One Sweet Dream Came True Today

These past three weeks, I have listened to Abbey Road an amount of at least 70 times.

I am not exaggerating on this.

This is not typical behavior outside of my Beatles realm. Maybe I'll enjoy a song for a few good weeks, but it is in a playlist of songs, all different musicians, and it isn't on a constant loop.

I have just always been this way with my Beatles.

Somewhere in our home movies, there is video footage of me lying on a bean bag, eyes closed, headphones connected to a cassette player. I am belting out the lyrics to Here Comes The Sun. There is a CD player next to me as I was swapping between albums so I could memorize exactly when to come in, as the cassette tape I was listening to was the karaoke versions of different Beatles songs--I wanted to learn the cues without the lyrical cues from Lennon or McCartney--and sometimes Ringo. I was probably ten or eleven, and my father had come in on my unbeknownst to me, probably to see what the ruckus was of his daughter screaming out "SUN, SUN, SUN, HERE IT COMES."

When I was four years old, my mother said I came home one day singing Yellow Submarine out of nowhere, not missing a beat. Apparently, as my father drove me to school every day, I asked him to teach me the lyrics instead of our usual Count To 100 game. The lyrics are embedded in me to this day.

I also remember when our music teacher in the fourth grade allowed us to bring in our own music to play a song for the class. One student, John, said, "I have this new CD that's super cool--there's a really funny song on it!" As he handed it to her, I remember sighing--all the other kids didn't listen to the same music as me, so I was set to tune out the next four minutes. But then Maxwell's Silver Hammer came on, and I stared at John in wonder.

"The Beatles!" I said, a little loudly. "I didn't know you listened to them."

"Yeah," he said, trying not to seem too friendly with me. I wasn't popular even in elementary school. "I just got their new CD."

"Well, it's been out for a while," I said, frowning. I was at that age of knowing something, but being so used to being corrected by everyone that I questioned whether I was remembering it correctly.

"No, it just came out," he said smugly.

"Not the music," I said quietly, but John was already scoffing to his croonies about how I didn't know anything.

Despite childhood assholery, I still always remember that John liked Abbey Road, and that connected us somehow. Even if he always acted a class clown.

In college, my History of Rock and Roll class had a whole segment dedicated to The Beatles. I almost cried during our listening session to Day in the Life as I began to remember that only half of them were still alive, and that it could never be recreated again. I also didn't need to study.

When I was thirteen, I was taught how to use a turntable with Rubber Soul.

"I used to own every album," my father had said, eyes looking fondly at the past while we dug through the boxes from under the stairs. It was dusty, and the smell was that of old books. I couldn't fathom getting rid of them at any point in my life.

I bought my XBox 360 for Beatles: Rock Band, as I had been waiting on purchasing until that special edition came out.

So, basically, it is safe to say that 70 times in three weeks is really not that big of a deal for someone like me. Not that I listen to them constantly, either. I just always make my way back to listen to what they have to say. I feel as if there is something different every time I hear a song, mostly because I realize something new every couple of rounds in my own life.

The focus of this past month has been renewal. Renewal of life, of environment, of goals. Not just because of the New Year, but other alterations in life that were beyond my control. The company I work for let go a slew of people, and had me move locations; death anniversaries are coming up here in March and April; my brother came back for two weeks, then left for South Korea again; my birthday is coming up.

So, I made a list of the most important things in my life, my priorities and what I wanted to do. I made a firm decision to travel in 2015. I made an appointment with a nutritionist to help me with training for said travel in 2015 (as I'll be walking almost a marathon every day). I re-evaluated my weekly schedules for work, and how I was spending my free time. I renewed myself.

Which led to Abbey Road. As I said, some music you listen to, it speaks to you in a different way every time you listen to it. And throughout the 70 times, I heard 'Life Changing Decisions' over and over again. And, although my friends seem to find it as unfathomable as I did with my father ridding himself of vinyls, I just knew that I had to strive for what I know I have to accomplish in life, and not let anyone, or anything, get in the way.

I've always felt that when you know something is right, you can feel it in your gut. I felt it when I wanted to go to Perpich, when I needed to go to New Zealand, when I had to find my way to the cities... And now I know that I need to keep that momentum going.

One of my most favorite things about The Beatles is how versatile their music is. Every album is different, and they grew with their music. The started out as jokers, almost pranksters on the music labels, and slowly turned more serious and dedicated to their own dreams. I like that combination. Music for any occasion in one band.

The Passing Of That Feeling

This weekend, I got to be a part of a wonderful thing: a friend having a good interview for a thing she wants to do in life: editing magazines.

In fact, she's actually already doing it. Really well. But she isn't able to climb up to her other goals in that position, so she's going for it again.

Before she left, after hugging twice, saying goodbye three times, then talking for another twenty minutes (the usual Minnesotan goodbye), she paused and said, "You know, I'm really banking on them not having many other applicants."

"Why? Traci, you do realize that even if they had another applicant, or twelve, you'd be their competition, right?"I replied. "You'd be giving them a run for their money."

"Oh, you," she said with a wide smile. We hugged again, spoke for a quick two more minutes, then said the last goodbye and waved as she made her way out into the cold weather, making her promise to text me when she got home.

As I closed the door and took a peek out of my eye hole to make sure she made it down my steps okay, I thought about what she'd said: she hoped that no one else had applied so her chances at getting the position were better. And it wasn't because she was lazy. After her interview was finished, we'd had lunch a couple of hours later, and she'd described how she was already working on two welcome letters (when they only requested one), and was also perfecting another piece they'd requested. She was honestly worried that someone else was better at the work than her, and that she wasn't worth hiring, despite editing and creating layouts for two magazines, creating her own strictly monthly digital magazine, and working on a constant flow of freelance work.

What is it about us that doesn't allow us to be happy with what we do? Despite our accomplishments, we somehow don't allow ourselves to believe that we are worth the time, efforts, or praise. We're deemed replaceable within our own minds so easily, this looming doom that what we have will be taken away like a child who is acting spoilt.

In addition to this conversation, there was another during my Chinese New Year celebration, something I started thanks to Fruits Basket. My friends don't seem to indulge in my fun, but embrace it. And, although tradition at this point, it is always different every year. And, although different, it has always been a blast.

This year held a friend I've only met a few times, but each time we've met, our conversations were fantastic, in depth, and honest. We'd discuss. And everything was important because opinions were weighed, well thought out, and respected.

I read his fortune, most of it dealing with work. It spoke about him needing to keep his mouth shut on something he overhears, and knowing that he shouldn't talk about it as it will ruin his chances at success. He listened with skeptical eyes roaming around the cards, more interested in how I was presenting the information, tying in each card, making sure he understood what I was saying.

Afterward, he said, "I'm going to give you some advice for the future, too, if you don't mind." This wasn't him acting better than me, but offering an equal experience way to give me something to think about as I did him (after all, even if you don't believe in magic, you take away something to ponder when you get your fortune told).

What started as a quick fifteen minutes before returning to my party turned into an hour and a half. He asked about my job, which I am currently stressed over as I slowly begin to understand how Big Company Culture works. I am slowly recovering, but I have been upset for the past two weeks at the intense changes. I've been questioning not whether I am strong enough to endure the changes, but whether I want to be strong enough to endure.

"You are a leader," he told me quite seriously when I explained this. "You aren't meant to follow. I can tell this."

"So I've been told." My tone is dry. I don't fully understand it, but I fight against my nature as a leader quite often. Growing up, I was told I was bossy for pushing my ideas, that I am too intimidating for men when I am as direct as I tend to be, and I just plain aren't "all I think I am". Random people within my life would tell me this, and I would believe them over the close people in my life. Almost as if a stranger is more willing to tell the truth over people who judge me an move on within moments.

When I was getting into acting, my director came to me and asked that I become an assistant director to his plays. I directed small scenes for his larger plays. I wrote small scripts for some scenes. He even would bounce ideas off of me in some moments, and he'd use what I'd come up with. At one point, he nominated me as an assistant director for a full play for a female director who was new to the playhouse. I was to gather the props needed by reading through the script; set up and execute tricks that happened within the play; gather actors/actresses for each show, keeping everyone accountable. I was fourteen years old.

I look back at this time and see that I wasn't living up to my full potential even then. I held myself back in many areas, arguing at points that I wasn't right for the part, that they shouldn't place such faith in my skills. I didn't understand why they were using me. And my father supported me 100%, driving me down to the place and volunteering as needed in case someone needed a break from the lighting station.

Looking back, I get it. They had an eager young artist who was clamoring to prove something. But when the opportunity came for me, I thought that I was a last resort. Whomever was better just wasn't available, and that left me. But I was fourteen years old. I don't think there are many teenagers out there who were scripting or directing scenes for paid local plays, ones that would generally sell out as they were well known. What I don't get, looking back, is my reaction to them wanting to build my potential. Where did I get this inclination that I wasn't good enough for what they wanted when they clearly could have gotten someone else if they wanted to.

Much of my growing life has been me being obnoxious, too much to handle, and just different. My best friend was a boy named Josh during my pre-elementary school days, me dragging him into the mischief of mud and hiding. I hated napping in pre-school because they led me away from creating things--crayons, paper, and building blocks had to be pried from my hands or else they'd be brought with me beneath the covers whilst the other children closed their eyes to dream of whatever four-year-olds dreamt about. When my pre-school teacher saw my father several years later, he took out a picture. Bernie cooed at how I'd grown, then gave my father a look, saying, "I would love to hear how things are going when she becomes a teenager." Because, see, I was considered rambunctious. The kindergarten teacher told my mother how wonderful and creative a student I was, but that I never listened when it was time to clean up. I was too busy finishing my latest masterpiece with paints on a "real" easel in my mind--I couldn't clean up when I wasn't done. While everyone was content with going back to the normal daily schedule, I couldn't understand why we'd ever stop in the middle of a project when we'd just gotten in a groove. And the need for me to finish overtook the teacher's need to sing about the days of the week.

