope, and then going through the depression pattern and slipping back into doubt that I can do what needs to be done, and doubt that I am talented enough to do art with these women in India. I'm having all sorts of problems with M.S, and they're problems that I have tried to solve, but fail at solving, and I don't really understand what I'm doing wrong to make her unhappy. I get really upset when I cant solve my problems with her, and I know that she senses it too. It's frustrating for both of us, so I don't know what to do. This frustration carries over to the prospect of going to India, and I keep thinking, how the hell am I going to manage and work with people in India when I cant even solve my problems and help, and make someone feel better about herself here? I've just been getting really insecure about it recently, and I've prayed about it. I was finally sent over the edge with M.S. last night, and I am resolved to quit and move out by the end of December. I've already started looking for a place and a new job. A.S. is coming to my house for Christmas because I have to work the whole break at EB. It's really frustrating because I wanted to go to his house, and I wanted my ring, but I don't know what is going to happen. All these things are clouding my vision of India, and what I could do there. I'm just worried that I'm not strong enough in my faith, and that I wont have the words to resolve situations, and that I wont have the artistic ability to influence these ladies.

Good Direction

2009-10-15T13:56:00.001-07:00

I just had coffee with a professor of mine from the theatre department. "Follow your heart," he says. Boy, that statement has never been more wrong. I want to major in theatre. I want a career in theatre. I want to open my own theatre company and give the artistic positions to the homeless to solve social stigmas. But all those plans have been mislaid. What's that saying? "The best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry." It's not fair. It's not fair, I tell you! Yes, I like psychology, but it isn't what I want to do with my life. I planned this out, so far. I had big ideas of what I was going to do with my life, how I was going to live out God's word. Not going to happen anymore, apparently. He said, "You seem more at peace with yourself." He said, "I'm excited for you. Changes in life are fun." No. Sorry C.H. You're wrong for once. I feel so out of control, and this change is scary! I have no idea what I'm doing, or what direction I'm going in. I've already decided that I'm done blaming M. and A. for this, so I'm not going to say that it's their fault, but I am going to say that the events that are happening are loosely connected to events that have happened regarding them in the past.

Here's the thing about me: I hate when I'm not in control, especially when I'm not in control of my own life. And right now, I have no idea what I want to do after college in the track that I'm studying in. I have to do an internship over the summer if I want to study abroad next year, and I have no idea where to start with that. I just don't know what I'm doing, or where I want to go after this, and I am so not at peace with myself right now. I don't understand how this is all supposed to piece together in the end, and not knowing where I'm headed after this is so difficult. I can't make plans if I don't know where I'm going. At least I have a plan through December. Falloutàold lady jobàinability to complete theatre production assignmentsàinability to complete my theatre majoràchange of life plans. Whoo! Yay for surprise plans! I'm so lost right now, and I just need someone to lead me out of this forest, out of this darkness. I can't see a damn thing in the dim light that barely makes it through the tree growth, and I need a flashlight to continue on the path. Life lesson: plans are fluid. Nothing is ever set in stone. People say that children are more mentally stable if their environment is stable, but how can that be, if plans are never stable? Maybe that's the reason I'm so messed up, because I didn't have a stable upbringing.

I remember going to the grocery store with my mother and bringing my calculator along to make sure that we could buy all the food we needed for the week. My mom had a basic list that we called "staple foods": the foods that you could do anything with if you had them. They were milk, sugar, flour, bread… and something else, but I can't remember what the last one was right now. I think it was meat. But we always got those things first, and mom would tell me how to do the calculations, and add up what we had to see how much our total would be. I remember moving from place to place after my parents divorced. I remember hating my mom for so long, until I had a taste of living with my father.

So, while I'm trying to stabilize my life, I'm listening to John Mayer, relaxing, trying to breathe deep. And while I feel all this anxiousness, and worry that I'm making all the wrong decisions, I feel a small amount of relief at the idea of a decision having been made.

Keeper of the Peace

2009-10-11T13:48:00.001-07:00

In observing the parentals over the weekend, I have discovered a few things. The first, my step-mother is as dumb as I made her out to be. The second, Husband and Wife don't communicate well. The third, my father is as nosy as a starving anteater, and the final factoid I learned about my family is that my step-mother has become a brilliant keeper of the peace.

For the sake of sanity, I'm going to stick with the keeper of the peace bit. My step-mother has a six-year-old girl who we will call Sister, for the sake of anonymity and simplicity, and a seven-year-old that we will call Brother for the same reasons. Sister woke up on the wrong side of the generic hotel queen-sized bed this morning, and has had a horrible attitude all morning. She didn't want to eat someplace with the word "onion" in the name, she didn't think they had coloring, she was making all kinds of a fuss, and not cooperating, and when I couldn't hear what she was whining about (me), the step-mother looks at me and says "she's having a 'moment'". This is no excuse. The phrase is "terrible two's", not "terrible two through six's". Whatever. She's in a bad mood. But it took several hours before they even began to discipline her for her behavior.

The example that I'm thinking of though, is a moment that occurred between my father and her. My father, to contrast him to everyone else in this world, is one of those people who are set off on a dime. Guess he passed that onto me. But when we forgot Brother's pillow in the hotel room, the step-mother mentioned it, and he threw the bag down like he was mad. He also asked her earlier this morning why she didn't pack Brother's earplugs, like she was the one responsible for all the packing. This is a completely unfair assumption. Last I checked, everyone was supposed to be responsible for their own items. This doesn't work for Brother and Sister because they are too young to remember everything, but when that kind of thing occurs, generally it helps if your spouse packs one kid's things, and you pack the other kid's things. He just got so worked up, like it was all Step-mother's fault, and she just responded really glibly, like she's used to dealing with shit like this now. Even though she is kind of stupid, I still feel bad for her.

Anyway, we were sitting in this restaurant, and Father hands her the glass that a milkshake for Brother and Sister came in, with only a little left in the bottom. Without thinking, Step-mother hands Sister the glass, and Father says "What are you doing?" with the underlying question of Are you thinking? It made me feel stupid for her, but instead of reacting the way I would have, she sputters for a minute, and then says "What would you like me to do?" I can just hear the eggshells, typical of an abusive relationship, cracking as she walks around him on them. Five or six minutes later, Father is back to talking about the restaurant manager with the white spot of paint on the back of his head (if that's even what it was), and Step-mother is telling me a stupid little anecdote about a woman she works with who was really rude on a test which she somehow meant to relate to Father talking about everything and everyone because he's "a curious person". I swear the man keeps tabs on the whole town so he can gossip with his family and friends about everyone else in his spare time. He's on the damn phone enough. I hate to admit this, but I kind of admire her for deflecting as well as she does. Although, I guess you're trained to be a keeper of the peace the longer you stay in a position like that, and she's had almost ten years' experience.

Parent/Family Weekend! YAY!

2009-10-06T17:12:00.001-07:00

So, my father and his wife have decided that they want to show up at Parent/Family weekend. At first, I nixed the idea; told them a lie, promised them Thanksgiving weekend. However, with the prospect of unpaid tuition for next semester looming over my head, I'm worried that I won't have the money that I need to pay for it. On top of that, I'm headed to California for Christmas break, and I need to pay for my third of the gas. So, when my employer from back home called me up to tell me that they wanted me for the holidaze, I told her I would check into what I could do with my employer down here. I found out that the old woman's daughter is planning on coming the two weeks after the old woman's son leaves, so I committed to going home and working for a week and a half after Christmas before school starts up again. I found out that the time frame I gave them wasn't what they were looking/hoping for from me. I basically did the unthinkable. I called my father up, told another lie to get out of my first lie, and invited him to Parent/Family weekend, hoping he would say yes and dreading it at the same time. Well, he called me up yesterday, saying yes we are coming. When I found out he's coming on the day I told him I had plans, I reminded him that I have plans set for that night. My plans consist of Opening Night of the show that is being performed at my school, the gala that follows, and the fucking awesome cast party that follows the gala. Every Opening Night is a welcome break from the hectic aspects of showbiz. Anyway, when I reminded him of my plans, he asked what they were and I, of course, told the edited version of just the Opening Night performance and the gala that follows (the UN-boozy part of the evening, since I'm sure my fake parentals don't endorse underage drinking (I use the term fake applied to my father to establish the fact that my step-dad has been more of a father to me than my biological father, but somehow my biological father seems to crave being rejected and abused in retribution for all the shit he gave me in my late elementary years and teens)). Well, after we hung up, he called back. He called back to ask if I could get him tickets to this performance. Without even knowing what the performance was. Without understanding the content. Let me back up and give you some of my history with this man, his wife, and his spawn. I designed for the show The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde, and it was my first design job EVER, so I invited them for a night so they could see the work I had done. Let me just say right now that the experience was not only patronizing, but also very embarrassing. We get there and sit down, and my step-mother calls her uncle to come watch with us because 1.) it's a comedy, 2.) it's being performed by a Catholic high school (this earned major props from my father, the devout Catholic who says "God bless you," not only when someone sneezes, but also every single fucking day for a number of reasons), and 3.) J.A. (that's me) "helped with the design". Okay. MAJOR ISSUE. I pointed out that I did not "help" with the design, I did the designing. What they saw onstage was the product of ideas that came out of MY head. They were MY ideas. I did not HELP. I did the designing and someone helped me. So she corrected her speech. This is one of the many reasons that my "parents" don't get me. They don't understand why I'm a theatre major, they don't understand why I do this, or why I want to do this for a living. I want to do this for a living because I believe that I could be damn good at it. And they don't get it. Not one bit. While she was being all kinds of patronizing, my father was schmoozing on every parent in the audience that he could get his claws into, making connections, and asking about the school. The production finally started so it could shut both of them up, and they watched, but half the times that they were supposed to laugh, I felt like there should have been a flashing "Laugh" sign, like they have in the studios for sitcoms, or when a sitcom implements a laugh track to get people to understand that what people are saying are jokes. Or even a fucking claque from Shakespeare's time, the people who sat in the audience and laughed when they were supposed to, or cried when they were supposed to, or cheered when they were supposed to, ect. So, I acted as a miniature claque, laughing when the parts were funny, and they kind of blindly stumbled their laughs along behind me, all the while, not controlling their little hellions, whom we might refer to as children, who they seem to keep quiet and still in church, but can't teach proper theatre etiquette. Their spawn ran around in the back of the auditorium making all sorts of noise and drawing the attention of the other parents there. It was disastrous, and I asked them to please control their children and make them behave, but they wouldn't and kept saying that it was fine, even when I pointed out that little B.A. was sitting right in the middle of one of the actors' entrances. This whole event was very embarrassing, and needless to say, I learned a lesson about where I could and could not take my family. Theatre events fall under the "could not" section. To top it all off, the end of the Victorian era satire takes a funny turn when they find out that Jack's real name is Ernest, like he was saying all along, and now he could marry his love, Gwendolyn, who would only marry a man named Ernest, who also happened to be his cousin when all was found out about his adoption. And through all the hilarity of confusion, my stepmother, who is about as bright as a 4-watt light bulb, could only focus on the fact that Ernest, even though he was raised in a different family, was going to marry his cousin. A fail worthy of a *facepalm*.

