Why I Do Not Relish Falling In Love

This is a story that has happened, oh, about three times in my relatively young life...
Love.
What is it?
I hate when people believe they've fallen utterly in love, and they know what it is completely; there's nothing left to discover. They're full of shit. One is always learning more about this dangerous emotion, more about it's ambiguous nature, and it's sinister residue.
I've learned the hard way, all times.
Every time I've entered into romantic love, I've allowed myself to open my heart. When I open my heart, I often learn more lessons than I receive a reciprocal feeling. This is very convenient for future occasions, but the "come down" is a...well, it's a pain in the ass, to be frank.

The first time I ever fell in love, it was quite a puppy situation.
Sixth grade, with boy we shall call "Anthony".
He was charming.
He left notes in my locker, he held my hand on the playground, and he was the first boy to ever ask me to the movies.
I was completely smitten.
The only problem was- I didn't know what on earth it was to be boyfriend and girlfriend.
Me, in my ignorance, thought we were only friends. I told him that. He was crestfallen and "broke up" with me. I spent the next three years pining for his affection. Didn't work. And though he was polite to me from that day forth, he never felt the same about me.

Such was my first juvenile heartbreak...


The second "love" was perhaps the most destructive relationship I've ever been in.
We shall call him "Dave".
From the moment I saw his electric blue eyes I was head over heels. I dove recklessly into this naive land of romantic dreams, and unrealistic expectations. I was completely oblivious to what would lay ahead.
He was addicted to heroin.
Through him, I tried cocaine.
I was lost in a haze, and he was the still centerpiece of the spinning world.
It's a known truth you don't choose who you fall in love with, and this was no different. If I had it my way, I'd have never set my eyes on him. He was evil, and I was attracted to him because of that. I felt obligated to fix him. I felt like I was sent to protect him, to keep him from killing himself, to sacrifice my sanity to prove to him that I could be strong.
Like a drug, I had to cut him off from my life...
He would have been the death of me.

It was possibly one of the hardest experiences of my life, and I still don't understand to this day...
how i could love someone so horrible to me.

It was then that I realized a truly important notion to understand: "Love never dies; it changes."

For some strange reason, I will always love Dave. But I will never love him in the way I did once...it feels like a warmth in my stomach, that I hold down with a sigh.

I'm in the process of falling away from that ardent love again...

I met someone who I thought was very exciting, very different, very worthwhile...

He turned out to be like the rest, disappointing and weak.

It's hard when you realize that you're the type of person who doesn't give up easily, who fights for what they want, who pulls through the tough times with a lesson in mind...but in this even, one often ends up alone.

My Newest Reality Television Obsession: Meet the Natives on the Travel Channel

Chief Mangau is a figure of authority, guidance and wise words. His father, the Supreme Chief has given him the mission of restoring the spirit of peace in America. Before setting out, Chief warns the other men not to be distracted by pretty girls. But he's not a spoilsport: once their journey begins, he reveals a cheeky grin, a warm laugh and a curiosity about the new world around him. At 65 years old, he's the oldest of the group.







Keimua is the Head Dancer for the community. His infectious enthusiasm for singing and dancing and his beaming grin not only make his dancing lessons the number one activity for the kids on the island, but he also wins over everyone he meets in America.










Sam is the Medicine Man, to whom the community comes with everything from fevers to broken bones. He also understands the spirits and age-old traditions of Tanna better than anyone else, and these traditions inform the ways he views America.










Kuai is known as the “Happy Man.” His job at home is simply to generate love and happiness, and as he says before leaving for America, “I will make them happy! It's great!” He hugs, smiles and giggles his way around America, connecting with everyone he meets.











Namus is the translator for the group. He's from Tanna, but has been to school and speaks English well. At 27 years old, he's the youngest of the group, and a bit savvier about the outside world than the others.

We Could Only Make This Shit Up...

"The Man-Stand" (n.) - a term that refers to the luring of a male by a dominant female, an action of a one-night-stand, followed by the female awkwardly asking the male to leave in the morning. This is a counter-culture phenomena of the "one night stand", where the male is customarily obliged to ask the female to take her leave in the morning hours.

Lady Cracker's Guide to Man-Handling.

Apparently, I have this sixth sense that enables me to smell a Mega-Douche from a mile off...
Or an Ex-Factor lingering somewhere in his own pathetic reveries...with the scent of lavender and Cosmopolitan cut-outs strewn upon the floor of his mind...
I've always had the uncanny ability to separate the lambs from the goats in terms of the more primitive sex...or well, the goats from the goats. Though equally pathetic, each man is different in his own sphere.

I've narrowed my field of this particular study into ten core groups:


1.) The (Really) Hopeless Romantic
2.) The Metrosexual
3.) The Mega-Douche
4.) The Emotionally Scarred Attention Whore
5.) The Ex-Factor
6.) The Over-egoed Hottie
7.) The Self-Righteous Political Guru
8.) The Lethargic Hippie/Musician
9.) The Illusive Player
10.) The Wannabe


You all know them, ladies.
So let's get the break-down.



1.) The (Really) Hopeless Romantic

He's a charmer.
He quotes Rhett Butler.
Forget an anniversary? Never!
Husband material? Right on.
He's lovable, he's eloquent, and he's proven to you that "all the rest" were simply little boys shielding you from the true limelight you belong in. He lifts you up, he supports your ambitions; hell, he pays for every meal!
He's Mr. McDreamy in the flesh.
Yet...
Doesn't he tend to rub you the wrong way sometimes?
I mean, don't get me wrong- he appears perfect on the exterior but...
Isn't he a little OCD about some shit? Isn't his "knight in shining armor-dom" a little anti-feminist?
When he meticulously arranges the wine glasses so that they're perfectly a-symmetrical with the plate and utensils, doesn't it seem a bit obtrusive?
And how about that time when he bought you to Build-A-Bear when he knows you're afraid of stuffed animals...I mean... sure, it was a cute idea and he was going out of his way but is he spending so much time thinking of new ways to impress you that he forgot your general likes and dislikes?

