Falalala Good News!

I don't even know where to begin to describe how relieved and happy I am right now! After having realized that because I retook a course and received a better grade, the U's process of "grade bracketing" erases my old bad grade from my GPA and recalculates it according to the new one. My GPA is officially above a 3.0 which means I am now eligible to apply for Carlson and be considered competitive for J-school! There's a .01% chance that my understanding is of error, which would suck tremendously, but for now I'm just going to let the feeling of gratitude soak in because either way I'm in a happy place and either way my GPA is higher than it currently reads. The system's calculation of the bracketing will process itself approximately mid-February, according to the help at One Stop.

I was recently told to ask myself this when in situations that seem nothing but bad: "What is perfect about this situation?" Man, did that add some depth to my perspective. The fact that I applied this to my situation pre- realization of the GPA change, and thus concurrent acceptance of a path leading nowhere near Carlson or J-school, really makes for a solid state of acceptance despite what the future holds and where I'll be receiving my degree.

Funny how contentment with one area of your life makes any perceived burden of the other areas suddenly seem not all that bad? Rather than the options that lie ahead of me feeling like dead weight and despair in uncertainty, these options feel exciting and as if they offer zest--no matter what the choice--to my life.

Oh, tonight has also been delightfully spectacular in another department, of which all I can say is akldgja;lwihga. I swear, when you see someone smile to a degree you've never seen them smile before, the memory sticks with you. Particularly, when they're smiling because of you. Man.

Thank God for these blessings.


P.S. This is proof that I'm not letting him stop me.

Looking to Leave the Box

One of the most important rules of keeping a blog is to not neglect it. In technically doing so, I more so have been neglecting the urge to share what's on my mind, because right now it's a forceful melee in my brain and I don't know what arguments I want to break up and settle right now.

Commence purging of free-flowing worries:

• National Student Exchange for the entirety of next school year? In LA or NYC, or elsewhere? Or study abroad? I'm feenin' for change and I'm looking at the extremes. 
• Why is it that one of the people I care so much about must reside 500 miles away, permanently, starting in two weeks? NOW who am I going to go the beach with at sundown this summer and dry off with an emergency fire blanket and stuff hairnets in our pants and go rollerblading in the wrong direction?
• I'm on academic probation with my sorority which started with spring semester '11 due to extreme extenuating circumstances that failed to be recognized, and I now failed to meet the bar again (just barely) due to a whole nother story. I have to find if that means the boot or a restriction on social activities. (Jump to next bullet for direct continuation) This also means that my GPA is short of the requirement to the school I have been wanting to apply to for two years now, and short of the recommended GPA for another school that would be the preferred backup. This branches out to the hours of lecturing I am probably going to receive from my family.
• ...Thing is, it just might be the daring shove I've needed because right now the means of my sovereignty has a considerable surplus of pros versus the cons on paper--I just don't know about the actual living it out. I pay for every penny and am down to not many pennies; I have a plethora of material that would like to be performed on Monday nights but can't until the day I no longer need to attend mandatory meeting (a little side intention to the NSE in LA or NYC - I call it "following my dreams"); and am starting to feel the walls closing in in a way that they didn't feel before, and I'm finding these urges to explore outside "the box," as I call it. This would involve living on my own, real-world style and not sorority style, with the bonus of not having to pay live-out dues.
  Having truly spread myself too thin this semester, I realize who I really need to bother spending my time with, and those would be the people who I feel I can really be myself around. Find the vice versa in that situation and you'll catch my drift. I'm quite tired of censoring myself and being scolded for when I don't. It must be made known that I adore each and every one of my sisters, but I feel I'm at the point in life where I need to prioritize who I spend my time with because at the end of the day, some of the people who I care about the most aren't the ones filling my proximity with their presence. (Note the "some" because the rest are in fact ones that I have met through sisterhood.) The issue is both physical and the issue of "the box." I have comfortably decided that should the ladies within my current sisterhood whom I consider my truly best friends decide to change their ways in our friendship, due to this situation of grades and money, that I would not be at a loss but rather at an advantage from being burden-free of false friendship. But I do not see this happening, as I am thinking of a select handful that know me pretty damn well, and have been my life-saving confidants in the hardest time of my life (note: extenuating circumstances that resulted in the academic probation). As for the brothers that are a part of the house I so dearly love, I have zilch worries. They're dudes and I've seen them treat young women who drop their houses just the same as before. I know that the street would go both ways with the ladies as far as communication goes, but I would so dearly hope that a true friend should feel no need to feel any different in future run-ins with old sisters. The fact of the matter is, is that the whole situation boils down to money and anything else mentioned above is what I have worked with as "the bright side" to a possible ultimatum or lack thereof, in which I am referring to das boot. The buh-bye. 
• Internships for the summer. Where to look? Should I feel like I'm derailing off the tracks if I find myself working so I can see my bank account look a little more alive?
• Sleep: So far I'm pretty good at doing really bad in trying to fix my sleep schedule. I'm literally nocturnal. I'm very productive at night however!
• Also, why has the investigator not fucking called me back?! Do not excuse my language, as it's a matter that should not be taken lightly. Voicemails and several phone calls and a month past last time's estimate... I feel like something is off and that it's not in my favor. 
• Life in general. What am I looking to achieve? For some reason I feel so empty of answers right now, and have never felt so not-myself. 

