something more than ink

For the past thirty minutes or so I've been perusing various websites trying to get see if I can find a picture representation of the vague idea I have in my head for my next tattoo, and I was flabbergasted to see how many damn terrible tattoos people get.
If you get stars on your hip you might as well kill yourself right now because I hate you. Or stars anywhere for that matter. I understand that tattoos are trendy and fashionable now, but I'm still a firm believer that if you get one it should have some sort of artistic talent behind it or meaning to you. If I have to see another tattoo of a goddamn dove I'm going to punch myself in the face. Tattoos are a painful, expensive, and FOREVER investment. If you're going to make the dive into that realm, which I by all means support, then at least make it something worth having in your life forever. People just don't know how to deal with commitment, even for something like that.
Of course I'm not being entirely holier than thou, my tattoo has no real meaning aside from I was stoked to get some flowers on my shoulder and eventually it will wrap over and go down my side. I chose pansies because they are pretty and my grandmother used to have a garden of them. I got it on my chest because I impulsively felt like it, which has proven to be very difficult to hide from my unknowing parents. I got it in North Carolina from a friend of a friend who is doing some fucking awesome work and I wanted to be a part of it.
In the end, I think tattoos are sweet and I'll probably get a couple more though I vow to not be too excessive with it. But if you're thinking about getting one, seriously, think hard. Don't be trendy and predictable about something like that. Tattooing is quickly becoming more prominent in society not as a sign of rebellion but as art - your body is the canvas. Decide on something beautiful, something meaningful.
Not some brass knuckles and a cupcake. SERIOUSLY.

is it seriously possible to be this happy?

brotherhood

 As I've grown older, I've developed a very important relationship with my brother. As kids we never got along, we went down different paths and had the regular sibling arguments. Nowadays I think of him as the only real relative I have, the others only family by name and shared DNA. He is the only one who ever gave thought to know me as a person.
Growing up we were like strangers. My brother is very secretive by nature and coming from a family that shares nothing I can't blame him. Our mother pushes us both away more than anything, especially as we grow older. It took him moving out and things getting worse at home for me to reach out to him, and it became one of the best decisions of my life. Friendship is wonderful and extremely rewarding, and when it's with your genuine family, I believe there is nothing stronger. I've always envied people who were close with their parents, and this is exactly why. It is such an amazing and deeply rooted bond.
That being said, I appreciate being able to grow to know my brother as a individual and not just as my brother. We are extremely different people, you could even say opposites, but he is a beautiful person. He is not perfect, and I am sad every day for the difficulties he must face, but he is so strong and I wish I could have half the honest strength of character he does.
To be honest I'm unsure what my real point of this is. Perhaps that, just because someone is different than you, they can still teach you so much about life and the kind of person you would love to be. To some people my brother and his lifestyle may be far from ideal, but any other person faced with half of what he has experienced would never be able to handle it with the grace and strength he has shown. For this I respect him incredibly.
Now that I'm the one living out of the house and my brother was forced to move home due to financial difficulties, I see my future ahead of me as something foreign and huge and as far away from the tiny sorrows of my family as can be. I am incredibly excited for it.
But I will never forget my big brother who taught me what real love and friendship is, in a time in my life where I thought it may not even exist. Without him I would not be the confident, honest person I am today. Without him I would not have the perseverance and drive to succeed, nor would I have encouragement when I feel that I am failing. My brother, my best friend. I love you.

oh, yeah....

I find myself thinking a lot, reminding myself, that I'm supposed to be having a blast.
I am always hearing older people, perhaps friends' parents, reminiscing about their days in college and grand adventures. And I look around at my life and I can't imagine what stories I'll be telling people about in ten years. 'Yes, darling, my first semester of college was craaaaaazy! I was still the same person I was three months before and I still spent most of my time reading alone or watching boys play video games, it was insane, those were the good days.'
In years where everything is supposed to be so different and exciting, I feel exactly the same.

Here's to the best years of our lives, ya'll. 

thinking

"The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man's body.The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"

what do you see?

Note to Reader: Since this is a topic I personally feel very strongly about, it is hard for me to rationally lie down my argument without becoming heated. Thus I acknowledge that in parts some of this might be scattered, unnecessary, or particularly poorly written. Also it is 3:42am and I refuse to revise it in fear of deleting any passion I am currently feeling. Please tell me your opinions on this, I know it is a touchy subject but in my personal belief it should not be. It should not even be a topic in question at all, in my mind. I digress.

'You need to ask yourself the right questions. Has anything you've done made your life better?'
-American History X

Racism is, by definition, the belief that your race is inherently superior to others. Prejudice is an attitude or belief about something, which can or cannot be negative. While I believe that certain prejudices are inevitable, we all have our opinions, racism is an evil that is learned and built into our minds by society and our fucked up humanity. It bothers, disgusts, horrifies me that total racism can still exist to this day even in a society and world that is supposedly so advanced and intelligent. Is it really? It seems to me that we know less than we ever did, we just now have fancier means of communicating our bullshit.

