Snogging: Optional.

Comfort can be found in the most elementary of places; the methodical rise and fall of the chest provides a calming sense of security, geniality, and a ridiculous display of happiness plastered to my face.

"Hello, I'm a thief, and I'm here to steal your heart."

CourtReplies

Bargain Hunter.

"Behold I do not give lectures or a little charity; when I give I give myself."

My parents used to always tell me stories to construct a healthy mindset for the future - call it a conditioning process to equip myself with a proper morality and faith in existence. I latch on to these ideals, and in most cases, take them to all new extremes.

For example, one valuable yet simplistic sit-down encoded the importance of having someone care about you on the inside, rather than the outside. As the wheels in my mind start jostling this information around at a young age, I come to the conclusion and creation of the theory of comfortableness. Like any theory it must be tested, with trial after trial and scientific reviews of its veracity and significance in societal weight. For the past 8 years, this method of serene relaxation of ones guise has been practiced. This is where I make my conclusion.

I'm a messy looking person: oversized shirts, unflattering sweats, and not to mention the shaggy locks often times found with a mind of their own. Thanks to the parentals initial installation of the ideology, I now find myself wandering the streets with holes in my pants and oil streaked on my uggs. Throwing inhibition to the wind, this comfortable cockiness fills my soul with joy. I assume that others find it unappealing and even offensive, though, especially when the clothing is riddled with cat fur (now that I read that, it sounds horrific). However, I figure that, hey, if you can see past the less-than-frilly wardrobe and old velcro watch, then you're definitely worth keeping around. A true test of character, really. Although, my self esteem came crashing down when a classmate recently approached me.

"Courtney, why do you always dress up for me?" he uttered, riddled with sarcastic tonality. And another individual,

"So, mountain woman, you going camping after class?" Last but not least, the roommate whom needless to say I'm in love with exclaimed one afternoon,

"If you wear that sweatshirt for one more day, I'm going to burn it!"

Can these individuals not see past the rugged image and through to my seemingly personable personality? This theory of comfortableness has contorted my mind in such a way to think that dressing like the homeless person on the corner of the street is a-o-k. In fact, I'm convinced that it's more than ok, it's a lifestyle-esque statement that, one would hope, demands acceptance from the world on a more genuine level. Could you image what life would be like if everyone judged based on character rather than appearance? Nancy Pelosi would have a tough time maintaining her rank, and plenty of celebrities would slip out of their realm of egotism rather quickly.

I can say, however, that I'm content with who I am, be it in a pair of old jeans or a dress, and I do happen to appreciate my hair in all its fury. Maybe a revolution might occur, and soon we'll be walking through the once-paved streets outfitted by mother nature, reverting to the prehistoric ways of simplicity and altruism. I'd have to wait until I'm able to buy a gun, though, so I can feel the pride and accomplishment of wearing my own grizzly coat.

CourtReplies

Annual Topsy-Turvy Day.

It's rather effortless to point out that there are a lot of things I do not understand. Such things consist of arbitrary car parts and up to date stats of the latest sport achievements, possibly due to the frivolous purpose they serve in my life. True, I'm sure it would be more attractive to a masculine figure if a girl knew exactly how to fix a muffler, however, I'd rather promote their exercise of knowledge and be a supporting subject. Sorry fellas, but I could care less about the fandom surrounding the over-glorified Lakers.

On the flip side, though, I find that there are in fact a lot of things that I do understand. I'd like to think that I'm quite intellectually aware in a pretty broad sense, and can easily become riled up at the mere suggestion of a political altercation. Even with a lesser known concept, I thank my communicative major for its rhetorical support.

To get to the point, as I'm repeatedly told by a writing companion to do, I understand relationships. I understand how they work, how they function, the expectations, and in turn, the violations. I can figure out an individual in a matter of seconds, and properly note their degree of 'meshability' within the intertwining of my cardiac organ. I can also figure out whether or not I will fit within their social constructs in a rapid fashion. Unfortunately, for once, something that I know I have been utterly exposed and taught to death on, fully aware of all circumstantial possibilities, has completely left me out to dry. How do you go from knowing so much of something, to absolutely nothing in a mere instant?

I blame it on good looks. I blame it on personality. Furthermore, I can blame it on the singular appeal of uncovering a genuine personage. I find peace in the fact that its something that I need, rather than want. Its just one patient-driven struggle trying to get there.

