Tattered Furniture

I am merely another piece of furniture in the house,

and you can skate around me until your blades turn dull.

But when they are rusted, and no longer cut into the surface,

You may be forced to sit down on the couch,

or lean against the dresser.

Don't forget, I'm just a piece of furniture,

but you sure as hell better not lean on me. 

Puzzle Pieces

“Is that Stephen?” A woman exclaimed, embracing my dad into a hug. I stood off to the side awkwardly. “And who is this?” she asked, looking at me. My dad and I just walked into a beautiful hilltop condo on Attitash mountain, occupied by some members of my family. I thought we were coming to meet up with my grandparents, but instead I walked into what seemed like a family reunion full of people I did not recognize.

“This is my daughter, Paige,” my dad said, “you remember her, don’t you?” It took a moment for her to register that the last time she saw me I was barely a human, swaddled in a blanket, wearing a diaper, and probably sleeping. I stuck out my hand, which she shook gingerly and continued to shake while she hugged me with her other arm. “I’m Kate,” she said, “Peg’s sister!” That makes her my great aunt, I thought to myself. I made a mental note not to forget.

“Paige,” a man said nodding his head and winking at me. He didn’t look familiar at all, but I smiled and said hello anyway. Was he my dad’s cousin? Uncle? I couldn’t remember. My dad was hugging, laughing, and joking with everyone in the room while I stood behind him, trying to take on the form of a chameleon and blend into my surroundings. My attempt failed.

“Hi, Paige, I’m Paul. I’m your dad’s uncle.” I had heard of Paul! He lived in Colorado! He went for the handshake but I put my arms out for a hug. Was that weird? I wondered. “This is my son, Will.” I shook Will’s hand and felt a bit more at ease because although he was my dad’s cousin, and my second cousin, he looked to be my age. I sat down next to him and tried not to look uncomfortable. As I was twiddling my thumbs and aimlessly checking my phone to look busy, my dad connected and reminisced with his aunts, uncles, and cousins. I laughed at his boisterous cackle and smiled because he was happy and in his element. These were his people; his kin.

Even though I was surrounded by people who were my family too, I started to feel a little weird, and very out of place. I wondered, how did my dad fit so perfectly into this puzzle whereas I am clearly a tiny metal thimble or shoe which belongs in a game of Monopoly. Perhaps I am a domino, or a pawn from some board game. Mouse Trap, Operation, maybe Yahtzee! Before I could compare myself to anymore Milton Bradley and Parker Brothers products, the door opened, and I saw my grandmother stepping in. I stood up, and rushed over to hug her. I missed her so much, and I was relieved to have someone familiar here with me.

“I am so happy to see you!” I said. She didn’t say anything back to me, and I bit my tongue, remembering the reason my dad and I were here in the first place. My grandmother’s sister — my dad’s aunt and my great aunt — passed away earlier in the summer. Everyone had flown or drove to New Hampshire for a few days to attend her service, which was to take place the following day. Trying to recover myself, I let go from the hug and told my grandmother I had missed her.

We went and sat next to my new cousin, Will, and fell into conversation. I told her about school and life. We talked about our dogs and jobs. It was as if we hadn’t been away from one another for as long as we had. Her sister Kate, who I met earlier, came over to join in, and so did the winking man, Uncle Paul, and my dad. I looked at all of them, with their signature gaps between their front teeth when they smiled. Their eyes all gleamed with an identical hue. Where had I seen that before? I excused myself to use the bathroom, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, it hit me: my eyes were their eyes. Two years of braces erased the gap in my teeth years ago, but at one point I had it too. I’m not a Monopoly piece, a domino, or a pawn. No, I am most certainly a puzzle piece. One which fits into the configuration of this family that started in Bartlett, New Hampshire generations ago.

Walking out of the bathroom, I looked at these people in a new light. They sat around the dinner table, eating pizza and looking at pictures; laughing. Questions ran through my mind: is it okay to laugh in situations like this? Is it acceptable to be happy to see one another? Is it wrong that I am grateful to have this opportunity to meet members of my family I may have otherwise never known? I don’t know if there is a right answer to those questions, but to me, the answers are all the same; yes, it is perfectly okay to laugh, be happy, and be grateful. Perhaps in other family puzzles or games it isn’t, but the pieces of this puzzle are funny, loud, and quite special.

