pompous snowmen and snowless snow days

3 Feb

“I try to avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.”

– Charlotte Bronte

Well, hello hello! Instead of dwelling on the fact that I have not posted a blog in forever and ever and ever, I am just going to dwell on the things that I find fascinating and important that you, uh, probably don’t.

So, I have been up to MULTITUDES of FANTASTICAL and EXOTIC things in the past few months, weeks, days and hours. Well… maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Or a lot. Or a whole lot. But no matter, because I do have a few things worth mentioning. One being my SUPER DUPER not incredibly successful life in the world of Debate. Yes, this lovely specimen whose life you read about and care so dearly about has begun debating competitively with her school’s forensics team. I am involved in the Lincoln- Douglas debate category and am now an Official Member of the National Forensics League, or the NFL for the People in the Know. I’m not great but I’m not horrible and every tournament is a learning experience and I get a sick rush every time I know I have kicked someone’s ass.
Other than debate and debate and more debate, I have been reading quite a bit more. I recently finished Anna and the French Kiss by (nerdfighter!) Stephanie Perkins, where part of the title of this blog post comes from. I though the book was good, due to how the ending turned out and the writing was sweet and clever. The book started out slow and I thought that the character was a bit stupid, but once you get into the book more and start to become engrossed with the romance and the relationships surrounding each character, it is absolutely fantastic. I also just finished Chuck Palahniuk’s Invisible Monsters, which, to be honest, I was disappointed with. I was told by multiple Palahniuk fans that it was his best work, and it was fantastic, but I think I might have liked Snuff more, but I plan on rereading it eventually, so we’ll see if that changes my thoughts on it. I’m going to begin Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro tomorrow, because I’ve heard fantastic things about both the novel and film.
Aside from debate and reading, I have been tumbling obsessively, arguing with people on tumblr, pissing off my close friends and just generally fucking up greatly. I think I’m going to begin blogging more, to let off steam or what have you. I think I’m going to start going out more, whether it’s alone or with others, because I need fresh air. I need to see things other than the four blue walls of my room. I need different noises and sounds and things to experience. I’m going stir crazy and I’m lonely all the time and I’m bored and I’m aggressive and mean and impulsive with people I care about. I need help more than anything, I need someone to talk to and I need to get out more. But right now what I need to do is brush my teeth and go to bed. Goodnight, lovelies. I’ll see you soon.


p.s. I had a snow day today and we didn’t get ANY snow at all. Twas wonderful.



31 Dec

“The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting.”

– Andy Warhol

So the year ends soon. It seems as I get older, years go by faster, but weeks and days go by slower, if that makes any sense. It feels as if time moves at weird paces; as if days move slower when you see what they contain or what they lack, and that years go by faster when you press play on all of the things that were recorded as time passed. We all know my fascination and obsession with the concept of time, so there is no need to dwell on that. I’ve looked back on the two posts I made on this blog about the new year, and I feel as if posting about it is a tradition for myself and for this blog.
In 2008, when I made this blog, I was naive (more naive than I am now) and I hadn’t lived as much. I had written a short entry about how my best friend and I became best friends after she lost her mom. I wrote about discovering Nerdfighters. In 2009, I posted the things I had become obsessed with, and when I remember writing that, I remember that I didn’t want to write about what was actually going on in my head and my life at that point in time. I was slowly but surely losing my best friend to her boyfriend, I didn’t have any other friends, and my dad was sick.
And now, here I am, writing a blog post about 2010. This year was one to remember, I guess, as are all my years. This year I became more invested in my online life; I realized that my friends online are closer to me than the ones I have in real life, and in some instances they are much better than my real life friends. I met a girl I often call my best friend, who I love and I never want out of my life. I found tumblr, which is one of the most intelligent and amazing communities I’ve ever been a part of. Even when tumblr has it’s bad times, which tend to be often, the community is still wonderful and the people I’ve met there are still incredible.
This year I was diagnosed with depression and GAD, and I was getting stress sick a lot. I still spend all of my weekends, for the most part, on the computer. This year I discovered the world of forensics and debate, something that I wish I had become involved in much earlier because I love it so much. I turned 16, and was spoiled by my parents, who I know love me more than anything. My mother got a job and my dad recovered, for the most part, from his illness, and things started to get better at home. I walked around for most of this year with the sinking feeling of emptiness or the heavy burden of guilt for putting people through the hell that is dealing with me.
This year I fell into like or love or lust or whatever the fuck it could possibly I called. I learned what it’s like to be wanted by someone and then have them pull away and then push back. I learned what it’s like to give yourself to someone for them to pull away and never push their way back in. I learned what a broken heart feels like. I learned that a broken heart is nothing I want, and nothing I ever want again.
This year I learned how to defend my opinions. I learned how to accept other people’s opinions even if I don’t agree with them. I learned how to listen to other people’s opinions and try to see their sides of things. I learned that something I want to be and something I am is accepting; of everyone, no matter what.
This year was rough in some places. There were times I wanted it to be the last year I ever lived through, but there were more times I wanted the exact opposite. The times that I succeeded, like when I placed second in debate, that made me want to keep going. The times I failed kept me going; the times I fell down made me realize I hated sitting on the ground because it was a pain in the ass. I learned a lot about myself this year, I learned a lot about how much I need to grow up and I learned that I have a lot more to learn and I need to stick around to learn it all.

Happy New Year, welcome 2011.


photo credit: (creative commons license) New Year’s Eve, 1956


random musings

5 Dec

I’ve always been the kind of person that hated people. Well, at least since I was about 13, I had a strong dislike for people and being around them. I didn’t like being in big groups, or even having anyone over or going to a friend’s house. I hated it. But now… now I’ve discovered that I don’t hate people. I want to be around people almost all the time. I want to be around the guy I am in serious like with, have him wrapped around me in more than just the physical sense. I want to be around my wonderful friends that write beautiful prose, or the ones that make beautiful films. I want to be around my friends who argue with me about silly things, or have long interesting discussions about what’s going on in the world. I want to be around the people who listen to music and get up to dance and sing. I love being around people who can carry on an intelligent or interesting or thought-provoking conversation. I love being able to walk around a college campus with some of my best friends, dressed well, and belting out A Very Potter Musical, while it snows. I love being able to hug someone or hold someone’s hand, whether they are a casual friend or a close friend or a boyfriend. I just… well…to quote Jenny Mellor;

“… I’m going to talk to people who know lots about lots.”


bad first English assignment is bad

7 Sep

Basically, I was required to write an introductory journal for my teacher to read and get to know me. She asked us to include things we believed we need her to know and the things that will help us in English this year. So… here is the piece of crap. Enjoy.

