My Cat Ate My Homework.

I've been out of school for a while now, and, to say the least, I feel rather stupid.

I can't for the life of me figure out the square root of 16, let alone the fact that I've reverted to counting on my fingers*. My vocabulary has diminished to only simple verbs and minimal adjectives when conversing, and my discursive skills seem to be comparable to an illiterate six year old - or, rather, an indifferent, untied-Vans-wearing teenager. Needless to say, I haven't written in some time, which I blame largely on an ever so distant mental stimulation.

And that depresses me.

After all, I find great enjoyment inscribing frivolous encounters and revelations. Each day I become inspired by some event, some individual, yet words seem to fail me. I get this grandiose anecdote in my mind with a solid tag-line to boot, but then I start using 'like' in place of subordinating conjunctions and I give up - I totally like just like hypocritically like became my like biggest pet peeve.

Like, like, like.

And I cringe.

Needless to say, I never thought I would miss the monotonous grind of our educational system. I obtain great contentment waking up early to find myself sitting in the back row, neatly sharpened pencil in hand, and an outdoors scene being doodled onto a pad of paper**. Most of all, though, I never realized how much more intelligent I was when being consistently challenged and mentally tested.

It's amazing to think that a lot of our knowledge is fleeting, and unless it's being routinely fed, we begin to lose it.

I wonder just how many months it takes to forget the things we've learned, how many days it takes to forget the things we've felt, and how many minutes it takes to forget the things you've just told me***.

I suppose it's neither here nor there, but I reckon we have to rely on Truth - that there's a season for everything. This just happens to be my season of having a bad case of ineptitude****.

So, whether you're feeling rather dull and commonplace, remember that you probably are.

But that's the beauty of the situation, because even though you may think your contribution to society is few and far between, we have an active God, which is something I daresay admit to forgetting.

All this to say, there is a plan for my life, and this just happens to be a part of it - even if it means I'm a slower-than-usual, surgery-recovering, always tired, sarcastic and stubborn piece of work.

Eventually my brainwaves will start functioning again, that I have no doubt. After all, God knows how much my heart leaps when simply buying school supplies. All it takes is a little faith, and He'll take care of the rest - stupidity and all (I hope).

Cheers to adolescence.

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*Which takes some time, by the way.

**I take notes, too.

***It doesn't help that I have a terrible memory.

****Spell-check helped me on that*****.

*****See what I mean?! Terrible.

Not To Scare You Or Anything.

I like to say that I'm ready to be married.

I like to say that a lot.

And, for the most part, I think a lot of female colleagues I've talked to are in the same boat, which I'm sure is quite startling to the XY club.

I'm ready to be married, in a sense, to find my partner and get to the good stuff: learning, battling, and growing in faith. It's exciting to me, to share a life with another individual, the good, the not so good, and the thoughts and ideals in our mind that we like to keep packed away. I'm ready to trust. I'm ready to believe. Moreover, I'm ready to create a life with someone who will walk beside me. Not in front, nor behind, but beside me, and take it one lovey-dovey* day at a time.

I have it all planned out.

But knowing my Father, and His great sense of humor, will come at me from left field - completely polar to what I was expecting. I like to say I'm not looking. I like to think I'm not looking, but deep down my peripheral vision has the creativity of a seven year old. I'm sure it has something to do with the estrogen.

That's the beauty in plans, though. You make them, yet the probability of those desires coming to be is a complete mystery - just how I have a list of qualities I'm (not actively, of course) looking for: he must love cats, drool over Egg McMuffins, and share in my chai addiction. However, years from now, I'll probably be exchanging vows with a dog lover, fast-food hater, and a calorie-counter king**.

You never know what you're going to get. But that's the most enchanting realization, I suppose. At the end of the day, I do know what I want, but I don't know what's best for me. And that's where the light shines through: my King who knows me inside and out, action from reaction, thought from craving, from want, from need, from hope, from truth - sees me in my undoubtedly overwhelming transparency. And with that solidified notion, I uninhibitedly surrender. And wait.

And I keep telling myself that, "I'll just know when it's time," but as each day goes by I wonder how even that is possible.

How will you just know?

Is it like God slaps you*** and says, "Here, look, it's him" with doves fluttering about in a divine nature? Is it through tireless dating? Is it through our standards being met and the individual exceeding those?

These questions position myself to becoming increasingly aggravated at my own ill-supported-by-any-concrete-evidence ideological fantasy, so I stop.

I think there's a healthy balance between the two: actively searching and waiting. What I do know for certain, though, as Luke covered in Acts, is we, as women, should be keen on finding a man who is seeking God's own heart, and continue to trust in Him wholeheartedly - with or without a significant other. And with that, I think everything else will fall into place.

And you'll just know.

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* My primary love language is affirmation, then touch. Be prepared hubby, be prepared.
** I'm just sayin'.
*** In a genuine, I-love-you-unconditionally kind of way.

Revenge, I Say!

Humanity can always be found reaching; Whether it's for that dream job, dream husband, or the last smidgen of tamale casserole*, the stars never seem quite enough. We consistently binge ourselves of wants, like a typical i'm-an-emotional-wreck-and-can't-get-my-hand-out-of-the-fridge day, and go from one to the next, taking little notice to the effect that each rise and fall brings. Theses wants, though, are vastly different than our true, genuine needs: a God to lean on, and the occasional dirty chai to sip on.

I'm beginning to learn more and more to just what extent I'm really not in control. I'm not in control of where I'm going to be in two weeks, I'm not in control of who I'm going to be with in two years, and I'm certainly not in control of what I'll be wearing tomorrow. As frivolous as it may seem, I find myself yearning to take hold of the reins, and lead Santa's helpers** to where I presume the next stop to be located.

However, as experience shows, houses are missed, presents are not delivered, and a particularly dramatic crash ensues.

Although the metaphor seems somewhat vague, it still rings true. The continuum that the earth runs on is time - seconds, minutes, hours - so comprehension other than that is somewhat of a difficulty. I find it hard to think beyond my ever-so-favorable tunnel vision, and catch myself aching to make things happen, my way, and in my time.

