I Refuse

There are times in my life where I feel very shameful for being a female. I am embarrassed by women who think it's acceptable to air their personal issues so publicly - physical and emotional. Or, the girls who dumb themselves down to try and win over boy's hearts. Menopausal women who announce when they are having a hot flash also make me turn crimson and silently curse the universe for not making me male.

On the flip side, there are also times when I am so elated and proud to be a woman. I witnessed live child birth a little over a month ago and to be honest, as educational as that experience was, it was also absolutely beautiful and incredible. What a trip. As females, our bodies are these amazingly precious temples with powers unlike anything else; it's as if we are in a secret club banded together because men will never understand.

I have a lifetime membership, just for being born with the correct anatomy. Winning.

Of course, as a believer in equality, the human race is a fascinating species on its own. Men and women alike have differing qualities that are admirable, but also cringe-worthy. I like to acknowledge and appreciate both.

However, lately I have been noticing age. I think because I am working with the kids again at the ski club, so I am becoming suddenly ultra-aware of it. A previous post of mine (click here) was a long observation about my sudden realization of adulthood. I feel as though that was the first of many, because it's been happening to me again lately.

Earlier in the month I attended this gathering for the ski club; a cocktail party where the coaches meet the parents of the athletes. This event made me nervous last year, and it made me nervous again this year. I clam up, afraid to look like a moron and say something stupid because truthfully I am knowledgable about skiing, but nerves sometimes block the roadway from my thoughts to my vocal cords. I remember walking in, hating myself for wearing bright orange socks that everyone could see because I had to take my shoes off in the mudroom. I was a tense ball of stress, looking up at parent's faces because I'm only about five feet tall. I socialized and chewed on carrot sticks, sipping seltzer water, trying to relax.

But, the only time I felt truly comfortable and normal was when I saw some athlete's from my group sitting in the living room playing Nintendo Wii, and sticking their tongues out at me. I could breathe again, and smile because I found my people.

My friends.

I felt one orange socked foot move forward a step, but I was stopped by my conscience reminding me that I didn't belong in that world anymore. Childhood was long gone, and I belonged at the cocktail party.

Drinking seltzer water.

This memory makes me laugh because at times I feel like Miley Cyrus screaming out so loud to be taken seriously as an adult. Obviously, I am not Miley and she goes many extra miles to make her calls heard. Yet, there I was, wishing to be with the nine-year-olds because I am more comfortable spending time with them than I am with my "own" kind.

As bittersweet of a reminder that was, I prefer those kind over the normalcy of what I usually experience. I am in a town where I have always been, known as a girl and not a woman. A child, not an adult. The athlete, not the coach. And sometimes people's harsh reminders truly hurt my feelings. I think my purposeful hard-exterior gives people the impression that I am made of stone, but underneath all that, I have a gooey center with emotions.

In the midst of all my wondering and philosophizing though, it's occurred to me that although I may be a young woman, in between youth and true full-blown adulthood, I am a human being. We are all human beings, whether we are young, old, male, female, black, white - what have you. As people, we have this natural urge to put everything into compartments and organize, so there is no chaos. But, why do we need to put ourselves into those compartments too? Why must we staple on these regulations and expectations?

My experiences with adults for the most part make me question the world and our reasons for being here. How dare we put labels onto other people based on their age, or sex? Why give in to the stigmas that are slapped on our foreheads for being who we are and the parts of us that we can't control?

Truthfully, adults are much more harsh and cruel than children, and I refuse to treat people the way I am sometimes treated. When I am fifty, I will never look down my nose at someone who is an honestly good person, just because they are twenty-years-old. Never will I go out of my way to make them feel subordinate for the hell of it, because I can.

People tell me to deal with it; all of it. I am going to meet men who treat me as lesser because I am woman, and I just have to deal with it. No one is going to take me seriously until around the time I turn thirty, and I just have to deal with it. People are going to judge who I love, and I just have to deal with it.

Well, you know what, I'm not dealing with it. It's not fair. I owe it to myself to not put up with that bullshit. Even if I am the only one trying to make a difference, I am going to be remembered by many people who have preceded me because I refuse to let the expectations and stereotypes of life fog my judgement.

Age is just a mother fucking number, and if we adults were as smart as we claim to be, we would have realized that a long time ago.

A Thank You Card

Thanksgiving has never been a huge holiday in my house. My mom dreaded when she had to cook a huge meal for us, and the only part of the meal I was ever interested in were the rolls. My mom was a stay-at-home mom for about five years until she began her current job as a waitress. She started working at the inn when I was about fourteen. Since then, I haven't spent Thanksgiving with my mom. She has worked every holiday for practically six years. When I started working there, I would take her Christmas morning shift so she could sleep in. Then, I would come home and open presents, and eventually make my way over to my dad's house. This has been the norm for me, and for the most part, I don't mind.

I have always thought of Thanksgiving and Easter as pointless holidays. They are just excuses to cook food, and to be honest, I have viewed them as significantly sexist. The women are supposed to cook these lavish meals while the men sit around getting drunk and watching football.

Yay.

I know that isn't the case in every household, but I'm just painting a picture as to why my mom was always a bit perturbed each time she had to cook a very unappreciated meal.

I enjoy the artistic aspect of Easter - coloring eggs is fun. But, not coming from a particularly religious family, we skip out on the fancy meal and family time. And, up until today, I kind of grouped Thanksgiving in with Easter, thinking it was stupid and a waste of time. After all, it is just a celebration of the pilgrims using the Native Americans for all they were worth, then pillaging the shit out of them.

Am I right or am I right?

But, in the midst of scrolling through Facebook on the daily, I see people participating in the "28 Days of Thankfulness" or something of that sort. I first brushed them off, kind of wishing they'd all shut up. But, a friend of mine was very dedicated to it, and I truly enjoyed reading what she had to say. She was thankful for some really valid reasons, and I appreciated that.

I think that us human beings can become so caught up in the negatives. Our society runs on the idea of money and success; the more you have, the better you are. This invisible bar in life is set so God damn high, it's impossible to reach unless you are a super-genius or a professional scam artist (example; click here). Because of this phantom aspiration that seems to rule us all, we are continually left unsatisfied; disappointed. There is no time to count our blessings, or show gratitude towards the people and positives we do have in our lives. We are the age of constant hurry, yet constant struggle. Everything is a race, except nobody wins.

But, seeing the status updates filled with thankfulness has inspired me to reflect on my positives. I am just as human as the rest of our culture, and find myself drowning in the negatives from day to day. Tonight, there will be no negative, there will only be gratitude.

I am so thankful for my health. As another American without health insurance, I am considerably grateful to be in good health. I'm thankful for my friends; old and new. Ben, Hilary, Nicole, Salty, and Leslie: you are my people. Thank you for being my people. Danielle, Ashley, Meg, Tory, Owen and Jack: school is cool because you are all cool. Thank you. To my boyfriend who has stuck with me through the craziest of transitions after transitions, Anthony: I love you, thank you for all you do. You make my world much brighter. Of course, my family: Mom, Erin and Pop (Daddy). I love you three with all my heart and more. My own personal set of stabilizing rocks who shine like jewels, I would do anything for all of you. I am thankful for my education, because there were points where I strayed away from it, but I have found my way back and it lights a pretty damn hot fire under my ass. I am going to be somebody someday because I decided to re-apply to college. I am thankful for both my jobs. Although I am spending my Thanksgiving serving people their meals, I am able to spend the day with my mom and make some money while I am at it. Thank you to the inn for taking me back after all this time, and giving me a job when the need for one is high and the options are slim. Thank you to the ski club, you have been my family for as long as I can remember, and I am so grateful that I can be apart the staff as I enter my adult life. I am thankful for the kids I have in my ski group, you all are too cute and so full of youth. I am inspired by you everyday. Maci, my doggie, I love you! Thank you for making me smile, and wearing all the sweaters I buy you. I am thankful for my landlord, because my house is wonderful and feels like a home, which I haven't experienced in a long time. I give thanks to my intelligence, because even when I feel like a complete moron, I somehow can depict a lesson from it all and turn it into something creative and productive. Without that, I would go even more insane that I know I already am. Meloni and Alan, you have been there for my mom and me through possibly the most difficult times of our lives, and without your kindness and open hearts, I'm not so sure where we would be. Thank you for allowing me to be apart of the birth of your son, because it was truly incredible (and very educational, haha). As petty as it may be, I am thankful for the materialistic aspects of my life too; my car, my computer and my cell phone. They allow me to connect with others and do my work for school, as well as transport me there! Thank you to everyone who has supported me and continues to. Anyone who every gave me a metaphorical - or physical - pat on the back, thank you. You are the stamina that drives me to work towards what I truly want in life. It is the kind words of friends, and strangers, who believe in what I do that keeps me from falling into trenches of doubt. But also, thank you to everyone who never believed in me. Thank you to all the liars, backstabbers and crabs in the bucket who only wanted to bring me down. You have all strengthened me and allowed me to prosper into the confident young woman I am, and continue to become. Thank you for the motivation, because I look forward to proving you all wrong.