Amusingly enough, Kobe just scored 28 points against the Hornets for a 5th league win. Come back to me understanding, please?

CourtReplies

In Your Sleeve, Not Your Hand.

It's that time of year again: fog, food, and a little swine on the side. The common flu, or as it just may be, the 'ol flying pig, has found a comfortable place to lie within my body. Call it luck, or my conditioned hospitable-like charm passed down from my mother, my new friend has decided on an extended stay.

I'm trying to figure out exactly why I can't breathe at the moment - either my mucus cells are aggregating, or the brother used a full can of Lysol in the living room. I'm unwanted, unapproachable, and un- to the max. Yet, the two that I can consistently count on to knead at my stomach and prove their worth as comforting companions are the felines. Penetrating my zone of infection in a bold fashion, I can't help but callously wonder why this unconditional love can only be found in a cat. However, I digress.

One thing that a faulty immune system does bring is a bit of insight, or rather - outsight, as I would like to call it. I realized that yes, I do have a life, and when I'm sick it drastically takes a turn to a hibernative state. Like a bear, I become a gormandizer and drag my heels to bed as the sun sets. As a matter of fact, I can feel the Tylenol PM starting to suggest such a slumber at this very moment. Even though I would like to be elsewhere, the comfort of my germ-infested blanket is subtly calling my name with a sense of desperation.

"I'm coming," I respond. Then I think to myself, "Did I really just address an afghan out loud?" Warning: if you have the flu, stay out of the public for this reason.

I love winter, especially all the perks that come but once a year. Hot cocoa, layers upon layers, and roaring fires you can cozy up to are things that can seemingly be overlooked, yet auspiciously enough this sickly individual is emotively aware. The occasional viral infection can get you down. The occasional viral infection will get you down. Just be sure to grab the purring pets and a good book to ride it out.

CourtReplies

Noteworthy and Notable.

I find myself perched in the educational echelon of late nights and obsessive facebook updates with the constant tick of keyboards sounding: the library. Situationally located at the top of campus, this artistic literary domain is conveniently available to studious students for 16 hours a day. All alliterations aside, cubicle number 65 seems to be giving me a stint of grief. The green canvas of the side boards can arbitrarily conceal glances from my neighbors, yet even my Starbucks cup is violating my personal legroom.

Plateau's are a good place for some to reside, and amusingly enough, is what many of individuals settle for. My plateau, however enjoyable, is situated somewhere between squeaking by in the monotonous routine of schooling and really making that indent in the couch permanent. Although my perceptions have been slanted against the educational system, this complacency has led me to acquire several skills I would otherwise be without.

My independent nature and lack of desire for inclusive cramming sessions has led me down a steep and narrow path. This path, though some might idealize as dangerous and obtuse, continues to strengthen my ability to, for a lack of better words, get 'er done. This act obliges myself to the sometimes dreadful task of paying attention in lectures - even the ones covering corpselike concepts. When I am without an attention span for more than 2 minutes at a time however, I find that the skill of being able to bullshit is highly overlooked and severely underrated. Procrastination as well as the ever useful risky behavior of winging a test should be praised when successful. And, if the result of this attempt at lethargy comes out conclusively negative and somehow leads one to a falling out, think of our current president, Barack Obama.

"If the people cannot trust their government to do the job for which it exists - to protect them and to promote their common welfare - all else is lost."

We can just rely on the government to solve our problems. And learning from the best, can find benefit in universitality with equality and stagnicity.

Whoever says that college students are not learning is a blatantly naive remark. Throughout my short collegiate experience, I will openly flaunt and acknowledge the fact that I am amazed at the potentiality that is before me. As a Communication major, I could even go as far as to rhetorically twist my skills to even further enhance my oh so extensive resume. Ability to work well under pressure; ability to get the job done; high talent at prioritizing. I think I'm ready to face the real world now, CSULB.


2 Chronicles 7:13,
CourtReplies

Beat the Heat.

I couldn't be more excited. Summer has come and gone in a rapid fashion, and I'm left here to take what I've learned, and pursue forthcoming occurrences. It's amazing to think how quickly time passes. Although the days can sometimes seem to take forever, once over, one can regretfully never return to that moment of lax insipidness.

