4.5. Old School

When did family become old school? It boggles my mind how many times I see people who are so dependent on social media to be social that they miss the true opportunities to reach out to those they know. Or better said, those they knew. Because you lose touch with people and their realities.

When did family fights lead to a Facebook delete? And when did this delete decide whether or not people will ever reach out to each other? People can tag others on posts but won’t bother to make a phone call.

Huge life moments happen and friends can’t reach out to one another. Family can’t reach out to one another. People don’t pick up the phone, put in the effort to have a five minute conversation. Everything is from behind a screen, whether it be the phone or the computer.

I’m not really sure when communication became old school. I’m not sure when talking became old school. I’m not sure when the default button, for lack of a better term, became the go to. The button that gets slammed the minute there is an issue. Instead of humbling oneself and moving forward, we stay waged in a war we aren’t even sure why we’re fighting.

Social media was created to socialize but instead dictates and controls whether people will allow bonds to flourish or fail. We are quick to deny, delete, ignore the “requests” that should matter but we accept any and everyone who will fuel the fire our ego needs to stay warm.

Too often, I hear people criticize the Christian who only attends church on Easter and Christmas. “Chreasters.” And yet, aren’t we all fair weather friends, fair weather family? Aren’t we all guilty of only reaching out when the time is fitting?

Set aside the obligations and requirements. Instead, reach out to those who matter and make an effort. Take an extra moment out of your day and reach out. Because one day, people will be gone. And the opportunity will be lost. The only thing worse is to ask a child if they want to call someone and the child responds “who is that?” Because that child should know. But he doesn’t. And it wasn’t our choice.

I’d give anything to hear my dads voice again. I can look at pictures of him, a piece of paper with his handwriting on it. But there is nothing that compares to the sound of his voice. And only those who can appreciate the old school way could understand that.


3.4. Deprogramming The Gender Identity

Boys like blue. Girls like pink. Boys are physical players. Girls are dainty and meek. Boys are loud. Girls are quiet. Boys get dirty, girls want to stay clean. Girls like Barbie dolls and Boys want to be G.I.Joe.

But not really.

I’m no stranger to having my (almost) four year old son wear my shoes, put on my makeup and tell me he’s a princess. He’s with me about 90% of the year so he is definitely influenced by what I say and do. But today was really a test on how accepting I am.

Keeping a promise, I took him to JCPenney and told him to pick out one toy. He perused the sections and finally decided on a Doc McStuffins play set. “The series is about a six-year-old girl who can “fix” toys, with a little help from her stuffed animal friends.”

Secondly, he wanted a play set from Sofia The First. I paused. Was it okay for me to buy him “girly” toys? Shamefully, I actually tried talking him out of it. “You want the Monsters, Inc toys, don’t you?” But he wasn’t having any of that. He knew what he wanted despite my attempted persuasion.

And I’m proud of him. Hypocritically, I let him watch both television shows but didn’t feel right buying him what I deemed “girly” toys. He’s going to be playing with princesses and a little girl and her pink lamb, I thought.

Well, what the hell is wrong with that? Doc is a little girl who takes after her mother and plays doctor to all of her stuffed animals. The show prides itself in having an all African American family and having the mother, instead of the father, play the role of doctor. This is empowering. Sofia, unlike most princesses, cares about all people no matter their social status and shows that there are no limits to what girls can do…another empowering thought.

Why should my son not love two entities that show girls and women in general in a powerful, helpful, awesome light? Don’t I want my son to view me in the very same way? A woman who works hard, who breaks gender stereotypes, and who can do and succeed just like anyone else?

My son is who he is. Playing with dolls isn’t going to change that. I am humbled in knowing that my son is far more open-minded than I ever assumed I was. I am proud that he does not see anything “wrong” with being excited about playing with a female doctor or a pretty princess. I am proud that he stood up to me and didn’t allow me to shove him into the confines of a blue, boys only do this, box.

3.3. Then and Now: A Reflection of My Reflection


Like everyone else, I was born quite unaware. Eager to get here, I was born premature to someone who admittedly engaged in…let’s just say some “less than motherly habits.” With a ventricular septal defect (a hole in my heart), my battle started pretty early on. Though it is literal, I can’t help but feel like that hole represented something lacking in me from day one…a piece of me left in another world…wherever my soul originated from.