So, that is what's been pending and it seems that each issue stems into another branch of related issues. 

In the mean time, I'm enjoying doing nothing classwork-related during winter break and seeing all my freakin' wonderful friends from back home (and from when life was simpler and seemingly happier).

7am is rolling around, I better hop into bed. Goodnight friends.

The Human's Right to Happiness - Bullying & Suicide

I always fear a swift exit from my readers who are not believers of God, but bear with me the point that I try to bring across in the very beginning, as it seeks to explain the evil behind a disturbing issue that cycles within our culture. If impossible, then jump to the paragraph marked with the asterisks.***
If you straight lack that gem called patience (or time), read the letter. It's marked in italics and centered.
__________________________________________________________________


Sometimes (very often) people (putas) say things that make me just want to slap them. Most specifically, when they say things about another person that, well, aren't very nice. When this urge finds itself trickling into my fingertips, I instead decide to invest the energy into the keyboard of my beloved silver machine and let insomnia do the rest. The product of such acts is some of which you have read on here.


This time, I wanted to cover an issue that is just the same issue as above, stemming from mouths that shouldn't have words stemming from them to begin with. (They don't follow the rules of Thumper.) Lately, these tragic stories seem to be peeking their way more and more into the pages of my news feeds, as recent cases and viral videos have surfaced collectively into the realm of online media / social media front pages, including Twitter, Reddit, and Facebook (via separate news channels and shared links). The final spark to write about it and address some side issues came when I shuffled through some miscellaneous saved documents and found a letter that I had saved after searching the meaning behind one of my favorite bands' songs. 


With that said, please read on.




The following is an excerpt from a suicide letter:


"To the God, if he does exist, who chose to play a cruel, cruel joke on me when he placed me where he did and surrounded me with so many uncaring faces."


No way in Hell.


No way in Hell should any human being be driven to such a conclusion. Never should one be brought to the conclusion that his very existence is merely that of a cruel joke. Even worse is the postulation that it was by the doings of God, the God that is not cruel, but in fact a loving God that just so happens to play in the same battlefield as Satan. 


God is not evil, for it cannot exist in his presence alone. Evil exists because humans have free will. With free will, we have the ability to choose between good and evil because we have the knowledge of it. My message for those who are strong believers in hard determinism: You make your own choices... He just already knows the choices you are going to make.


Begin the cycle: If we did not have free will, then we would be like puppets and God the puppeteer. But if the point of creating mankind is on behalf of an omnibenevolent entity, God, and His hope in return is to receive unconditional love from that of which He has created, there would be no point to have created the earth since the unconditional love does not come from puppets. For this same reason and using the same logic, there would be no reason for Satan to have both the will and the ability to penetrate our hearts and inflict evil within our free will. To reiterate: it is a battlefield. 


It is human beings, therefore, that choose evil sans the presence of God in their hearts. We all sin, it is also an ongoing battle within ourselves to uphold the standard of love which is bestowed upon us as loved ones of God. 


Innocence collides with blind intentions and wrongdoing, guided by human tendencies we are born into, innate as the need to breathe. Knowledge of good, it fights a losing battle when what is easy outweighs what is hard - to resist temptation. Lo, evil corrupts the pure as evil synthesizes with a life lacking in the spirit of Jesus.


***But let me make known that the point of this post is for the masses, for believers and non-believers alike. The goal is to pinpoint an issue that is often overlooked because it is framed into a picture that only captures the tip of the iceberg; to grab hold of the victimizers and shake them just a bit - to demonstrate how the ignorance of the masses, the accepted cruelties of society, and insecurities of everyone alike breaks down a human being until they decide that the only way out is to throw the last punch--at themselves. 


I'm talking about bullying. 


And I'm targeting every person and like-person mentioned in the below letter.


Adam Krieger wrote this suicide letter, assuming that only one person would really mourn his loss. 


However, I believe everyone who has love in their heart mourns his loss... And if I'm doing the math right, Adam--that's a lot of people.

To the man and woman who chose to conceive a child, the result of which was me, when it fit in with their five year plan; 

To the teachers who never really cared, no matter what they say; 

To my fellow geeks, dweebs, et. al., who will no doubt receive more abuse upon my passing, as my tormentors will no longer have me to kick around; 

To my fellow students who made my life a living nightmare when they should have focused on their education; 

To those who never cared, never spoke, probably never knew my name; 

To the one true friend, whose caring was the only thing that prevented this even from happening sooner; 

To the God, if he does exist, who chose to play a cruel, cruel joke on me when he placed me where he did and surrounded me with so many uncaring faces; 

To all of you, goodbye. 

