♠

     When people respond to the conversation starting question with, “I would want to read minds,” I conceive it laughable. I’m close to saying that it’s immature. However, with thought more elaborate I decide it’s likely a characteristic of someone who would rather live free of reining wonder.

     My conclusion rests on their fear of the unknown until I recall the following: I am petrified of the unknown to the scar of madness, yet I would hardly thirst to contain author’s knowledge by forced draw.

      The eighth circle of Hell with my head turned round just isn’t where I belong.

     Leading me to the night’s wonder: why do people like me? We’re in sixth grade for a moment because I mean like me like me. Usually I don’t attract the children of ages lesser than my own, as a matter of fact they rarely even match me. By the looks of it, I’ve strolled into the ballpark of grown men. Pushing aside the idea of my clumsy stumble I’ve considered the two major league reasons for this. The first being, “They’re immature, that’s why they want me,” and the second, “Or maybe I am on the level they’re convinced I am.”

     Peering beyond a few that provided Pictionary purpose to the prior, I’ve learned enough to keep up the awareness guard for filtering the retention pond. I could easily spot a dorsal fin from miles away with a sharp eye… if it’s open.

     & In the end it’s all an exhausted sport and I’ve tried being a player. Heartbreaking might be fine under Valium-colored skies, but here I’m gazing with a mirrored blank stare at Tamarian Gardens. “You cannot see anything. I tried it too.” As for being blindsided—I’m capable too, I’m capable of anything, after all.

Mysteries of My Creation

    Today is your (un)lucky day—have all you’ve ever wanted if you can only reach it on your own. My money’s on: you can’t, and that’s why you pushed away what you claimed was such a great thing for you, you selfish hypothetical gene. If you genuinely believe deep down that all you deserve is the shit that you spread, that is all you will ever even be. The rewards won’t exist, you’re less than that to me. This is the time of your last feeding. I hope you’re as happy as you deserve to be.

Crying.

(Will be formatted tomorrow into part of the "Here is My Real Head" series.)

     I hate everything about crying. Feeling hot and cold simultaneously, the pulsating headache, the gasping for every painful breath trapped inside my throat; everything is begging to break free, erupting only because I never learned a gradual release.

     I’m terrified of people hearing me cry. I don’t want people to know I’m weak, though more importantly, I don’t want people to know why I’m weak in the moment I am. Discussing the reasons later is nonchalant, but elaborating on my emotions as they course through my veins and pump my brain with irrationalities—that’s a child’s Hell House.

     I don’t want to do it alone, but I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. I don’t want to be laughed at or ridiculed, and I don’t want to be abandoned. I don’t want anyone getting the misconception I’m so weakened by my own problems that they cannot approach me with theirs.

     To this day, when I allow myself to completely sob, I feel immense amounts of guilt, shame, and embarrassment. Nothing embarrasses me more than someone hearing me cry, or knowing of my lack of self control as it occurs. I still feel as if I should cover my mouth with a rag, despite being nearly an adult.

     When I cry, I feel ugly, the ugliest I ever feel. I am worthless, unproductive, and weak by something I allow to affect me. My current number one wish is to better handle how exposed and unreal I’ve felt recently.

     I am not handling with care.

Monday's Excerpts - The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

     This past Saturday I finally finished the Origin of Species. Saturday was the 27th of February, meaning I had a single day left to read an entire book to up the count of how many I had read for the month, which was  the embarrassingly low number of only four: The Satanic Bible, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, On the Origin of Species, and the one I’m going to be excerpting today.

     I could have read a number of things, but something struck me as a great idea. From my creeping skills, I knew one of Jonathan’s favorite books is The Catcher in the Rye. (Unless he lied to the internet, of course.) Luckily, I owned it from a few years back when I wondered what it was about, after the book name-dropped in “Emo Kid.”
     When I bought it, I had read it up to the last twenty or thirty pages. Reason being, it had fallen behind my bed where I couldn’t reach it without seriously hurting my arm. I thought it was dull, so I didn't care much and it remained there for years fairly forgotten.
     I’ve planned to read it again eventually, as I knew it was a classic and I'm really pushing myself to cram as much knowledge and culture into my brain before college later this year. I always envisioned I’d be incredibly bored, and want to poke my eyes out while I read it, so I kept putting it off. Surprisingly, I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I have a greater appreciation for it than never before. I’m so glad I reread it, especially through to the end. The lasts few lines of the novel are so true to life.
     Reading it, I kept wondering what Jonathan thought of what I read, and if the same parts I found significant stuck out to him too. It doesn’t really matter, though. The only reason I read The Catcher in the Rye yesterday was my romanticized desire to feel closer to him—in what way I wasn’t sure—after reading it. Surely, I did, and truthfully, I've never felt such a compulsion, actually one at all, to do something like this with someone in mind.
     I used to think I was so uncaring and incapable, I disillusioned myself into believing my love would only be a business deal no matter who it were with. Now, I’m stuck in a tornado of everything I thought love meant, and everything it's becoming to mean for me. I cannot even define it, there's simply not the characters to explain it.

      I wonder what makes us feel that way, the feeling we get when we listen to a special person’s favorite album, or read a special person’s favorite book. If there was one thing I wish I could explain the magic of by means of sociology today, that would be it. Above all else, that’s my second life love.

This Week's Book: The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

        What I did do, I gave old Sally Hayes a buzz. She went to Mary A. Woodruff, and I knew she was home because I’d had this letter form her a couple of weeks ago. I wasn’t too crazy about her, but I’d known her for years. I used to think she was quite intelligent, in my stupidity. The reason I did was because she knew quite a lot about the theater and plays and literature and all that stuff. If somebody knows quite a lot about those things, it takes you quite a while to find out whether they’re really stupid or not. . . . My big problem is, I always sort of think whoever I’m necking is a pretty intelligent person. It hasn’t got a goddam thing to do with it, but I keep thinking it anyway. (Page 105)

—————

    The part that got me was, there was a lady sitting next to me that cried all through the goddam picture. The phonier it got, the more she cried. You’d have thought she did it because she was kindhearted as hell, but I was sitting right next to her, and she wasn’t. She had this little kid with her that was bored as hell and had to go to the bathroom, but she wouldn’t take him. She kept telling him to sit still and behave himself. She was about as kindhearted as a goddam wolf. You take somebody that cries their goddam eyes out over phony stuff in the movies, and nine times out of ten they’re mean bastards at heart. I’m not kidding. (Pages 139-140)

—————

    That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write “Fuck you” right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say “Holden Caulfield” on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say “Fuck you.” I’m positive, in fact. (Page 204)

Books read this past week...
★★★☆☆ The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
★★★★★ On the Origin of Species: The Illustrated Edition by Charles Darwin

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

PostSecret Sunday

     Earlier this week I wrapped my hair up in a towel, and felt my eyebrows were being pulled back harder than ever before. I looked in the mirror, and sure enough! I looked exactly like Spock. I was waiting for it to happen, I knew it was too awesome for me to purposely try to make it happen. I'd post the picture, but it's much too embarrassing I think, haha.

