a perfect fit

I'm sitting at work today before opening, not on the clock, just experiencing what it's like to sit with my own thoughts. I've been out of the house since 8 am (electrical work is being done on my apartment, so I needed to get out), and walked the avenue browsing shop windows and trying to stay occupied. I've never been bored before. Being newly single, I'm finding that getting to do whatever I want when I want to is a luxury I've taken for granted. If I'm honest with myself, I miss the companionship and the sex more than anything, more than I actually miss Randal. He was simply my supplier, the purveyor of goods I wanted. So, I'm shopping around. But I won't settle for a knockoff in love, no cheap thrills are in my cart. I want real, wholesome love and connection, and I'm not going to give up on love because this one unravelled. I'll find a love, and a man, to fit me better. We'll be a perfect fit.

restarting, starting now

I'm kicking myself for falling for this guy, but the truth is, I would have kicked myself if I didn't. I can't hide from the love I want just because I'm afraid of getting hurt, or that it won't last. We can never predict how love will work (or not); we have to take the leap and hope for the best. For me and for Randal, it was best that things didn't work out for us so that we can remain open for the right people and the right opportunities. As much as this has hurt, I'm glad I took the leap. Now, it's time to fly solo and enjoy the ride.

i didn't think it'd hurt this bad

i'm on a (swan) boat!

Ah, the day after a downtown Halloween... means a twisted ankle and sore muscles! Which were made only more sore by paddling the swan boat today on the lake with the boy. Just more inspiration that I need to really, really focus on getting back in shape. I mean, it's a paddle boat! This isn't about being attractive; it's about being strong and healthy, and I feel like I am no longer either. So what did I do about it? I bought a membership to a yoga studio and a membership to a dance studio I used to go to, and I am about to roll out my yoga mat RIGHT NOW!!!! Lol, Maybe do some merengue as I make soup and apple cake tonight from scratch to BURN THOSE KCALORIES! :) And I'm going to be daring... I'm going to take a photo of my progress, one photo every week until I reach my goal of total fitness. :) That way, the proof is in the proverbial pudding, as it were. I know I can do it- I just have to stay motivated and give myself a goal! Behold: the face of positivity!

The Goal:

lose 5 fat lbs. by 12/25/12, improve cardio endurance, achieve total body toning, increase balance and flexibility, be able to do a pull-up unassisted by 1/1/13.

 

 

so sweet it gives me cavities

I want a bumper sticker that says "I can't, I have rehearsal". Lol I feel like that's my life. :) We're getting ready to open the show in a few weeks, and the gala is a week from Friday! The semester is almost out, which puts me SO CLOSE to freedom! In the meantime, I will continue to do grossly sweet things with the boyfriend like carving pumpkins we picked out together. Lol

Wine while we use knives? Sure!

RJ's ass pumpkin. Lol

Lover's dia de los muertos jack-o-lantern on right, my Dalí jack-o-lantern on left.

it's a beautiful life:

Lover wins mad points for leaving these at my door today. :)

que magnífico.

baby steps in leaps and bounds

So exciting... omgomgomg... I'm receiving letters from CAHSA to apply for graduation for the Spring semester. I want so badly to graduate by the Spring so that I can leave as soon as the semester is out if I wish. Ideally, it would be "hurry, give me my diploma, I have to catch the next flight". How amazing will it be to have the option to leave at a moment's notice... to sell my car, rent a truck, haul my junk, and start my new life... but I am leaping over my own thoughts in bounds. What matters now are the next several steps:

step 1) do my hw, pass
step 2) don't fuck up
step 3) plan nothing, but be prepared for anything
step 4) appreciate the time I have with the people I have here and love while I am here with them; take nothing for granted,
and...

step 5) do not be afraid. Go bravely into the world and make my dreams my reality.

priority number one: it's not blogging

So so close... I'm doing well in my classes this semester, but every day, I think about the exit critique I have yet to start. I've only got a few more weeks to put this off before it's due. I'm anxious about it, so I continue to push it to the bottom of my priority list. "I'll do it later". I've been doing the same with one of the German pieces I'm singing because I'm nervous about learning the language. But the song is due off book, right now, and I'm going to have to sing it. So, that means biting the bullet and just getting it done. Doing the hard work, making mistakes, improving, and getting it right. And just like with the music, sooner or later, I'm going to have to face my paper. My degree depends on this paper being done, and done well. So, this week is about looking at my priorities and reorganizing the list... dun dun dun...

the way i see it

you had to be there.

Perspectives

naked eye

happiness comes back through an open door.

Life is good again. I breathe again. I smile at the sunset. I kiss sweet lips. I hold soft hands. I sing lyrical melodies. I sleep in yellow sheets and wake up to flowers by the bed. I guess I am happy. Yes, I am happy again.

that Mozart was a fox.

I cannot get enough of Die Zauberflöte! I am signing several pieces from the opera in the autumn gala, including this Papageno Papagena duet, so I've been sleeping/eating/breathing/dreaming Mozart for the past two weeks. Lol, enjoy these versions of the duet that I really love, as well as a Swedish version of Introduction No. 1!

I just love this one all around. :)

 
Look at these gorgeous costumes!


 Just lovely! The German is pretty, too, but I love that they say "nay". Lol

set the world on fire

Acceptions and Expectations

This month has been challenging. I've got a lot on my plate, and getting it all done (and done well) has stretched my limits, in a good way. I'm euphoric with the knowledge that it's almost over. All of it is almost done. It's like when I ran the half marathon last year- the hardest part of the whole race was the last mile... seeing the finish line hurts so much more than imagining what it will look like. I can see the finish line, and the exhaustion has set in. But I am going to finish. And like at the end of any race, you cross that finish line, look back and say "how in the fuck did I do that?" It's going to be glorious.

I celebrated Pride this weekend with my friends! My sister came to town with some of her friends for the festivities, and it was wonderful. I loved seeing so much diversity and love in one city at one time. I cannot abide ignorance and unloving personalities, of which there was virtually none at the festival. It was brilliant. Just colors and smiles and peace. We need more of this every day.

Romantically, the past several weeks have been very fruitful for me. I have been seeing a really great guy, and I'm pleased by where things are heading. It's nice to be seeing someone who cares about me and sees me for who I am. And he is serious about me doing well in school, which is perhaps due to the fact that he's a smarty pants doctor. Lol Anyway, I look forward to the future, for whatever it holds.

I cannot say where I am right now. It's a good place, I think. A place of growth, a place requiring patience and positivity. Spiritual endurance. It's going to be a challenge, and it's going to change me.

I accept.

October is a time to shed the old.

Tonight I am happy. I type this entry from my desk under the window, rain pouring outside, vibrant pink flowers spilling out from a canister on the counter, leaning as if to read over my shoulder. I think often about my next great body of work. Will I finally sit down and write a play? Is my next great poem on the horizon? The words on my tongue like scalded tastebuds. September has brought about so much in so many areas of my life that I don't have the heart to try to steer myself in any one direction; I feel truly that the right moment will make itself known to me, the right words will emerge onto the page when they're ready. For now, in the meantime, I write everything else. I write about the moment of writing, the painfully relieving process of letting words spill out of your pen like blood from a wound onto a linen page to stop the blood, but the words keep bleeding. It's terminal. The wound won't heal until you get out the bad blood. And finally, words come along to suture the wound, to stop the hurt. You are free again to write about more than just anything. To write passionately. To write good comedy. To write about the time you couldn't stop bleeding. It's all within reach at the end of your arms. No matter what you write, write with feeling.

