Thank you disillusionment.

Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence

Thank you India
Thank you providence
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you nothingness
Thank you clarity
Thank you thank you silence

- Alanis Morrsette, "Thank you"

I'm having a contemplative day and often gravitate toward "Thank You" by my girl Alanis when I'm in this frame of mind. This song reminds me of those aspects of life that I never thought I'd be thankful for. Silence. Nothingness. Clarity.

It's actually taken me a while to see the beauty in a completely silent moment, as I've grown quite accustomed to allowing life to be loud. I used to grow very uncomfortable with a lull in conversation or instances at school where the teacher asked us all to sit in silence. Silence was to me, very loud.

I still allow my mind to become bombarded and cluttered with loud thoughts, and I allow my mouth to run with unnecessarily over-the-top words. There have been times where I've driven myself insane with my untamed demeanor. I have to force myself to stop and chill.

Very rarely do I remember to enjoy a perfectly peaceful moment in the car, painting on new canvas, walking down the tow-path next to the river on Main Street, bringing the dog out in the middle of the night when there's not one car on the road and very little light anywhere. There are so many of the silent serene moments that I miss because I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off.

Life doesn't always have to be outrageous. Repeat. Life doesn't always have to be outrageous.

I will quit rambling here, as not to sound like I'm turning into a self-help book. I just had to document this rare moment. It's late at night, no one's here but me my words and I'm thankful for it.

What are you thankful for?

Warning: Do not leave cell phone unattended.

Dear Followers Who Actually Read & Remember What I Write:

It is finally time for the story of The Jewish Prince. Dad, you may not want to read this one. I'm serious this time.

Jewish Prince (JP) is a strapping, (Jewish) 30-year old with a nice structured jaw line and mysterious eyes. We had fun little phone/text conversations for about a week and he kept my attention throughout, which rarely happens. He's also a journalist and so I instantly gave him points for knowing how to write. The fact that he writes for a Human Resources magazine (snore) doesn't much matter to me. He still gets to wear a Press Pass. I decided to entertain seeing him for about...35 seconds.

Because something quite bizarre happened.

JP came over one night after visiting me at work. I was surprised because I wasn't expecting it, but I kind of liked it. I was actually more concerned with the fact that he visited on a day that I hadn't washed my hair and wasn't wearing a particularly cute outfit. I like to be prepared for these types of run-ins.

Because I was so unprepared to have a gentleman caller visit Apartment G8, JP agreed to go grab a Starbucks down the street while I showered, put on a little tinted moisturizer and tidied up. I begged my no-boundaries friend, KvF, to stay over because I barely knew JP, and just incase he was a serial killer, he would have to kill us both. She agreed to third-wheel it. I am still ridiculously grateful. You'll find out why if you keep reading!

Things were going seemingly well. The three of us watched the Oscars together and even bet on who was going to win in each category. The winner was awarded random things we found in our pockets/purse. I ended up with Madonna's Immaculate Collection CD. Score. Everyone began to let their guard down. And by this I mean that JP left his phone on the coffee table while I gave him a little tour of my abode.

A costly mistake.

KvF was lying on the couch located next to the coffee table. Allegedly, his phone rang over and over, signaling new text messages. This caused KvF to enter into full manic mode; she picked up his phone and read everything. New texts, old texts, incoming and outgoing. Oh, and his picture messages.

Here's what she found:

1. A few days prior to hanging with me, JP performed some type of heavenly oral pleasure on an African American woman who texted him asking for round 2. And I quote, "I can't wait to have your face between my legs."

2. The same woman enjoyed sending pictures of her lady parts to him via picture message.

3. JP slept with a drunk chick who woke up in his clothes, left his house and locked herself out, had to call her parents from a neighbor's phone and is now grounded. Re-read that again: she's grounded. This leads me to believe she's either 12 or still lives at home with two really strict parents. Nice.

4. Various other texts detailing his sexual prowess, were saved by JP, seemingly for him to look at and fantasize about.

5. There was also a picture of his ex-girlfriend. She was pretty according to KvF. Waifish but pretty. This one didn't bother me. It's just weird that I learned it so early.

Here's the thing people. I am well aware that by no fault of his own, JP's cards were thrown on the table long before they were supposed to. I'm also aware that KvF royally invaded his privacy. I felt horrible about that for two seconds actually. I even tried to talk to him the next day and pretend I didn't know a thing. But the phrase, "I can't wait to have your face between my legs," kept resounding in my mind. In fact, throughout the next few days, every time KvF asked me a question, I answered with that statement. Right now I'm laughing about it. I might be obsessed with it actually. It's really fun to say.