Needless to say, when my father asked for tickets, I told him that I can't get free tickets, and that if he wants them, he's going to have to look up on the internet where to reserve them because I don't have a clue, I'm just going to rush house and stand in the back. It's outside so there's really no way of controlling who watches and who doesn't. Anyway, I then explained that he didn't even know what it was about, and then told him the basic plot that Antigone buries her dead brother against a degree that declares death to anyone who does, and is therefore prosecuted when she's caught, and sentenced to death, and then on top of all that, when she is sentenced to death, her betrothed commits suicide, and when the betrothed commits suicide, his mother commits suicide because her son was driven to commit suicide, and it all ends in the despair of the father and king of Thebes, Creon. The fact that they didn't know the plotline for either of these plays just illustrates that they aren't cultured in the slightest, and that they're ignorant. I can't even imagine what my stepmother would say about the all female cast, and the idea of females playing males, and the implications of lesbianism, even though that isn't at all the concept the director had in mind. After I explained this and he still wasn't dissuaded, I explained the real reason I didn't want them to come: they embarrass me. I blamed it on the kids, and not their ignorance, but those brats are seven and eight. They should know better. They've been to the movies. I told him that I didn't want him to come unless he could control them, because it was outside with plenty of room to run around, but that wasn't acceptable behavior for a theatre production. And not only that, but I can guarantee that those kids would end up running around because they would get bored with the long winded speeches and the non-existent movement. He asked what that meant, and I told him that the actors stood around and spoke in translated ancient Greek. He was very obviously pissed off, but I couldn't say anything but what I had already said because he wouldn't have let it go, and I need him to not fight me when it comes to the court order of him paying my tuition. So he said "we'll see" and then we wished each other good bye. But yes, he's coming, and after he comes and goes, I'm going to explain to him that I saw him recently and that I have the opportunity to make money for school over Thanksgiving. I already know it won't go over well, so I plan to be ready for the fight that will ensue, because by then, he will see straight through my two lies for dissuading them and then inviting them, just to get out of the Thanksgiving that I already promised for several reasons. The first being that I can't stand them for more than a day at a time, and if I went for Thanksgiving, I would be subjecting myself to five days of torture, as opposed to two and a half, if that. Genius plan for getting my dad to hate me that I came up with several years ago isn't working so far, so I have to keep coming up with new ideas, and I suppose this is just the latest.

A Revelation

2009-09-30T12:08:00.001-07:00

I was sitting in acting class this morning, thinking about life, namely my monologue, and I came across a small thought in my head that said I'm done. I'm done thinking about this betrayal. I'm done talking about it, I'm done bitching about it. I will finish the series of letters, but honestly, they all say the same thing. I'm running out of things to say, and that, to me, is an indication of how far I've come, and how far I am going. I'm moving past this toxic thing that has taken up so much of my time and energy. This thing that I thought I would never get past. I'm moving forward!

M. Z. and A.K.,

You can't ruin my life. I spent the past six months thinking that you could, that you were. Yeah, I live in a nice house that I don't pay rent for, doing a crappy job that I hate, but you know what? How many people in this world actually like their jobs? So, what I have to say to you is, have a nice fucking life. I hope you stay friends forever, and I really do wish you the best. I hope you marry well, and have lots of fat babies, and that you do something you love in life. And I forgive you for all the pain you've caused me, and all the suicidal thoughts I've had since our falling out, for everything, essentially. Thank you for teaching me a great life lesson: You can't always trust your best friends to stick with you, but then again, if you wouldn't stick with me during my worst times, what made me think you were good friends? Yeah, I miss you. Yeah, I had better self-esteem when we were friends. But the fact remains that we aren't now, and that I will have to find new friends. Better friends. Friends who will stick around through thick and thin. And you know, you don't believe in any sort of God, and I get that. It's your belief. But I also happen to see the pattern, the chain reaction that has led me to where I am right now, and I know that it can't just be a coincidence. You were supposed to stab me in the back as sort of a slap in the face, with God asking me "Where is your faith, Jessica?" and when I wasn't sure where I was going to live, He provided a place that gives me free room and board. And because of our fallout, I went and served Him in Tacoma for a couple of weeks, and realized what He was calling me to do in my life. I witnessed a miracle because you abandoned me. And I thank you for that. I wouldn't be the person I am now if it weren't for you.

That's all I wanted to say. So, thank you.

J. M. A.

P.S. Without pain, there is no growth. Thank you for helping me grow.

On another note, I got a call from J.R. after six months of not hearing from him! He's headed to Phoenix from Seattle, and on the way back up, he said he's going to stop in Salem for the day, and we can go to lunch or something. I'm so excited! This is the day I've been waiting for so long now!

Oh, and Mom sent me a care package. It had everything that I've needed for awhile now: Zyrtec, toothpaste, a new toothbrush, vitamins and some stuff that I really don't need: Kudos bars, fresh-baked cookies, and forty bucks that I'm supposed to spend on whatever I want, not including school. Well, I've been buying little things here and there already, so I think that I will just put it toward my credit card bill.

Theatre history was cancelled today! YAY! Good thing, because I didn't do the reading, and I hate the teacher. Although he still expects a list of things from the reading, so after my next class, I'm going to haul ass home and read read read until I get it done enough to make the list. I also have to finish WEB Du Bois's book tonight for history tomorrow. Talk about DRY. It takes fifteen minutes to read ten pages, and I didn't finish the assignment from yesterday as it is. I'm so stressed because my final designs are due today, actually, and they aren't done, but C.H. says that I have a little wiggle time with them, and that he can stall a little for me, but not much. Weekend, here I come with a LOT of stuff to do. All I need to do is get through the weekend, and I will be okay. Just have to get it done, and then I still won't be able to relax because I have three term papers and two group projects that I am supposed to be working on! I thought this part of the semester wasn't supposed to come until the end when finals were here! Yikes! Anyway, I'm going to sign off for now. Wish me luck, dear readers.

It’s About Closure, Bitch

2009-09-29T21:49:00.001-07:00

Okay, so this is just an idea that I had that will turn into kind of a closure series. I want to move on with my life, and people say that you can't move on if you dwell. C.H. told me yesterday to not let tomorrow be affected by yesterday. So. Short series of letters, then I will hopefully be done.

Dear Friend,

Omigod, omigod, omigod! GUESS WHAT! I hate you bitch! Isn't it great?!? Don't fucking stand there and ask me what's wrong, why I've been so down for the past three days, you know damn well about the conversation you participated in behind my back, the conversation that was about me, the conversation that is about to end our friendship. The really good friendship, the friendship that I treasured as my best one. You know full well what kind of lie-to-your-face "friend" you are, and you know that you don't deserve my friendship. Thanks so much for stabbing me in the back. I was sick and needed to get some blood-letting done anyway. That's why you abandoned me, right? Because I was sick. And what better timing? Right as I was placing the knife against my wrist, you abandoned me. Do you realize that our friendship's demise is all your's and A.K.'s fault? You guys made me the butt of all your jokes, and I HATED it. And I took it, and took it, and took it until I just couldn't take it anymore, and somehow that translated into me being bipolar? Hmm, funny. YOU did this to me. YOU. Because of you, I slipped farther down the slope of depression, and here I sit at the bottom of the hole, looking up. I can barely see my old life from this view. It looks like a car when you see it from the window of an airplane. That slope has nothing but loose dirt on it, and nothing to stop my fall. I was stuck for so long, but I've started climbing again, and I slip so much on the way out, and sometimes it just seems hopeless. Do you realize that because of what you did to me, I had no other choice but to take a job that I hate with an old woman that I want to strangle in order to pay for my room and board? It was either that or whore myself out. And as a direct result of that choice, I no longer have the option of being a theatre major, unless, somehow, I can find a roommate for next year, a roommate that would be willing to share a studio apartment. The only good that has come out of your betrayal is I have gotten closer to Alex. He's supported me through my tears, the tears I thought would never dry. Remember how I never used to cry? I cry a lot more now. After I broke off from you, I hated eating, I hated everything that had to do with you, and I still can't forgive you, you stupid slut. After I hit rock bottom, I couldn't find any motivation to go to work, to go to my independent study class. I didn't get a shop supervisor position this year because of you assholes, and I will never forgive you. I trusted you, and you almost killed me with your neglect. It was funny. After I found out, all the things you didn't want to do with me made sense. Didn't want to see Beauty Queen alone with me? Go figure. Didn't invite me to go to the 'Tag with you when you went with A.K. and J.B.? I wonder why. Everything just started to fall into place, and you know what? That hurt even more. The fact that you were pulling this shit and I couldn't see it. It was so obvious! I guess I didn't see it because I thought you were my best friends. I tell myself I'm better off without you, that you destroy my self esteem and crush my faith, but I actually believe that my self-esteem was better when we were friends. I'm disappointed because I lost the illusion of great friends, but I would rather know that I have no friends than let you go on pretending. Bitch. I hope you have a shitty life.