It is October now. A new month bearing a new purpose and new feelings. I'm so grateful.

the abbreviation of canyon

My manager Cyn is such a blessing to my life. I worked with her tonight, and got to pick her brain for wisdom. Cyn is 45, black-haired, her body a tattooed canvas of Tim Burton's work. It's occurred to me before, but tonight I became certain that she and I are a lot alike, and I can see myself being much like her when I'm 45. She has a huge heart for helping people, she's funny and sarcastic, and she has a great sense of style and self. Most strikingly, she also survived a terribly abusive childhood and bad relationships, and she was able to overcome all the obstacles. She has a tattoo on her wrist that says "rise above" to represent the struggles she's overcome to be who she is, and to forgive, and I admire her so much for the strength she's accrued over a painful life. We do differ in that her blood has been transfused with red bull, but nonetheless, I appreciate the blessing she is in my life: someone with wisdom, someone with passion, a listening ear, and someone I trust. I'm just really grateful.

Sex and its ism

I wrote the following as a response to a prompt in my theatre class for social change. I analyzed one of my go-to plays, Pizza Man:

Pizza Man

By Darlene Craviotto

Social issue: sexism

Summary and analysis:

The play Pizza Man begins with two women in their mid and late twenties, both struggling with failures in love, work, and life in general. These women, Alice and Julie, are home late one evening discussing the shortcomings in their lives, the inequalities put upon them as women, and they become enraged. Julie is a beautiful, but depressed alcoholic, and Alice is an overweight, dimwitted Jewish woman, who provides a little comic relief for what could otherwise be a very serious play. The women, feeling overwhelmed by their troubles, decide to take control of their lives, and they start by ordering a pizza with the intent to capture and rape the pizza man as a way to be in power. The pizza man, Eddie, is a married man in his late twenties, and he agrees to a drink with the women in hopes of hooking up with them; his intentions, however, are muddled by the women’s secret plot, and they tie him up and gag him. The women are not really sure how to go about raping him, and despite their efforts to oppressively seduce him, Eddie reveals that they would never be able to rape him because, as a man, he would always be willing. This infuriates the women even more, and they become more violent and start leaning toward killing him. Eddie becomes terrified, and struggles to maintain his tough guy exterior. Throughout the course of their warped evening, the three of them bond over their shared failures and disappointments. In the end, the women realize they’ve crossed the line, and they release Eddie, who then feels close to the women. They have all attained an understanding that surpasses gender identity. They are just three human beings struggling to gain control of their lives and be the people they wish to be.

I believe the playwright was successful in breaking down the gender barrier with regard to power, as she was able to volley power back and forth between the characters throughout the work. For instance, these two women started out feeling powerless in attaining the commitment of the men in their lives, or powerless to their bosses’ decisions, and so they decide to forcefully take power. Their actions attempt to take power from Eddie, a man, which he then backfired on them by claiming he could not be raped because he was a man. This type of power is aggressive in that it is unalterable. The women cannot change or negate this fact, so they attempt to overpower Eddie in a gender-blind manner, by threatening to murder him. This genuinely shows the women in a moment of power, however unreasonable. I think this was a great ploy on the part of the playwright because she used this plan of action to demonstrate the helplessness, the desperation women often face to gain equality amongst their male counterparts. By the end of the play, there appears to be no gender-centered power struggle; just a struggle for equal rights to live, which I believe was Craviotto’s intention.

eet

Old typewriters had an eet key, a key like a backspace- it took you back. It didn't erase, but it allowed you to write over your mistakes.
Eet was a way to start over.



"It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song. You can't believe it, you were always singin' along. It was so easy, and the words so sweet, you can't remember, you try to feel the beat, eet, eet, eet." - Regina Spektor (Eet)

Barbra is what I do instead of online homework.

Seriously, I need to not take any more online classes. I'm not getting much done.

Stoked: theatre, life, art

So, it's official. I own my car! I received the title in the mail, and it's mine. It feels weird to own everything I have. That's a first in my life. I don't even know how to celebrate. Maybe I'll get my mirror fixed. Haha

I've been thinking a lot about the discussion in my theatre history and lit III class. We were talking today about why America is one of the only countries in the world to never have established a national theatre. That doesn't seem important to anyone outside of theatre, and it might seem trivial even to those in the profession. Almost like, who cares? First off, we should define national theatre as a theatre that best represents a country. i.e. Russia has the Moscow Art Theatre. America attempted to establish the Lincoln as the national theatre. I speculate there are a number of reasons this did not pan out: first of all, America is comprised of so many different cultures, and so many diverse states, it would be hard to accurately represent us with one theatre touting one type of theatre or style. Secondly, we are so politically divided that it would be a point of contention as to who would fund such a theatre. If the theatre is public, does it then fall to taxpayers to maintain it? And finally, America just doesn't value theatre the way other countries do. We are a young nation, and we have not been as deeply rooted in, well, anything the way some cultures have rooted themselves in theatrical presentation. America is so fleeting. New York is AMAZING, full of culture, and it's the theatre mecca. That said, it is still comprised of all other forms that we've gotten from all over the world. So herein lies the qualm: who are we? Who are we as artists? As a nation? What do we value beyond spectacle? What can we artistically offer to the rest of the world that can be found nowhere else?

Another thing hit me today as I became aware of a play called Machinal, in which a woman becomes so trapped in a world that operates like a machine that she is driven to murder. I am always fascinated by the psychology of people, myself included, and by what drives us to be who we are and to react the ways we do. The idea of this play excites me in two ways. I've been giving a lot of thought to the tempestuous working relationship of Stella Adler and Lee Strasberg. Stella Adler is one of the most famous acting teachers of the 20th century, as is Lee Strasberg, but their approaches differed greatly, and were in great contradiction to one another. Stella Adler was a huge proponent of getting into character by observing the given circumstances by way of careful breakdown of the text. Strasberg, on the other hand, developed what's known as "method" acting, which relies on emotional recall for character development. Several notable actors have come up under each of these teachers, but I find Strasberg's method the most controversial, interesting, and dangerous. It is not uncommon, for instance, for an actor getting into the mind of a cocaine addict, when using the method, to take cocaine to really get into it. But the mind is delicate territory. Many people can get so lost in the mind of a character that they will never fully regain their own identity. I have never experienced this, as I combine many methods for character approach, but I cannot stop spinning ideas about how one might use the method to get into a dark character like that in Machinal.

The play also fascinates me in its mechanistic theme. So many days, I am in love with and terrified by the idea of a cyber punk existence. All of humanity walking around with microchips and programmed intelligence. I would never want this to actually happen because I want to stay human, but at the same time, it would be so easy to explain humanity if we were to look at it pragmatically. I wouldn't have to try to explain my emotions or my desires; this is just the way I'm programmed. We would be dead to emotions deemed unsafe for our continued existence: lust, love, hatred, fear, and so on. We would be robots, able to exist without really living, and we would never die...

