You Should Be Arrested For That

What a dreary day for a doctor's visit.

The only reason I wasn't a nurse or a doctor was because I got grossed out by blood and stuff (*said like Nacho Libre). It doesn't mean I'm any less likely to execute a self-diagnosis or a diagnosis on my friends, for that matter. I said one of my friends was probably anemic one time--she was. Obviously, I know what I'm talking about. I mean.

When I grow up and have a family, I want to be one of those housewives that has like a billion home remedies with herbs in a garden for just the occasion. But not the housewife that blabs about all of her knowledge, pressing all of her friends to take mint extract and Vitamin Chin Chin Chang. That just comes off as annoying. I HATE those women. I want to be the cool one that's like Super Mom and can cure anything and everything (but you'd never know it until she just like brings you this tea or this little oil.) I want to be that girl--the secret necessity you never knew you needed.

Ughhhhh.... So nervous. :(

Breaking the Ranks

They would make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and I would always say, “Thank you.” I don’t remember them saying, “You’re welcome,” ever. I don’t remember them not saying it. I don’t remember anything but the sandwich that they made me every day. My sisters never complained in front of me about this daily chore; but, once, I overheard one of them asking my mom why I couldn’t make my own sandwich. My mom responded with “Because she’s the youngest.” Yeah! I’m the youngest and you’re not!

~

I remember her leaning back in her chair every which a way, twisting and straining as she tried to pop her back. I pounced over to her and eagerly assumed my position to stand on her back. I couldn’t contribute too much to the family chores at the time, but I felt that I was the smallest for times such as these. It was one of my small occupations in the family. After all, I was the youngest.

~

They had conversations about future slumber parties with friends—their friends. Of course, I was invited, right? Of course, I’m going, too… I hope… Why are only you two getting out of the car? Wasn’t the slumber party tonight? Why can’t I go?! “Because you’re the youngest.”

~

That phrase suddenly became one that I both hated and loved, depending on the particular situation. I remember daydreaming about how I would be old enough, some day, and how I would do so many things that they wouldn’t allow me to do then. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to be “free” and do what I wanted to do. I’ll show them.

~

Three more came along—miniature versions of my sisters and me. Who are these people? It’s supposed to be just my two sisters and me! Our places are set at the table. Oldest, then middle, then youngest. Everything is thrown off. I loved my little siblings; however, I was the only one that had changed ranks to make room for them, so to speak. My sisters continued to hold their respective ranks in the family. However, I had been demoted. No longer was I the “darling youngest” or even the “annoying youngest sister.” I was just the middle, and the updated middle at that.

~

Children are bathed, fed, pampered—as if the mother is entering them into a prized pig competition. For instance, when jelly is on a child’s face, a mother will immediately jump up to remove it, licking her finger and frantically smudging it across the child’s face, as if the perfection of her specimen is of utmost value. Why doesn’t she leave it? There is nothing wrong with having something on a child’s face; however, every mother has this instinct to remove whatever it is immediately. I’ve never known a mother that has simply grown out of this. They grew out of the action because the child complained about it being embarrassing, but they never grew out of the instinct.

~

There was always someone needed to watch the smaller children. My older sisters were out of the house, getting married, growing up. There was only one child from the older three left, and I was that child. Please don’t be gone for too long, mom. “Thank you so much, baby. It will only be for a few hours. Three hours at the most.” I had been demoted, even further, to the oldest.

~

We watched Dumbo. I mixed up their grape juice and water in a sippy cup. I made them sandwiches and they said thank you. Come to think of it, I don’t remember saying, “You’re welcome.” I don’t remember not saying it either. However, I remember licking my finger to clean the spot on one of their faces and realizing something—it had never been about the chores, responsibilities or entitlements that whoever was in each rank could claim. In fact, it had never been a competition to begin with. It had always been that my family was simply caring for and taking care of each other, in whatever way we could. Suddenly, my sisters did not seem like the enemy. Instead, they seemed to be people who I respected, from whom I could learn something, and who had always been, indeed, a great deal more grown up than I had been.

This story is mostly made up... :/ Gah, this one sucks. My favorite essay from this semester (possibly that I have ever written), "The Realistic View of Love," can never be posted. :/ It's a shame. That was a masterpiece. Maybe I'll make up a pseudonym and try to get it published someday. That should be on the bucket list; twould be awesome. In its place within the next week or so, I will post my summary on Erich Fromm's "Why Love is an Art" essay, which is an oldie but goodie... and only mildly similar to "The Realistic View of Love." I wish I could hide feelings better sometimes. Or at least be more okay with not having to know what I feel and why all of the time. It makes for interesting essays that I'm proud of, but will never read to anyone except strangers.