That made things kind of awkward.

JP threw out the olive branch and volunteered to tell me his whole life story after I admitted that I was having a hard time taking him seriously. We had a rather deep conversation about both of our pasts and kind of decided to "put the situation behind us". Good in theory, bad in reality. "We're putting that behind us," is for long-term relationships only. When the boyfriend screws up but you love him enough to give him a get-out-of-jail-free pass. He forgot Valentine's day this year. That's okay, he got you a David Yurman last year. Put it behind you. It doesn't work when you just met someone. In the beginning, the best part is imagining him being the best thing that's ever happened to you. Instead I was imagining him in compromising sexual positions. This was not going to work.

I decided to be a mature young lady and call JP to tell him it was over before it even began. This was the first time I'd ever done something like this. I usually just ignore until they get the hint or do something really horrible so that they are forced to hate me. This time I went for the honesty route. Aired dirty laundry aside, I may have liked the guy enough to be respectful.

JP was not happy about it. He kicked and screamed a little. He even insulted me a tiny bit, without realizing it. But he knew the damage was done.

He's now free to go plant his face all over town if he wants to. Back in between picture-sender's legs, the 12 year old, or in a hole. But this sweet little Catholic girl (right) has apparently learned a lesson no one's ever taught him: keep your phone on silent!

My real parting quote. And by quote, I mean poem.

Happiness by Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Thinking back on my own high school graduation parting quote, I neglected to hand one in and was forced the day before the yearbook was going in for print to figure something out. In other words, I had to go off the cuff with my homeroom teacher standing over me. I blame her for my horrible writer's block that day.

The reason behind my neglecting to hand my quote in on its due date has a little something to do with my obsession with coming up with brilliance and originality in 30 words or less. I imagined someone dusting off the 2002 Villa Maria yearbook in the year 2018, and upon finding my picture thinking, "God I wish I still knew that chick. Not only was she gorgeous but she was really something." You don't need to tell me I'm self-absorbed and ego-fanatical.

Anyway, like most of my ideas, the genius parting quote was great in theory but never came to fruition. Somehow the words, "We may not have had it all together, but together we had it all," spewed from my mind and on to the page that very last day. I mean, I could have gone for the "too cool for school" look and kept my quote area blank, but my Mom would have yelled at me and I was already in enough trouble at the time.

What an awful friggin' quote though right? Where did it come from? What does it even mean? Okay, I know what it means. It means we were all out of our minds individually, but somehow we came together and took the world by storm. In our own little way, maybe we did. But that's beside the point.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

My real parting quote tonight. Goodnight all.

I couldn't resist writing about the other one.

I'm feeling all cute and lovely about my sisters after writing about Thumber and her birthday. The above photo is all three of us! Yes, I have another sister! (I also have a brother too, Broseph. But this is a girl power evening so we'll save him for later.)

Beaner is the baby girl of the family, fourteen years my junior. She obviously makes me feel extremely old. I find myself acting like the wise old sage when I see her. I can't help from lecturing her on staying away from the "mean girls" at school and prying her to tell me if she's kissed a boy or not. She obviously says no. And then I convince myself to believe her. I do get the distinct feeling that my advice goes in one cute little ear and out the other, but that's okay.

She better know that I'll be the one to go kick the ass of the first boy to break her heart, while Thumber attempts to hold me back. (Thumber has much more restraint in pen and tongue than I do). I also can't wait to help her pick out her first prom dress. I'm not just saying this because she's my sister: Beaner defines the word breath-taking. Even as a baby, I swore she was an angel dropped from the heavens.

What's the good of news if you haven't a sister to share it?

- Jenny DeVries

Lord help the mister that comes between me and my sister.

Happy 24th Birthday to my beautiful sister, Thumber!

You are the sassiest, most-fashionable and hip chick I know. You also exhibit emotional maturity and poise in situations that most of us girls would lose it during. I give you mad love for that sister!

And just because I'm terrible/hilarious, I dug up a few old school photos of us during childhood. To put it lightly, we were looking pretty rough during our younger years. But we had each other and that's all that matters, right? And then we had Broseph and Beaner join us!