The more I think about it, I don't want to be a robot. I do want to be emotional. I want to experience myself as I am. I guess it's best to learn how to pragmatically communicate what I'm feeling. No matter how I approach my life, whether by examining the given circumstances or by experiencing my full-blown emotions, I want to live accurately according to who I am. Who am I?


I am a woman. A lover of poetry, art, performance, and expression. I have to see with my hands. I have to analyze everything; it's what I've been trained to do. I am a feminist and activist for equal rights for all humans. I am an adventurer. I will go wherever the moment takes me, even if it leads to trouble. I am smart, and intelligent. I am strong and independent. Sometimes, I let my guard down. Sometimes I get hurt. Sometimes I hurt others. I am a great miscommunicator. I am colorful. I cannot fit into any mold. I was a chorus geek in high school, and always will be. I feel everything passionately. Apathy is not in my emotional vernacular. I value honesty more than almost anything else. I cannot do subtle; I don't know what it even looks like. I am blunt, and I love bluntness in return. I would rather spend quality time with myself than mediocre time with anyone else. I am more convinced every day that everything happens for a purpose. I believe in destiny, and I believe that mine is going to prove beautiful. I want to live a story that will be told for generations to come. I am a dreamer of dreams. And no one can ever program all of that into one being.

i slept with my hand on my heart.

Last night I slept with my hand on my heart. I was in bed early, laying in the dark with my hand on my heart. My eyelids were heavy, but the sound of my own heart alone in the dark was too much. So, I fed my face. And then I fed my new 30 Rock addiction with all of Season 1, disc 3. Then, I went back to feeling my heart alone in the dark. The gentle, steady thumping against my palm reminding me that my heart's not broken; it's beating. I became aware of the rise and fall of my belly as I breathed in, and out, reminding me that I am alive. I let my mind wander from one choppy thought to another. My brain volunteered for the job of separating dreams from reality, a task it has never mastered. It became too much. Not that my brain wasn't capable; just that the ratio of 1,000,000,000 thoughts: 1 head was a bit unbalanced. I had to focus on not focusing on anything. 'How do I do that?' (I once took an acting class that required us to lay on the ground for 10 minutes and think of nothing. Needless to say, I never mastered that, either.) 'No, I have to get this right', I thought, 'for my own good'. So, I forced my hands to be my eyes, and we sifted through the thoughts and finally got to that quiet place, alone in the dark, with the soft go-gong of my beating heart, the blood coursing through my veins, supplying my body with oxygen and air. In that quiet, tremulous place, I found myself. And I took my own hand as we walked off into the deep.

Feeling new.

Today was so necessary. Thank God I had the day to recollect myself. I was able to get back on track and get so much done. I feel like myself again after a month of being a stranger. My place is clean, my homework is (mostly) caught up, and I have been kind to myself.

I was asked to be in a music video today at the laundromat. The folks shooting the video were looking for someone "real", someone doing something real, like loading laundry. Apparently, throwing a month's worth of dirty clothes into the machine with reckless abandon was real enough for them. I turned them down. Orlando is full of real people in real messes, so I'm sure they'll find someone.

I am loving La Roux and Gotye this week; their albums are really reaching me right now.

It occurs to me at the beginning of each week how much closer I am to graduating. We're already more than half way into September. Wow. Time is flying. And before you know it, January 1st will be here, and I'll be in a new year, a year that will hold new things, new beginnings, new places, new people, new opportunities. I so look forward to all of that.

dark blue

Now all I can see are the planets in a row suggesting it's best that I slow down... this night's the perfect shade of dark blue...




I stood in the storm today. The rain blew up under the overhang, and I let it sting my skin. The wind blew, but I could not be moved. I watched the clouds roll and the lightning spark, a tempest of many shades of blue. It was beautiful. Furious and sad, all at once. Powerful, but helpless. A storm can't help what it is; it has to pour. Everyone seeks cover and refuge from this beautiful thing, afraid to get their feet wet or their hair mussed. When did we stop playing in the rain?

Afterward, driving home, the sky was remarkable. Multicolored, covered with clouds that made the sun illuminate the entire sky a burning gold. And in those clouds, I glimpsed a rainbow. Tempest or not, I'm looking toward the horizon, and am ready to get my feet wet.

courage

"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I'll try again tomorrow."

Now I'm the fool up on stage at the magic show

Time is literally flying by. Each day, I realize that I've given a day of my life to the world and its people. Whether trivial or important, my agreeing to live is the bargain I made. "Give me magic", I plead. And some days, I wish that Houdini had a heart, or that he'd tell me "it's all a trick". But instead, I allow myself to be dazzled. Because I want to believe in the magic. I want to believe in incredible possibilities.

I feel at odds with realism and magic. One will lead me down the smart, safe path in which there are mortgages and kids and a man to keep me safe. And at the end of that path, there will be a bed of death in which I'll lay my secrets down to rest. I'll have made love and made life routine and safe, and there will be no magic; just the elements exposed.

Or, I can choose magic. I can choose to live in the moments, and feel every emotion x5. I can feel pain and pleasure, fear and hope. I can do what I feel whenever I feel it and let life take me to the ends of the earth where I'll have shaken hands with bums, wiped tears from children's eyes, made love until the sunrise, cried in agony, traveled the world, made friends and promises, and lost loves. I can wear feathers in my hair to make me like the birds: free. Colorful. Beautiful.

I know deep in my skin that I must be both. The head and heart must act together. But when they are at such odds, how can they coexist? How can I teach logic and emotion to love one another, to reason when emotion in its very nature opposes reason? How can I have magic and realism? Magic is not real. It is the technicolor version of the life I want. It is who I am when the sun rises. But when the sun sets, a fire burns in me that despises the real, but must embrace it tearfully in the dark. I DO want a family, and a love, and a place to rest. I just don't want it to be at the cost of freedom. I don't want it to quell the fire. I don't want the colors to fade, or for the magic to end. Don't show me the man behind the curtain, the secret to the trick. Just dazzle me. Let me believe it. Let me believe you, Houdini. And let me love you.

Words

I heard the most amazing words tonight. I went to a poetry reading where my good friend Curtis spit one of his poems that reached me so personally that it's unreal. I'm in a whole new place with myself right now. Thoughts, shifting. Mind, clearing. Fingers, letting go. I'll never underestimate the power of words.

just breathe.

I feel myself breathing for the first time in a week. I've been consumed by my own thoughts and feelings; it would be nice to shut them off so that my mind can rest, but I know life doesn't work that way. I have to feel them, and work through them, so that I can breathe more deeply.

Butterflies

Strange realizations come to me in the midnight hours, musings of lost love.

First love I dated one of my best friends in high school, a boy I loved even before I believed I was capable of falling in love, or that I'd even want to. We were young and naive, the unspoken couple. Jan always did little things to let me know he cared, that he thought of me, and I loved him for it. An artist, he once sketched a portrait of my eyes, which he gave to me, and which I hung up tonight. To have a piece of the unraveled past as a remnant on my wall now is so telling, so surreal.

