"We fuck." These are the words my boyfriend utters to me, mouth full of mac and cheese, when I ask him, What are some lovey things we do? Joking of course. I mean, I made him the mac and cheese. Well technically it was mine, he reheated it, but I'm okay with it because he's hungry and he knows I won't eat it. It was all we had at the house. But that's lovey, right? He's currently telling me that it's probably not a good idea to start out a public post on the internet with, "We fuck". But he's also chuckling in between this sentence, so I think it's funny enough to keep. I have been a hermit at his house for almost a week now while his parents are in Germany, because if he were to stay at my house, no one would be here to take care of the dog, Otto. So we've been home all day, listening to the rain. Him playing Xbox, me having minor meltdowns over intense math homework, him singing in between breaks on the couch, "Ba-ba-ba, do ya love me?" in a kitschy tune, me replying with, "Yes". I sit and type and think to myself about how we came to this point, of pure comfort with one another. How we can mutter "Hmmm" back and forth with one another, in higher pitched tones, then lower pitched tones, then just stopping as if nothing happened? How can I sit here and listen to his adorable commentary about whatever new game he's playing, dropping multiple f-bombs, and ending every sentence with, "Right, babe?", because he knows how much it all makes me laugh? I didn't stop and think about the comfort that two people can share until now. We don't just make crude jokes and slap them randomly into blogs. We are a very caring, compassionate, and equal couple. Like when I slave away for 2-8 hours doing homework that I never thought I would have to work so hard to do, and I eventually end up a sobbing mess in his bathroom because I've never been so average before college, he scoops me up, wraps me in his giant blue and white comforter his mom bought him when he was probably 9, and wipes away the tears, repeating, "You're doing just fine. It's going to be okay." And he's always done this. Since the day I met him. I don't recall a time where he's just let me sit and cry, not even if we've just gone through hell and back in an argument and I've been a raging lunatic. "It's going to be okay". It's always okay. I find myself being completely and 100% okay with him rambling, calling me homie in between stories, commenting on the intense "war music" that's playing in the background. Because it makes me so happy, so warm inside, that I have someone that doesn't take themselves so seriously. That isn't worried if they're talking too much, because they're not. They're just perfect. I wonder how we got to this amount of comfort in such little time. We've been together for almost 11 months, but it feels like marriage. I remember a couple weeks ago I had to cook dinner because my parents were out with friends for the night. I decided on chili, and I vividly recall the conversation between him and I, as I called from the kitchen, "BABE! I NEED YOU TO GO GET ME SOME SHREDDED CHEESE!" And his reply from the living room, "YEAH SURE WHAT KIND?" "GET THE OFF BRAND, IT'S CHEAPER! OH AND I NEED FRENCH BREAD!" "OKAY, CAN I TAKE YOUR CAR?" he asks. "YEAH, SURE! THERE SHOULD BE ENOUGH GAS!" We do things like this often. It makes me wonder how people find living together so hard. We thrive off of being with each other. For some odd reason, being apart and communicating through the shit-sphere of technology is when we get into our biggest fights. But I find myself being okay, excited even, with the idea of spending a week cooped up in the house together, the living room curtains open, watching the rain like gray static outside, listening to his same old commentary. And I think that's what everyone wants. Just someone to be around and to be okay with being around. Even if it's for hours on end. I laugh at how he says Ikea like Ee-kay-a, even though I know that's the right pronunciation. I laugh when I rush to get ready, and he throws me on the couch instead, telling me to relax. "You'll have enough time". I laugh when he climbs on top of my lap while I'm typing this, threatening to sit on my laptop if I don't kiss him immediately, and then runs back to his video game. I laugh constantly. I've only been around for 17 years. I've only been this happy once. With him. And as little as teens are supposed to know about love, I think I know just enough. I think love is when you come home really late from work and he's wide awake, waiting for you on the couch, a big smile on his face while you walk through the door. "I went to Javier's for dinner, but you can have the rest of my burrito. Or we can go out and get you something to eat, whatever you like." Love is when he makes fun of you, or utters a crude joke, and then as you begin to stomp off in between giggles because you have to admit that it was hilarious, he starts screaming hysterically, "BABY COME BACK, BABE, BABE, PLEASE COME BACK, BABYYY!" Love is when you both can make sex jokes, and still understand silently that neither of you are wanting that. Or when he drops everything to give you a ride somewhere, because you're sobbing at what your mom said and how she "forgot" that you had theater that day. Or when you bump your car in the Fred Meyer's parking lot down the street from his house, because as much as you two wanted a delightful breakfast, you didn't have groceries, leaving you with a dinged up front end and a second away from a panic attack. He dropped everything. He always drops everything. Love is complete and utter reliance on one another, whether it be the small things or the big things. Bringing him Taco Bell when he's sick, or picking him up from the airport because you've been without each other for a week and a half. It's continuing to go through hell and back, continuing to change, and stay the same, and letting each other grow however you have to. However you know how to. That's love. That's the love I have.