*   *   *   *   *

I. My favorite one-letter word, because I shamelessly and self-indulgently love writing about myself. Other than my obnoxious vanity, I love love love to write. Over the past few years, I’ve become incredibly serious about writing, so much so I’ve begun to think it will be the career I choose to pursue. Recently, I’ve become more experimental in my writing. Such as trying poetry, essays, blogs, short stories and this absolutely insane project called NaNoWriMo, which stand for National Novel Writing Month (yes, you write a 50,000 word novel in one month. It’s the weirdest form of torture out there).

Naturally my love of writing stemmed from an early love of reading. I embraced reading in 4th grade, where I read young adult fantasy for way to long, among the few random books that I didn’t fully comprehend at the time. I evolved to reading more genres in the realm of books that is young adult fiction, and then so on. I’m always open to suggestions, and I’ve been getting into what some would call “proper” literature recently.
Along with my intense obsession with reading and writing, I love the internet. Something I get laughed at behind my back for, I’ve found refuge online in a community of like-minded people, i.e, people that also love reading and writing and other somewhat nerdy things. I’ve met friends that are closer to me then a great deal of my school friends. A “world” many people are hesitant to enter or embrace, I went in full-force and my parents have embraced it as well, so much so one of my friends I met online is flying to New York to stay with us for a few days late next summer.
These are all necessary things to know about me, because they are currently the things that make up a great deal of who I am and who I am becoming. I incorporate a great deal of what I’ve learned from writing and reading over the years into every English class I’m in. And more recently, I include a great deal of what I learn from the large community I’m involved in online in my ideas, opinions and thoughts.
For me to do well in English, I need to be met with a reasonable amount of patience and understanding. I also need my procrastination and occasional close-mindedness not to be tolerated, considering it tends to interfere with my ability to focus on the task at hand and the broader picture of things. My writing is incredibly weak and needs a large amount of work, not to mention I want to work on my editing skills because, let’s face it, a great deal of writing is re-writing. In a nutshell, that’s me, who I am right now and at least for the foreseeable future.

the weight of it all

5 Sep

You know how you know things but you don’t feel or realize their impact? Like when someone tells you they’re moving, but you don’t really feel the impact until they call you from their new house and tell you about their new life. Well, I’m kind of getting that “weight” aspect of things. About five minutes ago, it just hit me. Something I knew but never faced, never embraced and never took seriously. I knew that This Is The Way Things Are and I need to Grow Up and Accept It, but knowing things isn’t the same as feeling them. I remember in first grade when they told us we were holding up tons of air on our shoulders, but we didn’t realize it or we couldn’t feel it because we’ve been used to it all our lives. Or something like that. It’s as if all the air has come crashing down full force, heavy and weighted, it’s presence demanding to be noticed, just crushing my shoulders.
I knew that I wasn’t old enough. I knew that I wasn’t pretty enough, skinny enough, interesting enough, funny enough, smart enough, good enough, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t embrace it and know it until right now. I always do this… I always hold out hope something is going to happen, but know that it never will and it never does. But the difference between this time and the others is that he knows how I feel, he knows where I stand. We’re friends, I know a little about him and he knows… nothing about me. And he doesn’t care, I know that too. It hurts more than it should and it makes me feel stupider than it should. I don’t know why I do this to myself, set myself up for a straight and easy way to get hurt, but I do. I’ve always done it, but this time it’s different, because there are two players, not one. Not my mind and I, weaving our own little story and creating a person out of an empty shell of someone I don’t even know, this is him and me, I know him. I know who he is, a lot of his bad qualities and few of his good. But yet… I don’t know. I don’t know.  I just don’t fucking know.

writing and my weakness

29 Aug

This blog will be rambly and will probably make no sense whatsoever.

“I get nervous when I fly, I’m used to walking with my feet.”
– “Go On”  Jack Johnson

All I’ve been wanting to do lately is write. Poetry or prose, I have no preference and my fingers seem to itch for the quiet comfort of both. But every time I take a pen out and press it to the fresh cream page of my little poetry book with it’s precious few pages that are stained with ink, I seem to freeze up. Nothing will come out, and if something does it’s terrible, awful and must be ripped out at once. Or my pen will have a bent tip, or be the wrong color ink or will smear all over the page and ruin the poem. Whenever I attempt prose, I fumble with the keys that are so sure beneath my fingers when tweeting or going on facebook. But it seems when my heart is on the line, my sanity is in slight jeopardy and my self-esteem is out there, low and vulnerable, I can’t quite grasp the “typing” thing and it seems as if every word is wrong. Phrases are wrongly put, sentences aren’t structured well, there is no story in it at all, the entire paragraph reads like one long boring cliche and so on.
My blogs are even troublesome. I can’t put my visit to Kenyon College in more than bite-sized words. I keep worrying that I will screw up that amazing trip and that amazing day if I write one crappy blog post about it. My blog about Oberlin was simple, and I think it was even semi-good, but I wasn’t so genuinely attached to that college, that trip, that day. I wasn’t concerned on screwing it up too severely.
Another thing I hate to admit is that I have this tendency. This awful, heart wrenching tendency to not be able to stay motivated or believe in myself. Other people keeping tabs on what I do keeps me motivated. Those six or seven of you that read this regularly are the ones that keep me going because it just shows that yeah, maybe someone somewhere out there cares what I have to say or whine about. The reason I love genuine compliments on my poetry is because I feel like if someone else likes it, then I have a reason to keep going. It’s one of my worst weaknesses, and therefore one the most powerful ones, but I need others to believe in me in order to believe in myself. I’ve never quit anything, even the times where I would have absolutely no attention to anything I poured my heart and soul into. When I posted things on fictionpress, I would get one review in a blue moon. My best friend at the time started and she got 2+ reviews a day. It took me weeks to get that much attention on stories. When I started blogging, I had maybe one – three hits a month. Things like twitter and tumblr don’t effect me as strongly, because I’m not putting things out there that I want feedback on, I’m not putting effort into those things, I’m not putting the most important parts of me in those things.



23 Aug

“I feel I’m stranded in the wrong time, where love is just a lyric in a children’s rhyme.”