Even when I think I'm doing something that breathes right, something that feels right, something that looks right - it could still be wrong. A couple of months ago I wouldn't have understood. I would have found myself teething in resentment, anger, and left with a bitter heart. But now, I have been blessed with a sort of comprehension; I can look at each situation with open, trusting eyes.

It's not easy.

But that's when grace steps in.

I'm growing, and I'm continually reassured in the most simplistic of instances. Once I would have overlooked them, yet on this date I cherish them.

I was told simply to "be at peace" the other morning, and I accepted it. Nine hours later, and I'm attacked, wherein which I realized these words of wisdom were obviously preparing myself for what was to come.

I understood.

And in that I find total contentment.

My Father is teaching me, and slowly but surely, as any worldly individual, I'm catching on - and rejoicing in it.

Welcome to the Chai Factor.

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*Whatever you do, don't set the casserole in front of you.
**I'm ready for winter when you are, God. Hint, hint.

Any Way You Want It.

Aristotle was a stately man when dealing with rhetoric and poetics, combating the puristic Sophist beliefs of virtuous (and might I say distasteful) discourse. Little did he know, though, that since the 4th century BC, the 21st-ers have taken it to an all new extreme.

What classifies an honest man?

Society today has learned to manipulate any, if not all, modes of communication in an attempt to save face, in an attempt to get face, and in an attempt to hide the it's-two-in-the-morning-and-I'd-like-to-go-to-sleep-even-though-we're-in-Vegas face.

After a quick trip six hours down the I-15, the grammatically correct trio made it to the City of Sin, and might I say it continues to uphold its reputation, if the "Girls, Girls, Girls!" men on the corner didn't already scream the notion enough. You wonder how many people, especially here, are telling the truth, even with the most elementary of interrogations.

"What's your name? How old are you, really? How many kids*?"

But in turn, how many people can actually be trusted? Even sharing your first initial causes worriment to some, afraid of a reenactment of Scream-meets-The-Hangover. But then again, there's the mass social networking tool of Facebook, where I'm more than positive that it's the largest stalking agency to date. So on a comparative level, Vegas is just a flashy, nude version of the website, and I'd like to think that both contain strategic false impressions.

I'm not ragging on the town, however, should that be the ideological assumption made, because a lot of good came out of a place characterized by a lot of bad. A friend had stated prior to the trip that company triumphs even the most mediocre of places, and he was right. Meatloaf is more than just a loaf of meat, kissing a smoker isn't always like licking an ashtray**, and gambling two dollars was as disheartening as predicted are all things I've recently learned, along with taking a step closer in understanding just what it is that I want.

While away on our vacation, I was going back and forth on a job offer in Alaska. During the interview, the woman asked me several expected questions, your typical figuring-out-if-you're-not-a-creeper inquisitions, and then stopped me at one.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

At first I let out a laugh. I didn't know how to respond, and on top of that, didn't know how I would frame the statement in such a way to entice her attention.

I stuttered a bit, and finally blurted something out along the lines of, "Is this a trick question?" I have always been asked what I wanted to do with my life, and it seems as though the response consistently changes. How could any one person give a surefire answer? I decided to give it a shot.

"At the end of the day, I want to be enjoying what I'm doing, and doing it well."

I'm not sure if that's what she wanted to hear, but I hoped she'd appreciate my strong taste for honesty. Aristotle was surely shaking in his grave at my discontinuance of rhetoric, yet as more and more time passes, I'm figuring out that being me is all I have to give, and with that comes a little bit of sarcasm, a little bit of laughs, and a lot of realness.

I'm real, and it's comforting in knowing that, even in the 21st century.

Although flashing lights and glitzy (abhorrent) glamor draws you in, Vegas spits you out with a bit of insight, believe it or not. I suppose this means that what happens there, doesn't necessarily stay there.

Viva!

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*And how old - very important question.
**Not from personal experience.

Paging Dr. McDreamy.

It was getting closer to six in the evening, so we made our way out the overtly large glass doors that enclosed us from the world beyond it. The street was busy, with the sun still positioned clearly in the sky; It was summer.

After walking for roughly a mile, with a few stragglers behind us, we finally made it. Dad held open the door to the Cheesecake Factory as we all filed into the grand lobby. I'm not quite sure what it is about Cheesecake Factory, but time and time again I'd chosen it over even the finest of establishments. Maybe it's the attempt at a jungle temple-like theme. Maybe it's the mighty portions that even Michael Phelps (with his apparently large caloric intake) couldn't finish. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the dessert.

Brother habitually put in our name, exchanging it for a buzzer which would, well, buzz, when our table was ready. It was my last night before surgery, and if a large, two thousand calorie platter of chicken parmigiana wasn't something to clear my mind for the evening, then the caramel pecan turtle cheesecake surely would.

There was an escalator next to a large set of stairs that would lead us to the upper floor of the restaurant, where in which we needed to be.

As much as I enjoy escalators, I've always meant to avoid them, after all, I did have working legs and a little exercise never hurt. So immediately as we realized where we needed to go, the family split.

I turned to Ali and jokingly said, "I'm going all out - this is probably the last time I'll be able to do this," and began to sprint up the stairs. The pathway in front of me was clear, as majority of individuals going to and from the establishment had sided with the rest of my family. I looked over my right shoulder and saw my brother staring at me with competition in his eyes, and, of course, I couldn't resist. He began walking up the escalator as I was running up the stairs. I reached him in no time at all, and with one flight left to go, victory was stripped away from me.

I fell.

Not your average stumble, where you can still manage to play it off like it never happened - this was much more dramatic. Arms flailing, head bobbing, knees falling hard upon the stairs, I was nowhere near a Destiny Child's recovery, as seen here.

Seconds later, when I realize I had let out a moan and was stretched along the staircase, I began to help myself up as a host from above started to come to my aide.

"I'm okay, really, I'm fine," I said to the man who held out his hand. Luckily Ali had been walking up the stairs at a safe speed and came up behind me.

Laughing, she said, "This really is the last time you'll be able to do that."