We met when we were 14 and 15, and ever since, we were peas in a pod. There was this one February I'll never forget. We were 18 and 19, still ridiculous, and I was more in love with him than ever. I stayed with him for about two weeks at Malaluka. It was a strange, dark, and beautiful time. We would stay up each night into the wee hours talking in bed about the future, our desires, God, eternity, art, life, and pain. We painted each others' bodies and made them into art. Little did I know, he was changing that winter, becoming someone I'd hoped he'd never become because I knew it would exclude me. I couldn't deny it; we were growing up and growing apart. The nights we spent together, the dreams we shared, everything would turn to ash. I was heartbroken. We were best friends all through high school, and now we could never go back. I was so in love with him that when it was over, I thought I would never move on (high school is so melodramatic, after all). I couldn't imagine loving anyone ever again, and the thought of him seeing other people, loving them, and sketching them, killed me. Everything about it hurt. That spring was the first time I'd felt pure pain, the pain of love lost.

Looking back now, many years later, I laugh about how foolish we were, and about how ridiculous we must have seemed. We've both moved on, become adults, had our hearts broken by others, and picked up the pieces. We're not so naive anymore. I marvel at how deeply I was able to love him, and wonder how in the hell I ever loved him to such an earth-stopping degree. I mean, it's Jan. We don't see each other often, as our lives did pull us in different directions, but we are friends again. Friends with a history. Friends with limits.

So as I look at this portrait from another place in time, a painful time, I try to go back there. But it doesn't hurt the same way anymore. Looking at it now is like running a finger over an old ragged scar and remembering getting cut, but not the way it felt. On my wall, I've hung a scar from the first time I fell in love.

Then there was Christopher.

Second love I loved Chris. He was the first and only man I ever wanted to marry, and the first man to want to marry me. We worked together for a year before we got together, and I found him altogether contemptible and irresistible. There was something about him. First of all, he was devastatingly handsome. Second of all, he was the poster child for the emo movement. Piercings and tattoos, and always something about which to pout. We poked fun at one another, laughed together, and bonded over nonsense like Natalie Dee, Chris Crocker, and "Shoes" (OMG, shoes). Until the summer came, when we started to fall in love. He was going away to school, four hours away, but it was too late; we had to be together. So, we dated long distance for most of our relationship. Chris was usually the one to drive home on weekends, and we'd fly kites or find food, go to concerts, or go to Dinosaur World because he was obsessed with dinosaurs. At his prompting, we picked out names for our future kids. Yeah... seriously... Then there was the first time he told me he loved me. To hear the words come out of someone's mouth, to be given to me, was ecstasy. After losing love, having it back was the greatest lottery prize of all time. There was nothing more I wanted... until there was.

Chris took anti-depressant medication, which saps one of sexual desire faster than anything. This devastated me. Here I was with the man of my dreams, with our future laid out ahead of us and looking bright, and he did not desire me. He loved me, but could not love me. Despite all of the things about him that made my world brim with bliss, I was falling into despair and out of love. Other men in my life made strong advances toward me, and as desirous as I was of love and interaction, I was faithful to him. We stayed together for a year and a half, time that, though lost, I wouldn't give back. I learned a lot about love from Chris, both what it should and should not be. And for him, I am grateful. We tried to be friends after the relationship, but... there was too much there. There are so many scars from that relationship that, without them, I would look nothing like myself.

So, here is where I am today. It's been close to four years since I've been in love, and I want to be in love again. I want to be with a man who knows how to love me, and does. I am dating now, and am overwhelmed to find that everyone else wants to fall in love as dearly as I do. We all want to be loved. I have forgotten what this looks like. I am a relationship girl, so to be a swimmer in the "dating" pool is a strange existence for me. I'm used to the guy just showing up; I've never had to look for him. Yet here I am wading in the water. I have been on many dates, and have met many interesting people. I cannot say with any certainty that I have met my match. I did share a level of intimacy with someone that has shaken me up, made me hyper-aware of my sexuality, and of myself as a woman. I need love. I need physical love. But as I was apt to find out, there is a difference between sex and love. I now feel myself attached to a guy who has no interest in dating me or getting to know me. For him, it was a purely physical act, and I don't know how to do that. I get attached, I bond. I need love to be involved.

I'm also embarrassed by how pathetic I must now seem, chasing after this almost one-night stand. I want him to know me, and I want to know him. That does not, however, change the fact that we're both still seeing other people, and that he obviously does not feel I possess what he's looking for. I'm smart enough to know that someone who wants to spend time with you will do it, no matter how early he has to get up or what he's got going on. Someone who likes you wants to be where you are. Period. So, this is a time in which I am picking myself up and moving on. I want to think that I can be friends with him, but it is hard to scale back and recover from an investment that didn't yield a return. So, I move on. If he wants to give it a go and get closer, great. If not, at least I won't have been pouring my heart and time into an empty vessel.

Through it all, I know this much: love will always be foolish. It will always be ridiculous, and there is nothing elegant about the search for love. It is gritty, it is hard, it is embarrassing, it is painful. A week into dating, I was already exhausted. It is an arduous process, a misery unlike anything in the world. The attainment of love is the only consolation for its humiliation. So, you take all the material from your dating experiences and you put it into a comedy routine. Or, you leave it untouched in the back of your head to pull out at night, to analyze while you stare at the ceiling and wonder under what ceiling your lover is sleeping at this very moment. I'm not a quitter. I want love. And I want to love someone again. I want to be unable to go without holding someone's hand. I want to willingly drive hours to see someone for mere minutes. I want butterflies. I want someone who'll dance, even if he hates to, because he knows it makes me happy.

That's what I want. And I won't settle for anything less than butterflies.

Waiting for Real Satisfaction

It is better to say no to instant gratification. The waiting for the thing can be ecstasy. The immediate attainment of the thing can be damaging to its future enjoyability. I learned this lesson over the weekend.

It's a strange and beautiful thing.

The past couple weeks have been really interesting, exhilarating, and... totally unexpected. School and work have been keeping me so busy that my place looks like I've hosted five keggers for dirty bachelors. It's pretty gross, but I've been getting my assignments done so far, and that's what matters. I've also managed to make time to start dating. Like, actual dating, not going out with some dick who says he'll call and then doesn't because he's off being a professional dick. No. It's been really exciting, and different. Dare I say, worthwhile. I won't talk too much about it, as I don't want to put a hex on a good thing. I just want to find the right man, damn it.

Nonetheless, life is good. I've hopefully got only this and next semester until (in true Braveheart style) FREEEEDOOOOOOOOOM!!!!! I want to finish school more desperately than Justin Bieber wants not to be gay. God willing, that will be possible. At the very most, some online classes in the summer would be tolerable; I just have to get out of here. I have to move on with my life and be a young 20-something while I still am a young 20-something. I want to make mistakes and eat too many nachos and stay out until the wee hours and pretend I don't know better while it's still cute to do so (or is it no longer cute after 25? Hmmm...).

I really cannot wait to go to NYC. I think about it all the time. The smells, the sights, the NOISE, the hustle and bustle. I fully expect that it's going to be 60% shitty most of the time (because hey, baby, that's New York!), and I cannot wait!

Alright, I seriously have to go wash my dishes before I reconsider a career in science and decide to use my kitchen sink as grounds for research. Live well, friends.

Well Done

This is from a daily inspirational email listing that brought me SO many warm fuzzies:

"His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!'"

Theodore Roosevelt said, "It's not the critic who counts, not the one who points out how the strong man stumbled or where the doer of good deeds could have done better.