Exhibit A: Please note the rash below my bottom lip. The aftermath of obsessive lip-licking. I remember these rashes really hurting! As for you, Thumber, you're looking a little bit boyish! And we won't even start on the haircut...

Exhibit B: Thumber, you're looking very cherubic and adorable. Actually, you still sport this pose in photos today. I, on the other hand, am still obsessively lip-licking when the photo was taken. No doubt a symptom of my insanity.

However, remember what Mom used to tell us? Ugly ducklings turn into beautiful swans! Forget the fact that in saying that, she admitted we were ugly.

Because I do have a heart, let's take a look at my beautiful sib today. A definite swan...

Exhibit C: Thumber today. Hot, hottie, hot!

My world got a little bit brighter (and more mischievous) the day you were born. We've been through a whole lot together and I can honestly say we are stronger for it.

Last but not least - GO TA BED.

F*^&&%$ Cocka-roaches!

Dear Gigantic Cockroach In My Bathroom,

Listen up dear. I'm sick of your shit. I know you wait until dusk to come out and tease me. God knows where you're at during the day. (Hopefully not playing around in my underwear drawer). But really, I'm starting to become royally angry and neurotically creeped out. First of all, you're huge. I've never seen a cockroach your size. You must be Queen Roach, Momma R or whatever you cockroaches call the head of the family. But let me fill you in on a little somethin' somethin': I'm Head Bitch In Charge in Apartment G8. We don't have room for you here.

Worst part about you is the location you've chosen. Behind my vanity and toilet? Really? As if the sight of you isn't revolting enough. I now can't use the bathroom to do my business without my eyes constantly darting, wondering if you're going to jump in my lap. When I'm not in there, have you touched my toothbrush? Do cockroaches lay eggs? If so, what if I'm ingesting baby cockroach eggs when I brush my teeth because you're laying eggs on it while I'm not in there? You're sort of ruining my life.

Last night I had two really bad dreams. The second involved you. Yes, you've reached my sub-conscious. You were in my bed with me, climbing up my leg. I nearly died. You're haunting me you little #*#%@#^@.

Last but not least, I know you're missing a leg. You know why I know that? Because you know I almost got ya' the other night! Yeah, remember me? The one who almost ended you at 3 am when I had to pee and saw you chilling out next to the soap? I grabbed my biggest shoe and whacked you with all my might.

But you're a fast little bugger, aren't ya? I only got a piece of your leg.

Just you wait, you little life-wrecker. I'm coming for ya! I got more where that came from.

We could, however, just settle this nicely. You could calmly up and move to the next apartment. I've seen it in there. If you think my place is messy, you aint seen nothin' yet. It's an insect's dream world. You can reproduce all you want there. I'll even throw in a few crumbs on the bathroom floor tomorrow if you promise to be out by sun down.

I'm not kidding.

A.B.

Don't worry, I'm not going to off myself.

It's safe to take me off suicide watch people. I'm feeling much better today. I worked for a few hours at the lovely and wonderful Republic of Banana where I convinced a young psychology professor to open a credit card. Score! We get pats on the back when we open cards and boy do I love recognition. No, but on a very small scale, accomplishing just a tiny task makes me feel less useless.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that tomorrow I will be finally meeting up with a hilarious writer friend who may have the hook up for an advertising agency position. I'm super psyched that maybe this could help me get my foot in the creative world door. So far nobody's that interested in lil ole' me. Even though I have the most gorgeous resume the world has ever seen! Seriously.

Being laid off has given me time to evaluate where I think my strengths and weaknesses lie.

I need to be working that left side of the brain. The creative outlet. The brainstorming area.

Granted, every job entails a little bit of something one may not thoroughly enjoy doing, but if I'm creating and surrounding myself with like-minded people, I believe I will flourish. I have faith in myself.

Last order of business: if you are one of my few loyal readers, you have noticed that I've been quite unfair. I've promised stories that I haven't come through with. I just want to reassure you that I haven't forgotten. They're in draft mode. I'm just not funny lately so they're not up to par. I promise to have one of my most bizarre stories yet posted by the end of the week. This is the one about the Jewish man I dated for three seconds, the one with the secret freaky side.

Quotable.

"In the opening to the Mary Tyler Moore Show Mary's in the supermarket, hurrying through the aisles. She pauses at the meat case, picks up a steak and checks the price. Then rolls her eyes, shrugs and tosses it in the cart. That's kind of how I feel. Sure I would have liked things to be different. But, 'roll of eyes' what can you do? 'shrug' I threw the meat in my cart and moved on."