To everyone who takes the time to read my blogs, thank you. I may not know who you are, but you add to the ticker on my dashboard, and with each read I am filled with warmth, because you make me feel like what I write matters. I want you to know that although your viewing may feel insignificant to you, it means everything and more to me.

So, thanks.

Golden Eggs

Don't you love those times and experiences that really make you feel good about yourself? The kind that you're almost nervous for, but the outcome ends up being so much better than you could have expected. A competition of some sort, a performance, receiving an A on a paper you thought was crap? I had one of those times today.

I was thrilled when Mrs. Innes - my high school English teacher - asked me to share some of my writing with her AP Language and Composition class. Not only was that my favorite class I ever took in high school, but I was also thrilled to have an opportunity to share some of my writing with an audience, especially and audience of teenagers.

I always felt that being a teenager was such a horrible time. I loathed it. But now, I am intrigued by those people who are right in the middle of it. They have no idea that their passion and angst is at an all time high, and all that extra emotion and energy is so precious and valuable. Some of my best pieces of work came from being a depressed, confused and pissed off sixteen-year-old who had no idea who she was or what she wanted. I am obsessed with the sixteen-year-old me, and I continue to obsess over her because slowly, she is fading. Every day I lose a little bit more of her, because her young, wild and overly emotional mind is becoming nothing but a distant memory to me. I yearn for the creativity I pulled from the countless number of heartbreaks I endured during high school. Not just from relationships either, but from being a failure, growing up and feeling so awfully misunderstood. I don't miss feeling that way, but I miss the art that came from it all.

When I walked into the classroom, I was actually surprised at who was sitting in there, because the last time I saw all these people, they were Freshmen. I had a time-warp moment, and sort of felt old, in turn feeling a bit embarrassed for being back at Profile. I felt juvenile; a student again, feeling guilty for being three minutes late. There was also this sense of judgement radiating from everyone's eyes, and I don't mean that in a negative way. But I could see the gears in their head turning, studying me, another body who used to be one of them who was now a foreign stranger; an adult.

I made an effort to not only look at but truly see all of them. They almost all looked the same, but then again so do I. What shocked me was when they opened their mouths. I was so surprised and impressed by the intelligence each one of them displayed. I respected all their thoughts and suggestions, and smiled at their abilities to articulate the things they were saying. I left the school feeling that I gained more than I shared, but also feeling an urge to kick myself in the face for ever underestimating that they'd give me anything short of amazing feedback.

And suddenly, with force, it hit me.

I was them, once upon a time. I had the baby-faced persona with the beyond-my-years knowledge about writing, and I hated people who underestimated that, and who underestimated me; I still do. I am young, but they are even younger, and I feel like the childish one for ever doubting the intelligence they all possess. How could I suddenly stand on the other side of this invisible line that divides childhood with adulthood? How, and when did I cross over to here? At some point I must have passed through the gate, where they hand you a credit card and a book of sudden-onset rights that come along with adulthood, such as the right to pass judgement onto the younger species.

I'll keep the credit card, but they can have the book back.

It was a pleasure to share with the AP class today. I am thankful they were so kind, and so open to sharing their thoughts. I would hope that they didn't see my surprise by everything they had to say, but I'm sure they probably did. Because I know that adults are paper thin, and I always saw right through them too. They are transparent silhouettes with a sense of entitlement.

Not all, but some.

And now, I am one. I am as see through as the next, but I hope to be one of the few good ones. I understand what it feels like to not be taken seriously because you don't have a high school diploma or a college diploma. I hope to be better than those who took one look at me and never bothered to glance back at the young and even younger-looking female, who wasn't worth their time. But, I was worth it, and I still am, just like all the young people in the classroom today.

I have faith that I will be one of the few eggs made of gold, among the rotten and spoiled rest of them. I can allow myself to believe that, because I understand how it feels to be on the other side of the invisible line; I still remember. And I have a feeling that the entirety of the class I shared with today, are going to suddenly pass through the gate of adulthood and be golden eggs too. I know it, because I was them once, and part of me still is. As much as she fades, and drifts, I hold onto her. I refuse to forget, because once I forget, I will suddenly become what I have always resented.

I saw so much of myself in their eyes today, which allows me to know that they aren't going to rot, and they aren't going to spoil. They will keep shining, glittering, and sparkling. They will stay golden. I know they will hold onto who they were in that classroom today, and become what our society needs.

We need the gold; solid, shiny, beautiful gold. Because honestly, I am tired of looking through the soulless people; the transparency of what they have become, with nothing left to show of who they once were.

If any of you from the AP class are reading this, thank you. I learned lessons today that I doubt I would have ever encountered anywhere else. It was truly a treat to share with you all, although, I think I learned more than I taught. I am grateful for days like today.

Bees (in the Trap)

I have been a bad girl lately; I haven't written in my blog.

I could blame it on work, so I will. Foliage season was crazy and tiring, then I caught a cold because I wasn't sleeping much at all. But foliage ended a few weeks ago, so since then I have no excuse other than pure lack of inspiration. I sit an obsess all day long over what I want to blog about, and I've even had some inspirations, but before I could put them out there to the world, the thoughts would be lost and I forgot what I wanted to write about in the first place.

I do remember one thing, though.

I went to visit Ben in Boston last weekend. When we pulled off the exit and drove into the actual city, I felt my chest tighten - Country-girl-in-a-city syndrome, common diagnosis. Anyway, although I was feeling underdressed and completely out of my element, it was so nice to see Ben. Not only because he's my best friend, but it was so cool to see him know his way around Boston. It was a trip to watch him move with such ease through the craziness of it all, while I stumbled over my own two feet practically forgetting how to walk, feeling like an absolute fool and outcast. I admired his confidence and tried my best to internalize my anxiety attack and oncoming headache from all the energy and people that were around me. He seemed so... cool. I felt special to be around him.

After spending the day walking, shopping and eating, we drove to the hotel we were all staying at for the night. While talking over the Red Sox game and eating M&M's, I connected with his grandmother about psychic phenomena, expressing my different feelings about all my somewhat obscure views. Ben has always appreciated me because of that, though, and he and I, along with his family, seem to be on similar planes with it all.

I started talking about how I wanted to look up in my medicine cards what the meaning was behind bees, because they are always around me. I'm not kidding either, the bees always find me and I loathe them. Sometimes I wish I was allergic, just so I'd have an excuse to run away and scream like a child, as I always do when they fly around me. The feeling I have when a bee is around is similar to one that you might feel if someone puts a blanket over your head and holds it there.

Claustrophobic, and a complete panic, Holy shit I can't breathe!!!

Yeah, that's me with the bees.

Unaware that Ben's dad was tuning in, he looked up what bees meant for me. Obviously different people and websites may have different interpretations of what the spiritual meaning of bees really is, but what he found struck me to be shockingly logical, and pertaining to my life quite well.

Bees, supposedly, represent direction. Follow the bees, and they will lead you to where you need to go.

The most common places I've been seeing the bees are in my house and at work, but the most bizarre encounter I've had with them are at my mom's art studio. I've probably mentioned before that my mom has a few different spaces within the studio, and one of them is potentially going to be my writing room. From the day her and I toured the space, I felt my energy radiating all over that room. I declared it mine as soon as my mom confirmed she wanted to rent the space.

The next week when we came back in to look at it, I noticed a few bees in the room I liked, so I closed the door in an attempt to keep them out. When we went back again about a week later, it was like a friggon bee graveyard. They covered the floor, and there were still ones flying around the room. I became disheartened, because I didn't want the room anymore since it was being invaded by bees.

But when Ben's dad told me about how bees represented direction, it suddenly made a lot of sense.

I am usually anxiety stricken for at least a portion of each day. A year ago, I was so confused and lost. I had no idea what direction to go in. I was just going wherever my feet took me, with eyes closed. It was scary at times, but I tried to keep faith in the idea that fate would take me wherever I am supposed to be.

