Flash Boom Boom Flash

It’s thundering and lightening in Providence right now.

I love the lightening.
I hate thunder.

It’s the same thing with fireworks.
I love the way they look, but the sound scares the shit out of me.

Essentially, I wish I was not sleeping alone tonight.

That is life though; one lonely trek through a bright, booming storm.

If "Crazy" were an STD I would have inevitably caught it by now.

If “Crazy” were an STD I would have inevitably caught it by now.
It’s such a good line I had to repeat it.

I had a sort of epiphany recently, either that or I am starting to grow up.
It was a big change of mindset for someone like me.
The only equivalent I can think of is the kind of split second 180 the mind of a crack addict must do if they wake up one day in the gutters and then two weeks later are running a successful presidential campaign.

My “aha” moment came with from my realization that I am starting to believe sex means something.
Before you all call me the biggest hypocrite in the universe, I’m not saying that you should wait (or not wait!) until marriage, and I’m not saying that every person you fuck is special.   because in my experience they usually are not.

What I am saying is that sex means something in the moment it is occurring and probably something important.
I do not understand exactly what it means, but when I figure that out I’ll put up a blog about it along with accurate GPS coordinates for the Holy Grail.

What I do know is that having sex is literally the closest two people can be after birth.
If you sleep with someone long enough your brain chemicals (in a normal brain) develop feelings for the other person.
AND
It is how we are able to create human life.
Those facts have to be significant. Right?

On top of all that, I see daily the kind of confusion people work themselves into over this primal function.
I honestly believe that everyone realizes that sex is a big deal and they deal with it in different ways.
They either:
Scare themselves shitless and abstain or wait until marriage.
Fuck like they do not care because if they admit what they’re doing bears weight then, they have to be honest and for some people that is a fate worse than death.
Or, they go about doing their business and when the moment arises they may engage in intercourse, but they are honest, communicative, and do not lead other people on or give false hopes.

If everyone strove to be like the last group there would be far less pain in this world.
“Yes sex means something, I don’t know what, but I would like to share that moment with you, however I do not want to marry you or possibly see you again? Is that ok?”
If someone could show me that kind of honestly I would be eternally grateful.
And I should probably show that honesty too…..

So much hurt comes from treating sex like it is nothing, instead of admitting you do not understand it but you know it means something, and then explaining your expectations.

Instead we lie to one another, either denying our own insecurities and saying it was nothing, or realizing something and giving false hope by lying about emotions we then feel obligated to have.
It’s ok for things to be important in that moment.
Nothing lasts forever, so why should a one night stand be the be apex on your love life?
That moment is important, it does not mean that the frat girl you banged freshman year of college was the one, it just means while you were banging her you were participating in something no one really understands and that is worth pondering.

Honestly, keep fucking or not fucking as many people as you feel like, but be considerate, be respectful and never act like it means nothing; because anytime anyone is inside you (or you’re inside someone) be it a baby, a surgeon or a lover, it is important you do not act recklessly.

Star-Crossed Lovers

My friend just texted me some really good quotes and I figured I would share.
I don’t know the origin of them, it’s not my writing, but they’re some amazing words.

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“Get out of bed, make a hot drink and go outside.
You owe yourself that much.
Maybe you still cry in far too many public bathrooms, but I swear, you stay a few second less every time.
Smile at strangers if it’s all you can do, know that life doesn’t start when the sun rises or the credits roll, but when you decide it’s time to go after what you deserve, and you deserve everything because we are alive both only once and a million times every day and every minute is something new to learn and someone new to love. And if it all crashes and burns, as it so often does, cling on to the hope through it all and don’t ever, ever, ever let it go. Start your life again whenever you need to.
Repeat after me: It is not yet the end. It is not yet the end.”

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“Just because two people are capable of deeply hurting each other over and over again does not make them passionate, star- crossed lovers. It makes them two people who keep doing terrible things to each other.
Someone’s ability to make you completely and utterly, soul-crushingly miserable does not mean they are a soul mate with some deep insight into your psyche.
They are just someone who is really good at making you unhappy.”

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Blindsided

blind side |ˈblaɪn(d) ˈˌsaɪd|

noun [ in sing. ]

a direction in which a person has a poor view, typically of approaching danger: 

verb( blindside ) [ with obj. ]

hit or attack (someone) on the blind side:

catch (someone) unprepared; attack from an unexpected position: 