I sigh at this notion, as the sound of the little league world series cordially interrupts the rift of cars on the street below. Chula Vista, a California team, has made it quite far, and is now playing against the directly-controlled municipality Taiwan squad from Taipei. The series was forced upon my initial impassive self this last week, and as I bared the first few games, I now find myself attentively engaged in the competitiveness. I feel as if I should be painting my face in patronage. Talk about a complete social change. Now don't get me wrong, I love baseball, I actually really enjoy watching it. After all, I've grown up with the American pastime since I was a little girl. The sport has been known to drag, however, and at the time, I would have rather been watching all three extended editions of the Lord of the Rings trilogy more willingly than preteens with over sized uniforms. My dad, however, was determined to brain wash me. And, to say the least, he was successful.

Getting back to the matter at hand, summer can be seen as a brilliant shade of yellow, or an unpleasant humid drudgery. Although the rising temperatures have their faults, I revel and embrace the opportunity for a scrumptious glass of cold, iced sweet tea. Even when the heat has unsolicitously waltzed through your door, it gives one the opportunity to lounge on the couch and delight in a marathon of 'Blind Date.' Even the best of summer eventually has to come to an end. Alas, my diminutive vacation will come to a screeching halt at 8:00am tomorrow morning.

Lucky for me, I was able to take a trip back home for a quick visit and bask in the little-big-town feeling that it consistently exudes. It's your typical expanding farm settlement, where you're bound to run into someone you know at all times of the day. An inhabitant of this area, however, has undoubtedly mastered the technique of invisibility, as well as the art of dodging. Call it a mark of a true towns person, or merely temporary unsociability, it's guaranteed that all who live here have used this skill at least once at the grocery store. The temperature is always hotter than you'd want, and fans are consistently zooming. You begin to ignore the sweat that seems to never go away. The heat, though, always makes the pool glisten that much more, and soothingly drinks you in as you take a dip. The neighbor's dog is considered your dog, and your cat is considered a trespasser. After the initial preliminary discourse is concluded upon my arrival, it is made clear that I will be mowing the lawn, and my brother to hedge behind me. Life is good.

Even scattered thoughts in this small town, simply cease to exist. Your mind is always filled with contentment, with the instilled notion of enjoying the things you have, and living for the moment that you're given. My heart swells at the idea of my childhood, and the persona passed down through my family. We're simple, we love, we eat. The same potatoes and eggs are anticipated every weekend morning, ending with deep laughs throughout the night. I can't imagine my life not being able to appreciate what I've been given, what I don't have, and even what I can't have. A mark of the little towns, this is where character is built. This is where real people exist. You won't find them in bustling cities with egotistical navigators who can't wait for you to finish crossing the street, or even to return the greeting of a smile. It's as if these individuals don't know how to talk, laugh, treat others; don't know how to enjoy the simple things, let alone the ability to properly heckle at a baseball game. Neighbors are just the noise-makers next door, yet to me, are considered family. Boar hunting is seen as obtuse, and, even though I can't help but giggle at the idea, enjoy a nice boar sausage patty from time to time.

I can confidently say that I'm happy to be who I am, and where I'm from. Some people try to forget their hometown, and set out to join the monotonous crowd of busy-goers. Even if I don't end up returning and establishing a permanent residency, I will always be a hands in the dirt, hands in the cookie jar, hard working appreciative girl. Thanks, Visalia.

Proverbs 27:8,
CourtReplies

Update: Chula Vista wins the championship game!

Hurricane Hunters.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if there wasn't any sunshine. Always hidden behind a towering and disseminated great oak, caught on the hinges of a perforating sky-scraper, clouds egotistically pocketing its rays. Shadows are all that remind us of this veiled entity, yet go unnoticed to the adjusted commoner.

Every day that I walk out my door, I find myself in the same systematically routine forecast, that is, completely engulfed by the sun's glow, with a parrot customarily squawking in a neighboring tree. By the end of the day, my skin is found a shade darker, and the cosmetic paint on my 24-speed gently losing its luster. The blinds tenderly stir as the air caresses them, rocking in a side-to-side motion. Everyone, every individual, can be found out basking in its glory. Walking their undersized dogs, jogging to the rhythm exuding from their ipods, or marveling in the sensation of sand beneath their feet, individuals feed on the energy and dynamism the sun emits. Without fail and leaving all doubt at the gate, you are not only consistently surrounded by light, but set up for several prearranged human interactions.

As spirited as the warm weather is, I can't seem keep my fleeting thoughts away from the rainy season. There's something about a damp morning, mist entwining with the fabric of your shirt, being pressed softly onto your skin, and fog that obstructs even a 20-20's view. The sound of rain outside your window at night comes with a soothing echo, as it beats down above you and rolls to the earth below. Flowers open up to the gift of life it brings, and I rejoice in the use of my electric blanket. Staying in doesn't seem as estranged, and a lack of desire for even the simplest of discursive motions is a meteorological acceptance.