Pros:
- Outrageously sweet
- Thoughtful
- Attentive

Cons:
- OCD out the ass
- Perfectionist
- Liable to make you question your own self-worth



2.) The Metrosexual

He's adorably oblivious to masculine norms.
He likes his oatmeal scrub- with the jasmine compound for moisturizing.
He's particular about mixing his seasons.
He likes to pick out your outfit for that really important banquet when you're running late.
He can distinguish Armani from Gucci from Chanel.
Wait...
Is he still straight?!
Yes, ladies. Oh yes.
Still very much attracted to the fairer sex, our man is an aficionado on fine culture, and the art of being indulged.
He loves to spoil himself with trips to the spa, and regularly checks out of a lunch meeting to go to the bathroom and make sure his body spray is still potent.
In his youth, he was often tortured with such slandering nicknames as "Fag" and "Limp Wrist". Becoming bffs with his Mommy taught him a thing or two about treating a woman- in addition to treating himself.
He's the King, gold-cuffed boots and all, and you are his Queen.
His perks may be well and good, and perhaps you even admire the fact that his sense of fashion is more confident than yours, but let's face it... He does think his shit don't stink from time to time.
All that childhood torment has appeared to make his freshly moisturized exterior tough as nails.
He may need to tone down on the toner before he ends up looking more fake than baked.

Pros:
- Best Dressed Man Alive
- appreciates detail
- effortlessly juggles vintages and fine wines

Cons:
- a bit self-employed
- manliner?
- he paid more for his suit than he did for his life insurance...




3.) The Mega-Douche
Oh, the Mega-Douche.
Really, what isn't there to say about this fine piece of work?
Devoid of any remote intelligence what so ever, he aimlessly removes his shirt, grabs his club and bottle of jack, and journeys forth into the mushroom cloud of bong smoke.
When out on the town, you may spot him surrounded by his hoard of personal supporters, or what I like to appropriately term as "the chodes and the hoes".
He's quite noticeable.
The sideways cap, the tribal tattoos... the conspicuously placed blow-up doll, complete with Vaseline...
*Forehead slap*
It's safe to say that at least 2/3rds of the general female population have dated at least ONE Mega-Douche in the entirety of their relationship career.
Though not completely advised, it is somewhat necessary to date one of these assholes in order to appreciate our other contenders- who often appear to be a grade above him in terms of general species.
If one is not clear as to the level of douche-baggery our chode may be reaching, one should look for the following conspicuous signs of the "Mega-Douche":
- lack of shirt
- weird piercings
- the "duck butt" hair spike
- constant usage of the term "bro"
- loud, obnoxious vehicle


Pros:
- when you find one...let me know.

Cons:
- lol.




4.) The Emotionally Scarred Attention Whore

Dear Diary,
Mood: I Feel Like Cutting.

Beware of the two-toned hair.
The token myspace pictures, shielding his face.
The odd piercings.
His ostentatious bi-curious behavior.
His philosophical outlook on religion, life, shit...
Why is he doing this?
Why is he saying all this crap?
Why does he constantly ask you if he looks okay, if what he believes is okay, if he's okay?
YOU DON'T KNOW.
And frankly, you're too worried about your own life to make his over.
Yet, you feel quite sorry for him.
He's been through the not-so-rare, yet traumatic experience of having the meanest girlfriend alive.
He's been bullied by God and man alike for his sense of "non-conformity".
He'll use his misfortunes as a crutch to gain your trusts.
And, he'll take your number, or your pity sex, whenever he can.
He's pathetic, and the various females of his acquaintance know this, but he's so pitiful it's hard to resist his puppy-dog pout, or his suicidal poetry that he sends you via-text about his failed romance and how undeserving he is of love.

Pros:
- hollar-back boy
- dedication sonnets
- stunts in the name of romance

Cons:
- obsessive
- constantly seeking your regard
- won't. go. away.




5.) The Ex-Factor

To Be or Not To Be?
That is... To Be or Not To Be the psychotic ex boyfriend who calls and texts every waking minute, still pining for your everlasting love.
It's been two years, and several boyfriends later, and you think that by now he'd get the idea. I mean, you still care, sure, but this is just ridiculous. What's with the jealousy? The pout? The fact that he thinks he has a right to know what you're doing and who you're with?
Come on, asshole.
Alas...
He's still hung up on you, and you know it.
He texts you every chance he gets a free moment:
How was your test?
How was your lunch?
How was your day?
How was your breathing?
Creeper...
Your relationship was great; it lasted through many hardships and really went to a whole new level in your opinion. But, you know, school got in the way, and lots of personal tragedies happened, and let's just face it: He got boring.
So, I mean, what else was there to do?
You broke up with him proper-like, and gave him the 411 on "Friendship".
Yes, you can still call me on holidays.
No, we can't snuggle anymore.

Pros:
- Devoted
- Generally caring
- Cute..in a melancholy way

Cons:
- Really? Do we need to go here?




6.) The Over-egoed Hottie


He probably spends more time on his body than he has on anything else in his entire life.
He glances at himself in any available reflective surface.
He's hot. He knows it. And he expects you to know it, too.
So what if he says he loves you despite the three pounds you gained from that run-away cheesecake?
He's totally lying.
You can see him out of the corner of your eye flexing his muscle's in the glass door.
You want to say something, you want to be blunt and sarcastic, but you know what? He's just too hot to hear you. So why bother?
Closely related to our "Mega-Douche", the "Over-Egoed Hottie" is the lesser-devolved medium between the "Mega-Douche" and "The Metrosexual".
He is an asshole.
Perhaps he's cheated on you.
Perhaps he's fooled around.
But, he does work out obsessively, and he does like to dress to impress.
He may get his ego fluffed on a daily basis, but it is up to YOU, women of the world... it is up to YOU to forsake this perfectly toned pecks and his well-manicured backyard... You must abandon his-... Oh, fuck it.

Pros:
- So hot...
- So, so very hot...
- Yeah, you get the picture.

Cons:
- Asshole-esq tendencies
- Really? You're not gonna eat that?
- Ego. Ego. Ego.




7.) The Self-Righteous Political Guru


I quoth:
"Damn Liberals."
"The Hollywood Left is going to be the death of us."
"We're all Socialists, Socialists I tell yah!"
"That Healthcare Bill- my ass."
Of course he's a Republican, would a male Democrat actually go through the trouble of un-promoting peace and love?
But he's really...really Republican.
We're talking...you buy a vegetarian pizza and he suddenly starts calling you a "damn hippie" and he insists you stop taking yoga because it's somehow "unconstitutional".
You don't agree with him, at all, but when you try to defend yourself he's suddenly so completely offended that you dare to question his stance, that he forgets this is a relationship and not a debate.
Sure, the arguments are sometimes a little spicy when it comes to bedroom banter, but how long is this going to last?
How long can one tolerate a man who uses the sudden two dollar increase of your fancy dinner tab to talk about how the economy's shot to shit?

