First off, some notes regarding my last blog:
1. The answer to the question is: she's pregnant.
2. I misplaced my final copy of the story, so all I have is this chocolate-stained, piddly rough draft that is neither finished nor worthy of reprinting.
3. Therefore, I will not be posting anymore excerpts of the story.
4. I'm offering a cyber kleenex for anyone who grew emotionally attached to the character and the story.
5. That faint sound in your ear is not your schizophrenia (or is it...?), but rather a teeny, tiny violin. (Don't make me spell this one out.)
Alright, moving on...
(This blog will probably be the most personal - and serious - one I've written.)
As some of you know, I've made some big changes in my life in the past few months. Finally. Basically, my first year out of college was a tough one, in terms of direction, ambition, and goals. My life had become stagnant. I couldn't figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. Entrenched in a quarter-life crisis, I felt trapped. Anxious. Paralyzed. I rigorously researched different careers, though never quite finding a fit. Basically, I felt like Cinderella; instead of a bad family, I had a bad job: stressful, overworked, underthanked, utterly routine and uncreative. My metaphorical "shoes" were various careers, grad schools, etc. I kept trying them on for size, but nothing quite seemed to fit. Was I waiting for the "perfect" career, only to realize one doesn't exist? I spun myself in circles so many times, over so many different careers, that I almost gave up. Almost.
I basically had to decide what my priorities were, career-wise. For example, I often saw myself in a helping profession. However, was this really what I wanted to do? Or did this stem from guilt over a more selfish career? How important is money? Do I want a routine job, or one that changes often? Do I want a job where I can travel? Is my passion for writing and being creative best kept as a hobby, or a profession? Or is there a way to blend the two?
My job at the clinic was tough. There were days I wanted to scream, or cry. I would sometimes glance out the prison-sized windows and imagine myself floating up and out into the sunny day I could not enjoy. Yet, in retrospect, when I really think about it, it wasn't all bad. I met some really cool people, and I learned a lot in terms of what I want - and what I don't want - in a career. Plus, I saved up a bunch of money to use for things that were important to me: traveling, starting up a retirement account, splurge items (flat panel television...sha-wing!).
See, my main problem is my anxiety, fear and depression. I let them control me. It's easier to surrender than to fight back. They always try to handcuff me to the chair - and sometimes, if I'm in a vulnerable point in my life, I let them. Eventually, I get used to being strapped to the chair. My spine adjusts; I get used to it, almost to the point of being comforted by it. Kind of like a kidnapped victim can get used to - and grow attached - to its captor. Anxiety and depression not only isolate me - they insulate me. They cover me like a heated blanket. It's so nice and warm in that web they weave that I almost forget that they're also strangling me. I can stop with the metaphors, but note the connection. Handcuffs, webs, blankets...they all limit me from moving forward, or moving period. "Your desire must be greater than your fear." This is an old quote I used in gymnastics, and it's amazingly applicable to so many things. I need to adopt it as my mantra. Your desire must be greater than your fear.
"Sometimes you have to break down to break through." Another powerful quote. And that's exactly what happened to me in August. I rushed to an information session in Hopkins, barged into the conference room, only to be told by an alum (who would later be at the real meeting I went to) that the information meeting was for the next day. Great, now I'm already labeled the retarded blonde. The next day, I oversleep and am late to work. Work ends up being insanely stressful - I have frustrated, emotional parents and pissy doctors yelling at me. After work, traffic is completely backed up for the president's arrival. It takes me two f*cking hours to get home from work. I literally have 8 minutes to change out of my hospital scrubs and get my ass back to Hopkins (still in rush hour) for the information session - which of course, I ended up 10 minutes late to. Yeah, bad day is an understatement. I had what can arguably be called a nervous breakdown that day. On the two hour drive home, I started crying - and couldn't stop. When I got back to my house for those 8 minutes, I dropped my purse and fell onto my knees...sobbing uncontrollably (witnessed by my family, concerned and confused). My chest and arms broke out in rashes, and I had difficulty breathing. I drove to Hopkins, still crying. I somehow managed to toughen up for the information session.
This is getting long, so I will continue in the next blog (which will be soon, promise)....
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Having Hope (Part I)
It's story time, kids!
Most people know me as primarily a poet. Indeed, it is my most natural style of writing. However, I do write short fiction on occasion. I recently stumbled upon "Having Hope," a short story I wrote back in my college creative writing course a few years ago. Since it was for a class, not many people have read this story. I have decided to post it here, but in segments. Can you guess what Sara's (the lead character) secret it? At what point did you figure it out? I'm always curious to ask this, because people don't always figure it out right away, or at the same moment.