I grew up in the country. 
I had a huge yard, a small field really, and about a mile of woods to all at my disposal, which was a godsend because I also had five siblings who constantly drove me insane. 
Whenever I desperately needed a moment of clarity amidst the constant chaos that was my home life, I would either sneak out my bedroom window and sit on the roof; or I would slip outside, find my favorite climbing tree and disappear away into its highest bows.  
One day, in my search for mental stability, I was scaling my favorite tree and I stepped on a weak branch. 
I do not recollect the actual fall, only the impact moment where I struck the earth like a deadweight. I remember the sun was really bright and everything was quiet.  
I was dazed. 
The past few days have brought me back to those moments with spinning deja vu. Memories of the pain I felt, the shock and the feeling of not being sure how it happened or how I took such a wrong step without realizing it have permeated my mind.
In December I met a group of people through a friend I reconnected with. 
Within this group was one person who we all thought was amazing. 
Someone I loved dearly.
This person had his own idiosyncrasies and quirks but for the most part was a really amazing person. He was so amazing that, even when he was being a completely selfish asshole, we all would forgive him because we thought we knew the good he was capable of.  
Apparently our friendship was standing, unassumingly, on an extremely unstable branch these past eight months, because I lay here dazed and confused once again. 
I will not play a game of tit for tat, because no one is truly faultless in any kind of relationship, however we were all blindsided by the change of tune from this person.
Suddenly everyone who loved him and valued him was an enemy. 
Maybe it’s a defense mechanism for something deeper, or maybe he really is a decayed, soulless human being and we were all fooled. Regardless, suppositions do not ease the hurt.
The day I fell out of that tree I just laid there.  
I gave myself five minutes to just sit in the moment. I imagine it is like after a bomb goes off and you’re deaf and confused, just standing in that point in time, unsure of what to do next. 
I think that’s where I am, just trying to absorb and make sense of all the confusion.
I was sore and bruised for days after I fell, and I know for myself and my close friends, that the next few weeks will be painful.
When you physically fall, bruises fade and pain subsides, but when you fall emotionally I think the healing process is far more arduous.
Walking around places where we all use to hangout, late night cigarettes, and for me, the lonely nights when it was nice just to have a friend to hold; those will be the times our bodies will ache most from the strain of trying to forget.
I eventually climbed that tree again. 
However, forgiving an inanimate object for a cracked rib is much easier than acquitting someone who bruised your soul. 

Life Rules

This post is inspire by one I read on The Bloggess.
If you don’t read her blog you are wasting your time on the internet.
She’s like Jenna Marbles for the literate.

She recently wrote a list of Rules for Life and I thought I would take it upon myself to expand on it.

I actually discovered her blog in a pretty weird way.
I was 18, living in NYC and having a life crisis. I was convinced it was a midlife crisis (jury’s still out on that) and I was so desperate for life advice I turned to Google.
Unfortunately when you search, “Midlife Crisis” all that comes up are articles on menopause and when you search, “Midlife Crisis 18” you get the suicide hotline.
None of this was of any use to me, so I took the leap that maybe this was a quarter-life crisis and Googled that instead.
The first thing that came up was this blog post.
(I have yet to write Nicole a thank you letter, but it’s on my bucket list.)
I became a massive fan of Nicole’s blog and through it I found The Bloggess.

Anyway, without further ado, My Rules of Life.

1. Get a pet. When you’re lonely you can talk to them and they very rarely judge you. Unless you have a cat. They always judge.

2. Keep wine in your house. It’s not always a hard liquor kind of night, but there is rarely a bad time for wine.

3. If you do not know how to cook, get a pressure cooker. Just remember to unplug it when you’re done.

4. Stand up for your friends and family no matter what. Even if they do not want you involved, it’s occasionally forgivable to violate their wishes because let’s face it, sometime we have no idea what is best for ourselves.

5. Never give something with the expectation of getting anything but good karma in return. Just do not do it. There is nothing worse than accepting an act of “kindness” from someone and then have them hold it over your head for eternity.

6. Fuck up. It’s OK. If it’s not fine now, it will be. I swear it gets better.

7. Date around. Do not tie yourself down if you’re not sure; and when you meet that person you will be sure. So if you have doubts, then you know it’s not right. Move on.

8. Do not lie. Things go much better when you’re just flat out honest with people. Lying is complicated, exhausting and causes irreparable damage. Just don’t do it.

9. Tell people how you feel. How can they know if you don’t tell them? Not everyone has ESP(N)
  name that movie

10. When you’re angry, frustrated, heartbroken or whatever it’s OK to scream about it. Just open up and let whatever visceral noise you want fly uninhibited out your mouth; you will feel better.
Caveat: It’s NOT OK to scream at other people.

11. Get intimate with nature once a month, at least.

12. Remind yourself you’re beautiful and awesome about twice a day. My roommate doesn’t know this yet, but when I’m feeling sad or ugly I strut around in my underwear wearing high heels because that’s what I consider sexy and powerful. Go ahead and judge.
In the utmost seriousness, sometimes you just need to know you can do it, whatever “it” is. One time, before meeting my ex manfriend’s new girl-toy (a tall, well dressed model), I stood in a public bathroom mirror chanting, “You’re beautiful and you can do this. You will not lose your shit.” literally for about ten minutes.  It helped, I survived and she was a pretty cool person.