In the past, whenever someone asked me about my family, my answers were typically accompanied by somewhat of a sigh, because there is a complexity to my extended unit. Between adoptions, divorces, half-siblings, step-parents, and step-siblings, there tends to be quite a bit of confusion when I go into the story of who my family is and how we all came to be. Although there is a complication of knots which tie me to other people in this world who are apart of my clan, I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, would we be a family if it was any different?

My section of the puzzle may be patterned or shaped differently in comparison to the others, but we are all apart of the same picture. Together we form what is us; a jigsaw meshed together to create one wonderful masterpiece. I suppose the idea of being apart of a board game, dominoes, or another puzzle can at times seem tempting, but I think I will stay apart of this puzzle, with the hazel eyes, the gap teeth, and the laughing. I like this puzzle best.

About me

“My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.” I read this quote by John Green when I was eighteen. I loved it, because of the poetic beauty it possessed. It spoke to me beyond the words of Green’s book The Fault in Our Stars. Suddenly, in nine short words, my autobiography unwrapped itself in front of me. At twenty-years-old, I am merely a fragment of who I am yet to be. Although not fully developed, the existing pieces of the photograph which is my life are colorful and vibrant.

I enjoy staying busy, but cherish the simplicity life has to offer; a hot cup of coffee, a rainy day spent reading underneath a soft blanket, macaroni and cheese. Of all the things I am not, I can say for sure what I am: a writer, a learner, and a human being. It is difficult to pinpoint the importances I should focus on in an introduction, because what makes up who I am? I am so many things, so many words, so many experiences.

I am Paige Olivia Roberts. I am a work in progress. But, aren’t we all? I may not be a constellation yet, but I am still bright and shiny. I am still a star.

Blue Dress

I've been unbelievably busy lately. I took on a huge course load in school this summer, so my time is primarily consumed by doing homework and working here and there. Most of the time, I bring my homework to work with me. I have a quiz that is due by midnight tonight in one of my online classes. They generally take me about thirty minutes; piece of cake. Yet, after today, all I can do is sit here stewing.

Today should have been wonderful. I performed at my mom's art studio and even framed and displayed some of my poetry. (I don't claim to be much of a poet, but I really like a few that I have written). Because I was singing with Ben today, I wanted to look nice, but most importantly I wanted to be comfortable. I wore a blue maxi dress because it is so simple and soft. It was chilly this morning, so I threw a sweatshirt over it, too. I pulled my hair back; it needed to be washed and I didn't have time to. And, since my skin has been cooperating lately, I didn't have to wear hardly any makeup except for a little bit of mascara. I felt like I looked presentable, but then again, I would have felt just as nice in a pair of jeans.

I stopped in TJ Maxx to buy pictures frames for my poetry. As I was standing there, checking prices and sizes, I could feel someone staring at me. Glancing over, there was an old guy standing there. He wasn't ancient or anything, just older and staring at me, chuckling. It made me feel a little uncomfortable so I looked back at my frames and poetry which was displayed all over the shelves so I could size the fonts with frames. The guy kind of inched near me and I thought I was in the way so I apologized and started to push the cart away.

"You know," he said, "it's really nice to see a lady dressed like a lady for once." I looked at him. Without thinking, I scoffed.

"At least in the North Country," he continued, "where I'm from, all the ladies dress like they should."

What in the fuck was that supposed to even mean?

Instead of being polite and accepting what he probably thought of as a compliment, I laughed at him and walked away with my picture frames and poetry. "Dressed like a lady for once." What defines dressing as a lady? Was it because I was wearing a dress or because every inch of me was basically covered up? I know he didn't mean harm by it, or I at least hope he didn't. But, that comment really pissed me off. If I wore jeans, like I do every other day, would he have been silently judging me? Would he have verbalized it? Or, if it was unbearably hot out and I decided to wear a tank top with some shorts, would he have assumed I was basically a prostitute?

Later on in the grocery store tonight, this guy I went to high school with was working and told me how pretty I looked in my dress. Perhaps if it were a different kind of day, I would have been flattered by his compliment. But tonight, it just angered me. I go into the grocery store all the time when he's working, I'm just not usually wearing a dress. Yet, he has never presented me with any compliments otherwise, even when my hair is clean, unlike tonight.

I would have preferred that old dude commented on my poetry which was very clearly in his view, rather than taking too long of a time to examine me, only to let me know he approved of my outfit, because clearly he is the God of women's clothing and I should be taking his advice and opinions. I don't want to be told I look like a lady because of what I am wearing. I look like a lady because I am one. I'm also a human being, in case he didn't know that.

