Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Just Some Thoughts (and breaking away from the Alphabet for a bit)

I am broken. I can't deny that. I feel like a doll that has become unhinged from all of her limbs. Sometimes I am scared of everything I can see now that I have been broken. I'm scared of my brokenness, of the brokenness of everyone around me. I'm afraid that there is nothing to help me, no way I can help others.

I'm not asking to be made un-broken. That is part of humanity in this world. When God made us, it was with the ability to break and be broken, to find ourselves in places we never wanted to be. And it was good. I'm asking to find purpose in my brokenness, to accept my brokenness and help others accept theirs so that we can see the beauty in the brokenness. The way the sun shines on us after we have been left out in the cold night. It's there. Sometimes hidden and buried deep past our darkened lenses, but it's there. 

Imagine if you had never seen the dead tree of winter, the way grey comes over the land and swallows it up. If everything was always the green grass, the warm sun on your face, and colors vibrant, would it always be so stunningly beautiful? Or after a new moon, when the moon is full and her light is dancing across the sky, would the magic of those nights still be there? 

Who's to say that brokenness isn't part of wholeness? Not physical brokenness, but brokenness of the soul. It is a feeling, a state that can live beside the state of wholeness because we are so much more complex than material objects. When we shatter, we don't die. We are not irreparable and hopeless. 

Sometimes we become something like mosaics. All those broken pieces and shards, of all different colors and sometimes materials, pulled together into one space, large or small, to make something beautiful or aching. Something that stands up and says "I am here. I am alive." We are in charge of how our mosaic selves come together, whether we know it or not. Do we want to bring all the pieces in, line them up properly, how society says to? Are we going to ignore the hole in the middle of ourselves, try to cover it up with borrowed pieces, or search for the true filler? There are so many dark pieces, but what will they become? More darkness or something that speaks of hope when there shouldn't be any? 

We look to people who have been broken. Who have been broken and bent and so thrown about by life that they should be past mending, but there they stand, wonderful and better for their experience, risen to power not through a search for power, but a search for love and hope and meaning. 

They have been through hell and maybe the rest of us have or will be, too. Our own personal Hells with demons darker than we could have imagined, demons that come from within us, too, not just from outside. To be in hell is to either walk out as life or walk out as death. This isn't to be determined by the situation, by how strong Hell is and how often it leaves us in a comatose with the essence of our selves seeping out onto the cold floor of life. It is to be determined by us. We can choose to be made desolate by our brokenness or to be made into something beyond the humanity we are first born with. 

I can't say that the brokenness, the deadly disconnect from the holy in this world, the cracks forming across my vision, has made my stronger yet. When Jacob wrestled the angel and became Israel, he didn't stand ten feet away. To wrestle with something, to overcome it, one must come into contact with it, touch it, embrace it. I am in that process now. The state of the world, this fallen, broken, bitter state has come to me and shrouded me in its shadows. But unless I take ahold of it, embrace it, for those moments make it mine, I can't be above it. I can't say that it has no power over me until I have wrestled with it. 

That's where I am now. Wrestling. Wrestling with everything wrong I see in this world and everything wrong I see in me. 

That is the scariest part, the part that has me wide eyed and holding my breath with my back against the wall. Myself. There is no enemy to my well-being stronger than myself. I am the one who made a mess of me. The darkness inside is not always obvious. This darkness can seem so wonderful. It can fill us with power and make us think we are okay when we are so far from anything resembling okay. When we are not broken, but decaying. That is the power of the the darkness inside. Decay. We can't break ourselves, but we can let ourselves decay. 

For too long, I didn't wrestle with everything breaking me down, and everything inside that let me be broken down. I let this brokenness become a weakness. I didn't try to overcome it. I kept myself far from it, thinking if I just sat and waited, the bad would fade away. But it's not like that. It takes this wrestling - a questioning and a seeking and confronting and fighting and everything that makes us human; love and doubt and hope and despair - to begin to understand that there is something outside of this darkness. It is suffocating at times, the hold around me so tight that I can't breathe, but I am gaining strength. I will walk out of my hell and I will come out alive. 

I was created with this strength. So much more than I ever could have imagined. To fight everything that wants me dead, shut down and surviving, but not thriving. I'm not the only one. Not the only one broken or decayed or lost in everything that says there is no power to the good in life. And I'm not the only one who can wrestle with it. 

I know who I was before I was broken. She was great in some ways. Someone I wish I could say firmly I am now. She wasn't moved by others. She had so many convictions and stood by them. She loved with all she had. 

But I wonder now, do I have more since I was broken? And I think, yes. Brokenness is a transformative state, one where we find ourselves, the limitations we have set for ourselves and the limitations that are innately ours. For us, these frail souls that are wandering through life, often without direction, we need this brokenness to grow. The brokenness life presses upon our hearts, that threaten to destroy us, or that is what we think anyway, gives us the opportunity to reach for something more. Those who never break are the ones who wrestle with their brokenness, not as a sin, but to say that there is something greater inside. They have moments where they are pinned to the ground, out of breath, bleeding from the effort to not give in to the power of the hurt and the pain and everything so desperate and clawing.  But they don't stop this wrestle. They understand that brokenness is a time of testing. 

That, yes, this brokenness is the refining fire. 

To be past this brokenness is not to leave it behind. To live through it is to have a raw underside to everything beautiful. To sing of love while remembering that there were times when love seemed so far away. For some, to look at God and not forget how much pain it took to stand before Him. This doesn't detract from the awe, from the beauty, but adds to it. Brokenness is the layer under everything that gives meaning to the good, to the beauty. 

When the sacred text of Judaism, of Christianity, says that God looked upon the world He had created and said that it was good, He wasn't just looking at the perfection before Him, but at everything wrapped up in Creation. He created with the possibility of brokenness, with rules and threads and everything. He made all things in a state of perfection, but with imperfection as a path that could be tread upon. I don't know why, I don't think I shall ever know fully. But He would have known the power brokenness could have on his creation and the power his creation could grow in from this brokenness. Maybe that's the good of it. That we can become so much more by experiencing brokenness. To see all the beauty He made with eyes that can better appreciate it. To experience the holy with spirits that can know the power wrapped inside the holy more than they ever could have before. 

Monday, November 11, 2013

F.... Fantasy

I live in a world I don't quite belong to. It's like I really am that square trying to fit into a circle and I really can't fit no matter how hard I try. I know, I know, doesn't everyone feel that way at some point? I agree, most everyone does. We don't all fit together perfectly, but usually that's just because we haven't found our spot in the puzzle of humanity and life yet.

Maybe this is just teenage angst kicking in, but I wonder if my square isn't ten times harder to fit into a circle, if I don't belong to this puzzle at all.

I've been thinking and pondering and wondering over this for a while. What exactly is wrong here? Is it me? Is it the people around me? Is it both? I mean, why, why is there this huge difference, this gap, cavern, Grand Canyon, Pacific Ocean standing between me and everyone else around me?

Then it hit me with the weight of a hundred books with hundreds of pages.


I grew up on fantasy. Lived breathed, ate, slept fantasy. I immersed myself in Greek myth early on. I was seven when I first sank into the world of Middle Earth and shook hands with Sam Gamgee and was fascinated by Gollum. I was in middle school the first time I even heard of The Chronicles of Narnia, but I immediately found myself staring longingly at my closet, hoping that one day I would push past my dresses to find woods and lampposts and everything I longed for. I was so enraptured with fairy tales and myths that I wanted to name the baby in my mother's belly Cinderella and Prince Philip and Hercules when I was three. There were so many Saturdays my father would turn on the sci-fi channel as I sat by his side.