-“Is It Any Wonder?” by Keane

What? What is this? Caitlyn, did you really blog TWO DAYS IN A ROW? Yes, curious high-pitched voice dwelling in my head, I am writing a blog and posting it after doing the same thing the night before.

Moving on, today was day two of the Ohio trip, and day one of college visits. We went to visit Oberlin College in, wait for it… Oberlin! We went through the town first, which was honestly a tad sparse, and sort of like the college town near where I live. But this is not the problem I though it to be. Apparently the college kids make things happen all the time, so there is rarely ever a dull moment. We went into admissions and I filled out a slip for something, they gave me a bit of information that I already had, but took so my parents could be informed/ content.

The part that made me weary about the whole “let’s apply to Oberlin” was the deal about being a creative writing major. To major in creative writing you need to take the 201 writing course. The catch? It’s by application only. When you’re a second semester freshman, you can apply for the course and if you get in and get a B+ or higher in the course, you can take the 300 level classes. But the creative writing major is a competitive field, and about 1/3 of applicants get in. Hearing this, my heart sank and I cried a little inside, but I tried my best to remain composed. I made a few jokes, asked some boring questions, argued like an idiot with the program coordinator (yeah, Caitlyn is SMART) but… then something weird happened.

The program coordinator said that most students have the problem about writing something other than the one or two genres they’re used to, which is what hurts most and causes many to fail out of or not get into the program. I, being the dumb ass I am, just said: “I will write ANYTHING. I mean, I’m not afraid to write badly; that’s all I know how to do.” Which she laughed at, said that she thought I was a smart, driven and funny kid, and that I should contact her if I have any questions, and then she handed me her card. This may not seem big, but it felt that way. I almost died.

Granted, I probably have no chance of getting into the writing program because I’m so SHIT at writing, but still. It was nice. Night!


the arctic hotel

22 Aug

“static silhouette somehow.”

– “Rome”- Phoenix

I am currently sitting in a room with textured white walls, boring paintings of roses in vases and outdated 90’s light fixtures. You guessed it; I’m in a hotel room. My mother has blasted the air conditioning to the “Alaska” setting, because Ohio weather does this weird thing where it stays hot at night. As this rather scatterbrained and unclear intro may have indicated, I am not home in my bedroom with the slight slant, surrounded by a wall of mountains in cold Upstate New York. I have traveled down to the flat (yes, the rumors are true. It’s flat, but then again, I live in a mountainous state) and warm, if a little stuffy, state of Ohio.

My parents and I hopped in the car and drove the seven hours to visit family and look at colleges for me. We just got back from having dinner at my father’s cousin’s house, and it was one of the most relaxing and laid back evenings I’ve ever had at a distant relative’s house. They spoiled us with yummy appetizers and sandwiches, and there were kids running around and everyone was just interesting and lively and down-to-earth. Once sufficiently full, we caught up about our respective crazy family members, i.e, my favorite uncle and favorite uncle’s crazy ex-wife. I was thrilled to see these people, and even more thrilled to hear that when they last saw me, at age 10 (blonde and blue-eyed), I was writing. I thought my writing phase began much later, and when I was told that I had been writing since then, even if it was just rhymes and stories about haunted houses… I don’t know. I feel like it renewed my faith in myself and my writing. I’m not going to keep exhausting myself with the “I’m a WRITER, I need to WRITE all the time” mantra.

Whoops, little rambly again, but you must be used to that by now. I lied on twitter, saying there was no blog today, I am working DILIGENTLY on a blog that will be well-written (in my opinion, and hopefully others’) and read through by several other people, considering the piece is rather… delicate. I am expressing an opinion I don’t think many will agree with, nor support, and I really hope that the negativity in the entry doesn’t cost me any friends. And if you would like to read it and give constructive criticism, or even your straight up opinion, say so in the comments or reply to me on twitter. I’m off to read The Hunger Games because it’s positively brilliant.



Here’s a short cheesy story.

“Something is wrong with me,” she said softly, her voice calculating and her eyes dull. Blonde hair swinging in her face as the fire crackled and cast a warm glow over her tanned skin.

“What?” I asked, trying for the life of me to figure out what could possibly be wrong with her.

“I’m hurting. It feels like my entire body hurts like it’s burning, as if fire is pulsing through my veins. I feel like I’m being electrocuted over and over, like sparks are flying everywhere. It’s as if I’m alive and the only reason I feel it is because I’m in pain.” Her shoulders were lit a hazy brown-orange, the yellow lace strap of her tank top tangled in the mess of her long locks, turned golden and shimmery in the light of the fire.

“It’s the drugs, Sara,” I said, taking a long drag from my cigarette. “You’ll feel normal once you sleep it off.”

“But I don’t want to sleep it off,” she said, standing up. Her legs were dirty from sitting on the grass and there were goosebumps scattered across her skin. “I want to feel this pain forever… because it makes me think that if I hurt this much, nothing can ever hurt me like it again.”

“Things will always hurt you, Sara. No matter how much pain you’ve felt, things will always end up hurting you.” She came over to me and sat down close, and we were almost touching.

“You see, it’s not painful, really. It’s just a nagging ache that feels good. Like… like I’m stretching in the morning after the perfect sleep. You know?” She said, her eyelids were dropping down, the high was obviously setting in. I laughed.

“You’re so baked.”

“Mhm. But… this is the best feeling ever! Michael, I… I want to feel this way forever.”

“You’re going to go broke buying that much weed, babe.”

“Michael!” she said, but she whined my name in that way of hers.

“What?! I’m just saying, this is nothing but a high. No good feeling is free my dear. A fact of life, a fact I want you to learn.”
She looked at me, I knew because I saw her hair fall off her shoulder and I could smell her perfume and shampoo hit me with the faint smell of smoke from the fire and cigarettes. I looked at her, her brown eyes were glossy and had spider-web like crimson lines, the faint freckles across her nose were a little more obvious and her small, young face looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. She was serious, in her own Sara-way, but she looked older, and I realized now she’d caught up to me. We were on the same page, and staring down the same road. The fire popped and smoke came at us. I put my cigarette out, any excuse to look away, and I felt her hand rest on my leg. 
Her hand crept up to my own, and she slowly and gently laced her fingers through mine. Her hand was lightly there, not pressing into me, not squeezing my hand. I squeezed her hand tighter, letting my warmth flow through her and then she leaned her head on my shoulder. She shifted over closer to me, pressing into me, our body heat flowing through each other and I felt the pain, the ache, the burning fire that she felt. It seemed as if hours, days, weeks had passed since I spoke, but it was only seconds. Sara sighed and looked at me, then she smiled slightly. Her dark pink lips parted slightly, as flames dancing around, their silhouettes shimmying across her cheeks.

