A week into winter break and I feel bland, bored, and barely refreshed. Christmas was nice, if you're into that sorta thing. If not, I'm sorry, and happy... festive day? Spending time with my small family of three was more relaxing than I imagined, and even though it didn't feel like a holiday, it was still a grand old time. As much as I want to be sitting in bed, curled up watching master chef and eating a frozen chocolate bar, I decided to get off my lazy ass (still pretty lazy considering I've spent the last two hours in a bathrobe) and write. And I promised Ben Jatos I would.
I got an email from my wonderful English teacher today about my narrative essay I had written for her class, and was practically brought to tears by her raving review. I always knew I was good at writing, but she really made it ring true. I love my writing, it's something I take pride and I have a real talent in. Yes, that sounds cocky. But when you literally suck at basic human things such as sports, secret Santa (I actually lost my person, people), cooking (correction.. BURNING mac & cheese), and all sorts of generic talents, it's pretty damn nice to be good at something. Let alone something you love, something that you want to make a career in. I want to do this for the rest of my life. I read people's work and resonate so heavily with their words, and all it does is inspire me to do the same. But I have to actually write to do that. So, thank you. For reading and commenting on this tiny, small, heartfelt blog that I put my soul, thoughts, insights, feelings, and ultimately my words into. It's not much, I know, but it's a start. So happy holidays. Stay safe & do what you're passionate about ♡
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At first sight, this mug looks like it's desperately crying for a new home on some 40 year old gypsy's kitchen shelf, where her 14 cats will lick and scratch at the rim of it. I will be that gypsy. Maybe not to that extent. But something like that. Because everyone knows that I'm going to be a cat lady one day.
I love cats. And I love coffee mugs. My dream is to have my entire kitchen be filled with quirky, pastel colored coffee mugs that I can sip tea from all day long. Of course when I'm taking a break from writing my award winning novel (let's be real here, I'd be lucky to publish a comic). But now that I think about it, coffee mugs have some pretty honorable traits, kind of similar to humans. They're all different sizes. Some are short, like baby teacups. Some are tall, like my awkward giraffe self. But everyone still seems to love them. Because they're adorable. It's the best feeling when you find a cute new coffee mug. At least for me it is. They're also easy to break. They're fragile. I'm fragile. I try not to be, and I come off as a b*tch. I attempt to shade over the fact that I'm awkward in social situations, not very funny (seriously, I don't know why people laugh at my jokes), and that I get hurt easily. I don't want to ever be weak. Because the worst feeling in the world is being taken advantage of, or replaced. And I've had both done to me. But I'm sure I've done both to others. I like how mugs are always needed. I want to be a necessity to someone. And in someways I am. But I don't like the idea of being put on a shelf and taken down when it's convenient for others. Poor coffee mugs. When I collect all of you in my dream kitchen, I'll drink from every one of you evenly, just to make it fair ♡☻ But really. I never want to be put on a pedestal. It's too much stress, being someone's entire happiness. Trust me, been there done that. In the end it was better to let it go, and find someone who is as independent as you are. So thank you coffee mugs, for being cute, reliable, and fragile. All the things I am and wish to be. I have been taught many things in my 16 years of living. Look both ways before crossing the street. Eat your carrots, they'll make your eyesight better. Don't drink too much water before working out (learned that one the hard way). But there's so many things I don't know. I still don't understand globalization (thanks Farr). I don't understand why Ms. Baker is always so sarcastic and smiley, it's scary. I don't understand why racism exists and why humans, even though we are the exact same species, we still feel like we have this sense of entitlement over others. Even towards people of our own race. I don't understand why people downgrade other people's beliefs, and can't just be tolerable towards others decisions, unless it directly affects them in a negative way. I don't understand why there are so many issues in a world, and I get chewed out for coming off as a negative person, when negativity is all around us and I'm emotional about it (I also don't understand why I'm such a hot mess all the time.) I want to understand so many things, and I want to have all the answers. I've always wanted that. I've always cherished knowing something and being educated on a topic, because it's the best feeling in the world when someone asks you something (in a controversial type of way or out of pure confusion) and I can express my beliefs and my thoughts fluently, almost as fluent as I want my writing to be. There are too many things that are too vague or unknown to understand, and it bores be talking about it. Educate yourself on what you're passionate about. And never downgrade someone for doing so.