I feel as if I have been on the same path, over beaten and insolvent, rising with the sun and falling with it. Like a machine, I recharge my batteries at night to fall back into the same lethargic motion, paralleling the systematic forecast. I am the sun.

I burn throughout the day, and find myself sinking into the comfort and coolness of the ocean, its waves rocking me to sleep. I clamber out of its depths each morning, and draw on my mask of luminosity. I'm ready for the rain.

Maybe its because I'm eager for a change. I have an irrational mind, one that cringes at the idea of residing in a certain location for too long. My time here is just about up, and I'm ready for the rains to come, to salute me on my way to the next destination. The earth is slowly rotating about me, as I make my way to another hemisphere. I'm ready to experience the next stage in life - to explore, to dream, to relinquish in the mere concept of getting closer to finding out just exactly who CourtReplies is, and where she belongs. Call me an adventurist, or even an apathetic stability-challenged individual, I know that if all else fails, for now, I can assuredly count on one thing.

A breezy 78 degrees and an exasperating feathered friend. Here's to 295 more revolutions, earth.


Ecclesiastes 2:1-26,
CourtReplies

There's No Z in Sleeping.

I'm speechless.

But that doesn't mean I'm writingless.

I'm sitting here staring and my apartment gradually losing it's sense of home, as if each pile of clothes or old examination books hold some personally-concealed magical aptitudes. The best part of relocation is the inventiveness and fresh outlook it brings. Finding things you once forgot about feels almost like Christmas, anxiously seeking the next gift addressed in your name. I pulled out several pictures of memories I seem to have forgotten, along with my favorite zebra costume, tail included. An old book lies to my right, and bare shelves harbor me overhead. Post-it notes reflecting archaic remembrances lie in the most uncanny and remote residencies. Like an unkempt garden, dried flowers still seem to maintain their enchantment and romanticism as I carefully pack them away into an over-sized shoe box. I gently pick up a leaf that elegantly fell to the floor. I hold on to it desperately and shut my eyes tight, hoping some paranormal event will transpire. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel much of anything.

I have a kitten waiting for me, and a good friend. I have a life in the future, and the more I think of it, I have a life in the present. I just have to convince myself that, no matter how bolstering and secure it may be, my comforter can only be exhausted as a shelter for so long.

2 Corinthians 1:6,
CourtReplies

Hello, World.

My posture became catastrophically rigid as Chris sat two chairs in front of me.

The professor was routinely administering the principles of interpersonal relationships, yet during this particular session, noted that he would focus on romantic associations. He expressed the desire for an analytical discussion on our perceptions regarding the idealist imagery each have conspired throughout personal experiences and observations. Each student had their turn to describe their somewhat fictitious yet hopelessly romantic dreams, leaving a note of forlorn solemnity in the air. Many spoke and spontaneously divulged in their deepest wishes. I let out a sigh, followed by an unintentionally loud,

"You've got to be kidding me."

All eyes instantaneously shot in my direction. I swallowed. My legs suddenly felt the strain from sitting Indian-style in what seemed to be a chair with the dimension of a booster seat. A few were still ahead of me to describe what would constitute a romantic relationship, yet, due to my remark teeming with negativity, the professor turned to me prematurely instead.

"Someone must have never felt the passion or affection of love before."

I grimaced inside. Was this appropriate to publicly accuse a student of an apparent pessimism towards any relational closeness? I looked back at him, and for once, felt no appeal for communication. I pulled my legs out of the awkward position I had first placed them in, and pigheadedly folded my arms across my chest.

"Could you share with us what you want, then?"

The room became silent, the temperature seemed to rise, and humidity set in. I noticed writing on the desk in front of me that read with ironic blatancy, 'L + J,' encircled by a heart. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, thinking of my reply.

"I just want someone to want to be with me, for who I am, and think I'm worth something."

My head dropped in an uncontrollable fashion. I didn't understand why I became so emotional at that second, feeling overwhelmed with a sense of isolation. The rest of the class period seemed to come and go without recollection, as I tried to muster my thoughts and sentiments. Chris looked back at me.

