I am currently letting tears flow freely down my freshly re-made up eyes and cheeks because I am a firm believer in the power of waterproof mascara. I see everyone around me having kids and I see how happy they are, and I stop and think to myself, am I making a mistake by actually trying to better myself with a continued education and part time job rather than dropping out to find a guy to knock me up? I mean, honestly. Originally, teen mom and 16 and pregnant were original shows because teen pregnancy was a bit of an isolated incident. And now, not being pregnant and or having a kid by the age of 20 is becoming the minority. Watching Sarah's reaction to finding out the sex of her baby was painful for me in more ways then one. It made me realize that I've gotten old. Older,atleast. I remember when we used to just sit on her trampoline and talk under the stars. Or when we sat around playing Mall Madness, or watched Fall Out Boy music videos. It also made me realize that we've grown apart, and for different reasons. She moved, I went to college, she got engaged, I swore off relationships, and I became a "stick in the mud" as some might say, while others may argue that I didn't become this metaphorical stick,or wet blanket, but that I matured properly like I was supposed to and I became a well-rounded, intellectual, and genuine person. While it seems like Sarah just stayed the exact same way...and I feel old, and boring because of this. I feel old, boring, and slightly empty because I feel as though I'm missing out on something exciting and new, but I know I'm not. I know better than to think that, but I still can't help but feel this way. I can't honestly believe that I'm sitting here, crying over the fact that I'm bettering myself by going to college instead of virtually ending my life at age 19. Oh, how I wish I had used my waterproff mascara at Allison Kelley's funeral. It would have saved me some tear tracks down my perfectly made up face.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
It sucks to be poor.
This is what I told my mother yesterday as she apologized to me for not having money to let me get breakfast. Now, before you start thinking, oh my goodness, this poor girl, no. No poor girl. I could have eaten breakfast at the house, I just didn't have time. That's beside the point, though. The point is, I'm broke, and my family is poor. What's the difference? Well, I'm broke, meaning I will have more money in a certain amount of time in the form of a biweekly paycheck from my job. My family however, is poor. Meaning no matter how hard we try, and believe me, we try, we can never seem to get up on top of our financial problems. I've heard the phrase "third job to pay for your second job" thrown around in reference to my mom doing Mary Kay. So far it's been a bit of a money pit, and just thinking about her continuing to cause our family to go even more into the red just makes me sick to my stomach. And she wonders why I have a hard time supporting her and her "career"...three guess why I don't.
Monday, October 15, 2012
This sent chills down my spine.
16 For I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation to everyone who believes: first to the Jew, then to the Gentile. -Romans 1:16
holdtightthroughthis.tumblr.com
Aparently, Amanda Todd was bullied by people in her life and so she decided to end it. Now, dozens of people are making pages about her life and memory all over facebook because she, like so many other young people, posted a video on youtube talking about how she was still holding on even though things were tough, and then right around a month later, killed herself. The pages all show her death as 10.10.12 and that was just a few days ago. Finally, I got so fed up with seeing yet another "RIP (Insert Name Here)" tribute page that I decided it had long since been time to do something. So, I started a blog on tumblr for just that reason.
I describe it as a advice/confessions column/blog along with an inspirational "it gets better" safe haven for people to find solace from the bullying and other problems they may encounter in daily life.
I currently have 6 followers, and one terribly stupid anonymous hater. I'm kind of beyond them though, I just hope that pretty soon it catches on. I want to help people, and like me and several others have pointed out, if I help even just one person, then it's all worth it.
I describe it as a advice/confessions column/blog along with an inspirational "it gets better" safe haven for people to find solace from the bullying and other problems they may encounter in daily life.
I currently have 6 followers, and one terribly stupid anonymous hater. I'm kind of beyond them though, I just hope that pretty soon it catches on. I want to help people, and like me and several others have pointed out, if I help even just one person, then it's all worth it.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Words
When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother “What will I be? Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill of fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty? But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dry add: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long, and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting my poor mother.
“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist.” “You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! ” “You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were six, otherwise your nose would have been fine! ”
Don’t worry; we will get it all fixed she would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that as if it were a cabbage she might buy. But, this is not about her. Not her fault she, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable appearance.
By sixteen I was pickled by ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs, laying in a hospital bed. Face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.
Belly gorged on two pints of my own blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist, like my body screaming at me from the inside out “What did you let them do to you? ” All the while, this never ending chorus groaning on and on like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood.
“Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.
And now I have not seen my own face in ten years. I have not seen my own face in ten years, but this is not about me! This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those two pretty syllables.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? , ” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no.
The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing, but you will never be merely “pretty.”
