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a thanksgiving list

23 Nov

Here is a Thanksgiving list of ten of my favorite things in no particular order, maybe:

10. Watercolor. I’ve been painting a lot lately. I have an Etsy shop now, and I’ve made four sales! If I decide to sell it, my November work will be listed some time next month. Though it flatters me to be commissioned, it’s not one of my favorite things. The pressure of specific peoples’ expectations is tremendous!

9. Fall. I love Fall. Winter used to be my favorite season, but I realize now that Fall is so much better. It’s all the buildup of the Christmas season and none of the letdown. New Year’s Day is probably the most depressing holiday.

8. Netflix. TV with no commercials is my favorite kind of TV. It bugs me that I can’t catch the next season of Showtime’s Homeland on Netflix and that it only has the first season of Jane the Virgin, but in two days the world will be blessed with four more extra long episodes of Gilmore Girls, and that makes up for a lot. Also, I’m noticing that all of my favorite things so far have ended with a slightly negative comment, but I have to share now that I’ve been having, like, real anxiety about the new Gilmore Girls. First, it’s going to end. Again. Second, it will be different. It has to be, right? And I’m worried it will feel different and I’ll feel separate from it. A separate I’ve never felt with them before. Ugh. But I’m still mostly excited.

7. The Internet. I wish that the Internet was what it is now when I was in high school. I feel like I could have been better. With today’s Internet then, I could have cared less about being liked. I mean, I still would have cared, but it wouldn’t be so bad if I felt disliked, because there would have been a lot of people online who thought I was cool for it, I think. If they were there when I was in high school, there was still too big a chance they were Internet creepos Degrassi taught me to avoid.

6. Bubble Tea. Boba is good. I probably drink/eat too much of it. Bubble tea has been my special treat for, like, two years straight. Maybe three. We should get together some time and spend approximately fifteen minutes chatting over boba, kay?

5. My church. I like my church a lot. I feel like I could spend more time there than I do. It’s pretty much Christmastime, and it’s always so beautiful then. There’s always something more I could be doing to get involved and be closer to God, in general. That’s all.

4. Date nights! Daniel and I had the most amazing date last weekend. Time alone together now is extremely rare, so it is so wonderful when we get it and can truly connect. Also, the food was so good AND we got bubble tea after.

3. People. Sort of. I know most of the time it seems I’m trying to avoid them, and I am, but there are a small few I actually really like. I cancel plans, take too long to reply to text messages, and I’m a terrible friend. Still, these are the people in my life with whom I feel pretty close.

2. Milo. You know. He knows.

1. Daniel, duh. He’s so patient and kind and loving when I’m too often terse and annoyed. It is not lost on me how incredibly lucky I am to have been married to this man for three years!



and tell you sorry for the mess

19 Feb

retroblog thursday


February 26th, 2009

Hello, self. I just wanted to let you know that it is quite possible that I am in like with Daniel C. He is so nice, and friendly, and tall, and has a sweet smile. It’s exciting to think about the possibility of him liking me too.

Princess thought he liked me. She mentioned it first. After church that Friday, a group of us went to Big City Diner for a late night meal. There was live music by the Saloon Pilots.

One time, I was looking past Daniel at the band. And when I was turning around to face the table again, I caught him looking at me. We made eye contact for a split second before we both turned away. I was embarrassed… for him, for me, for thinking that it could mean something more than what it probably was.

But it was more than just that one moment that made me feel something for this guy. It was the way he always knew I was there. He saw me, and that was just really nice. On the Tuesday after that, some of us went to town to catch a 3-D movie. Daniel was there. We sat beside together in the theater, and before the movie started, we turned to look at each other with our 3-D glasses on. We laughed.

That was my favorite part of the night.

I thought about him all week. I had butterflies all week, and I was already counting the days until they disappeared. That night I dreamt The X wanted to store some things in my house. I made him wait until I cleared my room of anything I didn’t want him seeing. Then I guess I let him in. Guess I let him leave his things. I know now what it meant.