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Step 1: Realize that even as a young girl, you already had an internalized fear towards men. You understood that you were vulnerable, and that they had some sort of power over you, and even though this is ridiculous because the only person who can make your decisions for you is yourself, still comprehend that that "power" they had was intertwined so deeply inside of them, it became hard to identify what it was. But to you, it was terrifying.
At the age of 15, begin understanding that other girls felt like you. Afraid to walk outside at night, afraid of anyone following you on your drive home or in the mall, afraid of every single man you graze shoulders with as you walk along the sidewalk to wherever your heading. Begin to feel used and angry. Don't stop feeling this way. Step 2: Begin to discover more and more facts about the inequality for women and other systematically non-dominant groups, such as the gender wage gap, mothers who are shamed into staying home and taking care of the children instead of creating a steady income for themselves or their families, rape victims, male and female, who are shunned, never taken seriously, or treated as though somehow if they "weren't at that party like everyone else and stayed home" this terrible act wouldn't have happened to them. As if somehow they provoked it. Learn about how African American women make even less than a white woman, and how Latina women make still less than the rest of us, and how when someone says to you, "That's irrelevant because my wife makes more than me/I make more than my husband", it stings. It stings because their vision is so secure into their own lives that they can't look into the lives of others through multiple lenses and realize that our experiences with gender differs because of our race, class, ethnicity, sexuality, ability, and age. Tell them they're wrong. Feel gratitude in your heart when someone else realizes that they were wrong as well. Step 3: Take an online History class and read your textbook, something you've never done in your entire life because high school was a breeze and you could basically bullshit through anything. Read about the Paleolithic societies and the Neolithic Era and discover that "hunter/gatherer" was not just a survival mechanism for the finest. It was the beginning of the division of labor based off of gender. Embrace the fact that every key piece of evidence our world has discovered and labeled as history was only discovered because us, women, were forced to stay in the shelters we created, take care of the children, gather berries and other small goods, and when our "husbands" (Paleolithic societies were just beginning to form the idea of marriage) came home from a hard day of getting far more opportunities to become a leader of a pack, or creating something that would propel us 5000 years in the future, we would be there cooking. As if all we're here to do is sit and listen from the sidelines. Because that was all we were ever deemed good for. The books we read in school are written by men. Our view of the world is through the lens of a man. And if it weren't for the second and first wave of feminism, we would still be labeled by the state with a great, big, red stamp on our foreheads, "Property of a Man". We were the equivalent of a house to our husbands. We, human beings that occupy over half the population, with ideas and intelligence and care and confidence, were in the same comparison as a two story building slapped together by plywood and brick. If we refused our husbands sex, because god forbid we didn't feel well or we simply did not want to perform that act at any given time, they had every right to force us into having it. Think about that. If someone had the complete and utter permission, the same as you and I have to wear clothes or write a poem or go to school, to force themselves upon you. And no one would do a thing about it. That's all you were good for. They were wrong. And we are so much more than that. Step 4: Take a women's studies class, and be opened up to so many things you didn't realize before, no matter how woke you thought you were. Realize that language is so important, and that some things you didn't even understand were slurs, were indeed slurs. Start to feel less ashamed that you consider yourself a feminist, and more confident to tell someone if they asked. Learn the definition. Really learn it. Learn the one that you want to embody, because yes, the entire first and second wave of feminism excluded African American women, and Asian American women, and Native American women, and women with disabilities, and non-conforming women, and any woman that was anything but white and heterosexual. Understand that. But don't practice it. Because equality isn't for white heterosexual women. Or even just women. It's for everyone. Step 5: Be okay with the fact that not everyone in your life is going to like, respect, or tolerate your decision. Be patient and kind to those who don't understand. After all, they've had this societal belief system ingrained in them since the beginning of 250,000 B.C.E. Be okay with being labeled as an extremist. Because you are. Your actions are not extreme. Your ideas are not extreme. But your feelings towards the oppression of people like you who fit into the category of "targets", they are indeed extreme. And that's okay. It's okay to be angry, and hostile, and loud about his oppression. It's encouraged. I am an only child. I was sort of a big deal as a baby because if my mother had waited just a little bit longer to have me, she wouldn't have been able to. It makes me sad sometimes to see my boyfriend argue with his brother, or complain about how he never appreciates him, when in all reality they love each other more than anything, and I know Ronan is going to be crushed in a couple of weeks when Phillip goes to college.
