When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

We are all familiar with this saying. It's symbolic. Turn something sour, sweet. Make the best from a bad situation.

Given recent developments in my life, this saying has taken up residency in the part of my brain that is trying to silence the sirens and extinguish the fires blazing in the aftermath of the explosion. Was a bomb dropped or set off? I can't tell. Perhaps I tried so very, very hard, to ignore the subtle ticking. More symbols.

I digress.

This morning, dragging myself off the couch (bed is cluttered with laundry that needs doing) I stood in the shower and thought about this echoing message, this attempted optimism.

What does it mean?

Lemons are sour. Lemonade is sweet. You make lemonade out of lemons and sugar. If you are me, you would probably use Splenda. You should also use a juicer, so your beverage does not contain floating pits. And you should probably make sure you have some ice on hand, because lemonade is best cold on a hot day. It's the first day of November though and it's chilly. It is unlikely I will want lemonade anytime soon. Again, I digress.

What I realized amid digression, however, is this: I cannot make lemonade out of only lemons. I need other ingredients. And this is the point. If I want to make lemonade, I need sugar too. I can get sugar at the store... Oh... I have to make the effort to get the sugar, myself. I have to choose to recognize that I have lemons, decide I'd rather have lemonade, get in my car, drive to the store, and buy sugar. Or put on a coat and walk to the corner cafe and stuff my pockets full of Splenda packets. Either way, I have to choose to do some work to turn the sour, sweet.

Of course I could always choose not do anything. I could let the lemons rot beside the tomatoes and butternut squash on my kitchen table. But haven't I done this already? In the end, it's only wasteful. And really, a sweet treat would be a nice change of pace. I need a change.

So this November, I am going to do something a little odd and much different. I am going to drink lemonade.



Square one, my slate is clear,
Rest your head on me my dear,
It took a world of trouble,
It took a world of fear,
It took a long time, to get back here.

Mermaid Mall Wishes

I remember being a child with my parents at a mall, tossing a coin into the fountain and wishing to become a mermaid. My wish was my secret. In secret, I saw my legs grow together into a silvery, green tale. I saw my body slide onto the floor. I would not be able to walk. I would not be able to breathe. I would need to be taken to water. I imagined my parents replacing me, a flailing mermaid, with my baby brother, in his stroller. The fountain would be the closest source of water. They would need to rush me, wheel me, through the crowds of sauntering shoppers. Or perhaps my father would carry me. They would let me go in the fountain. They would leave me to swim in circles and collect the coins of others' tossed wishes. My wish caused me great anxiety that I always kept to myself. And I always made this wish again, after it did not come true and I found myself at another mall, another fountain, tossing another coin. Again, I would fear not being able to walk, not being able to breathe. Be careful what you wish for, I presume, was the message that I was too young to fully grasp here. I was so young, young enough to wish. I am older now, and know that wishing, well, it's just ridiculous.

Blinded, I am, blindsided.

I didn't see it coming, but, here I am.

Something I wrote:

Pull a little too hard, what’s supposed to be a slow drag. Let the smoke scratch your throat and inflate your lungs and choke you a little, on its way out. Let it make you a little lightheaded and sooth your fiery nerves, aloe on a burn. Let the old man in the cute, newsie hat sit down at the table at which you are standing, but don’t let yourself notice until he asks you what you smoke. Look a little startled, because you didn’t know anyone else was there, and naturally reply “I don’t smoke.” Listen as he tells you that he quit smoking but his friend from another continent got him two cartons for twelve bucks. Your reply hits him suddenly, like a cloud of smoke, which he’s watching you blow into the clear air. “You don’t smoke?” You are caught, red-handed. Let yourself be caught, red-handed. Pause to look for an answer and realize, there is only the truth. “No. I’m having a rough time with the boyfriend.” He lights up and tells you, “Well I am a marriage counselor so maybe I can help.” You believe him because you are naive. He follows up, half-chuckling, “Not really, but I am...” Pause. He searches past you for an age. “...72, so I know a thing or two.” Then he’s serious. “Don’t let yourself take all the blame.” You feel the familiar lump in your throat. Listen as you tell him to enjoy his twelve dollar cartons. Walk away now, inhaling smoke and exhaling relief. You have your walls. But secretly take the stranger’s words to heart, and don’t take all the blame.

Office Coffee

Sitting here in the cubicle I share with an intern, I am sipping on, quite possibly, the crappiest cup of coffee I have ever had. It's 11:10 AM and its cup numero 3.

I'm on edge and I'm not sure if it's the coffee or the irritating caller who can't figure out the difference between clicking a URL or Google. What kills me is this person has credentials. And she doesn't understand, in her thick, southern accent. Sipping my coffee, I shudder.

