Splinters

I'm getting old. I'm annoyed by eight-year-olds and loved by adults. It used to be the other way around, I swear. 

I'm afraid I've started giving up on my ambition, and when my mom asks me what I'm going to do with my life I can't seem to remember my 10 year plan. That plan I've had for years where I travel and find myself and if I'm lucky, fall in love. All I can think of to say is something about ending up alone and with 20 cats, because they're better friends than people.

 I eat raw fish, which is something only sophisticated people do. And those pretending to be civilized. I get annoyed by the music on the radio, and the other day I caught myself calling it "noise."

I have chronic migraines. I'm protective. I'm scared.  I stay home on Saturday nights. I use big words. My hair is changing color, and I refuse to dye it. I'm afraid to use the word love, because I don't want to lie. I watch movies for their cinematography.

My mom is on the phone until 5 in the morning, and I eat dinner at 4.

I sat down to write about how I'm losing my innocence. I sat down to write about the process of aging, but here's the catch: I'm still so young. I giggle at health class lingo. I stutter when I'm talking to a cute boy... I still use the phrase "cute boy." As hard as I try, I still don't like Raisin Bran.  I want to show off my A on the latest calculus test, but I still have to think twice about how to spell calculous. The thought of choosing a major scares me half to death. I tell people I love them, even when I don't. I still want to cry every time I don't get asked to a dance. Part of me still believes I can be an astronaut. I laugh really loud. I play music even louder. And I want desperately to be pretty.

I'm young at heart, but old at mind.

I'm in it for the music

All I need is someone who understands me. Someone who won't judge me based on the facts, someone who knows the scars on my back are nothing to worry about.  I need someone who will never ask me to buy a lottery ticket, because of lost elementary school bingo games and hundreds of empty cereal boxes. I want someone who will order for me at Subway.

I need someone who will travel the world, someone who will follow me to far off places and find beauty in poverty and in wealth. I want someone who dreams in black and white some nights, and in color others. I need someone who reads. Who can find themselves in the protagonist of classic novels, and who brackets and underlines, but never highlights. I need someone who can escape without leaving the room, and only by turning pages.

I need someone who will ignore my flaws, and never mock my disadvantages. Trust me, I'm aware of them. I need someone who knows when to quit and when to never stop. I need someone with common sense, and good taste in scents. Let me clarify: I don't need someone who enjoys the smell of lavender.

I'd like someone who wears silk and drinks tea in the afternoons because they actually like tea, and not because they think that's what I want them to do. And I'd really love someone who never says the word "poop."

I need someone who laughs at me Hitler jokes and wonders why Daniel Radcliff doesn't use his wand against the Woman in Black. I need someone, and they must appreciate puns. I need someone who listens to old bands and watches old movies.

I want someone who drops to the floor when bad news sneaks up on them, and screams when they see it coming. I need someone who cries during Nearer My God To Thee and when the Titanic sinks. I need someone who hates save-the-aquatic-wild-life movies.

I want someone who chooses to go to school and actually shows a little respect once in a while. I need someone who likes differentiable equations and integration.

I'd like someone with all ten fingers. Toes are optional.

Boys Drool

Bewilderness

You confuse me. I'm supposed to love you. My heals should be above my head, because you make me smile and make me laugh and stutter. You make me nervous, and I'm supposed to love you. But I can't. I simply can't. And I can come up with reasons like how you're too immature, or you'd be a horrible partner, but that shouldn't stop me from loving you. I'm the reason I don't love you. And that's all there is to it. 

You confuse me.  I look into your eyes and I swear. I swear that if it's possible to be possessed by the devil, then there's an angel in your soul. There's a saint inside of you, and I swear it quiets the demon inside of me . And you're too good for me. You're brilliant and kind. And I can't quite comprehend how I deserve you. Maybe I don't.

You confuse me. You are me and I am you. And we lay on the bathroom floor together, because there's birds, and old men, and Ku Klux Klan members painted in the stucco. And they're all looking right at you. Those men who painted the ceiling must have known. They must have known that we'd curl up in the fetal position, with nothing to do but fantasize about fictional characters with upside down lives.

You confuse me. I'm supposed to be a moody teenager, right? and I know that if your read this blog I probably sound like one, but I'm really not. I'm generally happy. But sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to hate my life, and my mom, and school. And I'm supposed to use the phrases "You're ruining my life!" and "Get out of my room!" on a frequent basis. But no one is ruining my life, and if you'd like to visit my room, you're welcome. 

You confuse me. You kiss boys who aren't too good looking. You love me more, but you seem to have forgotten.

You confuse me. We've taken completely different paths since that day last February, and yet there is no one in the entire world who makes me feel the way you do. Romance has nothing to do with us. It has nothing to do with how late we stay up on the phone and the way we can be completely honest with each other. It has nothing to do with the person I am with you versus who I am when you're gone, though I'm still not sure which one is me. What we have? It's love without the romance.