My thought process: Why should I clean up now when I know I can in under two minutes, waiting then ten more minutes for the rest of the students to finish? I can be the last to clean up, as I need to get this yellow right there, with the blue.

School wasn't sure how to handle such a good student who didn't want to pay attention. I'd finish tests within minutes, then open a book to read for the next twenty as I waited for my peers to finish. I'd read while the teacher taught subtraction. I'd read ahead while the teacher read aloud and explained things to the other students. I'd read at recess until a friend would mention the swings were available. And I'd write. All the time. I'd create my own stationary for writing out of the computer printer paper; I have a vivid memory of this in the 6th grade, designing on the paper edges, and the popular girls demanding I made some for them (which I didn't...bitches). And my teachers during conferences praised my grades and ability with an additional, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but...your daughter reads too much."

Years and years of be being what we consider "independent and creative" now, yet labeled as something else as it was inconvenient for others while I was growing up.

Fast-forward to now, my discussion over my blue tablecloth, cleansing my fortune deck before placing it back into its container.

"Your friends really like you," Rick said looking over my shoulder into the living room. They are watching Fievel Goes West under the hand-painted dragon and goldfish kites, drinking plum wine and eating rice balls, as is my custom with the non-Chinese traditional food of moshi and pocky.

"I have a really great group," I replied, knowing all of my teeth are showing in my grin. "I am blessed to have every single one of them."

"Perhaps," he said, "but your friends really enjoy you. You are quite something to them, I can tell. They are all here because of you, and they can tell you bring such wonderful things to the table."

I shifted a bit, but the typical uncomfortable feeling I have is a bit dulled with the few glasses of wine I've had. The normal words flow through my lips, however, in a practiced behavior: "I wouldn't be this great without them. Surrounded by amazing people, this is what happens!"

"Yes, but you are the reason why they are here," he insisted. His eyes are directly on me, making sure that I am listening. "You are a muse, Mallory. Creative, particularly unique. You bring about the best in people. You urge others to look at things in a new light. Your interactions with people, you make them at ease. I see it. You bring about the happiness and laughter." He can tell I'm embarrassed at this point as I shrug and glance off. "You should accept this about yourself. And accept that you are a leader." He raised a brow. "You aren't meant to follow," he repeated. My eyes roamed over his face, mulling over his words as if tasting wine before deciding I should have a glass.

After a few moments, he tapped the table and said, "I'm going to take my leave. I am fairly tired, and my old self can't handle this anymore." It is about three in the morning. I stood up with him, still contemplating his words. "I will be interested to see you when you are in love," he tossed at me, and my attention snapped to him. His eyes were filled with mischief when he said, "I think you already are in love."

"With life?" I asked, confused beyond belief.

He shrugged. "Sure." He steps into the living room to say his goodbyes, announcing, "I give your Mallory back to you! I have exhausted her enough with my chatter." When he went to the door, I gave him a hug. I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but I hesitated and told him to drive safe instead. He had already given me a lot to think about. I wasn't sure if I wanted to know my involvement with his love remark. I knew he wasn't referring to himself, in a happy marriage with grown children.

These moments have been on my mind. What Rick has told me shouldn't be news. I have heard many others tell me that I am a good friend. But perhaps I brush this off because they say it with such awe, and I know that I am not the only good friend to be had, not with my group. And I have been told that I bring out the best in people before, or that I am a good leader. That I am creative, unique. I just haven't been able to accept this about myself, as Rick pronounced.

And I still don't know why. Some people would blame society, saying that it is typical for a female to feel as if they aren't allowed to step up. Some people would say that it is understandable as many people have had negative influences growing up. But I've realized that it is still my decision on how to handle my situation. I can keep holding myself back, allowing others to hold me back, from what I want to do in life. Or. I can start believing that I am just as much the positive things people have said about me as the negative. I can see how things ended up the way they did now, me working in a position where I get bored easily, wishing I were writing from dawn until dusk instead, but I can't understand why I allowed myself to get there, not really. I didn't allow it when I was five, pretending I was placing a cap on my purple paint until the teacher turned her back so I could open it back up and finish my damn masterpiece.

I am slightly jealous that my good friend has managed to keep on her path of what she wants to do in life. But, yet again, I am blessed with having her in my life because she's become an inspiration. Despite her fear, she does it anyway. And, before she left, she asked me to go over her welcome letters because she couldn't seem to tie any ends together. She wanted my opinion as a writer, and the ideas I gave her, shifting a paragraph here and adding some extra sense there, she said, "That is exactly what I needed. Ugh, I knew you'd know what to do."

Learning to trust myself as others do, as I did back before I was grouped into a box and told "This is how you're supposed to be". What an old concept that feels new and awkward every time. I could blame as many people as I want for not allowing myself to be happy or going for my dreams. But I still have a choice. And I choose to be strong in being the best me. And that includes my dreams.

Writing: here I come.

When A 26-Year-Old Gives Advice From Experience

Don't let anyone take away your voice. This doesn't mean there isn't a time and place, but your feelings are valid. Let me repeat that: Your feelings are valid.

Those moments when your whole mind and body want to say yes, but you say 'no' instead? STOP IT. My most vivid memories and best moments in life, my accomplishments, have come from saying 'yes' instead.

Get in a fake fighting match with a friend in a department store. Watch how no one will say anything, but the crowd draws. Learn to always say something.

Once, when I was little, I pretended with a friend that an inflatable raft was actually on a river in the Amazon. This is still fun to do.

Play laser tag at least once a month. No mercy for children.

Walk up to a stranger and tell them how everything is going to be okay, and then walk away. Alternatively, walk up to a stranger and tell how you fought on whether or not to steal an item they are carrying, then walk away. Do this in a crowd so they can't pinpoint you later.

Write a love letter to yourself. Hide it in an odd place to find later.

Lose your keys. Lose your wallet. Lose your purse, your cell phone, your car... Priorities and important things become clear when you lose.

Skydive. Then, you can do anything.

Share. With everyone. It is so liberating and you become closer with people who you are meant to be with. Just make sure to listen, too.

If you think you can't do it, you can. People are capable of anything, from murder to going to the moon.

(quick writing from a retreat)

For The Love Of Friendship

I've learned a lot in my 26 years on this Earth. Not as much as I will have in a year from now, a month from now, even a day from now. But, enough. Enough to know how short our time is here by the death that surrounds us simultaneously with life. Enough to know much further one can get with a smile over a frown. Enough to know what the truth can really bring over any lies. I may not know the true depth for each of these, but I know enough.

One of the more important lessons I've ever learned is the beauty of friendship. If there is any relationship that anyone should fall back on, it's friendship. I didn't always believe this, and I don't think many people get to see this until much later. School is filled with teenagers, children, of circumstance. You don't always get to choose the place where you learn. This means that it takes a bit longer for some lessons to be learned. Sometimes, others learn a bit too quickly. And others still, never learn.

I think I learned a bit early, but it took me some time to accept the lesson. A victim of circumstance along with everyone else, I chose the best friends I could. Growing up is always awkward, and it was filled with me creating a close-knit group to protect myself from the terrible teenage girls taunting my every move. I was strong, never letting it show how horrible their remarks and mean spirited pranks truly were. I stood tall in the midst of their hearts filled with the need to tear down another in order to keep their own estranged emotions feeling confident that they aren't as fucked up as the next. People use the term of water over a smooth stone, but they forget that, as time continues, the stone does get smaller. I used to hate that term because I believed that was happening to me. I was in a sea of people, and only my hot headed, passionate nature kept me afloat.

The most interesting thing about friends are they they choose to be around you. Family, they don't have a choice. Your brother, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles... they're what you've got. You have to deal with their idiosyncrasies, even if it's just that naggling feeling of knowing that, no matter what, that is your blood. These are the people who you love no matter what, despite any hatred or ill-will between you.

Friends, however, are your chosen family.

My parents brought me up well. They taught me to always see the good in others, to see their potential, to know that being a friend means bringing out your best and theirs. And I took this to a golden rule. I was always so thankful for these wonderful, good people including me in their lives. I used to get so irritated that people would wonder why I'd hang out with certain people and crowds. Couldn't they see the beauty and wonder I was seeing?

As experience always eventually teaches, I see now what I couldn't see back then. It wasn't that these people weren't filled with a love, or a talent, or something special that allowed them to take on the world to make it a better place. It was that they weren't using it. This part of themselves was untapped, whether it was because they refused to accept it, didn't realize they had it, or just plain didn't think they were good enough. Looking at the past, I'm saddened. I was lucky. As sensitive as I am, the support I've managed to have allowed me to tap what I didn't think I could do for the better. These other people weren't as lucky.

It brings me to the saying of, 'You are who you associate with', or, as Jim Rohn says, "You are the average of the five people you most hang out with." I spoke with my friend Mandikat about this several times as we gushed of how lucky we are to have found such good friends in each other. The phrase at first glance for me was that people assumed that you were exactly like those you were seen with. I objectified to this observation while growing up. I hated that just because I could have a good conversation with someone who happened to skip class consistently and fail classes, they'd automatically assume that I was the same. It irritated me to a point of defiance, wanting to prove that opposites could indeed be friends. After all, I never caved to the offers of drugs. I never skipped class, kept up my good grades...