He gets up out of his seat, and picks up his notebook that he placed on the chair that separated us. He breached what little hope I had of a security screen. Class had ended, and I was hastily storing away my paper, lucky pen, and phone when I heard him.

"Court, you know, I just need to tell you a few things."

Chris is a 30-something male who is currently working towards his bachelors degree in Communication. Tall, broad, and blond, he cunningly acquired my phone number off of a private contact list on a previous class we had together. Chris, in all his nature, believes in no discursive filter, and is attracted to females significantly younger than him. Rumors of his 'stalker-traits' have been proven repeatedly, and I courteously try to avoid any foreseen encounters. Needless to say with all cynicism aside, he is a nice guy - just, well, too nice.

I held my breath. I glanced at my watch to see the time, trying to subtlety give note that I had somewhere to be. He bends over and I peripherally notice his face about 4 inches from mine. I hesitantly lift my head from my belongings and stare forward, keeping my eyes on the whiteboard as the professor erases his notes. He places his arm on my shoulder, and begins.

"Just to let you know, I can get you into most clubs on Hollywood boulevard."

I let out a laugh at his gift of throwing inhibition to the wind. He smiles and takes a momentous deep breath, as if preparing himself to jump out of a plane.

"Your response in class today told me a few good things about you that you do not know about yourself."

He paused, waiting for an encrypted non-verbal sign to cue his continuance. I offer a mannerly grin.

"You are very attractive, ambitious, independent, down to earth, and a good listener. Most girls I have met only have 2 of the 5 good qualities you have. Also, you make goals and stand by them. It is true, you like spontaneity. Most girls are envious and 99% of guys are intimidated by this. You live your life by experience, touch, movement, and asking the right questions. This is good because this ensures you will never hook up with a loser. Anybody would be lucky to be with you."

*Editors Note: These are his real words. Chris emailed me a bit after class and reiterated what he had stated previously. Thanks, Chris.

He smiles, pats me generously on the back, and exits the room with a 'see you later' shouted on the way out. Everyone had left, and I was alone. I blinked softly and took in his words. The remaining fluorescent lights that were on cast a glow, as the placid hum of the air conditioner added an ounce of serenity to the under-budgeted and empty chamber I found myself in.

I was alone.

I am alone.

I couldn't help but think of my current relations, and delve into the fact that I am excitedly eager to open up, to let someone see who I am - and want me for it. The truth is, I'm scared. The past experiences of stagnancy and complacency have driven myself to strategically hide, never allotting too many emotions ensue due to the expected 'falling out' and being unwanted. What Chris had said seemed like a foreign language, something that seemed perpendicular to all interactions I have come across. Should this be a trial, his salutatory homily lacked supporting evidence. Chris' speech would normally be seen as a diverted ploy at affection and attention, yet, surprisingly, were uttered with an implication of honesty. As much as I appreciate his warm words, I can only imagine, for now, anyone genuinely echoing them.

However, I'm ready when they are.

Genesis 24:44,
CourtReplies

Life, As We Know It.

I was on the connecting flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles.

Normally, you would find me going with the herd of humanistic cattle, that is, following delicately in line, taking my seat, turning on my ipod, and focusing all my attentive thoughts on the challenging task of catching some shut eye (undoubtedly due to the lack of leg room and apparent deficiency of foam padding). However, seat 20B called for an atypical experience instead.

As I'm waiting patiently in line, offering a smile to those along side me, I happen to make the regretful yet indispensable realization that this flight is going to be four hours of complete and utter spacial penetration. Immediately I look to the ground. After a few moments of self-governing the possible routes of the emotional spectrum I could enact due to this sudden comprehension, I chose to see this as an opportunity to attempt the art of plane-slumber (thank the instilled generational virtue of optimism). We begin boarding. It's always interesting when you walk through the first class section of the plane, noticing the individuals comfortably sitting in their over-sized futons, with drink and complementary pretzels already in hand. This short pillage seems as if the engineers of the air craft purposely and scrupulously enjoy to torment the 'others' - those who have to walk out of the curtained area only to rub shoulders and to carry the torches of awkward conversations.

As I make my way to my seat, I find that I am undoubtedly the lucky middle man, that is, and none of my other air-born companions had arrived yet. Then I hear the universal pragmatic use of communicative constitutive rules. Almost everyone has surely experienced this. The sound begins with a bit of a mumbling, and the obvious verbal tic. Jujuan speaks.

"Um, ... um. Uh..."