2009-09-28T22:15:00.001-07:00

I can't let it go. I can't let go of the fact that my "friends" screwed me over. I just keep thinking about that day that I found out what they really thought of me, and then everything that has caused me misery right now comes rushing back to me, and I remember why I hate them so much, and why I got so upset. This was made very apparent in the meeting that I had with C.H. today. He asked me how things were going, and I told him that I was doing fine, that I was moving on, and that I was trying not to think about it. I have everything that I need to do to cope perfectly balanced on my mind, and I'm setting aside the scales, so that I can't think about it. I don't want to think about how my major is in jeopardy because I'm not living with them, and I don't want to think about what I'm going to do after college without the degree that I was going to get. I had my life all planned out, and then, as C.H. said today, realities hit. They affected me. You know, he always asks me to have coffee with him at the most inopportune times. I had things all compartmentalized, and I was avoiding dealing with shit, and then he kicks the balances in my head and I break down crying and have to explain myself. He says not to blame myself for choosing the wrong friends. He says if I do that, I will learn to not trust people, and that that isn't healthy. But I feel so irresponsible blaming them for how sucky my life is turning out to be. Boyfriend has been telling me that I need to read the book of Job again, and understand that God is doing this to test me, and that he's still a good guy. I just find it hard to listen to. And maybe part of this is coming from the stress that I'm feeling from having being in the middle of a busy week. Light hang all day Saturday, light focus from seven to eleven on Sunday, acting journals due today, Pseudolus was supposed to be read by today for my theatre history class, but I didn't get to it in time, so I skipped. Tomorrow, I have my first exam in psychology, and I have a ton of reading (like usual) for my African-American history class, and then on Wednesday, my temporary grade coursework is due. Unfortunately, the T-Grade coursework is really time-consuming, and I was too lazy to do it over the summer, so I'm only 2/3 of the way done with it (which is WAY behind). On top of all that, I still have to log six hours per week for my production assignment, and I'm skipping work so that I can get the other stuff done, and when I'm responsible for feeding someone else, and helping someone else get ready for bed, that cuts a huge hunk of time out of my schedule. I'm just trying to chill, and trying to cope, and in so doing, I'm trying not to think about everything that is going wrong in my life, and trying to focus on the good.

Here's my monologue for you to peruse:

It's your fault, you know, if I don't design next year. You stand there, asking what I will accomplish like we're still friends. Like the kindness you show me isn't purely fake. "Purely fake"? Isn't that what you said? Well, no need to fake anymore. You led my best friend to stab me in the back. You were my closest friends on campus, and I trusted you. Only to be left eating in crowded G. isolated and alone. Only to be left changing my life plans because I can't get the experience I need to make a life for myself after college. Because of you, I'm living in a house with a crabby old woman, responding to a call button right in the middle of homework, only breathing the way she dictates, and not having much of a nightlife. I tell myself that I'm better off without you, that you destroy my self-esteem and crush my faith. But really? I hate you, because you have the life I want, the life I was supposed to have, the life that I would have had, if you hadn't been an asshole.

What do you think?

Thought This Was Appropriate, Given Previous Moods

2009-09-26T00:19:00.001-07:00

"The so-called 'psychotically depressed' person who tries to kill herself doesn't do so out of quote 'hopelessness' or any abstract conviction that life's assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It's not desiring the fall; it's terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling 'Don't!' and 'Hang on!', can understand the jump. Not really. You'd have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling."

—	David Foster Wallace

If Life Were Simple

2009-09-23T18:38:00.001-07:00

If life was simple, maybe I would still have close friends. If life was simple, I might be living with said close friends. If life was simple. If life was simple, maybe I would still be a theatre major. Not to say that I'm no longer a theatre major, because honestly? I don't fucking know what I'm doing right now. What I do know is that I am living in a house with a bitchy old woman who I hate so much that the devil himself could come to claim her evil soul and I wouldn't care, wouldn't bat an eye. If life was simple, I wouldn't be living my life in a constant "go go go" frame of mind. If life was simple, I wouldn't be going to class and work from 8:30 every damn day to 4:00 or 5:00 every damn night, and then coming home to cook the evil old woman dinner. If life was simple, I wouldn't be spending every waking moment hating myself, hating my life, not being okay with where I am in relation to the world.

Today, I met with the leader of Intervarsity. He wants to keep me involved with the community. I didn't tell him what happened with my pseudo-friends, but I told him enough about my living situation that I had to explain about the theatre major. When he asked me to have lunch, and when Chris asked me to have coffee with him on last week, it was all I could do to keep from crying. People care too much about my personal life, they care too much, and are WAY too invested in it for their own good. I hate crying in front of people, and I only cry in front of people who know me really well. I don't know Chris well enough to cry in front of him. I don't want them to care so much, because I am trying desperately to let go, to focus on getting through with my self still intact. And it's hard. It's so hard. It's hard trying to regain my boss's trust from when I slacked off so much last year, on top of all the other work that I have to do. I am taking 2 credits more than the average student at my school (the average is 4 credits, so you can see how this is a big deal), and I feel so stupid in 3 out of the 6 classes I'm taking, especially theatre history, where the professor doesn't like me anyway, and therefore purposely makes me feel stupid.

I just hate my life. I hate my life.

Family: Near and Dear.

2009-09-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

I am continually fascinated with my family's determination to hunt me down wherever I may go, and whoever I may be with, and however hard I am trying to avoid each and every one of them. It seems as if their need to find me increases exponentially with relation to how badly I want to be rid of them for the rest of my life. And then on top of all that, no matter how long it's been since I last talked to the family member who dares to find me, they seem to ask so much about my personal life.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I now present evidence piece A. It all started with my uncle. I friended him on facebook because he's a pretty cool guy. He shares my interests, agrees with me politically, what more could I ask for? He's actually really great, but being without the rest of them means being without him, so I continue to the second piece of evidence.
Evidence B: My aunt SAT. SAT used to be really awesome. Then she got married and has kids and now relates less to me and more to my father (who I despise because he acts stupid whenever I'm trying to get him to do something, or say something is okay. For example, asking if my boyfriend can come to the family reunion, or even to our house! "Where's he going to sleep? Do you want him to stay with us?" DUH! If he had other sleeping arrangements, I wouldn't be asking you, now would I? "Dad, have you sent in my college tuition that you are required BY LAW to pay?" "No, I don't have the address. Or the amount. Even though I have the court papers. I didn't even know it was due last week. Even though I have the court papers. Can you call and give me the address where I have been sending my check for the past two years? We never wrote it down on BJ's numerous address books, or in her Blackberry. We also don't know how much the check should be for, even though you fought me and nearly took me to court over the small deficit that I didn't pay on purpose."). WE HAVE NOTHING IN COMMON! But she still talks to me. And my other uncle (AA) has been pestering me for the past five months about going to the reunion, even though I've made it perfectly clear that I'm not going because I have a guest during that time period. A very important guest who I happen to be planning to marry after I graduate from college. This woman, SAT, takes pictures of all the family at the reunion, and then posts them on facebook, saying this is ALMOST all the family, and tags me in every picture. FUCK. YOU.
Evidence C: Tonight. My house. New friend request. MAS. Great. Another family member with whom I have nothing in common. No "Hi! How are you doing! It's been so long!" No. What I got, was this:
"funny that you have not shown up before today...I hear you are getting married our first niece to get married...what is going on --- I want to hear details. How exciting...."
She pried for info, just like that. Didn't even let me tell her! Yeah. I'm fucking getting married. Thanks for asking. Thanks for asking about the rest of my life too. UGH! I haven't seen or talked to MAS in at least three years. I've been in and out of several relationships, been in school, and had friends turn their backs after stabbing me, and all she cares about is the boyfriend. I checked out her profile, found the most sickening sight. All her siblings and their spawn (minus me, of course. Thank God, I would have murdered someone if they had handed me a WSU sweatshirt and forced me to put it on for ten minutes of chaos and forced merriment, in which I was told to smile ten times until all the children around me get it right, then having to play babysitter for the rest of the day for at least one parent at a time) dressed in nothing but WSU attire. I swear, if they're wearing it, it's either maroon or grey. EVERY OTHER COLOR IS BANNED. If I showed up wearing WU colors, they would probably disown me! And dressing their kids up??? BRAINWASHING! The oldest in the picture is in fifth grade! Too young to even be thinking about college, and stamping the originality and artistic side right out of them.
*Sigh* okay. Rant over. Thanks for tuning in.

Sleeping on the Streets and Other Problems in the World (or at least my world)

2009-09-02T18:57:00.001-07:00

The time was 8:00 on a recent Tuesday morning. I had just recently met with a man for coffee about getting a free massage on the weekends. I hadn't had breakfast that day, and I was hungry, so I ordered a muffin. Chocolate. It was the only kind the coffee shop had left, one of those Costco-sized muffins. I'm on the Weight Watchers program, so I used a technique that I had learned a couple weeks back, and I only ate half of the muffin. After the meeting, I was biking back to campus for my first class of the day, when I saw the most depressing and yet touching sight. In front of a Methodist church, I saw a lump. As I got closer, I realized that the lump was made of collapsed cardboard, a tarp, some backpacks, a dog, and two people. The people had dreadlocks, and were covered with the tarp. They were facing the church, so I couldn't see there faces, and as I passed, I felt horrible for the couple. You see, I know what it's like to sleep on the streets. I did it one night as part of an empathy-instilling exercise at a service project centered around helping the homeless. I know what it's like to wake up to dew all over your blanket, and to be cold and sore because you used your shirt for a pillow in an attempt to get more comfortable. I know what it's like to walk around town looking for food and maybe some cans that you can trade in for money, and I know what it's like to serve people who live like this for months or years. I was actually one of those people when I was younger. My mother and I stayed in a homeless shelter, and oftentimes lived with friends from church while I went to school and my mother went to work to try and make enough to get back on her feet. I was young, so I didn't see a lot of the struggles we had, but I do remember the cold showers in the morning before school while we were staying in the shelter, and the Pop Tarts that we ate because there was no place to store food or cook in the shelter. Luckily, we were only there for two weeks.
Remembering how hard it was to complete the simple task on the scavenger hunt (part of the simulation) of asking for a quarter, I stopped a little ways away. I was planning on eating the rest of that muffin a little later. I was still hungry! Then I thought about how hungry the two sleeping on the church stoop probably were, and realized I didn't need it as much as they did. I had lunch to look forward to, and lunch was guaranteed for me. It wasn't for them. Maybe they didn't even know when their next meal would be. I got off my bike, pulled out a piece of paper, and wrote a little encouraging note, then tip-toed over to the couple and their dog, setting the muffin on a corner of their makeshift bed.
I feel like I could do so much more for them and others in the same situation. I feel like I have the money to do it, but I'm being stingy and putting myself through school first. I suppose one can only do so much.