All of this was so wonderful and exciting and comforting and made my heart soar whenever I opened those pages. But in the end, it sort of ruined my life.

Not exactly ruined, but almost everything that twisted knives into my soul and taught me the bitter meaning of disappointment and longing came from fantasy.

Sam Gamgee taught me what a true friend is. As did Merry and Pippin, and Legolas and Gimli. Those friends became integral parts of my life. How I thought, who I modeled myself after, what I was looking for. And I believed, so truly believed, that everything they were, friends were.

If I am to be a friend, according to this world, what am I to be? I am to be loyal - to a fault, if there is such a thing. I am to be steadfast and unwavering. I am to mean every promise I make, even if death is staring me in the face. If I am to be separated from a friend, I am to fight my way back to her as soon as I can and do anything possible to save her if she is in need of it. I am to be there for laughter and for tears, that shoulder to lean on and a promise of the future. Willing to lay down my life if it helps my friend achieve his goal. To push through all boundaries, mental and physical and emotional, because I know that person is so much more than anyone else around me might think. I am there to help him better himself, iron sharpens iron. And I will fight for him. I will throw myself in harms way and risk embarrassment or anything else to come to his defense in his time of need or when someone has hurt him. No matter what life throws my way, no matter how grey the sky is and no matter how burdened I am with the weight of a thousand years, I will bend, but I will not break. My heart is yours and I will never disappear of my own accord.

I have tried my best to live up to this definition of friend. At times I have failed, as a human will.

But this is what I was taught a friend is. Not should be, not in a perfect world. But is.

I lived my life with this definition of friend. And was disappointed and hurt time after time as friend after friend faded away and disappeared and watched me break and crumble and stood by, expecting me to catch them while I could barely stand.

I didn't know it until recently, but this all hurt so much because no one had the same definition of friend I did. No one else had been raised on fantasy and had the values such stories held running through their veins. Only me. So of course I was disappointed. I was looking for someone who no longer exists.

I have always had a high set of standards for leaders, be it teachers or politicians or leaders within my church. Especially the leaders within my church. Leadership that fell so far below my line of expectations that I barely recognized it as leadership hurt me a lot, drove me away from church. I knew it was my standard for a leader that caused this.

If you are accepting the role of a leader, act that way. There should be someone there training leaders, standing beside them and helping them through the early hiccups. This person should be wise and knowledgeable, with a good heart and a balanced perspective. Good leaders look beyond the surface, past the dirt and grime of stereotypes and shallow judgments, to the person buried beneath, to the heart of gold and characteristics that will win the war. They are forgiving and merciful, leading with justice, but compassion, too. They ask for help when they need it and look out for all involved, not just a certain set of people. They will go out of their way to save the wounded and won't leave anyone behind.

These are the leaders I grew up with, men of women of such noble characteristics, I couldn't help but admire them and desire to stand among them.

Then I began to look at the world around me and no one with the title of leader was following these rules.

It broke me to see these men and women not even trying to be the leaders I knew they could be. But why, why weren't they? Because they weren't fed fantasy. They didn't grow up in worlds built upon these kinds of leaders.

I learned that things were sacred. The connection between one person to the next. Marriage was a life long commitment and the secret promises of lovers were as thick as iron trees. Though they didn't swear to be true in front of a whole congregation, til death do they part. Blood and marriage and friendship were all sacred things that wove people together in such beautiful patterns.

Words held meaning. There were no empty sentences. False promises only belonged to the wicked.

I was taught from the moment I could hear my parents' stories that I can be a hero, too. That I can slay dragons and nothing can hold me back from being the victor in this ongoing battle with 1,000 different enemies. One day I will find my wardrobe or a wizard will appear and call me to my destiny or a god will touch the threads of my life and the greatness I feel swelling in my chest at times will be held in my hands. I can do so many good things and save the world simply by being alive and trying to live my life the best I can.

I was taught to believe in the impossible. In the magic that coated all things. To never say never because who would have guessed a Hobbit would be the one to deliver the Ring to it's doom and would Susan have ever guessed that she would visit a world through the wardrobe. The most fearful of girls turned out to be the bravest and with determination, the greatest curses could be removed. With the heart of being human, the courage and determination and love, anything, anything was possible. I listened to the mustn'ts and the shouldn'ts and the can'ts and I vowed to spit in their face because all the friends I wandered through woods with and fought alongside did.

But here I am. I am nineteen and there is nothing spectacular about my life. I live at home because I don't have money to move out. I want to do good but everything limits me. I try to fight the dragons all around me but I can barely fight the mosquitoes. I thought I found a knight in shining armour, but of course, the princess got him and here I am, in my loser-hole with falling apart walls and ceilings and I wound up with a loser in tinfoil who sided with the dragons. Because life isn't fair. Cinderella doesn't really get her prince. The prince will choose the girl from the palace, not the gutter. No matter how much that beaten down girl deserves something more than the same old dirt and dust collecting in her apron. I am no hero and there isn't about to be one on my doorstep. This is the real life and I fantasy only touches my life through reading and writing.

But above everything else, the thing that ties it all together, is the real definition of magic. Magic, in these stories, was so much more than spells or gods or power and energy being harnessed. Magic was the friendships, the unbreakable bonds between people, the love for a friend or lover that made you risk it all. It was the way people came together to fight injustice and the way good triumphed over evil. The real magic lay in the way people viewed things and who the characters were.

And even that magic doesn't exist here. At least not around me. So I long for more fantasy to build around myself because it is there that the values I adhere to still live. But whenever I emerge, a little piece of me cracks further. This world is tearing away at me because there is no magic here. No one tries to live up to these standards anymore. I'm not so sure people even know what these standards are anymore.

It sucks. It sucks so much and I want to throw things and punch things and slam my fist into the ground and watch the earth shake. But I can't do anything.

Anything but realize that fantasy really is fantasy. That growing up means seeing a world without any magic and figuring out how to survive it.

But I'm never going to stop hoping, wishing, dreaming, that maybe one day, somehow, a wizard will come and I will slay a dragon and I will stand with a band of people coated in the magic I long for.

Friday, November 8, 2013


I'm going with the lamer definition of this word that simply means a realization. Not one like, oh yeah, I always feel sick after pasta, but more like... well, you'll see.

I think. A lot. More than is probably good for me. I think about cheese. I think about time. I think about books and writing. And I think about things I'm not really sure too many other people think about on a regular basis. This leads to a whirlwind of words and thoughts and twisters of ideas that never stop with their motion but keep going going going
and sometimes it drives me crazy.

But sometimes I have epiphanies. Or, what is equal to an epiphany for me. Something that I kind of want to begin running around and telling everyone because ohmyword, how did no one think of this sooner?? (Or just how did I not think of this sooner)

So, I figured, I'll share some of those epiphanies floating around my head with you. No matter how lame and just simple realizations of epiphanies they are. 

1. I'm not normal.  

Hold on there. Hasn't this been affirmed time after time and aren't I already well aware of this and have been since I began to interact with humans? Well, yes.

This in itself is nothing new. But coupled with regular social and psychology and other stuff from my psych and human sexuality classes, I am so far away from normal I might not even be human.