But, even with my parents' disapproval, I knew that I wouldn't really be hanging with these people. When I was around them, I didn't feel as if I were at my best, and I didn't like that feeling. And I felt as if I were trying really hard to show them their best, but they weren't interested either. Or, they'd be interested for a time, but then forget that need.

The discussions with Mandikat brought us to realize the difference of meaning. 'You are who you associate with' wasn't just a saying that people perceive you to be a certain way. It quite literally meant that we become more and more of whomever we spend the most time with. You spend more time with people who are negative nitpicks, always keeping you down, not only do you begin to believe this yourself, but you also begin to start to do the same thing. This is why people become their parents. This is why people can't seem to achieve their dreams. Why they can't seem to be happy. Because when you surround yourself with positive people, ones filled with an energy of success and love and caring, you begin to believe that way, too. And you slowly become this same way.

Imagine. A group of friends who only build awesome upon awesome, creating a world that, when associated with others doing the same, can only continue to get better.

I've come to realize that I have this. The people I am surrounded with on a constant basis, my five people, are a community of support. Anything I don't think I can do, they have enough belief to carry me. Whenever I am in want of doing something, they clamor at the opportunity to do the same. And, what's even better, I do the same.

The sad part is that I see others who haven't reached that point yet. They are still bound to their areas. Sometimes, I think it's because they don't know anything else. They haven't had that touch to realize there is more to offer. Sometime, it's that they don't believe they're worth it. The people they surround themselves with confirm this every day, and they're in a spiral that is rather difficult to get out of. I usually see that it is a comfort for them. It's scary to get what you want, to receive a warm touch when you're used to cold. I've been there before, so I get it. But there is also a sense of laziness to this. It's easier to stay in your position than taste what the world has to offer. It's easier to stay with what that one knows and deal with your cards dealt than take the chance to exchange for a whole new hand.

That is my greatest fear. To stay placid. Placid in friends, environment, and life. And that the decisions I've made to better my own life, such as melting away from the people who didn't make me a better individual, instead making me bitter and sad, are considered cruel. I did, honestly, give up on creating a positive energy in the relationship. I abandoned that hope. People have to want to change. They have to want to succeed. And you can't do that being surrounded by those who can't fathom anything beyond their clouded world.

But I see my happiness now. I see the laughter and caring. I see where I've been led, which is down a path where crazy antics of laser tag, nights of watching anime, and creating art in every form possible is considered not just a good time, but home. Where learning is every day, encouraged. It's as if every day is a blessing. And the days that aren't, they become a realization of one because these people aren't here to see your demise.

The best of this is that you know that you are a better person for having been around these people. Confidence rises, you become more sure of your steps, and you don't have to be as aware of your actions. Because you're constantly at home. And the best, the absolute best, the part that makes you trust this entire process is the knowledge that being around these people mean that you are being the best you can be.

I'm going places. I'm accomplishing things. And I'm living life. I can only hope that people look at me in the same light as I see the people I've surrounded myself with.

River Sticks

I wasn't sure if I wanted to write today, so then I took a moment with my journal and meditated for a good ten minutes to see what I did want. What was my heart wanting? What did it need? What was it that I couldn't seem to get out?

After ten minutes of not actually meditating because my mind is always going about twenty bajillion miles a second and every noise was distracting me while I was already distracted by what I wasn't trying to think about, I decided that what I wanted was some damn good space that wasn't anybody else's to share because everything was a distraction when you weren't sure if your space is ever your own anymore.

This got me to thinking about myself and relationships.

I think romantic relationships have been on many people's minds recently. My best friend Mandikat is currently missing her husband something terrible. He had to leave for Scotland to finish off the whole Grad Student thing, but saving the money only had enough to bring one over at a time. Since then, she's been living with her mom here in Minnesota, waiting until things are settled enough that she can bring herself, her cat, and her dog overseas to join him.

This weekend, I hoped to stray her thoughts from how much she was missing him. But it's been difficult when she then talks of how much she loves the person she found to finally be hers. Difficult in two senses. One, because she is truly having a hard time, and nothing can be said to really get it off her mind. Two, because it just has made me realize how much I want that of my own.

I remember when I first realized I was ready to "settle down". When I say settled down, I don't necessarily mean marriage. Marriage is of it's own accord, and too serious to think of at the moment. Marriage brings about other questions that I already seem to have answered (only adoption if any kids at all, etc.). No, when I say settle down, I mean okay with having a serious relationship that would bring about topics such as, "We've been hanging out to much that it's probably more convenient and money saving if we move in together."

This is a huge step for me, and it was when it came about when I realized I could compromise this. I have been alone for a very long time. Not lonely, but alone. I've always had my own space, lucky enough to not need to share a room with a sibling while growing up. I shared a room with a roommate at the end of high school, but I managed to become an RA for that last year and have my own space. I then had my own space once more after Freshman year of college. I was used to my space, liked my space, and had a hard time sharing it. While I tend to be a very extroverted person, I have this small part of me that is still introverted and needs this space for my quiet moments. Moments where I can read without constant questions from those around me. Moments where I can write without worry that someone is talking to me and I'm not paying attention. Moments where I feel as if I am completely myself, utterly, because there is no other pretense to be when there is no one else watching.

Over the years, I have gathered some rather magnificent friends. Slowly, these moments have come to include them. It's not a second but first nature around them while in my personal space. I could work on my things while they did theirs without worry. We were comfortable.

I realized I was ready to share my space about two years after I graduated college. I was still used to keeping all of my items in my room, in one space, a sanctuary of me. But I was looking for a new place to live and make my own. I was done with that chapter of my life. I wanted an apartment, and I wanted to embark on a journey of me.

What I got was my brother as a roommate, and then a stranger.

My brother, I couldn't place anything out in his house because it was his space, not mine. He owns the house, and he didn't have a job at the time--it was his domain that I didn't really reside in. He'd stroll into my room without question, maybe knocking before bouncing in to bug me as an older brother does.

The stranger, I didn't connect with in a way that made me want to venture out of my sanctuary. I couldn't write without being pestered, couldn't read without "Tell me about blah blah blah", couldn't even play a video game without some story coming out that I didn't want to listen to. And it just made me rude, so I'd go to my place where I wouldn't have to be.

But even that got displaced in one moment that I forgot to lock my door and my roommate thought I wasn't home, but I was instead sleeping.

It may seem odd, but this hardened in me how much I realized that I would have been okay with this had it been someone I loved. I've been literally on edge even in my room, now. I hear a car door slam outside and I hope our door doesn't open because I don't want to deal with whomever walks in. And I'm not getting as good of sleep.

My space isn't my own anymore. Locking my door to get my space has me saddened, and I'm still leaving my things only in my room, not filling the house as I wish. And the frustrating part is that I actually want to share it, and can't figure out how. I'm in this stasis. I have sticks bringing my life river to a slower trickle. And I'm being driven insane with the patience needed to pick through it before I can move on.

I'm so anxious about sharing my space again, however, that I'm missing opportunities. I'm beginning to talk myself out of things, make firm assumptions of what I believe to be true, and am making the slow step back into a bitter heart I've worked so hard to make open and warm. I can tell because the nice gestures coming my way recently have me more surprised that they're occurring rather than the initial gratitude that had me so thoughtful rather than realizing this a few hours to a few days later.

I'm forgetting to take chances. Make mistakes. Get messy.

I once had this peaceful dream, where I was with someone, and we were together, just laying side by side, and, although we were separate people, our own entities, we were exactly where we needed to be, by each other, and that was what allowed us to be ourselves. This was some known fact before I woke up and realized that it was just me. It took the extra second because I had this natural urge to send an arm out, and it touched bare blankets before my confusion turned to reality.

I sometimes think I feel that in people, the secure comfort of sharing a room, but I've been recently cutting that feeling off in the old fear of the past rehashing itself. But I decided that I wouldn't allow that to happen this year. And I always keep to my promises.

Chapter 1

I'm terrible with goodbyes. Quite seriously, I could be considered the epitome of a Minnesotan goodbye: say goodbye, talk for another twenty minutes, then actually leave.

I'm not 100% sure as to why I do this. I've never had anyone abandon me or leave me behind--not in any serious sense. It's just always been.

I like the term, "I'll see you later."

I don't know why I believe in that line better than goodbye. I always somehow believe that all paths will somehow one day cross again, whether it be in a few hours or a few years--sometimes, I fully believe a whole new life.

I believe that there are some people you are just meant to meet. Meant to have experiences with. Meant to have moments, however fleeting, where you connect. I have friends who I am so comfortable around, it's as if we've never been without each other. I feel as if I'm coming home when I'm around them.

And maybe that's why I don't like saying goodbye. It seems so final, resolute, an end. It doesn't seem correct to say that to a friend because it isn't an ending--it's just a time period that we wait until our next connection.

I said goodbye yesterday.

It seems like a tough decision, but it was a long time coming. It was becoming work, this relationship, and it seemed consistently frustrating whenever there was a meeting. Looking at it now, it seemed to have gone in reverse. The beginning was so fast, close as atoms, talking non-stop...to barely even knowing what was going on in the other's life with the most awkward communication, like trying to translate the robot dance to Morse code.

After realizing that I'd achieved my goal, of saying goodbye, I've been melancholy. Not that I made the wrong decision, because I don't believe I did. Maybe I would see this person again. But more that I accepted that I wouldn't. I don't accept these things lightly, particularly when it's not done in a malicious nature. I've been down, but not regretful or anxious. I think it was one of the few times that saying goodbye felt right, even--and I never liked that notion.