13. Be yourself. It’s so overstated, but just do it. I wasted about half my life thus far trying to be a bunch of things I felt I should become because the real me was too strange. Yes, I argue with myself daily, drink a lot, go out to eat alone, say things that are not always cool, and dance like I’m artistically interpreting a grand mal seizure; I assure you being a freak is way easier than trying to fit your roundness into everyone else’s squareness.

The Bloggess’ Rules for Life

White People

Where I come from people are white.  

I am not saying that they all feed into the stereotypes of a rural town, but I am saying that in my graduating class of about three hundred, we had less than ten people who were not caucasian.  As my tenth grade biology teacher put it, “Chariho has the diversity of a tractor pull in the middle of Texas.”  What I knew of other cultures was gathered from my love of reading, my mission work through my church, the internet and family vacations to Manhattan. 

From all of those factors I feel, had I not been blessed with progressive parents, I could have turned out racist. 
For my first year and a half of college I attended PACE University in New York City where, my lilly white world was expanded.  The culture shock left me rattled because I began to feel I had hidden reserves about people who did not look like Ralph Lauren advertisement extras.  Slowly I began to expand myself, opening my mind to diversity to a point.   

When I moved back to Rhode Island I was not phased by the variety of people I was around at CCRI because I felt I had experienced enough in New York to understand my peers. 


The Community College of Rhode Island has a very diverse population, but one thing many of us have in common, is that we do not drive new cars.  I myself, drive a very sassy, bright blue, 1994 Dodge Shadow named Little Blue.  Lil’ B has died on me more times than I care to admit, and so in the name of good karma, I am a sucker for the stranded motorist.  I may not be a full blown grease monkey, but driving a soon to be antique bestows upon one a general knowledge of car issues.  So, when I see flashers on the side of the road I stop and offer to lend a jumper cable.  

Usually, I use common sense to judge whether or not young lady, just barely over five feet tall,  getting out of her car to help is of real assistance or just asking for trouble. The day I encountered, we will call him John, my common sense was AWOL.  

I was pulling out of the CCRI parking lot when I noticed him, a tall, lanky, hispanic youth of around twenty.  His car was was more beaten up than mine and in his tattooed hand he clutched a small, red gas container.  Under the doctrine of rape fantasy, I must have quickly surmised it was safe to pull over to his aid because, well, people just do not get raped at ten am in Warwick.  This is probably not true, but looking back it’s the only rationalization I can find.

I slowed down next to him and he shouted at me, “Hey, you know where the nearest gas station is?” I quickly replied I did and before he could ask I offered him a ride there.  

It was not until he was actually buckled in next to me, that I realized how careless I was being.  As John began talking to me about himself, my reservations began to morph into a nervous interest.  He explained to me that he came from a tough area in Fall River and had been in jail for six months.  Apparently, he was convicted of aggravated assault and battery for smashing a bottle over another man’s head and ever since he had gotten out of jail, he wanted to make a new start.  

He told me his plan to enroll in business classes to prepare himself for the legalization of marijuana, an illegal enterprise, I was told he was successfully running at the moment, under the radar.  As he enlightened me to this, I nearly drove off the road.  What the hell was I thinking?  I had just picked up a convicted felon who was probably holding illegal substances on his person at that moment.  With these realizations, panic should have set in, but instead, a deep sense of contemplation and understanding came over me.

Despite his questionable investments, his strange motivations and unfortunate hand in life, I found myself relatively at ease with him once the initial shock wore off. Everyone knows not to judge a book by its cover, but I think one should wait until past the first few chapters before making assumptions.  So what if John has a few blemishes on his criminal record and the first few chapters of his life were probably not pretty?  He was enrolling in school, (supposedly) keeping his parole appointments and attempting to make his business endeavors somewhat legitimate.  

When we arrived back at his vehicle with gasoline for the car, he realized he had no gas money to offer me.  Insisting he could not leave me empty handed, he dropped a little bag on the seat of the car as he got out with a quick but sincere “thank you”.  After I had driven off, and had a chance to further examen the bag he bestowed unto me, I realized it was an eighth, which he had previously described as, “real good s*%#.”   I assume this was his way of thanking me and like a foreign exchange student experiencing a new culture, I tried to wrap my head around it.

I admit that on any other day, in any other city, this scenario could have ended with my cold, violated corpse on an autopsy table.  But it didn’t.  I am not going to fib to you and say that I keep my car doors unlocked when driving through South Providence or that I harbor a soft spot for convicts.  I understand that there are bad people in the world, but I wonder if they are truly as close as we assume.  

I think if we all took a chance to understand one another, we would realize that the fear we have been harboring was not for a monster, but an unnecessary fear of each other.

Some news about my life!