I would like to think of myself as rather intelligent. I've always had a sense of how people worked, and grasped challenging concepts pretty well. I remember over the years my mother would try to argue with me, and everything she said was either hypocritical or angry. She would get mad because I called her out, and she'd retort, "You know what, just become a psychiatrist already." I've thought about it, but I don't have a large threshold for ignorance.
Although it seems like I'm angry and opiniated 97% of the time, I have quite a bit of tolerance. I like to pride myself on my empathy. I worry about what others think of me, and I want them to enjoy my company. I try to be the person people come to, or can trust, because I don't have that all the time. And when I do, it's a huge relief. I was taught growing up the the most important thing is to be kind, and that you can't judge someone for their actions because there is always an underlying reason. I try to think about someone's home situation, or how much pain they've gone through, but I'm also forgetful and usually lash out. Others tell me I'm tall. I get that one a LOT. Random people will take the time out of their day to be annoying and inconsiderate and question me about my genetic code. No, you're right. I want to go throughout the day feeling self conscious about my giraffe height. Much love. I'm not sure what defines me yet. There are so many definitions for all the words in the English dictionary, and because we are all different and human, we are flawed and wrong and nothing is ever really correct. How should I know what defines me? I feel like I will spend most of my life trying to figure it out, just like everyone else. But I don't know if I want to be defined. I don't ever want to be put in a cage and told "You are this. This is all you can be and these are your limits". I have too much doubt in myself and too little time to do things for others to play that role. I want to be defined for what I've done, and what I write, and how I turn out. And I hope to turn out decent. Last year, I was advised by my favorite English teacher, Ben Jatos, to read one of his most beloved collection of essays, "Legs Get Led Astray" by Chloe Caldwell. I had never even heard of her, let alone expected to be so moved by every captivating word she published from here on out. He handed me the mint-condition, sleek, paperback-covered book and my emotions were never the same. In these essays were the most beautiful and inspiring stories I had ever had access to and I couldn't believe someone with so much talent, someone I truly hoped to end up like in the world of literature, was not that well known. I finished it in a week.
Whenever I write, I think about her. I think about how open her essay was written on her dear friend who overdosed, and how the last thing they did was paint a mural and drank cheap wine in her apartment until all hours of the night (please don't quote me, it was a year ago). I think about the super faint memory of the last essay in the entire book, and how I can't even remember the name of it, but I know that it made me crave and ache for more pages and words. I thought about Chloe today when I was asked to fill out my theater-bio-questionnaire, and how it asked "Favorite motto". The first thing that came to mind was this: "I can accept that all I’ve ever wanted is not very special —all I’ve ever wanted, like most people, is proof of love.” And trust me people, this is only a hint of how great it gets. I thought about this when I got home as well, because I didn't realize how at the time it was so relatable. I mean, of course it's "relatable". Everyone is looking for proof of love, whether it be in a significant other, friend, or a stripper. But I didn't realize how much love I had been longing for until I was tossing and turning over her words. It's a horrible feeling, desiring love. Not just love, but acceptance. It's even worse when you had it. You grasped it, experienced it, and never thought it would leave you... until it does. It makes you feel like this is all the world has for you. Connections with others, people you let down and either love too much or don't love enough. I'm fearful, because I don't want to live a life where I'll never be able to decide for myself, on what I want, how I feel, or what I love. This is why I write. I feel like if others know what I have to say, I'll miraculously end up surrounded by people just as lost and anxious of the universe around me as I am. Something I always assumed I would have was love, and I'm scared that it's not something you can possess. What if it's something that floats throughout us day to day, and we give, and give, and give, never noticing what we don't take. I think of all the people around me, and it depresses me even more to know that I don't find happiness or acceptance in any of them. And I'm the only one to blame. Chloe Caldwell's "Legs Get Led Astray" gave me so much wonderment for what she had to say. It gives me hope that I can fill someone's heart with that much satisfaction with just my words, if and when I become a writer someday. She's what you call, #goals. I seriously love you Chloe. Thank you for wanting proof of love. The one thing we spend our lives searching for. Let me tell you what, being single... sucks. I know every girl goes straight into the denial phase of, "I don't need no man, I can be my own happiness," because I have been in that phase for almost five months now. Finding your own happiness is the hardest thing you'll ever have to do, because it's an ongoing process. You will forever have ups and downs. One day you're on cloud nine, talking to cute boys and feeling free. And then the next day you feel like you've gained five pounds and no one will ever love you because you binge watch the Mindy Project way too much and can finish a pint of ice cream in one sitting.