20140106_153042 Never comfortable in my skin, I was self conscious from my first memories. I knew we didn’t have much…a truth no child should know so early on. My sister and I got our heads buzzed as kids because of a lice outbreak. It happens. Some parents just don’t have the patience to comb through the locks. I can still remember walking down the stairs at the museum and a woman telling my mother, “your son is adorable.” Apparently, I made a cute boy but an unattractive little girl because I didn’t have long flowing hair. I didn’t wear frilly dresses but instead lived in sweaters and jeans that were never long enough. The standards were set quickly and by the time this picture was taken…I was already failing.

While being a pretty little girl didn’t work for me…so was my transition into weirdness. Being odd suited me and though it didn’t make the years any better or merciful, it gave me something to cling to. An identity. Even if it was a strange one. By this time, we were moving around a lot. I can’t even keep track of all the people we lived with for short periods of time but I know it was a time that gave us an intense feeling of detachment. Don’t get comfortable because you’re not going to stay long. Don’t get attached because you’ll never be as important. When you’re inconvenient, people will leave you. An internal void, evidently unattractive and unwanted…it wasn’t easy. 20140106_153114

20140106_153053Fourth grade was the first time I became aware of death. This was a type of leaving I could accept though the thought of it sucked. But it seemed easier to understand since the person who left didn’t do it intentionally. By this time, I knew I was the “ugly kid.” Children can be cruel and they were. My clothes screamed how unimportant I was despite my house being filled with thirteen animals (that upkeep isn’t cheap), and shelves upon shelves of porcelain dolls and expensive figurines. My childhood home was a shrine to all that was materialistic. I was no doll and showed no signs of growing beauty. I wasn’t like the other kids. I could feel it. My mind ran with vivid stories and games propelling me into a fictitious world of happiness and appreciation. I admired what others had and pretended, in the confines of some random inch of space, that I had it all. I was forced to be a dreamer. Reality was an ugly world.


I searched for God. I went to Spanish service at a catholic church with desperation in my heart. That hole was growing and it haunted me. The practices that were happening behind closed doors were eating my soul and gave me nightmares that seeped into daydreams. My imagination was being tainted and violence soon took hold of my stories. “Please make me beautiful, God. So they will love me. Anyone to love me.” Love me enough to rescue me from the terrors that occurred in a closet, on railroad tracks at 2am, in a room with so many witnesses and no allies. But God did not hear me and it all continued. Alien. Ugly. Unwanted. Forsaken. The forecast was bleak.


 The teen years set in. This is the inevitable time of self-loathing, poor self-esteem, and massive self-deprecation. To say I bashed myself would be an understatement. I wasn’t developed like the other girls. Thirteen and I wasn’t a “real girl” because I hadn’t started menstruating. This was the start of my ghost-writing. I admired many and yet, was left unseen. But I made for a good friend. One that could get the girl for you. Because, somehow, I knew what to say. Knocks on my door made me feel important. Knocks from boys I crushed on…asking me to write another poem for their latest conquest. And I did it. Because being useful was better than nothing at all. I was a dork. A nerd. A bookworm. Basic. Average. Below average. Ordinary. I was everything that can crush a young girl. Yes, I read a lot but damn it just think I’m pretty. Please. See something great in me. Please think I’m beautiful. Please care.

20140106_152940Maybe setting would do the trick. Maybe if I started over…someone would appreciate me in a way I hoped. Location changed but the story remained the same. I was the secret friend to some…helping them get the girl…useful but unseen. Even worse, I was seen and unwanted. What personality would I take on? Who would I become so people would accept me. I tried many and all of them failed. So, I did the next best thing. I settled. At 16, I dated a 24 year old because he showed me attention and he liked me and he said I was pretty and it was all I wanted. Hindsight says I just allowed earlier abuse to repeat itself…to allow the word “love” to mask the hurt and damage that was being done. But hell, to be beautiful was worth it to me. At 16, beautiful was the only label I could dream about. The only one I could never truly attain. But damn if I didn’t try.