*************************************************************************************
I never thought it would make it this far. Somehow, I always thought it – my secret – would go away. Disappear. Die. But here it is, bigger than ever. My secret is growing and it is becoming harder and harder to hide. I have to get rid of it. But I can’t.
As I lay in bed, I feel the morning sun warm my tired face. I open my eyes and glance out the window. A squirrel makes its way up the maple tree, but feels my eyes and pauses like a deer in headlights. Suddenly, I am interrupted by a sharp pain in my stomach. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. Once the pain subsides, I open my eyes. A pinkish mound of flesh stares back at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. To my disappointment, the ugly, fat mound is still there. My secret still dwells inside me.
“Sara!!” a low, harsh voice shouts from the kitchen. I am so used to the incessant yelling that I don’t even flinch anymore when I hear it. Most of my friends are afraid of my father. I used to be deathly afraid of him; in some ways, I still am. Yet somehow, over the years, my ears have learned to filter out his verbal attacks, and my body has hardened to his relentless beatings. In fact, I abandoned the titles "father" and "dad" a long time ago. I now refer to him as Larry.
“Sara, get down here!” Larry growls again. I quickly find my sweatshirt on the floor and pull it over me before heading downstairs. Although I’m dreading whatever confrontation he has in store for me, I am starving; I haven’t eaten in nearly two days. I make my way downstairs and grab an apple from the kitchen.
“Sara, where the hell did you put the remote?” Larry shouts from the couch. He’s still drunk. It’s seven in the morning and the loser is still intoxicated. A horrible stench of sweat and stale beer saturates the family room.
“I didn’t put it anywhere,” I mumble. You’re probably laying on it you fatass, I think to myself.
I walk past the couch, but am jerked back by the grip of his arm on my leg and fall face first onto the carpet. At first I panic because I had fallen right onto my stomach. However, I pretend that it’s nothing. Larry doesn’t know my secret. He must never find out. And if, for some horrible reason, he did find out, I probably wouldn’t be around to tell you about it.
I casually – but quickly – get up from the floor. The rise to my feet was a bit awkward, considering the extra 20 pounds I’m lugging around these days. Larry lets out a low-bellied laugh at my expense.
I go back to my room and get ready for school. I glance outside and frown. Now that spring’s arriving, it’s getting much harder for me to hide my secret. During the winter, I could easily hide it under a sweatshirt or fleece vest. Sometimes days would go by and I would forget it was even there. I loved those days. However, reality would eventually slap me in the face again, and I would sink back into depression.
I put on some drawstring sweatpants and a baggy black t-shirt. Since I haven’t been eating much these past several months, my growing belly isn’t as noticeable as it could (or should) be. I pull my hair back in a loose ponytail and put concealer under my eyes. I’m exhausted, but I can’t let anyone see how tired I am. No one can know.
I walk to my parents’ bedroom and see my mother sleeping on the bed. Her long, brown hair spills across the white pillow like hot fudge on a sundae. Her pale body is draped across the bed ever so gracefully. With a ray of sun shining on her through the curtains, she reminds me of an angel.
Most people know me as primarily a poet. Indeed, it is my most natural style of writing. However, I do write short fiction on occasion. I recently stumbled upon "Having Hope," a short story I wrote back in my college creative writing course a few years ago. Since it was for a class, not many people have read this story. I have decided to post it here, but in segments. Can you guess what Sara's (the lead character) secret it? At what point did you figure it out? I'm always curious to ask this, because people don't always figure it out right away, or at the same moment.
*************************************************************************************
"Having Hope"
I never thought it would make it this far. Somehow, I always thought it – my secret – would go away. Disappear. Die. But here it is, bigger than ever. My secret is growing and it is becoming harder and harder to hide. I have to get rid of it. But I can’t.
As I lay in bed, I feel the morning sun warm my tired face. I open my eyes and glance out the window. A squirrel makes its way up the maple tree, but feels my eyes and pauses like a deer in headlights. Suddenly, I am interrupted by a sharp pain in my stomach. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. Once the pain subsides, I open my eyes. A pinkish mound of flesh stares back at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. To my disappointment, the ugly, fat mound is still there. My secret still dwells inside me.
“Sara!!” a low, harsh voice shouts from the kitchen. I am so used to the incessant yelling that I don’t even flinch anymore when I hear it. Most of my friends are afraid of my father. I used to be deathly afraid of him; in some ways, I still am. Yet somehow, over the years, my ears have learned to filter out his verbal attacks, and my body has hardened to his relentless beatings. In fact, I abandoned the titles "father" and "dad" a long time ago. I now refer to him as Larry.