     I love being single, but sometimes I really do wish I wasn't so lonely. I don't see couples together, there's no jealousy. It's very rare, but I do wish I had some kind of fairy tale love to describe as my own. I wish I knew what being in love felt like. I wish I could write something as beautiful as 'Eat Me, Drink Me' (the song, not the album) about someone and mean it. I wish I could feel confident in believing someone for me existed that viewed romanticism the same way I do. Most importantly though, I wish I could find someone even worth my time.

Eat Me, Drink Me by Marilyn Manson

In The Waste Land
On the way to the Red Queen...
It's no wonder our stage clothes have dreams to be famous.
The trees in the courtyard are painted in blood,
So I've heard.
She hangs the headless upside down to drain.

EAT ME, DRINK ME . . . EAT ME, DRINK ME
This is only a game, this is only a game.
I was invited to a beheading today.
I thought I was a butterfly next to your flame.
A rush of panic and the lock has been raped.
This is only a game, this is only a game...
So picking my skin and my scales.
I see my horror mirrored in your sundown of your blank stare.
I see my horror mirrored in your sundown of your blank stare.
EAT ME, DRINK ME . . . EAT ME, DRINK ME
This is only a game, this is only a game. 

But then our star rushes in, feeling like a child and looking like a woman...
She has been forecast with an attempt to kill herself,
But the ending didn't test well.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 1

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust

Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

 

     One of the things I’ve deemed most important for me to do is to face things I’m afraid of. It strongly ties in with the quote I assigned the year 2010, ‘Find what you are afraid of, face it, and then you won’t be afraid of it anymore.’ [Marilyn Manson, 1998]  Not that I never did before 2010, but now more than ever I’ve recognized its importance, particularly its importance in my life.
     I’m afraid of a few physical things. Sharks, tornadoes, and getting water in my eyes, to name a few. However, the majority of my fears have always upheld residency in the psychological or sociological realm. I am so well groomed still to this very day that I am frequently terrified of speaking what’s really on my mind. If not terrified, the fear persists on an unnatural scale of appropriateness.
     As a child, I used to secretly draw pictures of my dad with another family because I wasn’t brave enough to tell him that his actions led me to believe that he wanted to leave me and our ‘family’ (loosely used). Years later when he found one of the scrawlings, horrifyingly in my presence, I was deeply ashamed.

     Whenever I reflect back to those instances or ones similar, I shake my head at my childhood self. I wish I could lend her a helping hand, or some useful advice. I wish I could tell her to not fear being as brave as she really wanted to be, no matter what anyone tried to convince her with otherwise. I wish I could tell her how to escape the inevitable outside party conditioning after her own shampooing, but I don’t even have a substantial solution. I wish I could have saved myself for the child’s sake, for me then and for me now, but the lyric ‘there’s no one here to save ourselves’ [‘Man That You Fear’, Marilyn Manson] has never rung truer in my ears.

     Today I decided I wanted to list some things that are my completely honest opinions about the topic discussed. I am showing you my ‘real head’ without any reservations watering my beliefs. Fear-ladden, some. But today I am bravery stricken and bravery is self-contagious.

(This got to be nearly 2,700 words and seven pages long in Microsoft Word, so I am going to split it up into parts that have relative topics. I’ll post them in daily succession. Thank you for reading!)

1. Addiction

     I consider the title ‘addict’ the middle stepping stone of anything relating to the sorts of drugs, alcohol, cutting, sex, etc. The first stone is active participation, the second stone is claiming addiction as a state of being and existing, and the third stone is realizing you don’t necessarily have to be stuck in that mindset forever. It’s realizing NA, AA, SMA, etc. is all a form of brainwashing watered down by society into acceptability. Were these groups advocating something of a different topic, it would be a church or a cult which are equally despicable by various parties, and equally despicable by me personally.
     Not everyone can be strong enough to hop to the third stone, I am at terms with that and hold no resentment towards people that haven’t taken that leap, even if I feel they’re capable of landing safely. By no means, however, do I consider it a leap of faith. It is a reality to me, unless otherwise proved by something scientific.
     Your body is not eternally addicted to physically addictive drugs as far as I know, and you can change your mind to dispel whatever mental addiction subsides, at the least enough so that you won’t partake again. It’s a conscious choice we must make if we want to live happily without constantly being reminded of our faults and past, and I know with me personally it made me feel worse than better. Last time I checked, in any other form that’s considered dwelling, and frowned upon by the populations of major societies when it comes to any other subject like past relationships, or a poor childhood. No one wants to hear you whine or offer up the same excuses for everything, so why is it okay here? Well in my opinion it shouldn’t be, but because it keeps a majority of past ‘abusers’ under control, it’s a popular remedy.
     It’s important to remember that with the help of NA, AA, SMA, etc., you’re ultimately making the decision on whether or not to repeat your actions. The group may be offering something to your table of guilt, but are they really offering up respectable plates of reason? It’s important to come to terms with why you’re not still repeating your past behaviors. Do you genuinely not want to, or are you not because someone else is telling you to? Although the brainwashing can work, it doesn’t work forever, and it’s hardly different than the church convincing you their spiritual scriptures are what create your morals. Your genetics have and always will write your morality, as your mind will always inscribe what behaviors you do and do not participate in.

