As I have previously blogged about, I have recently taken on the project of cleaning out my room. Completely. After getting home from school and realizing there was literally no room for the massive amount of junk I brought back with me, I figured it was the perfect time to remove all the crap and clutter that have been consuming the small amount of personal space that I have.
I expected this project to take a bit of time, at the most 3 or 4 days. And yet here I am, in my third week of summer and I am still not finished with my room. Ugh.
Unfortunately it looks just as bad, if not worse, than when I first returned to it. The look of the room does no justice to the amount of work I've put in. While random things such as old school papers to hair bands to random clothes are strewn across the floor, bits and pieces of my life have been removed and reorganized. I started with the most important items that need space reserved in my room: my clothes. I sifted through my closet and large dresser, getting rid of the blouses that no longer fit, holding onto the jeans I hope will fit again someday, and creating a full box of all the things I never have or never will wear again. I think it's safe to say that I have supplied goodwill for the next month.
After the clothes it was onto the desk. The dreaded desk. No matter how many papers I shred or notebooks I recycle, for some reason there has always been an alarming, almost evil presence of school books, folders, pencils, pens, and randomness you wouldn't even think of overtaking the workspace I most desperately need. My goal in this was to get rid of almost everything, so that the drawers can easily be opened and the top is neatly placed with the pens, pencils, notebooks and my computer, so that I can feel organized and at ease. I want my desk to promote productivity. (Seeing as I am writing this at my kitchen table, clearly I'm not done with it.)
While the top remains the mess it has always been, the drawers have been emptied and reorganized properly. So then it was onto my dresser. Another check. Then my night stand. Cross that off the list. Then back to the closet, this time the top shelf. When all was said and done, I discovered my old easy-bake oven, a crap load of crafts from my childhood, pictures, empty shoeboxes and handbags galore. More goodwill boxes were stocked and now my closet is neatly stored with stackable crates in which I've put my supplies for college, next to the duffle bags I carefully stacked, next to the boxes of memories I can't part with, next to my small suitcase. The only piece of randomness is my mini-Christmas tree which is sporting my Halloween witch's hat, and that is only because there was simply no other better place to put it. My closet, for the first time since I can remember, is perfect. Yes, perfect. Just the way I would ever like it to be. Only thing that would make it a little more perfect is if, I don't know, it changed into the walk-in closet Mr.Big made for Carrie in the Sex and the City movie. Now that's perfection. So I change what I said – my closet is as perfect as it could ever be.
Today's challenge was tackling the bookshelf. Which sounds easy, right? You would think, as a normal bookshelf, it would contain only books. Maybe some cds or dvds as well, but other than that it's just sifting through books. Ha! I wish. My bookshelf was more than just books. It was, by some miracle, a neatly compiled mountain of books, dvds, trophies, birthday cards, notebooks, journals, and folders. I should've known it was going to be a nightmare. I spent almost all afternoon going through all these pieces of my past that honestly meant nothing to me. I found a binder from the fifth grade that still had my graded homework papers in it! I found a folder splitting at the seams because it contained all the directions to every appliance I have ever owned! And, being the environmentalist I try to be, it didn't help that when it came down to the notebooks, I went through all of them and tore out the blank pages to save them from recycling. (You know, first reduce, reuse, then recycle.) I'm fairly certain I won't need to worry about stocking up on paper for this next school year.
As I look around my room, I realize that no one can see the progress I've made. No one can see the space I know have in my drawers. No one can see all the papers that are on their way to rumpke recycling. No one knows that I emptied my "crap" drawer or pitched perfumes from middle school. And it's unfortunate. It sucks. Because I should feel better, but I look around my room at all the crap I still have to sift through, and all the clearing and cleaning and reorganizing that somehow still needs to be done and I still feel as stressed as I did when nothing was unpacked yet. I put in all the work and I still feel as though I'm sitting in a mess, trying to sort through more and more crap.
If only this feeling applied to just my room.
***
My boyfriend once told me that I was perfect. Granted it was over winter break, our first real separation from each other since entering this relationship, and we were still in that puppy love stage, where you're completely infatuated with the person and everything they do seems to be sweet and cute and perfect. I knew when he said it that it was just in the heat of the moment. But when I shook my head and tried to convince him that I am indeed not perfect, he simply shook his head, looked at me dead in the eyes and in all seriousness repeated "perfect." Flattering, right? That's supposed to make me feel good, isn't it? To know that my significant other thinks I'm perfect? Think again. Ever since the word stumbled out of his mouth it had been a dreaded fear of mine to realize that one day he was going to wake up and realize just how imperfect I am.
Well that day has come and gone, and it's safe to say that these past few weeks have been the proof he should ever need to see just how far from perfection I am.
It started with a letter two weeks before school ended. A letter that started out sweet and turned into a bitter fest when I poured every issue and problem and worry I've ever had with him onto the paper at 3 in the morning when my brain was on meltdown and I had Bittersweet Symphony on repeat. Not to mention, after taking the hour to write it down on paper, for some reason I thought it'd be a good idea to type it up and e-mail it to him right then and there. Because for some reason at that hour he just had to get it so that he could read it the first moment he checks his inbox.
I normally always write letters late at night. I don't know why, but I do. And usually once I'm done I go to bed, wake up in the morning, re-read what I wrote, then seal it, stamp it, and send it on its way. Occasionally I will wake up, realize what I wrote does not need to be sent (or ever read by anyone other than my own two eyes) and the letter is typically burned, shredded, or safely put away. I think you expected to see this coming when I say that when I woke up that morning I realized the horrible mistake I had made in sending that e-mail. Unfortunately with e-mail, there's no getting it back or stopping it from being read. By the time I text my boyfriend to not the read the letter, it was already too late.
He never mentioned anything about the letter. I mentioned it two days later, and our talk ended with my returning to my room and having an emotional breakdown thinking that for sure he was going to break-up with me. It was the first break-up scare I've ever had. Later I learned that he didn't want to break-up, he didn't think any of the problems were worth breaking up over. But the initial thought that that was ever a possibility has been enough to set me on edge. Since that moment, I've realized I want to be the best girlfriend that he could ever want or need. I wanted to show him what I was worth. I wanted to be perfect.
Two words: epic failure.
That letter was only the crack to a can of worms that were bound to be released. I upset him when I told him how I sometimes feel uncomfortable when it comes to his friendships with other girls. Seeing that we were moving on from the issue I made a joke about it, to show that it was in the past, we can laugh about it now. As you can guess, I was wrong. He was frustrated with me when I teased him when he was in town the other week. Again I felt like crap, but lucky enough for me, my love of large sunglasses was able to hide the tears that were welling up.
Then there was tonight. In which I took a joke he said and turned it into an argument, a playful one that is, which eventually resulted in a real argument and a discussion of why playful arguments aren't even worth starting. I wasn't offended, but I couldn't understand. I love arguing. I think it's fun. Not of course when it gets taken too far and feelings are hurt, but when it's all fun and games I see it as harmless. Joe on the other hand, does not. He asked me why I do it, why I provoke arguments, even just for fun I know they can turn into real ones. I told him I didn't know, but that I would research it to see if there was some hidden reason for those who love to argue. He told me he didn't need to hear the results.
When we said our goodnights and hung up, I sat there, and for the first time in awhile, I felt nothing. No tears. No feelings of anger, at myself or at him. I didn't feel ambitious to change anything or to go see why it is I enjoying arguing. If anything, I felt exhausted. Exhausted of having another issue brought to my attention. Another aspect of myself to work on. Another mess to clean up. It seems that all I've done for the past couple of weeks is try to do better, to sort and figure all the crap in my head and heart out so that it can be better. Or at least look better. But with every improvement I've tried to make, I end up making a bigger mess. I end up discovering clippings from my past that I haven't parted with. I find the insignificant things are taking over, and though I fight them, the piles are still there. And all the small improvements I've made are in hiding, for no one to see but me. And I'm exhausted.
I realized as I looked around my room, how imperfect I am and how there was nothing I could do to really change into the perfection I so wish I could be. I realized after cleaning up one mess there will always be another. And if I try to make my life built around no messes, a life of everything being neat and in perfect order, then I would run myself into the ground because it will never happen. And I needed to know that in spite of all of these imperfections and messes surrounding me, that Joe still cares about me and wants to be with me.
So I picked up the phone and called. I spoke just as I rehearsed it in my head. "I'm not perfect. I never have been and I never will be. And it seems lately that you find one flaw and you come across 10 more. I'm trying to change…"
Joe stopped me right there. "No. Don't," he said. "I don’t want you to change. Laura, I like you for who you are. I'm not going anywhere."
They were the words I so desperately needed to hear. To know that in spite of the drama, the mistakes, the piles of crap and all the messes I'm trying to sort out, he accepted me, and still wants to be with me.
My room is still a mess. But everything that needed some organization to it has it. All I need to do now is finish putting the rest of the crap away, and adding the final touches to making my room look and feel the perfection I want it to be.
I, on the other hand, I am a mess as well. I have flaws I wasn't aware of and changes I want to make. For my own sake. I can't clean up all of the messes tonight. Hell, I won't ever have all of them cleaned up. But it's good to know that I have someone who cares about me enough to stand by me in spite of all the imperfections. I may not be able to stand a messy room, but I have an incredible boyfriend who likes me for me, messes included. It's good to know that I can stop striving to be what no one can be.
And to know that, for me at least, is perfect.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Breathe
I heart New York.
My New York is not the New York that is typically thought about. My New York is not the big city everyone imagines. My New York does not consist of giant skyscrapers, yellow taxi cabs and people everywhere. In fact it is the exact opposite of that. It is in the middle of nowhere. The only thing that scrapes the sky are the old trees I once named when I was a child (I recall a Bear Tree, a Y Tree, a Pocahontas Tree, and a Witch Tree). The streets are made of pebbles and dirt, with no white or yellow lines, and it's safe to say that I can walk on them during the middle of the day and not run into a single car or person.
I am far away from the life I dream of, even though they both have the same name: New York.
To be honest, when I was younger it use to piss me off that when I said I was visiting New York everyone assumed NYC. When I would tell them that I have been to the state of New York every year since I was a baby but have never been to the actual "New York" they were baffled. Part of me has always wanted to yell: THERE IS MORE TO NEW YORK THAN THE CITY!! But in reality I smile and explain how I would love to go to New York City one day, but for now my New York is a small town far, far away from the concrete jungle.