“Sara, get down here!” Larry growls again. I quickly find my sweatshirt on the floor and pull it over me before heading downstairs. Although I’m dreading whatever confrontation he has in store for me, I am starving; I haven’t eaten in nearly two days. I make my way downstairs and grab an apple from the kitchen.
“Sara, where the hell did you put the remote?” Larry shouts from the couch. He’s still drunk. It’s seven in the morning and the loser is still intoxicated. A horrible stench of sweat and stale beer saturates the family room.
“I didn’t put it anywhere,” I mumble. You’re probably laying on it you fatass, I think to myself.
I walk past the couch, but am jerked back by the grip of his arm on my leg and fall face first onto the carpet. At first I panic because I had fallen right onto my stomach. However, I pretend that it’s nothing. Larry doesn’t know my secret. He must never find out. And if, for some horrible reason, he did find out, I probably wouldn’t be around to tell you about it.
I casually – but quickly – get up from the floor. The rise to my feet was a bit awkward, considering the extra 20 pounds I’m lugging around these days. Larry lets out a low-bellied laugh at my expense.
I go back to my room and get ready for school. I glance outside and frown. Now that spring’s arriving, it’s getting much harder for me to hide my secret. During the winter, I could easily hide it under a sweatshirt or fleece vest. Sometimes days would go by and I would forget it was even there. I loved those days. However, reality would eventually slap me in the face again, and I would sink back into depression.
I put on some drawstring sweatpants and a baggy black t-shirt. Since I haven’t been eating much these past several months, my growing belly isn’t as noticeable as it could (or should) be. I pull my hair back in a loose ponytail and put concealer under my eyes. I’m exhausted, but I can’t let anyone see how tired I am. No one can know.
I walk to my parents’ bedroom and see my mother sleeping on the bed. Her long, brown hair spills across the white pillow like hot fudge on a sundae. Her pale body is draped across the bed ever so gracefully. With a ray of sun shining on her through the curtains, she reminds me of an angel.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Job Application
First off, I want to announce that I have not died - nor has my blog. My leech of a job has literally sucked all the creative blood out of me. My job is stressful, frustrating, mundane, routine, objective...I'm gone 10 hours a day, leaving me little time or energy to devote to writing. However, I recently put in my notice and will be done by the end of September. I can talk details another time, soon...for now, I wanted to at least post something...anything.
This blog birthed from the fact that many recent graduates that I know are looking for jobs. In addition, lots of people I know are either currently dating, or actively looking for that "special someone." When you think about it, dating is a lot like having a job. Van Wilder once said first dates are interviews. Also, you can: quit a job (be the dumper); get fired/laid off (be the dumpee), be promoted (get engaged/married)...or be demoted ("let's just be friends"). While job applicants often have to go through strenuous interviews, applications and background checks, dating canditates do not. Dating is a gamble, because you never really know who you are dating until many months into dating. After all, skeletons don't crawl out of the closet on their own. Neither does family drama, or mental illness. I decided to write a humorous job application for dating. Keep in mind I haven't written in awhile, so please be gentle :)
For which position are you applying? (check only one)
___ Long-term relationship
___ Open relationship
___ Short-term fling
___ Fuck Buddy
___ One night stand
(P.S. Smokers, college dropouts, alcoholics and those with ego complexes need not apply.)
Why are you interested in this position?
What qualities (physical, mental, emotional, sexual) do you feel you have to offer me?
Tell me about the current relationship dynamic with your most recent ex-girlfriend. You are:
a) on good terms with her and still keep in touch
b) on fair terms but rarely talk
c) presently engaging in the art of “ex sex”
d) still unable to talk about her without 1) swearing incessantly, or 2) crying uncontrollably
e) legally unable to be within a certain radius of her
Tell me about your relationship with your family. You:
a) have a very positive relationship with them and actively keep in touch
b) have your share of arguments and drama, but generally things are fine
c) prefer to keep contact on a “holidays-only” basis
d) will only see them while heavily medicated (alcohol, pot, anti-depressants)
e) pay weekly visits to a professional because of them
Have you ever been convicted of a crime? If yes, please describe:
How many sexual partners have you had?
a) 0, by choice
b) 0, not by choice…
c) 1-3
d) 4-7
e) 8-10
f) unable to calculate an exact number…
Which celebrity best represents your appearance, style and personality?
a) Brad Pitt
b) George Clooney
c) Justin Timberlake
d) Ben Stiller
e) Kevin Federline
f) Flava Flaaaavvvvv
Which female physical attribute is most important?
a) ass
b) boobs
c) smile
d) eyes
e) I picked c or d in order to not appear like a douchebag
How often do you work out?
a) daily
b) a few times a week
c) a few times a month
d) Does sex count?
e) Do keg stands count?