On another, more self-centered note, I'm trying to decide what to do about the clash between my job, and my theatre major requirements. I get paid in free room and board, I'm taking six credits, technically speaking (I'm auditing 1.5 credits), I have to work at least ten hours a week at my work study job to be able to afford to go to school here next year, and that leaves the evenings for homework (this means that I'm multi-tasking because when I am at home in the evenings, I am at the beck and call of the woman I work for. I jump when she says jump. And it's rough. We don't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, and it's extremely stressful and hard. For instance, M.S. is pissed off because we run out of the short forks easily, and she has to use another, different kind of short fork, and it interrupts the continuity that she's had all her life, so she gets upset. Like throwing a fit will get you what you want. "Why do we keep having this kind of fork every night? I want one of the regular forks! Why don't we have any of the regular forks?" and on and on. Now add this to the stress of being in trouble with the theatre department because I forgot to look at my production calender, and therefore JUST found out that I have to miss a mandatory meeting for all majors, minors, and scholarship-holders because I'm scheduled to work, and you have a basketcase, ladies and gentlemen. A real life, walking and talking basketcase. So, needless to say, I'm rethinking my job and my theatre major and trying to find the best of both worlds, and unfortunately, I'm not superwoman, because if I was, I would do it all. I offered a proposal to the faculty to see what they think, and hopefully, they'll buy it. I'm praying that they buy it, because if they don't, my life plans will need to be altered. Again.

Auditions!

2009-08-31T11:47:00.000-07:00

Let me make this very VERY clear. I am a theatre and psychology double major. The theatre requires all of their majors, minors, and scholarship holders to audition for all of their shows. THEATRE IS NOT ALL ABOUT ACTING! Is that clear? IT ISN'T ALL ABOUT DANCE! Theatre is about making art, not matter how you do it. Yes, acting is an aspect of theatre. So is dance. But behind the scenes, there are designers. What is an actor without his stage? What is an actor without the lights to support his emotions? Powerful things can be conveyed through these things. And what about the director? He or she plays a key role in the production of a play.
I am what they call a technical student. I am a designer in training. I have REALLY bad stage fright, which is kind of funny since I was in several MCT plays as a child. That said, I cannot possibly begin to convey how much I hate auditions. I get there, nervous that I won't be able to remember the words of one of my monologues, and the more I practice, the more my hands shake. The more my hands shake, the more I forget. And then the production managers call my name and I'm sure that I'm going to pass out after I forget the beginning of my piece. The production manager would lead me upstairs, and I would stand outside the door briefly trying to calm myself, and take deep breaths, both attempts failing miserably. Resigning myself to fate, I would let myself into the acting lab, letting the door swing shut behind me, overly conscious of the clank of wood against metal, and thinking maybe I should have stood by the door and closed it slowly. Taking a deep breath, I would greet the panel of professors/directors for this season's shows, and they would ask me a few questions about myself, and I would give the answers awkwardly, maybe stuttering some. Then they would ask if I was ready, and I would shakily say yes, even though I am SO not ready, and I would turn around, take a couple deep breaths, and launch into my monologue after I remembered the starting words. Not three words in, I would forget the next phrase, turn to the panel, announce that I was starting over, and re-begin, even more shaky and nervous than last time. After making it through the two standard pieces, they might ask me a couple more questions, and I would finally escape, glad to be done and hoping against all hope not to be cast. And I would nervously check the call-backs list over the next few days and find that I wasn't called back, and be relieved that I never have to public speak again.
Now, since last night, I have been trying to get out of this hell that they call auditions. I've emailed the panel, and the production managers, and finally resorted to a made-up excuse that I had to fill in for someone who got sick at work until an hour before auditions ended. The excuse wasn't necessary. I got out of auditions through an email saying that I was excused an hour before auditions started. Thank God.

Fire Her Up!

2009-08-22T11:51:00.000-07:00

I know, I know... this is something like the millionth time I've said I'm going to start this blog up again, and I just never get around to it after the fact, but this year is proving to be very difficult, and I suspect it will continue to be very difficult, and in the past, this has been a good steam blower for me, so it's here to stay for the next year at least.
Allow me to enlighten you on my life for the past five months (and some things from about a year ago). I started dating the love of my life a year ago on Sept. 10th, which makes this the longest relationship I have ever had. The poem that was entered here on Oct. 6th is about him. There's a few catches though. Even though I'm Truly Madly Deeply in love with him, he lives in California, exactly 632 miles (that's ten hours and twelve minutes of driving time) away from my house, with chronic bloodclots, and that makes him a little hard to see, because his parents (the other catch) are so controlling that they wont let him take anything but a plane to come and see me, and because I go to a private college where they take bits of my skin and muscle to pay for my tuition when I don't have the money (which is quite often, you would be surprised). And the logical thing would be for him to move here and go to school (he goes to a community college) his parents wont let him do that either. "Why do you stay with him? Distance is a big issue!" you say. Yeah, you're right. It is. But I stay with him because I love him, because he treats me right, because he's the first guy my mother has actually liked, because my father doesn't like him (because he's half-black, half-Iranian), because he knows more about me than my girlfriends, because he is my best friend, and because he got me through a deep bout of depression last spring.
Intro: my ex-best friends. Meet A.K. He's from LA. Sweet, smart, funny, I can always count on him for advice or for him to make me laugh. He was my first co-host for the radio show that I started and the rest of them commandeered. This isn't chronologically how I met these friends, but A.K. is a key player in the depression story. I worked with him in the theatre, and we always had fun making fun of each other, until it got to be too much for me. That's how it was with the whole group. We loved each other because we could joke with each other and make fun of everyone else's attributes. Before I get too far ahead of myself, there are some more names you need to know. I met M.Z. through my first calculus class in college. Multi-variable. I had passed the AP test with flying colors, so I was advanced, and I can't really tell you why she was there. All I know is that she proceeded to sit next to me on the first day, and then every day after that, and talk my ear off, day after day. I thought she was really weird at first, but then I warmed up to her because I didn't have anyone else to hang out with yet. I guess you could call her my first close friend. We went to a concert at Riverfront Park together, and then after that, I guess you could say we were attached at the hip. I invited her to eat dinner with me and A.H. once, and that's how our group was unofficially formed. A.H. I met in Opening Days. He was the only person in my group I felt somewhat connected with. He actually talked to me without looking at me like I was weird. We had things in common, we made each other laugh. He's extremely smart, and studies hard. I met A.K. through him. They were roommates during first year (lucky that they got along so well) and have been for every subsequent year after. In fact, they're going to be roommates in the apartment that they all just rented together (without me, I might add, but that part comes later). L.B. was in A.K.'s OD group, and they are really good friends. I don't see how though because in my opinion, she has a worse character than I do. She complains ALL THE TIME, whines and lies to get her way, she's somewhat of a hypochondriac, and she only talks about herself and her sisters. You guessed it, folks! She joined a sorority during freshmen year! So we don't see much of her anymore. It's ironic with a capital I that she's the first person I turned to after The Incedent. And finally J.B.: J.B. lived across the hall from A.K. and A.H. who we politely nicknamed the A's because they have the same first name, and do practically everything else the same way. The parts that aren't alike about them compliment the attributes in the other. Anyways, J.B. is really sweet. She's never mean, unless she's joking, she MAKES (hand draws, sketches, cuts out, glues, ect, ect) her own cards for every birthday she has in her datebook, and personalizes every gift. She agrees with everything you say, and if she disagrees, she disagrees passively. If anyone could kill you with kindness, it's this blonde-haired, blue-eyed, innocent who couldn't kill a fly, and had to catch and release all the spiders in our room (second year) instead of just squash them with a shoe (I would have done it, but I'm terrified of spiders). We all lived in different halls during our freshmen year (except the A's and J.B.) and all hung out in each other's halls depending on the night. In sophomore year, we had this brilliant plan to all live in the same hall. That worked out well. Stress + PMS = J (that's me) becomes a bear, and my "friends" couldn't take it. I found out about all this through a phone conversation that J.B. was having just before I walked into the room. I stopped and listened and what I heard did not please me. Apparently, they had been talking about me behind my back. They didn't want me to live with them because of "the way [I am]". "All the kindness that [A.K.] had shown to me was purely fake at this point". They didn't like me anymore. My best friends were kicking me out of our group. Well, maybe that's a little dramatic because when I found out, I was so hurt that I chose to leave. J.B. felt sorry for me because she knew that they were the only friends I had at school, and the only reason she sided with them is because there were more of them, but she didn't want to tell me what was going on because she didn't want it to be awkward. I cried myself to sleep on the phone with A.S., the long distance lover, for three nights in a row before J.B. said anything. When I told her I knew everything, she denied that she knew what I was talking about, and that it wasn't true, and how could I think that, ect, ect. I stopped going to dinner at the usual time, and when I got hungry, I would go out. I couldn't stand eating by myself in the crowded cafeteria, so I found alternatives. When asked why I wasn't eating, and why I seemed so down by M.Z. I confronted her. I told her everything I knew, but not how I got the information. The look on her face confirmed it, and needless to say, I'm no longer with them. As a result of having no friends, I had so much time on my hands, but I spent so much of it sleeping, and very little of it doing actual work. I started skipping my independant study class, and I rarely went into the theatre building at all, unless I had J.C.'s class, in which my grade dropped because I wouldn't talk. I was ashamed, because I had stopped going to work and I didn't want my boss to confront me about it. In retrospect, she should have fired me. A.S. got me through that time. When he came for Spring Break, she thought that the reason I had been slacking was because I was so happy. Then I confessed what had happened to my advisor, and I think he told her. They're pretty close, you see. I think everyone in the theatre department is close, except for me because now that Anya has graduated, I'm the only design student left.
Anyway, this fall out has led me to the place where I am now. When I found out that my "friends" perjurers of everything good and wonderful in this world, the most of these friendship, I started looking for a new place to live on the campus ad boards, and on craigslist, where I had previously found many apartments that would have worked for the five of us (Lily was living in her sorority house). It took a few weeks of searching, but I finally found an ad that applied to me. "Wanted: a single woman to receive free room and board in exchange for taking care of an elderly woman during the evenings. You get the loft, and share the kitchen and bathrooms. Schedules are flexible." This sounded like a REALLY sweet deal, so I emailed the woman who had posted the ad, and set up an interview. When I met with the two women, they seemed pretty down-to-earth, laid back kind of people. The elder is 86 and the younger is her daughter. Nice people, really nice people. The problem was that K.S. couldn't live with/take care of her mother because it was interfering with her work and her home life, and the last person quit, I was told, because her brother had some sort of cancer. So they checked my references and offered me a job. I made the decision to go home and stay with my parents over the summer, but that turned sour really fast because my mom and I only get along when we aren't living together, and it took the numerous fights for me to see that. I decided to move back to Salem and take the job earlier than expected, and moved back on July sixth. So much better than living with my mom, right? Wrong! Out of everything that has happened so far (the "adjustment" period, my mother calls it), this old woman has made me cry four times since I've been here, and I've only been here for a month and a half. The latest happening? Well, first of all, everything MUST be done her way. If it isn't done her way? It's wrong, of course. I challenged this this morning when I served her breakfast. I accidentally set the polished spoon on the right side of the plate instead of the left, and put the fork where the spoon was supposed to go. I was in a rush to get it done. When she reminded me (like she ALWAYS does) that I did it wrong, and that I better get used to the way that she does things because the world does it like that, I said (nicely, jokingly, like an observation) "The world is kind of silly then because most people eat with their right hand." But no. Once again my employer is right because she went to high school with Jesus and I'm not quite that old. You want to know what her great comeback was? "Some people eat with their left hands." Very true, you're highness, I'll keep doing it your way because it's your house, and I will just disregard the fact that left-handedness is a recessive gene. That means that only 13% of the world population is left-handed, according to http://www.lefthandersday.com/.
Before this next anecdote, please understand that I do not cope well with being yelled at. M.S. (the old woman) and I have some communication problems. Many times, I don't understand exactly what she wants, and when I don't understand what she wants, she treats me like I'm stupid and raises her voice to me. Not. Cool. I was making her lunch today, and it wasn't done the way she wanted it, so she raised her voice. "No no no, I don't want it done that way, I want it just like this!" Commence ten minutes of unclear instructions.
What I hear: "I want one piece of bread with cheese on it, put into the microwave until it melts, with another piece of bread on top."
What she said (allegedly): "I want one piece of bread with cheese on top, put into the microwave until the cheese melts, and that's it."
It's really hard to believe her when she repeats what she said when I heard something different, because she says thank you for the fork that I put next to her plate, and then ten minutes later asks for a fork and then says that I snuck it in when she wasn't watching. Hmmm... something wrong with this picture? So she proceeds to yell at me, making me more flustered, so I cut the single piece of bread in half and make it into a sandwich. That still isn't what she wants, so she yells at me more exasperated and louder than before. When I finally get the "sandwich" in front of her, I'm on the verge of tears.
I can't do this job. I can't. But I have to stay until next year at least. I have no place else to live, and tuition is higher than I thought it would be. Not only that, but I would have had the money for a place of my own and for tuition if I had just stayed home and worked my butt off, as was my original plan. This is the part where I curse my ability to make the wrong kind of friends, but I suppose I'll spare you, and keep that bit to myself. If you're still awake, or even made it to the end, thanks for paying attention.