Coming to my New York is always an arrival of heaven on earth. When I saw my neighbor's wife today, she said to me, "Aren't you just happy to be here? You come here to just breathe!" She has no idea just how right she was.
New York is my escape. Here I have no internet connection, basic television stations, and with minimal cell phone coverage I'm almost virtually disconnected from my life. No facebook. No twitter. No e-mails. And if I get annoyed with my cell phone, I simply turn it off and leave it in the cottage. I come here to get away from everyone and everything. I come here to breathe.
I come here to do nothing. That's right, absolutely nothing. I can walk around or sit and stare at the lake with nothing to do but to observe and think. I take in nature and its beauty. I spend hours upon hours simply staring and unleashing the thoughts I keep tucked away in the deepest corners of my mind. It's the one place where I feel that just being here is not a waste of time. I take in the moment, as simple as it might be. It appears that I am wasting my time, but it is the most useful time I ever spend. Time here is time I need.
I come here to be me. I come here to confront the psychotic nervous-wreck that I am. I think about the things that bother me and I let myself cry without having to worry if anyone is watching. I can scream at God on the beach and know that the waves will muffle the sounds of my anger. I can let myself fall apart. And when I piece myself back together, I can walk around with a goofy grin on my face, and know that no one is staring at me and wondering just how psychotic I really am.
I come here to dream. I come here to stop getting caught up in the things I need to do and let myself drift into the reality of what I'd like to do. I have no homework to worry about, no deadlines or anything due. No work to distract myself with. So I take the time to forget about the stress I have to deal with and remind myself of why I put up with the stress I deal with. I refocus on my goals. I get back in touch with my desires and remember why it is that being a writer, that striving for the Big Apple, and searching for "the one" are the things I want most in life. I feel inspired. I feel motivated. I am rejuvenated. I feel ready to face the world.
I cannot live in my New York. If I did, my perfect world here would be ruined. This is my escape. If I made my life around it, I would be dragging in all the issues and stress that require a "my New York" to get away from. I would go crazy being out here alone. I like the comforts of tall buildings and busy streets. I like being surrounded by people, even if I don't know them. Although it is incredibly refreshing to get away from, deep down I need to feel connected to the world.
In the next couple of years there is a good chance that my New York will be the New York that everyone actually thinks about. There is a good chance that when I refer to my New York, it will not be this nirvana-type place I'm currently in. There is a good chance "my New York" will switch from dreams and confidence to fear, stress, and an over-whelming desire to escape. There is a good chance I can build my life around that New York.
I have been dreaming of living in the Big Apple for a few years, and the closer I get to this dream becoming a reality, the more fearful I become. I'm afraid the city will drain me instead of inspiring me. I'm afraid it will exhaust me instead of rejuvenating me. I'm afraid that this perfect little career in the perfect city called New York will not live up to the high expectations I have set for it. I am afraid of my dream becoming a failure.
I don't know when exactly I will take my first steps in NYC. I don't know if it will be for a visit or for the start of my career. I don't know if I'll be overwhelmed with joy or overwhelmed with stress and fear. I don't know if I'll have a mental meltdown or if I'll strut the streets calm, cool, and collected. I don't know if my dream will turn into reality, or if it will be the letdown I constantly fear. But what I do know is this: Regardless of the outcome, may it be the worst or the best, I can always return to my New York. And breathe.
My New York is not the New York that is typically thought about. My New York is not the big city everyone imagines. My New York does not consist of giant skyscrapers, yellow taxi cabs and people everywhere. In fact it is the exact opposite of that. It is in the middle of nowhere. The only thing that scrapes the sky are the old trees I once named when I was a child (I recall a Bear Tree, a Y Tree, a Pocahontas Tree, and a Witch Tree). The streets are made of pebbles and dirt, with no white or yellow lines, and it's safe to say that I can walk on them during the middle of the day and not run into a single car or person.
I am far away from the life I dream of, even though they both have the same name: New York.
To be honest, when I was younger it use to piss me off that when I said I was visiting New York everyone assumed NYC. When I would tell them that I have been to the state of New York every year since I was a baby but have never been to the actual "New York" they were baffled. Part of me has always wanted to yell: THERE IS MORE TO NEW YORK THAN THE CITY!! But in reality I smile and explain how I would love to go to New York City one day, but for now my New York is a small town far, far away from the concrete jungle.
Coming to my New York is always an arrival of heaven on earth. When I saw my neighbor's wife today, she said to me, "Aren't you just happy to be here? You come here to just breathe!" She has no idea just how right she was.
New York is my escape. Here I have no internet connection, basic television stations, and with minimal cell phone coverage I'm almost virtually disconnected from my life. No facebook. No twitter. No e-mails. And if I get annoyed with my cell phone, I simply turn it off and leave it in the cottage. I come here to get away from everyone and everything. I come here to breathe.
I come here to do nothing. That's right, absolutely nothing. I can walk around or sit and stare at the lake with nothing to do but to observe and think. I take in nature and its beauty. I spend hours upon hours simply staring and unleashing the thoughts I keep tucked away in the deepest corners of my mind. It's the one place where I feel that just being here is not a waste of time. I take in the moment, as simple as it might be. It appears that I am wasting my time, but it is the most useful time I ever spend. Time here is time I need.
I come here to be me. I come here to confront the psychotic nervous-wreck that I am. I think about the things that bother me and I let myself cry without having to worry if anyone is watching. I can scream at God on the beach and know that the waves will muffle the sounds of my anger. I can let myself fall apart. And when I piece myself back together, I can walk around with a goofy grin on my face, and know that no one is staring at me and wondering just how psychotic I really am.
I come here to dream. I come here to stop getting caught up in the things I need to do and let myself drift into the reality of what I'd like to do. I have no homework to worry about, no deadlines or anything due. No work to distract myself with. So I take the time to forget about the stress I have to deal with and remind myself of why I put up with the stress I deal with. I refocus on my goals. I get back in touch with my desires and remember why it is that being a writer, that striving for the Big Apple, and searching for "the one" are the things I want most in life. I feel inspired. I feel motivated. I am rejuvenated. I feel ready to face the world.
I cannot live in my New York. If I did, my perfect world here would be ruined. This is my escape. If I made my life around it, I would be dragging in all the issues and stress that require a "my New York" to get away from. I would go crazy being out here alone. I like the comforts of tall buildings and busy streets. I like being surrounded by people, even if I don't know them. Although it is incredibly refreshing to get away from, deep down I need to feel connected to the world.
In the next couple of years there is a good chance that my New York will be the New York that everyone actually thinks about. There is a good chance that when I refer to my New York, it will not be this nirvana-type place I'm currently in. There is a good chance "my New York" will switch from dreams and confidence to fear, stress, and an over-whelming desire to escape. There is a good chance I can build my life around that New York.
I have been dreaming of living in the Big Apple for a few years, and the closer I get to this dream becoming a reality, the more fearful I become. I'm afraid the city will drain me instead of inspiring me. I'm afraid it will exhaust me instead of rejuvenating me. I'm afraid that this perfect little career in the perfect city called New York will not live up to the high expectations I have set for it. I am afraid of my dream becoming a failure.
I don't know when exactly I will take my first steps in NYC. I don't know if it will be for a visit or for the start of my career. I don't know if I'll be overwhelmed with joy or overwhelmed with stress and fear. I don't know if I'll have a mental meltdown or if I'll strut the streets calm, cool, and collected. I don't know if my dream will turn into reality, or if it will be the letdown I constantly fear. But what I do know is this: Regardless of the outcome, may it be the worst or the best, I can always return to my New York. And breathe.
Monday, May 17, 2010
To England, Or Not to England...Decision's Already Been Made
I have one friend who just left for England. Two other friends are currently in Costa Rica. And another friend will be leaving for Greece fairly soon.
I have another 36 days before I get myself out of this country.
A lot of people have been asking me how excited I am to go for England. I'm surprisingly not as excited as I should be. Sure, the minute after I found out about England I called up my mom and begged for my parents' permission. The day I turned in my deposit and paperwork was the day I walked down McKinley and though "wow, I'm really doing this. I'm going to England." And now summer break has arrived and I'm sure before I know it I'll have my bags repacked, passport in hand, and a long flight with an even longer adventure waiting ahead of me.
I have very mixed feelings about this.
On some days, like today, I can not wait until that moment comes. On days like today where I blast The Police's album Ghost in the Machine while cleaning the house I dream of what it will be like to visit all these places the band once struggled at many years ago. I dream of meeting other Police fans and what they can tell me about their music culture compared to what I've known here in the US. And (don't laugh) but I secretly dream about seeing Sting roaming the streets of London, maybe sitting in a small cafe drinking his tea and eating his one-side toasted piece of bread. With butter. Maybe jelly. But I definitely see butter. Also in this fantasy dream of mine, I stop and talk to him and write some killer article about it that gets published in the Rolling Stone. Now there's dreaming for ya.
But one dream that is coming true is that I will be in England. As Sting was the Englishman in New York, I will be the American in London.
I wonder if it's pathetic that my main reason for going to this place is because I have this odd obsession with this band and their music. Also, with the exception of some accent and slang differences, I always liked England because I know I can speak the language (something about language barriers scare me). I wonder if I'm putting too much emphasis on this trip because of The Police. I wonder if it'll disappoint. Maybe I won't find all these places The Police began at. Or maybe they won't be as cool as I expect them to be. Maybe it'll be just as significant as going down to Riverbend and saying "This is where Dave Matthew has played!" I hope dear reader you understand this cheesy analogy I'm trying to make.
Because on some days, I'm not very excited for England. Some days I'm just happy right where I am, enjoying summer in the states, even if I am in Ohio. Or when I think about all the money I am NOT making because no one will hire someone who will be gone half the summer and takes weekend trips to new york whenever she can. Some days I worry about missing my boyfriend and friends. I worry about being homesick. Some days I just don't even like thinking about England because I realize that going there means giving up things here. Even if it is for only 6 weeks. I have deep emotional attachments to people and places here at home.