I walked outside this morning to the rays I had once been so accustomed to. I reached up my opaque hand to shadow my eyes that seemed to be retracting as I stepped farther into the light. It was only ten o'clock, yet the center of the solar system had no remorse in reminding me of it's existence.

For roughly a month I've been stuck; Stuck in a bed, stuck in the dark, stuck with the fan rotating above me, rattling as it went. I haven't been able to run, I haven't been able to bend, I haven't been able to leave the oxymoronic comforts of my little dark chamber. I can't quite remember now the amount of pain I was in, but I'm reassured that it's for the best. In the beginning I couldn't think of anything but screaming, anything but crying to keep my mind off of what had happened to me. My entire spine would ache, from top to bottom, an ache that even I can't find the words to describe. The narcotics wouldn't come fast enough, yet even when they did the nausea was another battle of it's own. My body was fighting me, and I was fighting it.

After a day of outings (which were meant to keep my mind busy, I assumed), I felt tired and weak. I went to my room, layed in bed, and awaited the sun to fall so I could potentially escape the confinement I repeatedly found myself in, and not be blinded. Dinner came and I had the strong desire to swim.

A lot of times I get these ambitious thoughts, where in which I'd go ride my bike, or get out of bed without the log-roll maneuver, yet these were all thoughts that were just slightly out of reach. I'm feeling well enough that it seems even brushing my hair wouldn't cause an issue, but then I'm faced once again with reality: the knots in my unkempt mane make it that much more difficult to endure.

I went back into my room and opened up the top drawer of my dresser, retrieving an old bathing suit I'd left here years prior. In an uncoordinated fashion I put it on and looked at myself in the mirror. I had proper curves, my shoulders were align, and I still somehow had my four-pack. I couldn't help but let myself smile.

I hastily grabbed a towel out of the hallway cabinets and went outside to meet my competitor. This time is wasn't my brother - this time it was the water that lay before me, callously tempting me as it provided many memories of my earlier, more agile self.

I slowly eased myself down to the top step, then the lower, then the lower, then I stepped to the bottom. It felt good - it felt like I was somewhat back to normalcy and back to the place that had always meant the most. Mom called from the door, reminding me that I'm not supposed to swim yet, as Dad noted teasingly after her that butterfly was to be avoided.

I smirked, yet instantly wanted to try. I attempted to do the arm motions while standing in the shallow end, and realized mobility wasn't quite on my side yet. The rods in my back were stiff, along with my tight, tense muscles clenching at each minuscule movement made. I gave up the strokes, but just for today.

I ended my swim with some egg-beating, trying to hold out as long as I could until I began to hurt. As much as I'm dying to be one hundred percent, as much as I'm yearning to be able to do the things I used to, I'm learning to be patient, I'm reminding myself that I had major back surgery.

I just had major back surgery, and now I've treaded water. I smiled again.

The truth is, running up the stairs at Cheesecake Factory wasn't the last time I was going to do it. I might not have believed the notion a couple of weeks ago, but I'm determined to believe it now. It's not always going to be easy, and I'll surely have days of discontentment, but persistence has always been a prominent attribute that even nineteen screws and two rods can't take from me. Nor am I about to let my bed form a ravine due to my lack of a desire to move.

Things can always be worse, but things can always be better, too - it's just up to you to want to achieve them.

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Interpret With Ignorance, Not Malice.

I'm sitting in a room that once used to be mine. Completely unrecognizable to the prior, the dark walls and antique furniture stare at me as if I'm the foreign object, as if I'm the one that doesn't belong. The sun is out, incandescently showering the landscape beyond the walls with it's polarizing rays, spreading it's wealth as it revolves about. The whispered hum of the vacuum is driven in differing angles, dragging it's pitch along with it.

I stare at the ceiling and being to wonder; I begin to think. Not the type of usual thinking, where the aforementioned minutiae would go unnoticed or disregarded, but facing the real of it all.

But then again, what is real?

We all create illusions of what the present is dealing, what the past has dealt, and what hand the future is supposed to hold. Whether we feel it's a full house and we reach out to collect our chips, or a jubilee of less-than-synchronized numbers, leaving us with empty pockets and a baffled mindset, things are never as they seem.

You may think you're running a sprint but it's really a marathon. You may think you're failing miserably, but you're really doing okay. You may think, but you could be wrong. Everyone thinks, and everyone is wrong.

There's a difference between logos and pathos, mentality and emotionality.

This maxim of humanity, of life, continues to perpetuate the notion that these two items are separate, that they're a battling paradox which have no purpose for intermixing. It's interesting to detail what we strive for and so greatly value: seeing rational thought as a savior of sorts, yet time and time again it's our intuition, our conscience, our emotions that serve as our most looked to advisers, whether you're able to come to its admittance or not.

As bruised and battered, spoiled and loved as I have been, I can still say I'm profoundly in agreement with the famous poets, authors and philosophers who have become cage-free in noting the power of honoring our heart's guidance throughout the ages. Not that there's no room for rationality, as there's a time and place for everything, but finding that true balance takes a mature wisdom, one in which majority of the world is too blind to see.

I take my attention off of the ceiling and onto the screen, rolling back the technological pages of life's occurrences, and remember. My thoughts haphazardly play games with me, fading in and out of happiness and contentment, like a puzzle of scattered images reminding me of what was. I'm thinking about the past, but this time searching for the real.

Both the positive and negative about that, though, is that I found it.

"Don't try to reason with your heart - or feel with your mind - for, just as the heart knows no logic, the mind can't lead you to your soul."

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Here's Johnny!

There's a lot I've been learning since I've been home, and it's only been two short weeks.

But then again, those two short weeks have taken an abnormally long time to pass*.

I've learned that those who care undeniably for you will be at your side when you need them the most - regardless of schedules, distances, or even prior engagements. It's amazing how many things the human conscious takes for granted; a bed to sleep on, a brace to rely on, and people to love on.

It's not a job that comforts you when you're down, or celebrates when you're up. It's not a job that will get you through the day, or provide the warmth of touch at night. It's not a job - it's an excuse. It's not a lifestyle - it's an excuse. It's not that you don't care but you just can't get to it - it's an excuse.

And that's how you begin to lose somebody.

