La mia luglio

After all the inhaled smoke, the late-nights-shooting-the-shit, the childish pranks, and the Hummer limousine rides over and under the lit up Brooklyn Bridge, I'd have to say I've had one hell of a July. First day to start, my clock struck 22 years. And though I am one year closer to my death, I took one step closer to life.

In Time.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I could go back in time to when the man, sitting across from me at this candlelit table, was a little boy. A rascal of about six years whose favorite time of week consists of Saturday morning cartoons and whose tears are only reserved for elbow scrapes. As he's proudly toting his new bicycle around the park, I kneel down to meet him eye-to-eye.

I would tell him that when he meets a girl with silky, dark hair and milky, brown eyes a decade later - to treat her preciously and with extreme care. To clutch her glass heart gently but firmly with both hands and to never abuse the trust she will place on him. She will run on such naïveté though she knows better than to let so much slip away. I would tell him to never take for granted her loyalty because her loyalty is not given but earned and, once slighted, easily lost. To keep that token, he must be impeccably true to her, to himself, and to his words which will, indeed, serve a great challenge. Because in a world where things, people, emotions come and go, sincerity will be the wall that will lead her through the dark tunnels she oftentimes finds herself alone in. Most importantly, I would tell him that there will, of course, be hardships and disagreements but to hold her close by his side through the toughest of times, not because he feels obligated but because, with her, the colors would appear more lively, the flowers would dance, and the wind would sing.

He then smiles at me before running into his loving mother's arms as she asks if he was speaking to an imaginary friend.

"That awkward moment when...." Vol. 1

"Marie, where have you been?"
"Oh Marie, why have you forsaken me?!" 

Calm down, calm down, a tasty post is underway. The inspiration within me these last few weeks have been rather lacking. I've searched and searched for a topic I can pour myself over. Then it STRUCK me.

TOILETS.

This is not a joke. This is not intentional irony.
I don't know if any of you can relate; do you know the feeling when you enter a quiet bathroom with only one or two patrons in their own stalls? You slip into one that

1 - does not have an unsightly tissue-decorated toilet rim.
2 - actually HAS toilet paper.
3 - is not overflowing in excrement. (Seriously, girls, HOW can you miss?)

Everything seems normal as you sit yourself down on the toilet, and then....

Miracle on......32nd Street?

Five years. That's FIVE YEARS!

Been an eternity since I've shown up around here, and I apologize; school bit me in the ass and won't let go til the 9th of May. FROWNFACE.

But last Thursday was the first time I got a wash/cut/dry in a salon in FIVE whole years. I've been trimming my headshrub myself since I graduated high school. Take no offense, barbers, this is not due to any personal mistrust.




....okay, I lied, it is entirely due to personal mistrust. Having a boycut for nearly half my life has scarred my body....my mind....my life....FOREVER. I would walk out of every Bed Bath & Beyond broke having to pay for every single mirror/window/porcelain dish/piece of glassware/stainless steel pan/brick wall/childhood dream I shattered. Never will I have a pixie cut EVER again. You'd have to threaten to rip out my capillaries with your bare hands to make me even reconsider!

a sort of self-insufficiency.

School sucks away my livelihood. Two-hour lectures by incompetent professors back to back and sticking my face into pages and pages of monotonous information during my breaks - the perfect recipe for suicide assistance. It's difficult to be content when you see the same inmates everyday, perform the same actions everyday, and find yourself even thinking the same thoughts everyday. My list of phobias is short, and there are some components I'm not embarrassed to disclose (although I'm a tad ashamed to say that I do sleep with a nightlight). One of those things?

ROUTINE.

and I fear it.

Involving myself in a life devoid of spontaneity. Pent up in a situation I feel I have no control over; wake up, brush teeth, go to class, eat, study, shower, sleep, wake up, brush teeth, go to class......

Not saying that it'd make me want to kick an endangered species, but.

I can't take it. 

I want to be risky, to be bold. I want to test some limits. I want to skydive even though I will hesitate moments before plunging headfirst into something I have never thought twice about. I want to fly over to the Oceania islands and go scuba diving - know what it's like to lay in solitude deep down inside a massive body of liquid that is slowly consuming the planet. I want to call a village in Zambia my home for a couple months - to experience having resources so scarce that showering daily is a true luxury, with the only form of energy at night originating from the moon and the stars - to see what metropolitans are unable to see due to a blanket that covers the cities or a smog that clouds the mind. I want to roam the safari, discover the Amazon, scale the Alps, capture the nature of what it means to be untamed amongst beings that humans consider "wild" but fail to understand. And most importantly, I want to venture besides an accomplice - someone I can trust whole-heartedly who answers with "why not?" and whose greatest sin is a lack of temperance to living a life so passionately fulfilled.

Until that day, I remain incomplete.

Pecans. and Formalities.

"Say that again?"
"Super?"
"Slowly."
"SHUUPer?"

I think my circle of friends have disowned me. Is it weird that I've been pronouncing the super- prefix that way for as long as I've been breathing?

SHUUPernatural
SHUUPerstitious
SHUUPer job!

Light travels faster than sound.

That's why you believe someone is bright until you hear them talk.

Finally, something worse than cancer! :)

The thermometer read 31°F when I left the house this afternoon for a trek to Barnes & Nobles, which happens to be only fifteen minutes by feet (0.0000000000000002076518 second by Unidentified Flying Object), for the sole purpose of replacing my lost copy of Hesse's Siddhartha. RIP. Beloved novel, paperweight, pillow, thou shalt be truly missed.

There is nothing quite tantamount to the coziness of a bookstore. I know that is as cliché as cliché gets; as a child, I used to mentally fabricate conniving schemes for staying in a bookshop overnight - with my method of ninja concealment being the ability to blend in as I lie flat on the very top shelf. NERDALERT!

Passing by the new arrivals, minding my own business....what is that I see?

Who am I? Really?

One of the many things I'm not too good at: introducing myself. It is in these moments where I simply state my name, and perhaps my age, right before I realize that I am sounding more and more like a crack addict in Cocaine Anonymous. Why are their names the first things that people say on the microphone at these support groups? HELLLLLLLLO, that beats the point of the "anonymity." And because nobody on this site has their own profile, unlike Facebook/MySpace/etcetera, clearly stating general demographics like

NAME:

AGE:

BIRTHDATE:

HOMETOWN:

SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER:

I am convinced that the only thing that matters is WHAT I'm typing into this pale, snowy void and not so much the WHO that is typing it.