I am leaving a world to which I never truly belonged or fit in. Do not weep for me, or mourn my passing. I say this not because I expect to be missed, but to allow those who truly did not care go on with their lives with a clean conscience and dry eyes. I know you don't want to weep for me. So don't. But I do ask you to listen to the final words of a young man who has taken charge of his own destiny. 

Perhaps my parents might feel something inside which causes them to shed tears. They may pretend that it's sorrow for their "loss", but I hope it is something else. Perhaps sorrow for bringing a child into this world when they really didn't have the time or desire to raise him. I wasn't the product of love, born of a desire to prepare another human being to grow and lead the human race. I was merely the next acquisition, the next task, the next project on their list of things that bring significance. 

No child should be brought into this world for the mere purpose of being just another possession. I am not an asset to be cataloged and listed on your tax forms beside your house and car, or fought over during your divorce proceedings. I am a human being. I'm sorry that it took this to make you realize that. If you don't yet get it, then I'm even sorrier. 

What about my teachers? Will they be sorry to see another student become a statistic? Certainly the administration and Principal Chowning will mourn, as my death will not reflect well on them as an institution. Well, I apologize for making the statistics for your administration worse. But I don't expect an apology for the false sympathies of people like Mrs. Dunfee, and the broken promises of others like Mr. Richman. 

As for my fellow students, those who made a more significant impact on my life, I know better than to expect my tormentors to mourn. 

But if I’m going to address those who belittled me, I’d be remiss if I failed to include the ladies in my life. I guess that’s not entirely accurate, as the ones I refer to fall in two basic categories: those who refused to be in my life, and those who I would rather have excluded from my life. In the former category, Melinda Tunney, Jessica Silvers, and dear Kimmy Vanover, who laughed in my face after I asked her to the homecoming dance, humiliating me in front of I don’t know how many other classmates. In the latter category are too many to mention, though I must single out Rebecca Cull and Vanessa Dietrich for their tremendous dedication to the cause of destroying any shred of self-esteem I might dare to foster. Why can’t you accept the things that make other people different rather than insisting everyone conforms to your will? 

Sure, some did offer friendly gestures. Nicole Edwards often would greet me and ask about my life. Not that I ever felt comfortable enough to tell her anything; I never trusted her enough to give her the chance. What was the purpose? Did you really give a flip about the shy, quiet kid who sat behind you in 8th grade history? Or was it all about creating an illusion that you care, just to guarantee my voting for you as a class officer. 

I can only conceive of one person in this world who will truly be sad at my parting. Marty, my best friend, you talked me out of this decision three times before. You even called 911 after I swallowed a bottle of pills. That is why I did not tell you anything this time, and why I do this in secret, alone. I wish you were coming with me on this great adventure, into the final frontier. Where ever I go, yours will be the one face I carry with me. The one soul I will miss. Yours is also the only forgiveness I ask and beg for as I depart from this life. I love you, and always will. 

There's another group I have not yet addressed: those not like me who left me alone. Or I should say ignored me. I appreciate your sparing me any further harassment, but your inaction, your withheld hellos and how are yous did more to hurt than any name calling. Your inaction effectively excluded me from student life, from the human race. You left me isolated and alone, and no words I could say can convey to you the suffering you caused. I could name names, but in doing so, I would do more now for you than you ever did for me in life. 

I do not know if what awaits me at the end of this gun. Will there be a void? Or will I come face to face with God? I just don't care any more. If you're anything like your people, I wouldn't want to know you. You preached to love one another, yet I've felt everything except love from Christians. Even if I could know you were different, well, I still reject you. You have left your "followers" to treat people like me poorly. You have allowed so many of the people you "love", including me, to suffer. So you want me to trust you with my life? I don't want to spend eternity with a careless deity like you, or with the company you keep. 

As my final moments tick away, I wonder what impact these words will create. It depends first on this web site being found, as I doubt whether school administration will want such venom spoken publicly about their lack of caring. Still, the Internet is a remarkable place where even the least significant individual can be heard. Will anyone listen? Will anyone take action? Will students pause and pay attention to the hurting hearts around them? And even if they do, will it be a temporary salve for their egos, to convince themselves they're really not bad people, or will real change happen? 