Have you ever been in love?
a) absolutely
b) I think so, but I’m not sure
c) Not yet
d) She was Brazilian, or Chinese, or something weird. I met her in the bathroom of a K-Mart and we made out for hours. Then we parted ways, never to see each other again.
Which best describes the condition of your car?
a) new, top-of-the-line
b) a few scratches, but generally in good shape
c) multiple dents, scratches, paint chippings...“but it adds character”
d) always consult with my Magic 8 Ball before risking a drive on the road. It's only been wrong once. Or twice.
e) nonexistent; I rely on public transportation or friends
What’s the most romantic thing you have ever done?
a) surprised a girl with a romantic vacation
b) wrote her a song/poem
c) bought her flowers and a card for no reason at all
d) brushed your teeth before kissing her
e) gave her your last beer in the fridge
What’s your idea of a great date?
a) dinner and a movie
b) doing something adventurous or fun (amusement park, bowling, rock-climbing, etc.)
c) cuddling up to a DVD at home
d) any that end in "Would you like to come back to my place?"
What are your feelings towards commitment?
a) I’m Mr. Commitment; I love being devoted to one woman
b) I will commit if my feelings are strong enough
c) I’m too picky and set impossible standards that no woman can meet
d) Commitment is selfish; I think everyone deserves a piece of me (like Jesus bread!)
e) I’m allergic to it…
Please list the names and contacts of three references. In particular, I will need:
1) an ex-girlfriend
2) a platonic female friend
3) your mother
Thank you for applying.
This blog birthed from the fact that many recent graduates that I know are looking for jobs. In addition, lots of people I know are either currently dating, or actively looking for that "special someone." When you think about it, dating is a lot like having a job. Van Wilder once said first dates are interviews. Also, you can: quit a job (be the dumper); get fired/laid off (be the dumpee), be promoted (get engaged/married)...or be demoted ("let's just be friends"). While job applicants often have to go through strenuous interviews, applications and background checks, dating canditates do not. Dating is a gamble, because you never really know who you are dating until many months into dating. After all, skeletons don't crawl out of the closet on their own. Neither does family drama, or mental illness. I decided to write a humorous job application for dating. Keep in mind I haven't written in awhile, so please be gentle :)
For which position are you applying? (check only one)
___ Long-term relationship
___ Open relationship
___ Short-term fling
___ Fuck Buddy
___ One night stand
(P.S. Smokers, college dropouts, alcoholics and those with ego complexes need not apply.)
Why are you interested in this position?
What qualities (physical, mental, emotional, sexual) do you feel you have to offer me?
Tell me about the current relationship dynamic with your most recent ex-girlfriend. You are:
a) on good terms with her and still keep in touch
b) on fair terms but rarely talk
c) presently engaging in the art of “ex sex”
d) still unable to talk about her without 1) swearing incessantly, or 2) crying uncontrollably
e) legally unable to be within a certain radius of her
Tell me about your relationship with your family. You:
a) have a very positive relationship with them and actively keep in touch
b) have your share of arguments and drama, but generally things are fine
c) prefer to keep contact on a “holidays-only” basis
d) will only see them while heavily medicated (alcohol, pot, anti-depressants)
e) pay weekly visits to a professional because of them
Have you ever been convicted of a crime? If yes, please describe:
How many sexual partners have you had?
a) 0, by choice
b) 0, not by choice…
c) 1-3
d) 4-7
e) 8-10
f) unable to calculate an exact number…
Which celebrity best represents your appearance, style and personality?
a) Brad Pitt
b) George Clooney
c) Justin Timberlake
d) Ben Stiller
e) Kevin Federline
f) Flava Flaaaavvvvv
Which female physical attribute is most important?
a) ass
b) boobs
c) smile
d) eyes
e) I picked c or d in order to not appear like a douchebag
How often do you work out?
a) daily
b) a few times a week
c) a few times a month
d) Does sex count?
e) Do keg stands count?
Have you ever been in love?
a) absolutely
b) I think so, but I’m not sure
c) Not yet
d) She was Brazilian, or Chinese, or something weird. I met her in the bathroom of a K-Mart and we made out for hours. Then we parted ways, never to see each other again.