Pros:
- sturdy
- politically correct (or so he thinks)
- good for PR

Cons:
- constantly offended
- pig headed
- you are not, and never will be, Sarah Palin




8.) The Lethargic Hippie/Musician


He can play a mean guitar.
He serenades, too.
And, he looks like he hasn't bathed in months...
We'll call him the "Ani-Self-Righteous Political Guru"
There's something very attractive about a man who can play guitar, wear some dingy creepy-uncle button down and a fedora- and still manage to belt out a thing or two that sounds slurry but cohesive.
Sure, he's drunk all the time, a little high, a little dirty...
But he's cute all the same, correct?
He's an "artist", and he's constantly needed to improve his "art".
Yeah yeah, you get it.
He doesn't give a shit about politics... he doesn't give a shit about anything really.
He'll nurture his dreams of being big, while he spends his last two dollars on some weed and beer, and then ends the night with scribbling dreamy lyrics on an old pizza box with a Sharpie.
But um... so you missed the part where he has a real job...
What about real goals?
What about a care for anything at all besides "Lucy", his vintage Gibson?

Pros:
- music man
- mysterious
- carefree

Cons:
- seriously...shut up already
- not all dreams come true for the lazy of heart
- bathe, now. kthanks.




9.) The Illusive Player

So of course we all know this one...
He walks into the club/bar/place of any sort of social interaction...and women flock to him as if he smells of pure Swiss Chocolate and looks like George Clooney's very dashing younger brother.
You're drawn to him, you can't help that.
Any woman in her right mind is drawn to something so, so shiny!
He's very mysterious, and very charismatic. He dresses appropriately at all times, but still has this laid back sense of self that doesn't make him seem overbearing in any way.
On the exterior, he's got it all going on... He's got the personality, and a supreme amount of good-looking. He's balanced in all mannerisms, he knows how to make you smile, how to make you laugh, how to make you swoon.
But oh, he's too good to be true.
All those years of never being turned down, not once, has fluffed his ego so much that, despite how well he may treat you, there's always going to be present the fear that you are yet another addition in his notorious "Little Black Book".
There's an issue ladies, you just have to figure it all out:
The only real problem is, when he's texting and calling diligently, keep in mind...
He's also calling Samantha, Lorie, Jessica, Brittney, Viola, Esperanza, and that chick that works at Walmart in the food center.

Pros:
- sweet-talking
- charismatic
- always up for a good time

Cons:
- man whore
- tragically unable to commit
- STD much?




10.) The Wannabe

He wants to be married in Guam.
He wants to be a golf champion.
He wants to try equestrianism.
He wants to be grade A at chess.
He wants to catch that fish.
He wants to join a yoga class.
He wants to fucking try too hard...
Don't you ever get tired of seeing him looking wide-eyed at the television screen and you just KNOW it's suddenly popped into his mind that he wants to be the next Michael Phelps?
As if the crumbling bricks from the half-build outdoor fire place aren't enough to frustrate you, you already know that he's going to go out and buy a whole knew workout machine, only to use it to hang his clothes on after a vigorous two weeks of trying to beat out fish-boy.
You think you've had enough when:
Lo and behold, he convinces you he really wants to go to Italy for a pleasant vacation come next year!
You're totally stoked.
That is, totally stoked until next year rolls around...and he has yet to save a penny... and his last dollar was spent on the Dollar Menu.
He's neurotic.
He can't apply himself.
He's adorably oblivious, which makes you like him that much more, but his sense of priority is way out of sync with the rest of the universe.

Pros:
- spunky
- willing to try new things
- eclectic

Cons:
- can't settle
- can't stay focused
- can't be normal

A Day to Remember...

10th of November, 2009...

November 10th. Not a day I would wish to remember, surely. Perhaps it's because I cannot control my emotions when I bring myself to think of my grandmother. Her significance in my life was crucial; living a minute away from the place where she died is a constant reminder that life is fleeting.

I know that I have to grab life by the balls when the opportunity arises. More than once I've let something I've wanted in life slip away, watched it glide off into the sunset without doing a thing about it... because I was afraid to take the jump.

Well... on that Tuesday afternoon, I felt like taking a jump.

I really didn't know what to expect when I walked into the tattoo parlor Monday...on the 9th... I'd brought with me a picture and a mission.

The artist's name was Terry. He'd been at it for about fifteen years, so when I showed him the picture, which was drawn by a friend of mine, and said I wanted it exactly done, he smiled.
"No problem, kid." He said, tousling his mane of dark brown locks. "Is it your first one?"
"Yeah. It's my first one."
"Well..." He regarded the picture, then me. Me, in my pink skirt and white cardigan. "It looks like it's going to be medium sized. Might take me thirty minutes or so. Think you can handle the pain?"
"I have a high tolerance for pain." I said staunchly, holding my head up.
He gave a chuckle, and patted my shoulder.
"Tomorrow at three then, kid." He smirked, taking my picture.

I had trouble sleeping that night.
I kept tossing around, imagining what it would be like now... People would consider me a little eccentric for my actions, sure, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I knew I wanted it, I needed it more than anything.

My mother called me that night before I had turned in to sleep... I told her what I was doing and she gave me some remark- I don't quite remember- but she wasn't happy.
I just replied "We mourn in different ways. You go to mass, I get a tattoo."
She'd hung up angry.

I got up in the morning, went on about my day in the regular fashion.
I went to class, took a test, went to work, found solace from my boss (who has about ten tattoos)...who smiled and grasped my hand and said:
"I'm thirty-three, with a son, and a doctorate... if I did it, you sure as hell can do it."

I went home, put on a button-down, and sighed.
Patrick and Ali came meet me, thinking I may be too weak to drive myself home afterward.
After some mild conversation, we solemnly went to the tattoo parlor.
It was three in the afternoon on the dot.

They decided to stay in the waiting area, after I insisted I didn't need anyone holding my hand.

Terry was actually finishing up a rose on some girl's calf as I was walking in.
He smiled and said he'd be a few minutes.
The girl walked out with a smile, and then he turned his attention to me.

I sort of crossed my arms over my boobs when he said I'd have to practically remove my shirt so he could do it in the precise place I wanted it on my back.
I reluctantly shuffled to the bathroom, and came out with the shirt on backwards, unbuttoned and revealing my whole back.

I straddled the chair, gripped the cushion, and closed my eyes.

To be truthful, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had thought it would be in the beginning.

The pain was mild, I'd felt worse for sure.
There's nothing like rope burn or literal burn or broken bones that make you wish you were numb all over, but this- this was nothing.