My heart certainly goes out to my fellow outsiders. With me gone, some of you will certainly feel more of the pain and hurt that I did. No one understands you. No one cares how your day is going. No one bothers to get to know you as anything more than a nerd, a geek, a loser. You can do nothing for their social status, save the occasional boost to the ego they get from putting you in your place. Some of you, like Andy Riker, will find outlets in writing. Some, like James Moon, will have an escape in art. Some, like Sean Gilbert, will live their lives pursuing unicorns that they will never, ever catch. I never had a talent to lose myself in, or a dream or unicorn to chase, and so I have taken the path most dreaded. Some of you may soon join me, and I look forward to welcoming a brother or sister to the land where you will never suffer the loneliness and rejection that faces you now. 

Farewell forever. I am going to another place. Where, I do not know. But logic dictates that it can only be an improvement. Perhaps my passing will only prove a footnote in a school yearbook. Then again, perhaps the sacrifice of one might bring hope to others. If my death makes life for one person a little more bearable, or a little more enlightened, do I really die in vain? 

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one." 

- Adam Krieger

I am an avid Blink-182 fan. They are my absolute favorite band. One small example why is because they wrote this song after reading Adam's letter, and gave it the title:

Blink-182 did this, so the question then becomes: What can we do? What can you do? 


If I may, a few recommendations:


1.) Whether you be a victim or someone who has the urge to bully - Please, find that outlet to lose yourself in. Search for it. Create it. Just don't make it the suffering of someone else because you don't have the strength to recognize your own. I honestly believe that those who have improper capacities in which to relinquish their own suffering, undoubtedly suppress it upon those they believe to possess similar characteristics and elements of insecurity. 


2.) Listen. The calls for help are all around you. They can be found in conversation. Body language and tone. A Facebook post. A single tweet. They are all over YouTube comment threads. I just listened to "How To Save A Life" by The Fray, and looked at the comments. As of an hour ago:


This is the only song that's ever made me cry...... and i thank you for that the fray because all the emotions I held back from all the shit i toke[sic] through high school was killing me, five years of high school with no friends, sitting by myself every lunch time for 5 years people saying shit to me as they walk by me.

that's why I turned to music because i have know[sic] one else, my parents are never home when I'm home and I cry myself to sleep.

fuck i hate thinking about that.

Be the kid that makes the difference. Like I mentioned, find that outlet - so far it seems to be music that is saving this guy^.


As a side note, I do agree with those who are starting to recognize that we live in a culture that sort of promotes weakness, almost catering to those who feel a need to victimize themselves and use common tolls or past events as a crutch. Today, as I read the stream following Jonah Mowry's viral video concerning his bullying, I realize the catch 22 of the mere fact that this video is viral: Will a kid watching this know the difference in the extent in which to simply deal and which to recognize as too far? Are we sending a masked message that being called bad words should inhibit self-isolation and destruction of how one rates themselves worthy of living? I'm not a little kid anymore so I can't say, but as I read the continuous comment stream below the video I witness those who seem to be "the tough." They seem to identify themselves as people in identical situations as Jonah, calling out that they've been in the same hole all their life but don't feel the need to gain pity or recognition from others; as if it's a fact of life and those bullied just need to deal with it. Too ambiguous to streamline any thesis, all I want to do is bring awareness to this contra-issue of nurtured weakness that I have witnessed firsthand.


...Also what I'm saying, is: When I raise my kids, I'm going to tell them that should some twat come trolling over them like a high tide, tell them to kindly back the fuck up and stuff it with a tampon. ROLL TIDE.


But seriously. Common law demonstrates the insecure lash out, so scare them with wit and a little bit where it hurts.


To those addressed as the source of Adam's death:
Obviously, you knew laughing in his face would be embarrassing for him. So, you think being laughed at in front of others is embarrassing? I think being called out as one of the sources of someone's suicide is embarrassing. Really, really embarrassing. I can only hope you've recognized your wrongdoings, and forgiven yourself, because I cannot imagine the burden you carry.


Teenage girls, young adult ladies, woman of all ages: Don't be that girl. Don't associate yourself with those girls. A pretty face, money, popular status, or your own insecurities - none of that grants you the right or authority to act as a detriment to someone else's happiness, to rob them of high spirits, or to infringe on the rights granted to human beings since the moment of conception. Remove the princess crown and earn a callus or two. 


If only we could all dethrone ourselves and live like no one was better than the other.




Because of who I am, I need to end on one note:


If you ever feel that no one here loves you, know that God does. More than you will ever know; unconditionally. So much, that He will grant you the strength to strive for another day... followed by another, until His precious will supersedes your own and you meet on His intended terms.




All you need to do is ask.

Fragments of Realization

Forget an explanation. These have just been sitting inside. It's just not the same to write them down and keep to myself, otherwise I would've written a novel on every one and granted explicit detail. It's not until you share with an undefinable number that it becomes a catharsis, and if it's not cathartic then I might as well not write at all.

To share: No names, no deep context, no special order. I have in my memory moments where I distinctly remember exactly what I realized. The key in each anecdote is that it is a first-time realization, completely original in the context of my life. I realized they've been accumulating, stirring up a rather melancholy state of mind for landlocked periods of time, particularly the past couple weeks. These things just have a way of knocking in the middle of the night.