List a bunch of normal social conventions and how normal people go about their lives and, well, I don't usually follow those definitions. Stick me in social settings, I don't work like normal people.

For example, in Psych we went over this story: A woman's husband works twelve hours every night and is tired when he gets home. His wife feels lonely and longs for companionship. Because of this she takes a ferry every night to the city across the river to see her lovers. She never becomes too intimate with them, leaving one and moving on to another anytime intimacy is beginning to go too far. One night she gets into a spat with a lover. She leaves in a hurry. When she gets to the ferry she realizes that she has forgotten her wallet back at her lover's house. She begs the Captain to take her on anyway, promising she will pay the next day. He feels for her, but rules are rules, her can't give anyone exceptions. The time is getting closer and closer to when she must return home. She returns to her lover's house, asking him to give her her wallet back. He refuses. Desperate, she visits an old lover and asks to borrow enough to cover her fare. He refuses. She must leave now if she is to return home. The only option besides the ferry is an old bridge that doesn't have the best reputation. With no other option available, she decides to take her chances. As she crosses the bridge, a highwayman rapes, robs, and murders her.
Who is the most responsible for her death?
 Are you thinking the woman? If she hadn't been cheating, she wouldn't be dead. 
If you are, the rest of my class agreed with you. 
I did not. Say she had gone to the store to pick up some things for her husband and had lost her wallet in a store and winded up dead. Different situation, but same ending. It was the highwayman's fault. 

Anyway, that was just the latest in a list of ways I differ from most people. 

2. Those girls in books who think they aren't attractive yet every guy they cross paths with wants to date them? They exist

I can't roll my eyes at those books and threaten to throw them across the room. No matter how ridiculous it sounds or seems or whatever. 

I was calling this the Bella Swan Syndrome. You know, two guys fighting over her, nothing that obviously special about her but every guy tripping over themselves trying to get her attention and complimenting her fiercely. Ridiculous. Stupid. Annoying. Dear God, authors what is wrong with you!

I think they were all watching my life. I'm shy. I'm pretty plain looking (pretty, I guess, but plain looking). I am awkward and clumsy and don't normally have much of a social life. 

I met two guys yesterday and got asked out by both of them and was laughing hysterically at the weird things they were saying ("You like fedoras and have two of them? That is the sexiest thing I have ever heard a girl say. Marry me." <-- a="" accidentally="" and="" asked="" both="" did="" find="" friends="" get="" go="" have="" home="" i--="" i="" into="" just="" kid="" make="" me="" movie="" not.="" see="" separately="" the="" them="" then="" things="" to="" twilight="" two="" walk="" with="" worse="" you="" zone="">

This is after my two best male friends both liked me (as I dated one of them). 

So, hey, Bella Swans do exist!

And it sucks. (Of course, I am hoping that I am right and they mean as just friends, but Life has proven that whenever I think friends a male thinks Iwanttodateyou)

This picture. Is huge.

3. Sometimes that cute guy you find really interesting turns out to be a professor. With a son your age. 

Thank you life for those awkward moments. 

4. It's nearly impossible to ridicule Buddhism.

Someone had made fun of atheism in an inaccurate summation of what they believe and then I began thinking about how easy it is to make fun of Christianity (the hole "take of My flesh and blood" thing) and Islam and Hindu and animism and so many things people believe can be boiled down to sound completely moronic. Except Buddhism. I couldn't think of anything at all to make it sound stupid. In fact, I kinda winded up making it sounds really really cool.

So, Buddhists, take pride in that!

5. (This happened this moment) When I start a blog post, I know exactly what I want to say and have these epic lists, but by the time I'm done with subject #2, everything flew away. 

I swear, I'm secretly a mother, the way my mind does stuff like that.

Anddddddd..... I'm just going to go away now and stop ruining stuff like this.




Wednesday, October 23, 2013

D....d...d... Dreamsssss!!!

Not sure why that is just so dang exciting, but it is. I think.

Why a post on dreams? Why not dirges or death or despair or destruction, or combine all of them and do dragons? Outside of the fact that I don't want to seem to absurdly morbid, I was at a friend's house drinking tea and eating some blueberry danishes (No lie. I felt slightly British), I mentioned that I have a blog and before I could get to whatever point I was trying to make (assuming I had a point), she perked up and began firing questions at me. Then helped me brainstorm non-morbid "D" words when I said "D" was up next. Her list: dating, dreaming, dancing, delight, daring, Denmark, and distance.

So, I changed a verb into a noun and, viola! Dreams.

There are, apparently, people who don't have dreams. I want to say that they are very unfortunate people, but then I remember just how weird my dreams are and how frazzled they can make me that I begin to consider that they are the lucky ones. They never have to face the possibility of having a nightmare or the disorientation caused by not being sure whether a memory is dream or something that actually happened. And that "What the frack?!" feeling is something they will never wake up to.

That feeling you have after seeing this, that's how waking up from one of my dreams feels
I can't begin to count how many times I woke up with that feeling. Generally followed by staring at my wall trying to figure out if anything in that dream made any sense. Why was my best friend's brother who never danced begging me to dance to "Thriller" with me? Why did my friend suddenly have a six-pack, and was protecting me from her were-wolf brother? What the heck with me not being me and shooting some random guy at a funeral? And the waking up with "Oh good. That was just a dream" when I thought I was forever imprisoned in Victorian era clothes. Sure, those dreams can be kind of fun, but I'm pretty sure I could have lived without ever dancing to Michael Jackson or killing someone.

But, as a writer, dreams are priceless. They are the inspiration and motivation to actually write whatever story is in my head. Because I can only remember my dreams for so long, I have a limited amount of time to write them down. So I have to write. Then I go into a fury of typing fingers and glares at interrupting family members because ohmyword, I am loving what this is turning into.

(After not really looking at the sloth and just having it sit there in my peripheral vision, I am beginning to be freaked out. So warning: DO NOT LOOK AT THE SLOTH FOR TOO LONG).

look at the cute little puppy that won't turn dreams into nightmares

Interesting fact about dreams: Studies show that the ability to dream/recall dreams is linked to a person's political party. In general, as with most things.

Yes, apparently you can make an educated guess about a person's political standing based on their dreams, or lack thereof.

Honestly, this makes sense. Who tends to be more artistic and creative? Liberals (or people like my friends and I who are sitting there kicking are feet refusing to identify with any political party because they are all idiots). Aren't dreams seen as a somewhat creative thing?

For the conservatives who do dream, they get stuck with mundane ones that make sense. They probably dream about a lovely little neat romance or a day at the office and everything is orderly and linear and there is no world hopping (those are the people to pity. Never getting to spend the day in Narnia with Aragorn or climb all over Lothlorien's trees with Edmund... it's a shame) or labyrinth tackling or falling in love with the devil. Instead it's the liberals who get to experience the fun, and scary, side of dreams.

I do know conservatives who have insane dreams, by the way. Not quite as bizarre as mine, but up there.

No. I retract that statement. Having people change faces and three people rotate bodies and our pastor try to kill him for talking about God was pretty bizarre.

Do you dream? Are those dreams bizarre and mind-blowing-upping or the kind that are just there? What is the weirdest dream you have ever had?

Friday, October 18, 2013

C... Castles!

I was going to tell you all about cats. Particularly my cats. Mainly because they are awesome cats with awesome names (Hercules and Zipporah - or Princess Zipporah Moon Shadow - it doesn't get much more awesome than that). But then I sat down and I really don't feel like writing about cats. Don't get me wrong, I love cats. I will be that crazy old cat woman and I shall have to find myself a crazy old cat man if I ever plan on finding myself married one day. But alas. I shall not be writing about cats. Not today anyway.

