tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85407134012942469412024-02-20T03:56:35.706-05:00Living On A Prayer"There's nothing here to take for granted, with each breath that we take, the hands of time strip youth from our bodies, and we fade, memories remain as time goes on..."Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-37372975381795107422012-04-04T03:34:00.002-04:002012-04-05T01:41:51.770-04:00Just Close Your EyesMood: peculiar.<br />
Hating: my stupid Statistics class; and this final assignment.<br />
Loving: rice krispies; new friends.<br />
Lip-syncing: Safe and Sound -- Taylor Swift and the Civil Wars<br />
------<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">When you’re telling me what your boss had done earlier at work to prove, yet again, that he’s the biggest asshole at the agency while your fingers comb through my hair. Or when you update me on your uncle’s condition and how he’ll be released from the hospital next week while your fingers trickle down my spine and whirlpool at the small of my back. Or when we discuss Indiana Jones and your thumb swirls around the pop of my hip bone.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">These moments.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">When you listen to me gossip about how George tried asking out the new girl in the office and she turned him down while your hand smooths over my body, like the waves; ebbing high and flowing so low. Or when I read aloud with your thumb suspended above my lips, occasionally sweeping over ever so slightly, caressing me like a mist, like a fog.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">These moments. I live for these moments.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="background-color: none;" /><span style="line-height: 24px;">When our words fall without filters and your fingers spill all over me. When one is not possible without the other. <b>When words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup.</b> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">S</span><span style="line-height: 24px;">ometimes when we’re laying in bed, we must sound just like that to the rest of the universe. I want to lay with you. Right here, like this, for the rest of the night. And all through the rest of my nights.</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1y0fusUD11qao3eko1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1y0fusUD11qao3eko1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-77028400792973746682011-11-02T21:49:00.001-04:002011-11-02T21:50:02.032-04:00Never<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Reblogged from <a href="http://fateanddreams.tumblr.com/post/12264482701">My Tumblr</a></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Wl9y3SIPt7o?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><a href="http://phillyd.tv/post/12242834218/this-video-hurts-my-soul-there-is-a-difference"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="outline-color: initial;">defranco</span>:</a></div><blockquote style="background-color: white; border-left-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 4px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px; padding-left: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">This video hurts my soul. There is a difference between “a spanking” and outright beating a child. I’ve never made a video about this, but watching this brings back a lot of hatred of my childhood. Judge William Adams needs to go to jail for this sort of child abuse that was a common occurrence according to his daughter. </div><div style="margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">The same thing would happen to me as a child. My parents were divorced and my mom had massive anger problems. She always knew I loved my dad more and it infuriated her. One time in particular I got “caught” talking to my dad on the phone even though my mom had banned me from speaking with him. She was furious. She whipped off her belt and just went to town. Legs, arm, neck, and back (Much like Judge Adams). Its one of the reasons I find it hard to love her. But the one silver lining that I take away from it is I will never beat my child. I will never be any of the terrible things my mom was. I’ve never shared that before.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div class="post_content" id="post_content_12264482701" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div class="caption" style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 11px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">I couldn’t watch more than a minute of this, because it makes me cry. Just like Phil, my mother used to do something similar to me, except with a broom. It took me a very long time to learn how to fight back, and still to this day I wonder what kind of person I might have turned out to be if I hadn’t had to experience it. I probably never would have accepted my first boyfriend beating me for as long as he did; I would have realized sooner that this isn’t the way to express love.<em style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">Because it’s not. Never is this acceptable</em>. I know now how disgusting and wrong this is. But if this is happening to you or someone you know, please help them.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><strong style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">No one should ever have to share this kind of experience.</strong></div><div style="margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><a href="http://www.childhelp.org/">http://www.childhelp.org/</a><br />
<div><br />
</div></div></div></div><div class="clear" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; height: 0px; line-height: 19px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-55098653581493755522011-10-24T02:00:00.000-04:002011-10-24T02:00:45.116-04:00Gather Your Strength and Rise Up<i>Mood:<br />
Hating: <br />
Loving: <br />
Lip-syncing: Sara Bareilles -- Bluebird</i><br />
<br />
------ <br />
<br />
I have no real excuse for my absence. I just...I've been lost in my own little world; and not in a good way.<br />
<br />
I've just been struggling to figure out my life. I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going any more. Call it a...fifth-of-life crisis? I'm just reaching a point where I'm so much happier just curled up in my bed all day doing nothing. And even though we often joke about how awesome it would be to do nothing my whole life, I can't help but think how terrible that would be in reality...<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to write. I haven't been able to focus. I haven't been myself for awhile now. Well, that is to say if who I was is really who I am. Does that make sense? Probably not. Nothing really makes sense to me right now. Which is probably why work irritates me so much, why I'm pretty much failing school, and why so many of the people I thought were friends are abandoning me. Abandon is a strong word-perhaps ignoring is a better fit. But in either case, I just have to figure some shit out before I do anything. This anti-social, manic-depressive behaviour is quite frankly very dangerous. And when you're starting to frighten yourself, then you know it's time for something to change.<br />
<br />
I really do need to gather my strength and rise up.<br />
<br />
Question is whether I can or not...and where I go from here.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-2498849216757951932011-08-28T23:15:00.001-04:002011-08-28T23:15:05.047-04:00<a href='http://readtheprintedword.org'><img src='http://readtheprintedword.org/rtpw-button3-200x128.png' alt='Read the Printed Word!' border='0' /></a>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-60944688377689468572011-06-29T00:26:00.000-04:002011-06-29T00:26:02.949-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">Mood: meh.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hating: my jobs.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Loving: alcohol.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lip-syncing: <i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>------ </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>What made the beauty of the moon? / And the beauty of the sea? / Did that beauty make you? / Did that beauty make me? / Will that make me something? / Will I be something? / Am I something?</i></div><i> </i><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>And the answer comes: <strong>Already am, always was, and I still have time to be.</strong></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><strong>-- </strong>Anis Mojgani’s, “Here Am I”<strong> </strong></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-85492370240701321112011-06-25T03:44:00.000-04:002011-06-25T03:44:05.243-04:00Memories Won't Let You Cry<i>Mood: exhausted.</i><br />
<i>Hating: how I'm so tired and have no life because I'm working so much.</i><br />
<i>Loving: sleep; wish I could get more...</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Avenged Sevenfold -- M.I.A</i><br />
------<br />
<br />
<u>The Evolution of Love.</u><br />
<br />
"Have you ever been in love with the memory of something?<br />
<br />
Failing to see that what truly exists now is nothing like the memory. That is, the definition; what defined that person you envision ceases to exist yet you still force yourself to perceive it.<br />
<br />
There is no perception without sensation. Perception without sensation is mere delusion.<br />
<br />
Even when you see through it, you convince yourself there is still hope that the memory can be relived. When that moment comes that’s when you know someone has taken a piece of you with them when they leave you.<br />
<br />
That’s how you know. When you realize that you spend more time trying to convince yourself, than living.. thats when you’ve not only lost the person you so crave, but you’ve lost yourself. You want to hold on to them but you cant and you know that they have so much of you and you wont get it back. <br />
<br />
People try so hard to turn back time.<br />
<br />
But even a mere moment, a split second can be definitive and irreversible. Some things can never be replaced or fixed. But this is difficult for the human mind to take in. It is difficult for the human mind to grasp something as non-linear as loss.<br />
<br />
We are too fixated on the constant.<br />
<br />
When you fall in love with someone and that someone falls in love with you the only thing you can control is how you feel. We have no power over the other person and you cant and wont be able to control when they fall out of love with you.<br />
<br />
This is a risk we take when we fall in love. There is a fear of becoming so enveloped in someone that we don’t even know who we are anymore. People are so powerless when it comes to love. All we can control is how much we hurt ourselves and others and how much we take out of life.<br />
<br />
We can control deceit and truthfulness<br />
<br />
We all have the power to control what projects from within ourselves. We control negative things and positive things we choose and resist to put into the world. We cannot control the negative and positive things that come from others. We may influence them but we do not dictate certain outcomes.<br />
<br />
But we can’t really control love<br />
<br />
Falling in love— its the one thing that simply happens. It’s the riskiest thing any human being could do, but the greatest thing anyone could feel. It is what lifts you up and makes you see the light in every darkened room.<br />
<br />
Never let the memories die. Just don’t let the memories overtake you and distort the reality and possible beauty that lives beyond that once existent love.<br />
<br />
I’ve loved and lost and thought the only thing I’d ever want was the faint memory of a past I once had. Now I know I can love another and not only love but be loved in return. The way I feel now is too powerful for words. When they aren’t there I don’t hope they are thinking about me. I know they are. I don’t have to worry that they care, I simply know. When they leave I think about the next time I’ll see them and count down the hours, minutes and seconds.<br />
<br />
The greatest test of someone’s love for you is that look in their eyes when they see you the very next morning with your eyes all hazy and your hair all messy —that moment when their eyes smile at you and cannot seem to look away. When you simply see the person you love breathing calmly into the warmth of a summer night and all you feel is euphoria that’s when you know.<br />
<br />
Now I know. <br />
<br />
I hope you know who you are and I hope you know how much you matter. For you, are worth every risk. You are worth every ounce of uncertainty that comes with falling in love.<br />
<br />
<b>You are the light.</b>"Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-72476378457777432972011-05-25T14:37:00.001-04:002011-05-25T14:38:49.220-04:00We'll Do What We Like, Because Life's In Short Supply<i>Mood: content.</i><br />
<i>Hating: how I should probably be exercising, or doing laundry, or cleaning...</i><br />
<i>Loving: just relaxing.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Bleeker Ridge -- From Now On</i><br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />
Just trying to get back into the swing of writing again. Bear with me...<br />
<br />