Which best describes the condition of your car?
a) new, top-of-the-line
b) a few scratches, but generally in good shape
c) multiple dents, scratches, paint chippings...“but it adds character”
d) always consult with my Magic 8 Ball before risking a drive on the road. It's only been wrong once. Or twice.
e) nonexistent; I rely on public transportation or friends
What’s the most romantic thing you have ever done?
a) surprised a girl with a romantic vacation
b) wrote her a song/poem
c) bought her flowers and a card for no reason at all
d) brushed your teeth before kissing her
e) gave her your last beer in the fridge
What’s your idea of a great date?
a) dinner and a movie
b) doing something adventurous or fun (amusement park, bowling, rock-climbing, etc.)
c) cuddling up to a DVD at home
d) any that end in "Would you like to come back to my place?"
What are your feelings towards commitment?
a) I’m Mr. Commitment; I love being devoted to one woman
b) I will commit if my feelings are strong enough
c) I’m too picky and set impossible standards that no woman can meet
d) Commitment is selfish; I think everyone deserves a piece of me (like Jesus bread!)
e) I’m allergic to it…
Please list the names and contacts of three references. In particular, I will need:
1) an ex-girlfriend
2) a platonic female friend
3) your mother
Thank you for applying.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
The Many Faces of Death
My grandpa died on Friday night after a year-long battle with lung cancer. He wasn't ready to die - he constantly talked about how he felt it wasn't his time, that he had more things he wanted to do, more life still beating in his chest, waiting to be lived. It was heartbreaking to hear that, and hard to watch his gradual downfall. His situation has made me think about my own life. There are so many things I want to accomplish, yet I always find excuses for not doing them. One of the biggest reasons I don't do things is because I fear my own failure. I don't make decisions, or take risks...because I am so terrified that it will be the wrong decision. I also have an intense fear of failure. I am scared to stretch myself, to test my limits...because if I put myself out there and fail, then I will have made a fool of myself. I also fear what others will think of me...of how they will judge me. It's silly, I know, yet it profoundly impacts what I do, how I operate. I am hoping to take my grandpa's death as a wake-up call, that I need to stop "re-acting" in my life, which is such a passive, wimpy existence...and start "pro-acting," or making active decisions to help create my own happiness. More on that later...
I watched The Hours tonight, a movie about Virginia Woolf, the famous English novelist whose own mental madness and depression drove her to suicide. A lot of great writers produce their best work of literary art during their darkest times. Likewise, I find my best poetry to be written in times of depression, in times of sadness over unrequited love, or betrayed love. The sadness, the madness, the darkness...serves as a catalyst to my writing. Happiness breeds a certain amount of complacency. I often say that those who are happy are living in a state of denial...they are living in their bubble. People with depression often have eerily accurate viewpoints in life...a psychology professor of mine even said that mental health and happiness do require a certain amount of deception...or at least, looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses, instead of clear ones that give you a true picture of it all.
Anyways, I am babbling...I'm just going to present you with my most recent poem that I spewed out in merely 20 minutes tonight (a compulsion, really)...so, here it goes:
My room is a mess.
A microcosm of my mentality.
There are papers, packets, books,
scattered in wild abandon.
I wake up and they stare at me,
Staring, watching,
Judging…
These papers will not leave me alone.
The great irony of it all
Is that I mourn
My dwindling freetime,
Yet when a quiet moment
Rests upon my back,
When a free shadow of a
second
Casts on my bedroom wall,
I run,
I hide…
A sign of my cowardice,
With no courage to measure?
Or perhaps just a masochist,
Whose pain is her pleasure,
If I truly detest my
emotional fragility
Why then do I lack motivation
To rise to stability
Do I enjoy this rocky and tattered terrain
That maps across my anxious brain?
Would finding peace
murder
my gift to compose
a symphony of painted prose?
If I lived with happiness
And slept in its bed
Would I bury
The creativity that
Throbs in my head?
Have not all great writers
Gone a little mad,
Whose words were most brilliant
When at their most sad?
If I were to let go of the darkness
Live simple, and free
Would I be escaping,
Or creating
My own captivity.
I watched The Hours tonight, a movie about Virginia Woolf, the famous English novelist whose own mental madness and depression drove her to suicide. A lot of great writers produce their best work of literary art during their darkest times. Likewise, I find my best poetry to be written in times of depression, in times of sadness over unrequited love, or betrayed love. The sadness, the madness, the darkness...serves as a catalyst to my writing. Happiness breeds a certain amount of complacency. I often say that those who are happy are living in a state of denial...they are living in their bubble. People with depression often have eerily accurate viewpoints in life...a psychology professor of mine even said that mental health and happiness do require a certain amount of deception...or at least, looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses, instead of clear ones that give you a true picture of it all.