How about I look smart? I look healthy. Not even I look but I am.

Paige, you are smart.

Paige, you are motivated.

Paige, you are confident.

I know am all of those things, because those are the kinds of attributes I strive to have within myself. Those are the things that make me pretty.

Not a stupid fucking blue dress.

Secrets In My Head

I find it incredibly powerful when we, as human beings, are able to not only identify but accept, change or have a grasp of control over our flaws. However, I think it's toxic to wallow in our pities and relish in the fact that we may be one of the most dysfunctional people alive. There is such a fine line between identifying and accepting, and identifying and being a victim of our issues. Does that make sense?

I see a therapist. She truly saved my life. I don't deem myself crazy for needing to talk my feelings out from time to time. When I first went to see her, she asked me why I decided I needed therapy.

"I feel like my brain is tied in knots and I don't know how to untie it," and, "I think I'm going insane but I'm still sane enough to know it." I had thought long and hard about the way I felt, because it was so confusing at the time and I didn't feel there was any other way to explain it. I was sixteen. I was angry, upset, worried, sleepless, defiant and hating who I was. I skipped school, partied a lot, and disrespected not only myself but a lot of people around me.

After more talking and evaluation, I was diagnosed with Adjustment Disorder with mixed anxiety and depression. I could have told her about the anxiety and depression part, but what the hell is Adjustment Disorder? She basically told me that everyone has a hard time with change, but I especially struggle with it. To be honest, I sort of thought that was a lame diagnosis and wasn't really convinced it existed. I've taken a few classes in the Human Services field and learned a bit more about Adjustment Disorder, and it's real. It does exist and although maybe I'm lucky to only have that going on in my head, it's still a form of mental illness and it has plagued me from time to time. It was at an all time high when I was a teenager, and as stupid as this sounds, it was usually triggered by breakups.

Everyone becomes brokenhearted at some point, but my broken heart didn't ever seem to mend. When I was fifteen, I was so hung up on this one kid that even a year after we broke up, I still hurt. I still felt incomplete. It temporarily went away when I moved onto another boy, but he broke my heart even worse. And again, a year later I found myself still wanting the first boy and hurting over the second one as well. What the fuck is wrong with me?

By the time I reached my senior year in high school, I felt that I had my Adjustment Disorder under control. I don't claim to be an expert, but my sister has a degree in Psychology and works directly with people who experience different kinds of mental illnesses, and she has been able to explain it to me more in depth than when I originally found out I had it. Everyone has different experiences with this disorder. Some may overcome it, but others may struggle with it their entire life.

My family went through a lot my senior year. My mom and stepdad divorced, which was difficult because it was a change. But we also had to leave my house that I had lived in for ten years, just a week after I had graduated high school. I felt as though I was a trooper through that weird time in life, but after high school, my mind just slipped back into it's dark corner. I was uprooted, out of place, and painfully uncomfortable. Going to college just made it worse. At the time I wasn't aware of it, but looking back on it now, I definitely attribute my actions and inability to succeed to my Adjustment Disorder. It was too much change for me to handle, and I didn't have the tools or skills to overcome it.

Since then, I've gone through a lot of changes, but the majority of them have been initiated by me, and that makes the adjustment easier. My sister told me that learning to accept that I can't always control change is huge in becoming more at peace with myself and life, really. That's still a hard one for me. I don't like things going in a different direction than I expect them to or want them too. That almost always gives me intense anxiety.

For example, when I have to be somewhere in Littleton by 1:00, I know I must leave my house at 12:30 to be there 5 minutes early. So, I leave by 12:30. But then there's road construction and a detour, so instead of taking exit 41 I must take exit 40 and go the back way. Now I'm freaking out because I'm going to be late. And if I'm late then I'm going to be in trouble. And if I'm in trouble then I will be yelled at. And if I'm yelled at I will cry. And if I cry then I will be embarrassed and yelled at even more. So I call my mom or Anthony and start to tell them about this extreme catastrophe that is about to occur and they don't really know what to say so I yell at them and become even more upset! And suddenly, everything that is wrong with me and my life surfaces to the front of my brain and I think about it as I speed down back roads in an attempt to not be late which would result in the end of the world, obviously. My chest is tight and my heart is racing. I am sweating, and the lump in my throat seems to be getting bigger. Officially, my day has been ruined, because I can't seem to stop riding the snowball that is tumbling over everything in my head.