20140106_152849And then something happened. I relocated again and was still seen as a nobody. This was expected. What wasn’t was the type of attention I got. I would never be the “girlfriend” but I could be the secret. The one you wanted to know on Friday at 1am. I was the girl who visited old friends back home, friends who expressed my ugliness dead on…only to have them ask for physical engagements. My body was just flesh to satisfy a primal hunger. Can’t lie…I basked in being wanted for a bit. But lust is not love. It’s not even as nice as like. It’s cheap. It’s disposable. It’s short-lived.


I didn’t want to be seen. I wished for invisibility.  I was born broken, my flesh is tired, and my heart aches. My mind cannot handle any more lies. My soul wants to quit.

My high school years consisted of three high schools, seven homes, very few lasting friendships, a sickening eating disorder, a short lived relationship with a man far too old for me, a miscarriage, a stolen identity, and one hell of a culture shock. It all added to my personal disgust…I hated who I was.

20140106_152903Old habits die hard. The few relationships I’ve had in my life have been that of an abusive nature, whether physical/mental/emotional, all the while…I questioned my worth. Why couldn’t I do better? Where was my unconditional? The one that would look at me and love me and know me and see me and mean it. And not leave. He didn’t exist.

I stood in the mirror and despised the reflection I’d been running from since day one. I pulled a sharpie from the drawer and drew on that mirror. I added all of the details that I thought would make me lovable. I colored over the flaws and morphed what was wrong into what I thought others would accept as right. By the end of it…the mirror was a picture perfect image of something…someone. I was somewhere in there. I was certain. I just couldn’t see it. I lost myself and for the time being, I thought that was the right thing to do. I’m an alien and I need to fit in to this world. The only way to do that would be to put on the costume and play the part. 20140106_153009

But I was never a good actress. Slowly but surely, my sadness seeped through and I hated the picture I painted. I hated that fake bitch. I hated the bullshit smiles. I hated the loss of voice. The loss of self. The death of the creative mind and heart. I lashed out and became a beast. Having an opinion meant I was argumentative. My creative mind was run by the devil. My heart was stone and my soul never existed. I was broken glass…unfixable. I hated the world that didn’t want me. And all of the occupants in it.

PreggoMy father loved my mind. Nico loved my soul. They both had to leave. I will be reunited with them some day. But until then, I remain with the one that loves my heart.

I spent my ENTIRE life wanting to be beautiful. Wanting to be physically desired, craved, needed, pursued. Ironically, that is all anyone seems to want from me as I near 30. Now, I would give anything to have someone knock down doors to talk to me…to engage in conversation that lasts all night. To be enthralled by laughter and dialogue that stimulates the mind and the soul. Yes, I want to be seen as a beauty. But more so…I want the words of my heart, the creativity of my mind, the passion of my soul…I want these things to be my beauty. I want to be defined by the iceberg that lay beneath the surface. Waiting…hoping…dreaming…wondering…

Will that hole in my heart ever be filled.CAM02045

I walk away from the mirror. I’m tired of seeing my reflection in this pool of tears. I’m tired of seeing the caricature I have become in an attempt to be loved. I avoid the waters that scream a truth I cannot hear. Not anymore. Maybe, on another day, I will look and see something amazing. Until then, I close the door and live in shadows.


But the light touches my skin and I think…the hole in my heart was filled. Just not in the way I’d anticipated.

In a way that has been so much greater.

3.1. I Write…

Because the ink is my air

And the words are my breaths.

Because it hurts to stifle the gypsies that dance in the catacombs of this mind.

Because the thirst is vampiric

Primal and raw.

Because nothing is so delicate as the clacking of keys

Stroking of pens

Slide of paper

Visions of a visionary

The bird that soars within me

Free to speak and preach and be


To give and tell and share and project

Images onto the wall

Because they are real

Each character and place

The plot has happened within me

The souls linger

Begging to be recognized

Acknowledged .

Forget the rest. This is not about poetics but the dream within the dream that runs from a brutal reality of living nightmares.

This is my ladder out of the dark hole. This is my rope of redemption. Pulling myself from the grave I was shoved into from the womb.