— Augusten Burroughs (Running with Scissors)

Round here we stay up very, very, very, very late.

I'm having one of those days/nights where I'm purposely dragging myself through the mud. Sometimes I treat myself like shit.

I lay around all day, knowing full well that by dusk I'll be kicking myself over the laundry that sat in the family room taunting me because I never threw it in the washer. Or the dinner I refused to feed myself because I decided that chocolate candy and coffee would be my only meal, leaving me shaking by midnight. Or the psychotic conversation I allowed myself to engage in with a certain bat-shit crazy person, basically the same conversation I've engaged in many times, that leaves me feeling like the insecure child that I used to be. Damn those ones that we allow under our skin! Or the celebrity gossip websites I read for hours that cause me to question my faith in humanity. Then there's loved one that I pushed away because I knew he'd make me feel better and feeling better is illegal right now.

It's like, "Leave me alone. How dare you smile or laugh or try to be funny! Can't you see I'm perfecting misery here? Ugh, the nerve!"

If I wanted to have a happy day I would have thrown the laundry in at 10, grabbed a Starbucks at 11, eaten a semi-healthy meal at a reasonable hour, told the bat-shit crazy one to eff off way earlier, shunned Perez Hilton, met up with my loved one much earlier and allowed him to hug me, grabbed a late dinner and blogged about how I overcame my tendency to self-destroy on rainy days.

Can I have a do-over?! Pahhh-leeeasee?

No? Okay. There's always tomorrow kids. Always tomorrow.

Confession.

You know you're poor when you open the sunroof in your car only because you think the sun's rays might highlight your (brown) roots.

God help me.

Lyrical Love.

Love arrives safely with suitcase in tow.
Carrying with her the good things we know.
A reason to live and a reason to grow.
To trust. To hope. To care.

- Avett Brothers, "Ballad of Love & Hate"

Stream of Consciousness.

I do believe there comes a time in every young woman's life where she thinks she has to decide what type she's going to be. Perhaps as a child she imagined herself as a doting wife and mother. Growing up she had a first love, a second one, maybe a third. None of them stuck. As a young adult maybe she gave up on love altogether. She was not fit for it. Too good for it. She was free to experiment. This was exhilarating at first but eventually she was confronted with the realization that this was not who she wanted to be. She settled down a bit and re-evaluated. Tried the love shoe on for size again. It fit!

Maybe she eventually allowed herself to share a home with the one man whom she considered putting a ring on her finger for, only to realize she was scared shitless. Who was she? What did she really want? What had happened to the days where falling in love gave her butterflies like her high school sweetheart did? Why was she unable to sleep or wake up without the dreadful weight of impending doom waving her down?

She may have decided to up and leave. Fuck it. She could do it on her own. Find a new place that was only hers. Buy a puppy that would be her love child. Paint her walls green and blue, convincing herself that the colors would instantly change her gloomy outlook on who she was and who she was destined to become.

She took the love shoe off again.

The phrase, "all you know is all you know" may have resounded in her head like a gong, and flashbacks of her first example of commitment and marriage full of broken dishes, curse words and slammed and broken doors made her nervous. Without knowing it, maybe she had carried the example in a tiny box in her pocket. Most of the time she forgot it was there but when she felt nervous about taking the plunge, she stuffed her hands in the pocket and found it there, comforting her: You will become what you fear, it told her. You are not meant for this type of stuff.

Even though the sight of babies takes her breath away and the idea of "the one" makes her smile inside.

Could she give herself to anyone? Was she capable of healthy love?

She had a feeling she would be a good mother if she ever had the chance, and maybe even a loving partner, if she ever allowed herself to just freaking relax.

Maybe there is no type. Maybe that's how it works. Once you stop trying to arrange it all, it falls into place. Maybe 1 am on a Sunday night is not the time to be wallowing in emotionalism.

Intertwining Roots

My very closest friends were engaged yesterday. I couldn't be more thrilled, mostly because I had a hand in setting them up for junior prom almost 10 years ago (wow, that makes me feel awfully old) and have watched them grow into each other. To me, they exemplify what it means to find someone who completes you, understands you and holds you up no matter what. They are best friends. They still make each other laugh. They communicate beautifully. They never, ever give up on each other. Like two trees planted next to each other, over time the roots intertwine underground; the two become one. That's what these two goof balls are.