That is a normal anxiety episode for me.

At this point in my life I feel that my anxiety trumps my depression and Adjustment Disorder. I don't actually feel depressed very often, not out of the norm anyway. My cat died, and that really sucked so obviously I was very sad and in a bit of a funk for awhile, but in the past I may have dwelled on it and let it consume me for much longer. It's an ongoing process, but I acknowledge it and do my best to embrace it while staying positive.

I do not define myself as a person with mental illness, but I do accept that I have a few loose screws, because I am human and we all have our struggles. In the past, I was very embarrassed of the fact that I was not perfect and needed to see a therapist. Today, however, I am grateful for my therapist because she is an amazing person who changed and saved my life. With knowing that I do not do well with change, I am able to approach situations differently. I do not let it hold me back. I know that I will not do well going away to school and being out of my comfortable and familiar environment, but I still go to school, I just choose to drive. (Plus I save a shitload of money so yay for me). I find myself empowered by the knowledge I have of the differences that make me who I am.

I don't know, maybe I am just an insane control freak who worries a lot, but hey! At least I'm sane enough to know it, right?

To know more about Adjustment Disorder, symptoms, causes and treatments, click here.

For my Bo

Before I decided I wanted to go back to majoring in English, I toyed with the idea of going into social work. My declared major for a semester was Human Services. It's not that I didn't like the program, it's just that I like English better. But, I still take some social work classes because I enjoy them.

A few weeks ago, in my current social work geared class, we were talking about grief. I've had a few people in my life die; my grandfather and a former teacher of mine. My grandpa hurt, but I was so young at the time, it's hard to remember it all. I remember him, and that's what is important. My teacher's death hit me hard, because he became much more of a friend in the recent months leading up to his sudden passing. But even so, the last time I talked to him was a week before he went, and it was a really wonderful conversation. So I'm okay with it. I considered myself "lucky" in the sense that I haven't had much pain from loss.

Until today.

It is with great sadness that I report the death of our beloved cat, Bo. I have never felt such emptiness and pain. I have always said that life is weird, but my God, sometimes it's just flat out cruel. What does somebody do to deserve this? Why are our poor helpless babies so suddenly ripped from our lives without any warning? How is that fair?

My mom - God bless her - the woman is the strongest person alive. I'm sure everyone says that about somebody they know, but the word takes on a whole new meaning when it comes to to my mom. Bo was the love of her life; soul mates. Is there any valid reason to explain why this had to happen to her? Lately, she and I have been subject to so many changes, both wanted and unwanted changes. And, whether we agree to them or not, change is always stressful. After all the ultra-stressful changes we've been experiencing lately, why did this area of our life have to change too?

It's just so difficult to understand. My heart hurts; a piece of my being is missing. I have lost pets in the past. My thirteen-year-old dog Curry was difficult to say goodbye to, but she lived a long and amazing life, so that made it a little bit easier. But Bo was only five; he would have been six at the end of the month. When friends of mine have had animals pass away, I of course felt bad, but maybe not as bad as I should have felt.

I watched a video earlier in the week about empathy and sympathy, and the difference between the two. One part that stands out to me is the idea that when expressing empathy, the words "at least" are never involved.

At least you still have another cat.

At least it wasn't a family member.

At least you have the dogs.

The thing is, there is no "at least" in this equation. Yes, we have another cat, but she isn't our Bo. No other kitty will ever be like him. He was a family member. He added so much to the dynamic of our family unit! The only male in our bunch... And yes, we have the dogs, but they aren't cats.

I love Bo, he was such an amazing and unique cat. But, he was closest to my mom. And although I hurt from the tragedy of it all, I hurt even more because she hurts. On top of that, we both hurt the most for our other cat, Frenchie. She's lost her best friend; her companion. The poor thing spent half the day attached to my mom, and the other half sleeping upstairs. Alone. She hasn't had any desire to go outside and hasn't even touched her food. She is mourning. We all are.

In my creative writing class, we've currently been focusing on poetry. It is not my most confident area of writing, but I love poetry and appreciate it. As this morning unfolded into the heartbreak that it ended up becoming, my mom asked if I would write a poem about Bo. I found it fitting to write an ode.

Behind a plexiglass window sat a little furry creature,

he was waiting for his forever home.