I look up. He understandably was trying to convey that I needed to move, as he was the jammy man to be seated next to the window. As I'm sitting in my seemingly 3 year old car seat, many thoughts begin to deluge my mind. Why had I immediately felt bitter towards a man whom I've never met, just trying to simply take his seat next to me? Inconvenience - it has to be it. I stare at him, thinking to myself, preparing my mind and body for the next 4 hours of inept closeness. I was not particularly in the mood to systematically converse with any individual over the course of the flight, let alone a man whose linguistic performance could use a boost. Finally, as I notice down the line of hasty travelers waiting for Jujuan to kindly take his seat, I respond.

"Oh, here, sorry."

With a mild distaste for the closeness of the seats, I clamber over 20C and pull myself out into the aisle. I try to watch my non-verbal cues, struggling to maintain an ounce of enthusiasm and positivism as well as controlling the obvious desire for the next 4 hours to hurriedly conclude, after all, Jujuan, like any other traveler, would probably like to simply get to his destination as well.

We introduce ourselves, and as we get to talking I begin to see that it will be rather impossible to stop due to his inquisitive nature. My replies to his questions are structurally short, hoping to indicate the lack of desire for interrogations. While he's describing his current position in the work force, I notice Jose sit down on my right, yet purposely choose to not even glance in his direction. I laxly rub my eyes, and rest my head back on the seat. Jujuan is still talking. We prepare for take off.

"What do you do - do you work?"

I begin to engage, after all, it's the least I could do. I look at Jujuan and tell him my situation, and find out that he has never been to the west coast before, and Los Angeles seems like some sort of imaginative location, brimming with possibilities. I let the notion sink in. All my life LA has been in the background, purposely placed out of the foreground due to its unappealing and obtuse nature. Sometimes I take things for granted, and Jujuan made me realize that the county I live in is one entity that I've presumed trivial. The more we converse, I unpredictably declare the need for every individual to visit it at least once, and draw their own conclusions of the area, rather than a dogmatic and epitome opinion of a somewhat cantankerous passenger seated in 20B. He laughs, and the dialogue ensues.

The flight attendants have come by twice by this time, as we both enjoyed a couple of cups of joe. Coffee, in its most rudimentary form, whether you petition black, iced, or with a touch of creamer and Splenda, continues to unpretentiously uphold it's remedial conventions concerning any situation. As a unique gift born amongst the Ethiopians, I amorously and entertainingly cherish the tactic undertakings it brings daily to its followers. Simply stated, coffee is seemingly the enchanted gateway to interpersonal relations. Jujuan asks me another question.

"What profession do you respect?"

I look at him kind of puzzled, confused at the violation of discursive expectations. I had liberally shared the fact that I do not know what I'm going to do with my life, let alone, what I should be doing tomorrow. I expressed my desires for travel, and the hopes of one day having a family, but no real occupational plan. He stared at me, raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive manner, and asked the question again. I look away and respond mechanically how I respect all careers, because it takes a dedicated and hard working individual to keep their employment. Jujuan is not satisfied. He begins to ask if I respect the bouncers at the club, or the women dancing on poles. I look at him and can't help but smile. This guy's good, and can easily see right through my rhetorical ploys.

"Once you find a profession that you honest to goodness respect, you'll know what you want to do."

He smiled and went on to read his book, as I clicked the play button on my ipod and looked to the ceiling. I thought hard about the entities of respect.

I surprisingly drone in and out of consciousness while listening to the methodical rhythms of Blue October. At this point, two hours had gone by, and my in-flight experience had changed drastically from my initial perceptions. I take out my ear buds, and let out a sigh of complacency. Jose seemed to notice. He looks straight ahead in an introverted manner, juxtaposing that of Jujuan, and unexpectedly strikes up a conversation. With his hands folded in his lap, he questions me.

"So I heard you are a Communication major?"

I look at him, and let out a lighthearted remark overflowing with sarcasm relating to the act of eavesdropping. Come to find out, Jose enlisted in the Marines, and has currently been all over central Europe and has not been home in 5 years. I cringe at the thought, after all, 5 years is a very, very long time to be away from someone. Jose has never gone to college, but described his desire to attend after his military service completion. Ironically enough, he was born and raised in the same town that I am currently living in, and once we engaged in the rhetorical similarity strategy, I noticed Jose begin to relax, and the conversation flowed freely.