I find it interesting that the bees are in my house, at work, and in my potential writing room. As you all probably know, I went through more than enough relocations. After graduating high school, I basically have learned how to live out of a bag, and my car if need be. But I've been living where I am for a little less than a year now, and I have to say, I finally feel settled. I am so comfortable and happy to be where I am and I feel completely blessed to have found this place; a safe haven for me, my mom and the animals. Isn't it funny how the bees seem to be congregating in and outside of the house, always there as a constant reminder, announcing their presence. Yet, in the midst of my hatefulness about them being here, they are just serving as a beacon of guidance to where I need to be, which is exactly where I am.

The bees at work - always happening to be there on my shifts - I believe are representing to keep working hard. Not necessarily telling me that the job is where I need to stay, but the idea of hard work and commitment.

As for the ones in the writing room, who I believe have made their excessive presence very known, might as well be screaming at me. Do I really need a clearer sign?

I fear the bees, and at times I fear direction, but I'm started to warm up to the idea of both.

Okay, I won't lie, I still hate the bees and hope they all rot in Hell, but I will listen to them and appreciate their kind tokens of guidance.

Otherwise, they are the spawns of Satan.

Well, You Wanted to be a Writer

When I was in the third grade, we spent a lot of time learning about Native Americans. Each year afterwards, until about ninth grade, Social Studies always consisted of a long unit about Native Americans. I have to say, around fifth grade, I was pretty Native American'd out. I understood that they showed the Pilgrims how to put dead fish in the soil, plant corn and other crops, and basically showed the Pilgrims how to survive.

Later, we learned that to show their gratitude, the Pilgrims pillaged and diseased all the Natives, eventually killing them off.

But, in third grade, we did this one activity where we had to choose a book that had something to do with Native Americans, and make a triarama, which was this triangular, 3-D display made out of paper. For my book, I read The Quilt Story by Tony Johnston. I can't exactly remember the meat of this story, but I think the main character of it came from a Native American family.

I can remember working so hard on my triarama. I drew, colored, and cut out all my little pop-up pieces. I etched in a floor, completing it with details of knots in the wood. On the pop-up bed was a perfect rendition of the quilt. When it was finished, I oozed with pride over the final product. I sauntered up to my teacher's desk, careful not to drop my masterpiece. As I slid my perfect triarama across his desk, I saw his wide smile meet each one of his ears, and he lifted his eyes to mine. My third grade teacher was my favorite teacher I ever had. He was so fun and theatrical. So I knew when he pulled out a plastic bag from underneath his desk, something good was about to happen.

He dumped the contents of the bag out on his desk. The bulk of it was usual third-grader-prizes; pencils, erasers, stickers and some fake sorts of tokens. But the last thing he pulled out was a composition notebook. Not the kind with the wire rings, but the legitimate, Harriet the Spy, black and white composition notebook. I drooled at the sight of it. I picked it up almost as soon as he put it down, then he looked at me and said, "I had a feeling you'd choose that."

I filled that notebook from cover to cover with my first story I ever wrote, complete with detailed illustrations. I titled it, Mandy Brown. As you can probably guess, it was about a girl named Mandy Brown. She lived with her dad in Texas and her stepmother because her mom had passed away when she was little. She had a horse, which she continually rode en route to wherever her adventures took her. Although at the time I was only nine, I made Mandy thirteen. I can remember thinking that seemed so much older than it really was.

The other day I was stressing out over all these things I need to write. I had a short story due in one of my classes, a paper due in another, my blog and another writing project I've been putting on the back burner which is actually the most important to me but I can't seem to bring myself to find the time. Not to mention, the million "great starts" I have to stories, which I never seem to make past the second chapter.

I started complaining to Anthony about it, and his reply was, "Well, you wanted to be a writer." In usual Paige fashion, I went to protest, but instead I stopped.

He was so right.

If my foot could reach, I would have kicked myself in the mouth. Shut up, Paige!

I really hate the expression "Worry-Wart" but, I am a self-proclaimed one. I have mental meltdowns daily over fear of something bad happening to me. Since I was thirteen and watched a National Geographic Documentary about 2012, I lived in fear for six straight years that my life was going to end when I was just barely out of high school, because I was dead convinced the world was going to end. I probably wasn't the only person freaking out over that, but on a daily basis I feel anxiety that I'm going to let someone down. When I moved out of my apartment, I stressed for a month about telling my landlord I was going to leave. This past spring, I worked at this wicked shitty job, which made me miserable, yet I was so afraid of upsetting the owner I called her cell phone *67 and left a voicemail telling her I was quitting, then never picked up her calls afterwards. Last week, I left five minutes later than I normally do for class, and drove about 70 the entire way because I had so much fear about being late, which was just stupid because I'm in college, not fourth grade. Is anyone really going to do anything about me being five minutes late?

Sometimes, I can't help but think that's why I put off my writing. I had to work up some serious courage to even start this blog, because I was afraid of someone telling me my writing sucked. (Luckily, the reaction was just the opposite and this has actually been a wonderfully positive experience for me.) On the day I was running late to class, I had to submit my short story, and I was so angry because I was embarrassed to turn in such a piece of crap. But, when we had a chance to read each other's stories, I read mine, and actually thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a first draft, but it was a pretty damn good first draft! My fear of disappointing people or letting them down holds me back, and really defeats my confidence at times. I think I have a lot more to learn, not only in writing, but also just life, in general. But, where I am right now in both of those things, I need to give myself some more credit.

Anthony's response to my self-pity has been ringing in my ears since he said it. Well, you wanted to be a writer. It's still all I want; it has been since Mandy Brown.

My mom recently has been working on a project of her own with opening an art studio and gallery. For those of you who don't know, my mom is incredible at art. Lately, she's finally been referring to herself as an artist, and it's true; she is one.

I think it's about time I start calling myself a writer, because I am one.

I always have been.

Anonymous Comment

On my last post, someone left a comment that sort of rubbed me the wrong way. It was anonymous, but it basically was saying that I needed to acknowledge that I was growing up now and nothing was going to be handed to me anymore like it once was. And, I should let my parents into my life and stop pushing them away because I can't, "do this alone."

I deleted the comment.

I deleted it not because I didn't want people to see it, or because I don't appreciate criticism, but because it was completely irrelevant to anything I had wrote in that post. For the record, anonymous person, I live with my mom. I also work for her. She is very involved in my life, more so than she was a year ago. That wasn't necessarily my choice or her choice, it was just the way the past year had unfolded. I visit with my dad when I can, and talk to him often. I also work with him in the winter time.

On another note, I know I'm growing up and no longer in high school, hence the name of my blog being, "The Grown-Up Experience." I understand that I am not sixteen. I am a few months shy of turning 20, but compared to many of the people I grew up with, I feel more like I'm 20 going on 30. I pay my half of the rent, as well as the internet and phone bill. My mom takes up her half of the rent, and the TV. I also own my car. I work practically everyday, with the exception of the two days I attend college, full time, which I also pay for.

I'm not writing this to brag about how much I do and pay for. I'm not even writing this to prove the anonymous commenter wrong. After reading what they had said though, it made me start to think. There's a handful - actually, the majority - of people who I graduated high school with, who I haven't seen since we graduated. I keep up with them for the most part on Facebook, but what does Facebook really tell you?

Oh, they ate the best pizza they ever had at some restaurant in Connecticut.

They went to a huge party on Saturday, and were tagged in 27 photos from it.

They just got a tattoo of a four leaf clover, or their astrological sign.

This is all interesting information, but not necessarily valuable. I just wonder sometimes how people are, what they're studying, and if they are truly enjoying school. I wonder if people even know I dropped out of school after a month of being there. I also wonder if they know I moved out and live on my own, with my mom as more of my room mate than anything else. Do they know that I went back to college? Do they even care?

I feel much of my blog refers to when I dropped out of college, but I also like to focus on that I went back. My last post was a lot of rambling and emotions. This blog is basically my public diary. It can be raw at times, and make no sense at all, but that's because sometimes my mind doesn't either. Sometimes, I don't understand why I feel the way I feel so I try and write it down to better understand it. I have always been that way. There are times when I feel like I have failed and still am failing because I came back to the familiarity of my hometown. But so what? Just because I'm not at a traditional college, where you live in a dorm and get fucked up every weekend, that must mean I am doing it wrong.

No.

That is why I write posts like this and keep this blog. It reminds me that I am not failing, but it's okay to feel at times like I am. I might be different than your average almost 20 year old, and have more anxiety about my life than most, but it's okay. I put my pants on feet first, just like everybody else. (I think that's a saying, isn't it?) So I suppose I should thank the anonymous commenter, because although the content of your comment on my last post was irrelevant to anything I had said, it served a purpose to this post. Thank you for the inspiration.