As I drove home and thought back over the time that has spanned, it was like reading chapters of a book backwards, and the closed ending was the beginning. I saw the dust of the old story rising when I shut it, and I mentally placed it on a shelf with some other stories that weren't as thick volumes. It had been a good read, but rather bland toward the end. Not nearly as exciting as I'd predicted when it was first picked up, when it had started with so much promise. The adventure turned stale, perhaps boring.

Not everything quoted from this book will be considered noteworthy. Some may even need reminding what it was important. But it was worth the read, I decided. I was glad to have gone with it, even if the cover wasn't necessarily what I was used to.

But, now? It's time for a new book with a new chapter that could quite possibly go on forever. And I'm even okay if it doesn't.

Raindrops On Roses

Currently, I am surrounded by the sounds of what would appear to be on an album for relaxation. A constant purr of water pats on trees and ground, flashes across the sky to be responded with a resonating sound quite like that of large boulders rolling down a hill, and the occasional bird calling out to another in an every day conversation manner.

I've been addicted to thunderstorms since before I could remember. I'm unsure if I was ever even afraid of them--I only recall fascination. It'd be late at night, a boom would shake the house like an ogre trying to get in, and I'd tiptoe over to my window to slide up the glass for better sound. I'd stay up in bed, then, being quiet, just listening to the Earth's cleanse.

That's how I imagined rain. Like a shower. Currently, I'd think, Earth is being washed. Because that's how my child self saw things then. The water coming down in my town, it seemed logical that it was being swept through everywhere to wash it down, as if clouds were nature's shower head, and they focused on where it was needed most before getting to the next section. A bit true, I suppose, if you were to get to the science of it.

My mother was always frantic about thunderstorms. We weren't allowed to take showers "because lightning." We weren't allowed to go outside "because lightning." And we were supposed to listen to the news and get downstairs when it was severe "because lightning."

These were my grandfather's favorite parts of storms, and I will always have that connection with him now that he's passed. My aunt, two years younger than me and nervous around any weather that isn't sunny, would create a fort in the basement with all of the amenities for a five-day boat ride. Water, food, games... and far away from any windows or natural light. At age seven, she'd cry for everyone to be downstairs with her, out of fear for being alone or our of fear we'd be harmed, I'm unsure at what percentage. My grandmother would grab my hand gently and lead me downstairs, where we'd sit by my aunt's pillows and blankets and flashlights and books and snacks, while the rest of the adults mingled ten feet around us, talking like normal, watching the weather channel for updates.

My grandfather would be upstairs, taking his time, as my aunt cried for his life. My grandmother would distract my aunt with books and games until it went from every five minutes not noticing he wasn't there, to ten minutes, to twenty... During a moment when my aunt wailed that everyone should be downstairs to not be harmed, I snuck away from the adults back upstairs, wondering what my grandfather was doing, what made him not answer to his own daughter yelling out the proper actions needed to be taken during a thunderstorm to stay safe between sobs.

Only nature was upstairs. For the few times I've ever been to my grandparents' house, all of the electronics were off. No television with sports on. No radio on a channel that only played what was made in the 50s. Not even a light.

I walked quietly, barefoot, across their wooden floor into the kitchen, looking around. I wasn't scared, but curious. I'd never seen the house in this state before, and through the large, copious amounts of windows, I could see that, while the sky was heavy with dark, the ground and trees were bright green. I was reminded of times when I would hide under my blankets when I was supposed to be asleep, but I'd be reading a book with my flashlight instead.

Out on the enclosed porch, standing still, was my grandfather, clad in only red shorts that had to be over thirty years old and sandals. Rain gushed from the skies, pouring to their destination, desperate to kiss the ground. Thunder rolled in a surround sound fashion.

I waited a bit, then said, "Are you going to be coming downstairs?" to announce my presence.

"Huh?" he said, not even looking at me. A history of stories and of what I knew about my grandfather dictated he was hard of hearing, and rarely paid attention in the first place. Rather than repeat myself, I came out onto the porch with him. I didn't really care about his answer.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as I fell into place beside him. We stood there looking through the screens of the porch as lights flashed to their own time of their own music that is rain. I leaned against him. His skin was hot, although the air was cool. Over on the table was an ash tray with a half used cigar, but we never strayed from our standing point. We just stood, me two feet shorter than he was, clad in a dress with my swimsuit underneath, not waiting for anything to happen. Cracks of light would cut across the sky, their sound preceding them moments later.

"Katia is wondering where you are," my grandmother said. She stood inside, hand on the edge of the opening of the sliding door. She was talking to me.

My grandfather patted my shoulder in a fashion, kissing my forehead when I looked up, and then I walked toward the house opening. My grandmother came into step with me as I crossed the threshold, her rubber soled shoe patting in a familiar style as we made our way to the staircase, my own feet not making any response.

I looked back. My grandfather now held a cigar in his mouth, but he was still standing in the same spot, shoulders rolled a bit forward, red shorts stark against the noir-grey filter the storm had created.

That moment will come to me during very heavy rains, such as now. The non-stop kind of storm, where you wonder how clouds get the audacity to carry the amounts of rain that could fill a pool.

But I've never been scared. Just soothed, calmed that, once again, Earth was getting a shower to wash away whatever filth it decided it had. And I got to enjoy the spoils.

I'm An Adult...?

I once read this book in college for a writing course. I don't remember the title because I'm twenty-six now, not nineteen, but it was about the changing of a perspective as one grows up. It was old.

In the beginning of the book, the young woman is going to be going to college. She is on a farm, and dislikes it immensely. She sees her parents' marriage as a sham, that they don't love each other, and they're stuck together. The two are basically at each other's throats, it seems, and they only ever see the other for the few hours before bed. Her misery is supposed to go away with college, so she leaves with high hopes.

The young woman falls in love, and she pretends to be someone she isn't. Prim and proper, not from the farms in the least bit. The man asks for her hand, and she says yes. However, he has to meet the family.

Needless to say, it turns into him slowly going away because he was ultimately embarrassed. She is more miserable than when she left, and the book goes into how she slowly gets out of her misery, and finds someone who accepts her, and matches her well.

All that love story was boring to me. Blather. Which is probably what it was, because the focus we spoke about was what interested me most: her change of view. When she was miserable, and full of hatred, she confronted her parents about them disliking one another, and they stared at their daughter as if she were crazy. Of course they didn't hate one another! But it wasn't until she began to find love again that she saw the truth of what she thought was truth. Her parents were in love... and it showed all the time. When she tried to help on the farm, both parents were always telling her to stop helping them and go to the other, as their task was surely more daunting. And they didn't see each other that often because they didn't have any other helping hands--just them running the show. And they stayed in the same bed every night.

What changed the main character's mind wasn't necessarily paying attention. Any one person can pay attention to the details, but how they observe and come to a conclusion is all based on our surroundings.

I think of this book whenever I come across a pessimist. I tend to be more of the happy sort, smiling and ready for life. I try to see the best side in anything. There's always a reason to be content. And when I'm with someone who doesn't have that mind set, I think about their situation, and what has caused them to see things as they do. I've seen homeless people dancing away with their saxophones, and the grumpiest people dressed in a thousand dollar suits, thinking every person is out to get them. Most would think the homeless person would be the saddest, as wouldn't they be trying to keep every scrap of anything, thinking the person next to them would be stealing it? And, yet, it's the man with everything that thinks this.

It was startling to me today, celebrating my birthday with some family, as we reminisced about the past. My little cousins (hellions, really), were constantly fighting and poking at each other, and my aunt brought up how often my brother and I would fight. We laughed over how my aunt saw me amongst spilt Cheerios when I was brought home from the hospital.

And then my aunt and uncle brought up my personality. My older cousin was definitely on his sugar high, laughing and licking his fork clean of ice cream, making jokes that didn't even make sense, but seemed funny to him (ah, to be 10 again). Aunt and uncle were arguing over having given him too much, but I said, "I'm pretty sure this is hereditary--I was so annoying as a child, I'm embarrassed to even see the video footage taken of me."

"No," both of them said at once.

"You were pretty quiet and shy," my uncle said, nodding, and I stared at him. Me? Quiet and shy? "You were always just kind of... Mallory. You know? Just... you."

"Maybe shy since she didn't know you very well, but you were very outgoing. You definitely knew how to throw a tantrum," my aunt said with a snort. "But, no. You were really easy. Like, super easy. Easy to please, always with a smile on your face. I don't think there was ever a moment you weren't happy." And then she looked at me, tilting her head. "Except for when you decided to have one of your tantrums, because you did those very well."

It's amazing to see this in my eyes. I always saw myself as an annoying child, jumping around as if I were on coffee. I thought I was well liked, but with a slight cringe. I've carried this for so much of my life. I thought of the book immediately, and of how my situation was. I had an older brother who loved to taunt me, with parents who were fantastic, but also were managing how to deal with our constant fights and completely different ways on how to handle situations.

Now I can see that I am still a lot like how I was when I was smaller, still to this day. I thought I'd changed--a lot--but I think I see it more as I've grown into knowing when is right for what. And that's a concept I'm unsure of how I feel, after having an idea in my head for so long of how I was.

I was the student who would read in class because she was bored with the lecture she already knew. I was the kid who cried when another was bullied, and stood up for them because no one else would. If I thought something was correct, I stood loyally and firmly by that belief, to the point of being stubborn beyond belief. And I still get loud with excitement.

I guess I haven't changed as much as I thought. But the situation around me has changed, where this is acceptable. I thought I'd changed, but it seems it was more of the atmosphere.

The idea of that method is extremely intriguing.

A Year Over A Quarter Of A Century Old

Today, I turned twenty-six.

Last year, I was twenty-five. I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish, a few only having been truly checked off.