I have nicknamed the office coffee "Espresso Mud." A coworker thinks I am funny.

I am typing diligently. Another coworker thinks I am a hard worker.

I complain about my job, and, a friend tells me I should quit.

I click my heals three times, close my eyes, and repeat "this cannot be my life, this cannot be my life, this cannot be my life."

On "Secretary Spread"

I totally get why people eat all day at office jobs. I understand how folks succumb to something my mother likes to refer to as "secretary spread."

In layman's terms, "secretary spread" is a common condition among office employees caused by an increase in consumption and a decrease in motion. The individual's ass grows, spreading across her desk chair (on wheels), which, as the condition progresses, she leaves less and less, with the exception of trips to the office kitchen or vending machine. The condition is more common among women and is both progressive and contagious and can be, in extreme cases, debilitating. Secretary spread is primarily attributed to boredom or stress, causing one to "eat until s/he feels better." Doesn't everyone in the office look the happiest when lunchtime rolls around? Known cures include ditching the comfort food for plain green salads, walking during lunch breaks, and switching to light beer at happy hour. Preventative methods include packing healthy lunches and snacks, walking to the file cabinet instead of rolling in your chair, and getting your ass the gym at the crack of dawn because by the end of the day, you are just too damned tired to go.

Having been awake since 5 AM to work out, it is 10:38 AM at the office and I believe I have held out long enough to enjoy my mid-morning snack. These are the things I think about.

To Danny

It's been a while. And the circumstances which have inspired me to write are much less than desirable. A good man has died.

My great Uncle Danny barely knew me, yet, he spent a generous chunk of change to send me to college. His financial support depended upon attending a catholic university, and it just so happened that the Catholic University of America was my school of choice.

I am not a religious person.

He did not ask questions. Before college, I would not have been able to recognize Uncle Danny in a crowd of old people. In fact, I'm not sure I would be able to recognize him among the living, today.

Someone once asked me if I felt hypocritical attending Catholic University under false pretenses- the assumption of my generous uncle believing he was fostering my catholic spirit. A little guilty, I've felt, at times. I've never felt hypocritical. My uncle never asked if I went to church each weekend or took part in campus ministry activities. He never asked if I believed in god. He only asked that I retain an average gpa, which I did.

I wrote him a thank you letter at the conclusion of each year, notifying him of my accomplishments and the new goals I had set for myself. I always seemed to write with new found determination to make my way in some field of study that I had changed, a few too many times.

I sent him souvenirs I had purchased when the Pope visited campus.

I called him when his wife died.

I sent him my graduation photograph.

I learned he became ill with esophageal cancer. I heard he couldn't swallow solid food. I heard he couldn't speak much above a whisper. But I also heard he made a point of hitting Atlantic City to gamble and enjoyed his scotch at his favorite local bar when he could. God bless the old Irish spirit.

I visited him in assisted living. He was enjoying a baseball game on TV. On his table, he had displayed my letters, gifts, and, my picture. I was told he was proud but didn't know until I saw it for myself, laid out in front of me.

Uncle Danny was a selfless giver. He gave to me and never thought twice about it. And, my collegiate success was a gift to him.

He truly saw life as a gift. Even after the death of his wife and while enduring his failing health.

I look up to this. I'd like to see things his way, too.

Whether or not life is a gift from god is an uncertainty I have struggled with. I have profound doubts. And to write truthfully, I'm not usually a fan of the religious folk. Danny didn't have doubts. Danny was a good person, and I don't doubt that he is at peace.

Alcohol, it's not just for breakfast.

Last evening, I fell asleep on the metro ride home from the bar.

Sorry, let me correct that.

Early this morning, I passed out on the metro ride home from the 3 bars and 1 comedy show.

Alone, I woke up when a passenger told me we had reached the final stop and I needed to get off the train. Extremely drunk and only partially conscious, I stumbled off, more than confused. Fuck, I was at the last stop in MARYLAND. OK, I thought, just catch the train going in the other direction and go home.

So, I waited. No train. What time did trains stop running on a Friday? I had no idea, at that moment I was too drunk to remember my own name.

I approached a metro worker and said- let's be honest- I slurred, "whaattiiime doo trainsstopp runninng I don'tseee nothher traainn acomingg, sssooonnn...?"

Metro worker: "What?"

Me: : Blink ::

Metro worker: "Where are you going?"

Me: "Takkomaa. Felll assleeep..."

Metro worker: "Get back on that train and STAY AWAKE."