Because of a family tree that has rotted and withered in the darkness of secrets.

Because I want to be more than a dealer, a player, a con, a liar, a manipulator, a thief, a criminal, a user, an abuser.

Because these words are the seeds to plant new trees.

Of shade and fruit

That will bare the souls of stories and stories of souls.

Because my son will NEVER go to sleep hungry.

Because my son will NEVER know the shame of monopoly money.

Because my son will NEVER hide in a school bathroom, stifling his own cries within a stall as the remnants of their words bloom into scars upon the fleshy self-esteem they devour.

Because my son will NEVER will never be asked to be a part of the con so tomorrow can be easier. And I still wonder if those debilitating migraines stem from her wicked demands of bashing a broken piece of wall against my adolescent skull because “you’ve got to make it believable so we can sue.”

Because my son will NEVER curl his toes to fit into a shoe two sizes too small while I live lavishly.

Because it is my job to use what I know, those voices, those stories, that pain, and the creative juices that flow through my veins like the blood that trickles from their lips to make something beautiful.

To keep a promise that his tomorrow will be the rainbow to all of my yesterdays.

Because the pain of my past is worth the glory of his future.

Because I will make this life count.

Because I will build the foundation of his greatness.

Because he will NEVER know those types of tears.

My hands slam against the keys with purpose.

With conviction.

Because my hands will do for him what no hands have ever done for me.

I write…

Because I have to.

2.47. The Gun ~ False Accusations

Recent events have led me to become far more aware to my triggers. It is no secret to those who know me well, to those who have read some of my work, and to those who have shared late night conversations that I am the survivor of multiple acts of abuse over the course of my life.

Triggers can send someone into a flashback, force them to live a repressed memory, to be frozen in a traumatic moment until the moment has passed. I can stop these flashbacks just about as easily as a soldier can stop the images of war replaying on a sleepless night. A trigger can be anything from a smell to a scent to a word to a bodily gesture.

In the last two weeks, I have identified two flashbacks though the triggers have varied. The latter flashback is something that fully came about a day after the actual trigger. This is a bit disheartening and scary but something that I am learning to work with.

When I young, a movie came out by the name of KIDS. Back then, and even now I’m sure, the movie was graphic and explicit in it’s sexual content and drug usage. It stared HIV dead in the face and addressed the issues facing youth at the time. I was 11 years old. 

While most kids were watching the movie in secrecy, against their parents wishes, my father said we would watch it together. He wanted me to get the message and we would talk about it afterwards. He encouraged dialogue and for me to feel safe in talking to him about anything involved in the movie. We talked afterwards and I had a million and one why questions. The sex didn’t seem important to me. I wanted to know if that was like real life and my father said, sadly, it was. 

My mother came in after the movie ended and erupted once she found out what we’d watched. She snatched me from the floor of the living room and forced me to put on shorts and tuck in a shirt for my bed attire (normally, I wore a long shirt). She berated my father and called him a pedophile, a molestor, a rapist, a sick fuck, a disgusting pervert, a piece of shit, a no good piece of garbage, a pathetic man, a waste of air…and the list went on for hours. “He’s not even your real father,” she screamed, as if that would somehow make things understandable. She had me hide in my room and I was not allowed to talk to my father. She walked beside me from the bathroom to the kitchen and every room in between to “protect me” from the “pervert living in our home.” I watched my father cry each time she had me march by him, “you like that, you sick fuck, you like little girls?” 

I didn’t get to talk to my father for almost a week. After a week, she decided she had punished him enough and life went on like “normal.” It didn’t elude me that if she really thought he was a pedophile, she’d just allowed him to stay in our home. It didn’t elude me that once payday came, she suddenly felt inclined to forgive him. Looking back, I find it ironic that she was quick to label my father, the one person who NEVER ONCE put his hands on me in any harmful way (he only cursed at me twice in my life and both of them were ‘damn its’), all the while I was being molested right under her nose. 