So to cure this problem of not looking forward to England, I've decided to invest some time in some research. I plan on making trips to the library and doing some reading. I plan on surfing some sites to see what interesting things I can learn about that I'll look forward to. And most importantly, I'll start talking to people. To the people who've been to England, to the people who are going with me, to the people who have never left the country and never plan on leaving. Because I think you can learn so much from people. From their thoughts and opinions, positive or negative. I'm drawn to England not because it's a cool place, but because of three musicians. Three interesting people. I can't wait to see what they're home land, and its people, have in store for me.
I have another 36 days before I get myself out of this country.
A lot of people have been asking me how excited I am to go for England. I'm surprisingly not as excited as I should be. Sure, the minute after I found out about England I called up my mom and begged for my parents' permission. The day I turned in my deposit and paperwork was the day I walked down McKinley and though "wow, I'm really doing this. I'm going to England." And now summer break has arrived and I'm sure before I know it I'll have my bags repacked, passport in hand, and a long flight with an even longer adventure waiting ahead of me.
I have very mixed feelings about this.
On some days, like today, I can not wait until that moment comes. On days like today where I blast The Police's album Ghost in the Machine while cleaning the house I dream of what it will be like to visit all these places the band once struggled at many years ago. I dream of meeting other Police fans and what they can tell me about their music culture compared to what I've known here in the US. And (don't laugh) but I secretly dream about seeing Sting roaming the streets of London, maybe sitting in a small cafe drinking his tea and eating his one-side toasted piece of bread. With butter. Maybe jelly. But I definitely see butter. Also in this fantasy dream of mine, I stop and talk to him and write some killer article about it that gets published in the Rolling Stone. Now there's dreaming for ya.
But one dream that is coming true is that I will be in England. As Sting was the Englishman in New York, I will be the American in London.
I wonder if it's pathetic that my main reason for going to this place is because I have this odd obsession with this band and their music. Also, with the exception of some accent and slang differences, I always liked England because I know I can speak the language (something about language barriers scare me). I wonder if I'm putting too much emphasis on this trip because of The Police. I wonder if it'll disappoint. Maybe I won't find all these places The Police began at. Or maybe they won't be as cool as I expect them to be. Maybe it'll be just as significant as going down to Riverbend and saying "This is where Dave Matthew has played!" I hope dear reader you understand this cheesy analogy I'm trying to make.
Because on some days, I'm not very excited for England. Some days I'm just happy right where I am, enjoying summer in the states, even if I am in Ohio. Or when I think about all the money I am NOT making because no one will hire someone who will be gone half the summer and takes weekend trips to new york whenever she can. Some days I worry about missing my boyfriend and friends. I worry about being homesick. Some days I just don't even like thinking about England because I realize that going there means giving up things here. Even if it is for only 6 weeks. I have deep emotional attachments to people and places here at home.
So to cure this problem of not looking forward to England, I've decided to invest some time in some research. I plan on making trips to the library and doing some reading. I plan on surfing some sites to see what interesting things I can learn about that I'll look forward to. And most importantly, I'll start talking to people. To the people who've been to England, to the people who are going with me, to the people who have never left the country and never plan on leaving. Because I think you can learn so much from people. From their thoughts and opinions, positive or negative. I'm drawn to England not because it's a cool place, but because of three musicians. Three interesting people. I can't wait to see what they're home land, and its people, have in store for me.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Your Christians
Being a Christian is so hard.
These past few days have been some of the best days I've had in a long while. I was lucky enough to wake up at 8 a.m. on Tuesday (a rare occurrence in the summer for me) and find a text from my boyfriend saying that due to the weather the bike trip was cancelled but he was still going to be in Lawrenceburg for breakfast. Lawrenceburgh, luckily, is only a 45 minute drive from my house.
So I went down to eat with him and a few other bikers and was invited to hang out at the camp they were staying at. I made a trip home to change in camping attire (jeans, a tank, and open-toed wedges aren't exactly the clothes made for roaming the great outdoors) and brought back necessary items for spending the night. Joe told me he missed me (aww), even though the last time I had seen him was only the previous Friday. And to think I cried on Thursday because I thought of how long it would be before I saw him again! With that said we decided to spend the next day in Fairfield, and on Thursday we'd drive back to Muncie where his car was and then on Friday part ways.
We didn't do much, although we did hang out with a fellow BSU friend at a driving range (where I remembered how much I suck at hitting golf balls...that is, when I do hit them...) and most of our time spent together was in a car driving from a to b to c back to b then to d and then from d to b, then later from b to e and then my lonely self back to b.
On my trip from e to b (Muncie to home) I had this sudden guilty feeling over come me for not having recently prayed. When I say not having recently prayed, what I mean is I honestly can not remember the last time I did pray. I'm thinking it was probably the last time I was in church, which was a Catholic service a friend had invited me to two Sundays before the end of the school year. Eek.
When I was in high school, any time something good happened I used to pray to God and thank Him for whatever good thing it was. Sometimes it was for a successful cross-country practice, or for my friends and how awesome they were (and of course still are). Sometimes it was for the anticipation of whatever I was looking forward to. Sometimes it was just for being in a good mood. I realized in high school that these good things that were happening to me were God's blessings and I couldn't help but pray in thanks for them. Most of the times I prayed was when I was driving alone.
Today I am in the best mood I've been in since I can remember. Today I also drove a good 2 hour drive alone.
I had this urge to pray.
And yet I couldn't.
I don't know why it took me an hour before I could turn off the radio and open mouth to start talking to God but it did. The longer I waited, the guiltier I felt. I don't know if it was because I felt guilty for not praying in so long or because it felt so awkward to pray I couldn't. But in the hour before I did finally open up to God, this is what ran through my mind.
I am so not the Christian I am suppose to be. My actions do not reflect upon what I believe in. I live for myself. I'm suppose to live for God. And somewhere along the line I lost that.
Is it silly for me to think that I have been following God's plan? God gave me the gift of writing. I have had a love affair with words since I was young. The summer before my senior year of high school I learned of a journalism school called Ball State University and for some reason, without knowing anything else about this college, I knew I was going to end up going there. Even though I had many doubts about attending Ball State and almost ended up choosing Miami (even seriously considered transferring there after my first semester at BSU) here I am, with one year to go, a senior at Ball State University.
Apparently I wasn't wrong about the writing part either. I checked my grades today and as I had been told, there next to the "Intro to Magazine Writing" was the letter A. Since the first day of walking into that class I had been determined to walk out of there with that grade. Determined that an A in that class would set me off in the direction of being the next Jenny Eliscu at the Rolling Stone magazine. Although I'm not sure if RS is my dream anymore or not, I achieved my goal. This whole time thinking I've been following God's plan.
Maybe I am. But I feel so disconnected from God, I don't know.
Gandhi once said "Your Christians are so unlike your Christ." Boy did he have it right. I could give you a very long laundry list of how unlike Christ I am. I feel almost hypocritical in calling myself a Christian. Of course, most people are hypocrites in some way or form. But just because I admit it doesn't make it any better. Just because I know I'm so unlike the God I believe in doesn't make it right. Just means I know how bad of a Christian I am.
A bad Christian. Now there's a broad term.
I've been taught that really it all boils down to you and your relationship with God. If you are pursuing God, no matter how much of a "bad Christian" you might be, then you are in Christ.
I haven't been pursuing God yet I call myself a Christian. But I love God and I believe in Him. There is nothing in the world that could convince me He doesn't exist. Nothing that can separate me from my faith, even though it is particularly weak right now.
Christianity is exhausting. This blog is just a long ramble. I just wish I understood what all of this means, and more importantly, what it means about being a Christian and following God.
These past few days have been some of the best days I've had in a long while. I was lucky enough to wake up at 8 a.m. on Tuesday (a rare occurrence in the summer for me) and find a text from my boyfriend saying that due to the weather the bike trip was cancelled but he was still going to be in Lawrenceburg for breakfast. Lawrenceburgh, luckily, is only a 45 minute drive from my house.
So I went down to eat with him and a few other bikers and was invited to hang out at the camp they were staying at. I made a trip home to change in camping attire (jeans, a tank, and open-toed wedges aren't exactly the clothes made for roaming the great outdoors) and brought back necessary items for spending the night. Joe told me he missed me (aww), even though the last time I had seen him was only the previous Friday. And to think I cried on Thursday because I thought of how long it would be before I saw him again! With that said we decided to spend the next day in Fairfield, and on Thursday we'd drive back to Muncie where his car was and then on Friday part ways.
We didn't do much, although we did hang out with a fellow BSU friend at a driving range (where I remembered how much I suck at hitting golf balls...that is, when I do hit them...) and most of our time spent together was in a car driving from a to b to c back to b then to d and then from d to b, then later from b to e and then my lonely self back to b.
On my trip from e to b (Muncie to home) I had this sudden guilty feeling over come me for not having recently prayed. When I say not having recently prayed, what I mean is I honestly can not remember the last time I did pray. I'm thinking it was probably the last time I was in church, which was a Catholic service a friend had invited me to two Sundays before the end of the school year. Eek.
When I was in high school, any time something good happened I used to pray to God and thank Him for whatever good thing it was. Sometimes it was for a successful cross-country practice, or for my friends and how awesome they were (and of course still are). Sometimes it was for the anticipation of whatever I was looking forward to. Sometimes it was just for being in a good mood. I realized in high school that these good things that were happening to me were God's blessings and I couldn't help but pray in thanks for them. Most of the times I prayed was when I was driving alone.
Today I am in the best mood I've been in since I can remember. Today I also drove a good 2 hour drive alone.
I had this urge to pray.
And yet I couldn't.
I don't know why it took me an hour before I could turn off the radio and open mouth to start talking to God but it did. The longer I waited, the guiltier I felt. I don't know if it was because I felt guilty for not praying in so long or because it felt so awkward to pray I couldn't. But in the hour before I did finally open up to God, this is what ran through my mind.
I am so not the Christian I am suppose to be. My actions do not reflect upon what I believe in. I live for myself. I'm suppose to live for God. And somewhere along the line I lost that.