<b>See Who I Am</b><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"> I slowly woke feeling the sun’s rays beating down on me. I saw the light glow behind my eyelids and the warmth on my face and hair. An arm was lightly wrapped around my waist and a gentle finger traced circles around my belly button. Light feather kisses were placed on my shoulder and I could feel the coolness of the piercings from his lips. His messy black hair brushed against my neck and his breath feathered my skin as he quickly moved his lips up to the special spot on my neck. I jerked fully awake as I couldn’t hold back the moan that sprang forth. I could practically hear him smirk. It was his sure-fire way to wake me up; always.<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">I slid away a little to stretch before moving back, molding my body to his. His chin sat on my shoulder as he kissed my cheek and jaw down to my neck. I sighed contently reaching a hand back sliding it into his silky black hair and twirled the soft locks between my fingers. His other hand cupped my chin turning it making his nose lightly rub against mine. His wide green eyes fixed on my face though I hadn’t opened my brown ones yet. I just felt it. Felt his gaze just like I felt the finger on my belly button make slow circles. I slowly smiled keeping my eyes closed as his warm large hand cupped my cheek. I turned my face lightly kissing his palm before leaning into his touch. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><br />
He was not what anyone would have expected. He wasn’t violent like people believed when they saw his tattoos. He wasn’t angry and searching for attention as so many people thought seeing his piercings. His fit body and large hands weren’t meant to destroy and cause pain. They were meant to be gentle; to coax beautiful notes from the strings of a guitar, or to love and touch a woman. He wasn’t an alcoholic or a druggie like so many people assumed when he had a bottle of beer in his hand or a cigarette hanging between his perfect lips. He wasn’t lonely just because he played to thousands of screaming fans every night on tour.</span></span></span></div><div lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">He wasn’t meant to be alone because</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"> I couldn’t stop loving him. </span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">His lips pressed to my forehead and I smiled lightly. He lingered and smiled then pulled away and looked down pressing his forehead to the top of my head, presumably looking down at me.<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“So what do I have to do today to get you to open your eyes?” I could hear the amusement in his tone. I fought back a smile myself.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">Somehow he had fallen for me. I wasn’t what anyone would expect. I had straight dark hair. No one would have thought it’d been dyed more colors than a rainbow unless they took a look at my adolescent photos. I had a plain brown eyes. No one would have expected that I used to rim it with layers of black eyeliner. I wear suits and carry a briefcase around. No one would have noticed my body full of tattoos and high alcohol tolerance. I was widely respected in the business world. No one would have pictured me laying in bed with a man who was seen completely opposite of what he looked like. <br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">We were two people who were seen as something but someone else entirely. And we were the only two people who saw who the other really was. We were two people who had fallen in love. I breathed a laugh.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">Nothing today…just ask.” I heard him lightly chuckle as he moved back and laid me down straight up. The sheets covered me as he held himself up on his side with an arm with his other hand still on my stomach. <br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“Will you please open your beautiful eyes for me to see, baby?” My eyelids fluttered before I opened them fully. I carefully turned in his arms so I could lie on my back, and found jade green orbs staring back at me. His eyes slightly lit up at the site of mine, for some odd reason. His hand slid up from my stomach to my cheek and slowly stroked his thumb under my eye biting his lip. He leaned in pressing his full lips to mine as our bodies molded together. He lingered, lightly breathing on me, holding me tightly to his chest before pulling back keeping his lips at a comfortable distance in case he found the urge once more to kiss me. <br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“Good afternoon my love…” he murmured staring into my eyes as his hair mixed with mine and his warmth spread to my body. I smiled sliding a hand to his neck lightly holding and keeping him in his same position.<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“Afternoon already?” I asked. He nodded, smiling wider.</span></span></span></div><div lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Did you sleep well?”</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">Best in awhile, actually,” I told him. He seemed happy with that thought. “So what are we doing today?” He laughed a little.<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“Today? Nothing… I just wanna stay in bed with you.” I smiled widely leaning in stealing a kiss from him.<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“Sounds good. I’ll call in some food… you have to go down and get it though.” I lightly smirked as he laughed and nodded. </span></span></span> <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">Ok…only for you.” I looked at his eyes seeing the light green and blue around the edges with a darker green surrounding the irises. He had the most incredible eyes. Like seeing my entire life, is what it boiled down to.</span></span></span></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“I love you…” I smiled hearing the words I’ve heard for the past few years and knew I would hear for the rest of my life as well.<br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">“I love you too…” He leaned in and gave me a kiss I’d never forget.</span></span></span></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-45443782148884464482011-04-26T01:01:00.001-04:002011-04-26T01:01:56.789-04:00You Bleed Just to Know You're AliveMood: :/<br />
Hating: how my feet and legs hurt.<br />
Loving: JD and coke.<br />
Lip-syncing: Goo Goo Dolls -- Iris (this song NEVER gets old)<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
Just a quick life update. I finished my last exam on Saturday, had a depressing and lonely Easter, and started a new job at a french bistro. I'm still working my cashier job at Osmow's Grill, the little Mediterranean restaurant from before. It's awesome there, and the other employees are very entertaining. But I got offered a serving position at this place in Streetsville called Bistro Chezanne, and it's very appealing; at least to me.<br />
<br />
Problem is, I'm not exactly a classy person. If the fact that my favourite alcohol is Jack Daniels wasn't a strong indication, all the things I have to learn now is lol. Who knew fine dining could be so difficult? I have to admit though, the main attraction for me is the tip money. I mean, I've only been working for about three days, and I've made about $130. It may not seem like a lot of others, but to a student trying to scrounge together enough for another semester's tuition, it's pretty awesome.<br />
<br />
Thing is, I can't help but feel a little inferior. I have friends who are doing PR internships, marketing and advertising work, and volunteering at Rogers and what not. And here I am, working two minimum wage jobs during my summer. They're off getting real work experience in the field we're studying (Media Studies, for those who weren't aware of what I'm in university for) while I'm stuck balancing two dead end jobs. Well, to be fair, they're not completely dead end; they're just not the careers I wish to pursue. I just feel like I might be wasting valuable time and effort. I can't help but feel resentful, except I have no where to direct it. It's not my friends' fault that they have the right connections and are able to find these positions for the summer, nor can I be angry at them for not having the same financial worries that I do. And, contrary to some people's opinions, I can't necessarily be angry at my parents for not wanting to help me with my university education. They were adamant and clear about not supporting my life choice, but I chose to continue with it anyway.<br />
<br />
So it really just comes down to me. Which is where it should, I suppose. But still, sometimes I wish there was somewhere I could just direct this...bitterness. I want to be happy for my friends, I want to enjoy my summer, and I want to just kick back and relax for a bit, yet I know it's not something I can afford to do. And I know lots of others are in my aching, tired shoes as well.<br />
<br />
There really is no deep, psychological reasoning behind this post. Nor do I have an epiphany to share with you. I really just wanted to rant for a bit. Because what else is a personal blog, if not an outlet for your emotions? They may not completely rational or reasonable, but you can't always be that way. At least I think so. How boring would your life be if you approached everything situation and every aspect with a logical, organized perspective? Or maybe that's just me. Perhaps that's why I'm stuck working two minimum wage jobs, working ridiculous hours on my feet catering to others' requests. Who knows.<br />
<br />
But now that all that negativity is free, I'm going to share something a little more positive with you. I want this blog to be happier (remember my New Years Resolution? Probably not; I forgot myself for awhile haha), so I'm going to post my picture of the day. This made me grin, and so I hope it makes your day a little better as well. Enjoy!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2iaGm899fqWB7ZbBRZYgGNvv3HAcVjJzLhk71b_YzJFLhXFFN6ufBUqB8_8A-TKsQLAy9BHu4BjlaTa9rnegBN7heTXhzWJcR9SMY6zecTyycqfa0w_hwlWkYyNDyQnhCjPyrj7Q658/s1600/tumblr_lk82yoTOaE1qe49qzo1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2iaGm899fqWB7ZbBRZYgGNvv3HAcVjJzLhk71b_YzJFLhXFFN6ufBUqB8_8A-TKsQLAy9BHu4BjlaTa9rnegBN7heTXhzWJcR9SMY6zecTyycqfa0w_hwlWkYyNDyQnhCjPyrj7Q658/s320/tumblr_lk82yoTOaE1qe49qzo1_500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>Always believe you can :-)Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-51168655349892674822011-03-18T16:20:00.000-04:002011-03-18T16:20:57.742-04:00Here We Go Like It Never EndedMood: hard to say; tired, of course, but in modestly good spirits.<br />
Hating: the pressure and stress of school.<br />
Loving: how it seems as though spring has arrived!<br />
Lip-syncing: Bleeker Ridge -- Small Town Dead<br />
<br />
------ <br />
<br />
Oh, my poor neglected blogspot blog!<br />
<br />
I am so sorry. With school, work, and an amazing concert last weekend, I've lost track of my blogging. Well, no, that's a lie. I've actually had a few other endeavors to distract me. Not only am I in the middle of a documentary (a school assignment), and building websites (also for school), I've also gotten a Tumblr and begun feeling out a potential new blog style idea with a few international friends.<br />
<a href="http://fateanddreamscollide.tumblr.com/%20">Fate and Dreams Can Collide</a><br />
Feel free to head on over and follow, or just admire more of my mind's randomness; just in more of a photo format. But speaking of photos...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvuhz8AKg6JhZjmoUmG2iIQPEHj72vSk0E2vU-riby3pkneOZR94gyhTxRKXx1p23BhOdmY99Pc-iAMql2ue1dZj3h-X7mqaxLMsDL8Wn97IZ2k7bDN8WL_3shgTxu0SB2Y9LCq2afQc/s1600/A7Xpassion.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvuhz8AKg6JhZjmoUmG2iIQPEHj72vSk0E2vU-riby3pkneOZR94gyhTxRKXx1p23BhOdmY99Pc-iAMql2ue1dZj3h-X7mqaxLMsDL8Wn97IZ2k7bDN8WL_3shgTxu0SB2Y9LCq2afQc/s320/A7Xpassion.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I like this one a lot. This isn't from last weekend, but I think it expresses how I feel about concerts well. I love physically feeling the music, and seeing the passion of the musicians onstage. It's just insanity, especially when you pair Buckcherry and Papa Roach together.<br />
<br />
There is one more thing I want to share with you, but that will have to wait just a little bit. It hasn't quote been planned all the way through, but let's just say it will be quite the international experience once we pull it together. Stay tuned!Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-68792788103487353982011-02-02T01:16:00.001-05:002011-02-02T01:17:24.203-05:00Canadians Should Make Like the EgyptiansI didn't know about it until right now, which is absolutely shameful. The CRTC, the Canadian Radio and Television Commission of Canada, just approved a motion through which the major broadband providers in the country can now charge Canadians on the basis of "usage based billing". Which translates pretty much into a pay-per-use method, where the companies get to set the price.<br />
<br />
We could be charged for every GB we use!<br />
<br />
Having a 60GB cap on the internet during the Web 2.0 world is just ridiculous. We have to fight this. Or else we're going to end up doing this.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.imgur.com/M3G7f.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://i.imgur.com/M3G7f.png" width="355" /></a></div><br />
<br />
So head on over to <br />
http://openmedia.ca/meter<br />