My Favorite Man

I am a daddy's girl. Always have been. I still count myself as a daddy's girl, I guess. I genuinely believe I have the most awesome dad out of anyone, so I guess I am a daddy's girl. But for some reason, it's not the same anymore. I've understand that for a while now. However, it was made particularly apparent to me when I realized that I wrote the following essay in past tense--nothing is in the present tense at all. It sort of made me sad. It's one of those relationships that you don't really know what happened to or if anything in particular happened at all; you just know it's different and you don't know how to fix it. It may be just that I got older. Suddenly, it was weird for me to go jump on his back or sit in his lap and play with/squish his face. Not that that wasn't probably weird at the time or anything either, but... I don't know. I wish that I could get that relationship back in a real way. We were buddies. And now I feel as if the only reason we are still close might be because we were in the past. A lot of it is based off of a memory. But it's not for a lack of admiration. It's just... different for some reason now. Honestly, it may be because, as you grow older, you tend to judge closeness somewhat based on the type of conversations you have with people. Growing up, we never really talked that much--he was extremely quiet (except with me) and I preferred to make noises or pretend like I was a gopher or something--the awkward, self-entertaining child, that was me. And that was fine at the time--conversation wasn't really that important. But when you grow up and it suddenly becomes important, conversation between parents and children becomes slightly odd. Parents and children always tend to have some unspoken rule of "don't ask, don't tell" that should be respected on top of the fact that they already have spent their entire life with each other--there's not too much you can say that they don't already know.

I guess we are still close--I guess it being different is not necessarily bad. Bottom line is he is still the same guy he ever was--the model guy I had in my head since I was a little girl.

And this is what my first essay of the Fall '11 semester was about for my memoir assignment in my creative nonfiction English class. Here it is.

Every time I think about my dad, I remember the side of him that no one saw but me. I remember that silly side of him that showed when we would make faces at each other in the mirror. He would always make the same face--my favorite one; I never forgot to ask him for it. I was particularly thrilled when he would accompany the face with that crazy laugh he saved for only my sister and me. He would never do the laugh in front of my mom; I think he thought it scared her. However, when he did the laugh for my sister and me, we would collapse on the floor in laughter. He never wanted to do it too much; I believe he said it hurt him. My sister and I would wait for a few months and then ask him again. If we waited long enough before asking, he would always, with as much enthusiasm and fervor as was painfully possible, oblige us in bursting forth with that cackle--that silly, ridiculous cackle.

It wasn’t as if he was all fun and games. In fact, it was usually the opposite. All of my friends’ parents didn’t understand my dad because he was so reserved, so quiet. He played guitar, violin, mandolin and banjo. He played the kind of music to which you couldn’t help but just sit and listen; his Steve Howe, Phil Keaggy and classical guitar renditions were the soundtrack of my childhood. Sometimes he would play original pieces that he had written, which were always my favorite. He felt the music like no one else did. He didn’t have to be able to sing or convey his thoughts through lyrics. He would play a string and it moved with him. I still think of the songs he played, and I feel as though I’m dancing. Dancing in my own head, where the memory is--that quiet place he and I always connected.

He was a quiet man, but he had so much heart. He could never say an unkind word to anyone; in the same way, he never really said a word to anyone if he didn’t feel a deep sense of affection toward the person. This is why I thought my dad was the best man in the world. He was honest; he didn’t try to convince anyone of some affection that he didn’t feel. He was genuine. In this way, the time he willingly put in with me meant more to me than anything else. It mattered so much because I realized that he wouldn’t have put in that time with me if he didn’t want it.

I studied my dad. I watched his every move and spent as much time as I possibly could with him. I wanted to be just like him. I remember asking him to wake me up “as soon” as he got out of the shower. When he woke me up, I would jump out of bed and go pick out my morning cereal. It was usually Honey Nut Cheerios; after all, my dad ate Cheerios, and, despite that I hated Cheerios, I wanted my cereal to at least look like his cereal.