Excuse me, Asshole.

2009-02-19T19:13:00.000-08:00

Oh, I'm sorry, did I bump into you with my fat ass? I didn't mean to.. Oh, right, yes I did~ I forgot, Fuckers like you always get their comeupance. Look, asshole, I know I might not be as pretty as the other theatre girls, I know you think I'm the stereotypical blonde girl with no brains, but I am a human being, and I deserve respect, whether or not you think I'm drop-dead gorgeous. The way you have treated me since I entered the department has been has been unacceptable, and your behavior needs to change. You treat me like I'm not a member of society, like I'm lower than a dog. Let me inform you of something: I am human. I have feelings. And though you think I'm incapable of a lot of things, and I don't always do what you think I should, or what you would do in that situation, I need you, as light shop manager, to teach me what you know, because I will be in your place next year as supervisor and the shit you think I'm too stupid for I will be teaching next year. SO FUCKING TEACH ME WHAT I NEED TO KNOW, AND TREAT ME WITH THE RESPECT I DESERVE. Asshole.

If I Had The Guts: facebook statuses I can't bring myself to publish.

2009-02-08T20:11:00.000-08:00

J can see through you. You're a bitch. Get away, stay away.
J is smirking. Smirking loudly. Oh, and she just might have a knife at your back.
J thinks you're really stupid.
J says, "Back the fuck off, he's mine."
J is laughing. She's going to get back at you...
J hates certain people, and the shit they say.

This list will probably get longer.. I just cant think of any more bitter ones at the moment.

Feel Bad, Bitch

2008-12-02T20:54:00.001-08:00

This, I'm hoping, will be a quick post, as I'm supposed to be writing a paper right now, and I don't currently have anything done on it.
Today, let me just say right now, has just not been my day. Little things going wrong, tired as hell, and it all culminates in THIS SHIT. My friends and I went to dinner tonight. And like usual, we were fucking around. Very beginning of dinner. My roommate takes my drink, making a sort of joke (guess you had to be there) and then on her way to giving it back, putting it on my tray, the glass catches the edge of the tray and falls out of her hand.
No big deal, right?
Oh, I forgot to mention its contents fell. All. Over. Me.
Okay. Still, no big deal, right?
WRONG. I'm wearing my favorite jeans and t-shirt.
No worries. You can wash them.
Grape juice stains. Before the accident, I had two pairs of jeans that I could wear that weren't stained, that were relatively nice. Currently? I have one pair.
Okay, so I go back to my room, change out of my clothes, realize I have no money to replace them, soak them in the bathtub, and proceed to start freaking out about where I'm going to get the money for new jeans, crying and everything. So I call my mom. See if she would be willing to contribute. Luckily, she gets paid Friday, so I bought jeans at Eddie Bauer in B. over the phone and they're shipping them to me. Great. Taken care of.
When I got back to my room after my meeting, J. wasn't around, so I asked K. where she went. "M.'s room." Cool. I didn't go down there, I figured she was fine, whatever. I made it clear when I left after not getting any dinner that I didn't want them to bring me any food, and that it wasn't her fault.
Now, J. isn't the type of person to immediately take things the way you mean them to be taken. She feels bad for EVERYTHING. Dear God, this girl can't let anything go without feeling bad. So apparently she starts crying. And she's been crying in M.'s room. I found this out when I tried to get M. to tell her that I'm sorry, as I won't be in my room until late tonight, or so I am anticipating. But not only did I get absolutely no help, I got a cold response from M. like I did something wrong.
Excuse me. I had to leave the table at that point, because not only was I dripping with grape juice, but I was fairly upset, and getting more upset as I got to my room. I fucking started crying, which I suppose isn't unusual for me lately, and I'm pretty much on the verge right now. I'm not supposed to be the one feeling like I've done someone wrong, because according to A.K., I didn't do anything. Yet, I'm still really upset, and I feel like I should be the one apologizing.
Well you know what? I hope you feel bad, J. You can't just let someone be fucking upset without ruining that as well as their clothes. I would have fucking gotten over it fast if you hadn't gotten the whole group on your side by feeling so bad you cry, by feeling so bad that they look at me like the bad guy. You know what? I got out of there so fast because I didn't want you to feel worse than you already did, but now? I HOPE you feel bad!

Okay. I am finished ranting. I apologize for my words if they are harmful. But know, I won't apologize. I did nothing wrong.

This is your life....

2008-11-10T18:23:00.000-08:00

Are you who you want to be?
~Switchfoot

Just to start out the night of studying with a little raw philosophy. Has anyone ever noticed that unwise choices come out of anticipation of a looming test? I just remembered that I have one tomorrow, and what am I doing, my dear, but typing out a message for you. Despite the recent slump in posts, I'm trying to make a comeback with this thing, and that would mean chatting with you, my dear, on a semi-regular basis.

So I start again with this simple question: This is your life, are you who you want to be?

Do you wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and tell yourself that you think you're awesome? Of course not. That would indicate either insanity issues, because you're talking to yourself, or narcissistic issues, because you think you're so God-damned amazing. Truth is, children, if you don't like who you are today, if you can't look in the mirror and say "I'm proud of who I am, what I do, how I feel, my opinions," what can you say? What can you say for yourself, for your life? How do you deal with the husk of life that you have become?

You change.

That's all that needs to happen. A lot of time it happens naturally, sometimes you try to force it, sometimes you just need a brand new car to drive your middle-aged wife around in. But you change, and so do the people around you. We adapt to our new environments.

But, dear readers, if you can't see yourself changing, and my words of unconscious change shock you, frighten you, make you want to hide under your bed, scare you, fret not. We keep the basics as a base.

You will continue to fear. You will continue to be happy on occasion, sad on occasion, angry on occasion.

You will continue to love, dear readers, and that's all that matters in this world.