Anyways, I am babbling...I'm just going to present you with my most recent poem that I spewed out in merely 20 minutes tonight (a compulsion, really)...so, here it goes:
My room is a mess.
A microcosm of my mentality.
There are papers, packets, books,
scattered in wild abandon.
I wake up and they stare at me,
Staring, watching,
Judging…
These papers will not leave me alone.
The great irony of it all
Is that I mourn
My dwindling freetime,
Yet when a quiet moment
Rests upon my back,
When a free shadow of a
second
Casts on my bedroom wall,
I run,
I hide…
A sign of my cowardice,
With no courage to measure?
Or perhaps just a masochist,
Whose pain is her pleasure,
If I truly detest my
emotional fragility
Why then do I lack motivation
To rise to stability
Do I enjoy this rocky and tattered terrain
That maps across my anxious brain?
Would finding peace
murder
my gift to compose
a symphony of painted prose?
If I lived with happiness
And slept in its bed
Would I bury
The creativity that
Throbs in my head?
Have not all great writers
Gone a little mad,
Whose words were most brilliant
When at their most sad?
If I were to let go of the darkness
Live simple, and free
Would I be escaping,
Or creating
My own captivity.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Good Song...
This blog is a song...dedicated to a very special person in my life - you know who you are :)
The lyrics seem to really express how I feel. I love that about songs...their ability to take the abstract feelings floating around in your heart and head...and capture them into words and music.
If you'd say goodbye to me tonight
there would still be music left to write
what else could I do
I'm so inspired by you
that hasn't happened for the longest time
Once I thought my innocence was gone
now I know that happiness goes on
that's where you found me
when you put your arms around me
I haven't been there for the longest time
I'm that voice you're hearing in the hall
and the greatest miracle of all
is how I need you
and how you needed me too
that hasn't happened for the longest time
maybe this won't last very long
but you feel so right
and I could be wrong
maybe I've been hoping too hard
I've gone this far
and it's more than I hoped for
Who knows how much further we'll go on
maybe I'll be sorry when your gone
I'll take my chances
I forgot how nice romance is
I haven't been there for the longest time
I had second thoughts at the start
I said to myself hold on to your heart
now I know the man that you are
you're wonderful so far
and it's more than I hoped for
I don't care what consequence it brings
I have been a fool for lesser things
I want you so bad
I think you oughta know that
I intend to hold you for the longest time... :)
The lyrics seem to really express how I feel. I love that about songs...their ability to take the abstract feelings floating around in your heart and head...and capture them into words and music.
If you'd say goodbye to me tonight
there would still be music left to write
what else could I do
I'm so inspired by you
that hasn't happened for the longest time
Once I thought my innocence was gone
now I know that happiness goes on
that's where you found me
when you put your arms around me
I haven't been there for the longest time
I'm that voice you're hearing in the hall
and the greatest miracle of all
is how I need you
and how you needed me too
that hasn't happened for the longest time
maybe this won't last very long
but you feel so right
and I could be wrong
maybe I've been hoping too hard
I've gone this far
and it's more than I hoped for
Who knows how much further we'll go on
maybe I'll be sorry when your gone
I'll take my chances
I forgot how nice romance is
I haven't been there for the longest time
I had second thoughts at the start
I said to myself hold on to your heart
now I know the man that you are
you're wonderful so far
and it's more than I hoped for
I don't care what consequence it brings
I have been a fool for lesser things
I want you so bad
I think you oughta know that
I intend to hold you for the longest time... :)
Monday, February 12, 2007
The Ugly Side of Pretty...
http://msn.match.com/msn/article.aspx?articleid=6751&lid=419
I urge everyone to read the article linked above.
Although I struggle with my own self-esteem and body image demons...I know that I am perceived to be a good-looking girl. A hot chick. Beautiful. To quote Izzie Stevens from Grey's Anatomy:
"I'm a pretty girl. I'm not being arrogant, it's just, it's just kind of a fact. I get it. And not from a 'certain angle' kind of way, but in an obvious way. It's the blonde thing and the big boobs thing...It's how men see me. I'm not a smart girl or an interesting girl. I'm a pretty girl."
Adding some of my own...here's my version of "Hot Girl Myths: The Ugly Side of Pretty" :
Beautiful women get all the good guys.
Not true. Normal guys do not approach us - they are too shy. We get stuck with the creeps, players and cocky frat boys whose sex number is higher than their IQ. We can never know if they are interested in us because of our intellect, wit, charisma...or just because we closely resemble their wet dream fantasy.