I have class in an hour, and I'm actually quite excited about it. It's called, "Writing the Short Story."

I might be at a Community College where there are no sports teams or clubs and organizations, but I enjoy the classes that are offered and am happy with the education I am receiving.

Also, I just paid for my Fall Semester. It was $26, after my financial aid which consists of not one single student loan.

Breathe, Paige, you're doing just fine.

Well, I Guess I'll Blog About It

I finished my first semester of college this past summer. I worked my ass off, and pulled off an A in Sociology and a B- in Math; both of which are huge accomplishments for me. I did every sheet of homework that was assigned to me, and tried my absolutely hardest for the first time, really, in my academic career.

Yet tonight, in the midst of my wandering thoughts, I started feeling so insecure. I miss my friends. I miss Ben the most, but I miss Hilary too, who I didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to. There's almost this jealousy within me. I envy the two of them who have this dual life; this place where they retreat to and nobody truly knows them. They have a place where they can be anybody they want to be. But why am I jealous? I hopped on that go-away-to-college train a year ago, and ran back to Franconia fairly quickly. I know that life isn't for me, yet sometimes I wish it could be.

I just get so down on myself at times, because I feel like I'm not accomplishing all the things I could be. I feel a sense of embarrassment that I go to Community College, even though I shouldn't because it's a perfect fit for me and it's all I can afford. Why do I beat myself up so much?

My emotions got the best of me tonight and I cried as I reflected back on my time at Colby-Sawyer. I found myself thinking that maybe it wasn't that bad and maybe I possibly overreacted last Fall. Maybe I should have toughed it out... But if I really think hard enough, and start to remember my time there, I find myself saying, "Yeah, it was that bad."I was so miserable. I acted like such an introvert which is so out of character of me. There was no inspiration for me there. It was masked by the constant pity and sorrow I was feeling for myself as I was holed up away from the world in my dorm room.

Colby-Sawyer was like Hell on earth, yet I found myself tonight feeling jealous towards Ben and Hil for the start of their new lives; new chapters. I feel like I've made no progress in this past year, and the familiar persona of a Fuck Up suddenly came over me again.

Everyone had so much faith in me last Fall. I was going to be so great because I was accepted into an awesome and expensive college. This was my shot, finally. And just as the ball got passed into my hands, I dropped it.

Boom.

Now instead of the continual, "Paige, I am SO proud of you," I receive the, "Wow that's great you go to Community College, Paige. So when are you going to transfer to a four year school?"

"Oh, you're a waitress?"

Yeah, I'm a waitress.

This is the shittiest piece of writing I've ever composed. I'm sorry. I just felt weird tonight, so I said, "Well, I guess I'll blog about it."

Nines, Page, and The Five of Wands

To all my dedicated readers, my apologies for not writing very much at all this summer. I don't have excuses other than complete lack of inspiration or time because of school and work. Today, however, I felt compelled.

Yesterday I worked with my mom's closest friend, Meloni. It was just her and I on at work, which I enjoy because we have really nice conversations, and I hadn't had a deep, down to earth talk with her in awhile.

Some of you may call me nuts for this, which I don't care if you do, but I feel that I am most definitely more in touch and aware of energies and what not than most people. I have an incredibly strong intuition, which I've been urging myself to follow more than I do. I like talking about this with Meloni because she understands, and helps me to understand it more. She, herself, is intuitive and in touch like me, but she has more experience with it and knows how to embrace it more than I do. I'm not saying I'm some kind of mind reader or psychic medium, but I do feel as though I have an inkling of a sixth sense.

About a year ago I went to my best friend Ben Rathman's Mimi's house for a "psychic party." Mimi hired a psychic to come to her house and basically Ben's entire family was there. We each had 30 minutes with the psychic. I am a firm believer in psychics, and I have seen a few, but I had never seen a psychic medium. This woman was incredible. She told me information about people in my life who had passed on in such detail and truth; it blew me away.

She told me something that day that has really stuck in my head, however. She asked me what the significance of the number nine was. I told her I didn't know other than that it has been my favorite number for a long time, but I have no particular reason why. She said that there is something special to me about the number nine and when I see it I should acknowledge it, and be aware that I am seeing it for a reason.

Since then, I've paid more attention. For example, my house number is 1809. Not only does that contain a 9, but half of 18 is 9 as well.

Sometimes Anthony and I will go for Vespa rides and look at houses for sale, dream up what kind of life we could have in them, and how much fun it would be if we could actually afford any of them. There is one house in particular though that we obsess over, though. We visited it three times before realizing that it has the year it was built right on it.

1809.

Something else interesting is Anthony continually sees the number 747. He sees it practically every day. Either at the grocery store, the clock, the TV channel... you name it.

The number on the for sale sign to call about this house was 603-747-xxxx

Also, 7+4+7 = 18.

Again, half of 18 is 9.

Need I say more?

So when Meloni and I were talking, we started to talk about past lives, astrological signs, what kind of spirit animals we thought we were and what not. She told me theres a certain belief that whatever number astrological sign you are is supposedly believed to be how many times you've been on this earth in different lives.

I asked her what number Sagittarius is.

It's the 9th sign.

When we talked about spirit animals, I said I've always considered myself to be a cat.

Cats have 9 lives.

When I left work I felt magical, in a way. I walked through the door of my house and my eyes drew to the corner where I have a basket full of paper work and nonsense things that belong to me. Inside that basket though are Tarot cards which I've been eager to learn how to use. Being on such a high from Meloni's and my discussion, I was inspired to order a book on how to read Tarot cards. I ordered it on Kindle so I could start reading it immediately, and after about a page I was hooked. In the first chapter, it briefly explained the history of Tarot and a few of the different cards.

I learned that Tarot was originally from the Middle Ages, and people of that time used it as a game. A few centuries passed before it was really picked up again and better interpreted. The Tarot cards are often misunderstood because of how they are depicted in movies, where some sleazy old woman in the back of a head shop turns a card over in a candle lit room and the card reads "Death" to whomever is seeking the information.

Tarot isn't like that at all, actually. The cards are just a tool to help you delve deeper into your being and your feelings on particular situations. It is all about interpretation, and how the cards apply to you. They're therapeutic in a way.

As I read more, it talked about the Page cards.

I looked up the meaning of my name once, and it derives from the Middle Ages. A Page was a messenger, and a servant in a way. Usually a peasant boy who delivered messages to and from people.

I thought that was super lame, and still kind of do, but when I read about the Page cards my opinion changed.

In Tarot, a Page card represents playfulness and childhood; innocence. I thought that was beautiful, and I felt as if that spoke to me. I am yet to look more into what the different Page cards mean, but my first bout of information was certainly satisfying.

Deeper into the book, it suggests you do daily readings on yourself to familiarize yourself with the cards, but also because it's a positive way to be emotionally in touch with your sense of self and more aware of what happens throughout the day.

The directions for a daily reading are as follows:
-Hold the cards in your right hand face down, with your left hand on top of them.
-Take a deep breath, clear your mind to a calm and comfortable place.
-Shuffle the cards a few times.
-Set them on the table and cut the deck to the left.
-Turn over the card on top.

I chose the Five of Wands. I looked up what that meant, and it mentioned something about mending an old friendship. I sort of shrugged it off, but thought it was interesting all the same.

Today I decided to do another reading, but I spent extra time shuffling the cards because they are still new and kind of still in order. I shuffled them probably close to ten times.

I laid them flat, cut the deck to the left and turned over the top card.

There's 78 cards in the Tarot deck, and guess what I picked?

The Five of Wands.

Girls

Girls can be such a pain in the ass sometimes. I say this, because I know; I am one. However, I've always strived to be better, and put a good brand on what girls are and should be; strong, independent, respectable, and intelligent.

As many of you probably know, I went to a very small high school. I graduated with 37 people in my grade, and that's a combined number from 4 different towns.

I was talking, last night, with a girl I graduated with. Her and I didn't talk much until senior year, and I'd say we became fairly good friends in our last year of high school. Now that we will be working together for the summer, I'd say we most likely will become somewhat close friends again. Anyway, we got to talking about social groups and the friends we had in high school. I mentioned something how I never felt like Profile had different cliques, but more of a divide between social groups: the people who played sports and the people who were in band/choir. Then there were a few people who fit into both, me being one of them.