Me: "Oh itsss goinngg to goo backwardss???"

Metro worker, after a brief pause: "GET ON THE TRAIN AND DON'T FALL ASLEEP."

So, I stumbled back on the train. Don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep. Did my adventure stop there? Oh, of course not.

The car I chose to board contained a passed out individual- a young male, around my age, perhaps a year or so younger. In my intoxicated state, I made it my mission to wake this guy up.

I'm not sure if there was another passenger in the train car with us, but it must have been an odd scene. At first, I just slurred "HEEEY" very loudly. No response. I proceeded to clap in his face for about 30 seconds. Nothing. Finally, I slugged him in the shoulder. He opened his eyes wide and I saw that they were red and bloodshot. I sat down in the seat in front of him and told him he had fallen asleep.

The following sequence of events are a blur (which I only partially blame alcohol for) but give me reason to suspect that E may have been a player in his fucked up state.

Suddenly, he was conscious and sitting on the seat next to me, his arm around me, staring intently into my eyes. Uh...? Hi? Our conversation on the metro ride back, which may or may not have been traveling backwards, consisted of him trying to convince me to come back to his place to get it on and me telling him my name was Jessie. The guy was intent on us hooking up and I was intent on creating an alias. Somewhere in that exchange, I provided him my digits and looking back at drunken texts, I read:

Him: "Jesse?"

Me: "No... Jesse?"

Him: "Haha, no, Mike."

I was too drunk to give out my name.

Needless to say, I made it home last night, alone. I woke up early, with a vague and blurred memory of the random adventure that was my metro ride home. I wondered if I would hear from "Mike."

I did.

At about 11 AM I received a text that said "I have a girlfriend Haha".

Blacking out the friction

If you know me, you know that I lose things, a lot. And quite often, alcohol is involved. In my collegiate, undergrad days, I had to replace an entire wallet and its contents, twice. I had to replace dorm room keys, track down a cell phone, and get a new Cardinal card and a new debit card on one, too many, occasions. For the most part, the stories that accompany my drunken escapades that involve losing my shit are hilarious and could be recorded and chronicled in a collection that could be published and perhaps entitled "I Hope They Serve Rum at the Lost and Found."

Considering doing that.

It has occurred to me, upon reflection of recent events, that not much has changed since college. I have lost my debit card twice since mid-February. I lost a very personal journal during a blacked-out, but apparently adventurous and risky, evening in Atlantic City, that involved gallivanting in the parking garages and on the rooftop of Bally's. I awoke that morning with my shoes on, missed calls at 5 AM, and the jumbled memory of attempting to get into my hotel room using a Points Rewards Card. My wallet was devoid of cash and my debit card was missing, again. My purse was devoid of my journal.

I may have a problem.

Losing my journal was far worse than anything else I have ever lost in the history of my drunken losses. The history of my drunken losses is, as noted, quite extensive. I have suffered in the aftermath the inability to pay for myself, to prove I am old enough to drink, to unlock my own door. But losing cards and keys is temporary and they are replaceable. Losing personal thoughts and insights, jotted down dreams and quickly dashed observations, the seeds of poems and stories, and the solutions to problems conjured in the middle of the night, are infinitely irreplaceable. I can't order copies or excavate their skeletons from my brain. This may be worse than the painfully, pulsing reality: someone else, freely, has access to them all.

This weekend I experienced a similar loss. It seems the hard drive of my computer has malfunctioned and I need a new one. This time, alcohol was not involved. Did I back up my files? The vital question. The answer is: no. I can hear the fatal tone of a lifeline running limp.

All of my stories, poems, documented thoughts. Gone. Instantly.

I need a drink.

Why do I run?

Because I feel fucking cool when I do.

Since I quit dance after high school, running has become my choice of exercise. This is odd because in high school I attempted track and quit 4 times in 2 weeks. I ended up assisting in managing the team's scores because I wasn't allowed to quit anything. Yeah, I felt reeally cool.

It's somewhat ironic that that is what running does for me now- makes me feel cool. I started concentrating on running freshman year of college when the freshman 15 began adding up and adding to my waistline. Running for me, started on the treadmill at my college gym. I picked the treadmill because it seemed the most intense of the cardio workouts and I'm competitive when it comes to fitness. I remember the first time I stepped on that treadmill- I was sucking wind after half a mile. One mile was torture to get through. Turns out I wasn't in such great shape and it wasn't so easy to feel good, competitively.

For whatever reason, I kept up work on the treadmill and it was such a sense of accomplishment when I was able to run a mile without sucking wind. One mile turned into two, two miles turned into three, and so on. I have since also completed a handful of 5k's, as running has extended to the outdoor course.