What do I want to write about?


As a fantasy loving and writing and lover of epicness, I have to love castles. It's just part of the description. 

Unfortunately, this does not mean I have actually been in one. For starters, I am broke. My family rarely had/has extra money to spend on awesomesauce stuff like that. So getting my butt to a castle, not so realistic. Second. I live in America. We have manors and mansions and really cool buildings, but I'm pretty sure we don't actually have castles. Not the awesomesauce ones in Europe and elsewhere anyway. 

You know how the brain likes to remember things five minutes later? Mine just did. I have, technically,  been in a castle. My grandfather has a house in Vermont and right down the street is this place called the Wilson Castle. Most visits to his house we have also visited this pretty awesome building. And by awesome, I mean that the one time I snuck out at night to walk into the nearby city of Rutland (with no nightlife, let me tell you), the place had transformed and I swore it was going to try to eat me. 

There it is, in it's non-menacing form. There are tours that show off a really nice fireplace, some fancy schmancy bedrooms, and an area of collected art. And it's in Vermont, so there's this really pretty view along the road and the highway right by it. Especially in the fall.

This place was built by some guy who married a pretty rich woman and decided, hey, let's build this place and call it a castle in 1867. So it's not even that old.

In 1939, a radio engineer named Herbert Lee Wilson, came to Vermont. He was a pioneer in the AM radio field and built radio stations all over the world. He was looking for a new location to build another station and a summer home for his family. He bought the castle & installed radio station WEWE in the old stable, which remains in operation.
That's from the website and just solved the mystery of what exactly was up with the old building and the antennae sticking out from it. But, it also explains why it is the "Wilson" castle.

Every fall, the owners do a haunted house tour. I have never been as we always avoided that stuff (for a reason. Anything creepy and I mentally peed my pants). But the one year they were testing out some of the stuff a couple of weeks before the haunted house opened. Well, my family went and when my brother asked what was behind a particular door, the tour guide grinned and said he can open it if he wanted. The elders among our group began laughing and smirking. My cousin and I stood there trying to figure out where this laughter was coming from. Brother narrowed his eyes at the guide and told her to do it herself. She came up with some excuse. Then my five year old cousin hopped over, opened it in a grand display of bravado, then screamed like a little girl, along with my brother, as a skeleton popped out of the closet. So the tour guides have plenty of fun with people whenever they can.

Okay, so you know how I said there are no castles in America? Apparently there are quite a few of them. More than a few actually. I am just a snob and think America has nothing epic. Whoops.

So here's a few to look at for you Americans, and non-Americans who may be scratching your heads wondering when exactly such things happened.

1. Lyndhurst ~ Tarrytown, New York


The history is nothing too interesting, but feel free to look it up yourself.

2. Castello di Amorosa ~ Calistoga, California


 So, heh, there are torture chambers at this place. Along with a moat and a Catholic church thing.

torture chamber....

This place is now a winery, so for any of you who love wine and torture chambers, there you go.

3. Bowman's/Nemacolin's Castle ~Brownsville, PA

Nemacolin's Castle

The castle started as a little trading post set up where a couple of forts used to be. During the French and Indian War, the Brit's had built themselves a wooden fort and before that, the "prehistoric indigenous peoples" (or, old time Native Americans) of the area built their earthen mounds there. The castle is at an intersection of the Nemacolin trail (thus the one name). Before all the Native Americans got their butts kicked by some greedy, land-stealing Europeans, they had a trail running through the mountains and Nemacolin, a Shawnee chief, decided to mark the trail, and ta-da! there it is. (I honestly have more interest in the trail at the moment than this castle. I like Native Americans and I like trails.)

4. Lord's Castle ~ Waltham, MA

File:WalthamMA LordsCastle.jpg

Nothing too exciting to look at (to me anyway), but the tower looks kinda cool and the story behind it is kind of sweet. This guy, Rufus Lord, fell in love (or lust. Or something) with a chick from Germany. He proposed to this lovely lady and she decided that she would not give him an outright yes or no. Her answer was conditional. As long as he built her a castle like the ones from Germany, he could have her hand and the rest of her, too. Because the guy was a builder, apparently had some money, and was a builder, she got her castle and he got himself a wife. I find this adorable on his part and kinda like a lady dog on her part.

5. And finally, the most famous one of all (I'm sure you know it...)

Yeah, that's right, Cinderella's castle. The icon of my childhood. What little girl growing up before internet became common in households across america (as that's about when the quality of movies went down the toilet), didn't ever dream of seeing that castle on the horizon? Everyone wanted to go to Disney. As a girl, especially one trying to convince my mother to name the baby in her belly Cinderella, I would have killed to go there. Lucky enough for me, I got to. Not that Cinderella was actually there. Oddly enough, even though I went to the Cinderella Castle, it was Sleeping Beauty we were told was hiding in it. This is now disturbing me greatly...
Anyway. The name of the castle says it all. Although, historically accurate me would like to point out that the castle, if Cinderella's, would more than likely actually belong to the family of her husband, the prince, not to a merchant's daughter.

And, that's a wrap!

Sand Castle Cat Climber
And this is for your darling (or not so darling) cat's to rule in.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Birthday Wishes... B

This is a tad late. As, well, life has a way of pushing me away from all things I plan on doing. I do believe I made people aware of that at some point. Anyway, so here is the much too late "B" post...

My birthday happened. Or didn't happened. Or happened as I tried to pretend that it is not in existence and holy whoa, I am not actually this stupid defunct age of 19. But, I am now throwing around defunct like it is a frisbee, so, it's not half-bad.

When it comes to birthdays, at some point, someone, usually, asks what one wants for his/her birthday. There are normal people answers (not that I can tell you what they are, as I avoid normal people.). Then there are my answers. I'm not sure why my mother even bothers asking me such questions because I have always given such answers.

So, here is my birthday wish-list:

1. A ship. Pirate-y, Viking, Egyptian - whatever. Something sure to bring about epic times as I sail the world and try to conquer my fear of the water. A ship stocked with a crew would be even nicer as I can barely manage to row a rowboat (as I discovered yesterday), much less work a whole amazing ship.

2. The ability to pause time so that I can read and write. Apparently I don['t know anyone who can grant these kinds of wishes, which is upsetting as I really need this to be able to write while at a concert.

3. Switchfoot in a jar. More specifically, Tim Foreman in a jar. (I am allowed to Fangirl sometimes)

4. A sword ('Nuff said).

5. A new cat. Preferably a little calico kitty that likes cuddling with me.

6. Kevin to exist. He is one of my characters and the fact that he is not in this reality is heart-breaking. I want to non-marry him and have a wonderful life of adventures. (Shhh... Don't tell whomever I am romantically linked with this. I don't think me pining after a "non-existent" being would go over to well with  most people...)

7. to become a wizard. More Gandalf than Harry Potter.

8. A cape with matching hat and boots.

9. A cloak and Elf-ish boots. Also a handy bow and full quiver set to go with.

10. A camera. A real-live working camera. I have never owned one of these things and have been pining away with camera-envy for years now.

And... That's about it. Really lame post, but oh wells.

6 Wishing Wells in 4 different syles.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

A... Autumn!