My first was to run a 5K. This was so incredibly important to me, and my best friend Mandikat made this happen. She started her own journey, and instead of being selfish, she prodded me to join in with her on her body experiment. I began to run, every day. I listened to zombies gnash at my heels, every day. I was able to focus on myself, for once, and I found out how much control I could really have over my life, body, and, most importantly, my happiness. And I did two 5Ks. I thank her for that every single day (at least, in my head I do. Sorry for not always being as verbal, Mandikat <3 p="">
My second was getting another job that got me over what was considered average for my age mark money-wise. I amazingly found this during the fall, when I could have been considered at my worst. It took me some time to make a decision about if I could actually make the jump, and then it was actually doing it, all the while inner emotions/turmoil dispersed around me like fireflies. The lights would blink, showing me all the things I could have--but then it would go dark, and I'd be lost for those few moments, floating around in limbo as I shook, debating on what was right and wrong, and if I was strong to do what I wanted to do. I not only took a deep breath and took the plunge, but I also found it was one of the best decisions of my life thus far. I gained my social life back. I found new friends. I learned that working at a company can mean being more than a minion. I learned the value of fifteen minutes--and how much gas that would be. I also learned more about family, and how to live with my brother again. I'm pleased with this.

My third was to find more about myself in love. Seeing how my previous years I was too scared to really dive in, I promised myself that a quarter-century was long enough. I realized that, after running and realizing how life was without a social life, I was ready for love. Not just some crush as I've had in the past, but a good steady position. It wasn't that I wasn't afraid of getting hurt--it was that I saw that I could handle that hurt, and knew I'd be able to get through it if I was rejected. This was the most difficult for me. I've always struggled with this, but I was determined to not let anything deter me.

I found out that not every guy is honest. I got that because there was a guy in which I made a connection, and for two months, we spoke non-stop every day through messages, sharing stories and experiences. It was simply amazing, how much we had in common, and I'd finally found someone at work who got my nerdy behavior. After those two months, I mentioned him to a coworker, who promptly told me he was engaged to someone else--and he'd never spoken a word of her to me. It was the first time that I saw why a girl would try to steal someone away from another. I "got" it. And it wasn't me.

I also realized that not every guy is who they say they are. A single guy for a week wooed me, and I found out that he was not only a swindler of hearts, but he lived with his ex-girlfriend, with whom he had a child, and also had another child, the same age, with another. All working at the same place.

I picked up a stalker for a couple of months.

I especially saw that guys were not the assertive behaviorists they claimed to be. The amount of guys who accumulated crushes were embarrassing--but even more so that I was told about them when I was leaving my old job. None of the guys I would have seriously considered, but the fact that they were all very outgoing guys, it was very disappointing to find out that no one had the balls to say anything (especially since I was none the wiser).

The closest I would say that I would have come to "love" was dashed away so fast, and so complicated, I don't think I've really ever gotten time to really discern it being over. It's the first time I lied to friends about being okay. The first I was dishonest to myself about being okay. And the hardest thing I've tried convincing myself out of.

Friends have told me that being friends with someone you had any romantic things with is basically impossible. I took this as a challenge. I thought I'd proved them wrong. But, as it turns out, disassociation is the only thing that takes away the confusion and allows you to move on enough to be friends. If you disagree with me, then the other person is going through what I'm dealing with, which is: trying to not take things personally; assume that every single action/spoken word means absolutely nothing unless clearly stated in a factual way while staring at your face and is willing to sign a testament that it is indeed truth; comparing every single other opposite sex to the commonalities that seemed to work so well; wishing they'd never see you again; wishing they'd somehow see you again; wishing they'd see you again but with them over you and having you see what you missed out on, even though they want your happiness at the same time; wishing they could somehow meet NPH (this doesn't really have to do with relationships, but I assume that every single person in the world wants to do this, which is why it was added to the list).

This last thing I've somehow learned the most about, and yet absolutely nothing. Every time I seem to have learned a new truth, it's completely negated in another form. Love-hurt has basically become a virus in my eyes--it slowly becomes immune to behaviors, and you just have to keep coming up with more to block what is inevitable, and you just keep coming back to the traditional friend support system that is considered your herbal supplements. They work, but they just don't prevent it from happening again.

This love taught me that you sometimes need to accept things and walk away. You can never fully understand why some relationships don't work, despite it having every sign pointing to "YES". Neon signs. With their own arrows pointing to those arrows, and people taking pictures of those to place on the internet for others to make memes about because they're ultimately jealous of what was found. This love taught me that connections can be denied and pushed away. That it really is up to each individual what they decide to do with what is laid upon a table. And that I will sometimes just never understand why someone would say 'No' to what is seen as a great opportunity.

It taught me the importance of placing blame on no one, and the patience of healing. I found it so dramatic, and still do, and it wasn't love (way too fast for that), but I was definitely infatuated with the happiness and feeling, and, being myself, I know I can take growth from this per usual and, eventually, I won't look back at the moments and miss them. Eventually, I won't have a hope that is there simply because I don't want to feel sad at the potential anymore. And I eventually will have all of the gears working on the same machine rather than some keeping a door open "just in case" because I don't like burning ideas to spread ashes in the wind for others to use in their gardens unless proven for the best.

So, love wasn't checked off the list. But learning about myself in love was. So was making new friends, facing my fears head on when they arise in a situation, trying new things I'd typically say no to because I judged it too quickly, embracing life every day because it's too short, singing every day, allowing myself to be vulnerable around others so they can see I am a person, too... and not allowing a mishap with a shot at love determine that I won't attempt again.

Twenty-five was an amazing year for firsts and rediscovering. And the bonus about being this young is that I can repeat that for so many years to come. I find that I'm blessed several times over, and I'm always surprised at this. And, the fact is, I think I always will be surprised. But I'll never be not thankful. How can I be when, after so much struggle, I have so much more outweighing on the scale that shows epicness?

This next year will be even better. Challenge accepted.

Evil Fairy...Let's Name Her Renne

Can it really be considered a "New Beginning" if there was really never anything there to start with?

I supposed that question is moot, because obviously there was something at least from my side. I know my part in things better than anyone else. And I know that it was there on my side. It took some extra time for me to figure that out.

Isn't that amazing? That one can be in a state of something for months, and because it has become such a norm, you don't even realize what you've become.

I had become dishonest with myself. I didn't like that. It's one thing to be dishonest with someone else, but quite another to be dishonest with yourself. If you're lying to yourself, you have no idea how others are perceiving you. It's not just that you have no idea what you're doing, but that others are getting a feeling from you that is almost like a wild card. One that you didn't play. A third party came in a laid down a Wild Draw 4, and you're left with nothing but the need to sort through your cards with a new sense of urgency in hopes that you're not thrown completely off guard, that you have some color to place into discard. Because, let's be honest--no one wants to be going through who knows how many turns picking from the pile until they're finally back in the game.

I can be seen as a hasty decision maker. This is mostly due to the fact that I'm not fantastic with memory. If I don't do what I think up now, I'll forget later, and then it's the dusty ornament your grandparents got you when they went on that Europe trip when you were six, and you just didn't have the heart to throw it away, despite it not going with any of your surroundings.

It haunts my soul. It plays with my mind curtains like a cat, pawing and scooting the cloth around because I've forgotten something I want to do in life, and it waits patiently like a dog in hopes that I will eventually get back to it with the zest I had when it was once thought up.

Doing something when you first think it up can be much more fascinating than waiting. Waiting, like procrastination, can sometimes further the sensations of wonder. It turns into an anticipation, a giddiness that even turns into passion. Sometimes, yes... waiting is a pleasure.

But I can't wait.

I can't wait around when I have things to do. I can't tap my fingers while it seems there are better things going on. My attention span, while loyal, has a tendency to forget. It's not fickle. But when I get caught up in the moment, and the anticipation has brought it up, and the giddiness is turning into passion, and all other thoughts have been placed in a time capsule because only now is existing, I can't wait.

This is a large hypocrisy, I understand. Because my kind of living in the moment is more about decision making and wallowing in it with a full heart. Drowning in it. Focusing. From the simplest of eating an ice cream cone to painting a portrait. It's not that I'm terrible at multitasking, it's that I feel I can only do one thing at a time because then I know it is getting done well. Half-ass won't do.

And I like to enjoy a moment. Laugh and soak in the love. Cry and realize what I'm learning. Play a video game and not miss anything that will have me stuck later on because I was distracted by something else (true story--when I'm playing a video game, I will certainly be paying more attention to that than you. My bad.).

As you can probably tell, this trait in myself does not mix well with being dishonest. It makes things confusing, particularly relationships due to the communication effect. One cannot communicate properly if even they don't know what they mean.

So, I made a hasty decision. And failed. Miserably. And I tried again. And failed. And a third time, with even more failure. I realized I'd been more dishonest with myself than originally thought.

Two things I've learned: I've found something that makes it difficult to be myself, and being dishonest with yourself is a sneaky evil fairy named Renne whispering what you think you know in your ear. FACT.

Morale? Be yourself, but know who you are so that you can look at yourself every few months and realize that you're not being yourself so you can be utterly confused and conflicted in your position in life so you can think you're making a decision that you will later change your mind to suit your whims at that particular time.

Glad we had this talk.

As a Clam

I was asked tonight by a friend (perhaps jestingly) why I always find things so amazing in life. We were watching Elf, just for a fun film to laugh at while talking, and I was particularly happy over my paper crown I'd gotten from my Christmas cracker.

"It's just tissue paper," he stated, having almost crushed the purple crown when I'd taken it off to lay down on the couch.

"Yes, but it's a crown," I replied, pick it up. "And see, when I put it on..." I slid it back over my head. "Now, I'm a Princess!"