“Michael,” she whispered, and my name had never sounded so good. “you’ve taught me a lot, but this feeling is freer than anything.”

“How so?”

“This ache… I love it. My heart seems like it beats a hundred times faster, my mind won’t stop turning… you know what that feeling is? I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“It’s love.” I said, without even thinking, and I knew I couldn’t take it back. I squeezed her hand tighter, hoping she wouldn’t let go. She smiled again, and turned to look at me.

“Why are you always right?”

“Because I am.” And then she kissed me.

writer’s block

15 Aug

Spiteful words can hurt your feelings, but silence breaks your heart.”
– C.S Lewis

This blog is going to suck, as the title may have tipped you off. I’m feeling uninspired, a bit annoyed and just incredibly frustrated with myself. I haven’t written a poem in almost 3 months, at least not a decent one, every time I start to write any sort of prose it’s stupid and cliche, and just plain bad. Blogs are the only thing I’ve been writing, other than an all too personal letter that I just sent off without thinking twice (the letter is the cause of the frustration with myself). But writers, since some of you reading this must be writers, you know that awful feeling that is writer’s block.
To me, it’s like being sick. Due to the fact that I have a terrible immune system, I’m sick an awful lot, and it’s hell. I get chills, then I’m sweaty and hot and clammy and nasty. I have headaches, throat aches that make me want to cry and awful chest coughs that last far too long and disrupt any class I’m in at the time. Oh, and I get a runny nose. Writer’s block for me is quite similar. I start out at nice temperature, then things slowly get frostier and then things get warmer too fast and then I start tossing and turning, or in the writing sense, pressing the delete button, typing, delete, type. Symptoms of writer’s block also include headaches, but the sore throat comes in the form of wrist cramps, the chest cough a pinky that always locks up after being used for typing for too long. And the runny, gooey snot nose comes in the form of self-hatred and constant bullying from the voices in my head. (Some of them yell at me in German.)
Now, if that poorly executed metaphor didn’t tip you off to the fact that I’m creatively stifled, I don’t know what will. Photography hasn’t grasped my interest enough lately, not to mention my camera sucks/ is broken. Prose really isn’t working out too well, and I can’t organize my feelings to write a poem. But apparently my writer’s block could be put on hold to write a stupid letter. Stupid letter. gr. grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


the irony of me loving weddings

8 Aug

~ By Margery Williams ~

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but Really loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get all loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

I went to a wedding yesterday. My second mother and my dad’s best friend since high school were hosting their son’s wedding. Now, I’m going to just throw out there that these people have a pig roast and Christmas party every year and they know how to throw a party, but this wedding blew my mind. The only other weddings I’ve been to were my brothers’, and those I was either too young or too easily forgotten to enjoy, so I have grown up with a bitter hatred for weddings (my hatred for matrimony and “endless love “[not just the song] also added to that, but I digress). The ceremony was short (thank goodness), not religious (phew) and it contained this lovely reading from one of my favorite books as a child, The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams (the reading is the block quote at the beginning of the blog). Then, in a field behind their house which used to be overgrown and filled with all sorts of clutter, was now a clean and well kept grassy field surrounded by trees and smelling faintly of pine, empty, save for a shed and a large tent. This tent was (thankfully) not like the tent I suffer work under, but  instead of covering tacky plastic tables and screaming pre-pubescent boys, it sheltered pretty tables draped with tablecloths and topped with glasses and pretty centerpieces, all while protecting the well-dressed guests from the bugs and wind outside.
Because the groom’s mother is my second mommy, and a genius, she put me at a table away from my parents with people who had graduated with degrees in graphic arts, history, or people majoring in Japanese. I only talked to the latter of the group at length, considering she was sitting right next to me. The Japanese major, who’s name is Sarah (or Sara. I’ll just alternate spellings). She was AWESOME. We talked a lot about random things, then moved onto the basics, i.e, movies, television and books. So, while on the subject of television, she asked me what kind of shows I watch and I immediately admitted “I cannot tell you what shows I watch, considering they are highly embarrassing.”, so she asked, “Like, childish embarrassing?” to which I answered, “No. Teeny shows. Like the ones on the CW.”
This carried onto her connecting the CW to The Vampire Diaries, which she apparently wanted to see, and then carried over to her watching True Blood, and then back to how The Vampire Diaries was almost exactly like Twilight, but it doesn’t suck (my opinion). So then I went onto putting forth a neutralish view on Twilight, in case she was a fan, and then she just flat out said that they sucked. I then laughed and said, that yes, they are indeed awful, but it reassures me that if I ever do decide I want to publish a book, I know that I might have a chance, provided that piece of crap was published. She laughed and then reached for her phone while saying “Have you seen ‘Alex reads Twilight’?” To which I burst out laughing, and then explained, in bits and pieces, parts of Nerdfighteria.
Anyways, the food (lobster and drawn butter and delicious cupcakes. yum) was fabulous and I do not just say this because I was across the tent from my parents and at a table with people who thought I was legal, and therefore they constantly kept filling my glass with yummy champagne. The 80s cover band was absolutely fantastic and kept everyone dancing and singing, not to mention these people there were just plain fun. There were no fights, no drunken messes, no problems and it was perfect. I know I don’t want to get married, and maybe this will change, but I highly doubt it. I can’t picture myself being with someone forever, but I love weddings. I love the idea that two people can be happy and in love enough to take such a monumental step. I love the idea that maybe my friends in the next five or so years will all be getting married. And I hope I can be there for it, because it’s one of those carefree and happy experiences that I savor. Also, free champagne is a real plus.


photo credit: Andrew Morrell

feeling uninspired and other needless rambling

5 Aug

“I am giving up on half empty glasses, and I am giving up on greener grasses”
-“Giving Up” Ingrid Michaelson