I would get so caught up, though, sometimes. I had a few close girlfriends, but there was always some form of drama. And, for some reason, I would become so upset if they were "mad" at me. I constantly would feel out of place around their perfect tanned bodies, and beautifully crafted and made up faces. My style was usually more bohemian, and theirs always trending from Hollister or Abercrombie. I was the third choice when it came to boys. If they couldn't have either of them, then they'd usually move onto me and give their best shot at acting like I was actually some form of interesting. By that time, I was usually so pissed off I'd snap back some snide remark to get them away from me.

Looking back on it now, I think that I put a lot of other friendships on the back burner so I could focus on being accepted by my "friends." Since graduation, I've lost touch with those girls whom I was so close to, or thought I was. If we were still in Profile, I'd probably be completely perturbed by the fact that they aren't talking to me or inviting me places. But the more I think about it now, I really just don't care. In a way, I'm actually kind of glad they aren't my friends anymore, since they never were very good ones to begin with.

One of them has stabbed me in the back so many times it's a surprise I even allow myself to let her name enter my thoughts anymore. The other one is just selfish, and too concerned with her own image to realize she hurts other people in the process. People like me.

It's all water under the bridge now, I suppose. I don't feel that I need to confront them and say, "Hey, I don't want to be friends anymore." I think my silence is the loudest response.

To my true few, Nicole, Hilary, Anthony, Ben and Salty: I love you, and thank you for all your love, support, and laughs. I know you all care for me too, because I know you're reading this.

I Just Needed to Vent

So, I have this friend.

And this isn't one of those things where someone says "I have this friend," and they're really referring to themselves, in this case, I really do have a friend I'm talking about.

Anyway, him and I have been close since we were 13. He was my first boyfriend, but since then we've just been best friends.

Well, sometimes he makes me extremely angry and one time I made him really angry, so I guess we're kind of extreme friends; we either love each other or hate each other.

Regardless of what kind of mood our friendship is in, I care about him a lot. I'd lay down and die for him. In fact, tonight, he informed me he was sleeping at a bus stop, and without hesitation I offered to give him my debit card number so he could get a hotel room. Being the stubborn asshole he usually is, he denied. I know he just wants to live through the night to tell people about it.

He's really special to me though. It's the kind of instance where if he hurts, I hurt. When his girlfriend broke up with him, even though she was one of my closest friends, I was truly angry at her and heartbroken for him. She hurt him, so therefore, she messed with me.

Which is why I'm so protective. People often mistake it as jealousy but it's nothing of the sort. It's fear, I guess. I get all "Mother Lion" when I think someone's messing with him.

Or his heart.

Which is why I hate every girl he ever shows interest in. I'm sure maybe under all their Abercrombie & Fitch, makeup, and hair products they're decent people.

Or they aren't.

He's not just one of those people who likes outdoor activities, he's one of those people who loves outdoor activities so much that it might kill him. He's an extremest in every sense of the word. He's the only person I've ever met who wears mountain biking protection to go tele boarding.

Come to think of it, he's the only person I've ever met who tele boards so out-of-control-fast that he needs to wear mountain biking protection.

He's a complete smart ass. He gets so under your skin to the point that you just want to smack him. But when you do, he somehow squirms out of the way and avoids the blow.

He's also witty, intelligent, and passionate about basically everything he's interested in.

What I'm trying to say is, he's unique.

Yet, he goes for these completely superficial girls. It's not that they're out of his league, it's just that they aren't even in the same ball park. I don't mean that in a negative way, I mean that in the sense that they are nothing alike. He sets himself up to fail. To be "friendzoned." To get his heart broken.

To break my heart.

Besides me, he's had one other real girlfriend, the one I referred to before. God, she broke his heart. They were so perfect. I wish it worked out. But, she's my friend too and I understand why it didn't. And, I try to explain it to him still, 2 years later. She was close to what he needs, but still, he needs the female version of him.

I'll never meet anyone as crazy, weird, hilarious, and exciting as him. But I hope so much that he finds a girl who at least comes close.

He deserves to be happy, but it frustrates me so much that he keeps putting himself in positions to fail with these stupid girls. And it drives me crazy, so I come off as a raging bitch. Then our extreme cycle of friendship continues.

But I'm not a raging bitch, I'm just protective like I said before. Mother Lion.

I guess this post is going nowhere, kind of like his attempts with the Barbie dolls.

I just needed to vent.

My French Mistake

Today marks the fourth day I've been in Portland, Oregon visiting my sister. She's taken me over into town to do a little food shopping and show me some cool shops, but until today I didn't have a chance to do any real exploring.

Erin and Drew both had to work today so I decided to walk into town and check out this giant thrift shop called House of Vintage. It is literally a warehouse full of old clothing, furniture, art, cameras, records, jewelry -- you name it. I got lost in there for probably an hour.

I didn't know how to use the French press in my sister's house so I figured I would go find a coffee shop to dwell in for awhile to pass time, and get some caffeine in my system while I was at it. When we were in town the other day, Erin pointed out Hawthorne Café and said it looked like a good place for me to go.

So I did.

But I walked in only to realize it was kind of a fancy sit-down restaurant and there was a bunch of old people sitting together having lunch. I started to get embarrassed because I just wanted a coffee and bagel to go, but the host was a French guy and I didn't understand what he said, but next thing I knew I was being lead to a table, for one, next to the window.

I was slightly mortified because I looked like an idiot sitting all alone and I probably had the biggest TOURIST tattoo stamped on my forehead. I looked around nervously trying to figure out how I was going to escape but the French guy was back with a cup of iceless water and saying, "To drink, Mademoiselle?" Did he just call me Mademoiselle?

"I'd love a cup of coffee with cream, please." Well, I was trapped. I had to sit in this fancy restaurant with white table cloths and iceless water all by myself.

I was starving though so I figured I'd take advantage of my time while I was there. I ordered the crêpe special which came with cream cheese and fruit filling, a side of a half an eggs benedict, as well as a fruit cup. Don't judge me, I was hungry.

I sipped my coffee and watched the old people in the restaurant, and I overheard the French guy say goodbye to them. I figured it was some people that he knew because he said, "I love you! Thank you so much for coming!"

When he set the food down in front of me, he reached to refill my coffee cup, and as I went to protest, it was already too late so I thanked him instead. I couldn't even finish saying, "Thank you," before he said, "I love you, you're welcome!" I blushed, and laughed because I usually laugh when I'm nervous. Then I dug into the delicious and beautiful meal that was set in front of me.

At first I thought the French guy was insane, but then I started to feel very at ease and happy to be sitting in this café. It was romantic, in a way. I was sitting next to the windows which over looked this beautiful garden, and the rush of the street below me. I felt calm in a crowded area, which usually makes me feel overwhelmed. I ate my French crêpe, laughed at my French host when he said, "I love you," again as he poured me a third cup of coffee that I didn't want, and soaked in the romanticism of the whole situation.

The meal was incredible, and exactly what I wanted. I sat there, sweating because the coffee was so hot and I was trying to finish it quickly so I could be on my way. The French guy came back over to my table and I figured he would be giving me my check but instead it was more coffee.

"Some more for the road, I love you." Again, I giggled and blushed, and considered if he was insane one last time, but he turned and said, "You're going to go home and tell your family how this guy at the restaurant kept telling you he loved you. But it's a nice thing to hear, isn't it?" I smiled, and thought about it for a moment. It was a nice thing to hear. "I think it's wonderful," I answered back to him, and sipped my fourth cup of coffee which was shaking in my now over-caffeinated hand.

He brought me my check a couple minutes later. "It's been a pleasure, Mademoiselle, I love you and have a lovely day."

What was at first a mistake turned into a magical experience. I left that café with a smile on my face, and if I have the chance, I'll probably go back again while I'm here in Oregon. I continually find myself underestimating the power of words, but certain times occur which make me stop, think, and realize that words are incredible. This was one of those times. Words have such effects on people, and we have to be careful how we use them.

But, there is never a time when you shouldn't express your love for someone, even a stranger.

I can't remember if it was my mom or my dad that always told me humiliation is good for the soul. I always thought that was stupid, because I hate being embarrassed. Today I had the all too familiar feeling of embarrassment when I first walked into the Hawthorne Café, but it turned out much better than I had initially thought.

It's good to feel a little embarrassed, and to accidentally step outside your comfort zone.

It's even better to be told you're loved.

But it's the best to tell someone you love them.

To whoever is reading this, and especially to the French guy, I love you.

Best Damn Decision I Ever Made

When I was in high school I vowed as soon as I graduated, I would never ever go back through those double doors unless it was absolutely mandatory. I never wanted to be one of those people who comes back in as if they never graduated and expects people to go crazy over the fact that they are in there.

I went back to Profile three times this year.