I did start to cry a little... not because of the way it felt, I just kept thinking my grandmother felt so much worse when the chemotherapy treatments ravaged her skin, leaving blisters, leaving tears the size of canyons. I remember when I'd sleep beside her in her bed how I'd hear her cry out in her sleep because of what was going on inside of her body. I'd close my eyes and pretend I didn't hear her. I wouldn't move a muscle. I never wanted to wake her from her sleep; it seemed she could forget the pain a little when she slept.

I felt like, with each injection, with each drill against my skin...
there came a reminder of where I am and where I'm going, and what I'm leaving behind in the past.

I felt like I was being branded for all of my past digressions.

It took thirty minutes.
Terry walked me through it, kept me talking, kept me smiling from time to time by cracking a joke.
He removed his needle, and wiped my back down with a smile, set a bandage on it to soak the little bit of blood, and buttoned the backing of my shirt.

"Alright, kid. You're finished."

I smiled, thanked him, and went out to meet Pat and Ali.









I'm not finished...

but I'm working on it.

True or False: The Dreamboat Overseas

(T/F): You make me smile.

(T/F): I think this won't work.

(T/F): I adore you.

(T/F): We're connected.

Wickedly Ridiculous Items I Want In My Dream Home...

- claw-foot marble tub

- sky blue walls

- a study, complete with an epic bookshelf and a writing desk

- big, big tree with tire swing

- four-poster bed

- hardwood floors

- fireplace in living room and bedroom

- white-washed kitchen table that sits four

- french doors

- a big overgrown garden...english style

- a lazy pond with pretty lilly-pads

- a chicken coup, with chickens!

- a stone tea kettle, painted fire engine red

- an old fashioned gas stove

- doors with skeleton key locks

- a winding staircase

- an antique bureau, painted sunflower yellow

- shutters on the windows, mint green

- a parlor... with big open windows... and a cute little table to serve tea

Vegetarianism: What's the Big Fucking Deal?!

About a week ago I made a not-so-unusual decision to improve my diet and to start focusing on getting myself in shape again... trust me, this lazy hibernation has been going on for far too long.

So, I'm browsing through different options, figuring that this or that is going to be pretty hard to maintain considering I'm a full-time student, and I have a job, and I take a dance class... that doesn't leave me with the time or energy to pick and choose.

Then, it dawned on me...

I'm not really a fan of barbecue...
When I eat greasy meat I feel nasty and bloated.

Light bulb!







What if I just illuminate the meat from my diet?
Considering the food I really enjoy is all grains and fruits anyway... this makes for a very pleasant and easy decision.

A week ago I became a, you guessed it, Vegetarian.

I can honestly say it isn't as hard as I thought it might be.
I avoid meats, and generally eat grains, and starches, and fruits.
I'll sneak the occasional egg for breakfast in the morning, but it's not a sin.

Alas, here I am, feeling really healthy and adjusting my body to this shift... and I'm suddenly getting all sorts of brash interjections from friends and family alike.

"You won't get enough protein and you'll die." Being the main "concern".

People... don't you think I've put good thought into this?
Do you realize that there's more than one place to get protein?

I mean, sure, meat is good for you... but on a whole, I didn't even like the shit... except when it was lathered in grease and tasted too good to resist (the only reason being BECAUSE it was lathered in grease).

I can honestly say I'm proud of myself for making a decision like this.

It's going strong, and I want to be supported, not getting eyes rolled at me.

People associate vegetarianism with liberals and PETA and all sorts of retarded crap...

I don't care about bunnies getting stripped of their fur, okay?
I don't give a shit if you run over a kitten or eat a stake medium rare, it's not the end of the world.
I think PETA is retarded and that animals are good eating... just not for me.

I like my fruits and my veggies and my breads, is there an issue?

I'm not going to die.
I make sure I get more than one dose of protein-friendly foods every day.
Peanut Butter. Hummus. Lima beans.
Yum yum.


So get off my case because I'm trying to improve my health.
And stop asking me if I've suddenly stopped bathing and decided to live naked among the lemurs in Madagascar...

The past, the present, The Future.

I've come to realize how far down this road I've been traveling, and how things are suddenly branching out and creating new paths and new opportunities. It's really exciting for someone like me to realize that life is getting to the point of adventure, thrill, and intrigue.

I'm going to be twenty years old.

I remember when I was twelve and I looked at a twenty year old with complete and utter wonderment. I thought that that person had all of the answers. They lived on their own in some swanky uptown apartment, and did cool shit... like road some bike with a basket around, splatter painted the walls of their bedrooms, and took black-and-white pictures of old people holding hands in the park.

Now, I'm on the brink of being twenty... and I realize that I'm sort of living the way I envisioned a twenty-year-old to live. (At least, within my means.) I don't have all the answers, and I never will, but somehow I think I'm going to be okay without knowing everything. The path is shaded, but it's there.

It's funny how the worst thing that could have possibly ever happened only catapulted into growing up... it was a reality check I needed.

That 'worst thing' was the death of my grandmother last year, on November 10th.
For all intensive purposes, she was my mother.
While I've always somewhat had a strained relationship with my biological mother (her eldest daughter), she encouraged me to try to understand her, and in the same instanced shaped me into the woman I am today.
I admired her so much for her strength and for her quiet mind.

It's going to be a year since she died, and I'm still trying to collect myself.
I thought I couldn't go on without her, but her death intensified my desire to want to do something extraordinary with this existence- the only one I've got.

I've been toying with the idea of not finishing school... right now, however, I'm thinking I will. I've come this far, I want that degree in my hand. But the credentials of it are really sort of ridiculous. I don't learn sitting in a classroom, I need to be out in the world and experiencing. I feel like that's my calling.

Sometimes I feel like I don't need a degree to dictate that I have intelligence, or to say I'm certified to help this person or that person.

In fact, I don't believe in it at all.

I feel as if most people say they're in school, or going through it, just to prove to the people around them that they can make something of themselves when really... really, making something of yourself should be about the people you touch, and the works you do, and the stories you have to tell afterward.

The longer I'm in college the more I realize it's a debauched myriad lie of higher learning... where "Beer Pong" is the national sport, and "How Many Lays" the slogan.

I don't want that, and never have.

However, some good things have come out of this whole new world...

I've moved out, and learned to live under a roof with completely different personalities than what I was accustomed.

I have a job where I make enough money to support myself.

Still in school (whether I like it or not), and toiling.

And... and my direction is becoming clearer and clearer.

See, in the beginning I thought I wanted to perhaps be a linguist. I love studying languages, and going overseas sort of sealed my love of foreign places. But then I realized if I wanted to actually make a living, I'd have to have at least five languages under my belt. A whole lot of classes, and a whole lot of brainpower that I wasn't willing to commit to. (Trust me, if i don't want to learn something... I'm not going to learn it.)