Now, I have had a creative block for a very very long time. I don’t count NaNoWriMo as a creative activity, I count that as an obligation. I don’t count the poems I write, however good people may tell me they are, as creative periods either. All I get is random spurts of creativity, or on occasion I can force something good out of me, but lately this has not happened. Lately (and by lately, I mean once a month to once every few months), I open a word document, type up a page of a story, love it, go back to it the next day and hate it and stop writing. If I try to write a poem, I can’t force anything out, which is usually how my poetry writing goes, by Force. But I can’t force myself to write anything good.
Maybe I need to change my form of creativity. Maybe I need a change of scenery, a change of people, but it is obvious I need a change. What I’m getting at here is that I’m up for change. (I am in no way trying to rip off Obama’s Change campaign. I just like to EMPHASIZE)  I am not someone who avoids change, on the contrary, I thrive on it. I like new things, like my new room, new clothing, my new ipod, things that stick with me and are involved in my life daily, but seem small. Something simple like the my room changing color has changed a lot of things; like one, I don’t feel like I’m living in a cave anymore. Or the fact that my love sex life, is changing as time passes and new people come into my life. But the little changes aren’t doing it for me. I need big change. Monumental change. Good or bad, pretty or ugly. As awful and selfish as it is to say, I wouldn’t mind bad change because it might strike something creative in me.
The only thing I feel these days is this dense depression that seems to weigh me down and screw me up more than anything. I feel like I’m back to this time last year, except this time I don’t have my best friend. To be completely honest, I don’t know what is going on with me. The only thing I seem to want to do all the time is either cry or scream,or both,  and the last time that happened, it didn’t help me in any way. So I guess I’ll just sit here, and wait patiently for a shift in the ground beneath me.


I fail and other observations

3 Aug

“I’m just a curbside prophet with my hand in my pocket waiting for my rocket to come.”
– Jason Mraz “Curbside Prophet”

You, um, four people that read this, know that I fail at lots of things. For example, I failed EPICALLY at NaNoWriMo last year, I failed at finishing the 30 day letter challenge in 30 days and I failed at BEDA (April) last year, and now, where I fail at BEDA again. Part of it is laziness, part of it is that I have family here for a little while, then I have a wedding to go to… and enough excuses, but I just don’t have the drive, energy or time to write blogs every day. Not to mention that, as of late, I have been going back to being depressed and this blog would end up becoming my soapbox to whine about everything that is wrong with my life. This would a. reveal way too much about my life and b. just make my depression worse, something that I really do not need and something I do not want.
But moving on from my life as a colossal failure, I have a few things to update you on. I recently finished painting my room an absolutely gorgeous teal, which is the most ditzy sounding sentence this blog will contain, I promise. But the cleaning out, taping, priming, painting, painting again, painting again, ripping up of ugly orange carpet, and moving stuff back has beat the crap out of me. Staying awake is almost impossible, the only thing keeping me up is the fact that I am consuming a pornographic amount of sugar. I am also staying up because my cousins from California are in Bumfuck, Upstate New York visiting me for the first time in two years. This may surprise you, but there are attractive people in my family. My father, mother and I are not some of these people, but my cousins however are. My cousin Rachel is 14-years-old going on 17, tall, leggy, skinny, blonde and drop dead gorgeous with brown eyes and long lashes, along with a bubbly personality that actually fits the word “bubbly”. Alex, who is tall and skinny like his sister, has skater/emo hair, dresses like a beatnik/hippy without the beatnik but with lots of the hippy, and a simple, laid-back personality that I myself pretend I have. Admittedly, I was not thrilled about them coming here, thinking they were still the people they were two years ago, i.e, goody goodies.
I, clearly, am not the world’s most well-behaved child, and thankfully they are not the people they were two years ago. Rachel and I watch the same television shows and read the a lot of the same books, Alex and I watch the same types of movies and like a lot of the same music. I usually forget this, but every year we have a weird bond and we always get along. I guess that’s family at it’s best, something I don’t see nearly enough of.
Full of fail and dorkiness (along with being unnecessarily scatterbrained), this blog is done. You can go pee now. Or something.


BEDA- day 1

1 Aug

So, I am currently sitting in my room, writing this quick (most likely going to be unedited) first blog entry for the entire month of August. I have a lovely 30 days of writing ahead of me. Great. This month will include me finishing up the letter challenge (finally), blogging from college campuses that may be my possible future school, and writing annoyingly short and uninteresting posts to fill space and not fail at BEDA like I did last year. For the past few days I have been in the process of redoing my room; painting, getting rid of ugly bookshelves, cleaning and such, and it is lovely, other than the rushing that I have to do because company is coming tomorrow and the fact that i am exhausted. Small spurts of sleep over the past few days and large amounts of work for someone who is used to little work and lots of sleep does not work out too well. I must go and get my room done ASAP. Better and longer blog post tomorrow. Promise.

Day 17- Someone from your childhood

17 Jul

Dear Jacob,

Due to the power of the beautiful Facebook, I do know little snippets of what you are up to. First, since I moved, you have become the biggest man-whore EVER. I thought you should know, and I feel the need to address this because me, you know, Ms. Goody Two Shoes, is incredibly uncomfortable with it. Just kidding. But seriously, EVERY new profile picture of yours is with another beautiful girl, which, of course, does not surprise me by any means, but it’s funny how quickly things change. We went from breaking into the church playground (and the church itself, might I add) to you being a slutface and me being a, uh, not-so goody goody. I do remember, when we were much younger, swimming in the pool with Jesse, prior to his attempt at kissing me (yeah, uh, about that… you know now… after about 7 years. lolz). Also, our constant little schemes or attempts at being little badasses, like the aforementioned church breaking-in. Or when we would sit up on the red steel staircase, hidden from my house and yours, right above the road below, where you, Jesse and I would talk, or eat ice cream during the summer, or, after Jesse ran away (tail between his legs, might I add), you and I shouting “DON’T MOAN, CALL JOAN!” at cars.
Or one day, walking home from the bus stop, when you threw a CD at a passing car, and it hit a van, where we immediately broke into a run, like bandits, even though nothing was going to happen. Christ, you were around for EVERYTHING. You were more present in my life than my own brother. Hell, you are my brother, or at least you used to be. It sucks that after growing up together our entire lives, we lose contact because of three measly hours between us. I’m not saying this bother me like hell, but it does. I do indeed miss you, and maybe when I come to Connecticut this summer, we’ll go to Lake Compounce and cause some trouble… because isn’t that what we do now? 😉


Day 16- someone that’s not in your state/country

16 Jul

Dear Thom,

I would like to take this time to address the fact that you are my favorite ex-husband and number one sassy gay friend. I would also like to address that you are my go-to person for advice, a shoulder to cry on, or someone to bitch with/at. You tolerate my incessant whining and my inability to stay on topic or tell an abridged version of a story, and you always seem to have the right thing to say at the right time. To be completely honest, I have never had anyone like that in my life before; my best friend has always been to invested in her own life and her own problems, my other friends were never close enough to help me out, nor did I want them to be, and… well, you know how my relationships with guys work out.
Another thing, without you, my direct messages inbox/outbox on Twitter would be mostly empty/ no where NEAR as exciting as it is now. Our little conversations about some crazy girls and some asshole guys or some weirdly short coworkers or… you know. We talk about lots. People are so jealous we are so freakin AWESOME, not to mention they wish they could have conversations as awesome and intellectually stimulating as ours (that sounded intelligent, right?). I REALLY hope that when I go to Ohio in a few weeks (date pending) that we will be able to hang out, because that will, of course, be almost too awesome (not to mention HOT) to handle.