Since being a 'racist' is such a social taboo nowadays, it's more closeted. However, it's so omnipresent that at times I feel suffocated by it. Even if you give shit a different name, it still looks and smells like shit. How many times in my life have I heard someone begin a statement with “I'm not racist” and then very clearly and distinctly make a completely racism-laden argument? To me, it just doesn't make sense. It just doesn't. It never has and it never will.
But even those of you who deem yourself so fucking forward-thinking, you're all simmering in it. You're all continuing it. Racism is ALWAYS going to exist as long as we allow it. Just as an example, one conversation I've heard commonly had is through many guy friends of mine discussing sexual partners of girls in question. They say they aren't racist, but if a girl has had sex with a black person that makes them automatically less attractive. How does that make sense? As long as we look at another person and see only their color, and give that color a negative connotation, we are never going to get anywhere. As long as we are acknowledging a difference nothing more than skin-deep, we have a problem.
Biologically, all humans are NINETY NINE POINT NINE PERCENT IDENTICAL. Our genetic makeup is the fucking same. Our differences are whats inside of us, inside our minds, not what is external. Our ethnicities are what build up any cultural differences that we have; you can have a white person born in any society and end up 'being' Asian, Jewish, French, African.
Therefore, what is the only thing separating us? The way we act. We can never be free if we always harbor these negative sentiments towards other human beings.

The way we are raised makes us who we are. The way we think makes us who we are. The way we handle our lives, makes us who we are. I believe that we all have the power to make ourselves better than what we are, we all have the tools within ourselves to become better than our environments. I accept that there are many obstacles that are nearly impossible to overcome, many horrors in lives that I can never begin to understand. But I believe that as long as we keep seeing ourselves as different and not accepting one another we can never have true equality amongst us. Why is it so hard? I don't understand.

I think things like Affirmative Action are only setting us back farther. It's making up for historical injustices that at this point in time shouldn't even be a part of the equation. One race shouldn't have the upper-hand by ANY means, whether it be unspoken or regulated by the government. If we acknowledge a difference in ourselves, we are CREATING the issue. True equality can only exist if we treat ourselves and each other as truly equal. If two people go for the same job or the same place in a college, they should get it ONLY by their accreditation and achievements, not by their color, no matter WHAT the color is. We should be who we are as INDIVIDUALS, not as a race.

I look in the mirror, and I see myself. I don't see a color, or a woman, or a label.

I see me.

What do you see?


After some more time spent pondering, I would also like to add that homophobia is pathetic. Another persons way of living has no effect on your own. If someone is a good human being, the question of the color of their skin or their sexual orientation should have no effect on your judgement of then. Who are YOU, who am I to judge another person? Especially on something so trite, something superficial? God bless the gays.
Also for all the Christian arguments, you can quote Leviticus 20:13 all you want ('If a man lies with a male as with a woman') and rant on about all this homosexuality being debauchery. But I will go so far out as to make the assumption your knowledge of not only the bible but of THAT VERY quote on which so many Christians base their hatred upon is nothing less than limited, and ask you, have you happened to have read Leviticus 19:19? No?
'You shall not sow your field with two different kinds of seed, nor shall you put on a garment made from two different materials.'
Not familiar with this? Well, go on shunning the homosexuals, but according to the bible you sitting there in your blended fabrics, you're going to hell too motherfucker.
And guess what? I believe in God too.

perspective

I remember the night I first knew he was someone I wanted to be with. And not just be with, REALLY be with. The precise moment when I realized I wanted every part of him every day, even the bad parts. I wanted to exist in his life and world and learn from him. It's a feeling that is somehow overwhelming, it makes the world both gigantic and simultaneously tiny. He's expanded my heart, and given me tunnel-vision. It's all a cliche and it's all cheesy, but he's my future.
This is how it happened, more or less. We were friends. We are still friends. He is younger than I am, I had just gotten out of a shitty relationship, so had he. There were so many reasons no. And yet, it was just right. Sometimes you meet another person, whether it be romantically or as a best friend, and despite any obstacles or potential problems, you just know within yourself that this is your path. I am happy every day. When I met him, I paid little attention. I am not the shy girl I was a few years ago, I am not the girl who scopes out each boy as a potential mate. I was just Being. As was he. We have mutual friends. We had fun in groups. We talked through electronic devices regularly. Then it stopped being regularly, and constantly. I moved to Richmond, I went out at night, I met new friends. I came home on weekends to work. We hung out. One night he swam in a pool and I sat at the edge, and when he surfaced for air, he smiled at me and placed his hand on the curve of my ankle while talking to me, and essentially from that moment on I was hooked.
One of the beautiful things about life is no matter how right you think you are or how much you believe in something, you can always be proved wrong. He did this for me about many of my ideas, especially about relationships with other people. He is someone I can be myself with and be happy every moment of the day. It is easy. It is right. He is understanding, and accepting, and listening. He does not tell me what to do. He is true. It makes me better, it fills me with pride.

One night we spent the night in his car because we had nowhere else to go. We talked for 6 hours straight. Our bodies were entangled and we were both drifting in and out of sleep, a comfortable and happy silence between us, and he whispered "I love you"
Never has it meant more, never could I have understood how powerful a statement that is.
I love you too.

contentment, and musings

This was written one day recently as I sat waiting for one of my classes to begin.

Being where I am now in life at times can be almost shocking. Though at the time they seemed never-ending, it's nearly as though I fast-forwarded through all the unhappy times of my youth and arrived here at lightning speed.
Here I sit, in a red sweater and pointy-toed shoes, drinking expensive coffee with my Blackberry-esque phone perched on my knee, on an over-cushioned chair awaiting my class to begin at my university. What is this madness? Inside, I feel nothing but peace, confidence, contentment. My life is now led by a series of choices made by ME. I am now the dictator. I am at the very place I have always wanted to be, I am who I always wished to become. I wonder sometimes if this is merely growing up, or if I am just lucky.
Because I do feel lucky, very much so, every day. Of course life is not easy, there are rough times and there is sadness. But as I gaze out this floor-to-ceiling window upon the city I now live, I am happy. I am home.