Is it silly for me to think that I have been following God's plan? God gave me the gift of writing. I have had a love affair with words since I was young. The summer before my senior year of high school I learned of a journalism school called Ball State University and for some reason, without knowing anything else about this college, I knew I was going to end up going there. Even though I had many doubts about attending Ball State and almost ended up choosing Miami (even seriously considered transferring there after my first semester at BSU) here I am, with one year to go, a senior at Ball State University.
Apparently I wasn't wrong about the writing part either. I checked my grades today and as I had been told, there next to the "Intro to Magazine Writing" was the letter A. Since the first day of walking into that class I had been determined to walk out of there with that grade. Determined that an A in that class would set me off in the direction of being the next Jenny Eliscu at the Rolling Stone magazine. Although I'm not sure if RS is my dream anymore or not, I achieved my goal. This whole time thinking I've been following God's plan.
Maybe I am. But I feel so disconnected from God, I don't know.
Gandhi once said "Your Christians are so unlike your Christ." Boy did he have it right. I could give you a very long laundry list of how unlike Christ I am. I feel almost hypocritical in calling myself a Christian. Of course, most people are hypocrites in some way or form. But just because I admit it doesn't make it any better. Just because I know I'm so unlike the God I believe in doesn't make it right. Just means I know how bad of a Christian I am.
A bad Christian. Now there's a broad term.
I've been taught that really it all boils down to you and your relationship with God. If you are pursuing God, no matter how much of a "bad Christian" you might be, then you are in Christ.
I haven't been pursuing God yet I call myself a Christian. But I love God and I believe in Him. There is nothing in the world that could convince me He doesn't exist. Nothing that can separate me from my faith, even though it is particularly weak right now.
Christianity is exhausting. This blog is just a long ramble. I just wish I understood what all of this means, and more importantly, what it means about being a Christian and following God.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Hey Jealousy
Today's blog is about being in a relationship. So if you're not into reading my thoughts and feelings on boyfriends, relationships, and the like, then I suggest you skip out on reading this.
I don't want to be the jealous girlfriend. I never thought I would be. I never thought it would bother me for my boyfriend to hang out with other girls. Especially if they are just friends and they are well aware that he's in a relationship. After all, I have guy friends whom I hang out and it's no big deal. Joe and I trust each other.
But let's face it: I'm the jealous girlfriend.
But what bothers me is not that girls want to hang out with my boyfriend. What bothers me is that I don't feel respected for being his girlfriend when they do. And what I mean by that is that I never hear from these girls if it's okay to hang out with my boyfriend. And I never hear them ask Joe if I'd be okay with it. Joe asks me if I'm okay with it, but that's on his own part. I have never heard him double check because the girl wanted to know.
I realize I might sound slightly psychotic in saying that. I am a slightly psychotic person though. But before you jump to the conclusion that I have trust problems or that I'm just a crazy uptight type-A girlfriend, let me defend myself.
In almost every situation I would never deny a girl from hanging out with my boyfriend. Most of these girls that do hang out with him are close friends of mine as well. Or they were friends with Joe before we started dating. So it probably doesn't even occur to them that maybe it would bother me if they hung out with him, nonetheless check with me to see if it's okay. And in most situations it doesn't bother me. Or does it? If I've been thinking about it enough for me to blog about it then maybe I do have issues with girls hanging out with my boyfriend.
Ok. Fine. I do.
I just don't understand why they have to hang out with him. I remember last year when Joe and I were just best friends. I don’t ever remember some girls hanging out with him one on one. Mostly because I was the one hanging out with him. I remember girls hanging out with him when I was around him. Then again, maybe I don't remember because I wasn't his girlfriend and therefore I wasn't jealous.
Still. I feel like something changed since Joe and I started dating.
Maybe girls realized what I realized last May. How great of a guy he is. How much fun is he to be around. Maybe just maybe they regret not having the chance to date him with when they could.
Or maybe that's just me wishing that to comfort my own insecurities. Not with Joe. But with girls.
There is something else that this does touch on. It goes outside the relationship. It goes outside of liking someone as more than just friends and boils right back down to the core of all of this: friendship.
I think I'm jealous of Joe and his friendships.
Think about it. There are more girls wanting to hang out with him than me. He gets more texts from people asking for advice or someone to listen to them than I do. Grant it, I do have a core group of friends who rely on me and turn to me. I love that. But it seems at college I don't have that. I don't have people asking to hang out with me one on one like Joe seems to. A lot of times I'm waiting around from him to return from hanging out with someone. Instead of just admitting that it's about friendship, I turn it into something to do with my relationship.
So I guess I just solved my own problem. It's not about girls hanging out with Joe. It's me. And my friendships, or lack thereof. I'm not jealous of these girls…I'm jealous of my boyfriend.
Still, it wouldn't hurt if one of these girls would just ask me just once.
I don't want to be the jealous girlfriend. I never thought I would be. I never thought it would bother me for my boyfriend to hang out with other girls. Especially if they are just friends and they are well aware that he's in a relationship. After all, I have guy friends whom I hang out and it's no big deal. Joe and I trust each other.
But let's face it: I'm the jealous girlfriend.
But what bothers me is not that girls want to hang out with my boyfriend. What bothers me is that I don't feel respected for being his girlfriend when they do. And what I mean by that is that I never hear from these girls if it's okay to hang out with my boyfriend. And I never hear them ask Joe if I'd be okay with it. Joe asks me if I'm okay with it, but that's on his own part. I have never heard him double check because the girl wanted to know.
I realize I might sound slightly psychotic in saying that. I am a slightly psychotic person though. But before you jump to the conclusion that I have trust problems or that I'm just a crazy uptight type-A girlfriend, let me defend myself.
In almost every situation I would never deny a girl from hanging out with my boyfriend. Most of these girls that do hang out with him are close friends of mine as well. Or they were friends with Joe before we started dating. So it probably doesn't even occur to them that maybe it would bother me if they hung out with him, nonetheless check with me to see if it's okay. And in most situations it doesn't bother me. Or does it? If I've been thinking about it enough for me to blog about it then maybe I do have issues with girls hanging out with my boyfriend.
Ok. Fine. I do.
I just don't understand why they have to hang out with him. I remember last year when Joe and I were just best friends. I don’t ever remember some girls hanging out with him one on one. Mostly because I was the one hanging out with him. I remember girls hanging out with him when I was around him. Then again, maybe I don't remember because I wasn't his girlfriend and therefore I wasn't jealous.
Still. I feel like something changed since Joe and I started dating.
Maybe girls realized what I realized last May. How great of a guy he is. How much fun is he to be around. Maybe just maybe they regret not having the chance to date him with when they could.
Or maybe that's just me wishing that to comfort my own insecurities. Not with Joe. But with girls.
There is something else that this does touch on. It goes outside the relationship. It goes outside of liking someone as more than just friends and boils right back down to the core of all of this: friendship.
I think I'm jealous of Joe and his friendships.
Think about it. There are more girls wanting to hang out with him than me. He gets more texts from people asking for advice or someone to listen to them than I do. Grant it, I do have a core group of friends who rely on me and turn to me. I love that. But it seems at college I don't have that. I don't have people asking to hang out with me one on one like Joe seems to. A lot of times I'm waiting around from him to return from hanging out with someone. Instead of just admitting that it's about friendship, I turn it into something to do with my relationship.
So I guess I just solved my own problem. It's not about girls hanging out with Joe. It's me. And my friendships, or lack thereof. I'm not jealous of these girls…I'm jealous of my boyfriend.
Still, it wouldn't hurt if one of these girls would just ask me just once.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Suitcase the Memories (7/90)
I'm not doing so well with this whole 90 day blog thing. Consistency is killing me right now. Apparently getting into a habit is just as hard as breaking one.
I'm finally home. Got home last night after midnight. I literally spent almost all day yesterday packing and cleaning. I honestly had no idea that I had that much stuff. It's a good thing I didn't go home and get my little sunfire like I had originally planned and just had my parents bring the van up, because there is no way I would've been able to fit everything in my car. It would've literally been impossible. I would've had to go to walmart and buy a car-top carrier or something. That or make two trips. Just what I want to do. Spend a total of 6 hours commuting back and forth between home Ball State.
If packing all this crap was exhausting, imagine my thrill in unpacking it. It's why I'm blogging right now. I had to take a break from it. Funny thing is, this past semester I used cleaning as a form of procrastination from writing. Now I'm using writing to procrastinate from cleaning. Ironic, right?
Anyways, my goal is to get everything packed and put away today. And in doing that, it means I'm going to need to eliminate some stuff. I realize I have many clothing options of which I never choose. I also have a ton of just plain crap that needs to go as well. Today will be a day to check this off of my summer to-do list.
As I'm slowly starting to sift through all of my belongings I realize I have a lot of little things from my past that I need to dispose of. Like beanie babies. Remember those? They were popular and suppose to be worth a ton of money someday. Well if that's the case, it'll be for some lucky person who buys my old ones from goodwill. There are also a ton of little toys and knick knacks just chilling on my shelves. I never look at them or use them for anything other than taking up space. Those will go as well.
But as I started putting clothes away in my closet, I came across this little purple little suitcase from my childhood. It's one of those suitcases shaped like a briefcase, and considering it was for a little kid it's the actual size of one. On the front is a faded picture of a little girl and above it the words "going to grandma's" that rainbow over it.
Every time I come across that little suitcase I contemplate getting rid of it. And every time I hold it in my hands, look over it, and put it back. Every time I realize that I don't need it and I have no use for it. But every time I hold it I put it right back where it was.
I just can't part with it. I don't know why I haven't been able to admit that before, but that's the truth. It's just a little item from my past I can't get rid of. I have no use for it and it isn't really that significant. But for some reason, every time I hold it, I feel like I'm 5 again going to grandma's and I put it right back in the closet.
I guess to me it seems if I were to get rid of it I would be disrespecting my past. That sounds odd but that's really how I feel about it. To throw it away or donate it means it's no longer needed nor wanted and it has no use for my life anymore. Which is the truth. But for some reason that subliminally translates as "you're grandparents are gone and it's time to move on." My grandparents are gone. But I don't know if there is such a thing as moving on.