I love you dearly,


time: an observation on an obsession

15 Jul

Time is such a fickle thing we dwell so much on. I mean, we count centuries, decades, years, months, day, hours, minutes, seconds, but we never count moments as much as we should. We note things like when the date is a palindrome or when it is 05:06:07 on the day of 08/09/10, and that this won’t happen again until 3010. The amount of time it will take for that to happen again is ridiculous. None of us will be around to witness it, so why do we track it? Why don’t we count the things in between this small event that repeats only so often? Like that yearly birthday, where we all turn a year older and count a little more time. Or that monthly surprise someone seems to give you. Or that daily glass of water or pill you swallow. Or that hourly checking of the clock while you’re at work. Or the minutes that tick by much too fast when your hands are intertwined with someone else’s. Or the seconds it seems to take for someone to be in your life, and then out.

This obsession with counting time is just another obsessive compulsive need us humans need to dedicate so much of ourselves to. We plan days around appointments that are at five, or dates around when work starts at 7 or ends at 3. We consider whether or not we should have that second glass of wine even though it’s eleven o’clock and we should go to sleep. We ponder if our death will be slow and painful; will it tick by little by little, while hours roll on? Or will it be instantaneous, and how much time will that instant be?

Maybe some day, someone will turn off the phone that counts their days, the iPod that counts their hours. Maybe some day, someone will throw away the calender that counts their months and years, putting every second of every minute of every hour into tiny little white boxes. Maybe someday, we will count our time with the steps per minute that take us to the days at the beaches, to the hours splashing in the ocean, to the minutes watching a summer sunset, to the seconds of kissing,  and to the moments it takes for love to begin.

A shamefully late and almost nonexistent day 15- the person you miss the most

14 Jul

Dear John,

As strange as it is that I’m writing this letter to you, I feel it is necessary. I don’t miss you per-say, but who you were last summer. I know we were never really friends, we didn’t run in the same “clique” on the kitchen staff last year. We still aren’t really friends, and I haven’t seen you in a week or so. No one else seems to notice your absence, but for some reason I do. Last summer, you were always laughing or joking or hitting on Deb, who I also miss. But this year you’ve changed and everyone is speculating different things. All ranging from drugs, to family problems to school problems, and so on. It’s obvious you’re depressed, and you isolate yourself so much it’s hard to tell what’s wrong, which is clearly what you want. I seem to be the only one (but maybe I’m just self-centered and recognize only myself in this situation) to be making an effort to talk to you. Obviously, my approach is to annoy you and attempt to bitch-slap you out of your depression, at least for the 8 hours a day we see each other, but still. But now I’m nervous… maybe it’s just my incredible paranoia or maybe it’s just psycho-girl theories, but I hope you haven’t done anything. Because, even though all we are is co-workers, not even friends, I would miss you terribly.

Take care,


Day 14- someone you’ve drifted away from

1 Jul

Dear Jack,

Back in eighth grade, we used to be pretty close. Then in ninth grade even, when I was depressed and it was…. bad. You were the only one there for me. You were the only one that tried to help me. Kerri was just mad at me, but you were genuinely concerned. You texted me almost daily, just to make sure I was alright. You were always there for advice and were always one of my best friends. Then you dated Kerri, and you and I sort of started to hated each other because of how I freaked out because of how you hurt her. Then we sort of became friends again, but we weren’t as close. You started dating Jordan and you just… drifted. These past few months, what with you being arrested and the prescription pills and Rick bullshit, I felt like you could use a friend. I wanted to call you, or stop by, but I knew I couldn’t because we has just drifted so far apart that we can’t really be moved back together. I’m sorry this happened, but it did, and I guess that we have both accepted this.


***names have been changed for privacy/ protection/ legal issues

Day 13- someone you wish could forgive you

28 Jun

various people,

Now, if I was given this prompt five months ago, it would have been to my friend Shelby. But, due to the amazing span of Facebook and several years of time to grow up and get over things, I no longer feel the need to wish for her forgiveness, considering I already have it. But this letter is to anyone I have hurt and not apologized for it. This letter is to anyone who I will do that to in the future, or anyone I will want forgiveness from in the future. I do stupid shit a lot- I know. I don’t think enough, I sometimes don’t care what I’m saying and I suck. And to anyone in the future, you will know that I am a shit friend if I try to give this to you to earn forgiveness instead of just trying on my own. But, if I bother apologizing to anyone, which I do a lot but rarely ever mean, then you know I really want your forgiveness. But still… I know I suck.  And so does this letter.


day 12- person you hate/ has caused you the most pain

27 Jun

Dear Kerri,

Weird that you are also my “best friend”, huh? Let’s start with the little stuff, shall we? Ninth grade: Started out well, but just progressed… badly. You always created an air of constant judgement, blatant ridiculing and just downright bitchiness. All the time we talked about you, your problems (granted, you have a lot of them, but still), and if I tried to talk about my problems or what was wrong with me, you’d just undermine what hurt me or what bothered me. Whenever something was important to me, you’d blow it off and be uninterested and bored. You still do this stuff, but now some things are different. All you have is your boyfriend/husband, and I have more friends. I mean, now I’m your only female friend, really, and I could care less whether or not we stay friends. I honestly have more friends that treat me a hell of a lot better. Ones that don’t point out the only reason a guy would like me is because I’m “easy”. Ones that don’t undermine everything I do, ones that aren’t completely focused on themselves… BETTER friends. And, so what if I met some of them online? They treat me better than you ever have, so I guess the internet isn’t such a bad place. And honestly? Are you 12? The random fight you started last night, probably because you were drunk or high, was completely pointless and nonsensical. I didn’t replace you, Allie is not my “new best friend”, although she is one of them. And seriously? Grow. Up. “Replace you” and “new best friend”? I thought that drama died out in 6th grade, but obviously some people still have it in them. Call me a bitch, or whatever, I don’t want to deal with it. Keep fucking around, and my consistent forgiveness might not be so consistent.