I had at one time thought my ex-boyfriend was the one for me, in my heart I am very loyal. But in retrospect the main things I learned from our relationship were how NOT to behave, to be treated, to love. In that way, I am thankful. Because while our story has ended and will never be wrapped up with a pretty bow, it will always exist within me and help make my future stories be happier ones.
I do not believe everything necessarily happens for a reason - sometimes bad things simply and inexplicably occur. But how you react and grow from the things that happen is what is important. Human life I believe is meant to be something of a struggle, but things are only as difficult as you make them. I am beginning to see life differently. If you love someone, love them. It is as easy as that.

sleepy

I want to know what it is about moving to this city that has made me perpetually exhausted.

I'm not complaining. Just confused, really.

My classes aren't that long, my schedule isn't that full, my classes aren't THAT early. I have plenty of time for naps.

And yet...I'm always TIRED.

I'm always sleepy. I'm practically falling asleep at my desk typing this.

Perhaps it is a conspiracy. VCU puts drowsy pills in my food, to make me sleepy, to make me perform poorly in classes, to make me pay them more tuition to stay in their school even longer.

Maybe it's my bed, the matress sort of feels like a half-deflated raft after all.

Maybe its my room-mate, the weird one, who always makes weird noises all night and turns off the AC while I'm sleeping and makes me wake up sweating.

Maybe it's these blogs I have to write, they keep me up at night, so stressful you know? What am I going to write about this week? What song can I possibly write a page and a half about?

It's probably all of these things. Definitely.

It can't have anything to do with me staying up til 2 talking to my boyfriend every night.

Or reading until 3:30am because I really want to finish the book (which has nothing to do with any of my classes).

Or procrastinating all of my homework until after I get off skype at 1:30am.

Or because it seems like a good idea to wake up in the middle of the night and go on facebook and eat pudding.

Yeah, it's definitely not anything I'M doing.

defense

In defense of...

Our good old patriarchal idealism’s. Seriously. It's great that in our so-called advanced society, we're still resorting to dated one-sided thinking about gender equality. In the olden days, we at least were up-front about our predjudices. Now we keep them hidden under the rug, we make shocked faces when speaking about it in public, we harbor it deeply in our hearts and sneakily.

Rather than generalizing, I will pinpoint my focus for this particular blog. My parents.

Double standards are second nature to them. It's stunning, the mastery they exemplify when saying one thing and doing another. This astounding quality presents itself most frequently in their raising of myself and my older brother. Growing up, neither of us were angels, but he messed up in far bigger manners than I did. Therefore my parents decision to love him more than me utterly makes more sense. As I would spend long days at home trying to impress my parents with my wit and my actual dedication to school and sports, my brother would drive his shitty insurances-less car over for visits and it was as though my mother would truly come to life. Springing out of her chair, she would offer to order him pizza, give him some money. I would ask myself, 'Self, didn't you just tell mother you were starving and she told you to fend for yourself? Yes, Self, that did happen. HMMM.'

This debauchery also presented itself in mine and my brothers' wishes for body modification. Like any teenagers, we both wanted tattoos and/or piercings to represent our individuality and how special we are. The difference is, at 17 my brother got a tattoo as a gift from my parents. When I was 17, my parents would not even allow me to get the impermanent hole in my nostril I so desperately wanted.

Thus this lead to my brother over the years getting more and more tattoos, and me getting my nose pierced without permission and thus getting in trouble.

As I got older, so did my friends. They began getting tattoos as well. My friend Amanda especially delved into the tattoo world, getting them frequently, big ones, expensive ones, beautiful ones. Ones she had to hide from HER parents, though she was over 18 and thus legally enabled to get the ink. When I told my mother about the tattoos and showed her pictures, she looked both shocked and disgusted, as if Amanda had cut off her own ear and had it sewn to her bicep for cosmetic purposes. “I think she has a problem, Kate.” my mom says each time Amanda gets a new one.

Fast forward, it's move in day. I'm moving into my college dorm, out of my parents home. I'm well over 18, almost nineteen. My friend Dana sits on the bed, watching my mom and I unpack, my mom is being nice to Dana about her tattoos.

“Mom, I'm going to get a tattoo.” I say.

Her eyes widen. “If you do, before you graduate college, you're not getting anything from me financially.”

I smile.

“But JD has tattoos!”

My mom is smiling, light hearted, because we are in the company of a friend. “That's different, JD is a boy. And I like Dana's tattoos, but she's not my daughter.”

I am flabbergasted. She seems very serious. Dana and I share a secretive, wide-eyed look, and the tattoo I already have on my shoulder seems to be guiltily pulsated under the Tshirt by which it is hidden.

I digress. This essay has not been very well-executed. What I'm trying to say, my point I'm trying to prove with sarcasm, is that everyone has double standards about men and women and even though as society we strive so hard to be 'equal', even little things like saying tattoos are okay on men and not women, are furthering our inequality. Either we're the same in all aspects, or we're not the same at all. So cut the bullshit. If my brother can have 8 tattoos, half of then looking hood rat prison-esque, then I can get as many as I damn well please. WORD.

forbidden?

The first time I saw her, it was like a vision. One of those rare moments in life where you feel connected to God, to heaven, to every realm of the universe that is so much more than you will ever be. I remember being at a loss for words, a loss for air, a loss for sane thought. She swayed into my life, confidence exuding from every poor on her tiny body, my heart thudding love songs behind my rib cage.

I am a man of rationality, I always have been. I've prided myself in logical thinking for all the years in my life. It was what got me through 8 years of college, what earned me my PH.D, what got me through long nights of being over-stressed and over-worked. I know how the world works, and I live my life in a very formulaic way. Thus most relationships in my life have been nothing short of clinical.