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*Many ANTM marathons later.

Oh Hot Damn, This is My Jam.

I was told to write a post on my past weekend experiences, and have found great trouble in doing so.

It's not because it isn't worth writing about, the fact that my room screams emptiness, or simply due to my lackadaisical mindset; Even my current enjoyment of dark chocolate pretzel bark isn't keeping me from typing furiously (which would be fully understandable, if otherwise). What is however, is that I want to do it justice.

Just like any college graduate quickly thrown out onto the curb of you're-on-your-own-so-do-something-oh-and-we're-all-watching-you, I was able to cast aside the doubt, stress, and frugality that a simple commencement ceremony, once completed, brought upon for a smidgen of time.

I took a trip outdoors, and found a lot.

I found that you should break your boots in before hiking, I can comfortably lay face down in my sleeping bag, I'm less than mediocre at Speed, and low-and-behold a "strong current" is really, a strong current.

I also found that I finally surrendered.

There's something incredible about primitiveness and the absence of complication. With no connection to the outside world of fast-paced living and limited leg room, satisfaction came easily, trust came easily, and nothing else mattered than being with the people you were with. It's comforting, even in it's trivial state, to fall asleep under the stars and wake up with the sun, mother nature saying hello the way she knows best.

Escapes like these are so close and beneficial, yet the small amount of times they are actually ventured to seems one too few. I suppose one day I'll just find a plantation* up in the mountains and finally garner some quality air. Maybe then I'll even escape to the city - maybe not. But what I do know, is that comfort was solidified this weekend, and I can face the next couple of weeks with confidence simply by the people around me.

Pew, pew.

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* Oh, hello ignorance, didn't see you there.

I Blame You, Steve Jobs*.

This morning I realized - rather - this morning I finally admitted the factually annoying notion into my conscience that technology blows.

We as a society have become so dependent on the non-human. Forced to rely on hard drives and always seeking further distanced communication, the electronic gods seem to be against me (or maybe it's just my hormones, but I'd like to think else-wise).

It's interesting how much of an effect said technological objects have over us. For example, I was told I was getting a call last night. I waited. And waited. And waited. And got tired. I decided to send a text message instead, stating that I was going to bed and hoped all was well.

I waited for a reply back. And waited. And waited.

Then fell asleep. I woke up this morning, seeking some sort of notification on my phone. Negative.

Within that time span of about 9 hours, I couldn't help but become disheartened. I couldn't help but become upset simply by an inanimate object (or is it?) staring at me with nothing to say.

Turns out, calls were made and texts were sent, but I unfortunately didn't receive them, all the more reason for myself to be justifiably frustrated. Which, in turn, induces even more discontentment due to the manipulative emotive hold the iPhone has on me.

I'm not quite sure on how to break this pattern, especially since phones have become revolutionary, so much so that majority of individuals own at least one here in the United States. Businesses would surely face tremendous losses, humanity would go ape at the mere conception of having face to face interactions, and the world would cease to exist as we know it**. I suppose I could try to not use my phone for a week, but then other means would be relied upon - gchat, skype, email, only adding to the possibility of malfunction, miscommunication, and furthermore, disappointment. And the vicious cycle ensues.

"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity."

Cheers.

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* Head of Apple. I blame you for all my problems.
** It's called sarcasm. Forty years ago there were no cell phones, life was personable, individuals survived, and might I add it was more prominent for women to be housewives.

Mess With The Bull, You Get Gored.

I suppose we should call this relationship week (or month, potentially), because it's recently been brought to my attention the vast amount of individuals who are being unfaithful.

Now, in order to do your partner dirty, there needs to be a stable definition of what that exactly qualifies the notion. To some, cheating is considered as anything that you wouldn't want to tell your partner, and should they find out, drastic things may occur (such as throwing objects, hurling fists, or even the torturous silent treatment) such as ultimately ending the coupling. There's also the additive of mental vs. physical, with the prior being deemed as the greater sin. Whatever you're doing, be it emotionally attached to another or poontangin' it behind doors, stop.

First of all, I have no patience with this. I don't quite understand the point of being in a relationship if you'd rather be with someone else. Or, for that matter, why you would stay in a partnership when you feel it's a-o-k to want to find happiness elsewhere. Second of all, what's the point? Why not be reasonable, mature and end it, rather then drastically damaging your reputation and credibility, not to mention mentally impairing the spirit of the significant other. The implications that come with making the conscious (yes, conscious) decision (yes, decision, because nobody is forcing you) are usually not part of the thought process when said choice is in motion. Being inconsiderately selfish, you, cheating world, cause immense soul-bruising and potential long term effects. Moreover you've* officially fallen into the "once a cheater, always a cheater" category - welcome, I hope you enjoy your stay. Fortuantely, for those who have enough self-respect after they've been cheated on, your apologies have no effect, although your presence has a new one (and it's not positive).

When I'm with someone, it's simply because I don't want to be with anybody else. I'm with someone because I couldn't imagine, nor want to imagine, being with another individual who appreciates my sarcasm or ridiculous need to drive with my foot on the dash. I feel that the people who are unfaithful impair those that are, especially since it's so common; Relationships have diverged from a wholesome, emotionally connected theology to one that requires less juncture and more protectively egocentric dispositions. But luckily, there is hope: trust. It's a funny thing - trust. It's hard to give and easy to lose, but is an act that is vital in order to maintain a successful relationship. Trust that they're yours, you're theirs, and in that finding a sense of worth, a sense of contentment.

I feel for the people that are the victims, yet, in a twisted way I also feel for those who I've been screeching at this entire post: for their lack of mentality and concern for others. Regrettably, Darwin's natural selection hasn't quite kicked in yet, but beware.

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* I apologize for all the "you" references, it's not directed at you personally, unless you've cheated. Then it is.

A, B, C, Easy As 1, 2, 3.

"Life is like a blanket too short. You pull it up and your toes rebel, you yank it down and shivers meander about your shoulder; but cheerful folks manage to draw their knees up and pass a very comfortable night."