***this letter is very scatterbrained and mostly stream-of-consciousness. Sorry if it’s confusing or whatever.

car troubles, sketchy places are sketchy, and stinky buses

26 Jun

Yesterday, my dears, was a fun-filled sack of fun drops. First, a back story. My uncle makes stretchers for artists (and they look a little different than that picture, because they are Special. If you want an explanation on how so, comment and I will tell you), so I went to help him deliver them in New York City. Well, we finished our deliveries SUPER DUPER early, picked up his sand (yes. sand. Also, we picked it up across the street from Cedar Lake, which was in an episode of Gossip Girl. my uncle’s truck was in the background of said episode. legit, yo) and then went to another artist to help her with something for her paintings. This artist lives in SoHo in a GORGEOUS apartment, but SoHo also has a lovely amount of no parking, other than this little parking lot.
Well, we get to SoHo, go over to the parking lot and the guy there said that we couldn’t park there, that the lot was full, even though there were about three visible parking spots, so my uncle argued a little and the guy agreed. We grabbed our stuff, an $8,000 painting (that I later used to fan myself with. I’m so slick.), and left the car and the key with the guy to park. We go into the artist’s apartment for about an hour, then leave, and as we’re turning the corner, we see my uncle’s blue truck with it’s wooden rack on the top. But, the truck is not in a parking spot. It is parked half on the sidewalk, half in the street, next to a graffiti-covered wall, and there are two guys sitting in it. We go over to the truck, obviously and understandably confused and suspicious as to why there are two strange men inside. The guy in the driver’s seat said they were just starting it for us, suspicious already because they had not idea when we were coming back, and it was also not the case considering they were just sitting there talking with the doors open.
So my uncle pays the guy (a remarkably higher price than he usually pays, considering he’s parked there before), and comes back to the car, turns the key and… nothing. No starting. No sound, no… nothing. Now, the battery was not dead, which was our first thought, but the windows worked, the lights came on, the radio worked… but the car wouldn’t start. So, after my uncle attempted to get under the car, which was difficult considering we were weirdly parked, we called his friend on what little battery power my uncle had left on his phone (mine was already dead. Thanks, shitty ENV2) and he had to walk from Chelsea (specifically, because I like to show off my uncle’s famous-artist friends, the Hotel Chelsea, where Sid Vicious supposedly stabbed Nancy. I later learned that she was killed by drug dealers, Sid was asleep. But I digress,) to SoHo where we were. We called triple A, they sent a tow truck over and the truck was then towed. The tow truck also got stuck in traffic, due to the fact that New York City police officers are opposed to letting street lights doing their jobs, so we were stuck for a little while, and then we got to the auto shop.
My first thought when we got there was: sketchy shop place is sketchy, and oh boy was it. Not only was the guy a major Creeper (I’ll elaborate upon request), but there was a woman there, fairly disgruntled, who said to us, “Don’t leave your car here. If you want it fixed, don’t leave it here.” We had no other options, considering my uncle needed to get his truck fixed ASAP, but this was not exactly a thrilling thing to hear. So, we find out there was a simple connector problem, which could not be fixed that day, so my uncle’s friend would have to pick it up and drive it Upstate when he comes back up, so my uncle and I proceeded to board a bus from The Port Authority to Kingston, then to Kingston to home.
So, naturally, I got home tired, hungry (considering the last time I ate was 7 that morning), smelly, sticky and sweaty at about 11, only to constantly be reminded that I had to get up AGAIN at six to work today. So, I was no happy camper, but a shower, large bottle of water and bowl of Ramen noodles later, I was feeling better and happy to get to sleep. In other news, today was my first day back at work. The noobs working there this year are stupider than they were last year. But, oh well, at least it finally feels like summer again. Enough of my whining.

Hope you all are well! Letter 12 to come tomorrow!


note: The picture at the beginning of this post is one of Richard Hambleton’s shadow men that he painted all over the East Village, a gallery of which you can see here. His painting is the one I rudely fanned myself with. I give him permission to use any future publication of mine as a tissue. Or toilet paper.)

Day 11- A deceased person you wish you could talk to

24 Jun

Grandpa, Gramps, Old Man, etc.,

You don’t know me, but I’m your son Stan’s daughter, Caitlyn Elizabeth. I’m fifteen, I love reading and writing and music and movies and… bunches of things. What’s weird is that I am constantly learning that we have a lot of things in common. Like, when I was younger I loved theater and always wanted to get involved, but never had the guts to. Then I learned you were a tap dancer in Vaudeville. When I was looking for colleges, I randomly picked the majority of my top choices in Ohio, for absolutely no reason, and one of them happened to be your alma mater, Wittenberg. Then, when I began to rethink writing, I decided on advertising and marketing, not knowing that you did the same thing. I mean, you were 2nd in command for advertising for The New York Times, and then a vice-president at some advertising firm, with a huge corner office on the 40th floor of a building on Madison Ave. You (and after you died, grandma) received a Christmas card from the publisher of The New York Times. (!) Even though I never met you, or knew you, I look up to you. I wish we could have met, or talked, or… something. But this will have to do.


Day 10-Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to (my one, your nine)

20 Jun

Here goes nothing…

Hey there… you,

So, I’m only writing this letter to you because I a. can’t think of anyone else (for this letter, and in general) and b. because we haven’t talked for… ummm…. a week, now? And we can’t talk until next week for… reasons. Which, naturally, sucks because there are things I want to tell you, and things I want to say to you but can’t say them here. But anyways, I can say this: I miss you. I really, really miss you. I wish there was a part of you that missed me… but I highly doubt there is. This past week has given me a lot of time to think about things you’ve told me, about what my friends have told me… and it’s dangerous. People always tell me not to think too much, and when I don’t think too much they tell me to really think about things, which is my current situation. At first, my friends told me to go for it and not think so hard, so I did; I went for it, and I stopped thinking. But then I started thinking again, and they’ve told me to stop/ keep thinking. And now… I just don’t know what to do.  Which sucks more than anything because I count on my friends so much to guide me when I can’t figure out how to guide myself. I guess this must be a test for me to start realizing that I have to Grow Up and make My Own Decisions. All I’ve decided is this: I don’t think I can do it anymore. I can’t just be number nine.