He kind of shook his head/chuckled.

"They're amazing!" I said.

"Why is everything amazing to you?"

I gave him an easy reply: "Because it makes me happy and it is amazing."

But the answer wasn't easy to come to.

As I've previously stated, I've gone through a lot of questioning and different situations to get to my point. And while I changed to get here, I'm sure I'll change again. The important thing is, I'm where I'm at now, and it's where I feel I should be. I took the easy reply because we'd been drinking and there were quite a few different people around that I felt I'd never be able to really tell the story, but on the drive home, it got me thinking as to how I've gotten to see the world through eyes that see wonder in everything.

It really began a year after I graduated. I was living with my parents, stuck at a job that paid mediocre and wasn't very uplifting, and I had no friends around me for hours. I was thankful for my position, as not very many people had a job, and a safe place to be, but I was bored and lazy and in a monotony. I'd been exercising every day, but the endorphin wasn't quite doing it.

I wasn't living.

Now, I have a vice. It's not necessarily a normal one (and certainly not a fetish), but odd enough that I don't go around telling the world I do it.

I absolutely adore Korean dramas/romantic comedies. Particular favorites are My Princess, I Need Romance, and, to a certain extent, Flower Boy Ramen Shop. I cannot explain why I choose to watch these, especially in how much I despise the American soap operas. Maybe it has to do with that they eventually end after a season or two? Rather than dragging on into oblivion...

Whatever the case, my life changer was watching Scent of a Woman. I was going through a tough time. I had finally gotten a year into my job, and I was learning the ropes of a newer part of my job. We had to put down my dog of 12 years, a day before my birthday, and I had been taking care of her hand and foot as her back legs were giving out--it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, as her mind was completely in tact, yet her body just couldn't handle life anymore. And I was also getting to a point of grim acceptance that life wasn't meant for excitement anymore, and I was an adult, and this is what it meant to be an adult.

Scent of a Woman is about a woman who worked hard her entire life, placing everything she wants on the back burner to save for money and a future that doesn't seem to be coming. She once used to be someone who laughed and was strong, but now she was taking care of her mother, and everyone else that needed help. She didn't bother with looks or anything too much money, as it "would all come later." Close to her 30s, she goes to the doctor to find that she has cancer, and is given only months to live.

At first, she isn't sure what to do. But, after one more straw of being falsely accused of stealing at her job, she quits and immediately starts to finally live her life. She takes out her savings, gets the make over to what she wants, takes a vacation... And meets a guy. They end up dating, and she doesn't tell him of her situation, but she has a bucket list of things she wants to accomplish, from the simplest forms to the most unrealistic. One by one, she begins to check them off, with the help of her boyfriend who finds out her condition.

The show made me laugh, cry, and really look into my own situation. It made me think of priorities, and the choices I began to make those last few years. I had become a 'no' person, never doing anything for fear of what would happen. I couldn't believe my loss of adventure, and that I was beginning to blame friends and family for my inability to not achieve.

And here was this girl who was faced with cancer, and making it all happen, not telling anyone that cancer was the reasoning to get it. She just did what she wanted and made a life as if she were normal.

This is what I wanted to become. Someone who saw the world like that every day.

I first took the steps in running. My friend Mandikat had started, and wanted me to join in--I focused more on this, and used that focus to plan my new ways of life. My better outlook.

I re-evaluated my connections. With everything. I only live once, and I'm not willing to deal with people who aren't going to give me the time of day. Nor am I willing to put in energy, especially worrisome, when all I get from it is negative energy. It was bogging me down, and it wasn't getting me anywhere but a sad state.

And I was going to stop sugar coating the important. I used to be of a naive nature, and it would sometimes get me into trouble because I wouldn't know me saying something honest would hurt someone or something. So, I stopped being open and kept the honesty to a minimum. Now, I would be honest and open and assertive with just being more aware instead of hiding that part of my personality behind. If I like or dislike something, I'd say it and just move on.

I was going to allow myself to fall in love. Not keep that in and not do anything about it.

These are all things I still work on, but since making that decision to live my life more as if I weren't necessarily going to be able to enjoy it every day (not in some sadistic/depressing way, more in an optimistic you've just got to enjoy life because that's what life is about way), I have been back to my normal smiling self.

And things are amazing.

People are amazing.

I mean, I sit back and think on what the every day person does. What technology does for us. What anything is capable of. How the small things can really change days. How just laughing over the stupidest things can really make a day at work, make you forget the pressure and anxiety.

Today, I spent a half hour laughing over an inside joke about York peppermint patties. And, when I look back at the conversation, I still chuckle and smile.

Those moments that people pass by, that are tossed aside as a mini part of our lives and shouldn't be looked at for more than mere seconds--those are the moments that truly make up a life. Every day passes by so quickly in our short existence, so shouldn't we make those parts of our history just as enjoyable as the major events in our life?

Shouldn't we volunteer? Take a mini-vacation to Wisconsin Dells? Make asses of ourselves by taping on odd facial expressions? Write wishes on paper lanterns that soar up in the sky and set loose in hopes they'll come true? Watch enormous amounts of Korean television on your days you just want to stay in and eat popcorn? Paint a wall green as an accent because you felt it was right? Buy a random gift for a friend when it isn't a special day for anything? Sing as loud as you can as often as you can, even if you can't remember any words? Tweet a celebrity you enjoy that you like them because the worst that will happen is they won't tweet back? Spend an extra cent on yourself because, turns out, you are worth it?

Wear a purple, paper crown that comes out of a Christmas cracker because it's silly and allows you to share a moment with friends as you giggle over jokes that can contend with those on a Laffy Taffy?

I like to think I'm a fast learner, but it took me a good few years to realize that I wasn't getting anywhere but unhappy. And if my new self means I don't keep in contact with the few people who make me miserable, and always have fantastic times with the many who make me happy (and vice versa), then I guess that means I make a decision to continue to be happy, shrugging off what I can't control with laughter, and enveloping with my heart all the wonder this world has to offer.

Even if that means the crown is green.

Because, You Know, I Haven't Updated in Forever. So, Here's a Novel For You.

Something I've slowly learned about myself over the years is how I've gone from being an open idealistic lover to a more closet romantic woman.

Most people find the small changes in themselves. “I used to like the color pink—now I can't stand the thought of it.” or “The taste of shrimp disgusted me, when I was a kid. I eat them at least once a week!” and, the ever popular, “I never believed in ghosts, until one haunted my bathroom after I moved into that creepy cabin.”

I'm kidding. No one ever stops liking the color pink.

I'm happy to report I'm not quite the cynic I once became after my college experiences. I was quite the innocent, growing up with parents who taught my brother and I well. Not that he and I weren't little shits (and that we still aren't), but we took our parents' word as truth.

Don't do drugs, they can screw up your life. Good friends will have you smiling at the end of the day. A clean room instigates a clean person (we both didn't follow this last rule until closer to the more 'now' time; it's mostly true).

But one of the most we held true to our hearts was the importance to be with the ones we love, and never settle for less.

I can freely say that this was what changed with me most, was how I went about their advice.

At first, I lived in a Disney-esque state. I lived in a small town, and dealt with small matters. But I dreamt big, and, in the face of what I thought was considered animosity, I stood for justice. We didn't have much to go against in our tiny town, at least, not in my eyes. And I had the hardest time understanding what seemed to be the simplest of matters, such as why someone would take the time to be a bully.

I remember a distinct moment in which we were all standing in line for lunch, and a small group of the said “popular” crowd started picking on one of the boys for wearing a Spice Girls shirt. During lunch time, there were only two lines, and our lunch periods collided for 5^th graders all to 9^th graders; we were in 8^th grade. This meant that there were well over 100 spectators, watching either in silence or snickers, while three kids who were meant to be looked up to mercilessly insulted their classmate for wearing a shirt with a girl-band on it. I was with two of my friends, who ignored the scene and talked with each other. I muttered darkly as the boy tried to ignore them, failing miserably, his cheeks getting redder and hotter as the bunch continued with their banter. He opened his mouth a couple of times to say something, but then stuck his hands in his pockets and faced forward instead. The anger in my heart couldn't take it any longer.

“What, is that bugging you?” I asked, my voice barely louder than their rambles. They glanced over at me, then shrugged it off and went back to it. “So, what, is it because of his shirt?”

“It has five girls on it,” one of the boys, Jeff, said.

“So? I like the Spice Girls.”

“You're a girl. If he likes them, it's gay,” he sneered. This was during the time when we didn't really know what gay meant, but the term was thrown about like we did. All we truly knew was that it was considered derogatory, and it was looked down upon.

“So, him wearing that. It's affecting you in some way? To a point that you need to tease him, make fun of him?” I jerked my thumb at their victim. My voice had gotten louder, and some people had stopped talking to see what was happening. “As far as I can tell, you're only making yourselves look dumb.”

“Like anyone will listen to you.” It was true, I was considered an outcast at this point.

“At least I'm not the one everyone wants to shut up. And that's what you should do.”

The boys tried to laugh it off, but the crowd had turned slightly against them with my words. My friends growled at how they were jerks, but I was still angry. I was angry at how the three popular kids had such power that they could tear down a boy, and cause a crowd to ignore their incessant idiocies. I was angry that no one else in the crowd had been willing to say something. And I was angry knowing that my words hadn't changed a thing in their demeanor.

When I got to the counter to hand over my lunch ticket, the adult manning the counter said, “I saw what you said and did there. Good job.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, but, in that moment, I was angry at her, too. She was an adult, and she didn't do anything to stop it either. I had been the only one who took the cards that were dealt, whereas everyone else passed.