Every once in a while, he would forget to wake me up in the morning before he left for work. I remember waking up to hearing the back door close; I would jump out of bed and run to the front door, where I stood every morning to wave as he drove out of the driveway. But if he forgot to wake me up, he also forgot to look at the front door to see me wave. It broke my heart. I suppose I felt forgotten; I felt as though he had been doing me a favor to eat breakfast with me each morning. It’s funny how, when I think of my childhood, I laugh at how silly my thought processes were; but when I remember particular instances, I realize how real all of those emotions were, even as a child. I can still feel the heartbreak and sadness that came from thinking that I might not mean very much to my dad.

More memorable than those doubts I had as a child are the feelings of closeness and the traditions that I had with my dad. I remember driving home from church each Sunday with him in his squeaky, old, red truck he saved up for a year to buy. I would be in the dress and those clingy tights; I hated those tights so much, but my mom always made me wear them every Sunday. The seam always bunched up underneath my toes, sometimes running along the length of my foot versus the width of it. That seam would stretch and bunch in every possible crevice a child’s foot can muster. Those blasted tights were gymnasts inside my Mary Janes. Daddy always understood that I would take them off as soon as I got in his truck; it was as if it was a ritual. I would take off my tights and look at the bottom of them- it always looked like little paw prints, which we would laugh about before I tossed them on the floorboard of the truck in half- pretend, half-genuine disgust. He would roll the window down for me so that I could angle myself in the front seat and dangle my tight-less--thank God--feet out of the window. It was a ritual, I suppose. We would talk for some of the thirty-minute drive home; that time usually consisted of me asking him to tell me stories about when he was a little kid. It was never about anything very important; but then again, I rarely remember any important discussions we had. I remember the stories, the feeling. Mostly on those Sunday drives home with the windows down, we would listen to the music he grew up on--the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Queen, David Bowie and YES. I still remember the first Queen song I heard; it was “Hammer to Fall.” I remember feeling as if I was on top of the world with him-- as if nothing else mattered but that moment with my daddy. I still feel the breeze from those days. I still remember the stories. I remember all of it.

Face Off and Prized Pigs

*This excerpt doesn't make sense out of the context of the whole paper, but...

"...Children are bathed, fed, pampered—as if the mother is entering them into a prized pig competition. For instance, when jelly is on a child’s face, a mother will immediately jump up to remove it, licking her finger and frantically smudging it across the child’s face, as if the perfection of her specimen is of utmost value. Why doesn’t she leave it? There is nothing wrong with having something on a child’s face; however, every mother has this instinct to remove whatever it is immediately. I’ve never known a mother that has simply grown out of this. They grew out of the action because the child complained about it being embarrassing, but they never grew out of the instinct..."

Hot damn.... There is a reason why these are my top two gals--it is for their awesome styles and because they are my two favorite females to stalk and crush on. I realize that neither of these two pictures show their styles (which would be my justification in posting pictures of Bambi and Freja)..... I have no alibi. I'm sorry. I realize that the posting of these pictures was practically pointless. But they are just such beautiful, bad ass humans!

Reasons to be Thankful:

1) For the forthcoming unexpected Christmas bonus (oh, thank you by the way).

2) My getting on the ball and finishing my insomnia paper AND my creative nonfiction piece on my placement in my family.

3) The fact that I will be posting almost all of my essays on here within the next week or two so that I won't lose them at the end of the semester. (The fact that essays were written is more of the "to be thankful" than the fact that I will be posting them, but it's cool).

4) Fishtail braids.

5) Promises of Wurlitzers (pretend like it won't happen, pretend like it won't happen).

6) Um, Fridays?! And Friday shows?! Yeah?!!!!

Oh, and this is a picture of me and my sisters when we met Justin Bieber. Justin told us not to cry, so we tried our hardest.

Mornin' Blog

Can I please embrace you, little Asian child?!

Ok, so I HAVE been looking up pictures of atomic bombs today. You got me! I hate that it was ever invented. However, if it HAD to be invented, I'm glad that we have pictures, because they fascinate me.

That says "The first atomic bomb, exploded in the desert of New Mexico, created such intense heat that it fused the desert sand to glass." Insane.

Sometimes I like feeling like a girl.

None of this is joined in any shape or form. However, there was a valid line of thinking from A to B to C, if you were wondering.

The Sadness

I have an idea for a song. I had a conversation recently that I really connected with. It was about the feelings that make us feel dark, it was about sadness, heartbreak, etc. This was said, "Whatever you do, do not become bitter. Depression or heartbreak will eventually get better, but bitterness takes a lot longer to get over." And in return, the following statement was made: "I'm not bitter... I'm just sad."