The first time was because my favorite teacher, Mrs. Innes, had something to give me and I had books to donate to her classroom. I also wanted to say goodbye to her because I was leaving for college the next day.

The second time was because I was re-applying to college and needed to ask Mrs. Frank how to send my A.P. scores. It wasn't bad because I snuck in and out pretty easily without having to talk to anybody.

And then I went in today. It was on a whim. I was doing a little cleaning and realized I had a bunch of books I've already read just laying around. So I picked them up, straightened my hair, brushed my teeth, and drove to Profile to see Mrs. Innes.

I walked through the doors and saw the same janitor I see every single time I go in who still can't remember that I dropped out of college, so I re-explained it. I saw Don, who said, "Hello, Friend," and smiled, and that made me feel good because he called me Friend. Sometimes I feel like I don't have many friends.

I said hi to Zack in the library, and overheard some redneck kid talking about how he was fooling his substitute teacher by going to get a drink and just wasn't going to go back to class. What an amateur.

You say you have an appointment and that you gave a note to the office. Dumbass.

Anyway, I walked into Mrs. Innes's room and she did a double take at me. She hugged me, and we talked. I was so happy to see her again.

She knew I had left school, and asked me what I've been doing since then. Since I left Colby-Sawyer, I haven't really had enough time to think about what I've done, I've just done it. But as I was sitting there in her classroom talking about it, it was strange to hear it all.

I left school and went to work. Every day.

Then I found another job at the Ski Club at Cannon Mountain.

So since I was making money, I moved out of my dad's house and into my own apartment.

Then I adopted a doggie.

And moved out of my apartment and into a beautiful cabin.

I bought plane tickets to go visit my sister for 2 weeks.

And I start school again at the end of this month at the community college.

It was interesting to look at and realize how much I've done since I left college. I grew up.

Fast.

It made me start thinking, because I often feel slightly embarrassed of what people think of me since I'm labeled as a college dropout. But, I realized, if I didn't leave school, I wouldn't have had the chance to do everything I did this year.

There are two times in my life, I can think of, where I made the decision to do something that everyone told me not to do.

The first time was in tenth grade, when I dropped American Studies.

The second time was when I left college.

I gotta say, that was the best damn decision I ever made.

Back to Square One

There's always that one who you wish would come back,
even when he took your whole world and painted it black.
You never got over him, and you wish he stayed,
he made your heart pound and put your head in a haze.

But just when you think you're better, he comes back around,
he crawls back into your heart without making a sound.
It takes no time at all to fall back in love,
you have something to believe in; to be proud of.

He fits to you like your favorite sweater,
and you start to think this time could be better.
But in the back of your head, you know it's only a matter of time,
before your walk in the woods becomes a hard, steep climb.

He slowly starts drifting, like a tide from the rocks,
you're mind starts to panic, then goes into shock.
He built you up just to break you down,
and in your own tears you begin to drown.

For weeks you are taken over by your feelings,
and you don't even know how to begin the healing.
Heartbreak turns to hatred, and then to rage,
you put your heart on lockdown inside of a cage.

Weeks turn to months, and eventually to a year,
And yet you're still wishing that he was here.
Although you're still hurt by what he's done,
You're tangled up in emotions; you're back to square one.

He still crosses your mind, every second of everyday,
and you always think, why didn't he just stay?
You start to forgive him for putting your heart under attack,
because after all he's done, you'd still take him back.

I'm a Storyteller

You know how when your mom tells you that you're beautiful, you don't really believe her because, well, mom's are supposed to think you're beautiful! But when a stranger says it, or better yet, a boy, it suddenly means so much more.

I sort of connect that with my writing. My mom and friends have always told me my writing is great, but when a teacher or an unsuspecting classmate tells you, it feels so much different; better. It's a confidence boost, and everyone can always use them. 

When I went to college for a grand total of 25 days, one of my roommates told me that she liked listening to my stories about my life and just listening to me talk in general. She said I was captivating.

Come to find out, when I left school she told my other roommate she couldn't stand how much I talked, and that I talked too much about myself. That kind of turned her original comment into complete trash and lies, and was all around a hurtful thing to hear. And what's that saying? It takes ten compliments to diminish one insult? It's something like that... Anyway, my time at college was pretty sucky, and it has taken me a long time feel okay about my time spent there and my decision to leave. I couldn't help but think, Do I talk too much? Do I talk too much about myself? It made me self-conscious, like maybe other people think this about me too, and here I am writing a blog post about yours truly. 

This old roommate's comment has been haunting me since I first heard of it, and in public settings when I'm expected to share something about myself, I suddenly will feel awkward and nervous about saying too much. It's annoying, because I'm me, and maybe I do talk a lot. And maybe, I talk a lot about myself, but dammit, I think I'm a fairly interesting character! If she didn't want to listen, she didn't have to...

But, there is one place where I talk and I never think about if I'm talking too much. I can't say where, because it is private, but it is somewhere I go, and sometimes I talk. Tonight, I did. And after everything was over, this woman I'd never seen before pulled me aside.

She told me my voice was magical. She said, when I spoke it sounded like musical notes, and she just wanted to keep listening.

This was the nicest thing I've heard in awhile.

She told me I'm a storyteller.

I soaked in her beautiful and powerful compliments, and I could feel my old bitchy roommate's nasty remark suddenly flutter from my shoulders. 

She told me I'm a storyteller. An author. And that is all I've ever wanted to be.

They Needed Me

It started last night.

I moved to Easton about a month and a half ago. And, I've come to find out that when it's raining in Franconia, it's most likely a complete typhoon out in Easton.

Last night, Ben, Jake and I went to see the late show in Lincoln, and we drove the back way home, which goes through Easton and the White Mountain National Forest. At the end of Easton Road - even further than where I live - it's extremely rural and scarcely populated. There's maybe around five houses, all spread out over about three miles. So when you are driving like that at night, it can be a little creepy. When it's hailing, raining and the wind is blowing 30 miles per hour, it's even creepier.

Imagine if you were caught out in that, completely helpless and alone at midnight.

And then, I saw it. This little chihuahua wandering out in the middle of the road in the dead of the night. Our headlights shined on it's cloudy eyes, showing that it was most likely blind.

I leapt out of the car to try and coax the poor little thing into my arms, but it was so frightened. I tried so hard but it just kept running away; breaking my heart. Ben and Jake reassured me that I did all I could do, and guiltily, we drove away.

By the time I drove back out to my house in Easton, about a half an hour had passed. I pulled into my driveway and said to myself, "What the hell am I doing?" There was no way I would be able to sleep knowing I did nothing to help that little dog. So, I put my car in reverse, and headed out towards the National Forest to see if I could find them.

I didn't find the dog though. Instead, I found three other ones. At this point it had to be around one in the morning. These beautiful little creatures were just stranded out here, in the pouring rain, and harsh winds, without a house around for at least a mile. And why on earth were all FOUR of them out here like that? No collars or anything.

I freaked out though. I didn't know how I was going to catch four dogs and then shelter them for the night, especially when I had to be up for work in five hours.

I drove home to try and find a box or something I could put them in since the cat carrier I had grabbed in haste was not going to fit four of them. But then I started to get nervous about how I was going to do this. What if they were totally wild and mean? What if they bit me? Not to mention I'd be out there all alone with no cell phone service...

So I did what any girl would, and called my boyfriend. Being the loyal and caring guy he is, he got up out of his bed at 1:30 am to help me go get the dogs. At this point we didn't even know if we'd find them, but I couldn't sleep knowing I didn't at least try.

But we found them. All four of them, but they were in groups of two. He grabbed the first one and put him in my car, and he almost had the second one but he slipped and the little guy wriggled out of his grip. After that, the dog was pretty well spooked and ran up in the woods. The other two were no success either; they were so scared, they just ran from us.

But at least I saved one. I called him Charlie. It just sort of slipped out, and I didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl at this point. (It ended up being a boy, so it worked out nicely). Charlie stayed the night with me and gave me kisses and wanted to sit on my lap all night. But, by now it was 2:30 in the morning and I had to wake up for work in only a few hours, so I had to put him to bed. He whined a little bit, but can you blame him? He was away from his brothers and sisters and in a strange place with other unfamiliar dogs staring at him through a baby gate.

By 5:30 I was awake. At 7:00 I was out the door, with Charlie wearing a harness and on a leash. I was planning to just bring him to a shelter, but something compelled me to go back to the woods and look for the dogs.

So I did. And I found them.