My house was always a mini safe haven for kids without homes. Family friends, neighbors, best friends. My family and I went through a cycle of having people stay with us whenever their lives were too complicated or unfair to keep them around. Sometimes it was days. Most times times it was weeks. We even had my mom's coworkers daughter live with us throughout her second year of college. But everyone who lived with us I was close with, and I loved having my own sister or brother whenever it happened. My mom's childhood made the word "hard" look like an understatement. She dealt with a messy divorce, to say the least, a mother who acted more like the evil step mother from Cinderella, and trying to take care of her three siblings while working two jobs and going to school. Her family made the term "Blood is thicker than water" look like complete horseshit, to tell you the truth. Before my dad and her got married, it was a constant cycle of taking care of everyone but herself. She tells me stories about how when I was only an infant, she would have to work 7 days a week for two years, just to keep me in daycare, and just to keep their heads from sinking under the water. I stopped complaining about taking so many shifts after that. I'm lucky to have her as a mom. I really am. She worked hard so that my life would be easy. I remember when I was 7 and I met the only neighborhood friends I would ever have, Elizabeth and Forest. Forest as my age, and whined like no boy I had ever seen, and Elizabeth was 3 years older than the both of us. She was wearing jean overalls and a Kiss t-shirt when we met, and if I recall correctly, I was engulfed from head to toe in nothing but light, airy-fairy pink. It was like the day I walked into Hot Topic asking where the One Direction CD's were located. I remember changing my color from pink to green after that, and to this day I feel so silly for trying to act like a tom-boy, because she knew all along I secretly wanted to be the princess of every story. After being friends for about 3 or 4 years, they lived with us for 2 weeks while they finalized the selling of their house, and then moved to Texas. Elizabeth came back a few years later, but I haven't seen her since. When I was in the third grade I met my best friend Kaytlin. She is probably the closest thing to a sister I've ever had. She knew every dirty secret I've ever attempted to bury deep beneath my skin, and as flawed as she was, she never shared them with anyone. She ditched me time and time again for other friends, but I just thought it was because we were young. It's third grade, Grace. Get over it. Until I realized that she was doing the same thing all the way into freshman year. I slowly began to realize while she was registering to a new high school at the end of our 9th grade term, that as much as she knew about me, as many times as I came to her and sobbed about the boy that called me names, or that I wasn't good enough, or that I wanted to run away from home, I didn't know any of her secrets. And she hated crying in public. I felt used and taken for granted for a long time. But some small sliver of me still thinks of her as family. Even though we don't talk anymore, even though we don't go to the same schools and probably never will, my heart feels slightly better every time I drive past her street on my way to work. As many people as I have in my life, I'm jealous of that bond that siblings share. But at least I have my whole life to discover best friends, and new forms of family. The good thing about having zero to no relatives surrounding you, is that it gives you the chance to choose your own. We stood