My first wife and I were brought together by biology, my junior year of college. We had similar ambitions, similar lifestyles, in this way we established a relationship – there was no passion, no rawness to us. Our divorce was similar, it was smooth and emotionless, just another pile of paperwork on my desk. Essentially, I am a realist. I don't even dream in my sleep.

48 years into my life, and this is all changed. I wonder now, how this can be. In every persons life there is the moment, I think, when you suddenly realize that everything you thought, everything you believed, was so irrevocably wrong. She was mine.

All she had to do was walk into my kitchen, as I was methodically preparing dinner at 7pm as I did every weeknight. She walked slightly on her tip toes, her smooth calves leading up to jean shorts, a man's button-down shirt left unbuttoned over a tight tank top, her golden hair spilling down her back. Her eyes, blue, framed with millions of pure-black lashes, giant, staring at me. I had become deaf, paralyzed, dead. I had died, right there, in my kitchen, in the sight of an angel.

She has beautiful, she was everything I had never dreamed. She was my daughter's best friend.

In life you are handed many choices, and there is always a distinction whether it be clear or nearly undetectable – there is always a right and a wrong. Which you choose is always determined by your knowledge of the situation, or lack thereof. That was always my belief, but after the day I met Julia, I began to realize that the knowledge of what is 'right' does not always help, when what is wrong is what you need. When every bone in your body yearns for it, when your mind never sleeps, when you feel at last that you have a soul. When you have lived a life was lifeless as mine, and you finally feel a fire burning inside of you, it is almost insane to think of letting it pass by.

I could say there was nothing I could do to escape it, but that would be a lie. Of course I could have walked away, I could have done something. But I wouldn't.

Her eyes, when they beheld me, seemed to come alive. I like to believe that my daughter noticed nothing, but I know in my heart this cannot be true. From the very first moment, the passion was tangible. It filled up the room, it drowned us. I couldn't keep away from her, I couldn't close my mouth. When my hands finally touched her skin, it was though my flesh was on fire. Pushed against the wall, her body hard against mine, our lips together. I had found God.

It was like a game after a while. We had established rules, there was an etiquette to us. While we pretended what we were doing was normal, we knew it was not allowed. We hid in the shadows, we let ourselves blossom together, but only in the dark. It could be seen as a terrible way to exist, yet it was beautiful. I had my muse, I had beauty in every moment of my day. The first time our bodies joined together, I felt inhuman. Her legs wrapped around me, her hair cascading over my own face. Life had become heaven, I would die for this.

I became sick. This is normal, once you become old. Death is as inevitable a part of life as anything. But it is the one part we as humans try so hard to forget. As weeks trickled by, I began to feel Death become a part of me. It existed in my core, it existed with my blood and organs. It waited to swallow me whole. It makes sense that when I had at last found reason to be alive, I would die. What is a good story, after all, without a tragic ending?

I told no one, even when I began to feel my body deteriorate from the inside out. I was rotting, I felt as though pieces of me were falling off and being left behind each day. Each day that I saw her became nearly too much to handle. My heart felt as though it could explode. I was too happy, I was too fucking sad. The beauty, the beauty of her. I never had to tell her. One day, she looked into my eyes, and she knew. The young body, it possessed terribly old eyes. She said nothing, only looked at me, then slowly wrapped her arms around me, pulling me tighter and closer, tighter and closer. I never cried, but my heart nearly broke as I felt her tears drop slowly, one by one, down my back.

“I love you.” She whispered into my ear, into my hair, her breath hot and quick on my neck. “I love you, I will always.” Her voice was broken, as broken as her heart, as broken as my body. I did nothing but hold her back, feel the frailness of her thin body, her smooth skin under my old calloused hands. I did nothing.

thanks

Thank you God, for Netflix. If I did not have you, my life would be desolate and barren. I would shed tears each day for my life, a life void of meaning. A life void of Nip/tuck.

Thank you, Cheeze-its. If not for you, I would be constantly hungry. I would have no caring companion to nibble on when bored, when lonely. When hungry, and lacking companions to dine with. Thank you.

Thank you, polka-dot bedsheets from Target. You are comfy, and adorable. You give me a nice place to lay my body on, that pleases me both physically and aesthetically.

Thank you Starbucks in the library. Thank you for making me wait in the long line, being shouted at for my order, for a drink that tastes like shit. Thank you.

Thank you Jersey Shore. Thank you for preoccupying all of my peers' minds with your nefarious antics. Thank you for introducing new and idiotic things into my culture. Thank you for making me giggle at Snooki whenever I feel low.

Thank you, air-conditioner in my room. Even though you get turned off by my evil roommate whenever my back is turned or whenever I am not home, you are always eager to be turned on again and cool me down instantly. Thank you.

Thank you Skype. On the nights you decide to actually work properly, you provide me with lovely face-to-face contact with my boyfriend that I would be unable to have otherwise, aside from weekends. On the nights you don't work, for no apparent reason, thank you for the added frustration and suicidal/murderous thoughts you give me. Thank you.

Thank you, bathroom in Johnson Hall. Thank you for having broken lights so my showers are always dim. Thank you for always getting black hair on me, mysteriously. Thank you for smelling bad.

Thank you facebook, for providing my ex boyfriend an extra means of stalking me when I refuse to text him back, on the grounds he is a douchebag.

Thank you Tuesdays/Thursdays, for being my favorite days, because the classes don't suck.

Thank YOU.

growing up

I have always been rebellious. It's in my nature. Growing up, I did not have a bad childhood. I didn't have parents that divorced or hated me. I had a big brother that was mean to me sometimes, but usually we played outside together. I read a lot. But I wanted everything.