I moved! 

Actually, I’m like 87% moved. 
You have no idea how much SHIT you own until you have to haul it down a flight of curved narrow stairs, pack it into your tiny Dodge Shadow, cart it across the city and then haul it up yet ANOTHER flight of stairs. By-Your-Self.
That was my Sunday, my entire Sunday. 
Friends? Who has friends? 
I’ve moved 3 times in the past year and a half alone. Most people who relocate this much cut down on their possessions. I think I’m a hoarder because I apparently accrue shit from each place and then drag it on to the next dwelling. I’m a figurative snowball of tangible memories. I keep rolling through life and picking up more and more shit.
 
*note to self*
This is a fantastic metaphor for why many parts of my life are a mess. 
I’m going to have a yard sale. 
Details will be forthcoming. 
The apartment is nice but really empty. We (my Bro of a roommate and I) have no furniture, just beds. We also have no hot water…*another note to self: call Gas Co.*
I did manage to move my cats in successfully. 
Although, while I was on 95 transporting my ladies to the new place, I look in my rearview mirror to find that my manx cat, Morticia, has escaped her carrier and is trying to make run for sweet freedom. 
I must have looked like a lunatic.
I had one hand on the wheel and one reaching in the backseat of the car trying to snatch her.
Eventually I got ahold on her, plopped her in my lap and reached legit cat lady status by driving around with my feline in the driver’s seat with me.
It’s never a dull moment. 

Flaunt your stank.

I thought a lot about perfume today.
The catalyst to this thought process was walking into the girl’s bathroom, and inhaling that all too familiar scent of what I like to call Shit-fume.  It’s that flowery, noxious odor that is created by taking a smelly crap, and then spraying your favorite perfume profusely throughout the room. 

Like I can’t tell you took a number two…

Personally, I don’t see the point in perfume. 
If you wear Love Spell, and your significant other is the first to smell it on you, that’s fantastic because statistically he will associate that smell with you forever.
And if you break up, you are able to psychologically torture him without ever seeing him.
But, if your new boyfriend’s ex wore Love Spell, every time he gets close to you he will think of her.
The downfall.
I am confused by the world’s confusion towards dating. 
We do many things to sabotage our own happiness, but perfume is probably the stupidest blockade we set up.
Instead of flaunting our own pheromones, we disguise our unique smell, biologically designed to help us hook up with people we’re compatible with, and then wonder why it all goes to shit. 
This is also a very accurate metaphor for every other dating problem known to human kind.
Stop wearing perfume.
Plus it’s bad for the environment.

I Should be Writing about Nazis…

It’s the end of the semester and I am once again haunted by all the shit I have not done.
I do not think that college is actually that hard, it really just comes down to not fucking off.

Not fucking off, now that’s hard.
I can think of at least 20 evenings this past semester when I should have been writing or reading, but instead I got drunk.
Woops.
So here I am, two weeks off the end of the semester and still procrastinating.

Side note:
I got my keys for the new apartment today and I’m pretty excited.

On Wednesday a friend of mine invited me to the end of the year party for Rhode Island College’s literary magazine, Shoreline, for which he did the cover design.
The party was more of a book reading with food.

I’ve been to readings before, just never one that was so academic and I was not prepared for the level of scholarly air that permeated the gathering.

I rolled up late, (I got lost, ok?) with a pregnant girl and drunk friend; non of us who have actually successfully completed college yet, and we peak into the room to see a collection of some of the cleanest, cutest, scholarly people all listening raptly to a rail thin brunette who is reading some of her work.

All three of us looked at one another and came to the quick conclusion that we were not dressed appropriately for this event. After a few frantic texts to our friend on the inside, we just said fuck it and slunk in the door, as inconspicuously as a drunk bitch and a pregnant woman can, and made our way to the table where we were supposed to have been sitting twenty minutes before.

I did actually enjoy the reading, to my surprise. I ended up stealing the copy of the magazine my drunk friend purchased and I read it cover to cover.

As one after another the magazine’s contributors got up to share their work, I realized that all these writers looked the same.
Quiet, dumpy girls, with glasses and floral prints, and skinny nerdy boys with a love of post apocalyptic fiction.
I was suddenly struck with the thought that I may not be clean cut enough to be a good writer.

These are the people who observe from the outskirts of life, watching and writing about the filthy beings that populate the earth around them.
I am one of the filthy beings, so what is there for me to watch and write about?
I am a character, something people create and then write about because someone so reckless should not be a reality.

As I started to have a mental breakdown and internally reevaluated my life, a curvy theater major, who had walked into the reading about forty minutes late, took the microphone and started to sing and perform her poetry.

I’m not sure if it was the break in all the death imagery that permeated the readings, or if I was simply caught off guard by the unexpected performance, but I felt a lot better seeing another freak unabashedly be herself.