Steady as the stars in the woods So happy-hearted And the warmth rang true inside these bones As the old pine fell we sang Just to bless the morning It was like he was the offspring of Jose Gonzales, and it was magical. Ben Howard. His heavy melodies made my stomach flutter and my cheeks turn sour from smiling too hard. We were only 12, my friend and I, when she showed me his album while we drew anime vampire characters for our future novel, but I knew then his music was something to cause my 16 year old self complete nostalgia when "Old Pine" came on during the winter. 'Cause everything will start again anew 'Cause everything just goes away my friend And every king knows it to be true And every kingdom must one day come I listened to "Everything" only when I was sad. It was a sad song. A beautiful, but complete heart-wrenching song about how everything ends, and no one, no song can change that. Even writing the lyrics, I can hear the chorus in my head. And the echoing, "Eh-eh-ehhh ooh-oh-oh-oooh", in his beautiful melodic voice. It hurts. I remember when I was little, still thinking that girls just "get" pregnant and that everyone lives forever while I played with my moms necklaces and tried on her too-big shoes, I had to find out that very single solitary thing comes to an end, even ourselves. I was on a camping trip with my friend Tiffany, who resembled the Camp Rock star Meaghan Martin quite a bit but she just "didn't see it", that we found our first shooting star. "Dear shooting star, I wish that mom and dad and Tiffany and chunky the cat and me and grandma and everyone else lives forever," I recited out of breath. And Tiffany's dad just looks at me, without thinking about the next words coming out of his mouth, and remarks, "Oh that ain't no shootin' star, that's just some rock burning up or some satellite dish in the sky". My heart sank. That's the point in time where I knew we would all end. The time I really lost my innocence. The song ends. I end. The end. And promise me this You'll wait for me only Scared of the lonely arms Surface, far below these burn And maybe, just maybe I'll come home "Promise" was that love song. That "darlin' I'm yours, you're mine" song. There's not much I think about when this song comes on besides my love. You know that feeling you get, that feeling of pure excitement like a kid on Christmas but ten times better because you're not a kid and this is genuine and the real stuff, when you hear one of your favorite songs in a movie or on the radio or in public? And you just feel so content and pure because you claimed that song for your own when you were 12 years old. When you first heard it. That's how I felt when I heard "Promise" on the Chlöe Grace Moretz movie "If I Stay". And it was such a good scene. A love scene. The scene I would've conjured up in my 12 year old mind if I were asked what movie scene you would match to this song. It's that song that makes you vulnerable in love and your insecurities. But you love it anyways, because it's raw and you're in love. Who am I, darling for you? Who am I? Going to be a burden Who am I, darling to you? Who am I? I think of Ben Howard and I think of a lot of things. Showing my sophomore English teacher his first album because I knew he had tickets to Jose Gonzales. 13 year old me, setting up my miniature Christmas tree in my bedroom, with the yellow bug wallpaper and the princess vanity bed, hearing "Everything" come on. Still hearing it today and crying for my innocence back. Showing my mom and dad "Old Pine" and watching as they weren't as amused and I was when Heather showed it to me, but that's okay. It's all okay in a way. Singing every solitary word when it comes on, like its my last. Like they're all my last. My favorite time of day is dawn. It's like the quiet before the storm. That is, the storm being the day ahead of us. I never awake at dawn, because getting up at 5:51 AM on a school day is much too tiring for a girl who isn't even motivated enough to put on real pants.
That's all I got ladies, gentlemen, and others. I'm truly sorry for being unmotivated this week :-)) enjoy your sunny monday xoxo I'm a thinker.