"The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena: Whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again…

"Who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause…

"Who, at best, knows the triumph of high achievement…

"And who, at worst, if he fails at least fails while daring greatly so his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

Every one of us has been given at least one talent; many have been given several. Regardless of whether we have one or many talents, what is important is to use well what God has given and entrusted to us and therewith give life our best shot.

Goodnight Moon

Summer is the season of new beginnings and Olympic hotties

Life has been beautifully lived this summer in my world. I have traveled, read books (Tina Fey's Bossypants; read it!), cleaned my studio, and gotten some sleep. I've worked hard and spent little. I've saved like a miser. I've grown in my professional capabilities. I've made friends and let go of dead weight. I've listened to NPR. I've made goals. I've dreamed BIG. I've never been so bonafide ME until now. I feel electric.

And tonight I have done perhaps the best thing I've ever, and possibly will ever, do for myself socially: I deactivated facebook. I shut it down, and took myself off the social grid. And you know what? I love it so much. I am certain no one reads this blog, which is empowering because I can say things like "meat curtains" and not catch crap for it. Your mom has saggy meat curtains. This knowledge is also empowering (knowing that no one reads this, not that your mom's meat curtains could blot out the light on a sunny afternoon) because I have come to know, for the first time in my life, what it is like to be an adult. To care for myself and to put myself above others. I'm not going to lie: I like myself more than I like anyone else. This isn't egomania; it's healthy. Learning to say no to a social "obligation" because I'd rather go home and listen to NPR whilst I relax in bed with a good book has heeded. I saved my pennies and worked my ass off to travel to California to stay with my cousin and get closer to her. Saying no to a few Jimmy John's subs and instead packing a lunch like a big girl was totally worth it. I learned how to save and budget my money for the things I really wanted this summer.

I did do something I didn't want to do this summer: I said goodbye to my Grandpap. I visited him at the VA home a week before he died, and I helped feed the dying man who used to bring me chocolates and watermelons, and scrape me with his prickly chin stubble when he'd kiss me on the cheek. Saying goodbye was hard, and it still doesn't feel final because I haven't seen his ashes. In my head it went like this: the old geezer escaped from the VA home, and is on the loose in a ranch in Mexico living out the rest of his days as a steer wrangler because he's actually really strong and has been fooling us this whole time with this "I'm old and decrepit" act. That's the guy I knew. He wasn't a rancher, but if he said so, he fucking was. I just feel like he's out there still being a total Italian badass, and we'll meet again.

Getting to spend time with my cousin in California was excellent. Carmen, who is just shy of two years older than me, is much like me. We have the same eyes (a family trait), and we have the same foul mouth (another family trait). She's beautiful, smart, and savvy, so she knew the cool things to do in L.A., and knew what things we could skip. I had never been west before (never further than Mississippi), so every mountain fascinated me. And the mountains of Cali were very unlike the mountains I'd seen in upstate New York; these mountains had palm trees and houses on top of them! And they were everywhere. My ears constantly popped as we drove along the highway because, coming from flat land, my body was in constant pressure freak-out mode. We went hiking twice, going once to Griffith Park, and once to a park I remember only for its reputation for having on its outskirts one of the Kardashian houses. I LOVE HIKING. I love walking in general, but getting to do it up mountains and then take time to admire the view (and consider what a badass I am for making it all the way up) has converted me: I am a mountain girl. I want mountains. My good friend Jason, an Oscar-winning actor in L.A.* (*not yet), joined us for the first hike, then dinner, and then he came back to the apartment with us to watch the opening ceremonies of the 2012 Summer Olympics. As a side note: I am obsessed with the Olympics. This was the first time in my life I've not had a TV on which to watch the Olympics, so after having access to watch the games at Carmen's, coming home to my TV-less studio was kind of a drag. Watching the games on mute with closed captions at coffee shops surrounded by strangers is not ideal when you want to hear the hotness of Oscar Pistorius' voice. End side note. We also spent a lot of time on the beaches of Cali. First we went to Venice Beach, which was like a west coast version of the shithole known as Daytona Beach x5. It was a big romp of tourist crap traps, including the $18 boho patchwork bag I bought (which started to de-thread the moment I touched it.) There was some sort of festival going on along the boardwalk that day, so it was, as the west coast folks are still saying, "cray". We walked Venice to Santa Monica, which was really just Venice without the party. We didn't go in the water at Venice, but we laid out with Carmen's friends, including Natalie, whom I loved, and watched a swarm of 30+ preteens swoon and wet their pants over the assumed cutest (and shortest) boy at the bash: Jacob. There was nothing remarkable about Jacob, but all of the girls were losing their shit over him, and all of the boys clung to his arms like he was the candy striping on a wall, and one lick would arm them with his super powers of pubescent hotness. Or, his parents happened to have loads of money and paid people to love him, Truman Show-style. It was weird. We laughed about the ridiculousness of it, and got sunburned ass cheeks. Wait, no, I got sunburned ass cheeks. Just me. As it turns out, one thing Carmen and I do not share is our tanning genes. Over the course of my five days in California, Carmen got 5 shades darker, making her an African American (she had to change this on her drivers license). I, on the other hand, burned like an asshole after some Mexicali goodness. Our second beach adventure was less crowded and truly serene. We headed up Topanga Canyon into Malibu, and the beach was gorgeous. Far more secluded than Venice Monica, the beach had small gatherings of families and couples. My favorite family was the Russian family that set up camp a few feet away from us. I was lullabied to my happy place with the beauty of their language as I thought of how awesome it was to be 3,000 miles away from the East Coast. The water of the Pacific is cold. Really cold. Even in summer, it was easily 60F degrees. I loved it. I brought back a lovely flat, gray rock, which now sits on my nightstand to remind me daily of how awesome it was to be there, and how much more I need to travel. After leaving Malibu, we found this AMAZING vintage shop called "Hidden Treasures" where I bought some patches and skeleton keys. I tried on old 60s vests and 50s bags. Everything was eclectic and interesting, and unlike anything I'd seen in vintage shops here on the east coast. It was just truly neat. We traveled into WeHo later that evening to catch a show with the Upright Citizens Brigade, and the showtime we chose HAPPENED to be free. Great. We arrived 45 minutes early, and didn't get in. I knew after looking at the length of the line that it wasn't going to happen. As a sketch and improv entertainer, I was overly eager to see a show with UCB, and begged the people at the counter to let me see the show. I offered them money for a FREE show, explaining to them that I had traveled all the way from the sunshine state to see a show with them. No such luck. Go suck a nut, UCB. A big, hair one. Nonetheless, the trip as a whole was really amazing. We got to snipe a picture of the inside courtyard of the Celebrity Scientology Center (for any of these batshit crazy folks who stumble upon my blog, aliens probed your mom's meat curtains), talk to hipsters on the sidewalk, eat amazing food, laugh ourselves to tears, watch a little vampire porn aka True Blood (not my thing, but I do have sexy new ideas about the future), eat apple cake, see the sights, get my picture taken with Clint Eastwood ('s hand in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre...), talk about life, travel, and the future. It was just all around brilliant. Carmen cooked for us most of the week, and her vegetarian chili persuaded me to finally get a crock pot... oh so good. She's an excellent cook and a KILLER HOSTESS. I really can't thank her enough. Spending time with her taught me a lot about who I am and who I want to be. Amazing people have that affect. They inspire me to say "well, fuck, I want to travel more." And so I do. I finally put up the world map on my wall, and pinned that sucker like a cream cheese recipe on pinterest. Another valuable thing I learned from this trip: American Airlines is the only asset needed by the government to get criminals to talk. No one, threatened with a 6-hour delayed flight without food and adequate legroom as punishment, would refuse to talk. NO ONE!