But I love to write, so I sort of decided Journalism would be my target.

I didn't like the idea of following other people around and badgering them about their personal lives, so I did a little research... and that's when I discovered what I want to do.

I want to write for a humanitarian journal.
And for those of you who don't quite know what that is... think along the lines of National Geographic... but focusing on the people of third-world countries and their cultures.

It's not set in stone, nothing ever is.

But I know that I want to help people.
I feel my best when I'm out in the world, getting my hands dirty, and exploring the meaning of life.

I want to try other things as well...

photojournalism
fashion photography
painting
novel and poetry composition
entrepreneurship


But whatever I do end up doing in the end, I'll do it well.

I want to be known by those who loved me as someone who went out there and did what she had to do, followed her beliefs, and lived fully and openly.
That's all.
Nothing more or less.

Misinterpretations, Methodical, Men...

I've come to realize over the course of my very brief dating career, that I haven't dated all that much, or all that well...


Ever since 6th grade...that fateful ill-fated puppy love with a boy who truly liked me, and to whom I squashed mercilessly by failing to understand his feelings... I've had possibly the ultimate shitty luck where this tangled web of business is concerned.


For example, my first "serious" boyfriend was a stint with a biker, he was eighteen, and I sixteen. I marveled in true and utter wonderment of him until he dumped me faster than a hot tamale on the 4th of July for a big-breasted short shirt in a Mustang GT.


I hadn't yet gotten to second-base, and already I was krill to the dating scene as we know it.


My second serious boyfriend was a year and a half younger than I but oh, who am i kidding? Age is but a number- right? No need to be ageist when you have this smashing fellow who's on your level, meets your needs, and appears to have himself on the level, correct?


Wrong.


So wrong.


Mr. Level left this old bag of horse feed after a little over a year of tumultuous canoodling, promises of college live-in situations, and eventual marriage on a little island in the south pacific by a Haitian spirit healer...and why? Oh, there was some hot young thing with synthetic weave and eyeliner thicker than tar.


So here I've been since.


Only two serious situations down under my belt, and I couldn't be more confused or disoriented by the very IDEA of being with someone for an extended period of time.


Sometimes I like to wonder what's the point of it all... I mean, is that all there is in life? Women, being told from the earliest age that we're princesses that need to be treated as such by men who don't exist? That marriage is the ultimate form of euphoria, and if you don't find someone to marry eventually then you're a lesbian, a feminist, or just plain weird?


Don't get me wrong! I've had my fair share of guys pining for my hand...(not all at once- but you get my picture)...


A.) There was "S." from orientation, who gladly bought me anything I wished and whined and dined me until I wanted to gag for lack of independence (or breathing room, for that matter).
B.) There was "D." from a fraternity, who, though witty and amusingly charming, failed to clarify what it was that was happening between us, and therefore lost my regard.
C.) There was "C." from a mutual acquaintance, who took me to a rock concert and proceeded to be extremely awkward about his lack of financial and emotional stability.
D.) There was "P.", whom I met while in a college course, who I convinced to go on a date with me only to discover that, after locking lips, he was only meant to be a very best friend/brother sort.
E.) There was "R.", a foreigner who swept me off my feet with a sneak-kiss and intellectual conversation before I realized he was stringing me along (in true Scandinavian fashion).


Sigh.


It is a history that I look over and could truly laugh at.


Perhaps I'm picky.
Perhaps I think too much.
Perhaps it's my own special combination of neurotic and insane.
I've been told all of this before.


But I'm a modern, assertive, independent woman... you know, I've convinced myself I don't need a man.
Sure, it'd be nice if he takes you out, brings you home, canoodles and wants to spoon after. That's a winning combo! It'd be even better if it wouldn't be weird after, and he'd look at you and smile and just tell you it's official. There's no room for inhibitions here, people, we're young! There's time!
But if we're young, why are we so damn afraid of commitment?
You know, I'm might be scared, but I'm not stupid... I know a good thing when I have it.

Or I thought I did.

I thought I had two good things, before they walked.
And I'm sure one of those poor guys I was involved with after the fact thought they had a good one too...
before I walked.

A Story Not Often Told...

She Fucking Dissed Me?!:
The Tale of a Man's Not-So-Rare Walk of Shame

The code said three days, so of course he waited three days before sending that casual text with all the nonchalant effective wording:

"Hey... i had fun the other day."

Of course, he noted, his performance had been outstanding. He'd made her squeal at all the right points. He'd playfully lingered over her until she couldn't take it anymore, and he'd even given her the reassurance that she was good as well. He brought on the compliments. He lathered it on like layers in a cake. He could not tell a lie, she was fantastic. So the reply comes, and oh, what's this?

"Yeah. It was good."

What?! No smiley? No capricious flirtatious little giggle? No HEHE?! He contemplated not returning the text. He wondered what it meant...
We find our man in a sticky situation, and it is now he realizes what precisely has happened, and prays it isn't so.
Yes, he'd followed her home from the bar on her request, yes he'd ventured into her one-bedroom apartment and allowed her to make him a cup of tea. Yes, he'd successfully seduced her in her bedroom, and was obliged to collect his boxers in the morning and leave.
But she had an early class and he was only being nice!

"So yeah, I was wondering if you want to catch a movie tonight?"

Our man is hoping to be casual, because he doesn't want to appear too desperate. He notices there's a late reply and wonders if he asked her the right thing. After all, is it against protocol of these so-called "one nights" to ask the woman out on a proper date? Movie ticket, popcorn, the works?

"Busy tonight. But thanks, that's sweet."

Busy? My ass. It is now that he realizes his less-than-threatening advances have been in vain.
Our man diagnoses the issue at hand. He's fallen into the pit of truly liking this one-niter, instead of keeping her up on the shelf with the rest of dim-witted idiots he's collected in his college career. He couldn't help if her opinions on Marxism were more than sufficient, or if he caught himself thinking of her as a little prettier than average even after she removed all her makeup, or even if she was just good at what she did with her body, clothes on or off.

Enter the "Bro".
Now the "Bro" is our man's best friend. A heterosexual romance has evolved between them, and he calls upon this stoned, opinionated, pseudo-intellectual to help him evaluate the situation at hand.

The "Bro" begins his defending tyrant by pointing out that the girl in question has an ass the size of a small galaxy.
Our man begrudgingly agrees, though he thinks otherwise, and in fact truly admires her derriere against his better judgment.