I don't now why I'm even writing on here considering I've had no revelation and I'm still struggling daily, but we all need something to let go of, and mine is my ex. This isn't going to be a revenge post or anything of the sort, it's simply me sharing the shit I've been through and how I physically, mentally, and emotionally can't take it anymore. For all my life I've had an issue with finding my own happiness and feeling accepted by others, especially boys. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I was always the tallest girl in the my grade, and had a gap in between my teeth plus a bob haircut that made me look like Cole Sprouse in his younger years of Suite Life of Zack & Cody. I kid you not, I was a man-child. But I promise, I've had only good relationships. They were always nice boys who respected me and treated me of nothing less than I deserved. So I know what you're thinking, what traumatic thing happened that this chick is STILL hung up over her ex? The thing is, I don't know. Maybe it has to do with the fact that since we've broken up, he's continued to screw his life over by messing around with 20 girls at a time (I'm not exaggerating people) and every time I've attempted to forgive, believe, or be friends with him, he's deliberately lied to me. Yes, I've been told you shouldn't judge a boy over what he does once you two break up, but it's so hard not to when you've seen the potential they have, and you know that you're the only reason they had it. As the wise Jhene Aiko would say, "Please don't take this personal, but you ain't shit, and you weren't special til I made you so." And I've never heard something so true. But anyways, back to the feelings. When you're with someone who was nothing but amazing to you, it's unfathomable that they could treat you any other way. But they can. And it's heart wrenching, it's an utter punch in the gut. That's something I've had to come to terms with. That you could love someone, and they could love you, and they can still treat you more horribly than you could ever imagine. They can lie to you, reveal things about you that were shared privately for them, and continue to walk back into your life as if nothing happened. But when you think about it, that's just life. And that's just people. That's people being people, flawed imperfections and all. Being heartbroken and empty has shown me how to deal with so many situations in the best way possible, because my ultimate goal is to be less fucked up than the next person. My dad always taught me, "It's more important to be kind," and now I know how to, at last in some circumstances. Maybe it's because I'm 16. Maybe it's because he was my first mature love. And maybe this blog is turning into a cheese-fest of embarrassment and cliches, but I can't be alone in this, can I? Anyways, if you're reading this... girls who are just as relatabley heartbroken and bitter, just know that even if it doesn't get better (and I am vivid proof that it will take a while) you aren't alone. And if the asshole who broke your heart is reading this, get your shit together. It's only hurting everyone around you. *update ladies, my favorite English teacher knew that I was having an awful week and brought me a slice of cake. I am living proof that it gets better. *disclosure: these statements are apart of my opinion and decision on why I am a feminist. I respect anyone else's opinion as long as it does not degrade me, other women, or other people. thank you*
fem·i·nism / noun the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men. Notice how no words revolving around "shaming" or "male-hatred" is involved in the definition. Although the term has become entirely misconstrued over the centuries, most women don't even know the correct vision for the movement. My idea of feminism is the development of equal rights towards women and ultimately all humans. I know that most people think, "But women already have rights", yet where is our first female president, or equal pay in careers, and why should our breasts be censored when they are provided for nourishment and have the same anatomy as a male? Women are told, 'Respect yourself by covering up your naturally born body so men don't get aroused. Because in a world of rape and domestic violence, or violence against women in general, it is your fault if you were wearing "skimpy and slutty" attire. You were asking for it. You are not a victim'. Since when is someone asking for the degradation, loss of innocence, or harm from another human over their body. Society