These are the things I learned at school in my small town. As I explained the situations that didn't make sense to me while growing up to my parents, they'd press their lips together. These are the things that don't change, unfortunately, they'd tell me, and maybe a bit to themselves.

I was lucky, and relieved, to leave after my sophomore year of high school to my arts school. Most kids would be devastated to move during this time, to have to leave their friends and life. I, instead, was content with the knowledge of not dealing with the people in that school again. And that's where I learned more about the grey areas of life.

My most favorite people in the world (still to this day) did drugs. The teachers and adults treated us as equals, rather than children to scold and send on their merry way so they wouldn't have to continue to be dealt with. And I found that not all things depicted in movies weren't exaggerating about our world.

And it was where I had my first dashes at the idea of love.

You see, at my other school, the thought of being at all romantic with any of those, for the lack of the better word, jerks, made me want to hurt someone. But my new school? It was filled to the brim with people who were different than anyone I've ever met. Artists, in every single person, and they weren't afraid to show it. The school encouraged everyone to be themselves. And it was amazing.

I won't divulge into any details, as I'm sure my stories aren't as exciting as the next, but I had my few dashes with boys that got me realizing that love wasn't as easy as I'd anticipated. I'm unsure whether it was because of my small town, but I didn't have too many crazy families to deal with. I didn't know too many divorced parents, and the ones who happened to be were very civil. And I didn't know any parents who fought, either. Not any fights that weren't unhealthy, anyway.

I have a theory about these things. People who I know who have had horrible things happen to them, they have a choice in life—to either make it worse, or better. I have been innumerably lucky to know the people who have chosen to make their lives better. The ones who were too poor to have enough food to go around, the ones who came from houses with parents who didn't care if they were home or not, the ones who were abused emotionally...physically. Tragic back stories that these unbroken people decided to change to brilliant futures.

But I got lost in these stories. The chipper girl who was ready for adventure and life, she faltered at how possible it was for her to take on the world when it turned out to be just as big as she'd hoped.

The chances I had at love, I wasn't ready for. I knew because I learned from other people's mistakes. I watched while people got insipidly drunk, would make out with a random person, then later lament to me about the woes of how it was all going wrong. I was told the stories by my guy friends who would purposefully lead a girl on, use them, then toss them aside, laughing the whole time. Some girls weren't much better. For college, it was considered a time to experiment without any ramifications—no one thought the consequences could touch them, the immortality of a young adult.

Perhaps I took too much of a protective stance for myself. All I knew was that I didn't want to be placed in that same category, looking pathetic and weak all because I wanted to feel as if I'd had some connection with someone. Because that's what I saw in those girls after they finally sobered up, realized what they did last night, and tried desperately to justify their actions and make it all okay.

Their actions didn't mean anything to me, but I knew what I wanted. I didn't want the one night stand people would giggle over having. I didn't want to have the bragging rights people smugly spoke of having due to the amount of people they hooked up with the night previous. I didn't want to deal with the drama my friends consistently had on whether a kiss was just a kiss—or if it meant something more.

Because, somehow, deep inside, I knew that it shouldn't be that difficult.

As the years went on, I became more cynical of how love was, and less impressed with my generation's attempt at finding it. I became who I wasn't. I mean, I became not who I intended to be. I was hidden behind a mask because it seemed too difficult for me to grab the world and see how I could change it for the better anymore. I couldn't seem to fit in.

This past year, I had a more official coming back to roots. I was lost in three separate phases, growing up, but it took me until now to finally pin down what it means to be myself, and what it means for me to love. Always a work in progress, being me (I am so far from perfect, if it were a scarf, it'd be labeled infinity long...if that makes any sense at all), but I feel at home where I used to feel chaos earlier. I can love as I wish.

I'm not as open as I once was about it. Before leaving my lovely (/sarcasm) school, I used to gush about the type of love that transcended time. About connection, and how there is one person for everyone.

But now I'm wiser. I still believe love transcends time, for friendship and otherwise. And I believe that everything is connected, that people connect and should listen to their soul more on where they should be, who they should be with, in life. But I also believe, now, that there are certain people for certain times in your life. The opportunities we are given, especially in love, are to guide us in life, to teach us how to become even better than we are now. I've had connections with people who have been my friend for years now, and I've made quite a few more connections this past summer that are only going on a couple of months. There has even been a connection with someone that only lasted a week, and I would never give those moments back, as I was able to place a piece of my puzzle together on how I can better love someone. Love is easy, really. When in doubt, love. You don't need a definition, you don't need to perfect the rubik's cube that is love before attempting it, you just...do it.

So, maybe I'm not as open about it. I still find myself shying away from situations, or balking from sharing. Particular moments from this past year has gotten me more comfortable with myself, that balance between my roots and how I want my future. There were no mistakes in my eyes, just life. The romantic core I have has survived, and I intend to feed it.

But not before I feed my other love, adventure. Because that was another thing I once gave up.

Never again.

The Sound of Silence

I woke up frequently last night.

For most people, this would happen from a multitude of things. Children, loud neighbors, faulty alarm clocks...

The thing that kept me awake was not the creak of my house. It was not the voice of the wind as it passed through my window. It was not the crashes of waves upon the sand, nor the trees swaying and breaking off their limbs and hitting the ground to make my body jump, my heart thump loudly in my chest and tease my ears in the thoughts that some murderer was in my room.

It was my mother's wind chimes.

I consider myself to be a non-violent person. Although I will curse, throw my controller while playing video games, and occasionally scream in a pillow, I don't seek to harm anyone, never a-purpose.

Except that vile sound-driven piece of junk.

It's the type of chime you don't expect. While the wind blows, you don't really think about it, as it only hits the metal tubes once, maybe twice.

They sound like clanking metal glasses that you carry indoors after a very large party, rubbing against each other with the slightest amount of liquid you hope won't splatter onto you, but your hands are absolutely full, and it wouldn't surprise you if it did, and you certainly try to dodge it without prevailing in the least.

That sound makes my teeth grit. These chimes are evil. They will wake me from a dead sleep, whereas a house shaking thunder will not.

Now, I am a very stubborn girl, and sleep is basically my lover to life. The only thing better than sleep is the languid feeling of laying in bed. The peaceful quiet of the room, where only the sound of your breath can be heard. Not even your mind is fully functional--all it can comprehend is the feeling of comfort, of peace.

And there is hell to those that disturb it. Mostly because I'm also the type to lay in bed and not do a thing but curse whatever is keeping me awake. I quietly murmur to myself these curses, refusing to leave my sanctuary.

I begin to make deals with God.

"God, if you make that drunk college student go back to his room and be quiet so I don't have to yell at him, I will promise to remember to thank you for the good days rather than just complaining about the bad."

"God, if you stop that stick from clanging against that bucket, I won't ever think you are ever toying with my life."

"God, if you strike those geese dead right now, I will sacrifice and eat them in your honor at dinner tonight."

This was usually just a waiting game, the kind you have when you know the soda you are about to open has been shaken beyond belief, and you patiently take your time in opening it so it doesn't spray all over in a sprinkler in the garden fashion.

This was a horrible storm, however. The rain splattered through my screen on the window pane to dash across my face, despite the eave. The thunder boomed to thump the heart in my chest as if I were in the front row at a rock concert. Our hanging birdhouses spun in circles, their own carnival rides in nature.

And those damn chimes banged together, a marching band in it's own right.

There was no rhythm to their clangs. No music to soothe one to sleep by getting used to their demonic calls. They would stop, and my muscles would relax, my eyes beginning to fill with images that only sweet dreams can incur--CLUNK, CLUNK! ..... CLUNK, CLUNK!--no more telepathic powers that I was saving a dolphin with.

My normal tactics weren't working.

"God, if you bust the string on that chime, I will forever say a prayer to save the white sharks--maybe even send some money."

I leaned over my bed to try to pull the window closed. It got stuck. Not wanting to leave my bed, I got to my knees and leaned over the two feet and yanked as hard as I could--ripping the pane from it's track to smack down a glass on the nearby table.

Frustrated, blaming the wind chimes from hell all the while, I got up and slammed it all together, my noises competing with that of the storm.

I flung myself onto the bed, hoping the sounds of my fan would cause the hatred in my heart to calm to a slow beat. There was, instead, a clanging beat that made my heart rate sharpen.

I tore the covers from the bed off of me. Without a care to my being in my boxers and tank top, I strolled meaningfully through the hallway, through the kitchen, and toward the doorway.

My mother, playing a game on the computer, turned her head and saw my dark look that could start a fire. "What's the matter?"

I yanked the door open, ignoring her words, to where the wind chimes' screams were deafening. Water smacked my left side, instantly soaking. I glared at the loud device, stomped over, and took a hold of the dangling pieces--pulled down. Twice.

It was on a metal chain.

I made a noise that would have convinced my neighbors werewolves existed.

There were not chairs I could drag over, as they were unstable and heavy. Water splattering my face, I whipped at the chain, I jumped and whipped hard, forcing the loop to come off from it's hook. Five attempts later, and my body slightly shaking in the cold, the top portion smacked my hand in a fit of defeat, going as limp as dead flowers. I threw the mass of trinkets to the ground in the corner.

My mother turned back to me to stare at my disheveled appearance, the door shutting tough against the wind. I zombified my way toward my room. "You didn't break it, did you?" I didn't even shrug as I walked past.

I snuggled into my covers, a sense of peace wafting over me. In the morning, docks would be split from the waves. Branches would cover the roads. People would question where their garbage cans had gone to, and there would be a need for the insurance companies to come out and verify the damage to all of the houses.

But at least my sleep wasn't fucked with.