To Tell the Truth

2008-10-17T00:10:00.000-07:00

In my psychology classes, we are discussing repressed and recovered, including false, memories. Basically, in the '90's there was a craze about sexual abuse in women who had any sort of emotional disorder. Kind of like, "if the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail". It's really weird, because all these women, and sometimes men, were going to these psychiatrists looking for a solution to their problems, and whether they knew it or not, these psychiatrists involuntarily and unknowingly implanted false memories into their patients head through hypnosis, Freud's idea of psychic energy, and age regression.
On the converse, there was a man once who had been sexually abused by his camp counselor when he was in choir. The man repressed this memory for twenty-five years, and then one day, his sister called him up, telling him that her son had joined the choir. The man began to get headaches, and he was depressed, and all of a sudden, the memory became clear. He did some research on the counselor and later confronted him about it. The counselor confessed over the phone, and the man pressed charges.
Once, due to certain cues of sexual abuse, my mother asked me point-blank if I ever had been. I told her no, because at the time, I couldn't ever remember anything about it. So she took me to see psychologists, thinking that maybe, I would feel the "secrets" were safer if I told them to the psychologist instead of her, not that there were any secrets, because nothing was really happening. To this day, I do not remember anything about any sexual abuse what-so-ever. I do remember some somewhat disturbing things from my childhood that got close to it, but nothing really dark. My father would sit me on his lap while he was going to the bathroom. I never saw anything, but it made me uncomfortable all the same. My mom never knew about it, and it went on until I was eight, at least. He did it once in my now-step-mom's house, which is how I'm tracing this, but I never once saw a penis. Not until I lost my virginity. I almost even walked in on him once when he was peeing.. and he stopped me.
To my credit, this memory has been with me for my whole life. I don't feel that it was ever repressed. But it makes me question if I have repressed things in the past, like having actually been sexually abused, or even if my memory of sitting on my dad's lap is valid, or complete. It makes me wonder if my memories of his emotional abuse are real, or if I'm just crazy. I hate listening to the stories of the people with false memories because some you can tell are very clearly made up, and I don't like feeling like I made something up when my story is totally different. I think what bothers me most is my lack of evidence, since psychological abuse is so hard to prove. With a lack of evidence, my memories are just as valid as the woman who had a memory of getting stuck in a fallopian tube as an egg. So, how am I supposed to know?

Chapter One

2008-10-15T17:19:00.000-07:00

My father had a hand that could stop a clock. No, literally stop a clock. He got angry one Saturday and made shards out of the face of the grandfather clock that stood at the end of the hall, bending the hands into the unsuspecting roman numerals, freezing the time at 9:26 in the morning. I watched him load it into the back of his pickup around lunchtime, and before dinner, he approached me. "Jenny, you are to never speak of the argument we had this morning. When your mother asks what happened to the clock, you knocked it over in the hall while playing with your friends. If you stray from this story, I will lock you in the basement, and you will not eat tomorrow." After dinner, my mother noticed the clock in the hallway, was gone, and asked my father what happened to it. My father nodded to me, and I launched into the story that I had prepared when he told me what I was supposed to say. "Kaylee was over, and we were playing tag in the hall." This was something I knew was against the rules. " I accidentally slipped when she was chasing me, and I slid into the clock. It fell over, and the glass broke. Daddy helped me pick up the big pieces, and made me vacuum up the rest." My father chipped in the rest: "I called the manufacturer to see if there was any way we could simply replace the glass, and we can't afford their prices, so I took it to the dump." Dad had beat me silly that day for making him mad enough to punch the clock in more than a metaphorical sense, but by that age, my mother no longer bathed me, so she didn't see the bruises he left all over my back and arms. I was seven years old at the time, and I have never forgotten it.
"Jennifer Willoughbe, you get your ass out here immediately and do the fucking dishes and if I have to ask you again, we will cancel your birthday party this week!"
I rush out to the kitchen, knowing full well that I will get a lashing if I don't make it quick. I have no idea what's made him so angry today, but it isn't the first time. The door slams as he leaves for God knows where, and I watch his truck disappear around the corner as I fill the sink with water and soap. I notice he's left a list again as I'm walking back to my room for my Ode to Doing the Dishes CD, given to me by Amber, my good friend from school. Amber, though she often doesn't look it, with her bright orange spiked pixie cut, cold grey eyes, and squared-off chin, is really sweet. I met her during my eighth grade year at the middle school in the town my parents moved us to the last time the people in the hospital started recognizing the bruises and broken bones as my father's doing. She sat down next to me once at lunch, resting her fingers in the exact places my father's had been the night before when he was drunk, and somehow, I think she drew from the finger-shaped bruises that it was his doing. From that day forward, she and I have been best friends, sharing everything about our lives with the other. At the end of this month, August, we'll be starting high school together, if my parents don't move again, that is.
The opening chords of Goodbye Earl, the infamous Dixie Chicks song, fill the kitchen as I wash the first dish, and the second. My brother Michael, the elder and moved out of the two of us, barges through the front door, just as the Dixie Chicks burst into the chorus, and with his explosive entry, he joins in: "Cause Earl had to DIE!" Coming up to me, he wraps me in a bear hug, knowing that I hate this place, and careful to mind any new injuries. When he still lived at home, and his girlfriend wasn't over, I would sneak into his room at night and complain about how Dad always picked on me, and hurt me so much. He would hug me, and tell me eventually, everything would be alright. He's gone now, so I have to deal with my father on my own now. Lucky for me, Michael still stops by, and takes me out every once in awhile, even though he's married and has a couple of kids.
"Guess who I brought with me, little sister!"
"Who?" I ask.
Almost as soon as the word is out of my mouth, Amber comes barging through the door. I shriek as I meet her, arms open for a hug. We all crowd into the kitchen. They both know they came during dishes time. Amber is the one who made me the CD for God's sake. Amber sees the list and turns to me.
"He really left all this for you to do today? What does he think you are, his little maid?" Amber, who has been here on his little escapades, who's seen all his lists, and who's watched me complete the lists, heads straight for the broom closet. She pulls down the cleaning supplies, and hands my brother a broom. "Here Michael," she says. "Let's help Cinderella complete her chores for the big bad asshole so we can get her out of here."
"Ummm, not happening," I reply, knowing full well my father wouldn't approve of my friend and brother being here, and knowing even more that he would approve less of it if they were helping me so they could kidnap me for a pre-birthday celebration before he could get home. "The kidnapping part, I mean," I revise as they start to put the supplies away. "I would love the help."
Amber kisses my cheek, beginning to clean the windows as we all sing along to Breakaway, the strong girl song, as Amber calls it. To tell the truth, it's always funny to hear my brother sing along to songs like that, especially in a falsetto. Michael joins me at the sink, tickling me as he grabs a towel to dry with. Aaron, our father, is so anal retentive about not letting the dishes air dry because "the germs dry onto them, making them dirty again" not to mention the fact that they're going into a cupboard that has germs all over it. Though, I suppose he makes up for that by making me clean the cupboards once a week.

New Things

2008-10-06T01:28:00.000-07:00

I'm... I'm fine.
Overload of reading,
Overload of theatre,
Overload of life,
Overload of love.
Reading shit,
Writin' shit,
Studyin' shit,
Designin' shit.
Been confronted about my honesty,
Been confronted about my beliefs,
Been confronted about my strength.
I don't understand anymore,
I can't comprehend anymore,
I can't apprehend anymore,
Life.
Who am I kidding to be a theatre major?
Who was I kidding to think I can do this?
I am kidding myself with the idea that I
Can do a long distance thing.
I can't talk to my family because they're so far away,
Can't talk to myself cause I'm never alone,
Can't talk to my friends
Because I'm losing ground,
Losing touch,
Losing credibility,
Driving them away,
Moving on.
And I'm scared.
Scared of being put on the spot,
Scared of failing,
Scared of being let go,
Of being lost,
Of being hated and excluded.
And at the same time,
Oh, it's so strange.
She's happy all the time,
But gets depressed on a dime.
I can see her in the morning, happy as a clam
And then again in the evening, so down in mood.
I dont understand the shift.
So I'm going to call her crazy,
It an emotional roller-coaster,
Tell her to see a psychiatrist instead of listening to her,
Block off her moods.
That's part of the reason I don't talk to him anymore.
Oh yeah, and I hate my parents.
I started crying.. on the phone,
With a man I love, BECAUSE OF THEM.
And he couldn't be here to fix things.
And the distance is killing me.
But I'm going to wait,
Even though I hate this.
Because right now,
Maybe because it's one in the morning,
He's the only thing that makes me smile.

Remnants

2008-05-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

Sweet things leave sugar on your lips.
I wish you wouldn't say things like that,
Because it only makes me fall
More in love with you
And I don't know,
Can't be sure that you'll be there
To catch me,
To save me from the pavement.
"I'll take you to friendship,
To the point of forgiveness,
And then I'll let you go."
I never wrote about the mistake you made
So many months ago.
You wronged me by pushing me away
Caused me to feel more pain
Instead of explaining.
We've gotten to the point.
Your responsibilities need you.
But I need you just as much.
Never mind the fact
That I can't look into your eyes,
Look into your soul,
Without hurting,
Without mourning what was destroyed.
Your voice makes me happy,
And when your face lights up with joy,
I smile.
You haven't let go.
I'm still calling.
And we're both terrified of the future.
I want someone who cares:
You.
You want to find someone worthy of courtesy:
This can't be me.
You say you've tried to hate me
Convince yourself that you never cared.
But I put the same spell on you.
You left a void in my heart
One now occupied by the cold,
Hard, snow-covered rock that weighs it down.
I talk to you every now and again
And the sun shines
Melting the bricks of ice that make up my boundaries.
I let you in once more.
I open the wounds again,
Rip off the bandages,
And coat them with salt.
But I forgive you...
And again...