Sign, and start spreading the word and fighting.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-34494213537537792532011-02-01T21:42:00.001-05:002011-03-28T15:25:22.932-04:00Watch Me As I Fall<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Mood: frustrated, tired.</span></i></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Hating: this paper I'm suppose to be writing.</span></i></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Loving: that classes might be canceled tomorrow; yay snow!...But not really...</span></i></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Lip-syncing: Ry Cuming -- Always Remember Me</i></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">------ </span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Circles</b></span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He’d always been fascinated by circles. Even as a child, the lack of corners and continuous lines were always incredibly interesting. Circles carry weight, and meaning. They can be full, or empty. They represent eternity; never-ending. Life isn’t.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;">He could feel the rain splatter against his face through the opening in the woods. He want this to be secluded, where no one will be able to find him, at least not immediately anyways. This is the perfect place.<br />
It's storming, the sky full of foreboding clouds, blocking out the sun though it is nowhere near nightfall. He takes one last look at the dark greens of the pine needles and the rich browns of the tree trunks. If all went as planned, it would be the last thing he saw. Though some might find it dark and somewhat depressing, the scenery is rather beautiful. The rain is essential, seeming to match the immense emotion drowning him.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
He closes his eyes, trying not to picture her face in his mind. It had been haunting him ever since that dreadful day, seemingly so long ago. But the image still comes; her long flowing hair, her soothing soulful eyes, her soft voice whispering in his ear. With his sight shut off to the world, he can still feel her with him, as if she was never missing from his life in the first place. But the reality was that she, in fact, was gone – taken away from him on a night much like this one, by the cruel, snapping jaws of death.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
He sighs, shaking his head to attempt to rid his thoughts of her. It brings too much heartache, and yet he never want to look at anything but her. She was an angel, perfect in her imperfections. He longs for her, even now.<br />
He brings his hand up to his head, the muscles of his arm rippling from the extra weight gripped between his fingers. Without opening his eyes, he could feel the smooth, cold metal raise slight goose bumps along his skin. The circle of the barrel rests against his temple. His right hand begins to shake as the rain pours down harder. He can hear the rolling thunder in the distance and, even with his eyes closed, can see the white flashes against the darkness of his mind as the lightning strikes. Taking one last breath, he grips the trigger, his finger threatening to slip.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">It was a rainy night, the road slick with water. They were coming back from dinner, celebrating their four year anniversary, the wipers on high, whipping the water off the windscreen. Their hands were linked together over the center console of the car, fingers interlocking perfectly. It was always the little things that made him realize she was meant for him, which was why this night was such a crucial one. I glanced over.<br />
"What?" she asked innocently.<br />
"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" I asked, looking at the road momentarily before facing her again.<br />
"Yes, I did. But I think I'll have more fun once I get you back home," she spoke, a sweetness coating her voice, but with a mischievous glint in her eyes. I felt her hand squeeze mine once and smiled back at her, looking toward the road.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I thought about the black velvet box in my pants pocket, knowing that whatever was on her mind was going to have to wait. Just a little while more. The mere thought of what I was going to do once we arrived home brought a grin once again to my face along with a fluttering in his stomach.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;">We were almost home, at the intersection that was just five blocks from it coming up as I drove. I had no idea what was about to happen, but if I could have changed it, I would have. Glancing over as we reached the intersection, I saw the blinding headlights. The next thing I knew, my hand was being ripped from hers, my body slamming into the door as the car spun out of control.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
It was a tumultuous whirlwind; the screeching of metal, the shattering of glass, the startled cries filling the air. After what seemed like minutes, the car finally squealed to a stop. Everything was silent, save for the pattering of rain. My eyes were closed, a searing pain swimming in my head. I could feel a cool breeze lazily brushing against my cheek.<br />
</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I slowly opened my eyes, coming face to face with the steering wheel, my airbag not deployed from the impact. My first coherent thought ran straight to her and, despite the splitting pain in my head, I turned to her quickly.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
I couldn’t seem to stop shaking, but I managed to raise my quivering arm across the console. She was in the seat, crunched between the console between us and the door. Her head was hung limp, her body slouched forward. I presumed the seat belt was the only thing keeping her upright. The window to her door was smashed in, glass littering the flesh on her right side, from what I could make out. I called out to her, panic seizing my body as I reached my hand out to her shoulder, shaking her gently. Her head rocked to the side, lying at a funny angle from her neck. There was a trail of blood coming down the side of her head from the top of her face; there was a gash wound right at the hairline. The pit of my stomach dropped as I swallowed hard. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
My door was jammed shut but after a few forceful kicks, I was able to get out. I dug in my pocket for my phone, instantly dialing the emergency number programmed into most children's heads. The call was rushed; I had no idea how the man on the line could even understand a single word I said. It seemed like forever before the ambulance arrived. I had repeatedly tried to get the passenger side open, but it was crunched tightly together with the rest of the car from the accident.<br />
</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was then, after giving up, that I noticed the other car - the one that hit us. It was only a few yards away from me and as I neared it, I could hear incoherent mumbling and moaning emitting from the driver. I wanted to rip his body from the car and show him what he had done, but the sound of sirens and the nearing ambulance drew my attention back to her motionless body, lying in the car like an abandoned rag doll.<br />
Doing their jobs, the paramedics quickly exited the ambulance, rushing to the car as I stood there and watched without a sound, slowly becoming drenched in rain as it continued to fall all around. I observed them from my position as they crawled to her from the driver's side, knowing just by looking that her door couldn’t be forced open. I didn’t even feel my feet move, carrying me back to her as a policeman approached the other car.<br />
</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was within earshot of the paramedics. They weren't doing anything in an attempt to get her body from the car, and I was confused. That was, until I heard three little words that changed everything.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> "She's already gone," one of them said. I suppose I already knew deep in my heart even before the meds arrived that she was gone, but hearing the words from someone else made it seem all the more real.<br />
He was placed in a black body bag on the wet pavement, and I caught one last look at her beautiful face, smeared with blood, before the zipper was pulled up.<br />
</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The last thing I cared to remember from that stormy night was turning to see the driver of the other car with his hands behind his back, an officer cuffing them together. His eyes met mine, but I could not make out the emotions I found. I'm sure he could see the pure hatred I felt toward him just by looking at me though. And then he was carted away, thrown into the back of the police car, and I never saw him again. Not that I would have wanted to anyways. He took away the one thing that mattered more than anything else in the world to me, and for that, he could never be forgiven.<br />
</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The depression I slipped into following the accident was painful enough to rival the actual events of that night. I had gotten away with mere scratches on my arms and a bruised kneecap. But she received the full blow. And I regretted that. If I could have changed anything about that night, I would have taken longer to pay the bill, or gone to the bathroom, or even would have made her drive. As cliche as it sounded, I'd have rather given up my life so that she could live. It would have been better than the torment I went through for a solid month. </span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
I'd think of nothing but her during the day and would pray relentlessly for sleep to consume me, only to find that she haunted my dreams. I'd wake up and see her lying next to me, peacefully asleep, but it was never real. Just an illusion before my eyes that my head made up to somehow ease the pain. But it didn't help; if anything, it just made it all worse. It was as if I were tormenting myself, showing her to me, knowing I could never have her back. The pain and suffering ate away at me until finally, I had decided enough was enough. It was time to end it.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">He drags himself from the bed on this overcast day and peers under it to the metal safe box. He knows full well what lies inside of it. He pulls out the safe, unlocks it, and comes face to face with his nightmare and saviour. As he had stares, the demon refracts what little light had struggled through the dingy curtains he never bothered to opened anymore. She never saw it. No one even knew about it, yet he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. It was the tiny little bit of her he had left. He grasps it so tightly that the razor-sharp edges of the ring setting would pierce through his skin, reflecting a minuscule amount of his emotional pain. And with his other hand, he traces his salvation. His index finger lightly ran down the side of the barrel. A shiny silver pistol, with his name written all over it. </span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><br />
Wiping the trails of tears from his cheeks, he reaches down and picks the gun up. It's heavy and smooth beneath his fingers and gives him a feeling of reassurance, that once everything was over it would all be okay. He would be okay. It would be okay. All of it. And that was all the reassurance he needed to get the job done.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><br />
So he leaves the house. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">The answering machine in the kitchen is blinking madly, loaded</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;">with unreturned calls. Why would he bother with the machine if it wasn't her calling him? </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">He let it be. He wants to live out his own life to the very last day. This very last day.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><br />
He marches through the back yard, out to the farthest reaches of the property, and then even further past the line of trees. It starts to rain, the clouds quickly closing in over top of him, almost as if nature knew what was about to take place. But he keeps going. He's searching for that place; the tree-less rounded patch of land right in the middle of the forest. It was their spot. And that's how he ended up here, all alone, with nothing but a pistol pressed against his head.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: 0.01in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The thunder crashes around him once more, and he jumps, startled from the noise. He wants to open his eyes but he doesn’t, because this is the end. This is final. He didn’t want to open them and see something that might draw him away from what he needed to do.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
And then he hears it. Her voice. It's far off, almost like she's come to find him, trying to get him to come back to her. It isn't in his head this time, and he almost feels that if he just opened his eyes, he would see her, standing just a few feet away, beckoning him to her.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"> The lightning strikes and the thunder roars again. The rain dripping down his hand and the gun causes his finger to slip and he squeezes harder, trying to tighten his grip on the trigger.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> He </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en">has two circles with him now. Circles are infinite; never broken. Life-changing.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><br />
Like an engagement ring.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or the end of a gun barrel.</span></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-45527529765846119552011-01-10T20:53:00.000-05:002011-01-10T20:53:10.836-05:00Turn My Sorrow Into Treasured Gold<i>Mood: </i><br />
<i>Hating: how I'm still sick.</i><br />
<i>Loving: the snow...for now.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Adele -- Rolling In The Deep</i><br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.reconnections.net/words-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.reconnections.net/words-1.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>Sometimes I find more comfort in my world of words than my reality...Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-18418149464083758532010-12-27T16:06:00.001-05:002010-12-31T02:50:15.592-05:00Just Take A Chance Please<i>Mood: lazy.</i><br />