Hollywood!

Me and Carmen, Venice Beach, Los Angeles

We don't share height genes, either.

Two weeks ago, I returned to reality. Meaning my east coast existence of school/work/work/Humor Mill/work/work. This is my life right now. This is what I'm living through at the moment, and like Atreyu in the Swamps of Sadness, I'm up to my neck in all of the above. Not that I'm sad, because I'm in fact quite happy. I just wonder if my horse is going to make it out alive. I have one guaranteed year left in the God-forsaken UCF theatre program. I'm eager to be done, and just get on with my life already. I have these huge dreams, see, and this "program" is killing my buzz. "I'm a peacock! You gotta let me fly!" Thank you, Marky Mark, for the big picture. I know I'm doing well, and I'm going to be done soon with school and will be able to get on with life and dig my fingers into what really matters. It's just a matter of being diligent and being patient in the meantime.

So, I've cut out a bunch of garbage in my life, including but not limited to: unsexy and unsatisfying emotional relationships, wasted time on the web (with the exceptions being pictures of cute baby animals and Natalie Dee... for this time is not wasted, but treasured), time wasted on people who say "we should totally hang out!" but never get around to actually doing it, excess stuff, split ends, and a few slices of moldy cheese that were waiting for me in the fridge when I got back. I'm finally an adult woman at 25. And I really like it. I choose from here on out only the healthiest of unhealthy relationships, and only the best, most clever jokes in the book. In fact, I'm going to be writing the book and righting the wrongs. This is my life, and it's a custom job. I get things tailor-made. My way. Watch the hell out, world. I'm coming for you!

catch me if you can

The most amazing things are happening for me! How blessed I am, indeed. I received my passport in the mail today. I finally did what I set out to do so many years ago. The opportunity to see the world is literally in the palm of my hand. And two days ago, I bought a ticket to California. Just like that. I bought a ticket to go west, to venture into the unknown, to explore what is (for me) the unexplored. My heart and head are so clear, and glowing with wonder and excitement, and marvel. I will be spending time with my cousin Carmen in Los Angeles, and will hopefully see my brother, as well. I had the chance to see my grandpap recently for what may be his last year on earth. It was hard to see him recently because his almost 100-year old body is in its last leg, while his mind and his memories remain trapped inside. I asked him many years ago about the story of his life, because I knew there would come a point when his story could no longer be told. I wish now I'd asked him every day when he was younger. That is why I cherish the moments I have with my loved ones, now more than ever, and why I am looking forward to connecting with my cousin and brother. I'm prying open the hands of time to take back what was taken from us. That is why I submitted the passport photo I had taken four years ago with my passport application four weeks ago. That is why I bought a ticket to the other side of my American world. Time is against us... but I'm finally no longer afraid; time will have to catch up to me first.

To live... to live would be an awfully big adventure.

Why do I have to choose between working to live, and working to stay alive? This morning, I listened to NPR on my way to the theatre, and the top of discussion regarded Obamacare's requirement that all US citizens purchase healthcare. I wholeheartedly agree that all human beings have the right to affordable healthcare, but who's qualified to say what's affordable? What's affordable for a single American woman making $30,000 a year will differ greatly from what's affordable for me as a single American woman. I save as much as I can because I have had, all my life, a deep-set desire to see the world. So all the money I have squirreled away, I should have to shell out for healthcare? Is that all the world wants for us? To stay alive? Is no one concerned about our mental and spiritual well-beings? WE ARE ALL THE SAME! We are organic, interactive beings that NEED more than just money to pay the bills. Life isn't about making ends meet; at least it shouldn't be. But I live in a country, free and glorious in its own way, that values efficiency over quality, adequacy over excellence. I pray for solutions for those in far tighter circumstances than I, and that I will have the means to not only exist, but LIVE.

Guard your heart from the losers of the world

"Guard your heart" has never been such good advice as it is to me nowadays. I am finding, more and more, that while most people do not set out to hurt one another, dating is a mine field. If someone whom you may fancy does not entirely share your sentiments, he is not likely to tell you. His actions, however, I find, are fool-proof. Once again, if he does not ask you out, he does not care to get to know you. And I am feeling so very empowered by this knowledge. Does a sense of rejection tend to ensue? Sure. But it is not our fault. WE are not the reason these guys don't want to get to know us. There is nothing wrong with us. There is nothing that exists that makes us inherently unlovable. And really, if these guys can't see how sensational you are, and do not want to get to know you, it is counted as their loss. WE. ARE. FABULOUS. I want to shout this from the rooftops and remind myself that at any age, any size, any point in my life (be it high or low), I am still desirable. I still have worth. I am still a catch. And if any guy can't see that, he's a fool, for whom I have no time anyway. I am done being "everyone's girl". I am done being the girl of the moment. I WANT THE REAL THING, with a man who makes an effort to love me, to reach me on my level (hopefully we're on the same level anyway), and who treats me well. Respects me. AND DAMN IT, I WON'T SETTLE FOR ANYTHING LESS. EVER. EVER. EVER.

the heart has dirty hands.

The cold, hard fact: if a guy doesn't call or text you, even after the specific words come out of his mouth "I'll text you now and when I get home", he does not like you. It doesn't matter how many times in a night he touches your hands, or how close he gets to your face, or how often he presses himself up to you as you sit beside one another; he does not think of you. You are not on his mind. And there's nothing you can do about it. He just doesn't care about you. So, it's time to move on before anything pointless even begins. Thankfully, you're a smart woman and you know your worth. It doesn't make the fact hurt any less. It just means that somehow, you know you'll make it through the heartaches and the disappointments of the unfulfilled "I'll call you"s, the sweet talk, and all the bullshit. And maybe, eventually, suddenly, a guy will come along who'll do what he says and will mean what he says, and will be who he seems; no, better. He'll be the real deal. And all the tears will have served the purpose of watering the seed planted in you from the moment you were born: love. And from the manure-spread trail of tears, love will bloom.

This Bitter Earth

I have felt the pangs of loneliness. I am generally always content to be on my own, but as I was pet sitting this weekend, I was desirous of company. There was none. No company. I spent mere minutes on facebook during the past several days, and am truly beginning the arduous process of cutting the strings which bind the book to me. I loathe facebook. I like the idea of what it could be: a way to connect and share with others. What it has become instead is a replacement for real interaction. As I intentionally dropped off the digital map over the past four days, I found myself becoming increasingly forgotten. Obsolete. Alone. I finally feel alone in a suit of skin, composed of cells that don't check in online to let the rest of the body know needlessly where they are in the epidermis. My imagination doesn't need to post a status update to invite others into it. Or, at least, I had hoped it wouldn't. But perhaps I am wrong. I and the rest of my generation, and all that will follow, have become digital renderings of humanity; we are megapixelated. Will those of us with any remaining organic existence go the way of the dinosaurs, as with our relationships and interpersonal skills? As our organic bodies decompose and turn to dust, we will exist for all time digitally immortalized in photos with the people we didn't have the decency to call or to really love. I hate not being missed. I hate that no one has noticed or cared that my online networking presence has ceased. I don't want to be made of megapixels. I want to live in my skin, in a world with oxygen, in a body with capable hands that do all they can to reach and grasp other organic matter. I long to clutch the cords that keep us "connected", and rip them from the walls. The irony of me typing this all into a blog as I listen to music on my laptop is that I don't hate technology; I hate what we've done with it. Or, more specifically, what we've chosen to do with it. We are no longer human.