I like to think about how others think. What they desire and how they got to desire that thing. And I've come to the conclusion that everyone thinks they cannot make it. That they will amount to nothing or become nothing, unimportant and unmemorable. At least that's my fear. Because of this possible irrationality, I hold myself back and sometimes sell myself short when it comes to things I want to do. For example, I want to be a writer someday. It's my dream to be published. Yes, it would be a career that I'm not miserable to involve myself in everyday, and if I made it big, a pretty comfortable salary would roll in. But what I really want to be able to do is change people's perspectives. And to relate to others in a way that only words can do. But because I fear that I'm not talented, or not good, or simply not enough... I hold back. I stick to my blog, a small account that approximately only 30 people actually keep up with, including my mom. And I stay there. In my comfort zone. I've been given opportunities before. I've been offered to read for Orpheus, a special event our very own Ben Jatos produces where authors come and listen to students reading, typically only juniors. But I feel that Jatos sees more in me, maybe a maturity, that is compelling him to let me share my words. Or maybe it's just because I begged him and Cheryl Strayed may be coming. So I'll do that, I can put myself out there in that spectrum. But I won't be confident. Because I'm a thinker. I over analyze. A lot. I over analyze my writing, myself, my sports, others, my emotions, other people's emotions, and I make problems when there really isn't a problem to begin with. I also tend to overthink simple tasks. Like asking for a job application at Subway. 'Well what if they are helping customer? Doesn't it look weird that I'm waiting in a long line for a simple piece of paper? What if the manager isn't in? What if I choke?' This then turns into an internal struggle and leads my sweaty nervous self into a crappy Subway on Fourth Plain, only to find out that they discontinued the physical applications. I let my fear hold be back from taking opportunities to make money, or to get scholarships, or to become published. I let it drag me and my self esteem down to the deepest part of my body. It prevents me from succeeding and guides me to a pit of procrastination. For instance, our English teacher found us an online contest for a chance to be published in the New York Times. All you have to do is write a measly 460 character paragraph on why technology makes us more lonely, or how girls are pressured into having perfect bodies in society. But because I lack motivation and because I fear that if I even attempt to do something, I will fail.. I shrivel up. And wait. And wait. And wait some more. Until the chance passes me by. Why do I do this? I have no clue. I let my fear overwhelm me and take over the position of confidence. I'm also a short fuse. I don't have anger issues, I'm rather smart and understand how people think and function. But I have a lack of tolerance. I struggle to understand why I can't find people who are perfectly normal and have little to no quirks. But then I realize I'm expecting perfection, and that I myself am far from perfect. This leads me into a depression and bewilderment. I fear that I'll never find people that I can relate to. Or that don't annoy me as much as people do. It causes me to disconnect from people, when in reality I'm a very social person. I have many many many things to work on within myself. I keep telling myself it will be better once I leave high school, but maybe it won't. Maybe I need to change. And that scares me the most. Continuing to let my fear, my lack of tolerance and self confidence, and the over-analyzing qualities of my mind hold me back. I've only danced with one person.
Once at a concert. It was more of, we're the same height and this is just swaying to really excellent music, how awkward and nice. He bought me tickets to that concert for my birthday. He knew it was my favorite band, and even if we were only planning to stay for the opening act, we ended up staying the entire night. We were halfway through the first group, Hunny, some local indie band no one knew. But I knew. My over analyzing mind had to hear an act before she went and saw them, because why go to a concert where you can't scream the words to every song. That's just crazy. And it was almost as if we were reading each others minds. I could practically hear him thinking, Yeah this is too good to miss. It was a good dance. We were close, and for once I wasn't worried about what others thought. We couldn't have looked any grosser than the girl in front of us dry humping her boyfriend. I would assume that was his title. I mean, to each their own. It wasn't like I thought dancing would be. But I guess you can't be 6 feet tall and feel comfortable dancing with another person. I was always taller at certain angles. I remember forcing myself to slouch the way I do when I stand by someone I care about. But even though my hip was cramping and I had to keep swaying or we'd lose momentum to the beat of "Afraid" by The Neighbourhood.. It was breathtaking. Like I said, it wasn't what I thought dancing would be like. My second dance was at the infamous winter formal. It was his formal, so he was the only person I really knew. I clung to him more than he probably would've liked, but he took it like a champ. He did his best to make me feel comfortable because he knew how anxious I was about meeting his friends, or finding myself left alone by the punch bowl and being forced to spike it with my own tears. (That didn't happen, he was a perfect gentleman). I remember this guy, this adorably handsome stud, had never even heard of the Cupid