<i>Hating: how cold my hands are; damn bad circulation.</i><br />
<i>Loving: flannel pjs and Ronnie Day.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Plugin Stereo ft. Cady Grooves -- Oh Darling</i><br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
There's this thing we call heartbreak<br />
But I don't think<br />
My heart's ever let me down<br />
My heart's never let me down<br />
<br />
But I still cry<br />
'Cause I can't always have it my way<br />
And sometimes crying can help you out<br />
Sing it aloud, sing it aloud<br />
<br />
Scream<br />
Shred your lungs<br />
I need to hear you louder now<br />
Sing<br />
As if you'll never sing again<br />
And when the morning comes and your throat is sore<br />
You'll face the day like you did before<br />
But with a smile on in the end<br />
<br />
And I don't know<br />
If you can hear me<br />
But I can hear the sound of my own echo<br />
Coming back alone<br />
<br />
And I don't why<br />
That should scare me<br />
To be so lonely but I can't stop crying out<br />
Sing it aloud, sing it aloud<br />
<br />
Scream<br />
Shred your lungs<br />
I need to hear you louder now<br />
Sing<br />
As if you'll never sing again<br />
And when the morning comes and your throat is sore<br />
You'll face the day like you did before<br />
But with a smile on in the end<br />
<br />
I want to hear you sing this song back to me<br />
Across of miles from home where we should be<br />
And I miss you so badly<br />
But I won't waste a simile <br />
'cause you already know what you mean to me<br />
If only I could hear you<br />
<br />
Scream<br />
Shred your lungs<br />
I need to hear you louder now<br />
And sing<br />
As if you'll never sing again<br />
And when the morning comes and your throat is sore<br />
You'll face the day like you did before<br />
But with a smile on in the endKrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-1571810869228685732010-12-22T17:02:00.000-05:002010-12-22T17:02:00.978-05:00Such Simple MiraclesMood: content.<br />
Hating:<br />
Loving: the little things.<br />
Lip-syncing: Kevin Devine -- You Are the Daybreak<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
So this blog is mostly a glimpse of the insanity that resides within my head. But after reading a comment on my last entry, I realized I actually to tend to post a lot when I'm upset. And I think that happens with a lot of people. But for once, let me share some good news.<br />
<br />
The past few weeks have been incredibly hectic for me. Finishing exams rather early, I've been working ridiculous hours at my retail job (I found out it's actually NOT illegal for a part-timer to work 41 hours in one week...huh). Understandable, of course, since it is the busiest time of year. Except for the fact that it makes me absolutely miserable. I constantly found myself irritable and angry for what little downtime I did end up having. Which, I think is safe to say, no way to spend your time.<br />
<br />
And so, I have finally worked up the courage to quit. <br />
<br />
This isn't to say there were no perks at this place, of course. I've befriended a couple of the folks I work with, mostly those who share the same dry, inappropriate humour that I do. They make my shifts more bearable. So I extend a heartfelt thank you to those few individuals for their camaraderie. They're such wonderful people, and I hope we can continue our awkward all-you-can-eat sushi get togethers and dark hilarity.<br />
<br />
I have to say, I do feel guilty for leaving these friends in such a place, at such a time. Yet I also feel a sense of relief, despite the opinions some people are sharing about my decision. It's not as though I don't have another job; I was offered a cashier/serving job at a small Mediterranean place closer to my house. I'll still be able to afford my tuition, since I'm getting paid the same rate here too.<br />
<br />
It was a complicated endeavor, quitting just in the middle of the holidays. Let me tell you, it was a battle and a half. When I first tried to hand in my two weeks, my manager wouldn't accept it. Kind of funny, now that I think back on it. Throughout the past two weeks, it's been quite the effort to get my point across that I will not be working there past Christmas Eve. I suppose it's flattering, to a degree, to have someone want you to stay at a company that badly. And truth be told, I considered it. As a nineteen year old trying to pay her own way through university, the thought of having the money from two jobs was kind of appealing. But, even though I do some pretty questionable things, my insanity doesn't quite allow me to think of balancing two jobs AND go to school full-time. I'm not sure anyone truly can.<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to enjoy the holidays for awhile. Working since the age of sixteen, I've grown to dislike the craziness of holidays, always worrying about my hours and what not. This year, I'm going to do my best. Even though I haven't put up a tree yet, I think this Christmas is going to go down in my books as one of the best. And I'm starting my New Years resolution early. <br />
<br />
Life is always a balancing act. And in retrospect, I haven't done the greatest job. My priorities tend to be skewed, with me throwing 110% towards one aspect and ignoring or failing at the others. And I like to think this is a step in the first direction, my first truly measured and mature decision. Why should I stay someplace I was growing to hate? It's so easy for poison, for resentment and anger to seep into your life, and it's so much harder to get rid of.<br />
<br />
But I'm going to try.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas. Whether you celebrate it, or something else, I wish you all the best this holiday season. I hope you stop to smell the roses, smile and laugh with your friends and family, and move forward with your goals. And of course, Happy New Year. May this blog become a brighter, happier reflection of life to come.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-10926224838960834642010-12-14T20:35:00.000-05:002010-12-14T20:35:26.408-05:00I'm Trying to Tell You SomethingMood: not happy.<br />
Hating: parents.<br />
Loving: ranting to friends.<br />
Lip-syncing: Sia -- I'm In Here<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />
Despite my foul mood, I'm going to share some pretty amazing news. Read the article in the link, and you'll be feeling a little better too.<br />
<br />
http://thenextweb.com/shareables/2010/12/14/for-the-first-time-in-history-a-man-is-cured-of-hiv/<br />
<br />
Best present ever. Happy Holidays.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-25829281275467671982010-11-24T22:06:00.001-05:002010-12-07T21:30:26.489-05:00Better Listen Now, It Ain't No JokeMood: annoyed.<br />
Hating: this class.<br />
Loving: how I have about 5 classes left in this semester.<br />
Lip-syncing: Billy Squier -- The Stroke<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
This is truly what we need.<br />
<object height="225" width="400"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=17101589&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=1&color=&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=17101589&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=1&color=&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/17101589">Reteaching Gender and Sexuality</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user4461178">Sid Jordan</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-64339908216749431642010-11-14T01:19:00.001-05:002010-11-16T18:00:16.745-05:00Do We Stay Together 'Cause We're Scared to Be Alone?<i>Mood: hmmm; good question.</i><br />
<i>Hating: school work, indecision, and rude people who just cause so many issues that inconvenience you and make you even more upset.</i><br />
<i>Loving: brainstorming with Lyndsey.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Pink -- Mean</i><br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
<br />
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Lonely</b></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“We should’ve gone to Starbucks.”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Sarah, you can’t say that in Second Cup.”<br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“What? Is there some sort of rule?”<br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“I’m assuming there is.”<br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Nobody has tackled me down yet--”<br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Just be patient and wait for your damn coffee.”<br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I had to secretly agree with her though. We should have gone somewhere else today. What was worse than being stuck at a busy Second Cup in the late morning with a bunch of disgruntled people? Being stuck with Sarah, who was one of those disgruntled people. Usually it would be amusing to listen to her smart comments anywhere else and any day of the week, but that day was about getting out of the cafe alive. And with coffee. </div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Do you have any plans tonight?” Sarah asked, glaring at the tall man carrying a briefcase who pushed between us to get his drink. I mimicked her glare as I responded,</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Not that I know of. Why? Is Patrick playing a show tonight?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Actually, I thought we could go to the movies.”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“The movies?” I repeated. “Is going to the movies still relevant these days?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Just thinking outside the box,” she said, cleverly mimicking the shape with her fingers.</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Right.”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“So will you go?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Maybe.” I heard her sigh in distress.</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Oh, come on!”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“I said maybe, Sarah. What more do you want?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“No,” she whined, waving her hand over to the man with a suitcase who clearly ordered a few people after us. “We were totally standing in front of him!”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Well, it probably takes extra time and care to make your special little lactose-free, decaf peppermint type drink or whatever you ordered.” Sarah ignored me as she flipped out her phone out to check her messages.</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“If I knew this would happen, I would have stayed in bed with Patrick. Naked.”</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span lang="en">And as much as I would love to picture that right now, I have to get my coffee,” I said, bumping shoulders with her as I made my way over to the counter.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">Sarah and I met when I had just moved into the city, living in a barely decent hotel with a shared bathroom. I was shooting band photos at this club downtown. Sarah was bartending, and some guy had grabbed her ass when she was already on her last thread. She was on the edge of quitting right then and there when she saw me. <br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">The singer for the band I was photographing was offering me something other than money in exchange for the pictures I had just taken. He was very touchy feely and smelled of leather and practically sweated Jack Daniels</span><span lang="en"><i> </i></span><span lang="en">from his pores. Which would have been attractive, had it not been for his clammy hands trying to reach parts of me that were reserved. The more I refused him, the more his hands wandered. I had uncomfortably shifted and spotted Sarah watching me at the other end of the counter. When we locked eyes, I could tell that we both knew what was going on. She walked over, kindly asked the man fondling me to leave, but he only shoved his almost-empty glass in her direction. Alcohol had spilled on her tank top, and she immediately lost it and lunged herself at him. The odd thing was that she hadn't touched him. His judgment was distorted, and he immediately fell back on his barstool, crashing to the floor and cursing out at no one in particular. <br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">Sarah and I became fast friends.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Were you meeting up with Jay later?” she asked, batting her eyelashes dreamily in my direction. I rolled my eyes as I took a careful sip of my lukewarm latte.</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Do you always have to refer to my boyfriend like that?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Like what?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Like he's Brad Pitt or something.”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Brad Pitt?” she frowned like she had tasted something bitter. “Oh, I would never talk about Brad Pitt like that.”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“You know what I meant.”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Right. I guess I would have understood it faster if I had some caffeine,” she hinted, eyeing my latte.<br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I held my small cup of treasure closer to me, before declaring, “Mine.”</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span lang="en">Oh, come on,” she begged, “Just a sip and I'll wait patiently for my peppermint bliss.”