2. Self Mutilation 
     I don’t consider self mutilation in the form of cutting necessarily an addiction. I recognize that endorphins are released in the brain as a feeling of release when the act is carried through, and perhaps that does add a physical addictive attribute to the act. In my opinion, it doesn’t have as strong of a backing as drugs or alcohol. I believe that it’s favored by many, therefore allowing it the popular label of ‘addiction’ by society.

     I have experienced many mindsets when self mutilating, the most popular being dissociation without memory of the act, spur of the moment anger, rage, or sadness, and as a show of control over my physical behavior. I have upheld the last one listed within the past two weeks a single time, and I do not regret it. I wasn’t sad, and I am not sad now over the fact of my behavior. I am proud actually, proud of my control that it began and ended when and where it did, among other things.
     I don’t consider myself an addict any longer. I finally realize that I am above something that doesn’t even exist. Being an idea isn’t existence, otherwise all church or cult sermons—who can tell the difference anymore—would be true. I got caught up in believing something that wasn’t true, not all too uncommon of human beings, ha.

A Syntax of Self-Annihilation

Recorded by Alexis Mullino
from 5:15 PM 8 December 2009
through 2:43 AM 9 December 2009

"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze 
into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

    The following of what you are about to read will in no way grant me personal gratification. At most, it has the capability of producing embarrassment due to my shame, grammatical errors, improper use of words, and the commentary of spectators.

    My reason for publicizing this very private flow of conscious is exclusively for the purpose of helping others who also experience nights of torture at the superiority of their free-thinking minds by clearly expressing that I am not afraid to be honest. As it follows anything I release of similar motive, I am left in the frightening aftermath of hoping someone will let my exploitation and sacrifice impact them positively instead of ignoring everything said and simply mocking me.

    With attempts at writing my history into an auto-biographical format of various sorts, the abyss has taunted me with provocation unmatched to anything it has ever exhibited before. As strong as I have forcibly designed myself to be and as far as I may have come so far, I am no exception to being regularly tormented by the seemingly clockwork mind commonly shared by those previously or currently victimized by something or other.

    I always feel most comfortable in someone else’s darkness as opposed to my own, but I can’t hold residency there forever. In owning my darkness, I hope it provides others with the authenticity that they are not alone in theirs. Although we may not find much realism amongst our darkest thoughts, recognizing I am not alone is quite possibly the most realistic thing my mind has ever thunk.

    Interpret these declarations for what you will. It’s likely I wrote from my mind following my usual manner, but rereading what I barely remember recording, I wonder if perhaps my heart finally saw a chance to reveal itself in writing due to my distress, owing to the fact that I was in no condition to repress it like I normally do. Regardless, take them for whatever you need to so you may better understand yourself.

    5:15 PM- What a feeling it is to be able to indulge in your desired behaviors. I shall drink this water till I am sick, lest my jeans do not fit. Come forth darkness. Come. Forth.

    5:16 PM- To create you must first destroy. Myself is not excluded.

    5:56 PM- I am fighting demons— and for what? So I can temporarily break free from my ‘demons’, which are actually just a frowned upon part of me, and still exist dissatisfied? Come one, come all, Alexis. Be all that you have created yourself to be, reluctantly or not.

    5:59 PM- I taste metal everyday. There’s no one here to save ourself. I.. this is what you should fear. you are what you should fear. Nothing more, nothing less. So says my trusted influence, savior, saint. SAINT.

    8:29 PM- I know I’m in second place.

    9:29 PM- My life is a re-run of things I didn’t learn from.

    9:36 PM- I am too terrified.

    9:45 PM- “I’m not an artist, I’m a fucking work of art.” Can my body be included? By the way, it’s mine. I can do what I want, opinions of others do not matter. Weakness? It’s a conscious choice. I could kill everything that I am, only to be reborn tomorrow. However the choice resides in whether I want the rebirth to take place within this current body, or another.

    9:50 PM- I am pushing everyone away because I don’t want to be talked out of feeling how I obviously want to feel. Let me suffer without additional confliction. Do not suppress me. I might as well kill myself, I’m already dead.

    9:53 PM- I am numb from your power. Absolutely numb.

    9:53 PM- God has come.

    10:18 PM- How long will THIS episode last? Can I beat weeks ago’s record time?

    Unknown- There have been so many mistakes made I have been expected to pay for. I only have enough money for myself.

    11:57 PM- All I feel is eyes when there is none. Don’t cry now because it doesn’t affect me. Pointless behaviors pointlessly expressing your pseudo-care. I am scared to speak for all ears will hear me, but all I feel is eyes when there is none.

    12:11 AM- I always wanted everything to just be okay. I wanted stability, and I was passed up. All attempts are now futile.

    12:53 AM- As always, once ‘everyone’ is back in their comfort zone I am left alone to remain suffering. You are nothing to me after today.

    2:43 AM- Sometimes not knowing what to do next is good. However, I cannot evolve standing still. I must love in the only direction left— forward.

    This is quite possibly one of the hardest things I have yet to publish. I tremble with fear, yet my desire to hold strength for others until they can hold it themselves surpasses any selfish fright or worry I have. It is important to remember that everything I am, all that I study, and all that I do is all for you if you allow it to be. I have proclaimed before, "I will be your savior and servant if you let me."

Holiday List/Wish List

Folks have been asking me what I want for the holidays, but like usual I don't deserve a thing. I love to give to others, but I always count myself last in everything. Regardless, I just don't see how a cluster of hollow holidays at the end of what we deemed a lapse of time equals getting gifts for often, no reason.

Anyway, due to relentless badgering (I know, it's just out of love), here is a list of things I would enjoy.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/3PLHWTWFL2WOB

It's listed on Amazon because I already had a "wish list" going, and it was fairly simple to add to or edit. I've added notes to many of the things on the list, as well as priority. Be sure to check it out with the option "list highest to lowest priority" selected.

"Thoughts on.." Part Two- Religion

 Thoughts on..

Abortion 11/05/09 | Death Penalty | Prostitution | Alcohol

Gay Marriages | Illegal Immigrants | Downloading Music

Smoking | Drunk Driving | Cloning | Racism

Religion 11/13/09 | Premarital Sex | Porn

Religion?