Oftentimes I can be found sitting silently, with something of a stare transfixed on assumed invisible imagery. I've been told in this mindset I look puzzled (but I'm inferring it's a flatteringly puzzled). I enjoy this "you-look-like-you're-hurting-yourself-you're-so-deep-in-thought" spout, especially when it keeps the people around me on their inquisitional toes. Majority of the time though, the things I'm dreaming of are private contemplations; An analysis subjected only to my mind, in fear that their admittance would be disturbing to the public peace. I'm not pessimistic during this stint, but merely, aware of reality.

For the past couple of weeks I haven't been able to shake the desire to study relationships, based both from external and internal viewpoints. And the conclusions I made are astonishing (actually, it's just common sense realized).

There are the relationships that thrive on the material pleasures - sporting designer handbags, $300 sunglasses, and flashing ex-boyfriend Tiffany rings at every chance they get. Based solely on my perceptions, I can't help but wonder how deep the connection actually goes. Rather than seek the companionship or juncture with their partner, the demand for the red KitchenAid mixer is too much of a priority to ignore.

Speaking of order of obligations, there are also the relationships that struggle with just that.

Then there are those relationships that only have each other, abusing the notion of "taking two to tango." Living lives side by side erases all enjoyability of bringing something new to the table; Identity is lost, and enmeshment clouds perceptions, feeling completely inadequate, dazed and confused without their partner holding their hand.

Lastly*, there are relationships that are nothing more than acquaintances, where both go with the flow, only exerting enough effort needed to maintain the Facebook status, yet retaining separate existences all the while - a step above friends-with-benefits.

I can't help but wonder why this happens. I can't help but speculate how these individuals can be happy together. I also can't help the fact that just after I typed that, I looked off for about 5 minutes, contemplating the subject. I can only come to one conclusion.

There's one word that captures the emotion every human being will try to avoid. One word that keeps the prideful cheeky and the humble subservient, the bottom from the top and the long from the short of it. One word that can perpetuate the construction of barricades and fortresses made of steel. As much as we enjoy engaging, playing, conversing, there's something that's always going to hold humanity back until we face it, rather than ignore it. I can boldly say, however, the grass is greener on the other side.

There's a taboo about vulnerability, and each relationship experiences it. The biggest culprit: love. You're completely and utterly opening yourself up to another individual, trusting them to stick by you when fallen, when exuberant, and even when exhausted. Giving them the chance to break you, beat you, torment you, damage you, kick you, bruise you, dismantle you, reject you.

But that's the best part.

Somehow vulnerability, through it's negative connotations, creates excitement - an adrenaline rush that captivates your mind, body, soul. This martyr-like act, as challenging as it may be, should be addressed. Once you're encompassed by the feeling, once you realize your partner**, the surgical down-the-middle procedure couldn't come any sooner. It's just up to you to take liability and embrace it.

I think that's why some get stuck where they are, focused on iPads or Marc Jacobs, higher priorities, or themselves. It's because they're afraid. Or maybe it's because they're stuck - opening up only to find that they're no more right for each other then Brad and Jennifer, but holding on due to their acquiescence.

I don't have all the answers, just observations with unqualified conclusions. But one thing remains true. Giving yourself to another person is tough, but nothing of worth in reality is ever easy.

Some relationships are good, others are bad. Some make you question yourself, where some solidify your identity. Some are for comfort, narcissism, connection, or even just for the day; whereas some previously made you happy, and some still do. Whatever it may be, the human mind would deteriorate without a connection to another, I suppose it's just a perilous ride for many to get there.

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* There are far more negative relational types then this, I apologize if I didn't address yours.
** Realize them for who they are, realize them for how they make you feel, realize them for how much you want them, and realize them for how much you need them.

She-Wolf Meets Gypsy.

"People change and forget to tell each other."

There's a lot of experiences I still have yet to face. Comparing to the majority of individuals around me, catching up is something I've become accustomed to. Whether it's realizing dish soap isn't for the dish washer, popcorn does in fact burn, or that yes, cell phone laws do apply to me, the naivety of life somehow continues to perpetuate this exasperating notion of virginity.

And I want more.

It's almost as if there's this whole new enchantment encompassing my dogma of life, a whole new desire to come face to face with uncertainty. This thought process couldn't have been spurred at a better time, especially when I'm overtly excited to experience said mentality.

However, there are a few items I would like to bring along for the journey: an open mind, an open heart, and an unlimited supply of egg mcmuffins.

Cheers to the future.

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Hands At The Ready.

"Are you on your period?"

This is undoubtedly one of the top questions to ask a female that will surely put her mood farther down the drain once asked. Welcome to no-mans land, ya'll.

I feel the need to redeem myself, rather, counterpoise my prior post by defending my womanhood.

Although I do have many masculine traits, I still can not help the genealogical complexity that resides among each chromosome, and tonight was a prime example; The beast was let out to play. I want to feel like I matter, even in a room barred with situational pretexts, and when I'm experiencing an emotion of unappreciativeness*, will undoubtedly analyze and wonder why I'm imagining myself on a comparable level with a sea cucumber (they exist, but no one cares**). Once I bring this negative sensation to the table, I of course have to do the apologizing. So I do, repeatedly. And this is where the line is drawn.

I don't understand the male brain sometimes, because after all, I am not - I'm a girl, sista, woman, matron, the double x. I feel that with that, I deserve the chance to be a little emotional, not want to talk, and for once in my life throw understanding to the wind. But then again, that get's us nowhere. So I'm thankfulhat it's drawn out of me, I just don't appreciate the feeling of stupidity that follows.

Moral of the story, I suppose, is that I still have to maintain my claim to femininity sometime or another. After all, if you didn't appreciate me for that quality, then you're better off surrounding yourself with testosterone.

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* Fake word.
** I'm sure someone cares, someone who's not hormonal and on their period, though.

No, Thank You, I Take It Black, Like My Men.*

I like guns. And I'm realizing more and more my lack of femininity.

True, I enjoy being pampered, my dream job encapsulates being a housewife, and romance is my middle name, but there are a few things that continue to overpower these gendered norms, and projectile-firing weapons is one of them.