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“But it's at a decent temperature now, and I want to savor every drop.”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“But you owe me!”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Owe you for what?”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">She stopped attempting to snatch my drink for a minute to contemplate a good answer. “You know, that one time? When I...uh...”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">When she tried to grab my coffee cup, things got complicated, and we found ourselves play fighting in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was bumping up against people I didn't know, and some of my drink was getting spilled down my fingers. Apparently this happened to Sarah as well, but she didn't take it the same way I did. She let out a high pitched yelp and let go, causing me to stumble backwards, smashing against a stranger with enough force to spill my latte all over the front of my jacket. I didn't realize until I stopped freaking out over the front of my coat that the back was also stained with hot coffee. I turned around, my mouth gaped, and I stared at the guy.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">He, too, had a brown stain in the front. Hopefully he had put on several layers like I had so the heat wouldn't be overwhelming, but he didn't show a lot of reaction. Instead, he glanced over at Sarah and then back at me. It was almost as if time stopped around us until he would say something in reply. I tried to say something else, but nothing would come out. I was too shocked. Even the uncomfortable feeling of being wet didn't overwhelm me. I just watched this guy, wiping down the front of his sweater with his hand. He was fair skinned, had dark hair, and along with the new coffee stain on his shirt, there were paint stains of colour as well. When I looked up at his face, I couldn't help but notice a small closed-lipped smile on his face as he turned away from me and towards the counter to get some more napkins.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Are you all right?”</span><span lang="en"><i> </i></span><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><i>Shut your mouth, Charlie.</i></span><span lang="en"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“I didn't mean to–”</span><span lang="en"><i> </i></span><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><i>Be quiet, Charlie.</i></span><span lang="en"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“I mean, you're not saying anything, and I feel really bad...”</span><span lang="en"><i> </i></span><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><i>Run away in shame now, Charlotte.</i></span><span lang="en"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“It's fine,” he finally answered, looking at me as he set his hollow sounding coffee cup on the counter. <br />
Since my mind had told me to be quiet, I couldn't help but finally listen to it and stand there like an idiot. Life continued moving back in motion, and we just sort of blended in with the crowd of morning Second Cup traffic.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Really,” he assured a second time, a smirk making its way onto his face as he wiped down the stain on his jacket. “It's fine.”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">Sarah eased into the sad excuse for an apology as she walked over. She waved her hand in front of my face as if I was supposed to be in a trance. “He's fine, Charlie. Leave the guy alone.”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">As my best friend convinced me to walk away from the situation, I couldn't help but glance behind us at the guy standing there, still smirking. Then, I noticed right before I turned back around that he was looking straight at me, and his hand lifted slightly into a wave. I was confused.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">Sarah snatched the empty coffee cup out of my hand and tossed it in the trash. We walked down the sidewalk together.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“So what was that all about?” she asked.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“I don't know what you're talking about.”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Oh, come on! You totally phased out like an idiot in front of that awkwardly cute looking art guy.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">I glanced at her. "Art guy?"</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">"Messy black hair, paint stained sweater, and pale skin? Art guy."</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">"I didn't know you wasted your time classifying people into pointless groups."</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Well, I get bored,” she shrugged before grinning. “...Okay. Carries around a ratty spiral bound notebook, mysterious bad-boy edge, and a voice that makes my heart explode.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Your boyfriend?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Music guy. Patrick.” She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed giddily. “Okay, okay. One more.” </span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en">I sighed in defeat. “Shoot.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Gorgeous man!” she exclaimed out of nowhere with a burst of energy. “Perfect teeth and beautiful blue eyes! British accent! And his body was carved by Greek Gods!” I could only stare at her in total shock. “Actor guy. Your boyfriend, Jayden, remember?” she gripped my arm. “Or did Art guy make you forget?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Shut up.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“You never answered me. Are you going to see him later?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“I really don't know,” I confessed softly. “I haven't seen him all week.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
Our conversation faded out the more we began to walk in the direction of the park. The city was unusually crowded that day, despite the heavy clouds and the occasional cold breeze. I couldn't help but inhale and take in the lightness of the winter air.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“It’s going to snow soon.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"> Sarah sighed heavily as if she was experiencing a big letdown. “Are you serious? It better not be within the next two minutes. I hate walking in the snow.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Don’t you watch the weather?” I said after a sip of my drink. “It won’t be until late tonight.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Are you serious? You just lifted your head and smelled the air like a hippie, and </span><span lang="en"><i>then </i></span><span lang="en">you mention the weather channel?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“I just needed clarification.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
Sarah scoffed and looped her arm into mine as we made our way through the park to avoid crossing the street. Despite the cold weather, people still sat in the benches aligned along the two grassy fields. Walking past everyone enjoying their lunch break was a similar yet less annoying way for winter window shopping. There, within that little area contained an astounding number of pea coats, scarves, and boots for me to make a note of the next time I had a little extra cash. In the meantime, I was content with layering my shirts and wearing two socks on each foot to compensate. I let out a sigh, watching the white puff of air fade away before I turned to Sarah.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span lang="en">Maybe it's just that time,” I finally announced. “Jayden and I are going in different directions –”<br />
Sarah stopped in her path and turned to me, “Charlotte, don't say that. You two are great for each other.” I sighed. The moment ‘Charlotte’ came out instead of the familiar nickname ‘Charlie’, I knew I was now dealing with a very serious Sarah.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Are we?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
There was a long pause after that.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">We ended up going to Sarah and Patrick's apartment, a place I was no stranger to despite the fact that Sarah and I were no longer roommates. We both found apartments with our boyfriends on opposite sides of the city, but I always found myself at Sarah's anyway. It had a terrace that overlooked the park. It was a great place to hang out and sip hot chocolate with its warm, comforting vibe; unlike mine and Rob's place, with our modern, minimalist furniture. It felt cold and empty. <br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Maybe we should stay in tonight,” Sarah suggested, looking through a sushi takeout menu. “I'll invite Lyndsey and Brian to meet us over here for drinks. Patrick is coming home from the record store in about ten minutes, so he can pick up--”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“I just want a big, fat cheeseburger and a huge order of fries,” I said as I sank into one of the big comfy chairs, my hands making gestures as to exactly how big I wanted the burger.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Burgers,” she repeated, switching takeout menus. “Burgers sound good.”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">An hour and a half later, there were five of us sitting on the terrace, slightly tipsy from the drinks of the evening and our tummies full with the oh-so healthy burgers and fries. Our friends, Brian and Lyndsey, joined us as well as Sarah's boyfriend of almost a year, Patrick. I did feel out of place. But I didn't have to share a chair and a blanket this time around, so it felt pretty comfortable from what I could judge between Lyndsey shifting around on Brian's lap every five minutes. Sarah had her own blanket as well since Patrick was so busy strumming on his acoustic already, gazing deeply into his girlfriend's eyes while she stared at him like he was maniac. When Patrick got drunk, he was usually our source of entertainment. That night, he was cooking up his own rendition of Lionel Richie's ‘Hello’ just for Sarah.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“I can see it in your eyes,” Patrick sang, his voice echoing for the neighbors. “I can see it in your smile!”<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Can we please go inside?” Lyndsey begged, breathing out a miserable white puff of air into the cold.</span><br />
<span lang="en"><br />
Lyndsey was a nurse. She was one of the coolest nurses I had ever known. Well, I only compared this to the hormonal haggarts who literally enjoyed the pain of stabbing needles in poor soul’s arms. She truly loved what she did though; she worked even crazier hours than I did. Brian owned his own construction business. They met under the unfortunate circumstances of his trip to the emergency room after saving one of his employees from being flattened by a cement block. Having Lyndsey clean him up put Brian in such a good mood he didn’t even fire the guy operating the crane.<br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“Aw, baby, just one more verse!” Brian begged, pulling her to sit back down on his knee. Lyndsey rolled her eyes and gave in, putting her arms around his neck and snuggling close. Brian gave the three of us a wide grin. Sarah and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. <br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en">“You doing okay over there in solitary, Charlie?” Brian asked, “Jay couldn't make it tonight?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en">I shook my head, “No.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Acting thing,” Sarah explained, shrugging it off for me.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“‘Cause I wonder where you are!” Patrick practically elongated the last word as much as he could hold the note, causing stirs from the people below us.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en">Lyndsey</span><span lang="en"> couldn't seem to take much more of it and stood up. “Time to go inside.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Lynds!” Brian begged as he stumbled over to the window we had kept open. After that it was only the three of us. I guess it wasn't so bad since Sarah needed company along with Patrick singing like a drunken idiot. It must have been a long day at the record store for Patrick to drink so much.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Have you called Jay?” Sarah asked, slyly trying to reach over to Patrick so she could grab his guitar from him.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en">My lifted my hands from inside my cozy blanket and checked my phone on my lap. “Not within the past fifteen minutes.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Maybe his phone's off.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Maybe he's ignoring me.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“It's all in your head, Charlie,” she sighed, both for me and the fact that she failed since Patrick moved over to the chair Bri and Lyndsey had vacated. “Just because you saw one guy today who made you rethink things does not mean you should start ending your relationship.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“It's called lust,” Patrick briefly stopped his singing to say one relevant thing for the entire evening. I sighed.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span lang="en">Sarah, I know you're like the love cheerleader and all, but for once, can you be realistic?” She pursed her lips. I continued. “I love him. I love his dedication to his career...” Brian and Lyndsey, who both happened to be eavesdropping, interrupted.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span lang="en">But?”</span><br />