29 April 2008- Have faith in whatever you want, but regardless, its not going to send you anywhere, its not going to make you a better person, its not going to help you. IT MAKES YOU A FUCKING ASSHOLE if you try to push it onto other people. If you're that fucking helpless that you need to shove it down someone else's throat, please jump in front of a car for me.

13 November 2009- For a considerable amount of time I evaluated the differences between Atheism and Agnosticism, and for a time I couldn't even comprehend the now-obvious distinguishing characteristics. I never leaned towards one or the other besides reason of "cool factor", meaning whatever influential person I looked up to at the time advised I should deem truth, I deemed truth. I can finally say in an irony-rich statement that I have comfortably attained security within a religion—or lack of—that I believe in. I never considered that I might as well have been condemned to cross irony in believing in disbelief. I should have foreseen such a result, considering I was the subject. I always knew subconsciously, regardless of my hopeless denial, that it'd never be as easy as deciding which God to believe in when the inevitable reality was that I believed in none.

     I hate to compare this to an irrelevant topic, especially since it withholds the possibility of pissing said group off, but it makes a lot of sense to me and I find comparisons that in my case of religious self-discovery it's similar to being gay. I unconditionally believe that gay people are born gay because they can recognize they're gay—whether they know what gay means yet or not—at a prepubescent age because it's genetic and not a conscious choice. From every recollected childhood memory, the idea of God has been absent from results of my ability to reason—possibly because of a specific instance that I will elaborate on later—but the conclusive reality is that God doesn't exist. I accept the concept of God, rendering me Atheist as opposed to Agnostic, but I do not accept the probabilities of God as reason to believe in Him.

     Often, it is proposed that people either believe or disbelieve in God because of an event that's taken place that profoundly affected them either in that instance, or later on in life due to re-analyzation. Almost embarrassingly, this was true for me for years. When I was nine years old, my friend Elizabeth* passed away in the middle of the night from an unanticipated heart attack. Alone, her death left my religious ideas unaffected, although it did familiarize me with the bitter reality that death exists. I didn't know it then, but I sure practiced my current principle that "all events are impersonal, even death" [Epictetus]. Undeterred by my attempts, I couldn't shed a single tear the day I caught news of her death. I felt extremely disrespectful when I couldn't even make my eyes damp, while the class bully sitting to my left bawled his eyes bloodshot. I hid the fact that I couldn't cry by burying my face in my crossed arms because I was convinced that lacking dramatic emotion was something to be ashamed of. I only wish I had known then what I was accomplishing by letting that event harmlessly—outside of my dissipated guilt—pass me by.

*Name changed for confidentiality, although I couldn’t find a single article about her on Google. I concluded it is probably due to her family being very private, and this was in a time before the internet exploded in popularity.

     At the wake, my attitude remained aforesaid until I approached the casket. Before it stood her father—who to my understanding is or was some type of religious leader—who spoke to everyone before they bid final valedictions to Elizabeth’s mortal remains. Elizabeth’s father took my hand and looked deeply into my eyes before enlightening me on the "fact" that Elizabeth was in heaven now and that God was looking over her, and personally over me too. He informed me that God loved Elizabeth and me, but offered no explanation as to why her untimely death occurred because a factual explanation in relation to his God did not exist. It was then that tears drenched my cheeks because I knew that he was lying to my face**, but more barbarously, lying over the body of his dead child.

** Many people have undeserved respect for those that truly believe in something that's doing "no harm" (religion is common), but it is doing harm because any religious concept is just that, a concept, and I do not let those equal to me walk upon me with their beliefs. You do not need a book to differentiate right and wrong, believing so is ultimate human weakness. It’s a shame adults in positions of political power need religion to let them know that they shouldn’t kill their fellow man. Where does the separation of church and state exist there? The bottom line is, you can believe whatever you want, but unless I ask or express obvious interest, I could care less.

     As time and events carried on, I relived that moment multiple times, trying to produce a tangible belief on what happened that night that Elizabeth's father attempted to instill his values within me. I cursed him for lying to me because I know he lied to classmates my age that either already agreed with his ignorance, or do now because of his admittedly convincing speech. On the contrary, I thanked the idea of him for enlightening me on something he didn't intend— the closure I needed that God does not exist.

     Society labels it a pubescent conception to state, "If God existed, this wouldn't happen." In actuality, many adults still face the same question long after their hormones are in check, regardless of how vocal they are of their religious considerations. Impressionable society instructs teenagers to shut up in a manifold of practices whenever the idea that God might not exist because he wouldn't let horrible things happen is either declared or exhibited in the embodiment of a currently unanswerable investigation.

     Extraneous from Elizabeth's death, my theories have developed into category 6 Atheism. I suspect my close relatives and I both confirmed years ago that that's what I would unquestionably come to secure as personal truth.

     Despite my previous comparison of my religious realization to being born gay, do not confuse this with me having the idea that people are born of a specific belief, because that's not true at all. Like Dawkins clearly expressed in The God Delusion, "That is not a Muslim child, but a child of Muslim parents. That child is too young to know whether it is a Muslim or not. There is no such thing as a Muslim child. There is no such thing as a Christian child." My comparison lied in the similarity that I knew I lacked belief in God from a young age while co-existing with the impressionable beliefs of others.

     While I personally think it's a waste of time to speculate on things that can never be answered—or the probability of it being answered during my lifetime being extremely slim—I do find it essential to be exceptionally educated on topics without immediate conclusion like religion and extraterrestrial life. Composing factual answers doesn’t have to be my life’s work for me to be well educated in their core concepts. If something is to be under frequent speculation, it only makes logical and intelligent sense that I should examine it with more thoroughness than just knowing a definition to be a productive member of society.

     So now the difference is finally clear and I am cleansed of all instilled delusions. Claiming Agnosticism is foundationally claiming ignorance and denial in the idea of something very apparent throughout history [God]. Atheism is the more thought-through of the two disbeliefs in God because it acknowledges that God may certainly exist, but in belief He does not. I believe He— he does not.