After a beer and idle smalltalk about video games, the "Bro" suggests they check her Facebook page.
For a few moments, all seems well.
She updated her status, and she's currently taking a shower, ten minutes ago.

Then, with sudden revelation, the "Bro" announces
"DUDE, DUDE, DUDE, CHECK OUT THIS SHIT!"

Our man rushes to the computer.
Under her relationship status:

"It's Complicated with...."

The ex boyfriend?! The dude she was bitching about three nights ago at the bar?! The guy with the fucking irrelevant tribal tattoo and absence of a respectable job and was still living with his parents?!

"She fucking dissed me!"

With horror, our man realizes that he was used.
He was "that guy".

Embittered, he calls up the other "Bros"...
A night of makeup debauchery ensues, his opinion of women growing evermore blasé.

Sometimes...

... I look in the mirror and find myself afraid of what i'm becoming

... I still think that the things you did to me were MY fault

... I take out a picture of me and him, and i have to put it away because i start shaking from thoughts of the past

... I change in my cubicle at work when i know no one else is in the office

... I'll stand in-between two mirrors and wish i were that thin

... you really make me laugh, without the sarcasm

... she irritates me so much i wish she were dead

... the appearance of blood facinates me

... I pick my nose when i'm driving, hoping no one sees me

... my colossal ass makes me feel really good about myself

... i'll scream Fuck, in public, just to

... i wish i could let God back in

... i lie in my diary

... i actually enjoy the idea of getting married and making babies in the conventional way

... my very best friend, who has never done anything to me, gets on my nerves

... i want to climb trees, then i realize i'm twenty years old and that's socially unacceptable

... i wonder if i'm supposed to enjoy oral sex

This, I'll say...

The touch of skin on skin gave me a race of heart, yes;

Someone told me you loved me

And I felt a twinge of vanity-

I am no one.

I am nothing but a flake of sand on saturated soil.

You are wonderment;

Underneath;

Form and face and hands and heart and mind-

Elation.

Did I Really Just Say That? (song I wrote)

Now I do recall while we were laying on the floor
the effects of all the night-time skirmishes
that have our clothes in awkward places
and skin shaking sweat down to the core

You leaned over me to grab your pants
and then you looked into my eyes
For a moment I swear to god you were kidding
but I guess you maned up and took the chance


The three most overrated words in the English vocabulary
came dribbling out your mouth
I didn't know if I should laugh or take in the moment
like I ought
but you just gazed outright directly
As that damn "I love you" came again...
"Do you, Do you, Do you?"
I could only shadow a passive smile
"Thank you, thank you, thank you."


So I guess it makes me completely unsentimental
to see overly past the pitiless shit
into the untruthful cavities of your heart
How could you call our soulless fucking anything conventional?


Oh come on, let's do the right thin; make an honest woman out of me
let's not beat around the goddamn bush
let's play the parts of trailer affairs
Or run with tattoo-clad, cycle-riding symmetry


The three most overrated words in the English vocabulary
came dribbling out your mouth
I didn't know if I should laugh or take in the moment
like I ought
but you just gazed outright directly
As that damn "I love you" came again...
"Do you, Do you, Do you?"
I could only shadow a passive smile
"Thank you, thank you, thank you."


I really can't shake your hand enough,
this has been a grateful partnership,
I've enjoyed all your half-ass promises
and your attempts at being true

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Untoward Significance

So as I lay here, attempting to wake myself from this laziness that has come to swallow me up in the form of comfortable pillows and a feather comforter... I realize I haven't been taking as many pictures as I'd like these days.
I'm a photographer by tendency, not professional by any means, but I do the best I can.
I like giving myself room to breathe, per say.
So I stumbled across a little file of a bunch of pictures I'd taken months and months ago... and I started thinking about which pictures mean things to me.
Then I found this one.




Taken, oh, maybe seven months ago.
And it's one of my favorites.
Why, you ask?
Well, believe it or not, I have a terrible experience (not personal, but second-hand) where prescription drugs are concerned. To be able to relay that into a photograph almost made me cry when I took another look.
And that's what I've always wanted to do... bring emotions out with the things I do.
For better or worse.

Clairvoyant

Slip, slide across my mind. It's liquid of course, do you agree? Do you agree with underwater dreams? Of palaces and knights - and homosexual kings and queens? I do. Is that odd? Am I different? Eyes are bright- sure- brighter than mine by measure I believe. I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to. It's a secret how I move, you know. Closely guarded. You wouldn't catch on even if you watched me in an empty space, with just my hair blowing violently across my face. You'd ask some question and I'd be silent. That is all.

My Life Is A Fucking Dolly Parton Song: Part 3

Her and the Car and the Mobile Home

Sometimes I begin to really wonder about my sanity...okay, I always wonder about my sanity...
So I have this friend, right? And we'll call her "Bessy".
Bessy has a boyfriend who works on a smelly boat out in the boondocks right smack dab in the middle of nowhereland. For some odd reason she chose me to be the one gal to assist her in a pseudo Romeo-Juliet campaign. See, her parents are really religious and don't like this guy, so a couple of nights a week she tells them she's going do something with me. I go pick her up in my car, and away we go.
And then--oh, this is the good part-- and THEN i have to watch her and her hillbilly lover suck face on the oil boat while I sit there twiddling my thumbs with nothing better to do.
It wasn't so particular last night, the ritual went as planned. We left the boondocks around midnight in our efforts to get home before anyone got a little antsy. She begins with this insane little tirade about how she's going to eventually marry this guy and they're going to live in a double wide someplace out in the country...
I'm thinking if that floats her boat, so be it. Why not?
It's not like someone can be completely unhappy living in a mobile home in the middle of nowhere, right?
She has the window down and she's completely going a little crazy, screaming at the top of her lungs; the effects of her uncontainable joy (I suppose it was a mild effect of her snogging the oily man back at the boat).
All of a sudden, her phone starts ringing and vibrating in her hand, and what happens then?
Why, she flings the phone out the window!
It wasn't a purposeful sort of gesture, but one of surprise, because at that moment she turns her head to be and shrieks that she just dropped her really expensive cellphone into the ditch along this winding back road, and that we have to get out and find it.
How else is she going to explain to her mother (whom she lives with) that she lost her new phone?
So here we are, skirts hiked up, jeans rolled, hands dirty, searching the muddy ditches on the side of this road looking for her new phone with one little mini flashlight.
It was a pretty sight.
I was pissed to say the least.
When we finally found the damn thing it was threatening not to work..the screen was wet, and it appeared water had gotten inside.
She moaned and groaned until finally it came back to life, and all was well.
For the rest of the ride home she talked about her idealistic little life out in the country, with her beau and her double wide...
The things I do for friendship.