Shuffle, and I just thought to myself, Okay I'm the only white girl here that can dance. It's now my duty to teach him. Lets just say he gave it his best effort ♡ Then came the moment where it was every uncomfortable couples time to shine. The slow dance. I remember him in his slick black dress shirt, and 'coordinating-to-my-dress' maroon bow tie and knew that we had to be one of those couples. Because all I wanted to do was dance with him. It didn't matter if my dress was on the shorter side, and even shorter when I put my arms around his neck. Or that we were almost the same height, even with me in my (adorable and very chic) black flats. No insecurity and no judgement from the glaring teachers in the corner of the room mattered in that moment. He was mine. I was his. And it was nothing like I imagined. I felt like my waist fit in his hands, and my arms were designed for his shoulders. There was no toe stepping or spin fails. It was just good. We haven't danced since then. But we will. And I can't wait. Dancing with him makes you feel like that's the reason dancing exists. An Open Argument to Women-on-Women Hate☺
Dear W.W.H.O.W (Women Who Hate on Other Women), I am writing this letter to you today because it has been brought to my attention that not only are women judged crucially by men, society, the government, dogs, and probably aliens on Mars, they're judged by other women as well. Oh the irony. This probably isn't a surprise to you already, because you've probably been spending your days on a nice cottage in Vermont, swiping through Instagram, dishing out the latest gossip on other women's posts. "You wear way too much makeup", "You shouldn't post a body positivity picture, it's just you asking for attention", "Your cat isn't even cute, Jennifer". Well, here is a nice little public service announcement for you all. It's rude. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. I'm not sure if you're all aware of this, but humans have a choice. *gasp* And... wait for it, this is the craziest part... Women are humans too. *poof* Mind-blown. Therefore, since women are identified as apart of the human species, they have a choice to do whatever they please with their bodies, actions, and personal image. I also understand you have just as much the right to judge these women, because this is a "free country" and all. Just thought I would mention, a woman sharing the personal glorification of her body does not have a negative impact on anyone else. It actually adds another optimistic & generally happy human being to this crazy, psychopathic, depressing world. Now, who is that harming? You couldn't possibly think it's you, do you? Because I'm pretty sure your eyes will not fall out of your sockets and bleed, your insides won't disintegrate and dissolve, cats will not come out of nowhere in hoards of 60 and claw your face to shreds because some girl is posting a picture of her "side-boob". Women have sex. Men have sex. Women post pictures of their bodies on social media. Men post pictures of their bodies on social media. In a world full of double standards, women should be trying to knock these expectations down, not making them a bigger issue by joining in and shaming women for their actions. We are all separate individuals, and what one woman might agree with, another may not. Disagreements aside, if you don't like something someone is doing, don't assume you have the right to judge them for their behavior, unless it is directly affecting you and harming your happiness. You, as the critic, don't have the power. Not in the case of when a woman is glorifying her body using social media, or having consensual sex, or wearing whatever she pleases and being fully aware of the fact that she made that decision. If a woman is posting a photo of herself in little to no clothing, she has the consent and the power over everyone. She is the one posting the picture, putting on or taking off the clothes, and can leave the situation at any time. She has the power. She has the consent. That is what makes it sexually empowering. When you tear down a woman, whether you are aware you are doing it or not, you are actually sexually objectifying her. Majdoline Lyazidi, a twenty-year-old Morocco resident, created the SlutWalk. "SlutWalks have protested rape culture in general and specifically zeroed into the practice of slut shaming and victim blaming. The marches have also been sites of female sexual celebration, where displays of female sexuality are presented as acts of self-expression rather than invitations aimed at men." (Hackman, Rose. Amber Rose Interview). “I’ve been called a slut while I was still a virgin. I have been called a slut while I was in a committed relationship with my husband," American model, actress, and entrepreneur, Amber Rose, says. “So it really doesn’t matter what you do in life, people can call you that name because they are uncomfortable with your sexuality. That’s all it is.” Sexual empowerment and body positivity have been symbols of strength for women everywhere. It gives them the right to be free of their sexuality without judgment or contradictions. Or at least that's what the goal is. If you're uncomfortable with someone's sexuality and actions, it takes nothing to simply accept them, because by casting judgement on other women for being "sluts and whores", it affects other womens lives, whether you notice or not. Besides, women calling other women derogatory statements just gives men more of a reason to deem us with the same exact derogatory statements. "Oh, well if women can hate on other women, then I can too! I've casted judgment on other women. It's a difficult thing to not do. As humans, our second nature is to share our opinions as much as we possibly can. Society is designed to make women believe that men want us for our bodies and as objects of satisfaction, but if we give them what they demand, even for our own pleasure, we are the ones to blame and the ones at fault. How is that fair? It's not. There is no win for women. It doesn't help one bit. But being tolerant, and understanding, and respectful towards women who go through the same exact struggles as we deal with, but maybe in extraordinarily different ways, helps a ton. We all enter this world, and we all leave this world. Don't spend it worrying about what other women are doing with their time and reputation. Accept them as a sister, and stand together. There are bigger issues to deal with, and the only way they will be solved is is if we bring each other up. Not tear each other down. affirmation