Denying hysterics

     Anxiety often plagues me, even though it probably shouldn't considering I take Vyvanse every morning before my eyelids are even completely open and aware of the world. A big part of my conscience believes—or chooses to believe—that it's just excitement though, and who's to tell me I shouldn't be excited? I am a seventeen year old fairly attractive girl that's not a mother, pregnant, on drugs, in a relationship, and my life is nearly completely void of restriction on what I do when I want to do it. I am assuming so because my parents trust me enough with typical daily-do's that they let me create my own boundaries— which I do. I also don't have any problems in my life that I cannot handle alone, therefore I'm a pretty stable, free person. Or teenager, your pick depending on how much you respect me.

     I've wondered if my anxiety/excitement brews from the fact that I like building up casual events to seem like extravagant evenings that only exist in fairy tales. A perfect example is watching movies at home. For the majority of the time we spend together, a friend of mine comes over at night and we watch at least one movie that we've typically decided on earlier in the afternoon. Throughout the entire day I'll pump myself up about the movie, repeating in my head and out-loud to anyone who's willing to listen about how amazing and kickass this cinematic experience is going to be, even if I think I won't like the movie or if I've already seen it. On occasion, I'll even try to get him pumped about it, by talking about it if we happen to be on the phone, or texting him asking him if he's as excited as I am, silly stuff like that. This is irrelevant to my point, but by the time the movie ha actually made it into the DVD player, I am so ecstatic for something that's really not that exciting that I sit on the edge of the couch for a good fifteen minutes into the movie. I'm almost to the point of being unable to contain myself. Eventually though, whoever I'm watching the movie with gets me to relax and sit back. Regardless of my calmed exterior, I still hop up several times throughout the movie—even if I'm thoroughly enjoying it—finding things to run around the house and do "real quick".

     I learned in my days of active addiction that making small things seem greater makes the greater things seem unrealistic in how wonderful they are. Turning events like going out to get ice cream with my dad every night, something so simple and insignificant to the bigger picture of my life, provided me something to look forward to, and in a sense, a reason to live. I was on a daily suicide mission that was never followed through with, and I firmly believe it's because of things like this that it never was, but because of the build-up I gave this nightly outing, I will remember them as a whole, therefore making them part of the "bigger picture". It helped me a great deal in gathering the strength to dig myself out of the abyss I knew all too well.

     This truly is all over the place, I'm spazzing right now. Some days are worse than others for me as far as anxiety level, or excitement, or whatever. I'm not exactly sure why, I've even exercised today, even if it was only a few mile bike ride before it began to rain too hard for me to ride safely. I am assuming today however it is because of my sugar intake, which has been a lot higher than it normally is. I had two cups of Coke earlier today—I cannot remember the last time I've drank Coke by the way, I don't drink soda anymore—and my dad's girlfriend Lisa brought me iced coffee this afternoon unexpectedly. She said I could save it for later, but it's pretty hard to save iced coffee because for one the ice would melt, and saved coffee in any form never tastes the same later. She also brought me a brownie which I've taken a few nibbles of, which is of course more sugar.

     I had pizza for lunch, another rarity in my diet. I'm sure sugar is somehow in that. Oh and I had cake. Damn, that is a lot of sugar today... I have had half a smart water though, so maybe that could flush some of it out? I definitely need to drink the rest of that water now that my coffee is gone. I know when I am in the process of consuming sugar and I start to slow down with the speed of intake that I've probably had too much, I just wish I had realized that earlier before it took me an hour to drink a small cup of coffee. My body really isn't used to sugary things anymore, and with Vyvanse, or any type of ADD/ADHD medication in my system, it can really send me into overdrive mode where my focus is on the borderline of not even useful anymore because the only thing circulating in my brain is all those organized thoughts already in existence, but then they start becoming warped again and I am in hysterics. It's so close to the abyss of relapse, it's insane, but without the relapse desire. Almost. Sometimes I seriously consider relapse when I'm like this because I know it'd calm me down real quick, but I still recognize that it's not worth it because I haven't been triggered by something I might find convincing enough. I cannot imagine the terrible things that could happen if I were to be like this and be triggered. I feel drunk, high, insane, bi-polar, excited, happy, nervous, anxious, like an addict all at once right now, and I'm hardly any of those things. I feel crazy, but I know it's not my fault. Yet in a sense it is. I just forgot to control myself, let's write that line down in the book of "famous last words", okay? I really did forget though.

     If you took notice, this started out as me trying to construct something that appeared calm and collected, when in reality I have been neither the entire two hours I've been trying to write this and make sense of the topic— denying my anxiety. Towards the end I just let it go freelance style, which something I never do, let alone publish. But I'll be daring—more daring that starting a sentence with "but", which is a big "no-no" in my world of style of grammar rules—and let it be known that sometimes I'm a little crazy too.

I don't believe in "don't worry, be happy"

     My entire life I've been advised to always "be happy" with what I have and not complain. Occasionally over the years I've wondered, what about when you don't like what you have, or you want more? Both are perfectly normal desires. No God, government, fellow human, etc., has any right to say you should ignore those emotions as if you don't have them. (If you want something, go get it.) Why should anyone express false gratitude for something they don't like, or settle for something when they know they could obtain better? I see sense in that to a degree. If you receive a sweater you don't favor from your grandmother for holiday, you should probably smile through it and pretend you love it because it's not going to affect your day or life. Personally though, if I'm not satisfied with something that affects my day-to-day, I'm going to change it—not try, big difference—so I am beyond satisfied.

     I do my best to not complain while I do so, and I think I do a pretty damn good job of not. Although I'm made fun of for it—big surprise—I do not typically speak of things that bother me if I believe a conversation about it won't result in a solution. To me, sitting around and talking about things that won't be fixed by talking about it just seems like dwelling. Personally, I feel it is more effective to be quietly upset for thirty minutes and move on as opposed to talking about it for two hours, crying, and then moving on with still no closure to the issue in sight. I suppose not everyone can do that though, partially because recent society has gotten it into their heads that people give a shit about every single thing that crosses their mind when in reality that's why "listeners"—therapists—are still being employed in growing numbers. The average person you talk to won't give a shit that you're having a bad day because you spilled coffee on your blouse and it reminded you of your gang rape when you were fourteen, and blah-fucking-blah the list of trivial events that have nothing to do with each other that you just connected in your mind for some reason goes on and on. It never ends and unfortunately, and I wish everyone did, but no one cares.