It struck a chord with me.

I started thinking about the trap people feel that they are in sometimes. It's this inner struggle that goes on within us--no one else can see it, but it is sometimes more noticeable than a new haircut or a new pair of shoes. You want to help, but you can't really. It's the sadness. It creeps in with the cold; it burns you when they leave you; it seeps in while you're sleeping, and makes your awakenings seem less like a vacation and more like a routine.

Everyone has felt this, I think. Despite there being nothing to say when you witness someone in this situation, there should be some words written that at least offer a sense of comradery and understanding to them.

I feel that rarely are we trying to be happy in life,* but we are simply trying to not be sad.

I understand that sometimes that is just as difficult.

I wish there was something I could say. You are always cared for. You mean more than you realize. You hold a special place in my heart.

*I don't know many people that are actively pursuing happiness. Most of us are apathetic or in the middle-ground if we are realistic with ourselves.

Oswald's Mill and "I Believe in Sciiiiaaance"

So I decided I want to live here when I grow up. Okay, at least visit or pine after it.

Oswald's Mill in New Tripoli, Pennsylvania

Outside. Ahhhhh!

I just want you for my own. Is that so horrible?

I learned something interesting today. To demonstrate my point, please oblige me in looking at these two pictures of the same woman.

Oh, hi. Ok, which is more attractive?

Well, supposedly if you're a girl, you don't really care as a rule (although I did think one was more attractive--I chose correctly). If you're a guy, you choose the larger pupil. Every time. Proven. Males have a built-in biological preference to girls with large pupils, which is odd because (drum roll...) girl's pupils are their biggest when a girl is ovulating.

Ewww gross! It's like a subconscious "trying to pass on the family crest" thing or something. I don't think of attraction in scientific terms as a rule, but it is a HYURGE part of it. It's crazy. Science and the human body and the way they work together are absolutely insane. I apologize if this seems off-color; this stuff just fascinates me.

I should have been a biochemist for sure. Damn those little testing rats.

No-No's

Things that I cried to that I wasn't supposed to cry to:

- The Wonder Years

- Benji

- People eating*

- Classical soundtracks (preferably Streams or the Pearl Harbor soundtrack). It would always start out as an "I wonder if I can make myself cry if I listen to this" and ended up as an uncontrollable sob fest. It works, I guess. I am not a bad actress, I promise.

- Singing with my family.

*Me and my sister, Brooke, have this odd pity for people that are eating, particularly when they open their eyes really wide as they chew/swallow. I can't explain it. However, her husband is the most adorable, sad person to watch eat. My sister and I try not to make a big deal about it--so as to not embarrass him, of course-- but we exchange knowing, heartbroken glances toward each other and then usually text each other something like, "Poor thing! He's just trying to nourish himself! He's just doing what he can to stay alive." My family is extremely close, particularly me and Brooke, probably mostly due to our individual quirks and our mutual understanding of them.

Things that I laughed at that I wasn't supposed to laugh at:

- The Notebook

- Catcher in the Rye

- When people cry on the phone (I've been on both sides of this and either way is a horribly sad, awkward, embarrassing situation--no one should be laughing. I think that's why it's so hard not to...)

And finally, people that I wish I knew, but don't.

Yes.

David Davis, the bad ass, scuffling while he be gettin his hair did.

I think I may have just fallen in love.

The Place We Are

I have been compiling a new playlist. I need new music, slower music, fall music. Autumn. What have you. This song was on it ("The King Beetle on the Coconut Estate" by mewithoutyou), and I had been told the lyrics were wonderful. I looked them up. I got about halfway and had goosebumps all over my body, shrinking and reappearing--relentless sensations of tingling that I've come to love and view as homage to whatever artistic source they come from. It was all from simply reading these lyrics. By the end, I almost started crying. What a beautiful story- everything phrased perfectly, telling a story that I miss feeling so deeply.