When I was in high school I was on the debate team; I didn't argue with people, but I did what is called an individual event so named because I was the only person up there at any given time. Within the catagory of individual events I did Prose Interpretation and Poetry Interpretation. Now, what those are is exactly what it sounds like, I find a piece of writing fitting to me as far as character and situation and then I interpret it. It's like acting, but I don't especially become that character as much as I give that character a little piece of me. I portray whatever character,but I'm in there still. It's not as strict as theatre I guess you could say. So I dropped the class senior year, but not before I went to a competition where I heard this piece performed. And you know, the girl wasn't even that good, but the piece, my God, this piece had me on my knees at the end of it. The parts that are highlighted are the parts that did me in. I can't explain how it made me feel, because it's not like I experienced this with my mom, but just the words. "I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no." sends shivers down my spine. It's powerful. Just another example of how words can make even the strongest break.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty? But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dry add: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long, and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting my poor mother.
“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist.” “You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! ” “You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were six, otherwise your nose would have been fine! ”
Don’t worry; we will get it all fixed she would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that as if it were a cabbage she might buy. But, this is not about her. Not her fault she, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable appearance.
By sixteen I was pickled by ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs, laying in a hospital bed. Face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.
Belly gorged on two pints of my own blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist, like my body screaming at me from the inside out “What did you let them do to you? ” All the while, this never ending chorus groaning on and on like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood.
“Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.
And now I have not seen my own face in ten years. I have not seen my own face in ten years, but this is not about me! This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those two pretty syllables.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? , ” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no.
The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing, but you will never be merely “pretty.”
When I was in high school I was on the debate team; I didn't argue with people, but I did what is called an individual event so named because I was the only person up there at any given time. Within the catagory of individual events I did Prose Interpretation and Poetry Interpretation. Now, what those are is exactly what it sounds like, I find a piece of writing fitting to me as far as character and situation and then I interpret it. It's like acting, but I don't especially become that character as much as I give that character a little piece of me. I portray whatever character,but I'm in there still. It's not as strict as theatre I guess you could say. So I dropped the class senior year, but not before I went to a competition where I heard this piece performed. And you know, the girl wasn't even that good, but the piece, my God, this piece had me on my knees at the end of it. The parts that are highlighted are the parts that did me in. I can't explain how it made me feel, because it's not like I experienced this with my mom, but just the words. "I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no." sends shivers down my spine. It's powerful. Just another example of how words can make even the strongest break.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
HTML, anyone?
I had to take a quiz in History today, and I'm almost guaranteeing that I failed it. I don't try to not pay attention, it's just when you combine my add with the most boring and monotonous teacher teaching HISTORY together, it never ends well for me.
The worst part of History class though, was when we finished the test with 20 minutes left in class, and he kept us until the last minute possible droning on about the Russian Revolution which I now have no notes for because I was too irked to take notes. I turned to the girl next to me and was like, "Are you kidding me? Is this really happening right now?" The only up side to History class was that I learned not to judge a book by it's cover. See, the professor's computer wouldn't let him get on, so at the end of class, he got an ITS guy to come in and look at it, and at first glance, you wouldn't think that he knew his way around a beer can, he just had that Larry the Cable Guy style going on, but he also kind of fit the profile. Anyways, he gets on the computer and he's like boom, boom, click. enter, boom. click. click. enter. done.
And then I felt really bad because I thought about how I didn't think he would have a clue, but he was super duper good at it. And that got me thinking that I want to do something like that too, like Don does? So I decided to come up to the library and read up on HTML and other computer programming languages. It's not like I don't have loads of time on my hands or anything, so I figured, why not learn as much as humanly possible in college, all the while having fun and keeping my morals in tact.
The worst part of History class though, was when we finished the test with 20 minutes left in class, and he kept us until the last minute possible droning on about the Russian Revolution which I now have no notes for because I was too irked to take notes. I turned to the girl next to me and was like, "Are you kidding me? Is this really happening right now?" The only up side to History class was that I learned not to judge a book by it's cover. See, the professor's computer wouldn't let him get on, so at the end of class, he got an ITS guy to come in and look at it, and at first glance, you wouldn't think that he knew his way around a beer can, he just had that Larry the Cable Guy style going on, but he also kind of fit the profile. Anyways, he gets on the computer and he's like boom, boom, click. enter, boom. click. click. enter. done.
And then I felt really bad because I thought about how I didn't think he would have a clue, but he was super duper good at it. And that got me thinking that I want to do something like that too, like Don does? So I decided to come up to the library and read up on HTML and other computer programming languages. It's not like I don't have loads of time on my hands or anything, so I figured, why not learn as much as humanly possible in college, all the while having fun and keeping my morals in tact.
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