And when we walked in and saw him there,

we knew that our search was over.

She pressed her hand to the window; a peace offering,

he accepted, pressing his paw up to the glass.

It wasn't long until we all fell in love with him,

and his sassy, boyish face. 

A love-bug, he was always up for snuggling,

and kneading your belly if you let him.

If the food bowl was empty he could be a pest,

but it added to his charisma.

The sweetest king in the jungle,

he always watched out for his queen.

Although he is gone much too soon, 

his life was filled with love, kisses and fun.

We will miss him for the rest of our days,

and hold the memory of him close to our hearts.

One day we will all be together again,

but in the meantime we are thankful for the time we had.

The baby boy, he will never be forgotten,

our love for him is unconditional and never ending.

May your soul rest in peace, Bo-Bo. We love you so much.

Transdecade

My mom is awesome.

She's super down-to-earth. She graduated from the White Mountain School in 1984. I obviously wasn't around to experience her life first hand, but her humbled way of telling her story is so intoxicating. She didn't have it easy. At all.

After high school, she was unable to attend college - not by her choice. Moving out west and away from home at just 19, she never looked back. I'm not sure how long, but she spent a portion of her early 20's living on a boat in the ocean off the coast of Hawaii. That's pretty badass, if you ask me.

My mom is a survivor. She always just keeps going, even when there's a blockade the size of a mountain in her way. It's inspiring, truly, to see the determination she displays on the daily.

Along with my mom being so strong-willed, she's also incredibly understanding and gentle-natured. I've never been afraid to tell her anything. I think I can count on one hand how many times I've lied to her, and among those few, I always came clean. She'd laugh, and make fun of me for lying in the first place, because there really never was any reason to be untruthful with her. I was always free to speak my mind and think whatever I wanted. There was no judgement, and there still isn't. I was born a free spirit, and she's done nothing but nurture the abundances my mind sometimes goes to. I think a lot of my views on the world, and life in general, come from her beliefs as well as her support to think whatever I want to.

I can be a bit of a conspiracy theorist. It gets me looks of disgust and the occasional head shake. But that's okay.

To each their own.

But, my mom never shakes her head or calls me crazy. She never belittles my beliefs. If anything, we end up having an hour long discussion about aliens or that terrorist attacks are all just a ploy formed by the government.

I've always considered myself an old soul. In fact, people have told me that as well. I have always felt very misinterpreted. It's difficult for me to get along with people my age. Not to sound like a snob, but I sometimes feel that they are not of the same caliber as me. I would rather talk about the meat and guts of a person's soul than hear about what a bitchin' party they went to last weekend. It's hard to find another 20 year-old who is saving their money to buy a house in the next five years. Instead, I'm usually bombarded with conversation about what shitty beer they can only afford to drink. I'm not a straight edge, honestly. It's just that I don't care anymore. I've been to plenty of parties and been hit on by guys who smell like booze and have vomit on their shirt but still want to know if I want to "go for a walk outside to their car just to get away from everybody for a little while."

But, again, to each their own.

When I presented my latest somewhat bizarre theory to my mom, she nodded in agreement and even added some input to support my idea. I think that I'm not maybe an old soul; I am an old soul.

I'm not one of those kids on "Ghost Inside my Child" who was a member of the Donner party and can remember the chill of the horrific winter where everyone starved to death and the one's who didn't ended up eating their dead friend's remains.

But, I truly feel as though I was born in the wrong decade. The 1990's are so fascinating to me. I was born in '93, so I experienced the majority of the decade, but three years of that I was shitting in my diaper and the other four were spent in pre-school. I wish I was born in 1983 rather than 1993. That way, I could have really been there for it all, when it mattered.

It goes so much deeper than that, though. I have always loved the music of the 90's - even the crappy stuff. Obviously the generations of Beatles songs and Led Zeppelin are more influential and revolutionary than anything, ever, really. And I love Paul, John, George and Ringo dearly, but they will never sparkle in my eye like Kurt Cobain does (God rest his beautifully sexy soul). I could, and do, listen to Alanis Morissette on repeat daily. 311, 4 Non-Blondes, Blind Melon, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Greenday, The Presidents of the USA, The Barenaked Ladies, Matchbox 20, Eminem... I can even give appreciation to the Pop scene too: Backstreet Boys, 'NSYNC, Britney, Christina, Spice Girls. All of it. I love it.