Day 9- someone you want to meet

19 Jun

I want to meet all of you. Every single person reading this.

Late and lazily,


Day 8- your favorite internet friend

16 Jun

Dear Callie,

Your are not my first internet friend , but my second and definitely my favorite. I had no doubt in my mind that this letter would be to you, but I did feel guilty because there are so many friends I’ve met online that are so incredible and so amazing (not to mention better than my IRL friends), but I knew this letter had to be to you, if it wasn’t I would feel like it was just wrong. Anyways, I went through my skype history and found our first skype chat, which began because you tweeted something about wanting to talk to someone on skype, and I replied and we started talking and hit it off from the start. I figured (going through said skype chat) that we met on Omegle and constantly kept running into each other, but in our frenzy to find John Green we kept skipping each other. Maybe this was a SIGN. So, the original skype chat, the beginning:

caitlyn : hai

Callie: hey. did you like my awesome “add me” message? haha i always get random people that will be scammers or along those lines

caitlyn: i loved it!

caitlyn : i was laughing for a good minute

Callie: haha thanks. i try

caitlyn : so…

caitlyn : what shall we talk about?

Callie: well we could cover introductions? haha as in “hi, my name is callie! i’m a freshman in college from texas! and i have a real life! not” lol

caitlyn : ok, “hi! my name is caitlyn, i’m a sophomore in high school and i talk to my imaginary friends and pretend they are real people. when this happens in public people look at me funny”

Callie : ahahaaha nice. those are the best types of friends, imaginary ones.

caitlyn : indeed!

Now, I have no idea what your “add me message”  is now, but you seemed to tolerate my ridiculous weirdness, so we just had to be friends. Not really. But seriously. Anyways, I just got off the phone with you, reading some of that chat and talking to you about… stuff.   The reason I chose you as my favorite internet friend is, because despite the fact that you live halfway across the country and are 6 years older, you are still one of my best friends, internet and otherwise. It is easy to joke with you and be stupid, but it’s also easy to talk to you because you give me an honest opinion and an honest answer to a question, you don’t just blindly agree with me, like some other friends of mine do. You know everything going on with what’s-his-face, and it’s easy to talk to you about it because you know him and what he’s like, not to mention you keep me grounded when it comes to that… stuff.  I honestly hope that you do actually come to New York this summer and we can hang out. I have indeed made a small list of the things we need to do, and it grows pretty much daily. So… there you go. my favorite internet friend. Feel special, hoe.



Callie : i love big kitties

Callie: i want to pet them

caitlyn : you like big pussy cats?

Callie: their noses. too cute. and huge paws

caitlyn : and want to pet them?

Callie: no. i like wild cats

Callie: dont try to make this sexual

Callie: bitch

**** any other internet friends, don’t get offended or pouty because this isn’t about you. Then again, we wouldn’t be friends if you did stuff like that, so this is pretty pointless. Jus’ sayin’.

Day 7- a letter to your ex/ boyfriend/girlfriend/crush

16 Jun


Dear ex-crush,

I like to laugh about this one, because it is honestly the silliest crush I’ve ever had, considering it was so psycho-obsessive. All through ninth grade I was basically madly in love with you, but it was the you I created, not the real you. The real you is an asshole that has the same taste in a lot of things that I do, and is just an annoying pain in the ass. The You of Caitlyn’s Mind is this sexy geek-boy who is has great taste in books and is super-smart and super-sweet and super-talented and blah blah blah. I do find writing you this letter simply hilarious because you never knew I liked you. I mean, you might considering who I told is close to you, but whatever, still funny. I wasted so much time being obsessed with my creation of you, writing pathetic poems and being all emo-depressed. Not to mention the only talking we did was small talk.  Yup, still giggling.


Day 6- a letter to a stranger

15 Jun

Dear stranger,

I’m not writing to a specific stranger, just any person out there I do not know. You could be short or tall, skinny or plump. You could be male or female, black or white, blonde or red-haired. You could have freckles dotting your cheeks or a widow’s peak. You could be a good kisser, or a tough fighter. You could be an architect or a florist. You might enjoy jazz or heavy metal. You might like vanilla candles and chocolate ice cream, or you might like beaches over ski slopes. You might like poetry or you might like science. You could have a boyfriend or girlfriend, you could be gay or straight. You might be obsessed with strawberries and knitting, or you may like silly bracelets and rainy Sunday afternoons. Whoever you are, I’d love to meet you one day, so I won’t ever have to write a letter to a stranger again, but instead to a friend.


Day 5- a letter to your dreams

14 Jun


I used to think I had you all figured out. I dreamt that I was going to be a published author, possibly even a bestselling one. But lately, I’m not sure. I still would love to do that, if I could for the life of me finish a novel. I stopped reading as much as I used to and the quality of my writing has suffered because of which. But e. lockhart also had that problem; she said that in high school she stopped reading as much and then picked it back up again and look where she is now. Maybe I could still be a writer, but there is that voice in my head that just keeps steering me away. I don’t have any credentials, other than the writing conference that I didn’t even attend. I’ve never gotten published, I’ve never gotten an award, so I won’t get into Iowa or any other college for writing because they’ll just think I suck, have no potential and am just a waste of time. The publishing industry is in shambles, so you need to be a REALLY FRAKING good writer to get a book published, and you suck, so just don’t. You can’t finish a novel anyhow, why bother trying? And so on.
But I do have potential. I’ve been told by the only English teacher who has ever affected me, Ms. Webb. She wrote on my writing portfolio grade sheet “Writing is hard work. Writers work hard. Amazing writers work harder.” At the time, I thought this was a diss to my writing, that by saying I have “potential” meant I sucked. But now, taking a step back (and realizing how much my current creative writing teacher sucks) this is probably the best advice anyone has ever given me, and probably the only honest thing I have ever heard from a teacher, or anyone really.
So, dreams, maybe I don’t know what you are yet. Maybe I do actually want to study marketing and advertising because I find it interesting, not because it’s a good fall back option. But, even if I don’t know what you are yet, I’ll get a glimpse of you when I close my eyes tonight. Hopefully.