My parents were evil and forced me to transfer from a coed Catholic school to an uptight all girl's school my junior year of high school. I kicked and screamed and threw child-like temper tantrums but they wouldn't budge. In retrospect, I don't blame them. I had become a rebellious little teenager on my way to no good.

Anyway, upon entering VMA, I found myself completely alone and depressed trying to mix in to the crowd of Main Line bitches with bow-tied ponytails and cliques that seemed like all-women gangs. I was frightened.

One night at a party I ran in to a girl who had been ditched by her friend just like I had. We recognized each other from class and struck up a conversation over warm Coors Lights that never ended. She slept over that night and we shared stories. This girl and I became best friends in a matter of hours. Over the next two years, we were a team in all facets of life. Both struggling in Math class together, sleep overs on school nights, and parents who knew we were up to no good but somehow trusted us together. I remember sharing a bottle cap in my basement with Lindsay, photo shoots in our school uniforms, Kairos retreats, speeding around in my 89' Beemer listening to Destiny's Child and running out of gas, Malvern boy fiascos, trips to Magnolia Grille, jokes about Paul's mustache, red nailpolish, sports coops and tons of really inappropriate experimental situations that shall remain unsaid. Despite lapses of time and communication, despite lifestyle changes and little fights, our friendship has lasted.

I love her "fiance" just as much. (To me, the word "fiance" is so awkward. Agreed?). He's goofy and weird and doesn't take himself seriously. He and I like to talk in our own little voice and laugh about Christine. More than anything, he puts up with her like no other. She's bold and provocative and ballsy. He loves it. It's hilarious to watch his eyes roll back when she says something outlandish. To me, his expression says, "that's my girl!"

Anyway, I can't wait to help my sweet Tine plan her wedding, chat about the details, and chime in with my opinion. It actually brings tears to my eyes as I imagine seeing them off the night of their wedding, looking forward to seeing these two live a life together, raise children together, grow old together, intertwine their roots even more.

Tine and Jonny, 100%!!!!!!!!!

Flower Power

Check out my newest favorite purchase! Been eyeing up this floral pearl ring at work for weeks but I practiced patience and waited for it to go on major sale/an additional 30% off because I'm part of the Banana Republic family. Daddy would be so proud of me. If he's reading this, he is probably saying, "No, actually I'm not. We already spoke about cutting out all fashion purchases altogether until you're in a better place." But Daddy, this ring makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside when I look at it!

Plus, I am currently imagining myself socking a certain someone in the face with it after a rather insulting conversation a few days back. I will refrain from roasting him on my blog because I am, after all, a very mature young lady. But, wow! I do not believe in the phrase "ignorance is bliss" when it comes to certain programs that have saved millions of people's lives. Here's my public service announcement: If you have a strong opinion, make sure it's an educated one. Meany.

Adorable Distractions

The little miniature ball of insanity shown below is the reason behind me being unable to finish writing tonight. I've been on a roll lately and she's had enough of it. I don't blame her, I've ignored her clawing (as she attempts to climb up my chair) for about two hours. I am a slave to my computer and nothing else exists when I'm in the zone, including puppy scratches. I'm doing some serious work here though! Catching up on my celebrity gossip and Facebook stalking is so necessary. Did you know that David Schwimmer (Ross on Friends, for those of you who live under a rock) proposed to his girlfriend, 20 years his junior? Not sure how I feel about major age differences but I'm leaning towards the love knows no age team. Maybe it's true love...since so many Hollywood marriages are.

I will attempt to finish my newest post tomorrow after work! My baby needs some TLC.

I will give you a hint on what I'm brewing for my next post topic: Telling someone you've finally realized you can't date them...mostly because you don't believe in pre-movie pot smoking after age 18. And because you believe that everything happens for a reason. Knowing where his face has been within one week of meeting kinda forced a crash and burn. Sad but true.

Writing, how I love you so.

Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted.

~Jules Renard, Journal, 10 April 1895

Rain Drops on My Window.

I'm quite the selfish bloggette (new word that I made up because I can: feminine for blogger). I like to get in, write and get out when it comes to this stuff. I quickly view the blogs of two close friends on the regular and cross my fingers that Suzanne Finnamore (an actual accomplished writer) has graced us with one of her few-and-far-between posts. Most of the time, she doesn't. So I sign off. This doesn't happen every time I log on. Occasionally I step out of my comfort zone and check a handful of other blogs. But not as often as I should. Sad face.