But, it's aggravating because here I am, a late member of Generation Y, cusping on the Millennial generation. Except, I don't belong here.

I belong with the tapered Levi jeans, and the short belly shirts. I want the choker necklaces, tape players, smudged red lipstick, flannel shirts wrapped around my waist, with dark and messy eye makeup. I want to wear Tevas and have a horrible, greasy hair style while I listen to Courtney Love scream through my boombox.

And, of course, what are the chances that I fell in love with someone who was able to experience all of that? (Well, no choker necklaces, lipstick or eye makeup though... at least I hope not). It's no secret that Anthony is ten years older than I am. I think that offends some people, which is a shame, because we're pretty damn cute together. I am a firm believer that we do not choose who we fall in love with; there is always a twist of fate involved. I am in love with Anthony's soul, not how long his physical being has been on the earth. He was born in '83... lucky bastard. He witnessed the MTV music awards of 1992 when Nirvana won best new artist. He knew a world without cell phones and laptops. As tragic as it was, he remembers the heinous school shooting in Columbine, Colorado.

I am so envious that he was old enough to understand and experience that lifetime. My interest in the 90's is deep and borderline obsessive. I have this nagging feeling that I just should have been there in a more aware state of mind; an older version of me.

I know that many transgender people often describe themselves as being born in the wrong body. Well, is there such thing as being born in the wrong decade? Because, I think I'm that.

Yeah, I'm most definitely transdecade.

Please Don't Ever Leave

I'm a tiny human. My stature barely reaches over five feet, and I am somewhere around 125 pounds; of course, like everyone, I'd like to be more fit and make it 120, but I'll accept 125.

In my life, I have punched three people in the face, and all three of them were males. The first time I was twelve, and being made fun of, so instinctually, I socked one to him. The second time I was seventeen, and that was a dumb thing to do, but the asshole deserved it.

Cheater cheater pumpkin eater.

The third time was actually awesome. I was eighteen, and after being called every name in the book I told him to get the hell away from me or I would punch him in the face.

He said, "Do it. I dare you."

Double dog dare me?

After that last one, I woke up the next day and my arm hurt so bad. I was so angry and full of adrenaline that I don't think I even felt my fist hit his jaw, it just happened. But the next day I was very sore.

Even though I hit with all my might, I don't think I did any damage at all, because I am so small. All three probably felt like cotton balls bouncing off their cheeks.

I don't feel very shameful for any of those hits. But, I don't feel any pride for them either. I probably sound like a psycho with anger issues, but I'm really not. I can admit though, when I'm mad, don't fuck with me. My blood boils; I see red. And, because I wasn't blessed with a very strong physical presence, I learned quickly how to have a razor sharp tongue, and how to think on my feet.

I may not be able to knock somebody out, but my verbal assaults can leave much more impressionable scars.

Often times I find myself lashing out at the people who mean the most to me. Not to mention, I have constructed the Great Wall of Paige around myself, and there are very few people allowed inside. Certain aspects of myself are miserable and I hate them, then I hate myself for hating them, and continue to hate myself for hating myself.

It's a vicious cycle.

I am an anxiety-ridden, impulsive, heart-on-my-sleeve, dramatic and passionate ball of Paige who comes out of a cannon full force at any given moment, arms and legs flailing with fists up. There are times I wonder why anyone loves me, especially with my constant judgement on myself and huge expectations for the world and everyone around me.

But for some reason, through every shade of Paige, my boyfriend is always there; loyal, and with arms stretched wide. I'm not sure he knew what he was getting into when he put the remote in my hands, giving me every opportunity to push every single button.

And of course, in true Paige form, I have pushed them all and will probably eventually do it again.

I am a professional at blowing things out of proportion and turning small issues into catastrophic disasters because I am unable to effectively verbalize how I feel for fear that I may get hurt in the process. A classic Sagittarius, I draw my bow and aim my arrows, and without much thought, I shoot them off in all different directions.

What I have to say is important, but I constantly drown out all valid points with my nonsensical anger and babble. I am lucky to have someone as kind and patient as I do, who is willing to sift through my unnecessary hurtful jabs, and find the center of my problem to hear what I am really trying to say.

I'm sorry I was mean, and raw. But, because I am comfortable to be as true and real as I am, I know that this isn't some phase or a bridge that will eventually be crossed. It is an abundance of time. It is a universe; a circle. It does not end. There is ongoing loyalty, but most importantly there is love.