You'll feel better than before.

Today is where I am. My pants split down the center today while I was at work. Then I spilled water on my lap in the car... and I feel undesired, unchased, unpursued. The pants action was really funny, so I shared about it on Facebook to give my friends a laugh. I guess I should have expected it, but most of the responses came from guy friends. And it just hit me: in that moment, none of those guys "got" me. I wonder sometimes if there's a guy in the entire universe who will get me. Girls get me. I was pretty bummed tonight after the day's slow-rolling events, so I went to the produce market to get some fresh fruit. A really sweet girl who works there named Laura and I chat a lot about life and boys (she's a great listener and just really friendly every time I see her). Tonight, I told her about my "he's just not that into you" dilemma, and she threw some chocolates in my bag with my purchase. My friend Tyler showed up at the studio and dropped off an enormous stack of Kylie CDs- just when I needed them most! And, I bought myself flowers tonight. Three huge, colorful bouquets of sunflowers, lillies, and asters. My studio is bursting with beauty, love, life, gratitude, appreciation, and hope. Maybe straight men don't get me, and maybe none ever will, but I'm not alone. I'm covered in love. Blooming. Stretching my tendrils, and turning my face toward the sun.

a post in draft mode since April, finished

It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all... is a haiku written by a fool who loved too carelessly. Don't give your heart to anyone. You need it. The rhythmic pulsing of your heart pumping blood throughout your body acts as a metronome so you can pump out tunes, dance to the beat of your own eternal drum. Wait... now I get it. No one ever gives hearts away. Hearts are stolen. They are taken in the night, the unsuspecting victims charmed and distracted so that unworthy suitors can swoop in and scoop out. No wonder those sick with love draw hearts on notebook paper- they're making lost and found posters for the thing that was taken from them, the thing they want back. At the very least, give me your heart in return so that I can go on living. Don't take all that I have and leave me nothing in return. It's genocide.

P12; I've been imbibing the wine, but i think this makes sense, kind of.

I love love. But not the love you're thinking of. It isn't merchandised in February, and it sure as hell isn't pink and red with ruffles. You'll never be able to buy it, and even if it was for sale, you could never afford it. Love is black and blue. Beaten and bruised, it takes hits like a stoner, or a slow has-been boxer far past his prime. Love is selfless. It is sacrificial. Love gives of itself even what it doesn't know it has. I mean, really, we're all charity cases looking for a hand out- please, put your hand out and take mine. Love is desperate to give itself to you, so much so that it would die for you. Love would do anything for you. Chew on tin foil for you, lick a 9-volt for eternity if you said "do it" and tell mountains to move if they blocked your view of the sunset. Love wants to do impossible things for you. Stop looking online. Put down the heart-drawing pen, and stopstopstop looking for love in empty relationships. Love is that thing you have in you, eating not even from the palm of your hand, but from your heart from day one. Love will consume you as you consume love. Love is all you need.

P11

Before you place blame, Remember to consider That we're all guilty.

P10; Amanda Seuss

In my pocket,
I carry a locket
With a picture of a wocket
Riding a rocket.

P9: "childhood"

I remember the day she died.
I remember the rock hard coldness of her skin when I touched her hand for the last time as they lowered her into the dirt.
It was Thanksgiving that year.

As a kid, I spent a good amount of time collecting the half-decayed carcasses of found bees and lizards around my yard and buried them in the little creature cemetery I'd made to help put them to rest. I made each little sand mound its own twig and grass cross and said little prayers to a God I knew only in my heart. So young and innocent, I didn't yet understand death, but I knew it had significance. It wasn't until she died that I knew what it meant.

It meant growing up too fast. It meant calling an all-out war on malignant cells. It meant losing something I'd never been without.

I remember standing on the deck my dad had just built, and looking at the dry portions of turkey flesh on my disposable plate, trying to find something for which to be thankful. Just beside the deck was the little cemetery, holding mounds of death which suddenly looked more like the goosebumps on my skin than tombs filled with corpses compared to the mound that swallowed my mother.

I wish I could say my days as a gravedigger prepared me for this, but I was in over my head.
For with my mother died my childhood and my innocence. They are buried together.

P8: PG-13

I think about you when I go through my jewelry box.
I pull out a strand of pearls, and I see your smile:
Two strands of perfectly straight pearly whites that I can't help but think would look perfect on my neck.

I put on a set of earrings, dangly ones, that jingle musically with my every movement of my body. I entertain that the jingling is the sound of you whispering in my ear, things that only I should hear.

I play with a ring and dream of you; not in the most obvious way, but that you're always is my hands.

I take out a set of cuff bracelets, which speak most directly of you; wearing them, I am reminded that I am bound to you.

P7

Open the blinds.
Turn the lock.
Open up.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, and having caught a glimpse of you walking around naked inside your anatomical apartment, I plan to stake out with binoculars, Rear Window style, because I need a better look.

One look from you, and you're a 1950s housewife in an apron opening the window on a sweet Spring day to place a hot pie on the window sill to cool... which is strange imagery considering your beard.
It's a trap, I know, but I have to have a taste of the sweetness you've placed in front of me.

Ever notice how a superhero is utterly unrecognizable with only a thin mask around the eyes? I always thought "wth? It SOUNDS like Bruce Wayne, and LOOKS like Bruce Wayne. HOW can people not know?!"
It wasn't until you uncovered your eyes that I knew... no longer disguised, no longer superhuman in a costume and cape;
Just a man I could love.

Holding a gaze with you is like a warm breeze blowing through an open window.
No screens or filters, just open air. I breathe you in deeply and exhale a smile, and by smile, I mean that teeth-too-big-cheeks-so-sore smile that brings up definite questions about my sanity.

Souls exposed and hearts aligned, I can see clearly. And as I gaze into your open apartment windows, I see you there... holding hands with the woman who moved in before I had even dreamt of opening your windows. That would explain why you keep the blinds closed.

P6

They say one is the loneliest number, but whoever said that was alone in a crowded room.
You see, being alone is a way to be free.

I would much rather spend quality time with myself than mediocre time with someone mediocre, or at the very least- just not for me.
That means eating alone, seeing plays alone, walking in parks alone, and going to sleep alone, and I love it.
The thing is this: we look at our life checklists and we scramble to check them off as soon as possible. So, instead of savoring the moments and being discerning, we fill our empty love boxes with empty love. We trade authenticity for fabrication. We sacrifice intimicy for exposure with the need to show everyone where we are and what we're doing and with whom we are doing it at all hours of the day. (Hey, I do it, too. Welcome to the 21st century.)

Let's be vintage. And if you were born in the 80s, you already are, so let's embrace it. Embrace real love when you see it, sacrifice exposure for intimacy, have real conversations, eat alone, sleep alone. And when the time and person for you come along for you to fill your box, do it. But until then, let it be an open square; not lonely, but filled with possibilities.