Look! Look! I'm sticking to the plan! I am following something I would do! Guys, you have no idea how rare this is. I have been waiting a month now saying I am going to write my resume. Is it written? Not in the present time, no. So, to not ramble too much before I even begin...

Let's see what Google says:

Look guys, it's a really creepy looking pumpkin! I am honestly of the opinion it thinks human flesh is tasty and would love to fly from the screen and chomp on my face. 

 Desktop Backgrounds · Animal Life · Dogs | Puppy dogs 
 Dog Walk autumn

Because we always think of adorable puppies that might be in the middle of a fight with leaves.

The cat woman in me approves.

I have been lucky enough to hike right by this during the Autumn. It is indeed this pretty.

Now, what do I have to say about Autumn?


I don't hear the word "Autumn" and think of creepy pumpkins and kitties in leaves and crazy leaf necklaces about to kill an adorable puppy or ohmygoodness, that's a pretty view with leaves on fire. Nope. I tend to get that look on my face people get when they hear their name. Oh, right. I am hearing my name.

See, names were very important to my parents. Or my mom at least. I was never around for the hunt for the perfect name on my dad's behalf. Mom would throw names left and right until she found the perfect one. My one sister was due a week before Christmas, so she wanted something winter-y but not obnoxiously Christmas-y. Everyone else was given Biblical names. Heck, even winter-child sister got a name that appears in the Bible.

I'm the stand alone, non-Biblical name. I wasn't supposed to be born when I was. I was supposed to be a Summer Baby and my name would either be Sage (wise and a plant. My mom was a hippie) or Hunter (That would be me dad. ), depending on gender. Then I refused to come out of the womb for a couple of weeks and whoops! Autumn descended on the northern hemisphere and isn't Autumn such a pretty name anyway? So believe me, I've had plenty of time to think about the season I bear the name of.

By the way, dear parents, yeah, sure. Pretty name. Don't! Naming your child a season is a curse. Every time she meets someone she will hear the same old joke, over and over. She will want to kiss the wonderful person who doesn't make some supposedly clever quip about it. Also, when she is in primary school, every time her name is mentioned in something the teacher is reading, the rest of the class will giggle and make some comment.
Don't Do It Foundation: spread da mike, not the Nike
look! There's a whole group of people agreeing with me!

Anyway. Back to Autumn and me not going on tangents.

Autumn is gorgeous in the area I live in. The sky seems bluer, the days are often the perfect temperature. The gradual change of the leaves covering the land is amazing. Nature is just screaming to be looked at and enjoyed. Take a hike up a mountain and by george, the view will be absolutely breathtaking.

We used to visit Vermont every autumn and stay in a house nestled into the crease of a mountain. We would hike up an old dirt trail with rocks to climb over and trees dangling their jewels. A little pond would reflect the colors of the sky and trees and birds would chirp their good-byes until they came back for spring. We would reach the top with the old cairn my great-grandfather built and two benches, one wooden, one stone, and find ourselves holding out breath so as not to disturb the beauty we were alive in. Looking down we saw fields with green green grass and one littered with specks of orange we might later raid. There was a sparkling sliver of blue cutting across a meadow. A brave tree reaching it's lonely arms, up, up to the sky, leaves skittering away every time a strong breeze blew. There was so much magic surrounding us as we finally breathed again and began darting between trees and laughing and giggling and teasing. My brother would pretend to conquer some age-old enemy hidden in the woods as I would search for hidden traces of fairy life. My parents would hold hands and smile at us, passing whomever was the baby at the time back and forth. To me, that is Autumn.

Autumn is also a season, not just memories. It's a season so alive in color, in nature's mimicry of flames, and so so beautiful. But it's a season tinged with sorrow. Yes, the sweeps of land are alive, but they won't be for long. I know I'm a pessimist, but let's face it, autumn is the season of dying. When I was little I saw winter as the season as death, but that's not really it. Everything is already dead or sleeping in winter. It's quiet and peace. White.

So it's autumn where everything dies. Slowly, then all at once it's all gone. The beauty doesn't completly disguise the coldness that's coming or the dreary, oft overcast skies. It's a farewell, beautifully done, but a farewell none the less.

Guys, this is another reason not to name your child Autumn. She will grow up with this sense of impending doom all her life and as if everything bad is her fault, because she's the season of dying, so of course things around her are going to die.

But, all in all, such a lovely time to wander through woods. I suggest it.

Tranquil Autumn Trails in Cooking Lake-Blackfoot Recreation Area, East of Edmonton Sep '10

Monday, September 30, 2013

A Plan! ( I know, crazy!)

I now have regular access to computers and regularly have time to play on them and write weird or emotional (sometimes both - those are scary. People feel like pot roasts) things to my heart's content. Well, when I'm not distracted by Pinterest and Goodreads... Anyhoo. So that means, I get to actually keep this blog up. And, oh the excitement, I might actually have a graphic designer friend who will help me redesign it and make me want to read it (If I didn't know what tragedies of writing might await me, that is).

So, what does this have to do with A Plan you might ask? I'll tell you.

Well, okay. I'm not sure if this even counts as a plan because the idea of me planning something is crazy. I plan concerts and I plan... Um. I can't think of anything else. But,  but but but but buttttttttt - I have one! For my blog! Mwaha!

Going through the alphabet, letter by letter for direction for the subject (that sentence is awful, please throw bananas at that awful sentence as it sits on your screen). It's nothing fantastic, far from original, but I shall make it fun. I hope anyway... It's a possibility...

Here's a little gift, funions! (because this is just a happy thing. C'mon, you want to smile.)


Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Standing on the Edge

It's 2 a.m. and I can't sleep. It's September 23rd of 2013 and I'm falling to pieces and broken to bits by life. There's nothing else to it. It's painful, with these jagged edges and bruised soul, hurting and unable to stop hurting; for whenever I do, I accidentally bump into myself and tear open whatever was healing.
But I'm not sure I would change it. 

I have never had an aching in my chest for this long or felt like life is unbearable to this degree before. I have never taken such comfort in the beauty of the moonlight before or lay on the road and gotten lost in the stars like I have lately. Now, there's nothing more precious to me than the simple sound of nature or the scratching of pen against paper or having someone to lean into when goddammit I can barely stand.

I'm standing on the edge of myself
                                                   And it's beautiful.

There's something to be said for having oneself torn apart. All the words of truth and all the beauty scratched out, pulled apart and rewritten. When everything one held as true in this world falls apart and melts in one's hands, whatever is left is so achingly beautiful in it's endurance that at times it takes one's breath away.

"It's when you're breaking down with your insides coming out
                                             That's when you find what your heart is made of..." ~Switchfoot

Somehow, despite everything, I am holding parts of myself I would have never thought still existed, or ever would. The parts of me I fought hard for, loving beyond measure and hoping when there is nothing to hope for and a faith that might not move mountains, but can withstand any disaster thrown at it, are still standing, rising up from the ruins of who I was. Amongst the rubble and ashes, those seeds have begun to push their way up.

One thing I always desired, cried over when the moon hit just right and all the magic that could be brushed up against my soul, was to have an epic story. I wanted to be a queen who fought for her people and ruled with justice and mercy, her reign benefiting the peasant and the lord. Screw math problems; I wanted to be out slaying evil monsters and saving those who couldn't save themselves. I wanted to be hated because of what a threat I was to everything evil and wicked in this world.