Remember, without the vagueness, I wouldn't be able to share, and wouldn't be able to mend.
--

When he offered to do what he thought would help me best, I realized I'd never quite fathomed how much he loved me. I could feel the blood thicken.

As I lay there, detached from the bubble that was my life up until that moment, I knew I had checked out. I was floating somewhere else. I realized what I was experiencing was the ultimate realization of living in a nightmare and not knowing when you're going to wake up.

After four and a half years, I asked him if he had one. He was taken aback. In that moment he realized I had changed... and I realized I had changed. I didn't recognize myself.

When he sat down and spoke first, I knew he was sincere. When he trembled so violently and cried just so, I realized he was still just a boy pretending to be a man. One year to the day, and the act that brought it all about still makes it worth it.

I wasn't there to listen to her and receive the message, and it will never be the same because she's no longer a part of it. Sad how you realize how much you mean to someone once it's sorta too late.

You make it so difficult, but for a period you graciously allowed me to realize that I'll always want what I can't have, intangible or not -- and I should just learn to appreciate what's in front of me.

She told me I wouldn't understand until I had my own kids, but I already realize how much I hurt her when I did those spiteful things.

Chances are he could die within the next few months, and I can already feel the pain of not having spent enough time with him... But I've realized that our relationship is more genuine than many.

When he held my hand and cried, I realized the capacity in which he could empathize, and it shook me.

I've realized that I'm not invincible. What he did to me has damaged me, but the damage is not irreversible. But I've realized the healing is going to take a damn long time.

I keep looking back on how someone so far away could make me so happy, and I realize it boils down to one thing: support. Complete and utter mutual support.

Nobody thought of me because I realized they didn't actually know me, and suddenly my new home didn't feel so much like home.

I've realized I'm going to have to turn this tragedy into a tool, and the pain into patience. I didn't realize until recently that it's eating at him on the inside, and I hope it hollows him out.

Sitting outside where we were about to eat, she cried so unbelievably hard. Her tears had never been so dense. She epitomized sadness, and I crumbled too. I realized in that moment how vital it would be for me to conquer. For the both of us.

I've slowly come to realize that her choice not to help only solidifies one thing: that I'm going to have to be for the next victim what she's choosing not to be for me. I just hope the opportunity doesn't arise.

I finally realize they're not lying. They actually believe that I'm strong enough, and for the first time I've realized it's true.

Sometimes I doubt myself, but I never fail to re-realize that what we created was nothing short of a little bit of magic, all stemmed from blissful, teenage naivete.

Our friend's death put us in contact again, and even in that context you were still bitter. It made me realize you deserve the most amazing woman to be your wife.

She listed off things that I couldn't believe she had stored in her memory, much less processed as proof that I'm the kind of person she thinks I am. I had a beautiful and profound realization that my God, I am what she says I am.

When he said those words, the impact of how much I had hurt him came full-frontal and I realized just how much he cares. I also realized he'd forgiven me.

Sometimes I forget that he carries the same burden, only received through a different medium... By me. I realize he's much stronger than I am.

My body couldn't catch up to the speed in which I was processing the news. The hyperventilating lasted so long, I'm so thankful she answered her door to grasp me. When I returned back to my room and breathed once more, I realized they were both really gone.

I realize that I'm going to let Him write me that love story, because I'm not the Author and I can't go ghost writing.

The little things they say, they keep adding up. And with every one, I begin to realize the mark I'm leaving and my existence feels a little bit more worthwhile.

Sometimes it takes looking back to realize that you even had a realization in that moment. That feeling of discomfort, dissatisfaction, disheartening - you couldn't quite pinpoint it just then. Later, you realize that realization has a way of jumping about time, and that's when life becomes chaotic. It becomes complex. Then you reflect once more, and realize that chaos and complexity is the essence of beauty. There's so much of it, everywhere.



I'm starting to realize that at the end of the day, I really don't know much. That's what realization is for.

All Challenges Accepted

I've been avoiding writing in my blog lately. I'm only two posts deep, and it's not to say that I'm already tiring of blogging - because I am in fact feeling injected with a new-found passion for exploiting the thoughts that do the very same to my brain. However, I'm finding it difficult to fulfill the purpose of initially starting my blog (See post #1), because I am not doing it anonymously. I can't write how I really feel, because I've opened the doors to my closest friends, family, and any future contact of any relation. I can express to an extent, but writing in a blog has offered an unexpected challenge to me: Fear nothing. Fear not that brothers and sisters will perhaps indulge in the unraveling of my conscious, or that they may challenge my acumen and lucidity of wellness. What it really boils down to, is fear not being myself.

