Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.

I was awake.

I had laid there, lifelessly, for what felt like years. I begged my eyes not to open, pleading insanity and began hoarding my sheep. If only I could stay like this. If only I could drift away, into a wide, open, breezy pasture that saluted one sole tree, looking content, and far off in the distance. I'd count sheep all day, I thought. Nothing but counting would matter - 14, 15, 16 - I imagined them in a line, waiting patiently as ever for their shepherds duty. All that the sheep wanted was a number, and all I had to worry about was giving them one - and that was easy. I would begin to know them by heart - the way number 9 walked, the way number 21 was rather sensitive, the way number 17 always wanted to be number 1, the way number 1 felt a huge weight of obligation, of being first in line. The way number 6 looked to me for comfort, nuzzling its face into my side. The way number 13 played, eyes wide and happy, the way 12 would protect me, the way 8 would sigh, the way 19 would call to me, the way 4 would reach for me, the way 2 would love me.

Time went by and my sheep became my life - I had purpose, and I cherished each of them. I was always watching, ready to relieve, to restore, to reinvigorate.

Then one went missing. I looked everywhere - I begged and begged the other sheep to help me look, to bring it back, but they consoled me instead, and promised the one would return. Days go by and I feel frantic as if I'm slipping from my little world of perfection.

I'm now missing two.

I try to forget and move on. The other sheep meaningfully proposed dreams and ideas and theories that I could cling to, and so I did.

I began to feel better. The sun was out most days, and I could get along just fine. Counting wasn't as easy as it used to be, especially after the first two losses, but I managed and started focusing on new things. I wanted to explore, I wanted to commit, I wanted to pursue. I started looking at other pastures in my off time, and some of the sheep came with me. They nodded in agreement as we went from one scene to the next, acknowledging and approving.

We finally made it back to our field to find the remaining sheep waiting. I was relieved they were still there, and was overflowing with hope and trust. I was excited, and clambered into my hut for sleep. I was exhausted.

My enthusiasm overflowed into the next morning, and the next, and the next. I planned and planned and went over all of our possibilities until my creativity was shot. I was connected to my sheep, I felt them, I heard them, and I knew them. And they were connected to me.

Slowly but surely, however, one by one went missing. At first I tried to accept the reality, that I would love the remaining sheep with all I had in hopes that they too, wouldn't leave, but I couldn't easily shake these obvious voids. I dearly missed those that had been lost. I helplessly reached for the others to send out a search party, but again, I was only met with words. This time they were cold and I felt as if I had failed them. They had high hopes for a shepherd who could count well. That's all they ever wanted, was just to be counted. Nothing more, nothing less.

I cried out to them, begging for forgiveness and to let me try again, but they walked away and out of sight. I collapsed to the damp ground from the morning dew, and my body began to tremble. I was alone, and I wasn't enough.

I didn't just want to count and I didn't just want to give numbers.

I wanted it all to mean more than just that.  

My eyes opened.

The dull, white, and unbecoming ceiling was an oxymoronic slate above me. Though years of paint had gone up on the interior walls, the ceiling had been neglected and always remained the same. I stared straight into it, and found that its outward appearance was a great deception. It had so much to tell me, but sat there silent, instead.

I give myself a few moments to become readjusted. I gently roll to my side and push up and greet the sun cascading before me. My hair is a mess and I've been in this sweatshirt for days.

I clamber out of bed, down the hall, and into the living room.

There's a fire going and I smile at Dad's non-verbal form of affection. I grab a cup of coffee and blanket and curl up beside it. Mom and Brother are busy both in the kitchen and in the other room, and my soon to be Sister greets me from the door. Family and friends both write, call, and take me away, and I can't help but feel their warmth - not just for me, but for my sheep, as well, and what they mean to me.

There's a reason why He's called a Savior - that even when I could feel so dejected, defeated, beaten, and broken - I feel the safest on my knees, where I can only look up. I suppose it's a place we all need to be sometimes.


And what a place at that.


 

The Bell Jar

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

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.

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.