If I had never been broken, I would have never come to realize that I have a story like that waiting for me to write it, with myself as the protagonist. I may not ever get the righteous king to stand beside me and love me for the same reasons I love him. I may not ever get the chance to swing a sword and watch something of pure evil topple, but I can go out and live like I am the leader of a country, with a nation of people to guide and protect. I may never be able to travel the world and traverse mountains, but there's plenty where I am now to explore and discover, I just have to learn to open my eyes.

I may never be able to wield magic or dance with Fae or speak with trees, but I have the ability to write, to create stories and possibly transport someone to a place where they can live, if only for a little bit, and that's the best magic of all.

All I needed to see the sun rising within me, daring me to shine with whatever I can, was to stand on the edge of me and chance a fall.

Thursday, August 8, 2013


Life can suck. I mean full-on holy whoa Where is my door to Narnia because then it isn't my world falling apart and at least there's some hope?! I've had some sucky, and not so sucky, days lately. Sometimes I just lay on my bed staring at my ceiling. But other times I found my way to A-Ok through some possibly weird ways that worked. Here's some you might want to try if Life is bombarding you with cows.

1. Sit there and listen to hilarious breakup songs. I don't care if you weren't broken up with, have never been broken up with, are actually happily in love. Remember the hilarious part, otherwise you might sit there getting even more upset. No listening to "I miss you so so much. You were the one for me! I just want you back!" No. Not even if you just went through that. No. 

Here's some examples:

50 Ways to Say Goodbye 
Smile - Lily Allen

Not much, I know, but I couldn't remember the ones I listened to... Also, angry break up songs (Taylor Swift has two great ones by the way).

2. Watch Rhett and Link videos
This also works really well with a friend. Laughter will come no matter what, but with a friend it's just great. We winded up taking dibs on them only to notice wedding rings on their fingers. *GASP*. Our hearts were broken. But they fixed them by making us laugh.
T Shirt War (blog.buerofint.com / Flint   Büro für Gestaltung)
If you're making the same face as Link, I'm with you

3. Lie on the floor.

No matter where you are. No matter what people may say. Just drop to the floor and lie there. This works especially well in bookstores.

I got this tip from one of my preschoolers. Whenever she doesn't want to do something and it becomes to unbearable, she doesn't throw a fit or scream or anything. She just *whomp* sprawls out on the floor and lays there. She doesn't get up unless she begins smiling right away.

(Okay. I actually had done that on a Barnes and Noble floor the day before I started up at work again. So the tip isn't from her, but I do completely agree with her methods. But shhhh. Don't tell the other T.A.s)

4. Roll around on your kitchen floor moaning about the most ridiculous things (unless your bad day is due to NOT having a kitchen floor). So nothing that's really the problem. If you are so busy and stresses about everything, I promise you, this will work. Once you get over any rolling on kitchen floor issues you have.

5. Talk to preschoolers.

Preferably ones you don't live with, as they can also be really cruel.

I was really tired and getting grumpy when I overheard a conversation between two girls in my class.

G1: I have to show you a picture. *shows last year's class picture* That's him.
G2: You loved him?
G1: Yeah. I have two husbands. I love them both. They are both named ___.
G2: *eyes widen*
G1: Two husbands with the same name! What is wrong with me? I need to fix my life!

Okay, so I am old enough to be your (young) mom, but I am not married to two guys with the same name (although that solves the accidentally saying the wrong name issue. She's smarter then we all think). So thus, it's all good. Also, I like the ABC cookies, so no throwing fits over having to eat something I don't like.

6.  Make faces at random strangers to see their reactions.

This should be self-explainable.

7. Watch old Disney shows. It's good to remember those good days of Disney Channel. There truly is something about Disney.

8. Watch Disney movies and sing the songs at the top of your lungs. Or just listen to the songs. My adopted little sister (who isn't really adopted. She still belongs to her birth mother. As far as I know anyway...) taught me this.

9. Watch Hercules and yell at the awful mythology.

(for starters, it should be Heracles. Yeahhh...)

10. Don't read my blog. It is so awful you'll just get more depressed. In fact you are probably crying right now.

A hamster chewing on your bad day

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Writerly Misery

I was thinking about relationships in books. Books nowadays don't like to focus on friendships. They don't really focus on family. They focus on some person to fall in love with. I kinda want to kick them all. I want the rawness of friendship. I want the issues families bring and some healing.

Then I thought further about the dumb relationship thing. Girls find themselves in guys. It's ridiculous. I want a book about a break up and a girl finding herself without the guy. The only book I can think of with a break-up would be Twilight. I don't think that counts as what I want...

Twilight - the story of a young woman’s choice to practice either bestiality or necrophilia.

So that doesn't leave me with much.

Guess what I do when something like that happens.

I WILL WRITE IT!!! I declare as I jump up and throw a fist up in the air.

Then I sit and go "What have I done??" Because do I really want to think about another writing project right now? Yes, no, maybe? I already have so many wonderful characters. They already have me sitting there weeping over the keyboard because holy owls, their stories are so awful. Do I really want to do this to myself?

Yes, Yes I do.

I don't really want the heartache and heart break of yet another character sweeping over me and drowning me, but to be able to craft a story that might touch someone's heart and give them what they are looking for, I will put myself through writerly misery. There's something wonderful about knowing I can tell stories and have characters I care about. I have others who care about them, too. If I can talk about them and have people's emotions involved, I can write about them, surely.

I will also put myself through weird looks from people as I cry over a breakup that's not my own. And as I flap around in public making sad noises because I just realized even more tragedy. And as I begin swimming in different ways to figure out how they sing. And when I say "I like your shirt. One of my characters has something like it."


Thursday, August 1, 2013

If I Were a Boy

Original Plan: Make a list of ridiculous things I would have done if my father had bothered to give me the Y chromosome (instead, his stupid sperm was a stupid X. And why do I know genetics??).

What happened: Went on Facebook, saw something entitled "44 Reasons Why You're Chandler Bing" (http://www.buzzfeed.com/fivezaj/44-reasons-why-youre-chandler-bing-a8zp). Sat there reading them  going, yeah. I am Chandler Bing. Minus the bubble bath thing. I hate baths. Especially one with bubbles. I'd probably sit there looking like a cat with a shoe string.

I then decided that if I were a boy, I would be Chandler.


Final Plan: Tell what happened when I went to blog, then give ridiculous list anyway.

The List:

1. I would pee off mountains.

    Let's face it, as a female hiking can suck. Sure, the rocks are awesome to scramble over and the view is gorgeous and hiking can be the best place for inspiration, but when something tickles the bladder, I'm dancing around trying my best to hold it in for the next six hours. Peeing ain't fun. It's annoying and obnoxious Then, to make it worse, those guys I went with go prancing up the mountain, tell me to wait, and then scream to the land as they happily pee off the mountainside. Just because they can. Meanwhile I'm still dancing around secretly looking for a huge tree and wishing I had that freedom. So, yes, male me would be peeing off mountains all the freaking time.

Then there are goats. Who pee on mountains whenever in the heck they feel like it.

2. I would drive naked.
    Apparently a friend of mine did this. And because he was a guy, he got away with it. I am female. I have these ridiculous things called breasts. They make it completely inappropriate to drive without anything on top at all. Unless I'm in France. And, frankly, I don't really want to be entirely topless. But if I were a guy, I could drive around without a top and be comfortable doing so. And pray to God I didn't get into an accident where the police people showed up and I had to explain why the ambulance people pulled me out of the car in the nude.