As the moon rose and the hour grew late
The day-help on the coconut estate
Raked up the dried leaves that fell dead from the trees
Which they burned in a pile by the lake

The beetle king summoned his men
And from the top of the rhododendron stem,
"Calling all volunteers who can carry back here
The Great Mystery has been lit once again"

One beetle emerged from the crowd
In a fashionable abdomen shroud
Said, "I'm a professor, you see, that's no mystery to me
I'll be back soon, successful and proud"

But when the beetle professor returned,
He crawled on all six, as his wings had been burned
And described to the finest detail all he'd learned
There was neither a light, nor a heat, in his words

The deeply dissatisfied king
Climbed the same stem to announce the same thing
But in his second appeal sought to sweeten the deal
With a silver padparadscha ring

The lieutenant stepped out from the line
As he lassoed his thorax with twine
Thinking, "I'm stronger and braver and I'll earn the king's favor
One day all he has will be mine"

But for all the lieutenant's conceit
He too returned singed and admitting defeat
"I had no choice, please believe, but retreat
It was bright as the sun, but with ten times the heat

And it cracked like the thunder and bloodshot my eyes
Though smothered with sticks, it advanced undeterred
Carelessly cast an ash cloud to the sky, my lord
Like a flock of dark vanishing birds"

The beetle king slammed down his fist
"Your flowery description's no better than his!
We sent for the great light and you bring us this?
We didn't ask what it seems like, we asked what it is!"

His majesty's hour at last is drawn nigh
The elegant queen took her leave from his side
Without understanding, but without asking why
She gathered their kids to come bid their goodbyes

And the father explained, "You've been somewhat deceived
You've all called me your dad, but your true Dad's not me
I lay next to your mom and your forms were conceived
Your Father's the light within all that you see

He fills up the ponds as He empties the clouds
Holds without hands and He speaks without sounds
He provides us with the cow's waste and coconuts to eat
Giving one that nice salt taste, and the other its sweet

Sends the black carriage the day death shows its face
Thinning our numbers with kindness and grace
And just as a flower and its fragrance are one
So must each of you and your Father become

Now distribute my scepter, my crown, and my throne
And all we've known as wealth to the poor and alone"
Without further hesitation, without looking back home
The king flew headlong into the blazing unknown

And as the smoke ring hurled higher and higher
The troops flying loops around the telephone wires
They said, "Our beloved's not dead, but his highness instead
Has been utterly changed into fire"

Why not be utterly changed into fire?
Why not be utterly changed into fire?
Why not be utterly changed into fire?
Why not be utterly changed into fire?

I want You back. The thing that bothers me about church and the people in it is that they seem so stuck on one thing--I do not mean that disrespectfully. I want to respect, be best friends, and be absolutely head over heels in love and like with God--I miss that, even the degree I had it at one time. But I also never want to lose sight of the beauty that is around me--the field, the music, the fire. I don't want to view it as "God's wonderful cReAtIOn!!!" or anything of that nature. It is, but... I don't want to be a phony. I don't want to have to fit a mold. I love this life I lead, I don't want to change it. I don't think God wants people to recite a planned response to what we see. I want to see what I see/hear what I hear as so beautiful that I can't say a thing, or that I just write until I can phrase it in a way that somehow captures the beautiful feeling I have when I witness it. I think He wants real people that are made in the same exact way that He made them, striving to be like Him. I don't think cookie cutter Christians are a good thing at all. Southern Baptist culture is odd. I'm much more liberal than any person I know that came from where I came from, and I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. I guess I always felt as if churchy people judged me for being different, but I realized I judged them for all being the same. I refuse to pretend to be something I'm not, and so I felt as if I couldn't be a part of the church or God while doing the things that I do. I am not murdering people. I am not having crazy orgies with children. I am dancing. I am getting a drink or two on the weekends (maybe three : /). I am trying to stop smoking cigarettes. I felt guilty. But, I know a friend who reads his Bible every morning while smoking a bowl. And he's one of the closer people to God that I know. He gets Him. And I've heard some of the most sincere senses of peace and admiration come from his voice when he talks about God. I may be off on this and I'd rather not be responsible for anyone taking this to heart, but I believe that we were all created differently and that is what makes us strong not weak. I refuse to end every sentence with "pray about it;" as good as prayer is, I am ADHD. Prayer is not my strongpoint. I can try to get better, but I don't think God made me to be leading people to Him through my expert focus abilities and flowery language in prayer. *Knock on wood* However, I have intuition, I have empathy, I have a passion. And those are things that I don't think were supposed to be ignored as they were not a part of the formula of a "good Christian." I just want to love God and love people and maybe do something worthwhile. There's more to the Christian walk than church. In fact, many "lost people" won't step foot in a church; and isn't that who Jesus came to save in the first place? He hung out with prostitutes and tax collectors and went about His Father's business, which involved hanging out at caves, going out on a boat in a storm, and causing a massive ruckus at a historical gathering at which he threw tables everywhere... He didn't sound like the quiet, kind of boring man that we always imagine. He sounds like somebody I would want to hang out with, somebody I would like to be friends with. Somebody I would like to be a bigger part of my life. Somebody I want back. I don't get all of it. But I'm okay with that. And I'm finally okay with me being okay with that.