Some fears are petty. Take my fear of not perfecting a post as if it were a college essay - I'm so eager to share what's on my mind that I worry if I don't craft it with such precision, these thoughts will be lost in translation to my readers. And readers - who actually cares what I have to say? The thing is, it wasn't until my good friend and fellow blogger Alyssa pointed something out to me, that I realized I might not give as many craps as to who really ingests my words - I'm doing this for me. To document what I wish I had always documented. For the countless nights rolling around trying to grasp the derivatives of worries and postulations that succumb me into a limbo, a limbo of careless insomnia that I have somehow learned to love and loathe instantaneously together. This being said, I'm going to start working on caring less and just spilling it out. I will let the different colored paints soak into whatever crevices they so desire.

Besides fear, it is a surfeit of worries that have me so busy I have not been able to even fathom another late-night purging of thoughts lately. Yes, the sources are steadfast - those of school, extracurricular responsibilities, and relationships. I worry every ounce of effort I exert into my studies, that it will not pay off into acceptance to the school I so desire to be a part of; I worry I will not avenge the leader that exists within and have always been able to rely on before; that my current residence is really a home; and that my inability to stay transfixed on any one suitor will result in a future of loneliness. The latter of those four is really what I am most confused about (because worrying about the future is not confusing, just unknown).

I was told the other night: "Lisa Evanson, I am going to steal your heart," and I was instantly intrigued. Simultaneously, I found myself envisioning my oh-so-reliable course of concurrence--lost interest at the point of some undefined variable that masks my love life. I've always wanted what I think I can't have, and never want what wants me. Perhaps this is also why I've had a peaked interest in someone who I feel I really can't read. It's quite frustrating and exciting. All the same, I feel like a cheater... That anyone who dares try to woo me, is really playing a game that inevitably results in their heart's demise. God, how arrogant I sound, when really what I mean to say is... I'm praying. I'm praying to stumble into something unplanned and unsought-out. Someone to enjoy the little things with and feel like happiness is so effortless. For a best friend who just so happens to be more than a best friend.

Ew, I can't believe I just wrote that. I hope no one reads that but I'm going to post this anyways because I promised myself to be more carefree with putting myself out there. I also promised myself not to edit or perfect any more posts, so I'm going to click "Publish" and say "So be it" even though I'm pretty sure I left this post off on a tangent. Then I'm going to eat some pretzels, jump in the shower, and try not to feel so weird about having written when the sun is fully up - this feels just as weird as it does to be fully rested, awake in the morning after a night's sleep, etc... all foreign feelings.

Moral of the story is: all challenges accepted.

Welp, bye!

Kill with Kindness, Kill with Confidence

“You have eyes that smile, did you know that?”

Her eyes were gleefully jumping back and forth between mine, as if snapping a photo with each leap to cherish in her memory.

The thing was, my smile was mirroring a duplicate reflection of love.

“Uhh, umm… Ha.”

I suck at taking compliments. I always feel like I have to give one in my immediate response, when really I’ve learned it’s best to just thank them kindly.

But, my words were translated oh so perfectly. Somehow, I knew she would do just so because she had that aura that shows through her smile and puts you at ease. This being said, I met her a mere sixty seconds prior to her compliment.

I knew exactly what she meant, but when people say something that takes me aback, I insist on asking them to explain, elaborate—I want to inquire.

She translated the expression on my face and responded, “Your eyes. They smile when your mouth does, but if you were to cover up your mouth, you could still tell you’re smiling.”

I digested this observation and decided it was the most magnificent compliment I had ever received.

Her eyes crinkled, each crow mark like the lines in a tree stump representing beautiful growth. Thin face, medium pigment, pixie-cut granola-colored hair. She was at least in her forties, possibly fifties. We were merely standing in the garage of a graduation party with my mom standing to my right, just leaving and ready to walk to our car. The lady had stopped us because she recognized my mom, but after a few sentences she turned her attention to me and granted me the fondest moment that lies with all memories incurred from fleeting moments spent with delightful strangers. I’ve had crazy, epic moments spent with strangers, but this remains my favorite because I sincerely felt like this woman encompassed love in her existence.

Before heading out, she said one last thing that concealed the doubts that were cautiously tiptoeing inside my head:

“It’s a good thing.”

            Too much precious time has been wasted in my life from flustering over comments that rude people make, most specifically the ones they say about me. It’s one thing for someone to say “You’re too loud,” which is a hit at my personality, but it’s another to call out my physical features—any girl’s one true weakness, if any. Some of these called-out features have blossomed into trademarks. Others, into constant self-doubts that have a way of hangin’ around like hooligans in an alleyway. But there's a lesson to be learned.

            In third grade while sitting in gym glass, the girl in front of me turned around, looked at my feet, and proceeded to put her hands on either end of my right foot as if tediously measuring it. She then lifted her hands up all the while shrinking the “measurement”, the same way people tend to do when comparing heights when their hand doesn’t go straight—and yelled to the whole class: “Oh my God! Her feet are so SMALL!”