I Think You're Wonderful, Loser.

I think you're amazing, why can't you see that?
It's as if there's something that makes you believe that there is good in every other person on this planet but you... you think of yourself as selfish and afflicted. You think that I'd be better off if I didn't have these feelings for you, but how wrong you are. You don't look in the mirror and see yourself truly, do you? Or often enough?
If you did, and you saw what I see, you'd see someone genuinely worth all of my time and attention.
There's something so playful about the composure of your mouth, and when you smile, you light up the entire room like a glowing sphere of unadulterated joy.
You never complain.
Your eyes are bright--like Plexiglas-- my heart beats when they alight on mine.
How ridiculous that you can't understand it...
That you can't see why I love you.
It's hell, really, it is.
I want you to know and I want you to see it...

It's too bad you're across the ocean,
away from me.

Linger

I had just finished a line when she stumbled into the room in just her underwear, laughing, saying they had stolen the rest of her clothes after she jumped in the pool. I remember looking at her and thinking she was hot, you know, regular like that. There was a butterfly tattoo on her hip bone, and she wasn’t outrageously skinny. There were curves, which made her pale skin look like ice against the dark walls.
She glanced around the room frantically, as I stared at her with something like confusion and fascination.
“AH!” Inspired, she ran over to the bed behind me, and tore off the white sheet. It was thin enough to fold in half and tie around, and this is precisely what she did. There she was, in her makeshift dress, damp skin, hair disarrayed; she came and sat down next to me on the sofa. The music from the other room was obnoxious, complimented by the sounds of high-pitched laughs and glass bottles being thrown around.
“You like butterflies?” I asked her, wiping my nose. “Sure thing, I love butterflies. Don’t you?” Her voice was the kind I liked, soft and sincere.
“They’re okay.” We sat on the couch in awkward silence; she could see my eyes and the way my hand was twitching a bit. I began to wonder if she cared. I didn’t really know what to make of it until she put her hand on mine, stopping the twitching; her touch like ice, her fingers still clammy from the pool.
“You’re shaking,” She explained. “Here.” She took my other hand, and pressed them together.
She put her own hands over mine, and blew into them, her breath hot. She repeated this three times, and all the while my head was spinning from the effects of the drug. Still, strangely, I remember every detail, in colors so vivid it felt like a dream. She looked up, in my eyes, and smiled.
“I’m Ellie.” She told me.
“Regan.” I replied.
“Like the president?”
“Yeah.”
We looked at our hands, still pressed together.
“I couldn’t get them warmer.” She surveyed our hands, disapprovingly. “You’re still shaking.”
“It’s not from the cold.”
She looked at me again, our eyes met. She smiled, and I forced a grin. Let go of my hands, and brought her own up, to touch the sides of my face. I’m sure she felt my scruff, I hadn’t shaved in days. Her eyes were violet, a wild sort of blue I hadn’t seen before, electric, wide. I could have swam in them. She arched her neck, and brought her lips closer to mine. I wanted to.
I wanted to; but the instant it appeared it would happen- I turned my head away. Her lips gently brushed my lips before she realized her intentions weren’t executed.
“I don’t want to kiss you like this.” I told her, shortly, the words coming out sharp like knives, a bit heartless and unfeeling.
That’s when Mickey came in.
Well, he was pushed in, right through the door, and landed in a heap before us. Groaning and laughing at the same time, he sat up and turned to the two of us, sitting there staring at him.
“What the fuck you’re lookin at?” He chuckled, jumping up, and sitting between us.
“You were just thrown through a door.” She marveled.
“Yeah, and you’re quite the observer.” He chucked her under the chin like a kid, and pulled out a little pouch from the pocket of his jacket.
“Doing one with me, eh?” He asked me, as he began his set up.
I looked at her, and then I looked at him, and shook my head.
“Should’ve known. You’re high as a kite already.” He chuckled, he turned to her.
“You want some?” He asked her.
“No.” She replied shortly.
“Your loss, it’s the good stuff.”
So began a strange friendship.
As Mickey sat there doing a line, Ellie and I exchanged glances, and eventually locked fingers behind his back.
We started hanging out more and more. She was in college nearby, and Mickey and I didn’t know a damn thing about college. She was sober, but thought we were fun. The three of us became somewhat inseparable, like a Bonnie and two Clydes. Her connection with me was different, though. It wasn’t as platonic as I hoped it would be. I liked her too much too soon, I knew it was real, but I didn’t want to fuck it up.
Then, one day, it occurred out of the blue.
The three of us went down to the beach at night on an impulse, and something happened. Mickey was fucking around in the waves, high, and singing something in Russian. Ellie and I stole away behind the lifeguard cabin. We were laughing and the only light above us was the moon. She took off her shirt, and I took off mine. We gripped each other, tight, the heat making our bodies stick together. Her mouth found mine, there, in the darkness.
In three days time, I had made up my mind.
The trio would be sacrificed.
I wanted her. I wanted her for my own selfish reasons. She was clean and she was pure, the type of love she was offering only came around once in a lifetime. I didn’t want to think about the future, it was nothing to me. All that mattered was the now. All that mattered was the taste of her on my lips, the way it felt, and what it meant. I called Mickey.
“Do what you gotta, man.” He said in his thick southern drone. “Just don’t fall in too deep with a girl like her…she’s the kind that wants to fix things.”
Some time came and went, Mickey and I still got together in his apartment, doing lines and talking about things. Ellie became my girlfriend.
Mickey disapproved in the beginning, especially when he found out I’d told her everything about me. The bad childhood, the innumerable exes, the record for criminal activities, the habit. He didn’t like the idea of being ousted, but he knew she wasn’t the sort. As much as she disapproved, we moved in together. It was the best two years of my life. She continued to give, and I continued to take.
In the beginning it was paradise, coming home, being with her. It felt like a marriage. I felt like a man. I felt like things were the way they were supposed to be. She was happy, I was happy. We both had jobs, we both found completion in being together, a sense of assurance.
The most beautiful thing about it: it was a lie.
She was living with a double me. There was the person I became when I was with her, the person I knew I could be, some guy on top of the world with all the answers to life, happiness was a ball on my string. And; the Hyde to my Jekyll, the animal who needed the healing power that only routine could bring to me. The control I felt when I knocked on back doors and slipped cash in the hands of a fellow reprobate.
She was waiting, lingering, for me.
A lover, a best friend; hurting because she couldn’t change me. I refused to change myself, I wasn’t ready. I was leaning on my inhibitions in the form of anything I could get my hands on at the moment. When things got bad, a fight or a thought of the past arose, and when that happened I reverted. Cookie jar money was wasted on my pitiless habits; I became a victim of my own demons.
I never touched her when I was high. I felt like it wouldn’t be love. I felt like I’d hurt her, I’d be fucking her, I’d be abusing her like I was abusing myself. She began to compare me to how she wanted to be treated. She pinned me up again her ideal portrait of us, and left me there on a noose. I’d hang my head; I couldn’t come to terms with it. I disappointed her with expectations, willingly hopeful that she’d find me useless enough to save herself.
The day came, but it took time.
It took time to get her to hate me. She clung to me like the fixer she was. There was this desperation in her, as if she thought she was failing in her efforts if she left me here to die without her. She knew I wouldn’t change this way, like this, ignoring my hang-ups, ignoring all the issues that had accumulated into one huge self-destructive mechanism.
But the day came.
“Get clean, or I leave.” She said to me.
I tried for a day or two, to see for myself if I could really put away my selfishness in order to keep the woman I had come to love sincerely. But I couldn’t, and I lied to her. I was walking around, living a sober story. At night, when she was asleep, I’d sneak outside and have a line. It went on for a few months, but I knew I couldn’t hide it from her for long. She was too smart for me. So, easily, she found me out again, took her stuff and left.
It was that easy.
It was that hard.
I fell deep again, and realized in the end what exactly I had done to her.
Years have passed, me and Mickey got clean. We never talked about Ellie, except for times when we were talking about others and threw her in there collectively for the sake of remembrances.
“I wonder what she’s doing now…” I said to myself as we stood out near the lake one day, talking again about the past. “I bet she’s married now, with kids. Living in the country someplace, in a house with a loft.”
“You know what makes a woman beautiful, man?” He sighed in reflection, looking out into the water and dangling his hand over the edge of the wharf. “It isn’t the size of her breasts or the way she dresses… it’s that smile you get when you tell her she’s yours.”
I never forgot that.