This is an honest opinion, not a sermon. You're welcome to disagree; most likely you do.

I also have a piece of cotton in my line of vision that I have been able to see backstroking laps across my eyeball since yesterday. It's only mildly annoying...

Untitled

It's a struggle of being pulled this way

(whether it's mine or yours or both, I don't know)

and trying to hold myself back.

It's an excited hello, a slightly-sorry-for-myself-goodbye

and an "I'm not here" all at the same time.

...At least an "I'm trying to not be all here."

I want to check in completely sometimes.

Sometimes, I feel like I did lately--it never feels wrong.

It always feels right.

Honestly, I look forward to you a great deal.

I wonder if you will always be just something to look forward to.

Every song that I listen to feels like the music is speaking to me in particular.

I want to write back about it--about these things I think, the things I feel.

It is all so vulnerable.

At the end of the day, everyone can read your thoughts

and you have nothing to hide behind,

not even someone's misinterpretation of your thoughts if you have done your job well.

The idea of someone knowing you so well is a beautiful, horrendous thing.

"your beard is growing wild my dear

i love your face

rosy cheeks and pale skin makes me feel this way

like a little girl inside

i just want to hug you day and night, night

let your eyes grow big and your heart beat full"

-Sea of Bees "Skinnybone"

On another note, I think I may have just jumped on the Lady Gaga bandwagon,

as well as made a commitment to start working out again. And the crowd goes wild!!!

Ok, bye.

XX

And so this will be a superficial post dedicated to items that are well over my budget, but that i can still look at. I am an expert window shopper.

Dresses that I want.

Dresses that I would like to have and rarely wear. When I'm famous, designers will send me sample dresses like this to wear when I attend ritsy parties; I'll sip champagne, hold my shoulders back and try to act interested in conversations regarding the "wonderful weather lately" and your mother's health and his "lovely" grandchildren--all in an accent that is trying so desperately to be untraceable and formal, but has the slightest trace of that of a Southern Belle--I will be simply charming. But I'll still jump in the fountain or go swimming on the way home.

Um, yummy. I think my desire for these clothes could be counted as lust.

Oh, so cute and obnoxious.

It is a NEED

And finally, random things that I have fallen in love with.

Me and this chair would snuggle so hard.

GALAXY NAILS!!!!!

Cute neck'aces, one being for a normal person, one being for someone who always wants to be a color wheel. I will pretend like I am both of those people, for I would wear both necklaces with utmost pride.

Bright red beanie. I've been looking for one this whole year and haven't found it. :/

And so this concludes my girly post.

Also, I would like to add that girls are crazy people. Despite my being usually very successful at resisting "crazy girl" thoughts, every once in a while I catch myself starting to think those thoughts--the thoughts that girls feel are inherently ingenious at the time, but then realize (usually thanks to a good conscience, hormones other than estrogen or a kind-hearted man in their life) that they are completely illogical and the reasoning cannot be explained or even understood, except possibly by other crazy girls. Inevitably, the girl suffers the most from these crazy person thoughts because she still doesn't get what she wants (because she failed to communicate what she wanted, but instead insisted upon coldly acting like she didn't care so that maybe "that someone" will "reap the consequences" or something--maybe they will tearfully apologize for their insolence and beg her to do what she wanted in the first place until... "Ok, I guess I'll do it." *pout angry face.... I want to slap every girl in the world right now just thinking about it. Haha) and she is frustrated that no one understood that absolutely baffling logic. Oh, no. I know. It's crazy. It is a GREAT thing to be able to catch yourself BEFORE you start thinking this way. However, I cannot say that I don't feel the pull at times. It is a legitimate part of our genetic code, I believe--this "crazy."

To enjoy life in its basest form

Waking up later than usual.

Not being in a rush.

Bundling up under blankets.

Being able to remember my dreams.

Climbing trees.

Walking barefoot.

My own house.

Every person in my life that I hold close - you mean a great deal.

Tickle wars with my nephew.

Someone taking the time to smile back.

A light at the end of the tunnel.

The tunnel, in the first place.