I scooped one up, but the blind one was petrified. A man in a truck pulled up and helped me, then another man came a little later. The second man finally got a grasp on the dog, and it bit him pretty hard. I felt bad, but I couldn't thank him enough for helping me. I do hope he is okay, though...

So here I was. The crazy chihuahua lady driving around with three dogs that didn't even belong to her. I was convinced at this point that the fourth dog wandered off and didn't make it through the night. I was even surprised that these two were there in the morning, alive and well! I'm so happy they were though.

As I drove into town to try and figure out where to bring these pups, questions kept circling my mind. Who did this? Why did they do this? Do they belong to anyone? I didn't believe this was an accident though. With all four dogs out there, all collarless, pure bred and groomed, I called bullshit. And even if these pooches do belong to someone, I hope they don't get them back! Because why the fuck was no one out there searching for them? Where were their owners?! Obviously, if they have any owners, they are not deserving or capable of giving the love and attention these precious babies need!

I finally ended up getting in touch with a board member of the humane society in Littleton, who happened to be my old principal, Mr. Larcom. His wife met me in town and took the three dogs I saved. I was still worried and upset that I couldn't save the fourth one though. Mr. Larcom was confident he could find the fourth one though.

And he did!

All four of the dogs were taken to the humane society shelter, and are safe and warm tonight.

A lot of people told me what an amazing and wonderful act this was that I performed this past night and day. But, I never even thought of it as anything other than obligation. When I first saw that dog, I knew I had to do something. They needed me; I could feel it in my bones. Who knows how many cars drove by them last night and this morning and just kept driving? I don't want attention or to be thanked for helping the dogs, I just want to share my story and be grateful that they are okay and safe now. I pray that these dogs find a loving, healthy, and comfortable home to live in and they can start off their new and happier lives.

When I talked to Mr. Larcom, I mentioned how bizarre it was that all four of these beautiful and healthy dogs were out here like this, yet they had no collars, and no owners were looking for them. He informed me that there is a puppy mill in Lisbon, and when the dogs are no good for breeding anymore they will do terrible things to get rid of them.

Such as dump them in the middle of the national forest during a thunder and hail storm where they can be left to die.

I realized that this was one of those times in life where the terrible and unbelievably cruel realities of the world were staring me right in the face. Nobody ever wants to believe that humans are capable of doing something so nasty and harsh, but then there's times when it's right in front of you, and you have to step back and reassess your life. You have to think about and look at if you are doing anything to make the situation better.

I'm happy I was able to make this particular situation better, and it's only inspired me to try and become involved with the Humane Society to try and help other animals in trouble.

It's remarkable that I made such an impact of these four dogs lives today just because I was doing what needed to be done; no questions asked.

What's more remarkable, though, is that their four little noses, eight little ears, and sixteen little paws impacted my life, and have enabled me to reassess and alter myself to make sure I am doing my part to help.

They needed me, but I'm starting to think I needed them just as much too.

If They Didn't Already Know Us, Would They Want To?

The other day when it was incredibly slow at work and I was sweeping the floor, my mind started wandering elsewhere. I can't remember what triggered this thought but it seemed like a really interesting idea or question. I started to wonder something, that at first you might think it's outrageous, but after a minute it seems logical.

I wonder if all our parents really like us...

In an ideal world, everyone would be obedient and happy and well, maybe even perfect, if they wanted to be. I truly wonder though, there has to be parents out there who don't like the person their child has become. We feel like just because we're family, we're obligated to love one another, but I mean, who ever wrote that rule?

It's expected of teenagers to hate their parents at some point or another, but is it ever the other way around? Imagine if your kid goes against every thought you've ever instilled in them. Every belief, rule, joy, or hate is the exact opposite of your opinion. What if your kid is mean to you, and truly hates you? Do you hate them back? What if they bully you, just like they might bully other kids? Do you like them still?

I can't exactly relate, because I feel like I have a balanced and even friendship with my parents. I mostly tend to agree more with my mom, and believe a lot of the things she does. We have less conventional views than my dad, but I don't think he dislikes me over it.

Imagine this though, if we went to high school with our parents, would we be in the same social group as them? Would they accept us into theirs? What if we were fellow parents or just people, living in the same town as them, would they like us?

I mean obviously there are the crazy people who hate their innocent children for no reason, but I'm talking about the normal parents. Obviously when we're young, our parents love us because we're just these bundles of joy who cry a lot and poop our pants, but they love us. But when we grow up, become the people we're going to be for the rest of our lives, we change. We have opinions, and feelings, and freedom of expression that could really differ form our parental units. If we weren't related, do you think they'd even look twice at us or think to talk to us if we were just another person in the room?

Think about it...

kpk

I rarely go on Tumblr, but when I do, I always love it when I come across these little poems by the author kpk. I tried googling who kpk is, but nothing came up. That was a shock. These poems are so simple, but they are so powerful; so beautiful. Usually they are wrapped up in sorrow and heartbreak, but they are so sadly incredible, they have me hooked. I chose to include this one on the left because I can relate to it, from both sides. When I get mad, I usually just fall silent. I don't say anything because it's easier than confronting what the actual problem is, and because I need to really sit and think about what I want to say before I say it, or it almost always comes out wrong and usually hurtful. But I also have been on the receiving side. The side of utter confusion and pain that comes with pure silence. I never understood how you can go from being so close to somebody, whether they are a friend or a lover, and suddenly, they just stop talking to you. They cut you out of their life with a jagged, rusty blade and leave this severed and ugly broken heart as the remain. And, how could that be so easy to them? Did I really mean nothing to you? Was I that easy to just let go of? It truly is the saddest thing. Ever. If anyone knows who kpk is, let me know! I'd like to meet them...

Days Like That Really Suck

You ever have one of those days? You know the kind, when everything literally sucks. Your hair looks like shit, your face is breaking out, and you just so happened to splash the cap full of bleach, you were pouring into the sink at work, right square in the middle of your favorite black shirt. Or how about when you go to toast your english muffin and you accidentally bump the knob up to 9 so your english muffin is now charred and disgusting and you're running late for work, so you decide you'll go hungry all day. The milk is old so you either drink black coffee or no coffee. Your dog keeps farting and won't move away from you. You have probably around 40 loads of laundry to do and no underwear so it looks like you're not wearing a skirt any time soon. There is absolutely nothing on TV.

Those days really suck.

But you know what sucks more, having those kinds of weeks.

Or months.

Or lifetimes.

And so you keep repeating your mantra - whatever it may be. You think, it's going to get better. You make changes, because how is anything going to feel better if you don't try something different?

But then the change is worse than the original plan. Even if the original plan was really starting to make you miserable, at least it was routine and expected, right? And that mantra you keep repeating, it's starting to sound pretty god damn old and crusty, like the tinfoil wrapped thing in the back of your fridge from some restaurant you went to last month. You don't even want to look at it, or touch it because you don't want anything to do with it anymore! It's old news, and it's sour now so instead of disturbing it, might as well just let it sit there and rot because it's never going to change.

Then your thoughts switch from, it's going to get better to, this is never going to end.

And whose to say it is going to end? They tell you to just let it go; be happy.

I'm sorry, I forgot. It is completely realistic to let all your stress, problems, and feelings just vanish into thin air. Because the more you forget about them, the further away they go, right?

No, absolutely not. They just sit there and pile on each other until you completely explode with feelings and frustration. Then you're a complete bitch to everyone because they are the one's who told you to try all the things that didn't work in the first place. But you sort of feel bad for being such a miserable bitch, but then again, if you can admit that you are one what's the issue? So to try and let off some frustration and feel better, you write a blog post about it. But by the end of it, you're still pretty pissed off. And you know what sucks the most? The dog is still farting.

Today, I Cried.

I'm one of "those people" who reads a lot of books.

And when I say a lot, I mean like I would rather not speak to anyone for an entire afternoon and just read a 500 page novel.

Since I moved to the boonies, I don't have internet, cable, or cell phone service. That said, I have been spending my days and nights ripping through books.

And loving every second of it.

I'm a total bookworm; I don't deny it. One day last week, I read two books. One being My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult and Tiny, Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed. The first one lengths in 400+ pages whereas the second maybe around 250 pages. So we're looking at 650+ pages of words that were processed into my brain in one day.

And yet.

For Christmas, my best friend Ben Rathman gave me this book I'd been asking for. I fell in love with the lyrical and poetic quotes from it I had seen on the internet.

"I fell in love the way you fall asleep; slowly, then all at once."
"My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations."

And yet!

I dove into The Fault In Our Stars, by John Green, the minute it was handed to me. My brain was yearning to drink in the beautiful words this man had crafted. As a New York Times Best Seller, I knew it would be better than I thought.