[af-firm-a-tion] something that is affirmed; a statement or proposition that is declared to be true Well I don't know if any of these goals.. dreams.. affirmations, are true, I don't even know if they'll happen. All I know is I want more of them in my life, or at least in the next 12 months. Here are 7 of my affirmations that I want to ring true in the new year. ➊ Ineffable moments Moments that are too good to describe in words. These moments are rare to come by, but I want hundreds of them. ➋ Cats. All the cats. Every one of them. This one is self explanatory. Who doesn't want millions of cats? Don't answer that. ➌ Serendipity I'm a planning/scheduling whore (that's a terrible sentence, I know, bare with me.) I try to plan every moment of every day, because I hate surprises and I have been losing my mind over the semester, that if I don't plan ahead of time, something goes missing, something gets broken, I fail at life basically. I need more moments that aren't planned. Just me letting go and not giving into my schedule. ➍ Aurora The word literally means "dawn". It's my favorite part of the day, even though I'm usually asleep for it. It reminds of what the day has in store. Fresh starts, clear skies, or maybe a cloudy storm. Everything is calm, and everything is fair. I want more aurora. More pictures, more moments, more early mornings and coffee breaks, just to slow down and start back up again. ➎ Epiphanies My biggest goal is to start figuring out and having a sudden realization for what I want to do in life. I know I want to write, but I have absolutely no idea what job is going to give me a comfortable lifestyle and allow me to do the thing I love most. A lifestyle that will let me have the opportunities I want and let me live this short existence as happily as I can. ➏ Speak with more eloquence Just the word eloquence itself is gorgeous. 2016 will be the year I find my words. My urge to write, to speak, and to use terms without having to reach for a thesaurus. There are so many words in the world, why wouldn't you want to learn them all? Plus, you come off as incredibly intelligent. Life tip. ➐ Be more valiant I'm pretty fearless when it comes to most things. But I am fearful of many things as well. In 2016 I don't want my fears or my comfort zone to get in the way of what I want. If I want to buy a big grown up girl purse and use it for this mediocrity we call high school, hell.. I'll do it. This is the year I'm unflinching towards getting my broke ass a job, testing for my license, and doing anything I want. Being free of fear. Those are my goals. My aspirations. My affirmations. Good luck on your journey through 2016. xoxo I've decided that every title for a post I write about during the winter break (this is probably the last one considering break is over Monday) is going to be my current jams. And you're welcome, because I have great taste in music.
Recently I have enjoyed the word catharsis. Doesn't it just sound fancy. It really means to release or, in a sense, purge. That sounds terrifying, ever since I've seen The Purge (solid 2 out of 5, terrible horror movie, if you can even call it that. Just a warning), but I like the idea of it all. To be stressed, overwhelmed, scared, or depressed, and to have a word that solves all your problems. If you can just find the thing that makes you feel like releasing your struggles. I do so many things to release my worries and feelings and emotions, basically because I am an emotional wreck half the time and my brain has no other mechanism to let go. Obviously I write. I find using words to string together worries and feelings and emotions absolutely mesmerizing, and I want to become a pro at it. I also eat. A lot. Give me anything, I'll eat it. Except barbecue sauce. That's disgusting. I was watching an episode of Brooklyn Nine Nine, and Detective Jake Peralta just got out of a bad break up, and his friends kept telling him "Catharsis, catharsis, catharsis", urging him to release his sorrows through a game of hostages, terrorists, and cops (It's a good show, I promise). But not only did I remember it because it was one of the vocabulary words in my English class... what am I saying? Of course that's the only reason I remembered it. Thanks Ms. Baker, see? Your quizzes are totally working. I find the idea of finding something you love and aspire to do, and that being the same thing that helps you release your worries, thoughts, feelings, fears, and stresses, amazing. I'm lucky for the opportunity to have catharsis. To write, to pray, to rant, to read, to draw (or scribble chicken scratch onto canvas paper, in my case), to eat, to be comforted, to cuddle, to be close with others, to talk, to speak, to be literate, to think, to just be human.. Wonderful. Find your release. Catharsis the heck out of life. |
AuthorGrace Willcox. High school student. Likes to think of herself as cunning & witty. Probably isn't. Enjoy. Archives
March 2017
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