The funny thing is that this still kind of applies, even though it happened over 2 years ago. C.R. cheated on me, after I had wasted 3 months writing him letters at boot camp, and after he had fed me full of crap, told me what I wanted to hear, as if I wouldn't find out about him sleeping with his ex-girlfriend. As I type this up today, my heart fills with bitterness, but not for what he did to me. Instead, for what he did to everyone else. When he stuck his head under that train, I don't think he realized how many people he would be hurting in the process. Family, friends, girlfriend... son. The boy he fathered will grow up without knowing his daddy, and the mother will be bitter because of his suicide. C.R's mother will never be able to look at trains again without imagining exactly what happened to make her boy do such a thing, and all of his friends will, like me, wonder why he did it, try to make sense of it, and sooner or later, give up on trying. Yeah, we could blame him. But what's the use? He can't hear or see us blaming him. He can't see or know what exactly he left behind. He can't see the remnants of his life.

You know what I hate? I hate that this has affected me so dramatically. Like I said, he cheated on me. We stayed friends for a year or two after, and I finally terminated our friendship about six months before because he had treated my boyfriend of the time like he was a better person. We stopped talking, and three weeks after the actual event, when I was going through my freshman year of college, and a bad breakup, someone who I hadn't talked to in the longest time tells me over the phone that C.R. committed suicide. I suppose it took awhile to really hit me. I told people around me like it was nothing, because it wasn't at the time. My friends and professors, and even my boss said I might want to see a shrink about it. It finally hit me, and I cried. I didn't understand why, I mean, I wasn't even talking to him. I could barely consider him a friend. And now, that I'm back home, it's hitting me harder than ever. I realized upon talking with his friends, that more people missed him than could be comprehended. And then someone told me how he did it. Train. Creative, that one. Train. And all she would tell me is that it involved decapitation. When she told me this, I thought about it for awhile, then I freaked. What was he thinking, sticking his head under the wheel of a train? How do you get that lonely without people noticing? I was all of a sudden angry with him, not just for committing suicide and hurting those around him, but for being selfish and doing it in such a way that someone else had to see his nasty, headless remains. The engineer had to have felt it. He might have even caused a train accident. The nerve.

I was watching The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants today (I know, early high school-ish) and I saw what Tibby and Bridget went through when Bridget's mom committed suicide, and when Bailey died. I realized through a blank look at a camera that that's how I feel inside. I've lost two people in two years, and I feel empty. I feel like I want to stay in bed all day and sleep, because that's what happens when you're empty.. you're also tired. And when Carmen walked into Tibby's room saying, "I am mad at my dad," I realized how hard it was to empathize with her when your own problems are so much greater, how hard it is to listen to your friends bitch about their own lives and their own problems when you're having a hard time dealing with yours. Everything else seems like small potatoes.

A.K. once told me he was sick of the emotional roller coaster. Well, just for you, A.K, I'm not confiding my problems. I saw someone to try and help me with it, as per your advice. I won't be telling you my problems anymore. I won't call you in the middle of the night next semester and ask you to come talk to me. Instead, I'll huddle in my bed, crying. You know what my mom said when I told her that I went to go get help? She told me that nothing that I've been through compares with what she's been through, that we've been through way worse together. She started thinking that maybe she didn't raise me right. She thinks I'm weak, thinks she didn't teach me to handle death. But how do you prepare someone for two deaths to people you were close to in one year? When she started telling me that we had been through harder times, do you know what I did? I yelled at her, A.K. I yelled at her, and told her that I hadn't been through worse, and if I had, I was too young, and mom had made it okay, and that this was the worst year of my life, the year where all the hard stuff had happened. The only good part of this year was you. You, my friends.

An Everlasting Moment

2008-05-19T17:53:00.000-07:00

I'm headed to the theatre for the third time today.
Could have gone back to L. for a quick nap.
Okay, so maybe I'm not headed to work.
Maybe, maybe I'm hooked on you.
Can't get enough.
Walking past E., hoping to even glimpse you.
I turn, again, hoping to see you,
Needing to see you.
And....
You're sneaking up on me.
Rascally devil, you.
You pout, your game spoiled, blaming it on me for looking too soon.
And then you wrap an arm around me,
Stopping with me at the theatre.
My home.
You, I would like to think, understand why I chose it as my major.
And I love you for it.
But I can't tell you that.
You would freak.
So instead, I'll say,
"Thank you, darlin', for supporting me."
Eh, I've got half-an-hour;
Let's go to K.
And we're off,
In his room for twenty minutes,
A period that passes all too quickly.
He's wrapping his arms around me,
Resting his head on my sleepy head,
Never letting me go,
Never letting me out of his (attached) grasp.
And then time stands still.
He's kissing me with those perfect lips of his,
The perfect touch,
The perfect strength.
And I have only one wish:
That I could remain frozen
In this moment,
Forever.
He's so handsome,
Sexy,
Strong,
Beautiful.
But he can't see his own worth.
He can't see that I am so attracted to,
Attached to,
In love with,
Him.
And even though I tell him, he can't see why.
Through the crazy faces, the obnoxious behavior,
The feigned masochism and the misogyny,
I see a sensitive man,
Modeled from a Greek god.
Those blue-grey eyes, boyish smile,
And that facial hair I've grown to love
Hide the soul that I yearn for,
The soul I want to learn more about,
The soul whose secrets I want to discover.
My mystery man.
And all too soon, the alarm goes off,
And I'm getting up,
Slipping on my shoes,
And trekking back to the theatre.

I wrote this in March. The relationship referred to here is over now, but the poem still deserved to be published. Not because I miss him, but because it's my work, my words, my poetry.

Silence

2008-05-15T10:26:00.000-07:00

Welcome to MSN Messenger
Online Contacts
Stop take some time to think...
Dano
M.T.
dimo
Augerric
.
.
.
Sinister Cynicism

This is who I want to talk to. Double click. "Hey". "Meebo message: Sinister Cynicism is offline". This happens EVERY TIME, and yet he says he isn't avoiding me. He's full of shit. We broke up because I wished he loved me. Is that so wrong? He couldn't give me what I wanted, and he couldn't deal with that. Is that really so hard to deal with? I write an email, asking him how he's doing. No response. I write another, telling him about how I'm doing, that I got Firefly for my birthday. Still, no response. And then, a final email, telling him how I'm doing, and telling him I'm done with our one-sided friendship. And, you guessed it, no response! He had told me, in an email, that he wanted to be friends, that he wanted "to keep things from going awkward and silent, if he could". Guess that's no longer the case. Maybe I just freaked out about his flirting a little too much. Couldn't handle seeing his arm around another girl, so I left. And he calls that freaking out. I didn't even yell... I didn't even say anything... I said goodbye to everyone, and I left. It's my party, I can cry/leave if I want to. Even my friends are telling me I should give up on friendship with him. Fine. You win P.V... I give up. I give up, I give up. B.P. told me she thought I had a chance of getting him back. Not so much when he doesn't co-operate with our plans. But it doesn't matter anymore. As an ex, I'm not supposed to care, so I don't. And then I do. And then I don't. And then I do, but I claim I don't. So I delete the crappy camera-phone pictures of him from my cell phone, I delete his phone number, knowing I can get it back from facebook if I need it, I delete him from my MSN and AIM accounts. I try to stop caring. He probably has me blocked anyway. Oh well. This is me not caring, or rather, me trying not to care...

Tribute to an Asshole

2008-04-28T20:01:00.000-07:00

http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2005/12/race-mixing.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2005/12/grounded-and-for-stupid-reason.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2005/12/not-so-perfect-plans.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/03/details.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/03/second-post-for-today.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/04/945-i-grab-my-keys-and-walk-out-of-my.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/04/breakfast-at-bakery.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/04/sweet-revenge.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/04/something-i-want-to-say-but-probably.html
http://wishingwewereelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/06/two-days-ago.html

Archives. Archives of this blog in reference to C.R. I really don't know what to say right now. I am truly befuddled. I don't understand. I don't understand why or how he did it. I don't understand why God is taking all these people away from me. I don't understand why some people have to die so young, and why some people want to die so young. I don't understand why this occurrence is affecting me so much after what he did to me, both while we were dating, and while we were friends. Maybe it's because B.L. told me that it's because he was drinking and smoking pot too much, and that M.T. is headed down the same road, because the only time you drink and smoke pot is when you want to forget something (which, by the way, isn't true. People do those things for many reasons.. wanting to forget is only one of them). We all knew about how he got out of the Marines: as K.H. likes to put it "We saw his discharge papers. The Marines knew his suicide attempt was fake. They knew he was full of shit." Bet they didn't know he was bipolar. Bet they didn't know he had a kid. Bet they didn't know that the attempt was serious, that he needed a lot of psychiatric help that he couldn't afford because he spent all his money on drugs and alcohol, and that the next time he tried, he would succeed. He needed hospitalization. He needed friends, and I just blew him off because of the way he acted towards my later boyfriends. The way he treated me wasn't enough to make me stop talking to him. No, it had to be poor treatment of someone I knew, someone who was close to me, someone I loved, for me to stop giving him chances. I don't understand. He had so many friends (or so it seemed) who were there for him when things got tough, even if I wasn't one of them. I don't understand how none of them could see what was going on, and stop him from doing it, or at least call the fucking suicide hotline. People aren't supposed to die when they're 20. They aren't supposed to die when they're 17. They aren't supposed to die when they're 56. People die when they're old, when they're in their 80's or 90's. It's like a moving snapshot. When someone disappears, the things they had affected in the shot stay the same. You know that person was there, you can see it in the pictures she pinned to the walls in her room, or the little baby boy he fathered. Nothing changes. They just disappear. And what you see in the picture is what was behind them. The background.