My favorite running story is this: I used to run outside with my very tall, long-legged, roommate (at the time). Being so long-legged, her strides were much wider than mine; I would have to run to keep up with her jog. It was the summertime, and we decided to run down to campus. I was running fast to keep up pace with her, and we were rounding a bend along a busy street, when my shoe lace got caught on an uprooted wire fence. The damn thing caused my foot to fly out from under me. I was totally not expecting this- I was running full speed one minute and eating dirt the next minute. Not to mention, I had fallen in front of a huge line of traffic. This was extremely embarrassing and I'm positive people in their cars were laughing. Initially, I wanted to cry. I stood up and took a deep breath. My knees and hands were bleeding dirty blood. My roommate asked me if I wanted to walk back home. I considered this- but I decided to finish. I made sure all of the people in their cars saw me pick up my pace, instead of limp back home. I finished the run.

Another sense of accomplishment (oddly).

Whenever I finish a run, I feel accomplished. Whenever I finish a run that I ran longer or faster, I feel more than accomplished. I beat myself. This is another reason I enjoy running so much- it allows me to compete against myself. It's a time when I feel in my own head and in the zone with myself. I feel focused and whole. It's me against me.

Today I went for a run outside, which I have not done all winter. It was a nice change in challenge. Plus, I like to think that the people I run past in their cars or on the sidewalk look at me with a sort of admiration- perhaps even envy. They are impressed, for sure. This is probably a sick fantasy and I realize that. But it helps keep me running, so I will let myself have it.

Give me the treadmill or the outdoors. I'll run either way.

People have asked me numerous times why I like to run. And I never tell them all of this- it's too long winded and reflective. I usually respond weakly, "I don't know, its a good exercise." That response, though weak, is usually sufficient. I have been thinking about the answer to this question lately, however, because I encountered an individual who was not sufficed by my response. The issue was pushed,"Why run? You're not going anywhere." "Why compete with yourself? You should compete with other people."
I sort of just gave up responding after that.

I've had some time to think, and, the more I think- to sum up- I run because it makes me feel good, all around. I feel good about myself as a runner. I feel cool being able to say I'm a runner and cool when I'm running in front of other people. Even when I fall down, I feel cool when I pick myself back up and finish, bloody knees and all. I have a comedic war story to tell.

So that's what I will say next time I am asked why the hell I run. I will say because it makes me feel cool. And if that's not enough, I'll challenge the challenger to a race.

"Freedom is just chaos, with better lighting..."

Last Sunday morning, I woke up and my shoe was in my purse. That morning "confusion" was an understatement.

I awoke face planted in the middle of my friends fold down couch. A sleeping bag was covering me. All of my clothes from the night before were still on, except for my shoes. Sitting up, slowly, my first thought was "What happened last night?" My second thought was "Did I do anything stupid?" My third thought was "Where is my coat and where is my purse?"

Peering through the curtain of glittering dots that had draped before my eyes, I spotted my friend curled up in the big round chair (which I later described as a dog bed) to my right. We'll call him B-man.

He woke up and I exclaimed "Where is all my stuff?!" He appeared as confused by the morning as I was.

Upon standing, I realized I was still very drunk. I also knew that I remembered absolutely nothing past a certain point at the bar.

I located by purse and my jacket in a pile in the corner of the room. Opening my purse, I found one of my shoes. Immediately, I began to crack up. Turning to B-man, I said through laughter, "Oh man, my shoe was in my purse! How did this happen and where is my other one?"

"Oh, I put it in there because it kept falling off. And I don't know, your other shoe is probably outside." This was the matter-of-fact response I received from my very practical friend.

The sun was cruel blaring through the open door, bouncing brightly off the frozen snow covered earth. Sure enough, a lone, little, black flat lay about 20 feet from the door. It was resting on the smooth snow, next to a ditch that quite possibly was a body imprint.

B-man went to retrieve my shoe as my other friend, we'll call him P-man, burst out of his bedroom door. He exclaimed "WHAT HAPPENED?! I don't remember anything!"

Beer. Video games. Tequila shots. More beer. More shots. A bar. More beer. That's what happened.

Deciding it was smart to get breakfast before any of us hit the road, we stumbled to the local diner in search of fresh air, carbohydrates, and sobriety. B-man was able to recount some of our adventures from the night before and offer some explanations to the morning's mysteries. Apparently, the three of us "fell" out of the bar at closing. I then fell in the middle of the street and cars had to stop. People were looking. B-man said it's good that I don't remember this.