I still love my grandparents even though they're gone. I still hold onto that suitcase even though I don't need it. It's funny how items can often take on meanings in which they were never meant to be. That suitcase is just a suitcase. But for me, it is s symbol of my childhood and the love between my grandparents and I. That suitcase was not meant to be used for more than 5 years I'm guessing. It's been hanging around for more than 15. It was never meant to be anything more than a bag to transport my toys and stuffed animals from Fairfield to Pittsburgh. Instead it became a tool to trigger flashbacks and memories from my youth.
Today however, after putting my suitcase back in the closet, I decided I would put it to good use. It isn't the only thing around here that I have trouble parting with. There is a watercolor painting of Pittsburgh that I took from my grandparent's house
after they died. It had been hanging in the room my sisters and I stayed in for who knows how many years. I couldn't leave it. There's the pretty little clock. It doesn't work but when you wind it up it makes the loveliest little ticking sound. There's a ballerina decoration. And the shot glass from my cousin's wedding with the candies still in it. Things I haven't touched but won't part with. All of them, among all of the other things I'm sure I'll come across, will go in that little suitcase.
It's time to suitcase the memories. And unfortunately go back to unpacking.
I'm finally home. Got home last night after midnight. I literally spent almost all day yesterday packing and cleaning. I honestly had no idea that I had that much stuff. It's a good thing I didn't go home and get my little sunfire like I had originally planned and just had my parents bring the van up, because there is no way I would've been able to fit everything in my car. It would've literally been impossible. I would've had to go to walmart and buy a car-top carrier or something. That or make two trips. Just what I want to do. Spend a total of 6 hours commuting back and forth between home Ball State.
If packing all this crap was exhausting, imagine my thrill in unpacking it. It's why I'm blogging right now. I had to take a break from it. Funny thing is, this past semester I used cleaning as a form of procrastination from writing. Now I'm using writing to procrastinate from cleaning. Ironic, right?
Anyways, my goal is to get everything packed and put away today. And in doing that, it means I'm going to need to eliminate some stuff. I realize I have many clothing options of which I never choose. I also have a ton of just plain crap that needs to go as well. Today will be a day to check this off of my summer to-do list.
As I'm slowly starting to sift through all of my belongings I realize I have a lot of little things from my past that I need to dispose of. Like beanie babies. Remember those? They were popular and suppose to be worth a ton of money someday. Well if that's the case, it'll be for some lucky person who buys my old ones from goodwill. There are also a ton of little toys and knick knacks just chilling on my shelves. I never look at them or use them for anything other than taking up space. Those will go as well.
But as I started putting clothes away in my closet, I came across this little purple little suitcase from my childhood. It's one of those suitcases shaped like a briefcase, and considering it was for a little kid it's the actual size of one. On the front is a faded picture of a little girl and above it the words "going to grandma's" that rainbow over it.
Every time I come across that little suitcase I contemplate getting rid of it. And every time I hold it in my hands, look over it, and put it back. Every time I realize that I don't need it and I have no use for it. But every time I hold it I put it right back where it was.
I just can't part with it. I don't know why I haven't been able to admit that before, but that's the truth. It's just a little item from my past I can't get rid of. I have no use for it and it isn't really that significant. But for some reason, every time I hold it, I feel like I'm 5 again going to grandma's and I put it right back in the closet.
I guess to me it seems if I were to get rid of it I would be disrespecting my past. That sounds odd but that's really how I feel about it. To throw it away or donate it means it's no longer needed nor wanted and it has no use for my life anymore. Which is the truth. But for some reason that subliminally translates as "you're grandparents are gone and it's time to move on." My grandparents are gone. But I don't know if there is such a thing as moving on.
I still love my grandparents even though they're gone. I still hold onto that suitcase even though I don't need it. It's funny how items can often take on meanings in which they were never meant to be. That suitcase is just a suitcase. But for me, it is s symbol of my childhood and the love between my grandparents and I. That suitcase was not meant to be used for more than 5 years I'm guessing. It's been hanging around for more than 15. It was never meant to be anything more than a bag to transport my toys and stuffed animals from Fairfield to Pittsburgh. Instead it became a tool to trigger flashbacks and memories from my youth.
Today however, after putting my suitcase back in the closet, I decided I would put it to good use. It isn't the only thing around here that I have trouble parting with. There is a watercolor painting of Pittsburgh that I took from my grandparent's house
after they died. It had been hanging in the room my sisters and I stayed in for who knows how many years. I couldn't leave it. There's the pretty little clock. It doesn't work but when you wind it up it makes the loveliest little ticking sound. There's a ballerina decoration. And the shot glass from my cousin's wedding with the candies still in it. Things I haven't touched but won't part with. All of them, among all of the other things I'm sure I'll come across, will go in that little suitcase. It's time to suitcase the memories. And unfortunately go back to unpacking.
Friday, May 7, 2010
2 am Rant (6/90)
Ball State does not feel like Ball State right now. Not that I ever thought it would, but my walk back from the house to my room was just eerily different. Aside from the fact that there is NO ONE here, there's no lights on in several of the buildings, no cars, no drunks, and the weather is this creepy rush of wind that reminds me of storms brewing over Lake Erie. For a second I felt if I closed my eyes and opened them I'd be standing on the cliff next to my cottage, watching the sun sink into Canada with the waves crashing on shore. Unfortunately I open my eyes and realize I'm still here.
Funny thing is, despite the fact that Joe and most of my friends are gone, I still don't feel like going home. I don't necessarily feel like staying here, but I wouldn't mind getting out of here for somewhere else. Just not Fairfield. I don't even know why. Last time I checked, I love my home. And there are definitely certain things that I miss and can't wait to embrace when I get back tomorrow. Like my little kitten or Skyline. It'll be relaxing and I'm sure I'll enjoy it...but I just don't want to go there right now.
Gee whiz...what is wrong with me?
It's like I just want to freeze time and stay where I am forever. Stay 20 forever. Stay at Ball State forever. Stay a happy college student in my oblivion and live life for what it's worth here in Muncie. I am happy summer is here but I am strangely not looking forward to it.
And there should be no reason for that. I'm going to England this summer. I'll be spending a lot of time in New York this summer. I'll get to see Joe more than just once this summer. I'll have my friends at home, I'll make friends overseas. I can write now knowing that I actually have a shot of getting published instead of just doing it for my own amusement. I will chill in the sun, relax in my pool, run along the beach. This summer is looking to be perfection.
And yet I don't want perfection right now. I don't know what I want. All I do know is that I feel all over the place, I don't understand why, but I am trying my best to figure it out.
Funny thing is, despite the fact that Joe and most of my friends are gone, I still don't feel like going home. I don't necessarily feel like staying here, but I wouldn't mind getting out of here for somewhere else. Just not Fairfield. I don't even know why. Last time I checked, I love my home. And there are definitely certain things that I miss and can't wait to embrace when I get back tomorrow. Like my little kitten or Skyline. It'll be relaxing and I'm sure I'll enjoy it...but I just don't want to go there right now.
Gee whiz...what is wrong with me?
It's like I just want to freeze time and stay where I am forever. Stay 20 forever. Stay at Ball State forever. Stay a happy college student in my oblivion and live life for what it's worth here in Muncie. I am happy summer is here but I am strangely not looking forward to it.
And there should be no reason for that. I'm going to England this summer. I'll be spending a lot of time in New York this summer. I'll get to see Joe more than just once this summer. I'll have my friends at home, I'll make friends overseas. I can write now knowing that I actually have a shot of getting published instead of just doing it for my own amusement. I will chill in the sun, relax in my pool, run along the beach. This summer is looking to be perfection.
And yet I don't want perfection right now. I don't know what I want. All I do know is that I feel all over the place, I don't understand why, but I am trying my best to figure it out.
Risks (5/90)
I can't focus. I just can't. Media Law final in less than an hour. I should be doing some last minute cramming, but I look at the words on the screen and nothing's registering. I just want to pass this class and be done with it!
So...since I'm like 3 days behind in my 90 day blog, I figure it's time to make up for what I've missed. Another great excuse for procrastination :)
Let's see. The last time I blogged was on Tuesday. So I need to make up for Wednesday, Thursday, and write a blog for today. Fun.
Wednesday...cinco de mayo...oh what a night.
I did something a little outside my comfort zone. Ok actually it was really outside of my comfort zone. It was definitely illegal. Almost getting caught sent me on an adrenaline rush I had never experienced before. It was crazy and exciting and I loved it.
This a little tricky to blog about, since I don't want to get myself or any of my friends in trouble. Not to say that any cop is going to see this, and if they did I don't know if they could do anything about it. But just for precaution, I'll explain how it all felt instead of delving into details of what actually happened.
Where do I begin...
Let's see. I have tried this once before. In the winter. When it was freezing cold and icy. I attempted to do this, but freaked out at the thought of being caught and stopped before I got too far. The night ended in embarrassment, tears, and shame. I swore that I would never try it again. It was too uncomfortable for me.
But then in this past month I had a sudden change of heart. Some sort of carpe diem rush came over me and instead of thinking, "This could get me in trouble" my thoughts morphed into "Screw society! Screw the law! Stick it to the man! Life's too short, I'm going to do whatever the hell I want!"
Knowing that my opportunity to try this, um, event, was going to happen again, I made the promise that I would do it. And that I would follow through with it. Just one more time. If not for my "carpe diem" attitude, then it would be some sort of redemption from my previous failure.
When I attempted this again, it had gone well for the most part. Towards the end I was positive that it was going to be successful. Then I (and a few other friends) saw those blue and red flashing lights...
You're not suppose to run. But I did.
I have a squeaky clean record. Never gotten in trouble for anything. Not even a speeding ticket. In fact, I have never even been pulled over. So when you realize your squeaky clean record is on the line your body goes into that "fight or flight" mode and you react in whatever way you see suitable. I wasn't going to fight. Hence, it was flight.
The next half hour of running and hiding was the biggest adrenaline rush of my life. I was absolutely terrified but I was calm. It was like some sort of animal instincts had taken over. I realized every decision and every move I made would determine if I made it out of my current sticky situation.
I am happy to report that my patience, my speed, and just enough luck got me safely out of my situation. 7 years of running did not fail me.