<span lang="en"><br />
I looked over at them, back at Sarah, and even Patrick who was still at it with his guitar.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="en">“But I'm not happy.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
My phone began to ring in my lap. I hesitated answering it since four pairs of eyes were all staring, waiting for me to make up my mind. When I did pick up the phone, Patrick decided it was the right time to start strumming his guitar loudly.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Hello!” he sang. “Is it me you're looking for?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
It broke the ice between them. I, on the other hand, wasn't laughing. I held the phone to my ear, listening to him breath.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Charlotte? Are you there?” His heavy British accent echoed through the other end of the line.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“I'm here,” I replied.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en">He sighed deeply into the phone, “You should come home. We need to talk.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Home?” I repeated out loud. How strange. I never called our apartment a "home". It was more of a place, a place I couldn't imagine living in.<br />
“Yes, home,” he said, sounding a bit annoyed.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
We didn't say goodbye to each other. That was part of every phone conversation between me and Jayden. We would just hang up, no other explanation. Instead of worrying, I just closed my phone and tried to focus on the game of charades Brian and Lyndsey were playing from inside. Even Sarah had convinced Patrick to calm down and watch them through the window. They seemed to both be having such a good time as a couple. I felt like I should leave. I grabbed my shoes next to the leg of the chair and attempted to tiptoe towards the window.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Is Jay coming?” Sarah asked, a hint of hope in her eyes.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
I just exchanged glanced with her and Patrick and shook my head. “No, I've got to go.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“All right,” she said, “Call me later.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
Jayden’s first good experience with acting started as soon as we moved into the apartment. I guess it was understandable to say that I blamed the fail of our relationship to that overpriced loft on the eighteenth floor. It looked like neither of us on the inside. The first room was the kitchen, a room I barely used since I failed at being a cook and could only make a decent grilled cheese. The next area was the living; or non-living room. We barely used it. It was just oddly shaped couches and chairs that were too firm if anyone sat on them to watch the television that had no cable. But the view from the window was breathtaking during the evening. Then there was the bedroom, a room barely used by me since I was at Sarah and Patrick's so much. The bed was still fairly new and had only been used once or twice since we moved in. Poor bed. There wasn't a lot of colour either, despite the numerous times I had suggested it. Instead, it was now mostly ice blue walls with black and white furniture. He had hired a decorator. We never had time to really plan out the place for ourselves. She just sort of worked with it, and we just gave her the money due to our conflicting schedules. <br />
I waited miserably for the elevator to hit the eighteenth floor and the doors to open. My keys were already dangling from my hand.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
He was leaning against the counter when I first came in, his buttoned down shirt opened with his sleeves rolled up. His hair was a dirty brown mess, like it was every other day. He was in typical model mode, definitely not convinced he wasn't working anymore that day. His phone was still in his hand, as if he was about to call or text someone when I'd just walked in the door. When he looked over at me, he shoved his phone into the pocket of his dark denim jeans, ran a hand through the front of his hair and started towards me. His arms wrapped uncomfortably tightly around me.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Hey," he whispered softly into my hair. I gritted my teeth.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Where were you?!” I pushed him away from me. “I sat there alone with Sarah and Patrick and –”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“I didn't feel like being around those people,” he mumbled. “I wanted to be with you. I wanted to talk about—”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I looked at him in disbelief as I slammed my bag on the side table. “I sat there like a lonely...lobster or...a penguin-”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“Lobster?”<br />
<br />
“The point is that you weren't there!”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“I didn’t know it was a group thing--”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“Well it was!” I snapped. “And I was embarrassed!”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
He shook his head and sighed before walking over to me, “I’m sorry. I didn't want to be with people, just you...What am I supposed to say?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“Those people are my friends!” My skin tingled to the touch of his hands on my shoulders. He let go soon after to run them through his hair. Like that was going to fix anything.</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, returning to leaning back against the counter. “You were embarrassed, and I'm sorry."</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“‘Sorry’ isn't going to cut it anymore,” I admitted, folding my arms tensely.</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“What are you talking about?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
“I never see you anymore,” I murmured. “The only time we talk, we get into fights.”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">He shifted his eyes towards me instead of the tiles on the floor. “What do you suggest?”</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en">My mouth opened, but what I really wanted just couldn't form into words. “…I don't know.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“I got signed with a very good agent today,” he confessed, eyeing the tiles again and holding in his excitement.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“That’s great.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“He’s based in Paris.” I nodded, glad that I didn’t have to wait so long for the catch, but it definitely left some extra time for the word “Paris” to sink in.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
Jay walked over and took my hand, squeezing it, hoping for more happiness to come out of me or something as if I was a sponge of emotions. But I continued looking away, scared to even glance at him.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“It’ll be six months of networking and shows, and there’s just a lot more to do over there,” he explained in his soft, romantic voice, probably hoping that I would take it in better that way. Again. Sponge.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“And where does that leave me?” I asked him, finally looking up into his eyes. “I have a life here, Jayden." He winced as I used his full name.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“But-” he interrupted chuckling in some sort of disbelief, “I can take care of you, Charlotte. I was going to leave on a flight tonight so I could surprise my family in London. I was hoping you’d come with me and meet them. And then Paris for a few months –”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Great. A few days of you teasing me before you leave me alone in a strange city for six months. Sounds great, Jayden. A fantastic time.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“So what do you want to do, Charlotte? Huh?” He tensed. “Tell me what you want to do right now, because I have a plane to catch.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
I felt the air become dense as I breathed out and looked at him. For once, I admired the scruff around his chin and the color of his eyes. None of that mattered to me in the beginning of our relationship. It was just him. Being around him. How he used to be. He used to be the guy singing off-key with Patrick at our little get-togethers. Now he was someone I barely knew, someone I could only pretend to be happy with.</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
“Go.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="en"><br />
He briefly pressed his forehead against mine, and that was the last moment we had. He left with his suitcase. <br />
What we just did was undefined and left up in the air. Even though it wasn't official, it felt like it was.</span></div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div lang="en" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">And it felt lonely.</div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-90289655587755366422010-11-05T16:00:00.004-04:002010-11-22T00:06:02.046-05:00So We Made Our Way By Finding What Was Real<i>Mood: content and slightly amused.</i><br />
<i>Hating: all the work I know is waiting for me; but I'm going to enjoy some relaxation right now.</i><br />
<i>Loving: cozy blankets and snoring pet dogs.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Daughtry -- September</i><br />
<u>Quote of the Day:</u> "Girls chase nothing. Not even their vodka."<i> </i><br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
I love getting together with people you haven't seen for awhile. Updating each other and getting all caught up, you get all nostalgic and happy, reminiscing and just enjoying one another's company.<br />
<br />
<i>Of all the things I still remember</i><br />
<i>Summers never looked the same</i><br />
<i>Years go by and time just seems to fly</i><br />
<i>But the memories remain</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
It's nice to just get together and share. It's kind of like therapy, but better because you know you're getting heartfelt thoughts and advice from someone who actually cares about you, and your outcome. Perhaps it doesn't happen to everyone, but I know oftentimes I lose track of myself, of the world. All the problems, the stresses, the troubles, fill my vision and mind, and I drown in all the negativity. I lose sight of what's good, what's important; what's real. But all I really need is that one phone call, one text message from someone asking how I am and if I want to meet up. Eating, laughing and just talking through everything can really help cement your thoughts, bring your attention back to the foundations of happiness and shine a light on where you were meant to be headed. You may not be even close to getting where you want, or finding that way again, but we can all use that extra hand in guiding us on that path to the reality you truly desire.<br />
<br />
So pick up the phone and call that old friend. It can be well worth your while. We all need those breaks, those moments where you just kick back and hang out with your buddies. And sometimes it'll help you realize the absurdity of the world; and how Apple is clearly moving forward in world domination...Or maybe just among us...hahaha...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GUjqcNKZCwnbiyumWZ4Ibdlk69UHTkJOMmMiAjetnILhjWc_SVaixXefw1RdsfY1CEvKwIez-PFRs17uOFxF5Czr_KK7xvLpIPhWJAeCrhdVuOKFvtXJdhZGxdluEeivE-JBz5nygVo/s1600/iphones01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GUjqcNKZCwnbiyumWZ4Ibdlk69UHTkJOMmMiAjetnILhjWc_SVaixXefw1RdsfY1CEvKwIez-PFRs17uOFxF5Czr_KK7xvLpIPhWJAeCrhdVuOKFvtXJdhZGxdluEeivE-JBz5nygVo/s320/iphones01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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I feel like we should be a little concerned, at some point. But maybe after we've finished remembering that one time...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-6280936719966275772010-10-21T18:24:00.001-04:002010-10-23T21:51:20.928-04:00A StruggleMood: frustrated, stressed.<br />
Hating: midterms.<br />
Loving: Toby Lightman.<br />
Listening to: my Documentary Film and Television professor. Being of the social networking generation, I multi-task well; at least I believe I do. <br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
<b>Everyday</b><br />
<br />
Everyday is a struggle<br />
<b> </b>between what I want to say, and what I should keep to myself<br />
And the words that do leave my lips<br />
Well, they don't hurt me<br />
But they hurt everyone else<br />
<br />
<br />
So I find myself in need of a pause<br />
I'm not sure why but I think that it's because<br />
of this desire to be what others want me to be<br />
Which is nothing close to me<br />
<br />
<br />
But I'll see better when the smoke clears, when the smoke clears inside my head<br />
And I can listen when the screaming doesn't repeat everything that I've said<br />
All that remains is me and who I am at the end of the of the day<br />
And this happens everyday<br />
<br />
<br />
Everyday is a battle<br />
between what I want to know and what I don't want to figure out<br />
But they're still hovering here, in these dark thoughts of mine<br />
That you know I can't live without<br />
<br />
<br />
So I find myself in need of a pause<br />
I'm not sure why but I think that it's because<br />
of this desire to be what others want me to be<br />
Which is nothing close to me<br />
<br />
<br />
But I'll see better when the smoke clears, when the smoke clears inside my head<br />