I remember the pain in his eyes. The sadness for such labels. I remember feeling like I trusted this man more than any of my own blood and yet, I was being torn from him. He was being punished for the sake of my mothers insecurities as a parent. She wanted to drive a wedge between us because she knew I idolized my father. Her jealousy turned to venom and she tried to brainwash me that my father was hurting me. But I knew he wasn’t. He knew that talking to me was the best way to keep me smart. To keep me aware and safe. That if I could watch this movie with him and have no shame about asking questions, I would never have shame when it came time for me to face the world of peer pressure, teen angst, and sexual dialogues. 

That was 18 years ago. And yet, it was crystal clear to me just a day ago. I relived that moment and could only respond with “oh my god.” I could not stop my father from being berated. I could not stop someone from being embarrassed. I could not stop a physical gesture that my body instinctively recognizes as a threat. Since I was five, when someone put their hands near my face…it was to punch me, slap me, pull my hair, or push me down. A hand near the face had never been a peaceful sign to me. And it never will be.

I am working through my triggers. I recognize myself as a person living with PTSD.  As do the multiple doctors who have diagnosed me (I’m not a web diagnosed individual). I have about 24 years of therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists visits under my belt and with good reason. I’ve had some pretty ugly things served to me on a rusty platter. Sometimes, new things literally take me back to those horrific moments, those debilitating memories, those scary moments of programming. But I AM STILL a work in progress. And there is hope for me that I will be able to create new memories, new bonds, new moments of trust. I cannot control what other people do or say. I cannot necessarily keep every trigger silent. This should petrify me. I have to remain strong and remove all toxins from my life. No exceptions.

I may have flashbacks but I will not set up a zip code.

Pull the trigger but your bullets will not scar me anymore.

2.46. The Wounded Soul – My Proudest Failure

This post is not about the many known names who have died over the course of this year from apparent suicide. Their deaths are sad and a loss to the world but there is nothing that can be done for them.  Their chances have ended. It’s sad but what can you do about it now? This is not about the unknowns who are gone from this world. Their story is no different. This is about the ones we can save. 

When I was 26, after my son was born, I suffered from postpartum depression while simultaneously suffering from an infection, which caused me to lose part of my right breast. The fake glue that was holding my doomed marriage together melted away. My world crumbled very quickly. I recall sitting in a bathroom and penning a letter to my child in which I apologized for failing him, for not being strong enough to have the desire to continue. I remember calling a crisis hotline while sitting on the curb of a dark street and telling some stranger I was a horrible piece of shit because I had a child but I wanted to die. I remember going to a hospital and asking for an evaluation. I sat in a cold, bare room, and waited for someone to tell me I was insane. After talking with Tom, he informed me I was suffering from PTSD, from events earlier in my life,  and Postpartum. When I said I wanted to die, he explained, I was simply asking to sleep…for rest…escape from pain I could not seem to get away from. I was released and attempted to pull myself out of that darkness. 

When I was eighteen, after being caught in the act, I admitted to battling Bulimia. It was a slow way out but I often hoped I would just become extremely frail and collapse and that same sleep would come. My mother told me to get over it. 

When I was 13, my father found me in our trailer in Clintondale, New York. I’d swallowed a ton of his painkillers and anything else I could find in the medicine cabinet. I was ashamed of my life. I was scared of being a nothing. I wanted to quit. 

When I was 11, I was admitted to a mental health ward, against my will (and my parents) for a mere 16 hours (a lifetime to an 11 year old btw). I’d gone in after a referral from a childhood therapist. Because I wouldn’t discuss things that were happening but implicated myself in several acts of self-harm, I was held for evaluation. I can still remember the screams and belligerent rants of those held in rooms next to me. After those 16 hours, I conned my way out of that hospital, claiming it was all an act and absolutely nothing was wrong with my home life. I learned how to lie on that day. 

When I was 5, a sibling found me on the ledge of our apartment window. When asked why I was up there, I said I wanted to die. My mother beat the ever-living piss out of me and sent me to bed. 

I have tried to die, thought of dying, hoped for dying…TOO MANY times in my life. I’ve purposefully put myself in dangerous situations, in the hopes that I would find release. Through those years and failed attempts…I never found it. 

I’m not telling you this because I want pity. Because I want you to think I’m epic and strong for “surviving.” I don’t know why I wanted to die from such a young age. I don’t know why I wasn’t “built” to better deal with the hardships of life. I don’t know why the unknown seemed so much better. 