3. I would have a hot girlfriend (read explanation please)

     I was lying on my friends' floor staring up at my legs when I announced that I want to be a guy so I can stroke my girlfriend's legs and they will be amazingly smooth and soft because she shaves, unlike my sometimes hairy self. Then my friend turned around and looked at me thoughtfully. Then said, as if it were a great epiphany that explained the world, "if you were a guy, your girlfriend would be HOT".
4. I would be an amazing boyfriend.
    My mom told me this. After I told her how if she weren't my mother I would slow dance with her at a Lumineers' concert then go on a moonlit walk by the river, followed by a mini-picnic.
   Either that or I'd make a pretty remember-able one-night stand (or whatever the asexual version of that is called).

5. I would wear my pants NOT saggy.

6. I would wear NOT SKINTIGHT pants.

Technically these fit 5. and 6. But um...

7. No parachute pants either

8. I would secretly cry during tear-jerkers
    Because as a guy, I would somehow be more sensitive than I am now.

9. I would have a beard. And a unibrow. Preferably those crazy wizard ones.
Like this.
10. And a mustache.
like this

11. I would go through the sci-fi section in Barnes and Noble and not get weird looks from employees.
    I guess females aren't allowed there or something? Unless they are gushing to their husbands about the book on smoothies they just found for half-off and OHMYWORD THERE IS KALE!!

12. Most importantly: I would hit on girls with ridiculous pick-up lines just for fun. Not to actually pick them up or anything, just to be awkward and say I did.


But I am a girl. And that's pretty cool too.

And that's a wrap!

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

When Bookstores Lost Their Souls

Once Upon a Time, possibly in a land far far away for some of you, there lived a girl. Or maybe not a girl. She was at that odd age of 18 where nothing makes any sense and everyone is a conglomerate of everything. Especially her. So this person inhabiting Earth... She loved to read. It was the one thing she never truly tired of. Reading was the only thing she could be addicted to. Her money was squandered on books. She invested much too much time into it, ignoring family, friends, and a dedicated (and soon well-trained) boyfriend-person. Once she possessed a license (issued to her, of course), she would drive herself over to a bookstore after a particularly hard week/day/hour and be able to breathe for a change. Never did she tire of wandering through aisle upon aisle of books.

Then one day, the impossible happened.

Down an aisle she went, her eyes merely skipping from title to title. What used to be a journey of an hour was over in minutes. On to the next aisle she went, each shelf brimming with unread, possible untouched paper and beautiful covers. Again, her feet found their way out of the shelves much too quickly. Frustrated, she hurried over to the other end of the store. Perhaps there lay titles and books and stories to calm the growing sense of dread in her stomach.

Her unease grew and grew as she traversed aisle after aisle, section after section, until she stood in center of the store, feeling like a belly button. Useless and unloved. Once she had had a purpose, but no more. Maybe she was more of an appendix than a belly button. Defeated and feeling hopelessly dejected, the person inhabiting Earth fled the building to hide from the emptiness in her car.

How, how had this happened? Where did all the books of interest go? She didn't want vampires. She didn't want sex and passion. She didn't want to merely dip her toes into a story. She wanted to be immersed in one; up to her head in the words and characters and worlds until nothing could take her away from the space between the letters. Why did that space disappear?

But it had. She felt it. As she roamed the aisle, she could feel the lack of soul in the books surrounding her.

The fantasy had dwindled in size. Those, the heart and soul of so many magic seekers, had kept her alive during middle school. She needed them now as everyone told her grown-ups don't believe in fairy tales. But those were gone. As were the books about friendship. Stories she could grasp in her fingers and watch bloom like morning glories. Even Tolkien's section was small. A collection of his trilogy. No Children of Hurin, no Silmarillion. Just space mourning it's true purpose. Lewis was completely absent from the shelves.

There was nothing left for her in bookstores anymore. Nothing to capture her desires and whisk her away from this reality of hers.

This person inhabiting Earth felt as if someone had reached a clawed hand into her chest and ripped her heart out. What would life be without this sacred place of hers?

She wanted to give up. To curl up in a ball and cry over pages of Narnia, wishing even more vehemently than before, for some of that wonderful tree to have been used in the making of her closet. To stare desolately at the night sky and beg any entity who would listen to change this tragedy.

But she didn't lose hope. Surely, there were other girls like her out there. Boys, too. Both young and young at heart. She couldn't be the only one in this world with a desire for more than the potato chips being offered by authors. Someone else had to be wondering what happened to creating five-course meals with depth and richness.

So she drove home, her chin raised in defiance and her eyes set. Once home she knelt before her bookshelf, tugged a notebook from where it was nestled, and opened it. The blank pages became her hope. Between the lines of faded blue a story could be written, one about friendship and loyalty and the questions everyone must face at some point. Or maybe even one just for laughs, with real people who don't just fall in love but are pure human.

And so, she began to pour her soul onto paper hoping one day to bring bookstores back their souls.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

I am a Delinquent

Adventure Time with Autumn, Jesse, and Samuel! OR My Run-In with the Cops

The three of us decided that we didn't want to go home right away after eating out on Tuesday. So I suggested we go to a park I used to play tennis at and loved. We drove over, parked the car, I threw the keys at The Boy (I had no pockets), then we wandered over to the playground.

That was great fun. Outside of when I managed to slam my elbow on a metal bar. WE did a tire swing, slid down some pretty fun slides, climbed up a dragon. There were these things with cut-out faces, so I was a knight and the guys were princesses. At one point I thought Samuel was at the bottom of the playground, then saw boots above my head and freaked out. He moves scarily fast at times, I learned.

Then we went over to the wooden set and just sat and talked. Samuel and I have a story together, so we discussed that. Then we talked about weird (bad) impulses we have (Swerving into things with the car, stabbing things, kissing people) but don't give in to.

We were talking about church (ironically enough), when a car drove into the parking lot. J said it looked like a cop car. S went "it better not be." I thought "why would a cop be here? There are strip clubs elsewhere in the city." Then a light appeared, moving across the playground until it landed on us.

Not knowing what to do - it's not like we have police hunting us down on a regular basis - and because we had nothing to hide, we just sat there waiting to see what happened. Two cops happened, with huge flashlights flashing all over us and the area surrounding us.

Cop 1: So, what are you kids doing here?

Me: Just hanging out. I used to take tennis here and wanted to come back. Weird time, I know, but I miss this place.

Cop 1: You guys in school or anything? *begins completely searching every spare bit of mulch under where we are sitting, so he says this kinda off-handedly.*

Cop 2: *shines the light in each of our faces trying to blind us*

J: *shakes head*

M: Yeah. RCC.

S: Yup

Cop 1: Where are you guys from?

Cop 2: *stands there glaring at us like we just stole the coveted donut*

S: Five minutes up the street.

J: New Jersey

M: __(my town)_____

Cop 1: Do you have i.d. on you?

M: In my car.

S and J: Same

Cop 2: *points at S* You come with me.

S goes with Cop 2, probably trying really hard not to begin screaming as they walk away.

Cop 1: You are aware that I can arrest you, right?

J: *shakes his head* (ALSO: having a mini-heart attack. I was honestly surprised he didn't just begin gurgling the last few breaths of his life)

M: Nope.

Cop 1: Were you guys smoking anything tonight?

M: (trying hard not to laugh) Nope

Cop 1: Have you ever smoked anything before?

J: No, sir.