Sorry if it confuses you.

The Cure to Laziness

  Let’s be real here. Whether you call it “Senioritus” or tell everyone that you are “just tired because you were up all night taking care of your sick grandmother”, the truth is much simpler: you’re lazy. But never fear, ladies and gents. There is a cure. There is hope. There is a chance for you. With our clinically proven formula, you’ll be off your bum and into the world of productivity in no time.
Supplies:
1 Planner ( Write down every assignment. Make sure to put an empty square next to each item. You’ll be surprised how fun it is to check those boxes)
1 Decent Sized Backpack ( Not one of those baby ones that barely fits a pencil that girls carry around to look cute and feminine.)
5 oz. Motivation (WARNING: Do NOT Default to wanting to meet your parents expectations. You have to want it for yourself, not because you don’t want to receive that wow-you-horrible-daughter-is-that-a-minus-next-to-your-A-grade look.)
1 tsp Sugar (to make the medicine go down)
6 grahams (for s’mores)
6 grams Determination ( Don’t give up on your chronic laziness. Never feel discouraged. We all have it; at least you are trying to turn your life around. Say lots of motivational things to yourself such as “yes you can” and “I believe in myself” and “Oh my gosh, I am worth it!”
2 (or more) Good Friends (Let them know that you are trying to change your life, and encourage them to change with you.)

1 Pair of Magic Jeans (Sisterhood of the Traveling pants style for moral boosting.)

Rewards- As Many As Desired ( Reward yourself when you meet your goals. Take yourself out for cotton candy ice cream or throw yourself an anti-laziness party. Because you’re worth it.)

   Mix in an Olympic sized swimming pool for best effect. In all seriousness, if you want to cure your chronic laziness, start today.  Order in the next 15 minutes and we’ll include a free bump it or Snuggie with your purchase.

CAUTION: Side effects may include productiveness, respect for yourself, heart attack, stroke, and death.

My Life Will Go As Follows

Go on Goodreads

Read

Watch Movies

Eat

Make Pumpkin Pie Shakes

Go To School

Make Friends Transfer Into My Classes

Listen to Music Really Loud

Go on Goodreads

Miss california

Read some more

Write

Eat some more

Cry while watching Parenthood

Tickle My Little Siblings

Try and Control My Hair

Taco Tuesday

In Bed By 11

Up By 7

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

And I am loving every second of it.

Timing is Everything

Sometimes having faith means believing in what God thinks is right as well as when He thinks it's right.

And I'm trying to remember that, I swear I am.
But right now I need something, anything. At least I think I do.
I need to feel pretty.
I need to feel loved.
I need to feel worth something.

So I ran.
I ran to a hill in the middle of a field and I documented it. Because that's sort of all I know how to do.
"I'm sitting on this pile of dirt, and if it was a cliff I think I would jump.
Because this pile of problems in enveloping me and there is no way out.

But one day I'll be happy. I have to be, right?
I can't spend my life on this hill, with frostbitten fingers, waiting for the things I've always been promised by pop songs and Disney channel original movies.

I want to call my mom. I want to cry in her arms, but I'm too busy holding in her tears

And I want to scream, but I'm all alone out here in this field, and I plan to stay that way. Because if I scream the murderer will pop out of the shower curtain and the police will start to question my intentions

There is no such thing as trust anymore, because everyone backstabs everyone. And all the backstabbers pull out their knives but that doesn't heal the wound.
And we try and say it wasn't us, but our fingertips are on the blade, darling.

I'm sitting on a pile of dirt.
I wish it ended in the ocean."

Nightmares

I'm afraid of my dreams.

I'm not talking about my reoccurring night terror where I'm kidnapped from the creepy guy who says"this is a dead zone" in the AT&T* commercials in the local Wal Mart and no matter how much I cry out to Stetson Richey's mom she never saves me. Though I'm scared of that too, that's an entirely different blog post about my problems.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

I'm afraid of my "dream big", "reach for the stars", "you can do it" type dreams. Not because I dream of being a soldier or a serial killer or a dairy farmer (which would all scare me), but just because I have them. I have dreams of traveling the world and making a difference. I dream of changing lives and having my life changed for me. I dream of falling in love like that hat can't-eat, can't- sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of stuff**.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

Because what if I don't achieve them? What will I have then? I will tell you. I will have my pathetic hopes and unrealistic rationalizations. I'll probably have a condo and a husband who doesn't talk to me and a job at the local Pick N, Save***. I'll have regrets and disappointments. I'll be stuck, sitting around and fiddling with my potential.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

But I will never stop having them. Because at the moment, they're all I've got. And when everyone has deserted me and there is a knife in my back, I will have my dreams. You can't steal them out from under me, or make them yours. I will always be good enough for my dreams. They are the one thing that you can't possibly take from me. I know, it must kill you.