What I do know are two things. 

  1. I was already dead. My body didn’t have to perish. TRULY, I believe I was a walking tomb. My son gave me my soul. I still struggle. I still panic. I’m still a hot mess. But I have never hoped for another breath the way I do now…as I have my son in my life. 
  2. Someday, I will die. I will not try. It will be against my will. And I will not want it to happen. I will feel pain as it all slips away because I will not see the tomorrows of my child, his children, the life I will miss. Someday, I will not have a choice. 

All of that being said…

I AM NOT AN EXPERT but I know the helplessness. I know the desperation. I know that feelings of sad hope that the damn phone will ring and someone…ANYONE will pull me back from the ledge and say, “I care about you. Please don’t go.” We all want to know that someone wants us to stay. That someone NEEDS us to stay. That our fire lights another persons world. We all need a reason to have no desire to step on that ledge. It’s ALL about love. 

The trauma that happened in my life, very early on, stunted my growth in MANY ways (so the doctors say). There are many times that I am stuck back in that mind frame of a child and I am terrified. I am frail. I am lost. It’s a fight to not go back there. To train my brain that I’m not reliving those traumas. That things are not repeating themselves. That I am capable of dealing with it IF they are. 

I am telling you all of this because we all know someone who struggles. Who is fighting. Who may be too quiet. May say the wrong things. May lash out at the smallest occurrence. May come off so angry. May push people away. May be an emotional punching bag. May live a lifestyle that is reckless. May be unaware that they are begging for help. May be pleading for rescue in their eyes but not their words. 

If you are that person…tell someone. ANYONE. Talk until your blue in the face. But keep talking. If you’re talking…you aren’t dead. AND THAT IS BEAUTIFUL. If you know someone like that…listen. Listen and really hear. You don’t need to fix it all. Just listen. Sometimes, that is all a wounded soul needs. 

Dear Suicide – I am proud to have failed you. 

Sincerely not yours…this girl. 

2.45. 38 Days (Camp NaNoWriMo Journey)

2 and a half hours in and I am at a road block.

I came up with the idea for my current piece on August 29, 2011. 38 days after my father passed away.

Now, here I am, 21 days from the two year anniversary of my fathers death and I am incorporating the father figure into the project. There is a phone call. A voicemail. A dropping of a phone. Panic. Screaming and a collapse in a hallway. Crying. So much crying.

I chose to use my memories of those moments to describe the call the main character gets concerning her father…

And this where I am stuck. Because, although I’d like to think I’m healing, thinking about those moments makes me relive them. And it makes me want to cry. And I want to scream and claw at my assistant manager and beg her to bring my father back all over again. I want to ask a guy I would normally ignore (my old DM) to please tell me it was a lie.

I am there. Avoiding their eyes…those looks of pity. I am there. Calling home, desperately. Hearing my sisters voice break. Hearing her say those words. I am there. Calling my fathers cell in hopes he will answer one last time. That he will call me “babe.”

I am there. Unmounting my tv so I could pawn it to fly home. Feeling hopeless and stranded. I am there…flooded with support of distant friends who flocked to me to help me fly. Looking at my son and feeling like he lost out. He will never have a memory of my father. His grandfather. He will never call him by some cute nickname. He will never hear an I love you from him.

I am there. Drowning in wine because I wanted to be numb so fucking badly. And yet, the alcohol did nothing. I am there, getting a tattoo for my papa bear. Grasping at anything that would bring me back. Bring what we had back.

I am there…in that driveway. When the floodgates opened and I couldn’t walk into my sisters house. Sitting on the back patio. Making my way inside and down that hall. And getting stuck. Not able to face it. The empty room that smelled of my father. Locking myself in that room and breaking down completely like I never have before. Dying.

I am there. Every second replays and I am cold.

I am here. considering re-outlining this part of the story and omitting the father. The father I molded from my own. Because I wanted to immortalize him. Because I wanted people to love this character just half as much as I loved my father. So the world could know his spirit through these words.