We began talking politics. Jose obviously did not know how strongly opinionated I am, nor to what extent I was knowledgeable with current economic and worldly affairs. Somehow we got onto the topic of country dependence, and I was arguing the need for self-reliance and autonomy for the United States. I get incredibly riled up, so to speak, especially when debating topics where I have legitimized supporting evidence and can make the varying claims. I'm sure passengers in at least row 11 could hear my boisterous outbursts and assertions. Jujuan was still reading his book. Jose decided to throw some ideas back.

"If we become more independent, don't you think there will be more land fills?"

I couldn't help but laugh. I questioned him back, asking if he could explain the correlation or immediate relevance that land fills had with the current state of affairs in regards to our country's economic enslavement. He talked in circles, and at that moment I had appreciated all that my professors had taught me thus far, and the ability to listen, interpret, and understand what an individual is saying - something I believe a vast majority of people tend to overlook. Jose finished his cyclical speech, interjecting the issue of global warming as well as new Toyota's, and I accepted this form of jargon for what it was. He finished, and concluded with a single statement.

"It would just be really hard."

My smile grew. I looked at him, and instinctively thought to myself and let out a laugh.

"That's what she said."

Another hour had past. Jujuan had set aside his book, Jose was offering myself some complimentary cookies, and I was happily accepting. The three of us sat there, shoulder to shoulder, and loudly conversed over the planes intrusional noises throughout the remainder of the flight. We covered topics on life and love and the struggles they bring. Jujuan had found his soul mate, but had made some substandard decisions in his life that seemed to keep her just out of reach. He was traveling all the way to Los Angeles to tell her how he feels. Jose, on the other hand, had a broken family, and was returning home on leave to make sure everything was satisfactory. He is only 21. I couldn't help but sit back and relinquish in the fact that I had genuinely made two friends. I can't figure out why its so hard for me to create a desire for bonds in California, be it the acceptance of the current relations I have, or the lack of time available, I seem to just simply, not fit in. Yet, somehow, 38,000 feet above the ground, on flight 50, seat 20B, I was able to connect.

I looked out the window out into the dusk with the differing hues cast upon the clouds in an artistic manner. There was a thunderstorm occurring in the distance, a sight I had never witnessed above the clouds, to say the least, even if it came a day too late. The pilot had issued over the speakers that we would be preparing for landing soon, and the flight attendants hurried their trash carts down the aisle. We all fastened our seat belts. I grabbed a napkin, and pulled out a pen. Jujuan handed us his business card, as Jose and I scribbled our information down on the 4 x 4 serviette.

We landed. The three of us stood and waited to get our luggage like old friends, and I inadvertently felt a touch of desolution once I saw my suitcase. I grabbed it, said good luck to both of the men, and walked outside the terminal to the busy and exasperating lifestyle that LA brings.

One thing for sure, is the fact that I am thankful. The life that I'm living may not be exactly what I want nor expect, yet somehow I find contentment in the mere thought itself. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know where I belong. What I do know, though, is in the midst of this undetermined existence, individuals continue to give me hope, reminding me to be appreciative of the moment.

Psalm 39:7,
CourtReplies

Motivation on the Count of Three.

When dealing with life, love, and getting off the couch, motivation is key for survival. But in it's most simplistic form, this driving provocation in some instances, seems to impractically elude an austere acquiescent process.

As usual, I find myself looking around my studio apartment in a truculent nature, in awe at the sight of uncleanliness. A suitcase half unpacked lies at my right, with mountainous piles of clothing that has effortlessly overtaken what little floor space there was to begin with. Dishes have somehow collected into a large and forthcoming company, with tracks seemingly embedded into the floor. You know you've been left at a dejected stop on the stimulus train when you find an ant comfortably sitting at the edge of your tub. How does one get to this disgraceful reputability screaming of parasitical breeding grounds? This leads me to the edifying concept of motivation.

Growing up, certain generational customs and accepted rituals are consistently embedded into the young and frivolous-minded. Within the educational echelons of doom, we're taught the American way of developmental modality: "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." This phrase has overwhelmingly been satirized in various means, as to such I will not delve into. However, I personally feel as if there should be some sort of government subsidy, allotting billions and trillions of dollars in support of 'motivational-regeneration,' as I would like to call it. The red, white, and blue motto would then be altered to read, "life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and the absence of couches and the potato-like." This said regeneration would cause a perceived increase in all human affairs and production, propelling the states to the always desired high global eminence. Right? I think so.