However, like I stated in my last post, I am home alone tonight and have some time for extracurriculars. I decided to be a more gracious bloggette and check out some new material. It was a fantastical good time actually.

First thing I noticed? Everyone's images are basically breath-taking and blow mine out of the water. (Not that this is a competition. Well, it is. Everything in my life becomes a competition because that's just how I roll).

I decided that I must find some gorgeous photos that make my blog look, just, AMAZING. I labored over this. It was much more difficult than one would think! There's a lot of shitty photos out there.

Every photo I chose makes rain, puddles and getting wet look glamorous and romantic to me. I look more like a wet, dying dog when I'm rained on. I actually avoid looking at myself in the mirror upon exiting the shower sometimes. My head is an odd shape; only noticeable when my hair is wet and matted to it.

Maybe tomorrow I will romp around in a bathing suit and heels, leaping through puddles with the greatest of ease, not caring that my head shape will be exposed! I do have the day off. This could work. All I need is photographer to follow me around. Any takers?

Here's to my first round of favorite photos!

Ring a Ding Ding.

I have a fear of phone conversations. That's a lie. It's not a fear. I've been programmed by society, technology and my preference for the written word over the spoken one, to shun phone conversation.

And it's funny because most people would say I am ridiculously chatty and talk way too much in person. Especially lately. When I'm at work, I find myself talking fellow sales associate's ears off and telling myself to put a sock in it. All bets are off however, when it comes to the telly. In most cases.

However, tonight I'm home alone. Which I thoroughly enjoy. I can play the same song over and over again without anyone yelling from the other room, "Haven't you had enough of that one yet?" Because no, I haven't. I fall in love with music like I fall in love with boyfriends. I like to constantly play the thought of it over and over again, feeling it repeatedly.

Anyway, it would be nice to lay on the couch and have a nice, long phone conversation tonight. I think though, that because I've become a "text only" type of friend, that if this is going to happen, I'm going to have to make the first move. (Gasp!) I. Never. Make. The. First. Move.

I think tonight, I will be calling my favorite conversationalist, James. If our topics of discussion were recorded, most people would despise us. However, we both believe that our words are what great screen plays are made of. Amazing. Beautiful. Tragic.

We are delusional. But that's okay.

By the way, I think this post has tons of grammatical errors and run ons. For once I'm going to try not to care. I will not edit this post no matter how strong my OCD tendencies tell me to.

Augusten Burroughs is my Kindred Spirit.

"I like flaws and feel more comfortable around people who have them. I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions. "

~ Augusten Burroughs (Magical Thinking: True Stories)

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

I Rise, Maya Angelou

Smiles Await You When You Rise

I'm in the mood for a little poetry writing but so far there's only one line bopping around in my head:

"I regret to admit"

Not sure where that leaves me, but there are in fact a few things I regret to admit.

I regret to admit that I'm scared I'll never work hard enough towards finding a new GOOD job.

I regret to admit that I can't seem to keep my car and house clean at the same time.

I regret to admit that I've been waking up in cold sweats every night and I am not sure it has to do with my comforter being too heavy. I think my body is trying to physically rid me of the constant nagging worry I keep in the far corners of my mind. (Thanks bod!)

I regret to admit that I am heartbroken over breaking my ex boyfriend's heart time and time again. I can't tell you how much I would love to say those four words he would die to hear. But I can't.

I regret to admit that my car was booted today for neglecting 3 parking tickets.

I regret to admit that I miss my mother this week. I wish she would reach out to me more often. Sometimes a girl just needs her mother. Breaking it down to instinctual needs, my mother has a distinct smell that calms me when she lets us hug.

I regret to admit that losing my job has put a strain on my relationship with my father. We have an unspoken, unbreakable bond that many fathers and daughters do not experience. However I know he is in a position where I add stress to his life because of my "in limbo" status.

I regret to admit that following my break up, I seem to have strayed and gravitated in a direction that scares me. My biggest fear: Am I more comfortable being involved in something that's doomed to fail?

I regret to admit that my most recent dip into the dating pool has left me feeling less than stellar. Despite amazing conversations, does this person have much substance? Moreover, does anyone who still drinks actually have a chance with me? Recent news on a certain someone's past makes me wonder if I should close up shop forever.

I regret to admit that even though on most days I am not even sure marriage is for me at all, when I see a picture of an engagement ring pop up on facebook, I instantly feel sick.