I am stuck. Because I NEED to write this. Because I always said I wanted to be a writer but my father never got to see me start. Because I waited too long. Because I have to heal. As much as here is painful in these moments…there…there is something that kills me.

I need my father.

2.43. Dear Daddy – Happy Fathers Day

I wish you were here. I wish I could call you again. I wish I could hug you. I wish I wasn’t so naive to think you would live forever. I wish I said I love you just one more time. I wish I could have stopped your pain. I wish I could have given you an even better life. I wish I made you proud. I wish I could say sorry for failing so much. I wish you could hug your grandson. I wish this didn’t hurt so much. I wish I could hear you laugh. I wish I could have avenged the wrong doings done against you. I wish I could have said thank you a million more times. I wish you knew how much I needed you then and how much I need you now. I wish my son could sit with you and pick up your habits of tapping your thumbs against everything. I wish we could go to Barnes & Noble one more time together. I wish you could teach me how to cook half as good as you did. I wish I could make you smile. I wish Heaven wasn’t so far away. I wish Heaven had phone reception. I wish you could have lived with us. I wish you didn’t have to see my life turn to shit. I wish you could see my life get better. I wish I knew what to do without you here. I wish you weren’t just ashes in a box on my fridge. I wish you didn’t just live in memories and songs. I wish we had new memories together. I wish we could have you back. I wish people appreciated you more. I wish you could see us reconcile. I wish you knew that we love you so damn much…it hurts.

Happy Fathers Day to the best damn father and mother figure I could have ever hoped for. I miss you. I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you!!!!!!!!


2.42. NaNoWriMo Is Almost Here

Camp NaNoWriMo is on its way and I’m determined to start and complete the challenge this summer. Last summer was a complete bust and I stopped before I really got started…though I don’t think my heart was ever really in that project. This year, I have made myself a few promises…all of which I intend to keep.

  1. Outline this project until I just can’t outline anymore.
  2. Brainstorm until it hurts.
  3. Write down all thoughts, big and small, that may come to mind during prep.
  4. Treat June like a pre-game.
  5. Read like a madwoman.
  6. Submerge myself in the writing community to the best of my ability.
  7. Read more blogs geared toward writers.
  8. Meet participants of NaNoWriMo
  9. Use this blog to write about the journey.
  10. Be honest about the journey.
  11. Start the damn project.
  12. Finish the damn project.
  13. Enjoy the ride.

With that being said, if you read this and plan on participating, have a blog about writing, know a blog about writing, love a blog about writing…I ask that you comment and share a link to said blog. Leave your twitter/fb page/social media outlet so I may follow a fellow writer.

Many Thanks.

2.41. Random Guy Message 136

Mariah and Nick…that’s all I’m gonna say.

5/29/2013 1:24:18 AM
like that song say cute pie ur the reason y
5/29/2013 1:25:23 AM
I seriously have no idea what you are talking about.

5/29/2013 1:26:03 AM
… im saying u r very attractive sorry for the misinterpretation

5/29/2013 1:30:47 AM
what brings u to this site … u fine

5/29/2013 1:37:39 AM
I heard you. I very much doubt we’re going to click.
5/29/2013 1:38:22 AM
y u can’t judge a book by its cover

5/29/2013 1:40:04 AM
don’t count me out i can b the guy to sweep u off your feet u can b mariah and ill b Nick

5/29/2013 1:41:37 AM
Actually, I can do what I want. In this case, I am not judging a book by it’s cover but by it’s lack of articulation. If you were a book and I picked you up off of a shelf…I would need a translator to understand you. I would ask for a refund since nothing you’ve said is remotely grammatically correct. You may want to work on that. Seriously, good luck to you.
5/29/2013 1:42:32 AM
Did you just put the ideal couple as Mariah and Nick? Your standards are far lower than I imagined. Good luck with that.
5/29/2013 1:49:15 AM
I apologize if i didn’t articulate my wording through an internet site, but if intellect and eloquence is what u want. I can be that too. You are gorgeous, and I didn’t mean to disrespect you. Internet courtship may not be me strong suit, but I would love to know you. Maybe another day.

The guy in the end spelled more complete words than the guy from the rest of the message…combined.