27 Jan


01272015I guess I always knew that God loved me. It felt obvious because I’m alive, right? And I was always surrounded by cats and I have Wi-Fi, so, of course. When I became super self-aware, I saw knowing His love as a real problem. Maybe being important to God–THE God–and knowing it is the reason I begin most of my sentences with “I” and feel entitled to a good and happy life. Maybe that’s the reason I have a blog in which everything is about ME. When I meet new people, I want them to know my life story. All the ugly bits, even, so they’ll better understand where I’m coming from. WHO. THE. FUCK. AM. I? How did it get so bad that I’ll think a power outage or a heart-shaped cloud is God’s message to me? I’d like to say that I’ve thought hard about it and have a renewed and awakened sense of myself now, but I worry I’ve been awake for a while and I’m no longer just my nightmare.

too young to feel this old

10 Jan

Been listening to a bunch of rock star jerks on the radio to feel better about myself or to feel alright being terrible. found a surprisingly familiar comfort in dirty boots, bar fights, and bloody lips on ornery men. Thought I’d probably be okay driving into the sunset a wild-haired soulless asshole myself, only partly because it seems such a beautifully awful thing to do. But mainly because if I were to break apart, I’d want to make it fast and fiery, a wholly inescapable wreck. I almost regret knowing God’s plans for me are for greater purposes than an artful self-annihilation. Almost can’t stand that his love would prevent a perfect implosion.

getting over it again

17 Dec

Beside the state of my bangs and my polish-stained fingernails, I’ve been thinking a lot about things. I’ve asked God to be obvious with what he wants from me, specifically regarding my relationship with a boy I used to know. It’s clear God’s wishes don’t include the unrequited hostility I feel for him now, the contempt in my heart when I hear his name, the animosity I have toward anyone even slightly resembling him. So, I’ve addressed the issue, like, twenty times in the past six years at least, coming away each time feeling as though I’d done well, and I’m okay, and I still don’t like him but I don’t hate him, so, that’s progress, right? But I’d always regress, despising him more and more for fewer reasons that made sense to me anymore. For the most part, I think, they’re only stories now. True and absurd stories I hold to reinforce the hurt I know they caused. Like the plastic bag story–when, on the freeway back to his apartment, a plastic grocery bag flying above the traffic hooked itself to his car’s antenna and like a flag, waved violently in the wind. My laughing made him angry. He pulled onto a side street to detach the bag and scold me for not being sensitive to his shame. I still get a lump in my throat when I think of myself agreeing I was wrong, sitting stupid in his car, too afraid, too worn to fight. I’ve grown accustomed to recoiling when I talk about it, but my sores have scarred, and it stands mainly as a quintessential snapshot of the nature of our relationship.

It’s been on my heart to set things right, swallow, or settle, and I don’t even know what that means. I’ve been praying for clarity, but anticipating the many forms it may take worries me. Mostly… well, sometimes and only sort of, I hope we’ll be okay. The strength I get from the certainty of my contempt is enough to reconsider letting God interfere, but I know His plans are far greater than mine which are to gain popularity on Tumblr through ugly girl selfies and angst-ridden recollections from my twentieth year when a boy tore me down. Not much. For now I’m only asking, picking my nails and trimming my bangs over the trash can in the kitchen as I wait to hear my recommended course of action.

five thousand times his body weight

7 Sep

I drive fast, okay? You should know that I drive fast. I speed. I don’t like waiting, dallying, moseying from one point to another when I could step on the gas just a little harder to make the in-between period shorter. Also, I guess, another reason I speed, the main reason maybe, is you. You think I’m timid, you think I’m slow, you think I’m cautious and quiet and boring. You think I wouldn’t, and I hate that.