I will probably never ever do this again. Unfortunately, one of my friends did get caught. I don't know what the consequences my friend will face for this, but I don't want to put myself in the same situation. It was a once in a lifetime event that I immensely enjoyed and will never forget. I hope to share it one day with my grandchildren so they can look at me and think "wow, my grandma was a badass!" It may have been a stupid decision in the long run, but I don't regret it. Sometimes the risk, as stupid as it may be, is worth taking.
More blogging later...off to media law exam!
So...since I'm like 3 days behind in my 90 day blog, I figure it's time to make up for what I've missed. Another great excuse for procrastination :)
Let's see. The last time I blogged was on Tuesday. So I need to make up for Wednesday, Thursday, and write a blog for today. Fun.
Wednesday...cinco de mayo...oh what a night.
I did something a little outside my comfort zone. Ok actually it was really outside of my comfort zone. It was definitely illegal. Almost getting caught sent me on an adrenaline rush I had never experienced before. It was crazy and exciting and I loved it.
This a little tricky to blog about, since I don't want to get myself or any of my friends in trouble. Not to say that any cop is going to see this, and if they did I don't know if they could do anything about it. But just for precaution, I'll explain how it all felt instead of delving into details of what actually happened.
Where do I begin...
Let's see. I have tried this once before. In the winter. When it was freezing cold and icy. I attempted to do this, but freaked out at the thought of being caught and stopped before I got too far. The night ended in embarrassment, tears, and shame. I swore that I would never try it again. It was too uncomfortable for me.
But then in this past month I had a sudden change of heart. Some sort of carpe diem rush came over me and instead of thinking, "This could get me in trouble" my thoughts morphed into "Screw society! Screw the law! Stick it to the man! Life's too short, I'm going to do whatever the hell I want!"
Knowing that my opportunity to try this, um, event, was going to happen again, I made the promise that I would do it. And that I would follow through with it. Just one more time. If not for my "carpe diem" attitude, then it would be some sort of redemption from my previous failure.
When I attempted this again, it had gone well for the most part. Towards the end I was positive that it was going to be successful. Then I (and a few other friends) saw those blue and red flashing lights...
You're not suppose to run. But I did.
I have a squeaky clean record. Never gotten in trouble for anything. Not even a speeding ticket. In fact, I have never even been pulled over. So when you realize your squeaky clean record is on the line your body goes into that "fight or flight" mode and you react in whatever way you see suitable. I wasn't going to fight. Hence, it was flight.
The next half hour of running and hiding was the biggest adrenaline rush of my life. I was absolutely terrified but I was calm. It was like some sort of animal instincts had taken over. I realized every decision and every move I made would determine if I made it out of my current sticky situation.
I am happy to report that my patience, my speed, and just enough luck got me safely out of my situation. 7 years of running did not fail me.
I will probably never ever do this again. Unfortunately, one of my friends did get caught. I don't know what the consequences my friend will face for this, but I don't want to put myself in the same situation. It was a once in a lifetime event that I immensely enjoyed and will never forget. I hope to share it one day with my grandchildren so they can look at me and think "wow, my grandma was a badass!" It may have been a stupid decision in the long run, but I don't regret it. Sometimes the risk, as stupid as it may be, is worth taking.
More blogging later...off to media law exam!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Passion (4/90)
I am driving myself crazy. Time to blog.
Today, as I had hoped, went much better than yesterday did. I was actually pretty productive today. I woke up at 9:30am instead of noon. I laid out and studied in the sun. And I've made some progress with this article I'm working on.
Yes. This damn article that makes me honestly want to throw my computer against the wall. That one.
I have only myself to blame for it. I threw the idea for it together at the last minute. I have had plenty of time to do more research, talk to more people, really get a feel for what's going on so I can whip up a semi-decent story. I've had plenty of time to submit drafts and get others thoughts. If I had tried, this story could be much better than what it's turning out to be.
Truth is I haven't tried. I haven't done shit.
Again, I really would like to blame a thousand other things for why this story is looking to be just words on a page in which I've attempted to throw together in a coherent sense. But I know the real underlying reason for it. I know why I've poured so much time into the other pieces I wrote. Why I've worked so much harder to make them as best as they could be (in which I will go back and try again to make them even better). Why I've racked my brain over Title IX and contacted person after person for my article on Ball State's non-existent track team. It comes down to one little word.
Passion.
Don't get me wrong, this piece I'm working on is something that was thought of out of passion. It's focusing on pets and the economy. How shelters are seeing on a daily basis people trying to come and drop off their pets because they lost their job, they're house was foreclosed, or they simply can't afford to take care of their beloved animal. Considering that I have volunteered countless times for animal shelters, was once a huge advocate for Peta (until I discovered how crazy they are...eek!) and even went vegan once, it's safe to say that I truly care about animals. I took in a cat last summer that kept hanging around our house and now she is a ball of fur that sleeps on my bed and lifts her name at the sound of "Lil Bit". I once took in a cat that was hanging outside of Target and scaring customers away because it was a black cat. A female cop wouldn't go near it (she had a cat phobia) and an hour later when another cop showed up he refused to do anything with it because it would give him "bad luck". So I scooped up the poor creature, plopped it in my sunfire, and drove it home until I could take it to a shelter the next day. Considering it was highly malnourished and very ill, my parents weren't too happy about my attempts to "save" another animal.
But hey, I have a heart. Better to try than not do anything at all right?
My hope in this article was exactly that. I can't go out and save the world. I can't keep pet owners from losing their jobs, or idiots from abandoning their pets on the streets. I can't force people to get their dog neutered, or to adopt instead of purchase from a breeder. There are a lot of things in this world that I can't do. But to shed some light on a subject? To use writing as a way to get into someone's head or toy with their emotions? To tell a story that represents some truth that will have some sort of impact on someone's life?
That I'm not sure I can do. But that I can try.
So you can imagine my frustration when I look at my word document and see a thread of words that don't represent how I'm feeling and what it is I want them to do. You can imagine my regret in realizing I poured perhaps too much of my passion into my other two stories that I am bone dry and just done with this one. You can picture me pulling my hair out as I stare blankly at my computer screen, both wanting to try to save this story and at the same time just drag it to the trash can icon and never think of it ever again. Unfortunately it's the latter that it is truly tempting me right now.
If it wasn't for grades and passing classes I honestly would print this story out, take it outside, pull out my lighter, catch it on fire and then let the ashes sink into the earth and realize I don't ever have to deal with it again. I do this with certain things. Last summer I had a field day burning photos from my past that evoked too many bad memories. I regret saying that this story is turning into one of them.
Regardless, I have a deadline. I have a class that I have to pass. I have to turn this in, despite the fact that it truly is a "stinking pile of dog shit." I just wish I had just an ounce more of passion to save it.
Today, as I had hoped, went much better than yesterday did. I was actually pretty productive today. I woke up at 9:30am instead of noon. I laid out and studied in the sun. And I've made some progress with this article I'm working on.
Yes. This damn article that makes me honestly want to throw my computer against the wall. That one.
I have only myself to blame for it. I threw the idea for it together at the last minute. I have had plenty of time to do more research, talk to more people, really get a feel for what's going on so I can whip up a semi-decent story. I've had plenty of time to submit drafts and get others thoughts. If I had tried, this story could be much better than what it's turning out to be.
Truth is I haven't tried. I haven't done shit.
Again, I really would like to blame a thousand other things for why this story is looking to be just words on a page in which I've attempted to throw together in a coherent sense. But I know the real underlying reason for it. I know why I've poured so much time into the other pieces I wrote. Why I've worked so much harder to make them as best as they could be (in which I will go back and try again to make them even better). Why I've racked my brain over Title IX and contacted person after person for my article on Ball State's non-existent track team. It comes down to one little word.
Passion.
Don't get me wrong, this piece I'm working on is something that was thought of out of passion. It's focusing on pets and the economy. How shelters are seeing on a daily basis people trying to come and drop off their pets because they lost their job, they're house was foreclosed, or they simply can't afford to take care of their beloved animal. Considering that I have volunteered countless times for animal shelters, was once a huge advocate for Peta (until I discovered how crazy they are...eek!) and even went vegan once, it's safe to say that I truly care about animals. I took in a cat last summer that kept hanging around our house and now she is a ball of fur that sleeps on my bed and lifts her name at the sound of "Lil Bit". I once took in a cat that was hanging outside of Target and scaring customers away because it was a black cat. A female cop wouldn't go near it (she had a cat phobia) and an hour later when another cop showed up he refused to do anything with it because it would give him "bad luck". So I scooped up the poor creature, plopped it in my sunfire, and drove it home until I could take it to a shelter the next day. Considering it was highly malnourished and very ill, my parents weren't too happy about my attempts to "save" another animal.
But hey, I have a heart. Better to try than not do anything at all right?
My hope in this article was exactly that. I can't go out and save the world. I can't keep pet owners from losing their jobs, or idiots from abandoning their pets on the streets. I can't force people to get their dog neutered, or to adopt instead of purchase from a breeder. There are a lot of things in this world that I can't do. But to shed some light on a subject? To use writing as a way to get into someone's head or toy with their emotions? To tell a story that represents some truth that will have some sort of impact on someone's life?
That I'm not sure I can do. But that I can try.
So you can imagine my frustration when I look at my word document and see a thread of words that don't represent how I'm feeling and what it is I want them to do. You can imagine my regret in realizing I poured perhaps too much of my passion into my other two stories that I am bone dry and just done with this one. You can picture me pulling my hair out as I stare blankly at my computer screen, both wanting to try to save this story and at the same time just drag it to the trash can icon and never think of it ever again. Unfortunately it's the latter that it is truly tempting me right now.
If it wasn't for grades and passing classes I honestly would print this story out, take it outside, pull out my lighter, catch it on fire and then let the ashes sink into the earth and realize I don't ever have to deal with it again. I do this with certain things. Last summer I had a field day burning photos from my past that evoked too many bad memories. I regret saying that this story is turning into one of them.
Regardless, I have a deadline. I have a class that I have to pass. I have to turn this in, despite the fact that it truly is a "stinking pile of dog shit." I just wish I had just an ounce more of passion to save it.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Time (3/90)
24 hours. That's right, 24 hours. A whole day to get a ton of stuff checked off my to-do list so that I can be stress free the entire week. Wanna know how much I actually accomplished? Zero. Zilch. Nada.
Ugh.