I'm afraid of my dreams.

-M

*Dear AT&T, you're the worst. Fix my phone. Thanks.

**Wish I could take credit for that quote. It Takes Two has been good to me.

***Why the heck did they change it to Big Lots? What does that even mean....

Batman Jammies

It's because my hair is long enough to tangle around your neck,

isn't it?

No?

Then what could it possibly be?

I do Apologize

I have a secret blog. And it's taking up the majority of my writing time.
And no, don't ask me for the name.
I will give you this one hint: the name is hidden here, on this blog.

Why are you so obsessed with me?

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Oh, Satire, My One True Love

We had to write a paper on Bowling etiquette and everyone was all, "WAHHH" and inside I was shouting for joy. I busted this baby out like an overdue preggo.

They are just so happy to be bowling together.

Enjoy.

The Art of Bowling

By Emily Henson

            Bowling is a very serious subject. Failure to follow bowling rules may result in serious injury, death, and ejection from Jack and Jill’s. Can you imagine a bowling ball flying towards your head, ready to dent your skull forever all because someone didn’t read this paper? We don’t want that, now do w? So read on, my friend, read on.

Step One: It’s all about the kicks

Bowling without proper shoes is just plain irresponsible, folks. DON”T DO IT. If you can’t afford your own pair of custom professionally-made bowling shoes, rent some from the bowling alley! They are there for a reason. And, as an added bonus, bowling shoes make dance moves, like the moon walk, a lot easier.

Step Two: Because Nice Matters

I know, I know. Trust me, I know. Missing that strike you’ve been waiting for can be the most frustrating thing in the entire universe. Don’t even get me started on the miraculously-wobbly-one-pin-left-standing scenario. But those folks from the retirement home in the lane next to you do not want to hear your profanities. So say things like, “Dag nabbit!” and “Shucks.”

Step Three:  It is inappropriate to grab others’ balls. (Get your mind out of the gutter)

Forget “Sharing is Caring.” Not when it comes to bowling it isn’t! Bowling balls, people, are not to be messed with. Once someone takes that germ infested sphere off the shelf, that ball is theirs for the day. So when you take someone else’s ball from a shared dispenser, whether by purpose or accident, it is serious business. Fights erupt. Hair is pulled. Bowling balls and pins start flying. Be cautious, kids.

Step Four: To the Right (Take it back now, y’all. One hop this time…)

That awkward moment when two people go to bowl at the same time and don’t know who should go first so they end up both going and whacking each other in the face, is something we all want to avoid. So when in doubt, the person to the right gets the privilege of going first. Say nice things like “After you, lassie” or “Oh please, I insist”. If you are interested romantically in the person next to you, resort to “You go first” “No you go first” “No! You go!” etc.

Step Five: Even if those boots (bowling shoes) are made for walking, they better not walk all over someone else’s lane.

DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE (unless a small child is about to get hit with a bowling ball and you have the ability to dive in front of them yelling “NOOOOOOO” and save them) GO IN OR IN FRONT OF SOMEONE ELSE’S LANE. It will end up like one of those horrible movie scenes where the main character is about to get hit by a car and they just stand there thinking “Oh shiz that’s a semi truck coming right for me,” and everyone in the audience is like, YOU IDIOT. (Replace main character with bowler and semi truck with bowling ball).

 The end.

Yes, Master

I wish it was like the movies.
I wish everything meant what I thought it meant. Maybe then all the things that romantic comedies have taught me would come to use, other than during trivia games. All the signals that I think are saying stop mean go and I keep going straight in the "left turn only" lane. I wish I could say what I mean. And even though I tell you that everything is ok, I really want to yell at you for ruining every chance I have. I would cry a lot more, and laugh at bad grammar. Some days I wouldn't participate in unintelligent conversation, and sometimes I wouldn't speak at all. But my silence would be viewed as rudeness, and my lack of words stupidity. I wish I had the courage for ultimatums. I wish risks paid off and all heartbreaks are just misunderstandings, to be sorted out through astronomical means. I wish there was a soundtrack that warned me of murderers under my bed and when he's about to kiss me.
But instead I'm always wrong, and my instincts mean absolutely nothing. I don't understand boys, and  I don't understand girls. I don't even understand why I choose to stay home on a Saturday night. I think it's because I need a break. I need a break from guessing what you're thinking and resisting the urge to punch people.
But then I see Jesse Schow at a pizza place in Salt Lake and he spins me around. Then I spend time with my family, who let me be exactly who I am even if it involves dancing to "Big and Chunky" and seeing who can make the ugliest face (it's me, I can). And then I get this hopeful feeling because High School politics actually mean nothing and I am the only one who, with God by my side, decides my fate.
So sorry, but screw it all.
-M

What I do in Newspaper....