            You’d think she grew up with a family of clowns.

            The joke is now on everyone in elementary school and middle school who commented on my small feet (which are only a 5½ at smallest) because let’s be honest, I rather have cute little feet than having to have custom-made shoes because my feet are so big—i.e. Paris Hilton. Or just in general, I rather have trouble finding a size 6 than being embarrassed of buying a size 11. For those of my sistas who do have bigger tootsies, I would never be so cheeky as to comment or ridicule them for such a trait. Not because I’m just that well-mannered, but because I don’t give a flying rat’s ass.

            For lack of better words: Embrace that shit. Flaunt it. If you’re a size 11 confident puta and the resurrected Shang Dynasty came charging at you to bind your feet, wave that middle finger like you’re excited to see them. (Unfamiliar with foot binding? Click here.)

            Example numero dos, condensed:

“Your bottom lip is too big, it’s weird,” – Every peer in my life pre-puberty.

“Your lips are amazing” – Guys, post-puberty.

This last one is for my friend Amanda and Miss Anonymous who once told me I had a weird butt and that I have no butt, respectively: Guys like it. Trust me. They are actually quite vocal about it. It’s tight and firm. Most of all, I like it.

Sorry, but I’ve always wanted to get that off my chest.

You see where I’m getting at? Confidence. You must have it. Even if it’s fake confidence, if you’re putting on a glorious act, it will scare off all the rude witches that try and bring you down, most commonly a direct result of their own insecurity. My most crucial advice is to never stoop to their level. Kill them with kindness—it scares them. It makes them think. It gives them a chance to grow, and a chance to save themselves.

My opening story is just to show that for every jackass running their ignorant mouth, there will be an angel to remind you of the little things that make you, you. So maybe my eyes disappear once my weird bottom lip goes all crescent moon crazy, but I love that about me and that someone else loves it too, even if it’s just one other person. Plus, I’d rather have that than apathetic eyes and a smile that screams “I’m unnatural.” I not only encourage, I demand you to do deliver with the same attitude. Strut those cankles, wave those double-jointed elbows, and use those beautiful lips, however kissable or straight-edged, to make a promise to yourself that a sweet and fluffy bunny-rabbit once said:

“If you can't say something nice... don't say nothing at all.”

Word.

Here are some of my favorite pictures that not only show my smiling eyes that the woman referred to, but those around me seem to also have eyes that smile... oh and one picture of my proud lil' booty (the exact picture that evoked a girl to tell me I had none):

My roommate freshman year who has her own fashion blog! http://fashionloveotherdrugs.blogspot.com/

Miss Rachel, how I adore her so. 

Meet my non-biological mother and father / best friends

It was love at first site... Literally, this pic is the first time we met.

Proud of this booty. Thank you high school cheerleading.

(One of my most epic dance moments came from dancing to Ms. New Booty)

Relay For Life. I can honestly saw I love this picture.

Shyla never ceased to make me smile. Typically, laugh so hard I turned to jello on the sidelines and had to run to the nearest Port-A-Potty.

Throwback! The era of the braces. Summer bonfire with my girl Breann.

The one and only, "Daddy-O."

See where I get the eyes from?

Jay. Jay Jay Jay makes me smile, that's for sure.

Straight up cheezin'. (Aren't guy bear hugs the best?)

This kid is somethin else.

Good ole days working at 50's Grill, the one and only. Nothing makes me happier than a homemade malt! (Banana flavored, of course.)

Judy, who self-labeled herself my "favorite Asian." How I miss her!

Self-Portrait. 

Photo Cred to Ellie, one of my three dorm roommates from freshman year.

The Ultimate Translation of Insanity

I always tried to justify the reason for not creating a blog, believing that the time spent would be a penny lost on any other worthy doings of my [insert adjective that means “philosophical/disorganized/crazy/beloved” here] brain. What those worthy other doings would be, I have not a clue. However, I never bothered to pinpoint the positives that could possibly emanate into any given sort of “pay it forward” type causes. Perhaps, I pondered, I would punch into my keyboard some thought on a cold and wholesome night that another human being out there would come across and, in a heavy British accent, exclaim: “My God, I thought I was the only one who excogitated such thoughts!” whilst raising a pair of quivering hands in the air in disbelief and sheer amazement. Why the British accent would be necessary—I don’t know, but it seems my mind likes to pretend that each and every thought is well-deserving of its own character; almost like the life I live and every thought that occurs within it is really just a cameo appearance in the spectrum of human intelligence: “You say you wonder why plural moose aren’t called meese? Well delivered, random thought! You may exit the stage now.”