I have an insatiable thirst for this vague notion of 'everything'. I don't know what it is half the time, but I want it. I hate being held under restrictions, being told what to do. The past five years I've had a terrible relationship with my parents, and looking back it's probably entirely my fault. I was always wanting, always searching, and I didn't give a fuck about rules. My entire life, even just the knowledge of there being a rule or restriction directing me in one way made me automatically go the other. Its just how I am.

I was the kid who was waiting til her parents fell asleep and launching myself over the back fence. I was always testing and stretching the limits, putting strain on my relationship with my parents but simultaneously building my own confidence, independence, and self reliance.

I cant say that I got tamer as I got older, but I was older so my parents were unable to restrict me much even if they had wanted to, though by this point I'm sure they're just exhausted of me. My senior year of high school was wrought with horrible situations between me and my mother, including getting locked out of my house, getting kicked out, or just kicking myself out for days at a time. All of these were induced by my own selfish behaviors, and I like to think one day we'll all look back and laugh...maybe. “Hey mom, remember when I sneaked out the night before Easter and didn't come back for four days and wouldn't tell you where I was no matter how many times you called me? LOL.”

Anyway, growing up I also commonly associated with friends who were older than I by several years. By the time I was sixteen or seventeen, it seemed like everyone was getting tattoos. My best friend Amanda now has about 7 or 8. I was very envious of this.

My brother got a tattoo for his 17^th birthday gift, and my parents wouldn't even let me get my nose pierced! So, naturally, I did it behind their back.

I went to Myrtle Beach the summer before my senior year with a good friend of mine and her family. Every night we would walk the 'strip', which had a ton of tourist-y stores and food and all of that. I went out one night with the firm intent that I was getting my nose pierced, No Matter What, even if I was only seventeen and lacked parental consent. And there they were, the 'BODY PIERCINGS' signs hanging in almost every shop window. I stopped at one, when a foreign man screamed shrilly at me “YOU WANT BODY PIERCING?!”

My friend stopped too, looking at me. I pointed at my nose. Thrilled, the man clapped his hands and dragged me into the store. Five minutes later, I had a cheap earring stuck through my nose, and the fact that Borat had just pierced my nose elated me. That was the beginning of the physical manifestation of my rebellion.

The next summer, came the belly button. While I was eighteen, it was less of a rebellion and more of a “I dare you to pierce your belly-button” “OKAY!” situation, but still. Then, later that summer, my first tattoo. My parents still haven't seen it, so until they do, I like to think of this as my last stand, the final fuck you to the constrictions of my childhood, and my first step into adulthood.

And here I am now, in college. I'm on my own, doing everything for myself, and my parents and I get along better now (figures there had to be an hour between us for that to happen). A lot has changed in a short period of time, things I thought would always exist. I wonder now if a lot of my problems really even existed, or if I, like most, was just another teenager who resented her parents for doing nothing but be parents. Two days ago, I was back in a familiar place. The chair of a piercer. As the needle slid through my lip, and Amanda with all of her tattoos grinned at me encouragingly, I reflected. Two years ago, this would have been more than just a facial decoration. While I imagine my parents' reaction when I go home won't be that of ultimate joy (“Another hole in your body?!”), it's true that now I am calling the shots and at the end of every day I am responsible for the consequences of each and every action. There is no more rebellion or working to impress someone.

There is only me, and that is so satisfying.

The Cycle.

“This isn't going to be easy.”

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

“You know, it seems like you never know what to say. I...look, I really don't want this to go in this direction. But don't start off like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like that! Exactly that. You're so tense, and already defensive. Just relax. Maybe we should sit down.”

“Jesus, Tyler, is this really going to be one of those conversations? I like to think I'm not so fragile that I'll faint at the mere mention of something I don't want to hear. My legs work fine, last I checked. I'll stand.”

“You're just being stubborn. Here. Sit with me. Please? Thank you. Now...this really isn't going to be easy.”

“You've already said that.”

“I know. I know...I just, I don't know. You are so important to me. The past few weeks, it's like you're a part of me. You've been there for everything, you're forever etched into my life....I, what? Why are you shaking your head?”

“I'm shaking my head because this is bullshit. I don't want the poetic bullshit. I've heard this all before. I'd rather leave, if this is what's going to happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about what you're saying! It always happens this way. You find someone, you find someone and you give a shit. You give a shit about them, you try, you work to make things different with them. But no matter what happens, it always leads to this fucking conversation.”

“Please...please calm down. Sit down again, please.”

“Stop saying please! Stop telling me to sit. Talking quietly, sitting down, that doesn't change things. Putting a different, nicer title on some shit doesn't make it stink less.”

“Claire, I'm not breaking up with you.”

“I know. I know you're not. We're not even together, how could you? To get rid of commitment, there has to be some in the first place.”

“You don't think I've committed anything to you?”

“No, not really. There's a lot of beautiful words in the English language, words you can say and perfectly craft to create an image. But you don't have to mean them to say it.”

“Claire, I've never lied to you.”

“But have you ever told the truth? Look, you're not breaking my heart. You're not. You can leave, you can go, you can get up right now and leave without saying anything more. That might even be better, honestly. You're not the first and you wont be the last. It's the same with everyone.”

“I'm not trying to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? You're not hurting me, Tyler. You're boring me. You're fucking putting me to sleep, really.”

“Claire,”

“No, stop. I'm doing the thing you're not supposed to do in these situations. I know what you expected. I know you wanted me to sit down beside you, bow my head, listen to your bullshit about being too busy or being too sad or being too narcissistic or sick or stupid to be with me, listen to you feed me compliments you don't mean so you can feel like you're a real nice guy. Maybe you expected a few tears, nothing too serious. You'd tell me now's just not the right time, I deserve more, all of that. Maybe you thought you could kiss me goodbye, and leave, shutting the door on this and walking right on down the hallway and out of my life. You expected me to feel pretty damn bad, and yourself to feel really fucking powerful. Well, it's not going to happen that way.”