I've always been a procrastinator but I swear it's never been to this extent. I may not get a lot accomplished somedays, but here was one of those awesomely rare days where I literally had NOTHING going on. Time, for once, was on my side. I could've woken up in the early morning and powered through the day. Could've hit the sack early and slept a wonderful 8 hours, only to repeat and do it all again. Could've been productive and finish the day on a high note of feeling good about myself for accomplishing so many things.
Key word here is "could've". The truth is, "didn't."
I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. I don't understand why I can't sit and study for at least an hour. Or write. Or work on something, anything. It could've been packing, or cleaning, or working out, etc. Instead all I did was study briefly before my HSC final (the briefly part was definitely a mistake...oh well) and the rest of the day was spent hanging out with people and talking about all the work I should be doing.
I could make excuses for myself. It's true I did not feel well today. After taking care of Joe these past few days, I'm fairly certain I caught what he had. Woke up with a slight sore throat. Then felt dizzy and nauseous. Then a wave of feeling fatigue and feverish spread over me. But really, I could've mustered through it. After I went to back to Joe's house to hang out I began feeling much better. Maybe I'm, what's that word? The word for people who believe their sick when they're not? (googling...) A ha! Hypochondriac. Maybe I'm that.
Or maybe I'm sick with something else. I'm getting a similar feeling of what I had last year during the last week of school. It's that wave of sadness in realizing you're not going to see some of your favorite people for awhile. That feeling of having to leave everyone and bid them temporary goodbyes. The feeling of going home and missing your life here at college.
Homesick.
But not for home. Not for the red-brick house in the suburbs of Cincinnati. Not for my best friends from high school. Not for my family and pets. Not for all of the things I hold very close to my heart because they're apart of me. I'm homesick for the life I have right now. I'm homesick for college.
I have never been a fan of goodbyes. Ever. I'm one of those people who have a very difficult time of leaving something, especially people, in my past. I've learned that there quite a few people out there who don't understand this. They don't understand why you can't just accept things and move on. Why you can't just leave the bad behind and move forward with the good. The truth is, I don't understand it either. But I can't help it. I can't explain all the countless times I've tried to save something from it's ultimate death. Whether it's a relationship or an experience, or even just caring about something. Moving on has always been a fear for me and yet I've never quite understood why.
And here I am again, having to move on. It's not even a permanent move on. I will surely keep in touch with all of my college friends. Joe and I are planning a trip to new york. And in three short months I know I will be right back here in this town called Muncie, ironically probably wishing I was still in Ohio, or New York, or England, enjoying the freedom of summer.
But that's three months down the road. Right here, right now, I'm already feeling homesick for it.
I've found the best medicine for homesickness is to surround yourself with people. The people that make you smile. The people that make you forget. The people who help wash away the sickness your feeling because you're too caught up in enjoying the moment with them. The people who are ultimately going to be the reasons why you're homesick in the first place. Because you so dearly miss them.
I may not have gotten much accomplished today. I may not have studied for finals like I should've, or edited my magazine pieces, or packed and cleaned some more, etc. But I did spend time with some of the people I love the most. I laughed and talked and returned to my dorm room with a smile on my face because I immensely enjoyed the previous hours. Even though nothing spectacular happened, just being with these people made my day. Much more than a checked-off to-do list ever could.
I have a created a set schedule for the rest of the week to accomplish everything I need to do. I will stick with it. I learned my lesson from today...I don't want to feel like a total bum. But at the same time, I don't regret the time I spent today. I don't regret being surrounded by some of my favorite people. I have always felt that people are much more important than anything else. More important than grades, or jobs, maybe even your biggest dreams. Because what is college if it just trying to get the best grades and a long, checked-off list of to-dos? 10 years from now I'm not going to remember this week. I'm not going to remember how I did on my finals. But I am going to remember the memories I've made with my friends. And at the end of the day, that's all that really matters to me.
Maybe I'm just out of my mind...thinking about time.
Ugh.
I've always been a procrastinator but I swear it's never been to this extent. I may not get a lot accomplished somedays, but here was one of those awesomely rare days where I literally had NOTHING going on. Time, for once, was on my side. I could've woken up in the early morning and powered through the day. Could've hit the sack early and slept a wonderful 8 hours, only to repeat and do it all again. Could've been productive and finish the day on a high note of feeling good about myself for accomplishing so many things.
Key word here is "could've". The truth is, "didn't."
I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. I don't understand why I can't sit and study for at least an hour. Or write. Or work on something, anything. It could've been packing, or cleaning, or working out, etc. Instead all I did was study briefly before my HSC final (the briefly part was definitely a mistake...oh well) and the rest of the day was spent hanging out with people and talking about all the work I should be doing.
I could make excuses for myself. It's true I did not feel well today. After taking care of Joe these past few days, I'm fairly certain I caught what he had. Woke up with a slight sore throat. Then felt dizzy and nauseous. Then a wave of feeling fatigue and feverish spread over me. But really, I could've mustered through it. After I went to back to Joe's house to hang out I began feeling much better. Maybe I'm, what's that word? The word for people who believe their sick when they're not? (googling...) A ha! Hypochondriac. Maybe I'm that.
Or maybe I'm sick with something else. I'm getting a similar feeling of what I had last year during the last week of school. It's that wave of sadness in realizing you're not going to see some of your favorite people for awhile. That feeling of having to leave everyone and bid them temporary goodbyes. The feeling of going home and missing your life here at college.
Homesick.
But not for home. Not for the red-brick house in the suburbs of Cincinnati. Not for my best friends from high school. Not for my family and pets. Not for all of the things I hold very close to my heart because they're apart of me. I'm homesick for the life I have right now. I'm homesick for college.
I have never been a fan of goodbyes. Ever. I'm one of those people who have a very difficult time of leaving something, especially people, in my past. I've learned that there quite a few people out there who don't understand this. They don't understand why you can't just accept things and move on. Why you can't just leave the bad behind and move forward with the good. The truth is, I don't understand it either. But I can't help it. I can't explain all the countless times I've tried to save something from it's ultimate death. Whether it's a relationship or an experience, or even just caring about something. Moving on has always been a fear for me and yet I've never quite understood why.
And here I am again, having to move on. It's not even a permanent move on. I will surely keep in touch with all of my college friends. Joe and I are planning a trip to new york. And in three short months I know I will be right back here in this town called Muncie, ironically probably wishing I was still in Ohio, or New York, or England, enjoying the freedom of summer.
But that's three months down the road. Right here, right now, I'm already feeling homesick for it.
I've found the best medicine for homesickness is to surround yourself with people. The people that make you smile. The people that make you forget. The people who help wash away the sickness your feeling because you're too caught up in enjoying the moment with them. The people who are ultimately going to be the reasons why you're homesick in the first place. Because you so dearly miss them.
I may not have gotten much accomplished today. I may not have studied for finals like I should've, or edited my magazine pieces, or packed and cleaned some more, etc. But I did spend time with some of the people I love the most. I laughed and talked and returned to my dorm room with a smile on my face because I immensely enjoyed the previous hours. Even though nothing spectacular happened, just being with these people made my day. Much more than a checked-off to-do list ever could.
I have a created a set schedule for the rest of the week to accomplish everything I need to do. I will stick with it. I learned my lesson from today...I don't want to feel like a total bum. But at the same time, I don't regret the time I spent today. I don't regret being surrounded by some of my favorite people. I have always felt that people are much more important than anything else. More important than grades, or jobs, maybe even your biggest dreams. Because what is college if it just trying to get the best grades and a long, checked-off list of to-dos? 10 years from now I'm not going to remember this week. I'm not going to remember how I did on my finals. But I am going to remember the memories I've made with my friends. And at the end of the day, that's all that really matters to me.
Maybe I'm just out of my mind...thinking about time.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
When I Grow Up... (2/90)
I just remembered that I signed up for this 90 day blog deal and so I HAVE to write before I start packing. Which is also before I start studying for my exam tomorrow. Nice!
I am one of those weird people that love finals week. While everyone else is stressing and waiting to get it all over with, I enjoy all the free time that I have. As a student, this means no classes, no homework, nothing but finishing final projects and studying. As an RA, this means no desk work, no one on ones, no staff meetings, and no floor programs, etc. Everything is in chill mode. My mind is set on getting things done so that I can get the hell out of Indiana and back to my beloved homes in Ohio and New York.
At the same time, I hate finals week.
Aside from the obvious stress of studying and whatnot, it's depressing to learn that I only have a week left before summer starts. All year long I have waited for this week. Every time an assignment popped up or the days I walked through the hell known as Muncie winter, I'd slip off into dreamland and wish I was at Lake Erie or rollerblading down the streets of Fairfield. But now that finals week is here, now that summer is here, I am not ready for this year to be over with.
I only have a year of college left :(
I don't know why, but for as long as I can remember I have tried to rush myself through life. My goal has always been to be one step ahead of everyone else. I blame middle school cross-country. The summer before 7th grade my dad and I took the training plan the cross-country coach had given me, and for three days every week we would hit the track together, starting at just running 400m until we built up to 2 miles. When I started cross-country that fall, I had learned no one else really took that program to heart. I was faster than everyone else and placing well in races because of my early training.
I loved it. Since then I have thought up countless plans to get ahead of the game. The spring semester of my junior year of high school I started post-secondary at Miami University in Hamilton. Basically, with the exception of a pre-calc class at Fairfield, I was taking all college classes. The last semester of my senior year I didn't even show up at the high school unless absolutely necessary. Some say I was cheating myself of the high school experience. Trust me, I was not. I had plenty of high school experience under my belt from the first 2 and a half years attending Fairfield. Actually, by skipping classes in high school I got the best of both worlds. I was attending college classes while still getting to go to the prom, run cross-country and track, and attend all the other fun stuff high school has to offer. I just got to miss out on all the drama and waking up at 5:30am :)
By the time I came to Ball State I was a sophomore with 36 credit hours. Naturally, my goal was to get out of here in 3 years. Why waste one more year at college (and one more year of tuition!) when I can be out in the "real" world?
Well, it looks like I'll be accomplishing my goal. And now I kind of regret it.