Sometimes I find myself falling into the rut of average, going about each day just as the last, expecting no more, no less. This mediocrity has been noticed to greatly affect my mood, expectations, and importantly, my motivational crusade - not to mention the lack of guests willing to enter my apartment. Life seems to be traditionally accepted, with no great anticipations nor love-like aspirations. Like an unbeatable plague, it can easily be spread.

I feel that, in regards to the relational aspect of the emotional encumbrance, this is how the connection begins to dwindle, or even the ambition to have one at all. We're motivated each morning to get up, go to work, sit through class, wave a polite finger at a passing car, and feed the rat, yet sometimes it seems as if love is out of the question. Why is it so hard to love another individual? Why do we, as a society, find it hampering within the daily duties to become completely exposed and barren, for all that you're worth, to a significant other? Why, then, in turn, do we, once embraced with the sentiment, discover ourselves complacent?

The only answer I can come up with is the plateau of familiarity. Some of us will break through with the propelling force of motivation, and some of us will continue to live our lives in a cyclical pattern with the rise and fall of the sun. Being comfortable where you're at shouldn't be seen as having a negative connotation, yet riding along an asymptotic course of pedestrianism while possessing the cynicism towards life and love, is.

As if mere inferences are not enough (in it's own unadulterated nature), I can't help but try to unearth a better resolution, after all, these dishes aren't going to wash themselves.

CourtReplies' Three Steps to Motivation:
1. Get off the couch (or else gravity will start to take effect).
2. Grab _________ and realize how propitious you are to be exactly where you're at.
a. a Bible
b. an old photo album
c. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows
3. Go outside, it looks even better than being seen through a window.


Galatians 6:7,
CourtReplies

Introducing, The Prowl.

As I'm staring at my computer screen, disobediently ignoring the massive amount of reading that has piled up just from today alone, I can't help but to introduce myself into the profound world of blogging. Hi, I'm CourtReplies, and I'm a college sejunior (in between a junior and a senior), nice to meet you. Now, let's get to the point.

I understand like. I understand lust. There are a lot of emotions that I wholeheartedly appreciate, recognize, comprehend, and have come to know. However, the remorseful attribute I have somehow absentmindedly acquired through genetics limits my boundless-track mind down to a sole concept: the ideology of love.

Love is a powerful emotion, yes. Can it make people do some crazy things? That’s obvious. Have I ever truly grasped the notion of this all encompassing and frivolous sensation? No. The matter is, is that I am very immature when it comes to the fact that, life just isn't fair. Too many significant others have come and gone with sad sob stories and bountiful reasons for me to count love out of my life, and off my mind. Yet it seems as though I can't.

My life has never been perfect, nor would I ever claim such a thing. Moreover, my love life has never been anything short of ‘nail-on-chalkboard’ dreadful, leaving me at wits end scurrying to find the next replacement. The problem with women, is, and myself undoubtedly included, is the ongoing search for the perfect man - the prowl, as I would like to call it. I feel unwanted, undesired, unwholesome, and a plethora of additional un- words when unattached or deemed single-girl status. For example, it feels great when you have a seemingly successful man send you an email like,

“I do love you, [CourtReplies]. I love you just like I love my family in that, I would do anything and everything to make sure that they, and you, were safe, happy, taken care of, and loved. I do love you. So, so much. Just like I would for them, I would lay my life on the line for you. What would people do if you died? I can't speak for anyone else, but I would never be the same. And I've only known you for, what, 9 months? I know my heart, and I know the difference between a passing fancy and true, genuine love. I genuinely, wholeheartedly love you.”

As real as this tidbit can get (and mind you, it is a real message), I cringe at the mere thought that I just had to fix a horrid amount of simple spelling and grammatical errors within those 10 heartfelt sentences. My syntactic perfectionism lead this relationship into the ground, not even alluding to his age and superior status. But, for the sake of upholding my good-person reputation, I will allude no more.

Therefore, with that being said, I can't help but realize a simple factual notion: things change, people change. Events change; life in general changes. I then find myself asking the question that is in every way familiar to all: why? Why must we strive for that feeling of acceptance and deep compassion throughout life's ups and downs? Furthermore, once we have it, why are we so easily persuaded to give it away?

I suppose that's what love is - and that's when you know you've got it. The admiration and desire for inclusion amongst their lives, the fight to keep it, and the desire of never letting go - not to mention proper linguistic skills. Love is all encompassing, truly. I just have yet to find it.


Proverbs 16:9,
CourtReplies.