“I really think you've got the wrong idea, I don't know what,”

“No, I think I've actually got the right idea here.”

“Claire, I was just trying to be honest with you. You mean a lot to me, you do. I know you think I'm a dick right now.”

“I'm being honest with you too. Look at me. No matter what nice things you say, this conversation is going to end with you leaving. You're walking out that door, and I'm sitting on this couch. I'm not going to beg you to stay, or yell at you to go. I just want you to know, that I know.”

“You know what?”

“I know this story. I don't know, I don't know how to say everything I'm feeling.”

“I don't know what to say either. Look, I have somewhere to be at 6. I just wanted...”

“It's okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...no, I don't know.” tears

“Oh, Claire. Come on. I'm sorry. You're beautiful, you're so great. I'm just not good enough for you, I cant...I can't give you what you need. Not now...I'll see you soon though, I will. This isn't, this isn't the end. You know?” kiss “I...I gotta head out, Claire.”

“It's okay. I know. It's okay. Wait, let me get the door for you.”

“I'm...I...”

“No, it's okay. Really. I'm okay.”

“Bye, Claire.”

click

footsteps

“Fuck.”

the day an ass made an ass of me

This is how it happened, really. A few simple actions led to a terrible result which shall haunt me for the rest of my days. The catalyst, if you will, was my mother. I was in a very impressionable time of my life, being seven years old, and thus the activities of my day greatly relied on this woman.

On this day in particular, she had something up her sleeve. “Petting zoo!” Her lips formed the words, and my eyes registered them before the sound even had time to reach my ears.

Petting zoo?! What was this, this magical place? Something I'd only vaguely heard of in passing, something that could not possibly exist in real life...could it? The magnificence of it began to swell my veins and make my heart pump furiously in order to maintain my consciousness.

The getting dressed, the car ride, the entrance to the palace of animals – it's all an unimportant, trivial blur. I remember wearing the ridiculous overalls my mother always forced me to wear, and I remember it not even mattering – I could sacrifice my stylistic superiority to my mom for one day, because after all she WAS bestowing on me this most precious gift. The overalls were worn into a pale denim, so long that they were cuffed at my bony ankles. My mother even provided me with the delicious treat of orange soda, although in my state of extreme fulfilling pleasure I could not be bothered to be careful, and was subsequently poured more so over my face, clothes, and hands than it was into my digestive system, a detail that will later prove to be crucial.

I could no longer contain my excitement, I ran into the place my feet pounding the dusty dirt ground, causing great clouds to enfulge whoever dared follow my footsteps. I forced my hand over the backs of countless animals, my heart almost bursting with joy. Animals! Animals! Domesticated animals, here for my pleasure and entertainment! There, there was a fucking goat. A goat, right in front of me. I petted the shit out of that goat (figuratively, I hoped).

And then...there it was. The donkey. Such a majestic steed I had never set eyes upon before, not in all of my seven years. In awe, my footsteps slowed. It was like we were alone – just me, and the donkey, eyes locked with one another. We had met our match. I walked towards it, my hand stretched out, shaking slightly from the pure unadulterated bliss of the moment. And then – there it was, the moment of connection. My hand must have touched its smooth snout for some moment, but quickly the tables were turned. My hand was in my furry lover's hand. At first, I barely noticed. I felt that this must be normal. We were now friends, after all. Perhaps this was his way of showing affection. As time slowly trickled on, my adrenaline paused to reveal to me the excruciating pain this ass's teeth were making on my tiny little hand. I felt our friendship was quite literally ending at that moment. I tried to remove my hand from his mouth, but he held on fast, playing a sort of tug-of-war with my limb.

“I beg your PARDON, but this is mine!” I would have said, had I had better grip on my mind at the moment, but instead the words that left my lips were more along the lines of:

“MOM! MOMMMMMM! MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!”

Frantically, I looked over both shoulders, my mobility greatly limited by my hand being stuck in a live trap. Finally, my mother rushed over, and after a struggle I was released from the beast's clutches, bearing the mark of his great teeth on my small hand for the ensuing weeks.

I suppose the moral of the story is, really, be careful about orange soda.

i have a dream....

That speeches do not exist.
Nah, but really.
I'm not a speech person. It's about as simple as that.

In my mind, 'speeches' and 'boring' are interchangeable words.

I can think of only political speeches, which to me are essentially pointless, or rallying speeches by the likes of Martin Luther King JR. I wouldn't go so far as to say that his 'I have a dream' speech is particularly boring, but at the same time, I don't go out of my way to car about it. I wasn't there. It doesn't bother me. Even just thinking about this topic irritates me. I am bored typing this very sentence.

I considered writing about Tiger Woods's speech after all his controversy came to the public eye, and poking fun at him. But even such a sexually charged story bores me, which clearly indicates that this topic is not made for me.

My apologies.

brother, where art thou?

June. There he stands,

his bare feet slightly emerged in the gravel driveway,

platinum blonde hair messy and pouring over his forehead.

His eyes straight at the camera, his smile crooked.

Freckles scattered over his cheeks,

an over-sized tshirt hanging nearly to his knees,

which are covered with scabs.

His skin is covered in the dirt of the earth.