has sexualized women and their non-sexual organs, such as their breasts, to a point where our bodies are censored and discriminated against. Meanwhile, men with the exact same anatomy (yes, men have breast tissue) are free to post shirtless pictures, walk among beaches free and comfortable, and so on. Now it is a woman's job to keep "modest", or else others may be aroused and take advantage of her. Since when is it my job to cover up and worry about another person not being able to control their actions and not having enough decency to be respectful. As humans, we should be able to control our actions. Our brains have the capacity to handle that. So don't tell me that if I show off my breasts, I am "asking for it". It was the other person's decision to harm the victim, the victim did not choose for them. The other day, I was on the social media site Twitter, and because I follow many feminist accounts, I came across another woman stating that even though women have the right to expose themselves to the world, if they do so they are not respecting themselves and they are asking for it because men are going to be aroused. If I could've (I was only working with a 116 character count people,) I would've replied as so: Whether or not I show off my body has nothing to do with my dignity, self-worth, or self-respect. Respecting yourself is having confidence in who you are, and I am a woman. A strong and independent woman, who has these things called mammary glands. I among the 4 billion plus women of the world have them and share this never-ending struggle. It has become a normality that we should be ashamed of our bodies because we are only sexual objects for men to possess and dominate (I understand that not ALL men do these things, but that is no excuse considering it is a large enough number for it to take effect on the female culture). These organs are present to nourish children. That is their soul purpose. But we as a culture have come to believe that their purpose is for sex, that they are only for private eyes, or they lessen a woman's worth if she exposes them to the world. Don't degrade a woman for her body. Don't tell her she is not respecting herself because you don't have a clue what she thinks of herself or her body or anything about her presence. It is not a woman's right to decide whether someone else respects themselves or not. It is not a mans right. It is not anyone's right except for that person and that person alone. So don't degrade women for bearing their beauty. Dear excited Middle Schoolers around the world,
Do NOT get your hopes up about high school. It's hell. Sorry to pop your bubble, but if you've watched Clueless as many times as I have, you're going to be very disappointed. High School, at least for me, was a giant punch in the face. You sit in the cafeteria, alone, with nothing but one friend from Biology for at least the span of two weeks, and then gradually make your rounds to the hectic, loud, crowded hallways, where you find your "social standing" with at least five of the most obnoxious people you've ever met. I thought high school was supposed to be the time where you meet the people you spend your entire life with, and instead I met one important person who makes my day a little bit brighter, and the Junior AP English Language teacher, who is my only other best friend. You go to classes that you hate, every single day, with people you wish could just hop on the next flight to Nevada. I, unfortunately, go to the so-called "ghetto" high school. I came to find out early that if you don't go to a school where the district pays for everything, you're not worth talking to. My best friend who I've known and went to school with for 8 whole years recently told me that she's moving next semester. For the past three months I've been silently slugging along, just trying to get through the year. "Just get good grades, focus on sports, and finish strong" has been my motto. But "slugging along" isn't living. And when you go to a high school that has the second-to-worse sports teams, and even worse reputation as a school, there's nothing to be excited about. Which only makes the feeling of loneliness grow. I'm just praying that it gets better. That by Junior year I'll have better friends to surround myself with, and more things to be involved with. After all, It's only freshman year. |
AuthorGrace Willcox. High school student. Likes to think of herself as cunning & witty. Probably isn't. Enjoy. Archives
March 2017
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