My morning routine consists as such: roll out of bed (optional), shower (optional), brush hair (optional), make coffee (required), grab gypsy bag and head out into the day. These habitual activities can take anywhere from 10 - 30 minutes maximum, and I pride myself in the you-look-comfortable-and-not-all-that-put-together-but-it's-impressive-for-the-time-spent-on-it appearance. In fact, I wrote a post** a while back on this matter if you'd prefer a bit of a reflective analytical cogitation***. This, according to several individuals I interviewed on the concept****, is a trait normally found within the masculine realm, along with my preference for dealing with arguments.

I'm simple minded, and with that, the fluffy, encoded messages someone tries to send me when they're upset (or even for elusive suggestive remarks, for that matter) don't work. I'm not sure if I just block it out, or choose to take your colorful discourse for what it is - yes, you really are ok, and no, you're not just saying that yet hoping I grasp the notion that it's quite the contrary. Therefore, straightforwardness is my second middle name, as in, be up front, tell me what's wrong, and let's get over it. No tantalizing bush beating needed.

With that said, until my 21st birthday arrives in the next few months, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for a nice Smith and Wesson .45ACP. As much as I enjoy baseball games, getting dirty, and staying up to date on the news, I still maintain satisfaction that I am a woman, and feel that a good balance of gendered mannerisms never hurt nobody.

I am woman, hear me roar.

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* From Airplane, the movie, to be politically correct about an apolitically correct statement.
** After I went back and read this, I realized how much my writing has changed since then. Probably due to the many complaints of my lack of readability, and my current inhibition to freely perpetuate my sarcasm.
*** Also note, however, I still managed to interject a subtle hint at firearm obsession*****.
**** This is a fictional attempt to support myself.
***** It's a healthy obsession, similar to popcorn.

Thursday Fight Night.

There's one concept throughout my collegiate career that has had a jaw-dropping effect. Now, it's actually a rather simple notion, so before you prepare yourself for some grandiose spiel, don't.

Written communication is different than verbal communication.

"Well, that's obvious," you might be thinking, but pre-Communication 309, this elementary sentiment was never brought up or thought upon. The more I swallow this idea, the more I realize why I prefer writing.

For example, anyone who knows me, is well aware that my foot (or gravity-defyingly* both) is usually positioned somewhere near my mouth. When you share discourse with someone words can't be taken back, nor are there opportunities for unlimited editing prior to submission.

All in all, I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere in this, such as the ruby rule "think before you speak." Or, better yet, maybe this can spur the invention of a filtration system that can be surgically installed near the connection between my brain and vocal cords. Whatever it is, I appreciate the individuals around me who continuously help to get myself out of the human pretzel position (as I am no gymnast), and being worth the dissection of prior assertions.

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*Apparently this suffix is incorrect, but I'm using it anyways.

Edit: I've really tried hard to steer clear of big words, really.

The Dinner Party, Act 2.

I just got slapped in the face by the hand of disesteem, and let me be the first to say I did not like it.

I caught myself sitting in a glass house throwing stones, something that from a metaphorical-I'm-reflecting-on-the-subject-stance-now seems rather ludicrous (not the rapper). I realized that I'm a huge hypocrite when it comes to certain things. For example, I feel that I can have the last cookie and you cant, it's a-o-k for me to recite commercials word for word and it not be a sign of laziness, or the fact that my room's allowed to be disorganized and yours isn't.

When this ignorant thinking became exposed, my stomach fell - just like when you're on a roller coaster and keep your eyes closed right before and during a drop, it's that same feeling (but I don't particularly like this source of adrenalin). There is a good thing that comes out of it, though. Actually, two positive things: the first, I know how being buddy buddy with guy friends looks and feels to another person, the second, I need to have more self confidence. The latter is just for my own referential purpose, really, but I now know what I need to focus on and what not to.

My hormones are out of wack, so possibly this has something to do with my current mentality (get it? Men-tality). I'm happy, you're happy (right?), everyone's happy - so we should take the drops as they come, eye's closed and all. Be that as it may, life wouldn't be worth the ride without them.

Sunny Delight Earns D Grade.

"I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it."

I haven't written in awhile, but let me tell you why.

There's nothing like a good glass of orange juice. The taste, the aroma, and joyously throwing the peels down the garbage disposal - it can't be beat. However, when something is lost out of that substance, like the pulp (which is undoubtedly the best part) (that's not up for discussion), the glass almost instantaneously appears half empty, and certainly lacking in a proper serving of vitamin c. Without this pulp, one could infer that the simple reminder of mother nature has been removed from the processed, frozen, popped out of a can fruit concentrate. In the same way, I've lost my words, or at least the essence behind them.

And you know who I have to blame for this malnutrition? My mother.

Driving home from class tonight I began thinking why certain things happen. I also double checked my image in the mirror to see if there were giant letters spelling out "screw me, please" on my forehead. Then it hit me - I know exactly where it comes from. My ma has the biggest heart of anyone I have ever graced these past 20 years; she consistently gives and gives and gives, never expecting a token in return. She hardly complains, and when she does it's framed in such a way to sympathize with others (whether she realizes it or not). She forgives, she's thoughtful, and continually strives to cure all wounds - especially those that can't be seen. I feel for other maternal figures that know her, because surely there's some envy at her mothering skills. Yes, I'm biased, but don't let that fool you. This, then, is where the applied analysis comes into effect.

However much I don't want to care, however much I don't want to give simply doesn't matter. Period. It's like someone decides to take a machete to my insides, tearing me up because I want to, I have to - this emotional mindset has been ingrained within myself from the very beginning, and I'm afraid a reverse-conditioning process would be of no use. This further goes to supplant the notion of unconditionality. Whether you beat me down, like to take me for a ride, or pull the silent treatment card, I let you. And you know why I let you? The same reason my mom puts up with my pent up aggression. The same reason she continues to accept me for who I am. The same reason she routinely shows her love for me whether I deserve it or not.

Maybe it's because we like to see the good in individuals. Or maybe, its the simple the fact that we like to see people content, even at the cost of our own egos.

And it absolutely kills me.

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Man Vs. Wild.