Beautiful women don't get dumped.
Wow...entirely not true. I've had guys leave me for other women (mainly younger, sluttier versions of me), or because I didn't put out soon enough...or because I did put out and now they are bored/finished with me. I've also been dumped because a man could not handle the jealousy of other guys looking at me. Basically, if you name it, I've been dumped because of it.
Beautiful women don't have to work as hard.
If anything, we have to work twice as hard to get people to respect us. "Blonde hair and big boobs? Big whoop...you're a cookie cutter bimbo." Instead of a blank slate first impression, we start off with a deficit...a negative assumption that we're dumb. It's like starting a race an extra 20 feet back...we have to run faster and harder just to catch up with everyone else.
Beautiful women make friends easily.
Not true. Women are brutal. We are our own worst enemies. If a woman is beautiful, we have to compensate for our own insecurity and envy by scrutinizing every curve, every feature of her. Her left calve is bigger than her right. She overplucks her brows. I heard she's a huge slut. We automatically assume beautiful girls are stuck up, bitchy, shallow, fake. Pretty girls cannot be trusted.
To quote Ani Difranco "God help an ugly girl, though a pretty girl is also for doom...for everyone harbors a secret hatred...for the prettiest girl in the room."
I'm going to try to blog more...promise. For my three or four fans out there...thank you for reading :) lol.
I urge everyone to read the article linked above.
Although I struggle with my own self-esteem and body image demons...I know that I am perceived to be a good-looking girl. A hot chick. Beautiful. To quote Izzie Stevens from Grey's Anatomy:
"I'm a pretty girl. I'm not being arrogant, it's just, it's just kind of a fact. I get it. And not from a 'certain angle' kind of way, but in an obvious way. It's the blonde thing and the big boobs thing...It's how men see me. I'm not a smart girl or an interesting girl. I'm a pretty girl."
Adding some of my own...here's my version of "Hot Girl Myths: The Ugly Side of Pretty" :
Beautiful women get all the good guys.
Not true. Normal guys do not approach us - they are too shy. We get stuck with the creeps, players and cocky frat boys whose sex number is higher than their IQ. We can never know if they are interested in us because of our intellect, wit, charisma...or just because we closely resemble their wet dream fantasy.
Beautiful women don't get dumped.
Wow...entirely not true. I've had guys leave me for other women (mainly younger, sluttier versions of me), or because I didn't put out soon enough...or because I did put out and now they are bored/finished with me. I've also been dumped because a man could not handle the jealousy of other guys looking at me. Basically, if you name it, I've been dumped because of it.
Beautiful women don't have to work as hard.
If anything, we have to work twice as hard to get people to respect us. "Blonde hair and big boobs? Big whoop...you're a cookie cutter bimbo." Instead of a blank slate first impression, we start off with a deficit...a negative assumption that we're dumb. It's like starting a race an extra 20 feet back...we have to run faster and harder just to catch up with everyone else.
Beautiful women make friends easily.
Not true. Women are brutal. We are our own worst enemies. If a woman is beautiful, we have to compensate for our own insecurity and envy by scrutinizing every curve, every feature of her. Her left calve is bigger than her right. She overplucks her brows. I heard she's a huge slut. We automatically assume beautiful girls are stuck up, bitchy, shallow, fake. Pretty girls cannot be trusted.
To quote Ani Difranco "God help an ugly girl, though a pretty girl is also for doom...for everyone harbors a secret hatred...for the prettiest girl in the room."
I'm going to try to blog more...promise. For my three or four fans out there...thank you for reading :) lol.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
(Mis)Adventures in Working Out
So I, along with approximately 80% of the population (I conducted an informal survey, highly professional though) decided to make “lose weight and get in shape” as one of my new year’s resolutions. Cliché? Yes. Will it last? We’ll see – I hope so. My college diet of pizza, pasta, beer and soft serve ice cream finally caught up to me this past year, and while I’m by no means a big person, I did have to retire my favorite pair of jeans because, frankly, I can’t zip them up anymore. And let me tell you, this is a girl’s worst nightmare. (It’s a close tie with breaking the heel of your favorite shoe or finding out your ex’s new girlfriend is, in fact – gulp – stunningly gorgeous and overwhelmingly sweet. Cut the nice act, darlin’, you ain’t foolin’ me, even if you’re fooling him!)
I decided to mix up my workout routine by trying out a couple group classes at Lifetime Fitness. Today, I attended one called “The Mixx” – a blend of aerobic kickboxing and hip-hop dancing. I figured, “Hey, I was a gymnast for many years. I did aerobics – or, I kicked ass at aerobics, if I do say so myself – all four years at college…therefore, how hard could this class be? It’ll be fun.”