And yet, at first, it wasn't.

I found myself thoroughly disappointed with the quirky and smart-ass language of the main characters. I felt like their humor was fake, and not what seventeen-year-olds would actually be saying, thinking or doing. My head was puzzled how John Green reached the status of a New York Times Best Selling Author with this novel. I was sad.

But I didn't give up on it. I kept reading, in hopes it would unfold into a beautiful teenage love story of this girl with terminal cancer and her gorgeous boyfriend who never gave up on her. And it was, but it wasn't grabbing me like the books I read usually do. I set the novel down for a few weeks. I came back to it in February, and set it down again for awhile. Today, I picked it up again.

I'm one of those people who doesn't cry in moments when crying makes sense. Funerals, graduations, sad movies. Nope, I'm one of those lifeless robots who sits there and looks like a heartless moron because my tear ducts refuse to work.

But tonight, I finished it. And tonight, for the first time, I cried while reading a book. I felt the tears start to burn in the back of my eyes around chapter twenty. By the time I reached chapter twenty-four, there they were. Full fledged waterworks; running mascara down my cheeks and all.

When I came to the ending, I was surprised it was over. It didn't seem like a normal place to end. But finally, after I re-read the last page, I understood why this novel was so loved and so... GOOD. I felt guilty for doubting it in those first few weeks of reading, and the months I neglected it. I can only be thankful that I decided to pick it up and finish it, because it turned out to be as beautiful and wonderful as I originally anticipated it to be.

If you are reading this and feeling somewhat disappointed because this post is unlike my others, sorry. But, if you're reading this and understanding... all I can say is, Book Nerds, UNITE.

Life Guide

Somebody should write a guide to life, and each stage can have it's own section, with sub-chapters on the different paths you can take.

Chapter 1: Childhood from infancy through age 11: Don't eat the glue. Be a tom-boy. Invite everyone in your grade to your birthday party. Be nice to your babysitter. Play sports. Enjoy nap time, because soon it will be gone. Let everyone see your big, toothless smile.

Chapter 2: Age 12 through age 14: Remember that the friends you have now probably won't end up being the friends you have forever. Don't stuff your bra. Makeup doesn't make you beautiful. Keep up on your school work because it creates positive work habits. Try not to hate your parents yet, especially since you haven't even started learning to drive which is where the hatred really begins. That boy who just broke your heart is only the first of many. That boy's heart whose you just broke is also only the first of many. 

Chapter 3: Age 15 through age 17: High school doesn't entitle you to be a snob. Makeup still doesn't make you beautiful. Be nice to the girl you had a falling out with in middle school, for everyone has their own struggles, including you. Try not to hate your parents when you're learning to drive because they are probably hating you just as much. Don't date the senior boy no matter how hot he is. Drinking and smoking pot doesn't make you cool, so don't feel like you have to do it. Don't drop out of high school, even though you want to more than anything. Don't get pregnant. Shakespeare is actually beautiful, and one day you will realize it. Don't spread rumors if you don't want rumors spread about you. Join different clubs and meet different people. Allow your talents to shine. Don't challenge the asshole teacher who singles you out because they don't like you. Be kind to everyone, but trust nobody.

Chapter 4: Age 18: You are legally an adult but that doesn't mean you have it all figured out. Go ahead and buy the cigarettes because you can. The broom closet in aylakai isn't all it's cracked up to be, but go in anyway. Apply to college, even if you don't go, it doesn't hurt to apply. Get a job because you'll need the money in the next few years. Don't get arrested because now you can really screw your life up. Senioritis is inevitable just try to fight it as long as you can. Don't date the junior boy no matter how hot he is because you'll end up breaking his heart. Makeup still doesn't make you beautiful, but it's acceptable now because you're old enough to wear it. If you haven't already you should buy a car. Thank all the teachers who helped you and apologize to all the teachers you were rude to. Don't wish your youth away because once it's gone, it's gone.

Chapter 5: Age 19 through 22: This is where the paths start taking place, either you're in college, on your own, or living at home still. Remember that you don't have to know all the answers, but you're going to be frustrated that you don't. Work hard at everything you do, whether that's in school or at your job. If you're still on your parent's couch, get your ass up and get a job or get in school. Even though you're out of high school, still don't get pregnant; you have a lot of life to live still. Travel. Try new food and meet new people. Stay in touch with the high school friends worth staying in touch with. If you have a boyfriend, fall in love with him. If you don't have a boyfriend, that isn't an excuse to slut around; stay classy. Drinking and smoking pot still doesn't make you cool, but you're going to do at least one of those so don't get caught and don't make it a priority. Keep looking forward, because sometimes you're going to feel really lost and really scared. Remember, you are the creator of your own happiness and future. Make it happen.

Chapter 6 and beyond: I'll let ya know when I get there.

I Like the Second Option Better

I feel that when someone tells you that you're something you know you're not, it still sticks to you. Like a hot fresh brand, the words are permanently engraved on your skin, causing an eternal hurt and irritation. Even if the wound is covered up from the outside world, you still know it's there. It might scab over, begin to fade and maybe even disappear, but other times it stays as a permanent scar; a constant reminder of what somebody thinks about you.

Failure
Unsuccessful
Stupid
Disappointment

Those are just a handful of the newly uninvited tattoos I was given last week. In the midst of being informed this is what someone thought of me, I knew it was untrue, but that didn't make the blow any less painful. All week I started my day thinking of those four words. They became my daily repetition of insults on my own personal being. The words just floated around in my skull like a dog that never stops barking; loud, uncontrollable, and obnoxious as hell.

I wish I could say that I had some revelation and figured out how to kick the words out of my ears, but I haven't. They've quieted, I can say that much, but there is still that person sitting there in the back of my brain on permanent repeat.

Perhaps I'll get a forehead tattoo that says FABULOUS and then the voice in my head will put a sock in it.

Or maybe I'll just sock the person in the head who said it all in the first place.

Toad

Cold-blooded with sunken-in eyes,
Everything about you is what I despise.
Dirty, stupid, loser, with nothing better to do,
Than ruin my life, only thinking about you.

You broke her lamp, and every single glass,
You snapped the broom, and kicked her ass.
Are you proud that you did that? Do you feel like a man?
You're nothing but trash, and you belong in a can.

Heroin junkie; you're such a waste of life.
I hope you fall, and land on a knife.
Drunk, hopeless, scum-bag; only causing trouble,
Destructive tornado, leaving nothing but rubble.

I hated you yesterday, and I'll hate you tomorrow,
I hope you drown in sadness and sorrow.
Because no one as awful as you deserves to be happy,
Get the hell out of town, and let's make it snappy.

You say you love her, but I know that's not true,
You love what she has, but you only love you.
You're sick and twisted up in your head,
Everyone votes, you should just drop dead.

License-less screw-up, how's your bike?
Do us a favor and go take a hike.
Get lost forever, and leave us alone.
You're the stupidest person that I've ever known.

You think I'm disrespectful? Look at you!
Telling me to fuck off, well fuck you too.
You tell me I'm no better than you, but I know I am.
At least I could pass all my high school exams.

Drug addicted asshole, with the maturity of a child,
You're a deranged, ugly animal who belongs in the wild.
Not in the home of a loving and wonderful lady,
She doesn't need you; I'm already her baby.

I hope they handcuff you, and bring you to court,
You must too, with how many pills that you snort.
Then they'll pack you up, and haul you to jail,
Right where you belong, with no posted bail.

I'm never leaving, so you probably should,
You only cause harm, you do no good.
I should wrap this up, but before I do,
Just so it's clear, I fucking hate you.

Seeing Stars

"My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations." - The Faults in our Stars; John Green

I found this quote on Tumblr.

I haven't read that book yet. Ben gave it to me for Christmas, but I'm currently reading about 3 other novels. It sits on my coffee table though, always staring at me when I walk into my apartment. I can hear it yelling at me to open it up, and finally see and experience the craft of words John Green has displayed in there.

Is it strange that I'm afraid to read it?

I just think that excerpt from it is so beautiful; that line is poetic, and I'm afraid the rest of the book won't be. I don't want such a beautiful display of words to be ruined for me suddenly. It's silly, I know. But, that quote is so rhythmic and deep, in just 9 short words. What drew me most to it was the fact that finally someone, somewhere, figured out how to write a condensed version of my thought pattern. I have these incredible ideas, dreams, words, and creations that float around in my brain; stars. Yet, I can't begin to put them into something with even a bit of organization; constellations.

Maybe I should just stop thinking, and read the damn book already.