Before I had a car, I caught rides to school and back with a guy affectionately nicknamed Iceland (or something like it). I trusted him and his driving and even when it was admittedly questionable, I was never really worried. Iceland had decent taste in road music, was an excellent conversationalist, a supremely talented baker, and generally kind. So on the sunny afternoon he pulled onto my street and said, “I picture you driving a Camry,” it meant so much to me that I forgot all the nice things about Iceland and was thoroughly offended. Okay. I’m sure they’re fine. Camrys are practical, reliable, and unassuming. They’re fine. But they’re not me. Especially when he says it like that. I didn’t respond. When he pulled up in front of my house, I thanked him for the ride, slammed the door, and went to my room to brood.

It started before then. I can’t remember when. But this feeling wasn’t new. In high school, I put great consideration into Becoming Goth. You know—black hair, black fishnet sleeves, blackest black eyeliner. I didn’t, but I thought about it. And I thought I might, because you wouldn’t expect it.


I didn’t drink when I turned twenty-one, and until a week after my twenty-second birthday, I thought I’d probably not drink for a while more because it was almost expected I would. So when I had my first drink, a shot of Goldschlager on New Year’s Eve, I thought I could spend the rest of the year showing you that I drink now, and I can drink a lot, and I can hold my liquor damn well if I do say so myself*.

It was a normal morning when I hopped in my quick little Juke and cleared my head for a little God time. I asked what I should do today thinking he’d tell me to try not to hate everyone, he knows it’s hard, but try not to be annoyed by everything anyone does today. I would have been okay-ish with that. I would have slapped on a bitch-face and hoped not to be bothered. But that’s not what he said. More clear than anything I can remember him saying to me recently, I heard: “For starters, don’t speed.”

But I drive fast. I zip around bends and race down the H3 and when I think about dying I only ever imagine my body mangled in the wreckage of a car on the side of the highway. I speed. I wondered what it mattered, anyway, if I drove forty when the sign said twenty-five or eighty-five when it said sixty. But it was less about speed than it was about the way I felt when I’d prove I was braver, stronger, smarter, or faster than someone thought. It was about pride, and I needed a reduction. For about a month now, I’ve been following the speed limit, and it really sucks. When someone comes from behind and zooms past me, I can feel my body flush and tense the way it used to when I’d use my pride to fuel my car ahead of theirs again. I feel slow, annoying, and like the kind of person people see on the road and assume is boring, afraid, and lesser. I try to remember that the people who matter know I’m not, and if there is something to learn in humility, Jesus knows what’s up. I’m no one, really. Even without a loud voice, a high tolerance for alcohol, or speed, I’ve been given so much. I’ll probably never drive a Camry, but maybe one day I’ll care less if you think I should.

*This has since passed. I proved myself one night after nine shots of tequila and a night I don’t remember on the floor under the table where I like to think people were thoroughly impressed.

we were caught up and lost

23 Jan

I need to work on things. I need to ask God to change my mind. I focus a lot on sadness and anger–think myself a whole lot more interesting when it consumes me. Hate myself for it and feel hated in return, but being so low and hopeless makes me feel close to the lost or so much worse off, I’m maybe better. I’m almost proud to be so bitter, so hard, so Sad that all the real trouble I’ve spent fighting demons weighs on me heavier than heartbreak at fifteen. And I’m still here, still fighting, throwing my fists at the night pretending there’s nothing comforting about knowing I’ll be cold.

It is sometimes exhausting. I do get tired. Walking down the hill from work, the manufactured strawberry scent of cheap Suave shampoo wafted through an open window of a house nearby recollecting memories from before I was ten and washing my dolls’ hair in the bathroom sink, considering myself cursed even then for the absolute anguish of the conditioner or towel dry that only made it worse, leaving my only option a purple blunt tip Crayola scissor cut. Can’t imagine staying this way forever, but can’t imagine myself cured–completely cured of even wanting the dark a part of me.

I see it in others. Goodness. The real kind. The kind that makes the cold, cold, and the sad just sad. I see it in sweetness and encouragement from Bri, and in the way Malia radiates love and joy, and in the purest kindnesses and hospitalities from Jenna. On them, it’s vibrant and cool and so much Better. The kind I see if worn by me, only dull and boring. A hollow, smiling, empty shell. I need to change my mind.