Adulthood

Nobody quite tells you how you are supposed to grow into being an adult. Oh, sure, they place you in this large box with chairs and say, "Okay, this is going to get you ready for Kindergarten!" After you get there, it's, "And now this will get you ready for Elementary School!" But then you get there, and it's, "It's okay--don't worry. These few years here will get you ready for Jr. High." And then, "You've got just these few years to learn a bit about life, but you have High School to really learn about that."

And then you're in High School. Apparently, the years in that hell hole have prepared you for two things: Life and College. You can choose either and turn out just fine. But, they dangle that carrot of, "But, if you go to College, you're going to be prepared for life."

What they don't tell you is how much bullshit this is.

I, personally, have always been considered a late bloomer in many respects. It shouldn't surprise anyone that this would include the eye-opening reality of how life is. I'm also a fast learner, however. And I've found that there are five huge stress inducing fucks about life I never would have ever dreamt I would consider difficult--or at all stressful.

1. Bills

Hear me out. I knew that bills sucked. It's all adults ever talk about. There are songs written about it, and I grew up with Taxman. But I never thought about how much stress my little mind would take because of them.

It started out small, with me. I got to drive my parents' car, so it was my duty to fill it with gas, since I would be the one driving it. My parents gave me a cellphone, which was to only be used in dire situations, so I didn't text or call people. Ever. (Imagine that world, Children of the Technology Age)

Once I graduated High School, I then got the "You've got a job, so start paying insurance" card. Which, I didn't mind. I drove the car, it was fair. So, gas and some insurance. I got a part time job selling video games, so I was happy all around, for the most part. I ended up needing to take out some loans for my trip to New Zealand, but whatever (more on that later).

As I climbed the ladder toward graduating college, the haze of bills became only a slight fog. They made me take a class on being able to pay back my loans, in which I realized that I would be in debt for at least 5 years of my life immediately leaving campus. I understood this, but I didn't think about it--I'd have a job immediately, after all. Except, I didn't. I didn't know I'd be spending three to five months searching for a job directly after someone telling me, "And here is your diploma!" Or literally would be bending over backwards to try and impress someone so I could help in a documentary film--which got me scraping by.

My heart became a bit heavier with the need to find something, but I was in the safety of my parents' home. In a desperate attempt to become a part of this American Dream, I used my credit card to purchase Real Job Clothes, to dress the part of what I imagined my American Dream would look like.

My first job, like many, started in debt.

And I needed to contribute more, after I finally found a decent wage. The car insurance, my loans, the credit card, cell phone plan (as I'd started using it more, finally getting on to what this CTA was all about), health insurance, dental insurance, and rent. And also the fact that taxes really do seem like a bitch, with this nice big check that would have been bigger had the state not decided to make sure our roads were safe for the winter. This doesn't include my other random expenses, as I'd also decided it was high time to start eating healthy. Fresh fruit and vegetables don't come cheap like frozen pizzas and the large Minnesotan meals that you can freeze for the whole week.

I'm quite frugal, so I've managed to save very well, but with all these upon me, and the impending notion of needing to purchase a new car, has caused me to also be quite nervous about changing my lifestyle. And this is without a mortgage or, frankly put, a social life.

2. Family

I've seen the movies, people. Where your family is fucked up, and you can't seem to see that it's not just you, and all you want to do is hide.

I wasn't exactly that type of film.

But I had my moments.

I had a brother who loved to torment me (and I later learned how to torment properly as well). I have the grandparents that are so proud of you, you're positive that you're disappointing every they've talked to about you when you meet them. I also have the grandparents that only we children talk to because of awkward past happenings.

And the parents who are getting older.

I'm not sure about everyone else, but there seems to be a certain way we look at our parents: crazy old, and, yet, immortal.

Recently, I've had to come to grips that, eventually, my parents won't be around any longer. It's frightening, when the people who raised you aren't able to move with such virility as they once could. Getting up seems to be a chore; they start to wear cheaters; their hair goes different colors as they dye it to make sure no one sees that it's grey. And you start to do a lot more of the hard labor, because they can't do it by themselves.

As if this weren't bad enough, they also start to see you as an adult. And also a child at the same time. They talk to you about adult things, like bills, and how they are stressful and getting worse, and how to get things you really want by going into more debt and becoming more stressful. But then they swap hands to talking to you like a child when you bring things about, such as explaining why you'd need a Phillips screwdriver over a flat head, or giving you the School House Rock version of what it means to clean the bathroom properly. And don't forget that side dish of guilt when you talk back, as they're still "your parents and will be given respect."

Growing up, I thought that after smashing down that brick wall of teenage-ism would bring about this firm road to walk on with other adults. Conversations would be normal with rare disagreements, because we were adults now. People would always arrive on time, because we were adults now. I would never have to worry about what the fuck gossip was being passed around, because we were adults now.

Little did I know that the only thing Jr. High prepared me for was realizing that more of that stress would be played out in the real world, no matter whether you care or not. While you could ignore Suzy trying to make fun of the music you're playing in your CD player on the bus, Suzy can make your work environment a living hell if you end up getting all Suzy's in the work place.

3. Hobbies

Children are taught these right away. I think they first started back in the day because there was nothing ever to do but stare at rocks. Someone finally said, "How about we invent some crap so we aren't so bored?" And, thus, hobbies were born. Now, hobbies are almost the bane of my existence.

I have too many. I crochet, bake, video game, read, write, make jewelry, watch television, run, have dogs, search the internet, make collages... The list can go on forever on what I love to do. When I didn't have work, it was giving us something to do and keeping us out of trouble (hopefully). Now that I'm an adult?

I'm given stress on which hobby to choose, since I don't have much time anymore, and by the time I choose, I have such little time to enjoy it, so I stress while doing it because all I can think about is not being able to truly enjoy it in the first place.

And even our hobbies are suddenly about being an adult. You can't just run and skip around with no direction--you get the proper clothes and shoes, listen to music, and focus toward that goal. And what's almost sad? I enjoy that. As a child, it drove me nuts. But that type of running is almost like a solitude for me now, a meditation. I can't just pay any old video game now, or watch just any movie, or read any book. I've become too accustomed, too much of an expertise, and need a certain type to satisfy my needs.

Never in my childhood would I consider a hobby work.

4. Having a Home

As a child, one always hates chores. Bah to dishes, blerg to laundry, and a huge ugh to dusting.

Now, they're you're hobbies.

Having a home is work, especially if you own. There's the lawn, the roof, the cleaning of everything, and, on top of it all, the bills. It was one thing to two to do while I was a kid. Pick up some dog poop and mow the lawn. Vacuum the stairs and pick up the living room. If I were lucky, I'd just do the bathroom, where you could literally just hose the whole place down and let it dry naturally while sitting with the door closed, reading about how awesome it would be to have magic.

But it's not just the fact that you're cleaning--it's that you care about the cleaning. You want it to look nice because friends and family will be over. Plus, you live there, and it's so heavenly to come home to a clean house, just how Mom used to.

You worry about how the neighbors perceive you, so you're cutting the lawn and weed whipping once a week. Plus, power washing the house and repainting the garage. All this upkeep to make your expensive house be more expensive.

I never anticipated this much work. More than one time while growing older, I gave up on the room I was attending to because of boredom, and my mother would later come by and do it herself, or drag me back to it and scrutinize my ability to dust (to this day, I don't think I have that gene of dusting properly). And now that I'm 25, it is a combination of stress and relaxation. There is nothing easier in the world than laundry. You wash, dry, fold. Wash the dish. Scrub the toilet. Sing to Queen.

No, the stress suddenly isn't actually doing the boring chores. It's when you realize that that is all you're doing. Constant upkeep. And it never goes away.

5. Love

For not the first time in my life, I have wondered how this came to be. It seems to easy and stress free. People kiss, giggle, hold hands, and get married.

Adults are lying to you.

Love is the hardest thing I have ever tried to accomplish in my life. It is fascinating how love will cause you to swell with pride and want to punch the same person who caused that pride in the same breath. To the family I love most dearly, I have also said the worst things I could have ever spewed forth to their faces. One second, all I want to do is hold my puppy close; the next, I want to strangle her for peeing right in front of me on the carpet.

The dumbest things will spark an argument. Or a crying session. Or even awkward silence.

And the amount of trust involved in this thing. I can't tell if it's trust or lying to myself anymore. I can't tell if I'm deluding myself into thinking it's happiness. You literally have to take that fragile creature of trust, which can be thrown on purpose, hitting the ground without a scratch, and can also be dropped on accident, shattering into thousands of pieces, and use that as you're defense mechanism whenever there is a question of doubt.

It's like I'm taking a rubber chicken into battle. Hopefully, the opposing side will find you an idiot and leave you alone rather than running you through.

And, yet, it's the most exciting thing anyone can ever do in their lives. It's so powerful, you forget the stress of bills, family, hobbies, and home. There are moments of this clarity, where you know that everything will be absolutely okay, without a shred of error, and that this is where you are meant to be. It even takes away from those stressful moments of love in the first place, where you are forced to make a decision on either trusting the bond or just accepting that you will never see the man you like in the same light ever again (not that I've ever been there.... or anything...).

All of these things, your school "prepares" you for. You read books, you study for tests, you analyze the science that is not in the least bit life.

And then you're booted out into the real world, where you really learn that these tools will snap, because they're just made from China pieces of shit. You have to build your own way, scraping your knees and banging your head along the way. You have to decide whether to live, or to just apply the ointment gently and move on without really realizing that, in the end, school prepared you for nothing, and nothing will ever really prepare you for anything unless you're willing to prepare yourself.

And that, my friends, is why we have to take the Zombie Apocalypse seriously.