I'm perched - well, slouched, rather - upon my couch and watching this weeks episode of The Bachelor. I begin to wonder if I'm going about the whole romantic relationship thing wrong. I mean, I haven't choreographed a lyrical dance nor gawkily made wishes on fungi-infested decomposing leaves that I so philanderingly* threw up into the air. Do they really talk like that in real life?

It's that time again - the one where Jake, this season's two-timer, goes home to visit the families of the 4 remaining girls. I'm literally cringing in my seat watching this all unfold; I can't decide whether the whole situation is pathetic or simply dense. Probably a combination of both. Now mind you, I'm no cynic, after all I'm a firm believer in love, but going on a tv show seems a bit absurd, and here are my reasons why. I apologize in advance for my cheekiness.

Firstly, it's awkward. If the stuttering and obsessive tears weren't enough, there has to be a camera in your face to quadruple the nervous ticks. I keep going into Comm. major mode - just watching and studying how the two (whichever girl you'd like to envision with Jake, and yes, they're interchangeable) interact screams of insecurities and discomfort, yet, they're "in love?" I can't handle it.

"Hey!"
"Hello..." says girl, as she runs up and gayly leaps into his arms.
"I'm so happy to be here!"

Now, just imagine that with forced smiles and unease written all over it. Painful, right?

Secondly, where do they find these bachelorettes who aren't even bachelorettes to begin with? Married, going through a divorce, still attached to an ex - a lot of excess baggage that I'm sure no man should have to, nor want to deal with. If it's meant to be, it'll happen in time, and once the papers are final.

Thirdly, everything feels forced. Everything feels coerced to some extent - each date perfectly conspired by a talented love-enthusiastic crew of writers and producers. Because it's completely reasonable to go to Hawaii on a first date, or bungee jumping, or have candles that maintain a perfect flame for 20349824 hours. Their only real conversations are about their troubled past relationships, and how they've been hurt, which adds up to a grand interaction total of 45 minutes. Grow up, get over it, and stop being pitiful.

I almost was going to conclude, before a fourth reason just yelled at me. I don't enjoy watching an hour of a guy saying the same thing repeatedly. Nor do I enjoy watching him make out with each girl, either. The more I think of it, I don't even know why the show's ratings are so high. Maybe people like watching other individuals suffer, because that's basically what it is: a three ring circus of deterioration. If I had to sit back and wait for a guy to decide if he'd rather be with me over 3 other girls, I'd be an utter mess. But then again, I'd never put myself in that situation, nor should anyone, which returns me to the beginning of this post: they're densely pathetic. And that goes to all parties involved.

I'm not sure how I was able to write this much on the topic, as it wasn't even supposed to be up for articulation. However, it is what it is, and I just hope ABC gets slapped in a nice, why-are-you-obscuring-reality kind of way. Thank you for taking my mind off of more important things like scrubbing the floors or cleaning out the litter box.

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* A word made up for argument's sake.

Speak Up Sonny, I Can't Hear You.

There's a bit of stuff I hold in. Actually, the more I think of it, I probably internalize a lot more than I should. I'm like a gigantic (relatively speaking) featherlight Dirt Devil with my microfresh filtration trapping over 99% of dust and allergens. Except, in this case, the cat fur and pine needles* just pile up with no means of an escape. This definitely can't be healthy**.

Maybe that's why I've become so entwined within my comfort zone. Maybe that's why I've become so closed off from reality. Maybe that's why anyone ever is.

I mean, think about it: in today's society (or within Western civilization), the tick of the clock reigns supreme. Life is busy; Deadlines are created and demanded to be met. People bite off more than they can chew, yet strive to prove to the world that they're in control, that they're going to come out ahead. This interminable pursuit of commercialism becomes prioritized and interpersonal relations take a back seat. Actually, it's not even in the vehicle. It's probably still waiting at the bus stop, in the rain, with no overhead protection, and there's a tornado warning. It also doesn't have any shoes. But yet, this social association still waits patiently to be picked up. Why?

No one can go on living forever without it.

It's funny, because, after conversing with a friend about the matter, we pooled together our ideas and came up with our own logical (of course) assumption: the primal reason we close ourselves off is because we feel that no one can give us an honest second of their day. Sure, you can ask how I'm doing, and I'll reply, "I'm well, thanks." "How's school going?" "It's school," I'll say, and issue a supportive laugh. But that's it. Humanity is too busy for an ounce of sincerity, for a teaspoon of geniality (and that's not even asking much). Therefore, disclosure shallows out to breath rather than depth, and everyone goes about their day just as the prior.

This is in no way saying that humanity is a walking vacuum cleaner time bomb. It is saying, though, that no one can get through life alone - I'm willing to bet on it. You can only fight through the traffic of stress, pressures and deviances for so long before you realize you have a stop to make. After all, whatever you believe, Adam and Eve, nor our ape-like ancestors, could have survived without each other. Either way mankind wouldn't exist.

Karl A. Menninger stated that, "Listening is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force. The friends who listen to us are the ones we move toward. When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand." Maybe people just need to take more communication courses, or maybe I've just taken too many. All in all, life, it would seem, could be that much more of a comfort rather than chore, if humanity simply stopped hearing.

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*One of our cats, Lola, ingested pine needles and proceeded to purge all about the apartment.
**However, my immune system is impeccable - 5 second rule? Try the minute rule.

Free Cat to Good Home.

This was my morning.

And we're out of coffee.

Stitch 'N Bitch: The Friday Night Knitting Club.

You know what's interesting? Things can be great, and then, right on schedule, I feel the need to seduce atrophy. I sigh, of course.

It's mirthful to think that after a while, people begin to wear on you. Judgment fatigued, expectations altered; even the most elementary of humanistic variables juxtaposed. For example, when you're hanging out with a group of individuals that knit all the time, you're slowly going to start inquiring about it, or better yet, find yourself wandering through Michael's looking for maroon-colored yarn. An unforeseen and equally unavoidable influence takes its toll, consuming, whether you approve or not. No matter how much I profess my independence and Hamlet-like true-to-self nature, in less than a month of close contact, I too, began to knit.

Unless someone points it out to you, you're never going to notice how skilled you've become at purling.