B-man had to help me stumble home and I kept losing my shoe. This is why he put it in my purse (thanks). P-man disappeared, on the phone with his girlfriend. Later we found out that he had told her we were on our way home and were alphabetizing, L for land and O for ocean. He also had denied being drunk.

B-man struggled to get my drunk-ass home and we made it to P-man's house, where P-man suddenly reappeared. Sensing the vulnerability of B-man and myself, P-man seized the opportunity to tackle both of us into the snow, where I lost my other shoe. It was a man-made ditch.

Somehow, we all made it inside, where we spent at least 10 minutes lying on the floor. I then face planted in the middle of the couch (no room for B-man) and P-man neatly folded his jacket (haha), got himself a glass of water, and passed out. This is unusual for P-man. B-man covered me with his sleeping bag and then promptly threw up (which is probably why he remembers so much). He then curled up in P-man's dog bed of a chair until morning.

There exists speculation over whether or not the three of us attempted to play video games before passing out. If we did, we were highly unsuccessful.

Parting ways, we spoke excitedly about making plans to do this all over sometime. I think we all know, deep down, that such times cannot be planned and that's why they are great and priceless. And we all know we are going our separate ways. I was heading back to my life in DC and B-man was flying out the next day for an interview in Washington state. Getting together is not so easy. But it is possible and the future looks hopeful because of this.

Before leaving, I noticed P-man (being a writer) had quotes from writers on his wall. I picked up one by Foster: "Freedom is just chaos, with better lighting." I completely agree.

They are more like guidelines, anyway...

1. The truth is right.

2. The truth is universal.
2a. Relativism is negated by contradiction.

3. To each his own.
3a. Judgment is inevitable.
3b. Your way is okay if it's not hurting another. Okay does not mean right.

4. One must strive not to be hypocritical in all action, thought, and intention.

5. A person's ability to change relies on an existing potential to change.
5a. Some people are just screwed.
5b. A person can only change for himself.

6. Treat others as you would like to be treated.
6a. Don't ever expect this in return- you will never get what you think you deserve this way.

7. Expectations set the stage for disappointment and lay the foundation for a worrisome and stressful life. They can make you demanding and bitter.
7a. This is exhausting.
7b. This is illogical- everyone wants to be happy.

8. Second chances are debatable, very often untimely, and highly situation dependent.

9. Emotions can complicate the truth- always be weary of cognitive dissonance to avoid such complications.
9a. The truth, very often, hurts, a lot.
9b. Denial is not a better way. Ignorance is not bliss. These things catch up with you.

10. It is important to take the time to do things that are good for your soul (and by soul I mean your personal energy and your mind; your general sense of self).
10a. Poetry is good for the soul.
10b. Chocolate is good for the soul.
10c. Acoustic guitar is good for the soul.
10d. Laughter is great for the soul.
10e. Chicken soup is debatable (couldn't resist, haha).

11. Accept yourself within the context of your abilities and your limitations. This is you, truly. And this is okay.

Now bring me that horizon...

And we'll all float on...

Driving north on I-95, I was feeling kinda down. I found myself listening to depressing music and engaged in circular thinking (which can lead to insanity, I hear). Realizing I needed to take action and break the cycle, I turned on "Float On" by Modest Mouse. This is a song that reassures me everything's going to be okay. In need of some reassurance, I turned it up. The speed of my car increased with the song's volume.

My favorite part of the song is the part that goes "I backed my car into a cop car the other day, but he just drove off, sometimes life's okay." That part was coming up, adrenaline began to pump, and I was preparing to belt out these lyrics. I was speeding. I looked to my left and who was driving beside me? A cop.

Immediately, I hit the breaks. "Fuckkkk" is what I belted out instead. I watched the number on my speedometer quickly reduce to a speed that was only a few digits above the legal limit. He would pull me over for sure- I was guilty of speeding and it was obvious I knew that. Only, he didn't pull me over. He drove off. And it was okay. This all seemed to take place during the 11 seconds of that part of the song.

I cracked up. I started laughing, hyterically. Coincidence? I watched the cop car disappear ahead of me.

I know not getting pulled over for speeding is not exactly the same thing as not getting arrested for backing into a cop car. But, I still found meaning in the alignment of these song lyrics and my life. In that moment, I was able to laugh and I was okay. I was floating on.

A thought experiment

Observation: Today at work, while chatting online, listening to music, creating deposit spreadsheets, answering phones, and attending to emergency infobox emails that said "WHERE IS MY LOGIN PASSWORD?!", I became suddenly conscious of that fact that I was multitasking. How did I develop this skill? I am challenged by the combination of walking and chewing gum (cliche, I know), so I pondered this unlikely development (which became yet another task I performed at work). And then it hit me- each of the friends I was chatting with were at work, too. They were all holding at least 3 unrelated conversations while performing mundane work tasks and wondering what they were going to have for lunch. Everyone was multitasking. We all had this in common.