Funk

So I suppose today is just one of those days...
I'm sitting here in my room, lingering over my laptop with nothing better to do at all.
It's hell.
When is my life going to start?
You begin thinking that everything means something, that shit is going in the right direction, and then BAM, you can't get a job and life is suddenly at a stand still. It's really beginning to piss me off.
I've waited so long for my life suddenly become something exciting and eventful. But being stuck in a financial slump is doing absolutely nothing for my mojo.
Ugh.
It's one thing after another. Continuous. I can't stop it.

I move out in July.
I hope it'll be a transition.
A positive one.

Dear Miss California,

I regret that you are now detested by the homosexual majority in your home state.

It must have come as a blow to be booed by people as you stood up on stage and all that, I think i'd have freaked out a bit.

Though I applaud you for voicing your true opinion, I believe you could have stated your point more elegantly.

When asked the question you said "In my country, and in my family we believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman." And you went on to apologize for offending anyone.

1.) You shouldn't have said "in my country". That's clearly a sign that you don't pay attention to detail. The country is peppered with conservatives and liberals alike. If it's your opinion, keep it yours. Don't throw in the rest of the country in there, it makes you look like a biggot.

2.) Apologizing for "offending anyone" makes you look like you don't truly support your own thoughts and actions. If it is your opinion, it's not nessessary to apologize for it. You're an American, and it's your right.

Regardless, you were really pretty.

I'm glad you came in second.

I hope the press stops eating you up, we're human and they should understand that fact.

Sincerely,

Lady Cracker

My Life Is A Fucking Dolly Parton Song: Part 2

Think About Love

I've always seen my mother as some weak and weary individual...a southern belle thrown into the chaotic world of being a wife and mother.

She always tried to love me like she should have loved me, with wide open arms, no inhibitions- but there was always a sort of vulnerable little hesitation about her that I never understood...and so, as it happened, my grandmother became more like my mother, and my mother became more like the annoying older sister that I could never get off my back. My mother was always fine with this arrangement, possibly thinking that living with me in the late afternoon hours and the early mornings before school was enough.

My bond with my grandmother was a iron one.

We couldn't have loved each other more.

She was my rock when I felt the world crowding me, my blessing at bedtime, and the arms I ran to when I needed someone to embrace.

She discovered she had cancer when I was sixteen...and three years later, she lost her battle.

My mother found herself in a thick situation.

See, my mother depended upon my grandmother as much as I did- if not, moreso. My mother's birth father left her, and her two siblings, when they were very young. My mother remained dependent upon my grandmother for emotional support. With my grandmother gone, and us both missing her, it's easy to assume it was a recipe for disaster. It was.

Big time.

My own father, who was always really verbally amusive towards me, was getting especially tough on me since my coming of age. Now that I was in college, he believed that I should have been out of the house, on my own, though I was only nineteen.

One night, my mother and father got into a huge fight...which, wasn't abnormal...

But this time my father, in a drunk rage, points his finger in my mother's face and says menacingly

"And I was still paying for your college tuition when you were married to that other guy."

This sort of startled me.

Other guy?

What other guy?
In a well-written letter the next day (so was my mother's style, she could never just TELL me anything), my mother explains she was married before... briefly... to an unnamed man... when she twenty...

She married my father when she was twenty-six.

Had me at twenty-seven.

I was struck.

I couldn't believe that I had been living this, without ever having really known her or her agenda, for the whole nineteen years of my existance.

I was really angry at first. Not only about that, but about so many things that had built up that had be at odds against her. So many things were running through my mind. So many things about my mother that I never understood and remained enraged about.

I tried to make sense of it, but couldn't.

So I stopped.

I just stopped questioning.

And I tried to understand...

I know how she is, probably better than anyone now.

She has this thing about her, where she's strong and incredibly weak at the same time.

She's strong enough to stand up to my father, but she's weak because she won't leave him.

She was strong enough to leave the man who hurt her first, but she's weak because she still keeps the pain he left her with.

I realized there was nothing I could do, but love her.

Nothing at all, but love her.

It's that simple, and yet, that hard.

I never approached the topic again with my mother. I'm sure she thought I'd be completely destroyed by it... but in theory it explains so much for me. It puts me a bit at ease about how she is the way she is.

There's no way she needs forgiveness from ME for leaving someone who hurt her. I applaud her for it, and in fact, have an entirely new respect for the way she handles things. Though there's still a lot I have left to understand, and unearth, about this woman...

I'm ready.

I just have to see her with open eyes,

and know that I do love her, as her daughter, and I always will.