So there it is.

Wait, there's more.

I do not regret to admit that I am able to actually tell the truth about what I feel these days. There was a time when this would not have been possible.

I do not regret to admit that I have a few friends in my life these days that make me feel like I'm still a cool ass chick even though I'm not keeping up with the Jones' at the moment.

I do not regret to admit that the warm weather today brought life back to my sails and that seeing dogs (littles ones) play melts my heart.

I do not regret to admit that I have a heart. The other day I was washing my hands in the kitchen. Exciting stuff. When I looked down to grab a paper towel, a red confetti heart was stuck to my wrist. I have no idea where it came from. I don't own red confetti hearts. But it made me laugh. Heart on my sleeve, literally.

I do not regret to admit that choosing a $22 hair cut at Hair Cuttery was the best decision I've made in weeks and that Kristin did a great job.

Golden slumbers fill my eyes, I must say goodnight.

Giving DG Some Much Needed Love

Sometimes I forget about David Grey. I still love him and all. He's hot and his voice is hauntingly deep. But I've neglected his music for a while now. Today I decided to look at an old iTunes playlist of mine and his song Aint No Love was on the list. I was addicted this song years ago. I actually saw him in concert with my father and sister and seeing it live was fantastic.

"Sometimes I'm bursting at the seams with all my half remembered dreams, but then it shoots me down again."

That's me today. I took my pup for an hours long walk and really enjoyed the weather, nature and people watching. As y'all know, I'm on edge thanks to the "in between" stage I have found myself in. Being outside helps me to take a deep breath and laugh at how hilarious life is. You can plan, imagine, determine, contemplate and control as much as you want but more often than not, things will not go how you expect them to.

For instance, today, after my glorious walk, I found myself taking a huge kick to the gut. Not literally, that would be really ridiculous. But, figuratively. I'm now another two steps back in the game of life.

But it's all good. I think?

Ode to K

Dear KvF,

Just when I'm annoyed at you because you took my last twenty dollar bill to pay someone else back, you go ahead and do something like this.

Redeem yourself.

I remember being 21 and refusing to be honest about one damn thing in my life. It was a word I did not even want to spell out because it reminded me of the fact that I could not use it in a list of my personal traits. However, even though you may have some kinks to iron out, you survive because of your honesty about yourself and where you are.

I want you to never lose that kid. I want you to know that sometimes your lack of boundaries bothers me. Sometimes your back and forth between C and Z makes me angry. Your lack of funds makes me have anxiety because I want to share mine but I have very little to give. And you should have gotten your grad school stuff together earlier. But damn, you can listen like no other. And you know how to show your love rather than say the words. You think in terms of "us" rather than "I" when it comes to you and I and that makes me feel like we're a little family. I need that. You have a heart. A big one. And sometimes I wonder how many people really have hearts anymore. But I look at you and I stop wondering. A bleeding heart sometimes is yours. But mine bleeds too and we do it together. Then we patch up the hole and keep on truckin'.

You are a friend among acquaintances and you're fantastic at reading other people's phone messages while they're in the other room.

I love you dearly and always will, sister.

Finances and Trannies and Mila, Oh my!

It's 3 am, my prime time. I'm eating Cheerios and milk with my dog and screaming fuck in my head because I'm having serious neck pain this evening. I must have slept wrong last night. Or today, when I took a 2 hour nap. I'm a big fan of sleep lately. This is partly because I am still getting over the flu and partly because sometimes when there's stress in my life, I'd rather just sleep through it. If I'm lucky, I'll wake up and forget what I was worrying about when I fell asleep. So far, no dice. I'm still worried.

My problem is financial. Which makes me annoyed. I grew up a spoiled child. Not embarassingly spoiled, but my father provided a very comfortable lifestyle for his family. He has four of us and none of us can complain that we went without. Ever. I'm 26 now and learning how to live within my means has become an ongoing battle. Especially now that I'm unemployed and would rather gamble with my expenses than look at my bank account and budget. I like living on the edge. I think I sickly find excitement in whipping out the debit card and getting a nervous stomach hoping that it's accepted so I can get my coffee.

Granted, I'm not always broke. It's just that I am living with much less money than I used to have when I worked full time and my brain has yet to accept the fact. AB, you cannot buy anything for pleasure anymore. Necessity only. Not sure when I'll learn. Hopefully by tomorrow, because the bank account is looking more grim than it ever has before (in the history of being financially independent). Yikes.