Hypothesis: If we all have this in common, then it is generational.

Experimental Thought: The present generation has been greatly impacted by technology, i.e. computers and the internet. Such technology has been at the heart of blame for my generation's awful laziness, need for instant gratification, and problem with obesity (all intertwined). I have heard that we are the first generation that will have an average lifespan shorter than our paternal generation (which I am hesitant to believe because we aren't old enough to really know yet). All of our resources can be found at our fingertips- literally. My Blackberry is practically a pocket sized laptop computer and fits in the palm of my hand.

Conclusion: We rarely need patience to access information or put our full attention into any single task. Thus, we can pay attention to lots of things at once. Thus we have all developed multitasking skills.

Taking it a step further... I am wondering, is this a good thing or a bad thing?

Knowledge: I am far too lazy to fully explore this question. I guess I am a victim of my generation.

I know I will need to work from home this evening to make up for the work I failed to accomplish at work, because of the million other things I was doing. Perhaps we are just easily distracted. And I wonder if anyone else is in this same boat. I'm sure they will be online later, and we can talk about it while watching the Olympics, having dinner, checking facebook, and, oh, finishing up our work.

A cluttered room... a cluttered life?

Looking around my room, it's a mess. Drawers are hanging open with their interiors exposed. Clothes, worn and washed, are strewn across my floor, pulled from my closet or off of my body before bed. Empty water bottles and half drunk mugs of tea litter the flat surface of every piece of furniture that offers the opportunity. My bed remains unmade and crumpled papers lie as evidence beside my waste basket that I was never meant to play basketball. All my things are in a state of utter chaos. Ideally, I will simply pick everything up and put them in order, back in their place. But I can't. I am living in a world that is not ideal and picking up my things to diffuse this chaos seems an impossible task right now as I lie in bed.

And it hits me; I want my things to put themselves away. I don't want to do it myself. It would be much easier for things to place themselves in order. That way, I can continue lying in bed, which would provide immediate contentment and relief. I would not have to work to change the chaos that has built up in my environment. Then I get hit again and I turn my dilemma over the clutter in my room into a metaphor about the clutter in my life.

I avoid diffusing the clutter in my life because it would be difficult. It would take an energy for a will that I would rather not expend to have. That is simply it; it's too hard. Why? I wonder. Am I afraid of the challenge or am I just lazy? I have been called stubborn before. My life is not chaotic; it's cluttered by things I am unhappy with. Instead of picking up the pieces and attending to these things I attend to things that offer immediate gratification, an immediate sense of relief. I am learning, however, that such is quite fleeting and ultimately adds to the clutter.

What am I really saying here? I am seven years old again and I don't want to clean up my room?

Struck by the master hand

This Saturday morning, I rolled out of bed late and decided that my free time would best be spent playing some Super Smash Brothers Brawl. Really, I need practice. I talk a pretty big game and, let's face it, I suck when I'm challenged. Usually horribly (depending upon the opponent, most often a well-practiced male.)

My character of choice is Kirby. I was once told that this character is for chicks who don't really know how to play the game. This reminded me of the time I was told my choice of undergrad major, psychology, is a major for people who don't know what they want to do with their lives. Both of these statements ring true, to an extent. Screw you. I am figuring out what I am doing with my life and I can learn how to play this game with Kirby.

Anyway, this morning I cleared 11 stages. I cannot conquer the Master Hand. First, it's introduction is intimidating. Second, turning into a rock, hitting it with a hammer, and slashing it with a sword don't even injur the damn thing. And, I cannot seem to escape when it's crushing me in a fist or flicking me off the side of the platform. How do I beat this? Really. Comments of advice would be helpful and most appreciated here.

Despite my consistent failure and frustration battling the Master Hand, I am still trying. I want to find a way to beat it.

I noticed that my initial instinct, after the first battle began, was to run away and avoid contact at all cost. It struck me (before the Master Hand did) that this is often how I approach scary things in my life. I run. I avoid. I shouldn't. How am I going to overcome obstacles in my life this way and get anything that I want? How am I going to beat the Master Hand?

And fuck. I can figure out my life and I can learn how to really play this game with Kirby. I just need to stop running away.

Oh, self-awareness. Who knew I could experience such playing an insignificant video game?

I am human.