M: (IN MY HEAD: We are the most straight-edge people ever! J freaks out if he goes a mile above the speed limit!!) (some laughter snuck in) No.

Cop 1: Have you ever gotten in trouble before?

J: Well, I, um, got some speeding tickets.

M: *trying not to be completely sarcastic* Noooo.

Cop 1: Well, I'm going to have to see your id.

M: It's in my car. (like I already told you, you freaking numb-skull.)

As the three of us walk to my car, we pass Cop 2 and S. S has his arms straight out at his side. I seriously considered finding a way to protest the pat down. But I figured I better not convince this cop I was actually doing drugs. 

We get to the car, J takes out my keys and unlocks the car. We get our driving stuff, hand it to the guy.
 He comments on the fact I just got my license before telling us to take a seat and wait for him. So we chill in the car. I laugh as J fidgets like he really is on drugs. I am on the verge of hitting my head against the steering wheel when the guy comes back.

Cop 1: I need your addresses.

Despite the fact that he has them in his hand, we give them to him.

Cop: What's you social security number?

M: *opens mouth to say it. Can't remember. Makes a face like he asked me to take my shirt off*

Cop 1: That's fine then. I'll need your height and weight.

I don't know this either. So I made up some numbers.

Then he asks J and J tells him.

We wait some more.

S joins us.

S: Thankfully I remembered that I had the pocket knife in my pocket. How was your guy?

M: Well, we apparently can get arrested.

S: Yeah, I heard. Which would be ridiculous!

We go on like that until the cops come back and hand us our id's. There's  some strange green sheet wrapped around it. Oh beaver dam's made out of fudge.

Cop 1: You guys don't seem too suspicious (Oh really. We are three non-scary - or I am anyway. Unfortunately - straight-edge kids who get excited about church and have long conversations about God and stuff like that. Two of us are the biggest freaking nerds out there. One is wearing a classic video game shirt. We don't seem suspicious at all!), so we aren't taking you away in handcuffs down to the station. But we could. Instead you'll have to show up for court.

M: *glancing at the time and date* I have school. I can't miss my classes.

Cop 1: If you miss court there will be a warrant out for your arrest. You can try to reschedule, but I suggest talking to your teachers (Cause that won't be awkward at all). Don't do this again. *walks away*

I look down at the paper further. Out charges?

"Parks after Dark".

We have to go to court for something that sounds like Dr. Suess pretended to be a cop. And if we can't pay $100-$500, we get 15 days of jail. That will be fun to explain to anyone looking at our records.

What is my life?

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Having to be an Adult. And Failing.

I have decided I hate the age of 18. I will probably hate 19 and 20 for the same reasons.

All summed up: I'm a teenager and an adult at the same time. "Have fun, live your life, be reckless and stupid while you can!" on one hand. On the other... "You're an adult now. Be mature. Know what you are doing with your life. Stop making mistakes. And ohmygoodness, stop acting like a child."

I kinda want to go around kicking all the people who expect me to suddenly Have It All Together. Sure, it's months into being 18, but I'm still just as confused as before. More actually. Pre-"Adult" Me knew what she was doing. "I'm going to try to transfer to Fordham for psychology and theatre after two years at community college." Right there, pretty simple.

Now: "Erm... I think I'll minor in theatre? Maybe? Um... Listen. Okay. I'm just hoping to NOT fail my road test again. We'll see about the rest of my life once I know how to NOT hit the curb, okay? Okay. Now, leave me alone." Then I make some disgruntled face and stomp away. Obviously, I am very Adult.

My lack of Adult-ness becomes the most apparent to me at work.

Scenario 1: The kids are playing with Legos
        Whenever anyone else goes to the table: "Guys, no shooting the guns. ____ don't grab. etc etc."
         When I go to the Table: *digs through the container looking for Indiana Jones. Enslaves the Little Children to build a Temple and Create an Army. Noises resembling Mass Destruction.* *Pulls out Darth Vador* "Luke, I am your father!" *lightsaber sounds*

Scenario 2: Playground Time
         Everyone Else: *Stands by and watches. Scolds "wild" kids*
         Me:  "I'll race you to the slide!" *forms an obstacle course*

Scenario 3: Difficult Child
         Everyone Else: "_____, stop it! Don't hit/punch/kick/make raspberries/yell/whatevertheheckyouaredoingatthemoment
         Me: (in head) I will NOT lick him. I will NOT sit on him. I will NOT engage in similar activities like the bratty older sibling I am. And I will NOT threaten to  lock him in a cabinet.
        Admittedly, not the best reaction to begin with, but I have five younger siblings and have thus come up with various ways to respond to an Evil Younger Child. I just used the basement instead of a cabinet. Which worked very well. My sister never hit me again after that.
Something I would just LOVE to do some days

Then comes school. College. Big People (I feel Extremely Young whenever I walk into a room).

Most people can sit there and sit still and have good posture. Unless I am falling asleep, I am bouncing around in my seat or kicking my feet or rearranging myself on the seat challenging the known ways a human body sit on that tiny of an amount of space. If I were a preschooler, I would be in a class for kids with behavioral issues.

And you know what? I like it this way. I have fun at my job because of it. I am entertained easily and thus rarely bored (except when I am stuck at the library and WILL NOT be satisfied until I lie on the floor and begin chanting). I don't need to spend money to have tons of fun. Sure, I have no idea where my life is going. I can't sit down with anyone and say "Okay. Advise me." because what is there to advise without laying my whole life out for me? And God only knows how I would rebel against that. And that's fine. It's awesome actually.

Maybe I'll go off and be a Lost Girl in Never Never Land. I'll fight pirates with Peter Pan (and teach him some manners in the process), join the Indian pow-wows, and maybe, just maybe, get a little bratty fairy/pixie of my own.



Thursday, March 14, 2013

I am morbid. Enough so to make my mother first laugh, then worry about me. A lot. Usually poking me with her toe at some point too. As, for whatever reason, I tend to be morbid while sitting on the floor.

This is why I am morbid:

"Keep your chin up!"
"Why? So that if anyone is trying to kill me my neck is more vulnerable to their lovely knives?"

"What are you up to, dear?"
"Dying. So are you. Wait... We died a little bit more. Oh, closer to death now! Closer, closer!!"

She says I used to be extremely optimistic. Like a little rainbow unicorn on happy pills. Ironic, since I wrote a poem about how unicorns are secretly these epic warriors who will slice your brains apart if you mess with them. When I was a wee lass I would skip around singing about how happy everything was - outside of bathtime. Then I wasn't any sort of happy at all until I had escaped the clutches of the Evil Mom who wanted me to Bathe. - and I would go around encouraging the butts off people. I's go up to random strangers and say "hello" and tell them what a good day it was.

"I'm not sure what happened to you, you weirdo," said The Mother of Niceness. I mean, I'm morbid, but I'm not that bad. I guess she just thinks it would be normal for an eighteen year old go skipping around trailing sparkles. Wait. No. I didn't say that. That would mean I would have to be a Meyer Vampire.

Oh, vampires. A four-year old the other day decided I was a Vampire. It was pretty adorable. Especially when he rolled up his sleeves, gave me this incredibly devilish grin, declared himself a werewolf and let me know he can bring it. And I did. Full-scale Vampire worthy tickle-attack. Then another person came in and he went running behind her squealing "Vampire! Vampire! Check the teeth!"

So, yup. I'm Little Miss Morbid Vampire over here.