He seems to exude happiness,

even in the form of a picture. His hands,

they are empty, but look like hands

meant to be full. I stare at this picture now,

and I wonder, where did this boy go?

technology slavery

I like to think of myself as someone who is not necessarily attached to technology, but there are studies that prove that I am not alone in thinking this. But the facts prove it: we're all online. When it comes to all forms of addictive behavior, no one individual thinks of themselves as being personally addicted. We find it very easy to see that others are, and can easily recognize the signs of it. But not in ourselves. I suppose I am one of those people. I enjoy my cell phone. Not the device itself, because it's a basically prehistoric hunk of brick that is the bain of my existence. But I like texting. I like being connected, wherever I am. I enjoy the ability to converse at all times. I have found myself wondering, what would life be like without this? While it is a tool of epic convenience, it is also something of a figurative ball and chain. What about the times you don't want to be found? Or the times when you're reading, or having a deep conversation with a friend? Buzz, buzz, buzz. Your phone vibrates, your concentration is lost. You can't even concentrate on things the same as you used to. Our brains are on a constant multitask, because even if we are just sitting and reading, our phone is also on our lap active in multiple conversations at a time. We're sharing our brain too much, when sometimes it just needs to be focused on a single, individual task. It's not fair, really, to any of the things we're doing – our conversation gets only a part of us, our book only gets partially ingested, our television shows only half way seen. It's something that has come a part of our culture so fast, and already seems nearly impossible to imagine without. The idea of not having texting when I want to meet up with someone, of having to actually call them, it seems so very tedious. Why would I want that when it's so much easier to....buzz, buzz, buzz. What was I saying?

I've had assignments like this in classes in highschool and I've always enjoyed them. Looking around the room, I always feel almost peevishly superior to everyone who looks a little white-knuckled at the idea of shutting off their phone for – gasp – an entire day. Then again, I chose an alternate piece of technological equipment, so I am no better. Since I don't watch television anyway, I gave up facebook for the project. Oh, facebook. The cultural phenomenon. How did you even make friends without it? It seems, now, the natural way to break through being acquaintances with someone to actually being their friend. See that cute guy in class, want to know more about him? It's as easy as figuring out his last name and internet stalking him. Even the word 'stalking' has lost its most negative connotations, and now merely means a friendly page viewing. This fills me with dread at the future of human communications, because it's already gotten this terrible this quickly. What can this mean for our children and grandchildren? What can this mean for US in a decade? Even our language has begun to degenerate to forms of abbreviations and non-words.

My day without facebook goes as follows.

Morning: Wake up, eat. Begin laundry. Sit down and read four chapters of current book (City of Thieves, Benioff). Attend to laundry. Shower.

Afternoon: Eat more cereal. 2^nd load of laundry. Two more chapters of current book. Talk to mom about tattoos. Walk away feeling cantankerous after unsuccessful conversation with mother about tattoos. Go online and check VCU e-mail. Have no email. Hang up laundry. Watch 'The Road'. Buzz buzz buzz. Hide phone under pillow, give undivided attention to movie. Feel disappointed that the movie was not as good as the book. Eat popcorn. Text.

Evening: Six chapters of book. Write soundtrack for FI class. Feel angry that soundtrack is piece of garbage. Re-write soundtrack. Feel equally disgusted. Unable to rewrite. Mind doesn't work. Read two chapters. Look at soundtrack. Buzz buzz buzz. Stare at soundtrack. Accept defeat. Check agenda, do some readings for class. Brush hair. Stare at wall. Listen to song obsessively 12 times in a row. Become bored with song. Eat chicken. Ignore phone call from someone I don't like very much but like too much to tell them I don't like them. Pass out during texting.

As you can easily tell from reading above, my day without facebook clearly lacked nothing. So, I guess the question is: why? Why do I still use it? Why do I care?

As a wise man once said, the things we own end up owning us. I believe this is true for technological services and devices. As someone who carries this knowledge, I am still not free – because I still use the services. The only way to be truly free is to be truly unattached, and yet we are all too scared/lazy/lethargic/bored to care enough. This is the sadness that is our humanity.

my purpose

Why are you here?

I stared at this question, pondering. I wondered if any of my peers had trouble answering this, or if it was as obvious to them as it is to me. Why am I here? I'm here because I want to know. I want knowledge, and I want a massive amount of it. I want knowledge of fine literature running through my veins, I want to be able to talk to strangers in the super market about Freudian theories, I want to be able to sit in a park and read books most people have never heard of.
I suppose, to some extent, the idea of having money and a career have effected my decision to attend college. But mostly, when I think of money in my future, I think of spending it paying off this very education I am receiving, to pay my bills, to pay for a house in which I may sleep, and that's about as far as it goes.
I see life defined more by the things you do in it as opposed to the things you own in it. I have little patience for those who are living their life as a means of getting to a lucrative job that they will most likely despise. It's a cycle many of us can see exemplified by our parents - they spent important years of their lives toiling away in college towards a very boring degree in very boring classes, to spend their lives working at very boring jobs for a very exciting paycheck that they don't have the time or energy to spend in ways that aren't, yes, boring.
What I want to gain from attending college and attaining my degree and (hopefully) my doctorate, is a tangible love and passion for what I'm doing. Material possesions pale in comparison to the richness of knowledge and wisdom I hope to have at the end of my life.

fear

I've come to believe that the one thing you fear the most, is inevitable. Innately, you know it, which is why you fear it so deeply and consumingly. I feared losing the one I loved, despite my pure and deep faith in that love and in our care for one another, and I lost him. It's debatable whether I feared losing him because I knew I would, or if I lost him BECAUSE of that very fear. Then again, it's all the same. Every beginning leads you to the same end one way or another. 


Despite unhappy endings, there is a way of finding joy, always. It just may not be the joy you initially wished for. I'm happy with myself, because I love myself. I have always, and will always, love myself first and foremost. Maybe my arrogance itself is detrimental to my relationships with other people, but when I'm left alone, mourning my losses, it's myself I go to sleep with and myself I wake up to every morning. And how could I NOT make sure to make that relationship the most healthy, the one thriving the most?