Sweet, unconditional and nonjudgmental love.

You are all I've ever wanted. Stick with me, because I love you.

No Assholes Allowed

I felt like my last two posts were obnoxiously opinionated, which I really try not to be. If you haven't read them, you can find them here and here. I am a sarcastic little bitch at times, which has landed me in trouble on numerous occasions. Normally, I don't feel too bad about it, but lately I have been feeling a bit guilty.

Okay, not that guilty, but enough to notice.

My post titled "Dirty Laundry" was witty, if I do say so myself, but also so hypocritical because I still find myself in rainbow printed socks regularly and secretly would kill for a pair of Vans sneakers. I should have clarified that, so if anyone felt super-self conscious after reading it, I am sorry. Also, I am a firm supporter of being yourself and doing whatever the hell you want. So if you like wearing your high school sports team jacket five years after you've graduated, you go Glen Coco.

As for my post about the legalization of marijuana in New Hampshire, I don't really care how many people hated me after reading it. Although, I should say, it truthfully doesn't matter to me if the bill passes or not. I am neither yea or nay, particularly because it doesn't affect me whatsoever. I don't dabble in the Devil's grass, but I know plenty of people who do, who I care for deeply. I just feel like there are so many other avenues of concern that people should focus on, and it saddens me that legalizing pot is amongst their top priorities.

Okay, that's it. I will put it to rest.

On another note that has been rattling around in my brain since last weekend, someone told me I am standoffish and too uptight.

"You need to loosen up. You have a blockade of walls around you."

I hate it when someone says something that makes you question your judgement or who you are, in general. I have never considered myself to be standoffish or uptight. I feel like I am fairly open-minded and down-to-earth. I like to believe I am, anyway. I strive to be, too.

As for the blockade of walls, my response was, "Yeah! With good reason."

Maybe I do come off as standoffish, maybe even cold. I never used to be like that...

I don't like to sit around and cry for pity, because in all actuality my life is not terrible, nor has it ever been. I had my fair share of personal battles that I had to overcome, and a lot of them were social ones, because not too long ago, I was sixteen, and my social life trumped everything else. However, in the past year I have spent a lot of time weeding out the negative people and energy I had in my life, and replaced them with people and things that mattered. I don't like to let a lot of people in, because too many times my trust was betrayed and I mended and re-mended bonds that weren't worth my time.

Not that I think I'm amazing either, because I am flawed just like every other human being, but the human being I am is a sacred one, and she only deserves the best. She doesn't have time for the people who are only out to use and abuse her. She's much better than that.

It took me a long time to come around to that conclusion, but it's true.

So maybe to the outside world I come off as cold and standoffish. Maybe my walls are completely visible and apparent, but I'm okay with that.

At least my walls are big and mighty, complete with a sign that hangs on the bolted shut door. It reads, "No Assholes Allowed"

Dirty Laundry

I talked to one of my mom's oldest friends on the phone today for about two and a half hours. I've known her my entire life, but I haven't seen her in probably four years, maybe even more; long enough that I don't remember. I've never actually sat and talked with her for as long as I did today, and I have to say, it was awesome. She's a riot, and hearing her stories about when my mom and her lived together were hilarious too. She has a son who is about four or five months older than I am. Growing up, I always thought he was my cousin or something; family. She told me the story about when she went into labor with him, and my mom was the one who saw her through the entire delivery. What a sight for sore eyes that must have been: two pregnant ladies coming into the hospital together, one ready to give birth and the other one holding her hand the entire way.

It's something to think that was almost twenty-one years ago. When I was in the seventh grade, I thought the people in their senior year of high school seemed so big and old. But once I made it there, I didn't feel so big or old. Although, the seventh graders didn't look to be any older than about nine.

It's strange entering into being twenty. Twenty always seemed so far off and distant; so adult.

I did a copious amount of laundry today and lately I've desperately been trying to get rid of some clothing (mostly because I want to go shopping even more desperately). I always gave away clothes because they didn't fit anymore, were worn out, or I just didn't like them anymore. But, I have articles of clothing that I bought when I was thirteen, and they still fit. Some plain black shirts just don't go out of style, and they hold up, so why chuck them? Others are still just so cute and fun, but I am forcing myself to oust them because I am not thirteen, nor do I want to look thirteen (which at times can be difficult because I haven't changed much since then, clearly, since my clothes still fit).