     Rereading what I've already written, it honestly sounds like I need to talk to someone that will listen and truly express what's on my mind, but that's just what the instilled ideas that I haven't cleansed myself of yet are telling me I need to believe. I don't want to believe that I need other people to survive, so I don't.

     Or so I'd love to convince myself. If I really believed that I didn't need emotional human interaction, my tattoo wouldn't say what it does. I've always wanted to push through things on my own, that's a trait I was born with, despite all the encouragement to deal with shit on my own and keep quiet.

Life in the Fast Lane

     I'm rarely asked questions that have personal significance. It's always very flattering that someone cares enough about me to inquire about something other than self mutilation, local drama, or what event I'm going to be at next. While those topics are wonderful to casually converse about, that doesn't express that the questioner cares about anything deeper than the subject matter. I always strive take the opportunity of a great question having been asked to come up with a well thought-out response.

     "If you could be doing anything right now, what would you be doing?" A fairly basic question, and an answer lacking effort would be one of life's many simple joys. "Sleeping", "eating Chinese", or "riding a roller coaster" are all examples of answers that clearly show that little thought had been put into them.

     When asked this tonight, something very specific instantly filled my head with wishful visions. During this leg of my journey of turning eighteen, a lot of things are changing around me and within me. Such events have placed me into a constant, thought-progressive spot deep within an unexplored area of my mind. At a healthy pace, I'm working on digging my way back out and into a normal state. All is part of the process of experiencing, suffering, and most importantly learning from things that will assist me in transforming myself into a productive adult, when that time comes.

     Speeding through the softly building-illuminated streets of New York City in a white Maserati, is where I would be at this very moment. No other cars around, just me driving and a man who's company I enjoy next to me, with his hand resting on my thigh in a friendly manner. I don't want to love him; that just complicates things. My thoughts would be diverted to my love for him, and that's not part of my perfect vision. No, I just want interest with the tighter grip on the leash. My thoughts can focus on the night, on me, and on my aspirations. Like everything connected to me, he is a personal accessory, and I am just taking him along for the ride.

"Those who shall be a lamp unto themselves...they shall reach the topmost height." - Buddha

Dear blogging world,

     I've tried so hard for the two and a half hours I've been home tonight to do some "recreational blog reading", aka, reading about things that aren't really a part of my bigger picture like husbands, children, and crafts. Usually I feel guilty doing things that aren't exactly productive (see: reading blogs on cooking/baking, but I suppose in a sense that is sort of productive if I do cook it for my family), but I decided I would take tonight for myself and read some fun blogs that I really enjoy.

     The problem is I cried for an hour or so tonight. I haven't posted my blog about it yet, but I spent six hours of last night in the hospital, and it was extremely traumatic for me. I hadn't completely "released" over the stress of it, and since there's nothing I can do these days but cry for a release, I knew it was coming soon. However, someone in my family decided to take my physical weakness from the hospital ordeal and frustration at my biological mother's guilt trips and turn it into "have you noticed you get cranky and get upset easier at night?" Can I have a "what the fuck" please? (Cue crying.) I feel like for as long as I shall live, the people that know I used to self mutilate—and were there to witness it—will constantly judge my actions. Unfortunately the majority of these people are my close relatives. You can see why it would hurt and bring tears to my eyes. I wish people would just realize that I am not the same person I was over two years ago, but from the sounds and stories from other addicts experiencing the same situation, it could be years, if ever, before people trust me again which is extremely upsetting. I know my wrongs, but please accept my redemption.

     So blogging world, while I would love to sit here and read you, my eyes are stinging just from being open and burning from trying to read anything longer than the length of an incomplete sentence. Editing this to be post-worthy will be painful, but I must do it or I'll regret it tomorrow.

     I think I'll bake cookies in the morning.

Taylor Swift: An American, an inspiration, & a princess

This has nothing to do with what went down the other night at the VMA's with Kayne's jackass, first of all. For a long time I've liked Taylor Swift, and like the rest of the world was swept up by her sweet, American girl self. She seems so normal, and I've never said that about a celebrity before and actually meant it.

I remember reading Rolling Stone, Seventeen, etc, and just being mesmerized by how ridiculously kind-hearted she is. She's so much like a "princess", but without the diva aspect of it that girl's of my generation have adopted. So many girls these days claim they're "princesses", but really a majority of them are just spoiled brats and want everything handed to them on a silver platter. Check out a princess movie girls, real princesses aren't rude Miss. Priss's, they're adorable, polite, and wonderfully nice. Also, by adorable I do not mean physically attractive. You can be anyone of any shape, look, size, whatever and be adorable. It's all about how you carry yourself!

I will admit that after the VMA scandal I've seen Taylor around the media more, like on TV, the internet, etc, which has sparked my sudden, larger interest in her. Today I checked out her YouTube channel (which is absolutely hilarious) so I could listen to a song of her's that I love, and I saw that she had "vlogs". I was surprised. In them you can really tell how truly kind and deeply genuine she is. I love the video where she pulls cinnamon rolls out of her purse, and her cousin—I think it was her cousin—thought she was weird for carrying them around all day in her purse, haha. I could really relate because that's definitely something I would do. I know she loves to bake too (or at least I think she does), which I've read about before in a magazine, and I love to bake all the time.

If I could choose exactly how I wanted to be in my "perfect life" (I know no one's life is perfect, but perfect compared to mine) I'd want to be just like her. :) You're a true inspiration Taylor to so many young girls, teenage girls, young and old women alike on how to be a proper lady!

9/11 & Current Events

I got to thinking about how I should comment on current events regularly on COSA18 to create a "time stamp" of sorts if it's ever read years later. I personally would think it'd be neat to read COSA18 five years from now and say upon reading an entry about a certain musical artist, "Oh yeah, I remember the 46th time Kanye West was an asshole!" You catch my drift, I'd imagine. I'm not going to talk about him right now though, except for the fact that I think it's really awesome that Obama called him a jackass. (Like Chelsea Handler said, I wonder if he'll retort with "President Obama hates black people!")

What I do want to talk about though, is September 11th. I didn't blog about it this past Friday, when I should have. For weeks prior to the anniversary, it was on my mind. Throughout the actual day I prayed for the people that lost their lives and those that are blessed to still be with us. I think a lot of us forget about the people that survived, who are still suffering from the terrorist attack eight years ago. At least those that died that day (or shortly after) are at peace now.