P5

I'm just your typical Pisces: mischievous, creative, sensitive, and oh-so unorganized.
Now, I never read horoscopes, and I put very little stock into the zodiac, but... seeing you for the first time, I gasped for breath like a fish out of water, or, like a fish swimming in foreign waters and finally, for the first time, seeing a fish who looks like me.

They say a goldfish has a 3-second memory span, but really, that's a myth.
Each time I see you is not like the first, but exponentially better because the more I see you, the more I want to see of you.

Then you swim by.
My heart races, my eyes widen... and then I look away, almost aloof.
You may think I'm koi, but really, I'm just a guppy- terrified that you might not love me.
So I go on swimming alone with only your memory to fill the thought bubbles I leave behind.

It's like we're all fish fishing for fish, and when the right one doesn't bite, we pull in our reels and convince ourselves that there are other fish in the sea, but really...
I just wanna swim with you.

Sometimes, I am a clownfish, brightly-colored, flamboyant, anything to get your attention! And then, when you notice me, I swim back into the anemone as if you're a predator and orange tastes delicious.

You swim laps around my subconscious brain day after day, and today was no different...
Except today, it hit me: Pisces is made up of two fish. Two.

So while swimming alone is ok, why go on alone when you may have found the one fish in all the waters in all the world who's been swimming and searching for you, too?

Now that you're here, I just wanna swim with you.

P4: a haiku, Part 3

If love is patient,
will it demand to enter
if I'm unprepared?

P3: a haiku, Part 2

If love conquers all,
does it do so by brute force,
or by surrender?

P2: a haiku

If love never fails,
does it always succeed, or
does it just not try?

P1

He made me cry.
Alone in a corner with only the caress of tears rolling down my cheeks, I sobbed.
This isn't about a broken heart; it's about broken trust.

When did we put so much stock in authority figures?
According to the ever-omniscient Wikipedia, a figure "may refer to: A shape, drawing, or representation".
An authority figure is, therefore, relegated to a figure of speech, a figment of the collective imagination.
By definition...

He is an irregular polygon, obtusely compassionate, acutely cruel, every angle of his form sketched with malice. Every geometric corner of this bitter hasbeen mistakenly thinking it's right, when clearly, it's wrong.
Talking to him is like talking in circles, or, like trying to jam square pegs into round holes, and quite frankly, I stopped that shit before I started preschool.

By definition...

He is badly drawn: a caricature of a middle-aged middle class human being who promises to educate and inspire learning. He is propaganda; a brainwasher of the worst sort, he drains the independent thoughts of eager young minds and fills them instead with his warped political views and says "I want to make you think", but what he means is "I want to make you think my thoughts", and if you think you came to college to broaden your horizons, you better think again because the colors you dream of aren't in any institution's coloring box. You dream of Technicolor in an institution demanding monochrome or sepia, or at most, primary colors. Consider coloring elsewhere because people like this badly-drawn boy scoff at your self-portrait in all its multidimensional, Technicolor beauty.

By definition...

He is a tyrannical representative- the king of all things that... no one ever really wanted to rule anyway. The king of bitter and bossy, he rules with an iron fist and a grimace which glimmers under the light of his bent wire coat hanger crown, bejeweled with the dignity of students who have gone before me.

... but I defy such things. No figure, whether shapely, drawn, or representational, will define who I am. And if I am defined by more than a figure, then I am free; not limited to geometric corners (for crying in, or otherwise)! Not drawn of charcoal in 2-D! Not crowned the ruler of miserable things! I defy authority, and I will cry no more.

I am a bird, even without a flock.

My friends had a baby today. One of my childhood best friends and his wife who became one of my best friends have produced a child. Other people around have been having babies and buying houses and getting married for years, and I say "good for you!" and send well wishes and go about my life without interruption. Today feels different. Baby Rose is beautiful. She's the perfect combination of both of my friends, and I can tell already that this is the beginning of a new kind of beauty for them both.

I wonder if I want that. I can't decide if I want the life that I long for instinctively. Does that even make sense? I want children and a husband, I suppose. But then I ask myself the hard questions: will these things interrupt my dreams? Derail my progress? Displace my passions? Will I be a good mother? Do I believe in marriage? It's as if I can see two split futures ahead of me, and I have to summon the will to choose just one. Can I be a good performer while being a mother? Do I even think I'd be able to shower a little human creature with motherly love? As a wife, could I be satisfied, or would I always wonder if the next best thing is around the corner? That is why I rarely go beyond a date. It is uncommon that a man comes along who incites in me more than a passing interest, or at least amusement. Is there even someone out there that could be the person with whom I could voluntarily choose to live? Why do we do that? How do we do that? How do we choose one person and say "you're it, for life"?

I guess I have to equate this to what I know of God. I know that God desires fidelity for me within our own relationship. Do we have it? No, not on my end. It's like I come home at the end of a day out in the streets, giving my attention to things other than God with joy and I look him in the eyes and say "I missed you". Did I miss you? Do I mean what I say? I know I love God without hesitation. I know I choose God for life, but am I good at it? I suppose I am learning little by little how to be better at loving him, so I suppose there is some comfort in knowing that with time, my heart can learn to say to one man "you". But where is this guy? Does he even exist? I feel like of all places, I won't find him here. People in this state are not as progressive as the man I desire. I will need a man who is strong in all ways. I can't even definitively put a point to who he must be because, quite simply, I do not know him yet. I know that much. We have not met. Will we meet in New York City? Will I be famous yet, or still emerging? I am constantly thinking that the further into my life I get without him, the more baggage we will each carry. Will all the baggage make it that much harder? Will we be too far gone to know how to love another? Or will the past have equipped us all the more, making it easier for us to love?

And then comes the kid question: do we want some? Do I want to create a human being? Do I want to be the landlord of a fetus that will occupy my space free-of-charge, and leave the place different than when it arrived? Do I want someone in the world who looks like me? Do I want someone to depend on me for the rest of its natural life? I work hard now to keep plants alive, and if the plant isn't doing well, I throw it out and plant something new. You can't do that with a person. And my life at this point is mine to mold. If I want to be out at all hours of the night, I am. I go where I want and do what I want. If I want to get in my car and just drive until I can't drive anymore, I have that option. With a child or with a husband, that doesn't fly. And that is why, at 25, I am happy to be free. I am not quite content because I still bring stupid mistakes upon myself (i.e. I am at a Denny's at 12:49 AM blogging and ordering tea I don't even need to drink because it's better than going home and washing my dishes or cleaning my studio). I am not exactly who I will be when I'm ready to change the answers to these questions, should I ever elect to do so, and that's the beautiful thing: if I have a husband or a mate for life, a family, a house, any of it!... I'll have chosen it freely; not because I feel some obligation to desire and possess these things, because in my observations, it is these things that possess you. Thank God that I have a lifetime to learn how to love him and make better decisions, even if that means my decisions differ from the norm. I am so ecstatic for my friends because their dreams are coming true. They said "I want these things!" and they're getting them, and they're good at them. And I couldn't be happier for them. But that is not my story.

I am Amanda. I am single. I am free. I am growing. And I am loving life without a flock.

I get it; don't worry about externals. true beauty is timeless.

Beauty is fleeting. The moment you look in the mirror and like something you see, look inside yourself and find something better because that's what will sustain you.