Last evening / early morning, a good and quite wise friend (I hope you are reading this) explained confidence to me. I am cautious to qualify confidence- a concept, a goal, a state of being? Previous to last night, I thought of confidence as a goal to strive for, a "thing" to be attained through hard work, determination, and focus. Now, post-conversation with my sage friend, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Did I think confidence was something magical that streamed down upon one, sparkling and glistening in a ray of light as angels sang, after said one ran the extra mile, raised the test score an extra 100 points, or captured the person of her dreams? Kind of.

"The difference between being confident and not being confident is just that. It's being." - sage friend.

"Huh?"- foolish me.

You are either confident or you are not. No amount of intellectual or physical achievement is going to make you confident. You have to be confident about who you are everyday, waking up, every morning.

I always found songs with lines such as, "I would die if I knew I could come back different" or "You go to sleep dreaming how you would, be a different kind, if you thought you could" really profound. It's exactly how I feel; I want to wake up different. Because waking up different would be waking up not exactly me, as I am now. I could wake up a different me, a confident me.

So, I work out, a lot. It's not to be healthy, it's to be thin and physically appealing. I read thoughtful books to seem interesting. I achieve(d) high grades to appear intelligent and successful and make people proud. I don't get caught listening to pop music because I don't want to be perceived as a shallow member of the current pop culture. This doesn't work.

Everything I am, is a facade. I am a fake and completely clueless. I have no idea what makes me happy or who I am. I feel completely uninteresting. And I am not at all confident.

Thus, doing what I have been doing, doesn't work. It's time to try something new.

What can I confidently say makes me happy? I am going to start small. I need to stop being afraid I will turn out to be something I have been striving not to be. I realize now, being true is better than being false and unhappy. So,

On working out: I <3 endorphins. I need them, I crave them. I love to run and it makes me feel good, especially when I increase my endurance. I get runners high and feel peaceful, in the zone. I like feeling in shape. I like abs and I like bones. However, I also love junk food. Peanut butter with chocolate and anything cookies n' cream themed is heavenly. I can eat a whole bag of cheese doodles.

On books: Entertainment is key. Some thoughtful books keep me interested, others don't. I will never enjoy respected, classic writers like Jane Austen or Charles Dickens. I like darker authors. Give me Fitzgerald, give me Salinger, give me modern day Burroughs or Palahniuk. I also read "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" faster than all books written by the aforementioned authors.

On grades: They prove nothing. I achieved amazing grades. I worked really hard. Stress was involved in every assignment I was given- even assignments not worthy of stress. I retained nothing. The grades I achieved were for other people.

On music: I love music. I love knowing bands that aren't famous but I do listen to my fair share of bands/artists that are well-known and may even be considered sell-outs or pop. The song "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus makes me happy. Then again, so does "Two" by the Antlers.

A lot of this stuff has been hard to admit, to other people, to myself. I fear judgment. But I'm putting all this out there now. Liking Miley Cyrus doesn't make me a bad person, it makes me human. And I want to be a confident human. So, to start, I am going to be confident that I am human. Being human, I matter, literally. So don't cut me in line. Because I am standing there, confident in place, waiting to be acknowledged as a living person, who runs against herself, likes junkfood, is unimpressed by academics, and is smiling either because "Party in the USA" or "Two" is stuck in her head.

Another one

Here's another story. It's very rough- a first draft. It's somewhat fucked up.


Lying face down in the snow, she realized she could drown. The idea dawned upon her in far too an appealing way and she knew it. Most who lost their life in the snow froze to death. Never had she heard of an individual who choked on snow until her demise, lungs flooded by melted droplets of once frozen rain. Her body heat would surely melt the snow enough for this to happen. She had a college education.

The girl knew she just needed to wait. Minutes passed and she continued to breathe into the snow. It was cold and it was dark. It made her face hurt. She wondered if anyone would see her. She wondered if anyone would know she had done this intentionally when she was found, hours, perhaps days, later. Should she leave a note? She wondered if she was the first to have ever died this sort of intentional death.

And then a thought that had haunted and depressed her since she had first conceived it entered her mind. Nothing she could ever think would be something that had never been thought before. Every one of her thoughts, another already had. There was no such thing as original thought for someone like her. This had to do with her intelligence and the timeliness of her life. Brilliant inventors, decades ago, had to race to patent and publicize their revolutionary ideas and devices before someone else equally brilliant and innovative beat them to it. And even then, a more brilliant but less innovative individual may have had the seemingly new idea first. She knew, being a girl of average IQ who had done average things within the context of her life, that she would never have an original thought. She was very self-aware.

She thus concluded that she had not been the first to die intentionally in this manner. It was likely that she would belong to a smaller group of dead individuals, but death is the great equalizer, anyway.