Ha.
First off, the instructor, Natalie (I’m going to be unprofessional and unethical by using her real first name. Go ahead and sue me but this isn’t exactly Time Magazine or The Chicago Tribune.)
Her voice stays perpetually bubbly and upbeat throughout the entire hour-long session. At first, this annoys me. The obnoxious optimism, the “you can do it!” attitude - I mean, c’mon, no one can be that excited about working out (and if she is, please go get me a refill of whatever energizer happy pills she seduced her pharmacist/therapist/doctor into giving her.) Yet, her voice also amazes me…how can it sound so natural, so smooth, so effortless, as if it were spilling out of her lips like a tipped glass of milk? How come it’s not wheezing and breathy, like mine? Oh, right, that’s because she’s actually in good cardiovascular shape, unlike me. I almost envy her. Almost.
Secondly, I must comment on the “hip-hop” dance portion of the class. I was bad. I mean, real bad. Little old granny-in-her-eighties-gear to the left of me had more “hip” in her “hop” than I did. The gyrating butt move, the waving of the arms like a helicopter while thrusting my hips…I felt like a drunk robot, or The Tin Man in dire need of some freakin' oil. Shakira’s hips don’t lie, and apparently mine don’t either: I can’t dance.
Whoever said gymnastics and dancing were related are dirty liars. They are not related. Gymnastics dancing is concise, structured, mechanical. It’s the busy work that we have to do in between the cool stuff – the flipping, the twisting, the oh-my-god-did-you-see-what-she-just-did moves. However, that’s not entirely true, I did enjoy some of the dancing. But it certainly didn’t involve any moves reminiscent of a Ludacris video. If I had to shake my moneymaker…I think only three pennies would fall out - maybe four on a good day.
So, maybe a profession as a stripper isn’t in my future…but, I was always more of a pole-dancer fan anyways. It’s more related to gymnastics; it’s suits my style. I wonder if Lifetime offers any pole-dancing classes…hmmm... :)
Well, that's all folks. I gotta go to bed now that I have a big girl job, boo to that! Goodnight.
I decided to mix up my workout routine by trying out a couple group classes at Lifetime Fitness. Today, I attended one called “The Mixx” – a blend of aerobic kickboxing and hip-hop dancing. I figured, “Hey, I was a gymnast for many years. I did aerobics – or, I kicked ass at aerobics, if I do say so myself – all four years at college…therefore, how hard could this class be? It’ll be fun.”
Ha.
First off, the instructor, Natalie (I’m going to be unprofessional and unethical by using her real first name. Go ahead and sue me but this isn’t exactly Time Magazine or The Chicago Tribune.)
Her voice stays perpetually bubbly and upbeat throughout the entire hour-long session. At first, this annoys me. The obnoxious optimism, the “you can do it!” attitude - I mean, c’mon, no one can be that excited about working out (and if she is, please go get me a refill of whatever energizer happy pills she seduced her pharmacist/therapist/doctor into giving her.) Yet, her voice also amazes me…how can it sound so natural, so smooth, so effortless, as if it were spilling out of her lips like a tipped glass of milk? How come it’s not wheezing and breathy, like mine? Oh, right, that’s because she’s actually in good cardiovascular shape, unlike me. I almost envy her. Almost.
Secondly, I must comment on the “hip-hop” dance portion of the class. I was bad. I mean, real bad. Little old granny-in-her-eighties-gear to the left of me had more “hip” in her “hop” than I did. The gyrating butt move, the waving of the arms like a helicopter while thrusting my hips…I felt like a drunk robot, or The Tin Man in dire need of some freakin' oil. Shakira’s hips don’t lie, and apparently mine don’t either: I can’t dance.
Whoever said gymnastics and dancing were related are dirty liars. They are not related. Gymnastics dancing is concise, structured, mechanical. It’s the busy work that we have to do in between the cool stuff – the flipping, the twisting, the oh-my-god-did-you-see-what-she-just-did moves. However, that’s not entirely true, I did enjoy some of the dancing. But it certainly didn’t involve any moves reminiscent of a Ludacris video. If I had to shake my moneymaker…I think only three pennies would fall out - maybe four on a good day.
So, maybe a profession as a stripper isn’t in my future…but, I was always more of a pole-dancer fan anyways. It’s more related to gymnastics; it’s suits my style. I wonder if Lifetime offers any pole-dancing classes…hmmm... :)
Well, that's all folks. I gotta go to bed now that I have a big girl job, boo to that! Goodnight.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)