In the midst of my laundry escapade, I came across this hot little number from Charlotte Russe: A royal blue body con skirt that stops about six inches above the knee. Sexy little thing. I bought it when I was sixteen.

I'm retiring her to the Good Will pile...

As I folded the little piece of stretchy fabric, it got me thinking. That skirt is not the only piece of clothing that needs to go if I want to be taken seriously. So then, I started making a mental list. That mental list has expanded into this post, because I think some others can relate. And if they can't, then they need to.

1. Practically anything from Hollister or Abercrombie
I mean come on. Besides, I'm a pretty dainty person, and I wear a size L in both of those stores... and usually I still need a size up, but it doesn't exist.

2. Socks that are any color other than black, white, grey or navy blue
I know, they are so fun, but rainbow cheetah print doesn't look very nice when you are over the age of 12.

3. Barrettes
Not to mention those stopped being cool in like 1997... But seriously, just use a bobby pin.

4. Graphic T's
"Summer fun in the sun! Est. 1984" You know you still have at least one...

5. Letterman jackets
These probably don't exist anymore anyway, but even the jackets with your high school sports team logo, your name and jersey number. Yeah... no...

6. Neon
Unless its workout gear or a sophisticated accent (which it never is) it needs to go! This applies to nail polish too.

7. It's ugly but sentimental
I won a million t-shirts and sweatshirts from countless sporting events, but I never wear hardly any of them. I feel funny throwing them away though, because they are special. An easy solution: pack them away! Then, when you have kids you can pull them out and reminisce... then pack them away again.

8. Ripped jeans
Need I say more?

9. Vans sneakers
They are so cool because they're hipster and punk and popular. But, purple sneakers...

10. Body con skirts and dresses
And really any skirt or dress that you have to continually pull down to make sure your girl isn't showing. I'm sorry, I know, they are so simple and make your ass look too good.

Okay, maybe just keep one of those.

Yeah, Man.

Writing wouldn't be such a powerful tool if authors continually stayed inside the lines. If everyone just said what they thought people wanted to hear, there would never be any truth or essence in literature. Honesty can be cruel and unforgiving, but it's brilliant.

What I have to say is too opinionated for a facebook status, and would start a comment war, which although that would be entertaining, I'm not interested in having a million useless notifications. Also, I think the people who are going to understand what I have to say are going to read this blog post. And, maybe if I am lucky, I will get a few naysayers in here too, who will leave a comment.

Before I start, let me just state something first.

It is absolutely none of my business whether or not people smoke pot. If they want to do that, great; good for them.

With that said, I really could give a rats ass about how amazingly high you were last night and that you smoked the fattest joint ever rolled in the history of rolling joints. Or, that after you ripped your bong "100 times" you ate the most deliciously crafted cheeseburger that surely came from Heaven because it was just that good. I could also live without knowing the name of every "piece" or "glass" you own, and the story behind where and when it came into your possession.

I understand passion. Every emotion I feel and express is often associated with the word "dramatic," but I prefer to call myself passionate. I am incredibly passionate about writing, clearly. And, I hope to one day make it my career. I live for the high I feel after perfecting a difficult sentence, or finishing a story. Maybe that's lame, and if so, then I'm lame too.

I also understand money. Money talks. I dig that. I also can see how painfully our economy is suffering.  There are so many people who need jobs that just aren't available. It sucks, and I live in fear that once I earn my degree, there won't be a job to apply for within my field. I live paycheck to paycheck now, and I am afraid I always will.

Another thing that I understand and appreciate is nature. I live in the White Mountains for God's sake, how can I not love the landscape surrounding me? The air here is so clean and fresh. Where I live is so unique and special, because of the nature that I am engulfed in every day.

Would you like to know what I don't understand?

I don't understand why there is so much passion from people about legalizing marijuana. Here's a concept, what if you were as passionate and pressing about the job you currently have, rather than the idea that legalizing marijuana will solve all your financial whoas? What if, you spent more time researching ways to make your current job more lucrative instead of conjuring up why you should start a pot farm because you would be so amazing at it? How about starting a real farm stand, with tomatoes and lettuce and carrots because if you are so confident in your farming skills, why not put them to use for something that would actually put some money in your pocket?

And I know, I get it. It's from the earth. It was created by "God" so how could it be harmful?

I'm going to go smoke some poison ivy that I've been growing outside. It's from the earth right? Harmless. Nature. Yeah, Man.