I wish 9/11 had never happened, but there's nothing that will ever change that. I'd like to believe that it's made our country stronger, and more unified, but I don't really know. The most important thing is to never forget what happened, and what we all endured that day as Americans.

If you're curious...
I was at school on September 11th, 2001, and in the fourth grade. I remember coming back to my homeroom from another class and passing the TV that was on, which was unusual, but I didn't think much of it.

In passing, I saw burning buildings and assumed a building was on fire downtown (I lived in Tampa, which has decently-sized buildings). I didn't give it a second thought, but then, as you know, things got serious. Kids started getting picked up by their parents, my teacher started crying, announcements over the intercom echoed throughout the school at fifteen minute intervals about things I can't even recall. The adults around me were starting to panic because we all lived and were currently located so close to a military base, and us kids didn't know what was even happening.

I don't remember seeing the second plane crash into the towers on the television. It might had already happened by the time I walked into homeroom, or I could have just missed it.

I also wasn't one of the kids that got picked up. I didn't know for the entire day what had happened, and I don't even remember how and when it was explained to me later on, if it even was that day. Honestly I don't even remember the moment I found out what really happened.

Still to this day, eight years later, I watch specials on TV about the tragedy and breathlessly whisper by reflex, "Oh my god," when I see those planes enter the buildings that they did. I cannot hold in my words expressing my shock, and I cannot hold back my tears.

Tonight I think I'll light a white candle for a while, in memory of everything that happened that day. I remember my biological mother lighting white candles and placing them in the window at some point after 9/11. I wonder if people still do that all these years later? Do you?

To the writers I follow:

Totally irrelevant, but this is the first blog entry to COSA18 that is being typed on a laptop. I am so trendy that I think I need to start letting my creativity flow within Starbucks walls. After all, writing doesn't count unless it was written in the vicinity of a 'Buck. I wonder if the label 'written in Starbucks' is common? Is there any way to look up labels, oh knowledgeable bloggers? Blogspot already makes it so difficult to find other blogs as far as I can tell, so I doubt it.




This entry is about the kinds of blogs I like to follow in the rare case that I find one pertaining to my personal interests. I hope this doesn't offend anyone because it really isn't written to. I mean it in the best of ways, you'll see. Just stick with me to the end without getting cranky and hopefully you'll understand.

My life is complex and downright depressing. Honestly, I have every reason in the world to be a suicidal person on the brink of actually going through with it (not that 'attempted suicide' bullshit, but that's another topic for another day). Against many odds, I am still here. I may not paint this picture for my readers 24/7, but my life could truly be a bad Lifetime movie about a drugged out immediate family, an addiction to self-mutilation, and the sexual and mental abuse I've suffered from peers. Life hasn't exactly been a party.

The life I lead and the lives I help are enough drama for my plate. It may sound mean, but I have no desire to recreationally hear about other people's lives that mirror daytime soap operas. Of course I would always be willing to help someone suffering no matter what, but I wouldn't normally go out of my way to read a blog about someone depressed or with an unfortunate life. I feel for you, I can't just don't want to handle it.

To help you understand the types of blogs I do enjoy, I have created a list of three basic categories:

• Normal teenage girl, usually a year or so younger than me (I haven't found many people my exact age or a little older that are interesting enough to follow), but not so young that it's creepy. From what I gather within their writing, they lead a fairly average, normal life with appropriate teenage female drama- nothing intense like what I've experienced.
• Young adult women so plain it could kill. Not anyone particularly popular or lonely, very average and happy. They listen to mainstream music, watch popular tv shows, write about their feelings that they don't let completely tear their lives apart, and sometimes complain about their large workload of college homework. Despite being so average, they are not a dime a dozen. While many women can have these common qualities, for me to follow them with this category in mind they have to be creative.
• Young, hip moms or family-based blogs typically ring-led by the mother. Ironically with this category, I don't care if their kids have issues like a mental illness or physical disability, just as long as the writer themselves don't so I don't have to read about personal melo-drama. (Postpartum depression? No thanks.) It's not saddening to me because it's something they can't control, and these moms are strong women who cope with it so well that it doesn't even seem like coping. (I have a good feeling that it's not once you're a mother, something I admire.) They love their kids dearly and show it by scrapbooking, photographing, and writing about everything their children do on a daily basis. I eat it up to the point that it could be labeled as a guilty pleasure, but I'll proudly admit any day that I'm fascinated by these strong, close-knit families.

 These categories all have a few things in common. For obvious starters, they're all women. Following male-written blogs frightens me because I know that I would comment their entries casually and possibly get creepy emails from them later. Keep in mind though that this excludes the rare gay man that's so femenine you can hardly tell they're a man anyway. The fact that they'd have no sexual interest in me, were they to start up a private conversation, is a plus too.

Another trend they all carry is that they are very normal. Remember that there is a difference between boring and normal. Normal is also relative to who's saying it. In this case, normal to me means "without overly dramatic problems or obstacles to overcome". If I wanted to read about a cutter who dated girls during prime time puberty (even though she's not gay), I'd pick up an old journal.

So once these so normal women get out of college and have started their career, they've usually found a man. What's next? Well, I haven't found any intriguing blogs about happy newlyweds without kids-although that would be of interest to me as well-so I read about them once they have babies or have at least gotten pregnant. Very, very normal. Almost dullingly normal.


It's probably a good thing that I put a disclaimer of sorts at the beginning of this entry, because it sounds way more insulting than intended. The fear that this odd explanation would hurts others has kept me from writing it until the wee hours of this Tuesday morning, but reading newly discovered blogs makes me want to shout my reasons for interest even more than before.

To those I follow (for the most part), we all have one thing in common for sure- we're all women. Something differs though, something I envy. They live happy lives without trying too hard (and if you're faking it you're doing a great job, honestly you could probably be as happy as you perceive yourself to be if you tried just a little). I wish my life could be cookie-cutter, that's all I want with little more for my future family and personal life. My career may be loud and abraisive, but only because that's the field I'm going in to. If I am blessed with a husband and beautiful children (I truly hope I am, but I cannot selfishly wish for more than I deserve), I shall do my very best to preserve their innocence and shelter them from the unnecessary harsh realities of the world. My children deserve to live better lives than I have, and even if they contribute absolutely nothing to the world I'll love them all the same as if they won Nobel Peace Prizes. Perhaps that's just the protective pre-motherhood instinct kicking in already. "My kid can kick sand your kid's eyes, but they're still angels and will be treated and loved as so!" Not that I'd raise them to be hellions or anything, all jokes aside.