Every day I feel myself grow and change. A few months ago, I was not doing that. Sometimes you get so caught up in the present, or the future, or just this meaningless bullshit, that the things that truly do matter get thrown to the side. In my relationship, I was so worked up every day about trivial matters. I ruined the future because I worried so much about it. That's an every day story, isn't it. People don't know how to live. The thing you cherish the most will always be destroyed, and it will always be your fault.

Do I miss you? God, I miss you. And speaking of God, He of anyone knows how much I loved you. Loved? Love. Love is eternal, I agree with you. It's just all in how you live after that love is gone, or how you change your love to go along with the weeks and weeks and months and years alone. There are other fish in the sea. I will go fishing. But I've never really felt much for the fish, a big blue whale ruined it all for me.\
I'm scared. I'm scared that I wont achieve the things I want so terribly. I'm scared I'll never love someone and have them love me back, perfect love and imperfect love all wrapped up together in the greatest little image. It sounds typical, a scorned 18 year old claiming they'll never love again. I just feel like so many things regarding that part of me are up in the air right now. I dont know who I am, 100% yet, do I? I could very well, deep down, be just like my mother. And if I am, I really will never love. I'm scared that my cold-heartedness is something I truly never will get away from. It's deep in me and hidden, but I push people away ridiculously. I seal myself away. And when I didn't, when I truly had faith and gave myself to someone, I was left. Everything, sometimes, is just simply not enough. What a bizzarely mind blowing notion.
The idea of him, you, with someone else, was totally horrible. But at the same time, I didn't mind so much. I feel like somehow, you'll always be a part of me. That means I'll be a part of you, too, somehow. I wish I could have the faith I once had, but I'm afraid that will never happen. Realistically, that's probably for the better.

Why, when you pull away, do they come back? But when you give your all, there's no one to receive it. Fucking humanity

writing with intention

I've struggled to find an adequate way to begin this. These are words I've always wanted to share, and yet, I never have. Not for shame or uncertainty or any such reason. I listen to those around me regularly get into what could be called 'heated' debates regarding their religious belief (or lack thereof). I, however, have never joined in, always just mutely smiling at both sides of the argument. I imagine many people wonder why this is, why is it that though I am always comfortable in asserting my belief, why does my talk end there?

Over time, as anyone could tell you, there are huge shifts in society and culture. Though the core aspects may remain vaguely intact, it's an obvious truth that time changes everything. Religion in the world went from Catholics charging believers a fee to get into heaven, to molesting their altar boys. Religion in our country went from itchy wool clothes early every Sunday morning to contemporary Wednesday night services with electric guitars and coffee cake. Corruption of our culture has removed what could be referred to as the fine layer of decency and unveiled a sort of chaotic, in your face, deviant kind of people. Many would say this is a loss of morality – I see it as more of a loss of concealment. It's not like sin is something new – remember Eve? There's always been sex, and there's always been, as much as your parents like to disagree, drugs (hello, Woodstock?).

How about religions changes, in me? It went from socialization as a child (Sunday school, bible camp) to socialization as a preteen (confirmation classes, youth group, 'mission' trips), to now.

The problem with religion, or I guess more specifically Christianity, is that the message is confusing. We are fed this image of a god that juxtaposes eternal damnation and unconditional love. We are supposed to simultaneously and at all times fear him, thank him, and love him. If I were god, I like to think the people I went through all this trouble to create would totally be stoked on me, not afraid. That's the corporal punishment bullshit into which some parents delve – parents who raise serial killers, or children who become adults that live very far away.

I guess now I should specifiy that I am in fact a believer. I fully, completely, and totally believe. I am a person of faith.

But the question I toy with the most is religion vs spirituality – what is the difference? I consider myself very spiritual, but religion itself baffles me. This is where I believe human/societal corruption has fucked up a good thing. The bible, I think, is great. A great book of stories. But I just can't bring myself to accept that a book written and rewritten by humans could be the “word of god”. Because, after all, humans are the whole problem. We're the ones fucking everything up here.

That is precisely why I dislike discussing my faith. My faith, like any relationship, is personal. It's between me, and God. No one else will “get” it, and they don't need to. Religion isn't a book or a set of fucking guidelines. Religion is looking at your life, the world, and praying to God that there's something out there better than this.

And that somehow, just somehow, there is purpose and meaning in this. In you.

things to do before i die

Bucket List:

1. Get doctorate in psychology.
2. Get into honors college
3. have brown hair, at some point
4. live in an apartment, complete with a kitten
5. have at least 4 tattoos
6. play on another basketball team
7. go to england, stay in england, become english
8. read everything. EVERYthing
9. Learn everything I can about psychology and be knowledgeable about it to the extent I would be able to talk on nearly any related topic for extended periods of time
10. be on jeopardy and win
11. own a car, bought with my own money
12. get muscles, nice small muscles
13. live in a big city that's not in Virginia
14. own my own bookstore in said city and live above it
15. have a very loving and successful marriage
16. go camping and actually like it
17. go vegetarian, if not forever, for a long period of time
18. love
19. visit Tolkien's house and tour it
20. learn to speak another language essentially fluently, a language that is NOT Spanish
21. be friends with my mom
22. write a book
23. learn to do something artistic and be good at it
24. see famous paintings/museums in Europe
25. buy my brother a really nice car
26. go on a “real date”
27. try sushi
28. win in a fight
29. help people who need it
30. be financially stable (but not rich

day one

I'm Kate, I'm eighteen, and I attend Virginia Commonwealth University. Obviously.