No, I don't know how to knit. And yes, making a point via metaphors has never been a proper mode of self-disclosure. However, I'm both ashamed and encouraged, roughed-up and ready; The dish washer droning on in the background even gives me hopes of a return (and clean dishes).

There are a few things I need to elicit from my once-upon-a-time disposition. I looked back over some of my older posts in a bit of a reflective state, playing doctor in search of a diagnosis.

I was patient, I was simple. I was sick, yet found a reason to trek to the educational kingdom. The reason goes on to be found with a talent to charm, not to mention firearm compatible, furthering to promote the theory of comfortableness. November. December. January.

Apparently, now I'm needy, I complain a lot, and in turn, I ask for too much. All I know is one month can kill you, as I am officially retracting my subscription to Knit 'N Style. Sorry ladies, but this plain-Jane has had an epiphany: reasons are far more important than scarfs or afghans.

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3 Cheers for Ambiguous Indirection.

I'm disgruntled, and I'm not quite sure how to articulate it.

Maybe disgruntled isn't the right word - frustrated, perhaps? Nubs keeps kneading at my thighs, just to further my enjoyment of the darkening day. Her tail is so weird. I felt it today. Like, really felt it. And you know what it feels like? A crooked nub. Her face makes up for it, though, and I love her - abnormality and all. Because that's what love is, right? That's what caring about another is about, I suppose. Or you would think I'd suppose.

I think I think too much. I think more than I should have thought, and thought more than I should have thunk. I end up driving myself crazy over nothing in hopes that it's something, or just the opposite. Maybe it's the estrogen, or maybe it's simply my haggard eyes staring at the screen, searching for any means of a focus to inscribe at the moment. Creativity is lagging, yet somehow, the sharp claws of the feline are pushing me onward.

What to write.

I know right from wrong.

I also know up from down. Furthermore, I am now knowledgeable of the fact that samples are slim at Costco on Monday afternoons. My severely disciplined-in-the-art-of-ethics self is hard to please; my conscience consistently gives me slack. Like an overbearing parental figure making me rethink the decision of another bite of cake, I can't seem to escape. I'm running, and running as quickly as I can to, well, live. The enigmatic shackles that drag behind me continue to hold; I want to be happy.

That's it. I just want to be happy. The sounding of a text message on my phone just went off down the hall, and I would like to go get it. I would like a lot of things. But I only need a few. Please be the one I need.

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Soggy Monday.

There's one thing that a massive mother nature air strike can undeniably consummate: soaked jeans.

I've never been a fan of wet clothes, and the more I think about it, the more I cringe at the mere idea. All that added amount of friction between your legs hardly makes walking throughout Target enjoyable, which we all know, would normally bring pure contentment. The cats have approached my soggy trousers with a sense of unease a couple times now, only to be just as put off as I am about the dampness. I'm contemplating wrapping myself in Reynolds wrap, but realized my self-esteem isn't prodigious enough.

The wet weather is supposed to stay for the next week, and although my Seven's have seen dryer days, I welcome it with open arms. Just not a tornado - hospitality embracement will not be available. FYI, I have a huge fear of flying up inside a cyclone, with farm animals joining in on the ride. Some movies, like Twister, should not be shown to 7 year olds. Sorry Helen Hunt, but my children will not have to mentally cope with Meg being stuck in the basement. However, I digress.

Just be sure to dust off the rain coats and umbrellas, California, and leave the jeans safe at home.

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Happily Ever After A Week.

I just finished an intensive one-week three-unit winter-session class. If the plethora of dashes weren't enough, try to imagine running a marathon in an hour. Maybe 1.5 with a foot cramp, but that'd be stretching it. Meet Communication 352, or for the CSULB handbookless*, Storytelling.

What? That's an actual class? Go figure, but apparently in order to be an effective and dynamically cogent major, one must practice their art of reciting fairy tales and producing proper audience utterances of "oohs" and "aahs." Because that's what Comm 352 is, right? Or as a fellow individual noted of intersession courses, PS2 would occupy most educational time.

News flash: Storytelling is the ideology that fueled the creation of acronym FML.

I'm pretty sure I've never worked this hard in a class. Ever. I'm also pretty sure my mind was complete mush by day 3. Coffee, if it had any effect before, was consumed like water. The baristas/baristos at Starbucks were incredibly sympathetic with their offering of free refills every day - maybe because the $.05 change I dropped each time into the tip jar really started adding up. Who knows. However expressive I can be, just know, this class violated all prior expectations.

Day 1: It's never a good feeling walking into a room, sitting down, and the first utterances from the professor is, "This week is going to be hell, say goodbye to your life for the next 5 days. Seriously." After that remark, the class tally dropped from 28 - 20 students.

Day 2: My snacks for the day run out by 11AM. It can only get worse. Oh, that's right, my boyfriend leaves for Mexico.

Day 3: The professor tries to encourage us with some doughnuts, but his nonverbal rhetoric is still screaming, "Your grave plot will be issued soon."

Day 4: A total of 42 hours on campus is recorded to date, not to mention 3 papers, 157 pages of reading, and 2 speeches completed. We're still expected to have a 5 minute story memorized and ready to perform by tomorrow, as well as our corresponding Korean immigration presentation. Our group stayed later to practice, only for our superior to note, "It's my personal opinion you guys stay a bit longer, you need a lot of work obviously." Obviously you would be good at running a concentration camp.

Day 5: We're the last group to present. Right when we are about to begin, campus-wide black out. The professor says he has two options for us: 1, do the exhibition by the illumination of fellow students flash lights. I waited for option 2, but it never came.

Needless to say, there were (believe it or not) a couple positive things that arose from this experience. Besides being 3 units closer to graduation in May, I finally finished off the huge Costco-sized box of FiberOne bars. Thumbs up. Also, I feel that I've reached my quota for the coming semester of work exertion. I now have a week of mindlessness ahead of me before my last bit of collegiate studies begin. There's no time like the present to practice staying in bed all day, at least for the next few turns of the sun.

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* Not a real word, as pointed out by the squiggly** red line.
** Apparently squiggly is a real word?