Random Things That Have Been Bothering Me Recently

2008-04-20T12:35:00.000-07:00

Rapidly approaching finals. Sorority-obsessed friends. Sardines with an ex. Trying to move on. Sometimes it feels so difficult, I feel like I can't do it. It's been two weeks now, since that night he broke my heart, that night he told me he just didn't feel the way he used to, that night I left him standing in the hall after he said what he did, that night he went back upstairs and took five shots, one right after the other, for God knows what reason. Two weeks, and I still breakdown. I still cry. I still look back and wish he loved me, wish I hadn't screwed things up by making him angry after that night, wish, as I'm flirting with all the guys around, that we could get back together, that, because of those five shots, he was upset about that night. I think my problem is that I'm stressed. I might have failed my physics exam on Friday, through no fault of my own. Rotational acceleration vectors point where? How do you find angular velocity? Why are you writing things on the board, then not explaining them, or changing them and not telling us that you did, after we already have the wrong thing written in our notes? Molly tells me I don't need him, tells me that I'm beautiful and sexy, and that there's someone better for me. Suzanne tells me I'm talented, that not many people can take the classes that I'm taking, and work as hard as I do. I see through it though. Everyone at Willamette (besides the ones whose parents can pay for their schooling out-of-pocket) is working just as hard as me, taking the same classes that I am, passing those classes. I came here dreaming math dreams, dreaming science dreams, and in taking one, two, three classes, those dreams are dashed. I can't do multi-variable calculus, or proof theory, or physics. I'm not interested in chemistry, linear algebra, or biology. No. I pick the two majors that my parents think have the fewest job options, the majors that I get the most crap for. I don't care if everyone's worried about me! I'll make it through, and I don't understand why you don't trust that that's the case! All I'm asking for is a little support, moral, not financial. This whole year, you've lent me twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five. I will make it. If there's one think my mother has taught me, it's determination. I can major in anything anywhere. All of Willamette's majors are offered at places like Western, or any other liberal arts college. I chose Willamette for a reason, and I'm going to stay for a reason. I finally feel like I belong somewhere, even if I only belong here for three more years. And I'm not "just like [my] father". If you want to say that to me again, remember how you reacted that summer day on the way to work when I said those exact words. Remember how much it hurt you to hear it, how much you cried. Then take that pain, and multiply it by, oh, maybe ten, maybe one-hundred, and know that that is how much you hurt me every time you tell me that (and you have on more than one occasion). It hurts because that is my legitimate fear, my worst phobia. Either that I will end up like him, or I'll end up with someone like him. I want you to know that I'm not, and I won't. My friends, even though they haven't met him, know that I'm not just like him. How can you even see a similarity? He asked me on the phone the other day to come see him after finals were done, even for a few days. I told him no, that I didn't have time because I would be busy working. Working for next semester's tuition. He asked what a few days would hurt, and that's when I ended the conversation, because I wanted to tell him so badly that I didn't want to come. But I was in a line, waiting to get lunch. I think you would agree, that isn't the most appropriate place to tell someone something like that. Then there's L.B. The sorority girl. She's beginning to abandon us for her "sisters" and new friends. I can understand how she feels, as I've found my family in the theatre here. But that doesn't mean I don't miss her. We were never the closest, but I guess she feels that M.Z. and I are drifting away as well. We are all acquiring different interests, yet the A's still talk to all of us. We still have dinner together. Dinners that I'm beginning to dread, because I can't get a word in edge-wise when L.B. and M.Z. are talking. Fucking girls. I am one, so that's kind of hypocritical, but when you are so self-absorbed that you can't see that one of your friends is in just as much pain as you, you deserve to lose touch with her. But I guess it isn't fair to call you self-absorbed because I didn't know that you were suffering too. If you ask me, it's your own fault. You're the one who takes on so many activities, the one who can't say no. Well, on second thought, maybe I can call you self-absorbed, because that's all you ever talk about. You. And maybe the reason why I didn't know how you were feeling is because you aren't talking to M.Z. or me truthfully anymore. But, as I said before, things change. People change. I guess you get used to it. Or you should, anyway.

Not Today.

2007-12-25T23:42:00.000-08:00

Rest and relaxation my ass. The first few days I was here, I did nothing but work. Hello, Liz Claibourne, here I come. That retail store came out the scathed one after I got my days off. I went bowling with an ex-boyfriend and an ex-friend (it was a night for the exes, and that just happened to include stunning the shit out of them by speaking only in sarcasm and witty comebacks to insults, which they didn't always understand, because their dialect is a little different from mine), saw a few people I knew in high school, attended the Christmas party of said ex-boyfriend's mom (who, by the way, still loves me, unlike said boy!), took a vacation to a comedy club in B-ham, went snowboarding on 3 hours of sleep and adrenaline (very interesting, since it was my first day back on the slopes after a year hiatus), had a not-so-fun conversation with my little sister about her trouble-making doings, had a not-so-fun experience with marijuana (I wasn't smoking it, and I ended up in the previously mentioned ex's car, having a nervous breakdown), went Christmas shopping (yes, my family procrastinates), set up the Christmas tree (again, the procrastination), and finally hit Christmas.

A friend of mine said today, "This Christmas felt less like Christmas than any other before, but I think that's how it will continue to feel for the rest of my life." He took the words right out of my mouth. Even though my family and I have been taking part in the same Christmas routine for five years now, this Christmas being hardly different, it wasn't the same for me. Maybe it's just because I'm not a kid anymore. I've grown up, turned eighteen. Time is passing me by, too fast for me to see, and I can't catch it, can't hold it back. Maybe it's because this Christmas is truly different because I have experienced more than I ever wanted to this year; the death of a best friend; the fast approaching death of a beloved great-grandmother and that of a great-granddad; the idea that drugs are becoming a big deal in the lives of over half of my friends; that I have witnessed people do stupid things and screw up their lives for no apparent reason other than "liking it too much to give it up" (applied to more than just drugs).

Recently, the theme of my life has become change. It's what I've been talking about lately. The topic of conversations, the obessions of my non-existant OCD, the reason why my "friends" are letting me down. I must face the fact: I'm changing. Everyone and everything around me is changing. And even though I don't want to lose those people I used to call my friends, maybe it's better if I do. Stop calling. Stop writing, stop communication. And maybe one day, I'll be able to forgive, to accept, to return. But that day isn't today. Or tomorrow. Or even a week from now. From this day, looking forward, it appears miles away. You can barely see it through all the jungle of untrekked life. But it's there. One day, I will come back. But not today.

Eventual. Gradual.

2007-11-18T06:42:00.000-08:00

"Say it's alright, have a good time, cause it's alright, yeah, it's alright."
Since I got to college I have found these words to be true several times. However, College wants to conquer me with it's hard times, bad roommates, bad food, lack of God, and many fewer friends than I had in high school.
What did I expect college to be? I expected a new start, which I got (but what did I make of it?). I expected good food, like the stuff my mom makes, which I didn't get (nobody could ever cook as well as my mom). I expected an awesome job, and I suppose that the theatre is awesome, but the job I have sucks (I sit around in a metaphorical box all day). I expected a HUGE amount of friends, and more interesting, conversation-based classes. I got a couple more interesting, none are more conversationally oriented. I expected to go to bed at a decent hour. FAT CHANCE. Hence, what I am still doing up at 7:00 in the morning. I haven't slept all night because I had an anxiety attack at 3:00 in the morning, I started cleaning, and I am just now finishing up. I expected a peaceful living situation. One in which my roommate was mature, and had compromising abilities. I have a single upperclassman that I know that I can depend on, and several friends off and on campus that I can rely on for advice and a shoulder to lean on. I expected to dive into all the activities I could. I have a radio show out of the ten clubs I started out with. I expected to leave behind feelings for my lost beau. Unfortunately, that didn't happen either.
I didn't expect math to be hard. I didn't expect the loneliness. I didn't expect so much freedom. I didn't expect to be so broke. I didn't expect to run out of meal points. I didn't expect to breakdown crying five times over a period of two days. I didn't expect suicidal thoughts.

And for those of you who have just finished reading this and who are about to tell me that everything will be okay, I know. I don't need telling again, because I've been told several times. And yes, it has sunk in. I will be okay... eventually.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

2007-11-11T19:09:00.000-08:00

To begin with, let us speak on the definition of the word "home":

1 a: one's place of residence : domicile b: house
2: the social unit formed by a family living together
3 a: a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment; also : the focus of one's domestic attention b: habitat
4 a: a place of origin ; also : one's own country b: headquarters
5: an establishment providing residence and care for people with special needs
6: the objective in various games; especially : home plate

Personally, I don't agree with any of these definitions. Coming to college has changed my perspective of the word greatly. Everyone keeps speaking of the rapidly approaching Christmas Break, and how they get to return home. I still have not decided as to whether or not I'm excited to return. A wise woman once said, "Not every place you live will be your home. Like M.V. was not home for me, even though I lived there for several years. Some places are just resting places; places you happen to pass through on your journey through life."

I have come to the realization that W. is not my home yet, nor do I expect it to be. It still has the potential to become such. But as of now, it hasn't happened, nor is it happening. I have friends here. Or, to put a finer point on it, I have the qualities of friendship without the love that comes with friendship. And I definitely don't have the family love here. D.H. lives nearby, but not near enough to visit every weekend. I also have work, hobbies, homework, food, and Jones soda. All the elements of a home, and yet it really is not my home.

Then I look back. Look back at what I left behind in little old S.W: D.T.O. (the guy I loved), K.S. (who moved to California anyways), H.T. (who I wasn't really that close with to begin with), S.S, my family, and some others.
Next question: who out of those people speak to me through the internet, or call me here at college? And who do I have to call?
H.T. communicates with me part of the time. D.T.O. and I had a hard time when I left, so we don't speak much, and when we do, it's me calling him. K.S. and my mom are really the only people I talk to who call me as much as I call them. We talk on a regular and frequent basis, and I think that those two, and the rest of my family are the only people/things that I have left there. And K.S. doesn't even live there anymore.

W. isn't my home, S.W, we can conclude, isn't really home anymore. Therefore, we can further conclude that I really am "homeless" in a figurative sense of the word. Makes me feel alone in this world.

So, the final question, I think, is: am I excited to go "home" for break?
What reason do I have to be exited? Many of my friends at home don't talk to me on a regular basis, so I probably won't see them for the time that I will be there. The one's that do talk to me, I will probably see a few times, we'll probably hang out, get caught up and whatnot. Or maybe I'll just end up working through my whole break. Drown my loneliness with business, and maybe be distracted, if only to forget for a moment how alone I feel, with the purpose of making it hurt less when I return to W.