The thoughts that come trickling through the cracks of my (believed-to-be very squiggly brain) around nighttime tend to be quite boisterous, in that they believe they are the most original, most amazing thoughts to ever inquire anything about everything and that they own every right to bathe in the limelight. The thing is—where is the limelight? What audience is there to find joy in the performance? Hell, is there even a panel of judges to tell those thoughts, “You’re fucking stupid. Goose plural is geese, but not moose. Get over it.” But like a passionate, young, unemployed actor wandering the streets of Los Angeles, it is these fame-thirsty thoughts that will stop at nothing to have their way, in what I have observed to be in an admirable fashion. It is these thoughts that have urged me to audition them in the catacombs of *drumroll please*… The Internet.  Being that the idea of displaying my thoughts on “the internets” for all to read now has a more fervent mission, it is to be followed with a dramatic monologue. After all, this is my mind’s audition to be welcomed by your open eyeballs and hopefully equal open heart. (I say heart instead of mind, because mind is for attempting the rational and sensical. But I hope your mind can relate to mine and love me all the same.) So here goes:

 Job Applying For: Friend / Person to relate to / Therapist / Someone you tell others  about and say, “Hey, check out this blog… It really spoke to me.”

 About Me / What I Ask of You / Dramatic Monologue: My head is filled with an amoeba of an imagination that has the skin of a selfless, hungry sponge... I ask for you to get to know me so I can see if insanity is really just the relinquishment of a human’s normality. To see that we are not dumbing ourselves down with thoughts that live inside a box structured by the ubiquitous walls of society. I also want to learn everything about you in hopes that in return, you will feel like your story was broadcasted to one one-billionth of the world, and that this fraction (with a minimum promise of being me) actually adopted your story into the portion of the body that actually cares, on the same level that the being cares for its own self in an almost selfish manner. Because who must we care for more than ourselves? Our survival depends on that duty of caring, whether we like it or not.

Your story could be a rollercoaster life story or a witty tale that lasted three seconds of your existence. We all are our own solo radio station after all, hoping that even one person will stumble along our wavelengths in the midst of whatever endeavors currently consume their life, and donate just one sliver of a small second of their precious needy mind to just... listen. To not just hear the melody, but actually listen to the notes that rectify the meaning that stands behind this symphony and its musician who projects it. Every musician wants to be heard. Every musician offers beautiful music, because no ear is the same.

So say that in fact your projected wavelengths, your story, are stumbled upon, and this creates a moment of bliss in God’s eyes; If this stumbling traveler would then cradle that experience, that memory, for a moment and nurture it with wonder; the same way you ponder a movie during the credits and you realize your dubious fascination for what you just witnessed is multiplying into a plethora of both similar and completely unrelated, opposite, juxtaposing thoughts—because all free thought is the infant of curiosity after all—hitting you like a freight train, going back in reverse and coming at you repeatedly because it knows there’s some golden pent up Aha!’s worth spurting out of you and killing any oblivious ignorant happiness in the process. *Takes breath* …To cradle the memory this same way—that would be much appreciated. (If you haven’t watched a movie that has done this to you, quit watching rom-com’s and watch something of substance. Two movies that come to mind that did this for me were Seven Pounds and Crash.)

However, there is no name for this murder. No word for the freight train. No classification. The word for this cruel and silent mind-blowing reaction is the spawn of your nourishing for it, and what’s frustrating is that no one can hear the explosions in your brain, what you’ve created. Or perhaps, was this murderous epiphany not created but rather thrust upon you by destiny? The catechisms of stuff we can’t see but read about in folklore and philosophy? So instead of witnessing the explosions along with you (creation or destiny), all your mother sees sitting on the couch across from you in the TV room is you staring with a gaped mouth and pair of icicle eyes. If she couldn’t see the screen, she’d think you were staring at a pair of perky breasts for the first time—but no, this cinematic blessing is so much more life changing than a young lad’s sexual coming-of-age via a peek at women’s private parts all pixelated. No sir, it is a coming-of-age realization that there is more to life than trivial thoughts, trite archetypes, and sure, nice boobs. And to think, to think that this absolutely epic, mind-shattering experience is merely reflected by the action of staring blankly at the screen. Or rather, into space—the screen in front of you might as well be non-existent, as well as everything around you, because you feel like you’ve just entered the matrix of where the deepest of thoughts, almost incomprehensible thoughts, originate.

Now, if only the stumbling traveler would react to your symphonic, block-buster movie blow-out of a story (simply because it is yours) the same way you leave the theater of a rare movie that makes your doubts each have an individual orgasm and secrete a stream of thoughts. If the stranger could do that and have these thoughts, that would be the relinquishment of normality; the translation of insanity. Thoughts that will be the gasoline to your little engine heart, because no thought makes you shit yourself more than one that tugs at your heartstrings. Tug 'em enough and like any instrument, you'll play your own song on your own wavelengths that will catch the ear of your own random stumbling stranger human being.

...Or is that too much to ask?