In other news, I joined an online dating website. Not because I wanted to find someone to date, and certainly not because I think that the internet holds the key to my next great love. A great friend of mine had been bugging me to help him with his profile on this particular site. I could not do so without making a profile of my own. So I did, okay? Stop judging me.

Begin judging now. It's now become part of my daily check in process. First it's facebook, then gmail, and now it's this dating website. Reason? I'm so vain. (I probably think this song is about me). I become excited seeing that I've received new messages. They are sometimes funny, sometimes nerdy, sometimes flirty, sometimes boring, sometimes interesting e-mails from complete strangers who think my profile is intriguing. I find pleasure in reading what they have to say. Sometimes I even respond. None of these people I have met in person, nor do I think I ever will. But God, give me a space to write and I am down. Whether it be blog, e-mail, facebook or onlinedatingareus. com (that's not the site, I'm keeping it private), I will furiously type away. That's just me.

I will say though, I've had a particularly disturbing experience so far. Well two. One is funny. One guy reached out to me who claimed to be straight but really said he's gay but knows he will never find the guy he wants because his standards are too high so he's basically settling for women. Sounded like an awful way to live. I made him give me serious details about his lifestyle choices and then cut him off. Selfish? Yes. But I have never come in contact with a gay man who is settling for women so I needed to analyze and disconnect.

Second story goes a little something like this: I was chatting a bit with a scruffy, muscular blond who was seemingly normal at first. Until he started rapid fire messaging me with a plethora of questions that I found to be puzzling.

"Do you have your own apartment?"

(Okay, good question, he probably wants to know if I live with my parents. Normal guy concern, right?)

"Ever been to college?"

(Who phrases it like that? Huge pet peeve regarding those who write horribly).

"Why don't you drink? Do you have problems?"

(Besides the fact that the answer is yes, I do have problems, many of them in fact, I didn't care for the phrasing of the question).

"Do you have a group of girlfriends that you go out with on a regular basis?"

(Why? So if you don't like me, you can move on to them? Try to hide your piggishness a bit more hun).

"Do you believe in God?"

(I feel like he threw that in there for good measure. Like, I know my questions are showing my true ugly colors but I believe in the big JC so it's all good).

Well, it's not all good. In fact, it's all bad. I did not want to speak to Mr. Psycho anymore so I simply stopped answering. To which he kept firing off more messages:

"Why are you afraid of me?"

"Why are you not letting me call you to win you over?"

"What's your problem? I don't bite!"

"I'm going out tonight, come with me."

"Let me buy you coffee."

"Let me come see you wherever you are."

"I have a few hours to hang out. Let's hang out."

"Please give me your number."

My only answer to any of these was, "I'm not quite sure about you, so please chill."

Mr. Psycho didn't like this so instead chilling, I got this message in return:

"Actually, I just looked at your picture up-close and personal, and you are a transvestite I think. Please lose my number."

As if I even had the nutcase's number in the first place? I immediately blocked him. And laughed.

And then spent the rest of the afternoon looking at myself in the mirror at various angles, wondering if I in fact, do look like a transvestite. I even asked some friends if I did. Obviously no one said yes. I secretly became kind of insecure about my looks. Until I went to Starbucks and the guy behind the counter looked up at me with a very surprised look on his face. I was startled and thought bad thoughts. Oh no. It's true. I look like an f'ing tranny. I hate myself.

But nope! He said, "Wow, has anyone told you that you look exactly like Mila Jovovich?" Yes. Thank you Starbucks man. You just brought me back to life. I've heard this before but had never actually NEEDED to hear it as much as I did this day. I held on to that compliment like there was no tomorrow. Writing this now, I honestly feel sort of pathetic.

And so there it is folks. It's now quite obvious that I still look for approval on my appearance from the outside world. I'm a woman after all, and sometimes I do feel insecure about myself. I'll go out on a limb and say that I am secretly super, super sensitive on the inside with a very tough top coat. Most of the time I don't like to show it nor admit it, but it creeps up on me and bites me in the ass if I'm not careful. I will say though that I will take being called Mila any day of the week. Even if I don't think it's true. Hell, I'll be called anything other than a man dressed as a woman.

And the Mr. Psycho from onlinedatingareus. com made up another profile and tried to contact me again. The nerve! I guess he likes trannies?