I'll repeat my point again so it's clear. If I have followed your blog, don't be offended by this. I'm not much of a person that matters-yet-but be flattered because I truly envy what you share with Blogspot about your life. It may be fake, or a small piece of your life, but it makes me happy and I enjoy it so much that I spend days at a time just absorbing what you write. Jealousy stings at me bitterly, begging to take over my emotions. A large part of me wishes I could be like you, either in the past or in the future, depending on your age.

One thing will never change. Our stories are our own, and to someone, they will bring joy.

(Please keep in mind this does not go for everyone I have followed/will follow.)

(Also, typos/grammatical errors may exist. I am very tired and have edited this multiple times already, but may have skipped over some things. I will re-check in the morning.)

Life Redecoration

     There are some things I would really like to visually change about myself before I'm 18.

My Room

Currently: This isn't even physically pertaining to me. I really want to change up my room. For so many years it's been the same: plain white walls (like the rest of our house, which is fine by me), random furniture, tons of posters and basically just trash taped up onto the walls. It's not literally trash by the way, but it's nothing I would save unless I made a box of stuff from my 'teen bedroom' walls for memories.

How I want it changed: The furniture doesn't bother me. Yeah, I hate my TV being so big, but I'm considering just doing away with it all together for more room and better feng shui.

     I really want my walls painted, two pink walls and two yellow walls, opposite of each other, and in pale hue. I'm not sure about my 'door wall'-I have five walls, the 5th just being the wall that has my door in it-but obviously one of those two colors, whichever looks best. As for the angsty 'wall decoration', I want to frame all my Manson posters and put them on my largest wall with drastic, odd space in-between them (I'll explain that in a second). Then I want to start framing photos I've been taking and place them all around my room in some sort of organized fashion, and fill in the gaps between the Manson posters making that wall the focus of the room. I want to use all different kinds of frames too, to make it really neat and trendy looking. Some with a newer style, some really old ones, really ones of all shapes and sizes to spice it up.

     On the wall opposite of that, I want to have some wall decals or something cool and simple. Everything else, undecorated for the most part.

How I'll benefit: I won't really, it's a material thing. I have never had painted walls though, and growing up I've always wanted a colorful room. I'm running out of time to squeeze a few more things out of my childhood, and this is just one of those things. Although my dad and his girlfriend say they'll turn my room into something else when I leave, a part of me thinks they won't, and that they'll keep it as my 'childhood bedroom', like people sometimes do. But who knows, they could read this tomorrow and laugh in my face and tell me I'm completely wrong. However, they'll move eventually anyway I imagine. Regardless, my main beneficiary still stands.

My Wardrobe

Currently: My problem is one that some girls would find really personal and embarassing, but I have no problem with sharing if it means that another girl might read this and not feel as alone and weird as I did. Anyway, my problem is jeans. They do NOT fit over my ass. It sounds funny-because it is-but it's so true, they just don't! Most of the time anyway. I have to find designers usually for them to fit nicely, otherwise the waist size ends up being several sizes higher than my actual size. Usually jeans I try on make me look like I shit my pants because they fall off of me because they're too big, but they're only that way so they fit over my 'trunk', haha.

     Recently I realized I am not a freak with an odd shaped body, I am just blessed! It's much easier to find jeans now that I have an idea of what brands fit me. Although being more expensive, I'm not into having tons of jeans I'd hardly wear anyway. I'd be more than happy with just 2-3 pairs that fit great than 10+ pairs that look horrible and make me feel unattractive.

     So enough about pants, now onto shirts. I have an extensive collection of tops, but a large majority of that is black Marilyn Manson t-shirts. I love Manson, and sure, I love to rock a Manson shirt once in a while, but when I look in my closet and there's nothing to choose from but blackness, I hate getting dressed that day. I want more color in my wardrobe. Wearing Manson shirts every day, for one, makes me look like someone I'm not. My appearance does not match my personality. I look like a hardcore rocker chick that isn't too thrilled about life, all because I dress so darkly and without much class or style. (Sorry if that offends anyone, but you know it's true that you come off as that regardless of your real personality. I'm an example of that.) Secondly, it makes me look obsessed with him to a creepy extent. (And hey, I might be, but not everyone needs to know! Hehe)

     One more small change is I want to learn how to walk in heels, and actually wear them. I'm tall all ready, but who cares. It's not like I have a boyfriend, a short boyfriend especially, to stand next to. =p

How I want it changed: For jeans it's pretty obvious. I need to work up the patience to go and shop for them. It's my fault honestly, I am offered new clothes all the time, I just back out because I dread the process of shopping for them and feeling disappointed when they look bad. But no longer! I will face my jeans fear soon! Haha. So tops and heels, like with the jeans, I just have to shop for once.

How I'll benefit: Just in general I'll feel so much better about myself, my confidence especially will skyrocket through the ROOF. I'm not into looks as much as some people are, I'm a little more so than average, but nothing crazy like "looks are everything". Still, I'll feel great about myself.

With heels though, I'll really benefit here. Working in corporate America as a woman almost requires you to wear heels. If you want to come off as a professional woman in the business world, you need to know how to wear heels, even if you don't wear them everyday.

     I thought I had another thing I wanted to change, but maybe I'm mistaken. The less, the better. :) We should always focus on being happy with ourselves for who we truly are on the inside first and foremost-looks aren't everything! They don't equal happiness in any case. However, being a pretty happy person, I don't see any consequence in wanting to change up a few things that don't make or break my being.

     One last thing, I got something changed today. My aunt Stacey cut and dyed my hair today at her salon for my birthday last month (I've been on vacation and sick, now was the soonest we could do it). I love it!

     She is really amazing at doing hair (and makeup!), and styles for both men and women. If you're seriously interested and live in FL (especially the Orlando area), give me a shout for more information. :)