And I can listen when the screaming doesn't repeat everything that I've said<br />
All that remains is me and who I am at the end of the day<br />
And this happens everyday...Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-82673452136454373452010-10-12T14:08:00.002-04:002010-10-12T14:21:30.256-04:00Just A Little Older, That's All<i>Mood: sad.</i><br />
<i>Hating: how, no matter how much you want or need it to stop or at least slow down, life will continue to go on...</i><br />
<i>Loving: memories.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Damien Rice -- Aime</i><br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
<b>Sometimes life just feels like chapters of goodbyes.</b><br />
<br />
You may have never been my grandmother through blood, but you were in every other sense of the word.<br />
<br />
I love how you use to totter along every morning along the sidewalks, turning around to yell at me to walk faster, despite the fact that you were more than twice my age. I love how you use to, on the hour, every hour, sweep the floor of your entire house. I love hearing the story of how you met, fell in love, and then was separated from the love of your life for years; only to find him again many years later and then become best friends with his new wife. It still blows my mind, and I think it says a great deal about the kind of person you were.<br />
<br />
You use to squeeze my arm fat, and call me the 'chubby one'. But then you'd smile that slightly crooked grin and tell me that it was good; it meant that I had a bigger appetite in life.<br />
<br />
I think the same could be said of you.<br />
<br />
With one of the biggest hearts and passion for life I've ever known, I loved coming to visit you. You truly made going to California an adventure for me every time, and I know you transferred your love of the West Coast to me.<br />
<br />
Nothing broke my heart more than hearing your diagnosis. And my chest still squeezes just a little bit when I think back to how you cried when you saw me and the rest of my family in the hallways at the convalescent hospital back in May. But none of that pain compares to weight that settled on my shoulders at the phone call we got last night at 1.00 in the morning.<br />
<br />
I'm glad to know your battle with cancer is over. I'm glad to know you're not suffering anymore. And I'm glad to know you were sleeping, and left with a smile on your face; just like in life.<br />
<br />
So goodbye, Grandma. I love you, and I'm going to miss you so much. May you find the same peace and happiness in heaven that you spread here. I'll find a way to see you again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuOi_t96kFveMQ0bPk9Nv8kSiSIgGyQG60g9RRUoXE24QiTEYmQGUJLTjiWCGkQjwpyKSTc8FRCjNXEPaRT0ghxQbluVULYG69YhTdP3lzT55IBEQbUyOOSI24ohK1X17Um4UEXXL-WA/s1600/CIMG1231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuOi_t96kFveMQ0bPk9Nv8kSiSIgGyQG60g9RRUoXE24QiTEYmQGUJLTjiWCGkQjwpyKSTc8FRCjNXEPaRT0ghxQbluVULYG69YhTdP3lzT55IBEQbUyOOSI24ohK1X17Um4UEXXL-WA/s400/CIMG1231.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><b>Rest In Peace.</b>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-73578495518984376832010-09-25T00:43:00.001-04:002010-09-29T13:59:39.872-04:00There You Go, You're Gone For Good<i>Mood: blah.</i><br />
<i>Hating: insane amounts of reading for school.</i><br />
<i>Loving: frozen blueberries (no seriously, try putting your blueberries in the freezer for a few hours before you eat them; you will not regret it).</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Brooke Fraser -- Scarlet</i><br />
<u>Quote of the day:</u> "If actions speak louder than words, than why is the pen mightier than the sword?"<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
So I've been in back school for just going on three weeks. And I've been struggling with writer's block for just going on three months.<br />
<br />
I wish I could blame it on work, on school, on finances, but I can't. In part, those are causing huge amounts of stress for me -- I still have no idea how I'm paying tuition -- yet it's not as though those things are anything new. My life has always been delicate balancing act between working, paying bills, education, friends, and what not. Everyone undergoes similar, if not the same, distractions, disappointments and sacrifices. This time around though, I'm not sure where my inspiration has gone.<br />
<br />
<i><u>Lost</u>: One muse. Looks like thousands of random story, poem, song, theatre, and/or photography ideas that may or may not be linked with a jumble of words, actions and insomnia. Offering handsome reward.</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>The worst part is, my lose of creativity is seeping into the rest of my life. I find myself unamused and bored, uninterested in things that should be intriguing and entertaining. My perspective has been lackluster lately, and it's all I can do to simply roll out of bed to go to school, then trudge myself to work.<br />
<br />
Wallowing in desolation, I stared at my ceiling for an immeasurable amount of time before I flicked my laptop back on. The screen illuminates little in my dark room, only revealing my cotton sheets, some unread books and articles on my nightstand -- I like to pretend I'll eventually become a good university student and do my readings before class -- a water bottle, my cellphone and my USB key. Ah, my precious flash drive, the incredible piece of technology that seems to hold almost all the contents of my life.<br />
<br />
Scrolling through unfinished songs, half-crafted plays, unedited photos, story plans, and other random tidbits, I hoped to find that flash of something that will spark my imagination and artistry. I stumbled across an incomplete one shot.<br />
<br />
For those not familiar with the term, a one shot is simply a short story, cutely named 'one shot' in the reflection that (most) short stories tend to only have one chapter.<br />
<br />
Back to what I'm about to present. Started not too long before this frigid tundra settled over my talents, it's something that most writers are probably familiar with: the weaving together of personal experience with a few extras. I think I'm going to finish it someday. But it's only right that I share what I have now, in case it never does see the light of day again, which would be a disappointment to <b>him</b>. It seems like just yesterday, but I realized today it's been years. Hard to wrap my head around. But with the recent passing of Lawrence Stern as well, perhaps it's <b>his</b> way of gently nudging me in the right direction.<br />
<br />
Feel free to let me know what you think. Keep in mind, it is an unfinished piece. Yet maybe by putting this out there, it will not only explain the ink etched into my skin, but offer me an outlet through which I may be able to find my muse once again.<br />
<br />
<u>Note:</u> It is named after 'Scarlet' by Brooke Fraser. One of my personal favourites, and I like to think this does reflect the musicality and emotion in the song. However, it's a personal choice whether you want to listen while reading or not...<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Scarlet</b></i></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Step. Step. Stop.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Step. Step. Stop.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I turn to glance behind me again. The road is still barren, the dull evening light casting odd shadows. I could barely make out my car parked beside that bush. But that was the point.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Step. Step. Step.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Step. Step. Crunch.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The paved pathway gives way to loose rocks and gravel as I continue on my way. The salty tang of the ocean breeze reaches my senses as the wind caresses my face, gently brushing against the tears trailing down my cheeks.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's okay to cry here. It's okay to scream, to let it all out. Tension, stress, pain; they all disappear here, at least for a little while. There's nothing around for miles.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was here that we always came to find peace.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Moving in and between the overgrown bushes and weeds, I try to find the pathway that hadn't been used in months. It was much more difficult than I remember. But then again, it wasn't often that I trekked through on my own.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Step, step, step.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My pace quickens as the foliage lightens, allowing me glimpses of the twilight sky. The trembling of my hands as they push aside leaves and branches betray how little time I had left. I couldn't keep myself together for much longer.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Step, step, step.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Stop.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The trees give way, like they always do, to allow me to walk out into the little clearing overlooking the ocean. Nobody else knew about this place. Most just head straight for the sandy shores just a bit further down the coastline, opting to frolic in the water, tan, eat and drink with friends and family while the sun beat down upon them. Even now, I can hear the distant sounds of laughter from a few stragglers trying to squeeze some last minutes of fun from their beach day. The clouds had already rolled in, blanketing the sky in a somber grey. How appropriate. Even without the threat of rain, the beach's curfew was approaching, and most had already vacated, packing their belongings away and climbing into their cars to drive off; almost like it was a regular day. To them, it was. They'd go home, sleep, and wake up tomorrow to carry on with their lives, this day at the beach just another memory.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Just another memory. I hate that phrase.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I swallow hard as I carefully make my way closer, trying to get to the collection of rocks that appear to be balanced precariously on the edge. They're secure though. We had spent plenty of time rolling around, playing and sitting on these rocks. But they too, were now just memories.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath; deeper than I had in awhile. To not taste the sterile air of the hospital is more of a relief than I thought it'd be. Now settled into a comfortable spot, I draw my knees up to my chest to rest my head against them. Staring out across the great expanse of water, I feel like a weight is slowly being lifted.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">No need to be strong here. No need to pretend. No need to act like it's all okay.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I squeeze my eyes shut tighter as the tears began to pour. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms. Ragged sobs burst from within as I begin to rock myself back and forth gently.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">All just a memory now.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This had sort of become our unofficial spot. I recall the day he'd dragged me here. I'd done nothing but complain the whole way, but as the sky with its brilliant setting sun came into view with the waves crashing against the rocks below, I'd understood. I laughed long and hard when he said it, but it truly was one of those places where the sky, land and water meet. It was beautiful. A sense of calm and unity oozed from the very stones of this place. Nobody knew us here; we could be honest to ourselves, and each other here. Countless day trips, midnight escapes, and random excursions had ended here. So many thoughts, feelings, ideas were formed here, breathed in from the harmony of nature. Confessions and breakdowns, laughter and fun, pain and heartbreak. All just memories.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He's nothing but a memory now.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was here that I found him that day. Busy with work, I hadn't been able to go with him to the doctor. Neither of us had thought anything of it; it was just a persistent bruise. I told him he needed to stop banging that leg into things so it could have time to actually heal. I hadn't realized how wrong we were until I had to come looking for him. I should have come here first, instead of waiting around his apartment. He shouldn't have had to be alone after the diagnosis. But time had never been an issue for us before.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It hurts.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I gasp now, trying to draw oxygen into my lungs. It hurts so much. The emotional ache I'd been suppressing within begins to fight, bubbling to the surface. My body begins to tremble in distress. I can't lie to myself here. It'd be a betrayal of what it stood for. It needs to come out. I unsteadily rise to my feet as I feel the first few droplets plop onto my skin.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Why?!”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The strength of my cry increases with each scream of the question, the thunder in the distance the only answer to the agony in my voice. I don't understand. And I don't think I ever will. Is it something he did? Something we'd done? Were we being punished? Am <i>I</i> being punished? What was it? A test? A mistake?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So young. We'd barely started our lives, hardly had a chance to explore the world. We didn't even really know who we were before we were thrust into this nightmare.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It happens to other people, other families, other friends. It's just a statistic; until it comes and destroys your life. Then you begin to understand the charities, the fundraisers, the messages. I didn't. I let out another sob as my head drops to my chest. The foul taste of bile invades my palate as I remember my goddamn selfishness with disgust. <b>He</b> needed to be strong for me, because <i>I</i> didn't get it. <b>He</b> needed to research, to talk and explain to <i>me</i> about what leukemia was, how it worked. <b>He </b>needed to comfort <i>me</i> when his tests and treatment started. And <b>he</b> was the one who reassured <i>me</i> that everything would be fine.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><u><b>Liar.</b></u></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-1329644940009059882010-09-12T01:34:00.000-04:002010-09-12T01:34:59.869-04:00When Everything's Made to Be Broken, I Just Want You to Know Who I AmMood: tired. Always tired.<br />