I'm almost 21 and yet I feel like a child. The idea of leaving the comforts of college and embracing the "real world" terrify me. I have dreamed of being some sassy journalist who struts around the streets of Manhattan in her fancy manolos like Carrie Bradshaw. While I'm not at all expecting to leave Ball State and head straight for the Big Apple, I realize that fantasy may not be so far out of reach. And now I'm not sure if I'm ready to handle it.
I feel like we just move from bubble to bubble. We get ourselves into a new situation where we feel completely out of place and yearning for what we once had. Then we learn to adjust, and find comfort in our new worlds and new lives with new people. And then we blink and discover we have to pack our bags and move on again. For so long I've been more than willing to move on, to rush through my youth so that I can have the independence and successful career I've been craving since middle school. That's until now, where I realize what growing up really is like. It's exhausting, frustrating, and scary. It's life.
I may not be ready to take on the new world. But I am ready to take on this summer, and I am ready for one more year. As I've said before, I can't look too far down the road, because honestly at this point I don't know what's down there anyway. All I can do is enjoy the time I have left, and trust that when this chapter ends God will help me write a new one.
I am one of those weird people that love finals week. While everyone else is stressing and waiting to get it all over with, I enjoy all the free time that I have. As a student, this means no classes, no homework, nothing but finishing final projects and studying. As an RA, this means no desk work, no one on ones, no staff meetings, and no floor programs, etc. Everything is in chill mode. My mind is set on getting things done so that I can get the hell out of Indiana and back to my beloved homes in Ohio and New York.
At the same time, I hate finals week.
Aside from the obvious stress of studying and whatnot, it's depressing to learn that I only have a week left before summer starts. All year long I have waited for this week. Every time an assignment popped up or the days I walked through the hell known as Muncie winter, I'd slip off into dreamland and wish I was at Lake Erie or rollerblading down the streets of Fairfield. But now that finals week is here, now that summer is here, I am not ready for this year to be over with.
I only have a year of college left :(
I don't know why, but for as long as I can remember I have tried to rush myself through life. My goal has always been to be one step ahead of everyone else. I blame middle school cross-country. The summer before 7th grade my dad and I took the training plan the cross-country coach had given me, and for three days every week we would hit the track together, starting at just running 400m until we built up to 2 miles. When I started cross-country that fall, I had learned no one else really took that program to heart. I was faster than everyone else and placing well in races because of my early training.
I loved it. Since then I have thought up countless plans to get ahead of the game. The spring semester of my junior year of high school I started post-secondary at Miami University in Hamilton. Basically, with the exception of a pre-calc class at Fairfield, I was taking all college classes. The last semester of my senior year I didn't even show up at the high school unless absolutely necessary. Some say I was cheating myself of the high school experience. Trust me, I was not. I had plenty of high school experience under my belt from the first 2 and a half years attending Fairfield. Actually, by skipping classes in high school I got the best of both worlds. I was attending college classes while still getting to go to the prom, run cross-country and track, and attend all the other fun stuff high school has to offer. I just got to miss out on all the drama and waking up at 5:30am :)
By the time I came to Ball State I was a sophomore with 36 credit hours. Naturally, my goal was to get out of here in 3 years. Why waste one more year at college (and one more year of tuition!) when I can be out in the "real" world?
Well, it looks like I'll be accomplishing my goal. And now I kind of regret it.
I'm almost 21 and yet I feel like a child. The idea of leaving the comforts of college and embracing the "real world" terrify me. I have dreamed of being some sassy journalist who struts around the streets of Manhattan in her fancy manolos like Carrie Bradshaw. While I'm not at all expecting to leave Ball State and head straight for the Big Apple, I realize that fantasy may not be so far out of reach. And now I'm not sure if I'm ready to handle it.
I feel like we just move from bubble to bubble. We get ourselves into a new situation where we feel completely out of place and yearning for what we once had. Then we learn to adjust, and find comfort in our new worlds and new lives with new people. And then we blink and discover we have to pack our bags and move on again. For so long I've been more than willing to move on, to rush through my youth so that I can have the independence and successful career I've been craving since middle school. That's until now, where I realize what growing up really is like. It's exhausting, frustrating, and scary. It's life.
I may not be ready to take on the new world. But I am ready to take on this summer, and I am ready for one more year. As I've said before, I can't look too far down the road, because honestly at this point I don't know what's down there anyway. All I can do is enjoy the time I have left, and trust that when this chapter ends God will help me write a new one.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Say What You Need to Say (1/90)
People are following my blog. Weird.
Having someone read my writing has never been particularly uncomfortable for me. I've posted plenty of blogs and notes over the past few years for friends to read and comment on. I've sent my fair share of letters, from the typical "hey how's it going?" update to the personal heart-to-heart letter that you dread sending despite how easy the words seemed to flow from pen to paper. Occasionally I've felt the paranoia of having my words read aloud. Especially with poetry. I love poetry, but I couldn't write a haiku to save my life. Or the time I read my story about my coach to my creative writing class. It felt good to let that out, but it was particularly awkward to have my classmates, who barely know me, hear me pour out all this emotional turmoil. Aside from those two things, I really can't recall a time where having others read my work was an issue for me.
Until now.
You may be assuming I'm talking about my blog. In a sense, I am. Because here is my second attempt to writing everyday for 90 days (definitely failed after the second day the first time around) and now I have more things to think of and more things to write. Which is great. But it also might mean I'm a little more vulnerable than I was before.
It also goes beyond the blog. As in the dream I'm trying to turn into a career. As in becoming a professional free lance writer.
The desire to be published in a magazine has existed for quite a few years now, and the idea that this desire could turn into reality in the "near" future gives me mixed feelings. For one, it's exciting (duh). Just the idea that I'm trying to pitch a story is an exciting feeling. For it to actual be published would be spectacular.
But it's also kind of scary. Because to be published means people will be reading it; as in people I don't know, people I have never met nor will probably ever meet, will be reading my writing and judging me based off of it. My writing will be a representation of me, and if it turns out my writing is flawed or gives off the wrong tone or doesn't sit well with someone, then they won't be happy with me. And being the people-pleaser I've been my whole life, this idea is just a little outside my comfort zone.
I know you can't make everyone happy. I'm well aware of that and I'm learning to accept it. But accepting that little known fact of life doesn't mean my fear is going to vanish overnight.
However, this fear isn't going to stop me from writing. It's not going to stop me from blogging. And it's not going to stop me from writing my bluntly honest thoughts regardless of whether anyone agrees with me or not.
For the next 89 days, this blog is going to be about me. Selfish you may say but that's what a blog is all about, right? I'm going to write as if no one else were reading it. It's probably going to be a sloppy mess full of random tangents and winding ramblings of my thoughts throughout the day. I will probably reread my posts and wince at the idea that someone somewhere out there is taking what I've said. But my goal for this blog is not for it be perfect. My goal is for me to become comfortable with my writing...as awful as it may be.
I should also add that if you do read my blog you will find I am a huge fan of clichés. I love them. I don't understand what's so wrong with using them. They're clichés because they work!
And last but not least, I am a fan of using lyrics. You will find in almost every blog I post that it revolves around one specific lyric or song. In fact, the entire goal of this blog stems from one of my favorite John Mayer songs. It's a simple message, one that I try to keep in mind every time I sit down to write.
To my fellow classmates/bloggers who are also embarking on this 90 day challenge, I wish you good luck, and that you say what you need to say.
Having someone read my writing has never been particularly uncomfortable for me. I've posted plenty of blogs and notes over the past few years for friends to read and comment on. I've sent my fair share of letters, from the typical "hey how's it going?" update to the personal heart-to-heart letter that you dread sending despite how easy the words seemed to flow from pen to paper. Occasionally I've felt the paranoia of having my words read aloud. Especially with poetry. I love poetry, but I couldn't write a haiku to save my life. Or the time I read my story about my coach to my creative writing class. It felt good to let that out, but it was particularly awkward to have my classmates, who barely know me, hear me pour out all this emotional turmoil. Aside from those two things, I really can't recall a time where having others read my work was an issue for me.
Until now.
You may be assuming I'm talking about my blog. In a sense, I am. Because here is my second attempt to writing everyday for 90 days (definitely failed after the second day the first time around) and now I have more things to think of and more things to write. Which is great. But it also might mean I'm a little more vulnerable than I was before.
It also goes beyond the blog. As in the dream I'm trying to turn into a career. As in becoming a professional free lance writer.
The desire to be published in a magazine has existed for quite a few years now, and the idea that this desire could turn into reality in the "near" future gives me mixed feelings. For one, it's exciting (duh). Just the idea that I'm trying to pitch a story is an exciting feeling. For it to actual be published would be spectacular.
But it's also kind of scary. Because to be published means people will be reading it; as in people I don't know, people I have never met nor will probably ever meet, will be reading my writing and judging me based off of it. My writing will be a representation of me, and if it turns out my writing is flawed or gives off the wrong tone or doesn't sit well with someone, then they won't be happy with me. And being the people-pleaser I've been my whole life, this idea is just a little outside my comfort zone.
I know you can't make everyone happy. I'm well aware of that and I'm learning to accept it. But accepting that little known fact of life doesn't mean my fear is going to vanish overnight.
However, this fear isn't going to stop me from writing. It's not going to stop me from blogging. And it's not going to stop me from writing my bluntly honest thoughts regardless of whether anyone agrees with me or not.
For the next 89 days, this blog is going to be about me. Selfish you may say but that's what a blog is all about, right? I'm going to write as if no one else were reading it. It's probably going to be a sloppy mess full of random tangents and winding ramblings of my thoughts throughout the day. I will probably reread my posts and wince at the idea that someone somewhere out there is taking what I've said. But my goal for this blog is not for it be perfect. My goal is for me to become comfortable with my writing...as awful as it may be.
I should also add that if you do read my blog you will find I am a huge fan of clichés. I love them. I don't understand what's so wrong with using them. They're clichés because they work!
And last but not least, I am a fan of using lyrics. You will find in almost every blog I post that it revolves around one specific lyric or song. In fact, the entire goal of this blog stems from one of my favorite John Mayer songs. It's a simple message, one that I try to keep in mind every time I sit down to write.
To my fellow classmates/bloggers who are also embarking on this 90 day challenge, I wish you good luck, and that you say what you need to say.
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