But what if when people found her, they thought her death tragic? That she had slipped and fallen unconscious and suffocated unintentionally in the snow or worse, frozen to death, like so many others. Perhaps she should leave a note. She wanted people to know; she wanted credit. She chose to lie face down. She chose to melt the snow with her breath and slurp the puddle into her lungs. She did not fall like a clumsy idiot. And because of all this, life without her was the way it should be. The loss of her life was not tragic. It was intended and okay.

Then, breathing more slowly than before, she heard her name. “Anna.” At first, “Anna” was muffled by the sound of her thoughts and the hood of her jacket. She froze and stopped breathing. She waited to hear it again.

“Anna?”

The voice was inquisitive and curious. The voice was male.

Without an acknowledged thought, she pulled her face out of the snow. The winter air stung her cheeks, upon which melted snow burned a deep, fiery blush. Tiny icicles shattered from the lashes of her eyes as she broke them open. Looking up in a daze, she saw him. Her latest let-down. Her latest heartache. He was standing over her.

He shouldn’t matter and she knew this. Everyone around her knew this. She knew they knew because they told her so. But she was a fool. She was so very self-aware.

He pulled her to her feet. He held her by the shoulders and looked at her. Her blushing cheeks turned her pale skin into porcelain. The dark hair that framed her face made the blue eyes peering out from beneath her hood piercing and breathtaking. Her lips, chapped by the snow, were red and plump. She had never looked more beautiful. And, being a young boy under the influence of exciting hormones, he had never wanted her more. In that moment, the coldness he had shown her these past months melted away. He was in love.

She was delicate.

Taking her in his arms, he pulled her into him. Her face pressed against his chest, he embraced her with all the warmth and power of a man that he possessed. And moments later, her body went limp. He had suffocated her.

This was not intentional.

Oh, the loss of young life in love-
how fragile,
how, very,
tragic.

A self-reflective snowed in weekend

This weekend, I got snowed in. The plan was not to be alone, but that is essentially how things turned out. My nerves had been shot all week and I was pissed off that the weather was going to ruin my long awaited weekend plans. I was taking this personally; weather forecasters on television were saying, “Jill, there is an 80% change you will need to cancel your plans this weekend and a 95% chance that this will take a toll on your personal life.” What I learned from being by myself for 72 hours was that the weather was not the sole force impacting my personal life. More forceful than the weather were people. And me.

Mostly me? It's not clear. I’ve blamed myself most of my life. But people are fickle and come with so many variables; they are dynamic, constantly changing. People are selfish, they want what they want. Myself included?

Some thoughts from the weekend...

I do things people want and if they’re happy, then I’m happy. I'm a people pleaser. Only, I’m not happy. And because people don't know better, I become personally offended. My unhappiness doesn't matter to them as long as they are happy, getting what they want. And then I classify them as selfish. I don't speak up until it's too late and I'm upset, a selfless victim. And then I just sound nuts. I’m often told I'm too sensitive. Surprise? No one wants to be around this- me, least of all. Surprise? I ended up alone this weekend.

Alone, with myself, was hard. I was self-destructive. Once I became more comfortable with myself, I took the time to do things I had not taken the time to do before. I learned some guitar, and I am proud right now of the blisters on my fingertips. I started reading a new book. I started writing this blog. I explored music I had not before and I enjoyed all activities thoroughly.

It might be better to be alone.

A snowed in self-reflection/realization: for an individual who exercises her independence as much as I do, I am extremely dependent. I realized this shoveling snow.

I accomplished the task of digging my car out of very high and very heavy snow. At first, I was resenting this job. I felt embarrassed because I was alone. A young girl with no help. I could only imagine what passersby were thinking. Someone should be there with me and no one was. No boyfriend and no best friend. Just me. I was angry but had no one to direct my anger at.

And then I remembered that it was my car and therefore my responsibility. It is incorrect to depend on anyone else to have a responsibility for me- I am responsible for me. And guess what? I took responsibility and I did it. I felt accomplished. And I received some unexpected help, too.

A neighbor I had never met helped me guide my car out of the tight space between snow mounds and into the street. I appreciated his kindness more than if I had had a man by my side, shoveling the snow for me, or a friend helping me, with the understanding that I would pay her back later. Their help would have been more for show than appreciated, too. It would be to say to passersby- look I have people that care about me. Really, passersby don't care. I'm the only one that does. Selfish.

So, what I learned from this weekend is, I’m alone but I’m not. I have a responsibility to myself and this may be the best way. And the most appreciated help comes with no strings attached.

I hope I can pass this on.