Hating: how I have to go to a part-time job I hate in less than 10 hours.<br />
Loving: the way it smells when it rains.<br />
Lip-syncing: Goo Goo Dolls -- Iris<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://whi.s3.prod.lg1x8.simplecdn.net/images/3851445/hope,ice,cream,kind,laugh,love,sing-2d1d4a72bbd4be75b63d15a2a3234180_h_large.jpg?1284256667" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://whi.s3.prod.lg1x8.simplecdn.net/images/3851445/hope,ice,cream,kind,laugh,love,sing-2d1d4a72bbd4be75b63d15a2a3234180_h_large.jpg?1284256667" width="320" /></a></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-51710181520221477272010-09-01T12:46:00.004-04:002010-12-07T21:29:25.369-05:00They Say You Don't Know What You've Got 'Till It's GoneMood: sad, but happy to a certain degree.<br />
Lip-syncing: Jake Coco and Caitlin Hart -- Don't Go<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
I still remember the day I first saw him.<br />
<br />
Wandering through a giant high school that was completely foreign to me, my eighth grade self timidly sat beside my father when we were brought into this dark cave of a room. Black walls, black boxes, black curtains.<br />
"Kind of cliche," I said to my dad. He shrugged. I knew he wasn't a fan of this subject. He wanted me to take music, like my older brother and sister, to be a good little band student. Music makes you smarter, a better student.<br />
"Not this," he replied, waving his hand about the room. This small, stuffy space was definitely not made to hold this many people.<br />
<br />
It was made to hold much more.<br />
<br />
That tiny, confined room became like a second home to me through the next four years. A safe haven, a place to cry, to laugh, and to love. In fact, even walking in there now stirs a deep, unexplainable feeling in my chest.<br />
<br />
Lawrence Stern was an intimidating man when I first laid eyes on him. With his long, grey/white hair, wide glasses, and mismatched shoes, I thought him a bit crazy. Especially when he started gesturing wildly during a small exercise. One detail that stands out was his arm drum roll, the one he did after he made some cheesy joke I didn't understand; that bump-bump-thud, meant to mimic a old-fashioned comedian's drum sound.<br />
<br />
How 'Stern'.<br />
<br />
For anyone who attended Streetsville Secondary, Stern became a sort of living symbol for Streetsville's incredible theatre program. I was drawn into drama from that very first fascinating demonstration during grade eight orientation night. Severely disappointed when I realized my first drama class was not until second semester, I eagerly joined the mongrel group of ninth graders hoping to make it into Streetsville's annual fall Showcase performance. We worked closely with another teacher, but this was truly my first exposure to Mr. Stern. Most certainly not my last.<br />
<br />
Stern had this intensity, this passion that was undeniable. Actually, I remember being baffled and a little frightened. I smile and laugh at the memory, but Stern's first impressions are always a little questionable. In fact, Stern was a pretty questionable guy. He had the strangest habits, and most bizarre thought patterns. It was impossible to have a conversation with him without having to step back and take a second look at your perspective, and even better, at another perspective on the issue. It's what I truly loved most, talking with him.<br />
<br />
I had to be honest. Brutally, completely honest not only with him, but with myself. Stern had that quality about him. He often became my confidant of sorts as the years passed. It's no secret my parents and I have never gotten along well, and Stern often gave me the reality checks I needed to figure out whatever part of my life I was struggling with at the time.<br />
<br />
It was a bittersweet day when I attended his retirement party. Although I'd never had him as a drama teacher -- Marsha Legault became my second mother, with all the things she taught me -- I was apprehensive about him leaving. It felt wrong somehow. What felt even more wrong was how I lost touch with him after he left. Weekly emails trickled down to once a months, once every few months, and then next to never. We use to exchange anecdotes, photos, music, and it just trailed off. It's really my fault. Stern was perfectly capable of maintaining friendships with his other students, and now I just feel a little guilty.<br />
<br />
Visiting him in the hospice for cancer patients did nothing to ease it. Seeing him, so different from how I imagined, just broke my heart. But I know that's not what he wanted to hear. And the minute he opened his mouth to give me shit about my life choices, I knew he was still the same old Stern. Nothing would ever change that, and in that way I'm glad. To see him suffering through the pain was hard to do, so to know that agony is over for him is a relief. <br />
<br />
It's always in retrospect that we see our mistakes. We wish we could go back and spend more time with the people that matter. Despite all the warnings, all the reminders, sometimes we just forget. And then we regret. I know Stern doesn't blame me for anything, but I do. And it's useless to play the blame game, but sometimes it's unavoidable. I wish I could go back in time. Impossible, yes, I know, but it doesn't change the fact that I want to.<br />
<br />
But let's not waste anymore time on impractical thoughts, useless things and regrets. Instead, remember those we've lost. Remember them for their laughter, their strength, their passion, their intelligence, the inspiration they provided, the way they pushed conventional boundaries, their insanity and brilliance, the comfort they provided and the love they shared.<br />
<br />
And their mismatched chucks.<br />
<br />
<b>Rest In Peace, Lawrence Stern.</b><br />
Go ahead, rock that porcupine hat and give 'em hell up there. May you continue on your path to teach, love and live in the afterlife.<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />
<i>07 Dec. 2010 -- </i><i>Edit: </i>There is a facebook group that was created, called "In Memory of Lawrence Stern"<br />
http://www.facebook.com/pages/In-Memory-of-Lawrence-Peter-Stern/169160026457828<br />
That is the link. Feel free to head there and share your memories as well...Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-73607788634146523912010-07-28T00:20:00.002-04:002010-08-02T20:45:32.268-04:00A Final Song, A Last Request, A Perfect Chapter Laid to Rest<i>Mood: incredible.</i><br />
<i>Hating: that the weekend is over.</i><br />
<i>Loving: friends, music, inspiration.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: Avenged Sevenfold -- So Far Away </i><br />
<b>Quote of the Day:</b> "Now and then I try to find a place in my mind where you can stay, you can stay awake forever."<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
Coming back from <i>Heavy MTL</i> was just inspiring. It was an incredible weekend filled with people, booze, craziness, and most of all, music. I won't get into the minuet details of my trip to Montreal, but I will share how absolutely amazing Avenged Sevenfold was. Their first show without Jimmy "The Rev" Sullivan, their drummer, and they couldn't have been more extraordinary.<br />
<br />
I wish I could just spend time gushing about Alice Cooper, Slayer, Rob Zombie, Korn, Hatebreed, and the other insane bands/artists that performed, but that would take way too long. Instead, I'll simply post what I managed to scribble down on the way back home.<br />
<br />
All for the love of music <3<br />
<br />
<b>Drummer's Kick</b><br />
<br />
I hear the beat like nothing else<br />
The bass in the right<br />
the slam from the left<br />
Your hands pound through the music<br />
like angels playing me lullabies<br />
The electric pulse sends my knees beating<br />
like a never ending lecture of foes<br />
Take what you've learned<br />
and prove what you know<br />
The lessons learned through practice and notes<br />
Full of love and hatred for fellow man<br />
<br />
Whole notes held just long enough<br />
to feel your heart beating<br />
Now I can't quit tapping my feet<br />
in hopes you'll notice I'm keeping time<br />
Trying to rock out to a song your soul hasn't fully found yet<br />
<br />
I sit in a familiar place<br />
Full of memories of the way it used to be<br />
All glistening smiles as if time has never passed<br />
A chunk of me the size of last night's drunken mistakes<br />
belongs here, to you for always<br />
<br />
You have a drummer's kick about you<br />
Consistently moving and shaking with the beat<br />
Arms flying as if to tell me I have my own personal angel<br />
<br />
You have no idea how much your sound has blessed the non-believers<br />
They're all listening to the cries of the drum bass kick<br />
<br />
Plug in your headphones<br />
Let the waves of sound wash over<br />
As if they were made from the skin of your enemies<br />
<br />
I see those instruments in the corner<br />
The corner where we forgot old beer bottles<br />
And the nights we can't remember but still try to forget<br />
<br />
You connection has rhythm<br />
Friends have soul<br />
Our family's created through rock and roll<br />
So I shift to drop D<br />
answering your beat with my strings<br />
Tell me what you really think of me<br />
But let's play a major note to depict where I come from now<br />
Haven't you noticed the changes in my grin?<br />
<br />
There's nothing else more important<br />
Then the weaving together of friends for the perfect life song.Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8540713401294246941.post-45635620387722520242010-07-05T00:18:00.001-04:002010-07-05T00:19:53.994-04:00I'll Sleep When I Am Dead<i>Mood: ...</i><br />
<i>Hating: the heat. No, that's a lie; I hate the humidity.</i><br />
<i>Loving: friends, who have become family by choice.</i><br />
<i>Lip-syncing: City and Colour (ft. Gordon Downie) -- Sleeping Sickness</i><br />
<b>Quote of the Day:</b> "Women want to enjoy the process, while men just want to get to the destination."<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
With the end of the Toronto Pride week being smothered in heat and humidity, I find myself contemplating inclusion. It's so easy to say what's wrong, to talk about change, to promise you'll be there for someone. But when push comes to shove, you truly learn who cares and loves.<br />
<br />
I won't get into the debate of homosexuality and what not. That is not what's on my mind today. Social rights and civil movements are always of interest to me, but lately my personal life has taken some rather dramatic twists. Although I do not post regularly enough as it is, I figured I'd take a second to just write that I'm not sure when the next time I will post is.<br />
<br />
Writing, art, music; they're all linked. And since I couldn't find the words to pen myself, here is a song that's disturbingly accurate in describing my life. Enjoy. And wish me luck.<br />
<br />
<b>Sleeping Sickness</b><br />
City and Colour ft. Gordon Downie (from the Tragically Hip)<br />
<br />
<i>I awoke<br />
Only to find my lungs empty<br />
And through the night<br />
So it seems I'm not breathing<br />
And now my dreams are nothing like they were meant to be<br />
And I'm breaking down, I think I'm breaking down<br />
<br />
And I'm afraid<br />
To sleep because of what haunts me<br />
Such as living with the uncertainty<br />
That I'll never find the words to say<br />
Which would completely explain<br />
Just how I'm breaking down<br />
<br />
Someone come and, someone come and save my life<br />
Maybe I'll sleep when I am dead<br />
But now it's like the night is taking sides<br />
With all the worries that occupy the back of my mind<br />
Could it be this misery will suffice?<br />
<br />
I've become<br />
A simple souvenir of someone's kill<br />
And like the sea<br />
I'm constantly changing from calm to ill<br />
Madness fills my heart and soul as if the great divide could swallow me whole<br />
oh, how I'm breaking down<br />
<br />
Someone come and, someone come and save my life<br />
Maybe I'll sleep when I am dead<br />
But now it's like the night is taking sides<br />
With all the worries that occupy the back of my mind<br />
Could it be this misery will suffice?<br />
Ooooohhh my life<br />
<br />
Someone come and, someone come and save my life<br />
Someone come and, someone come and save my life<br />
Someone come and, someone come and save my life<br />
Could it be this misery will suffice?</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i49.tinypic.com/10wpeok.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="http://i49.tinypic.com/10wpeok.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Krishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03033300498860496565noreply@blogger.com0