My Mumbling Thoughts

Holy shit, have you guys ever used Clinique's pore minimizer thermal-active skin refiner? Fuck me, this shit is INTENSE. I literally just used it a couple of minutes ago to...well...minimize my pores and all I can say is SHIT. It does the job. I mean, if the "warming sensation" doesn't freak you out, then maybe the slight redness of your face will after you rinse it off and you look like you have mini forest fires happening around some of your pimples. It's SCARY.

But after all of that weirdness, your face - and more importantly - the pores on your face are instantly smaller! Yeah, it's probably classified under "caution: use at your own risk," but I don't really mind. My pores have never looked better!

Okay, that's the end of that little public service announcement. Really, I'm not here to babble on about a beauty product (even though it's freakishly amazing!). I just had to share with y'all, because that stuff is serious.

***

What I am here to babble on about is, um, well, myself. What else! Hello, this is my blog.

Welcome 2009! (well, in roughly 20 hours and 45 minutes). All I'm really going to be doing when that clock strikes midnight is sitting on the floor rocking back 'n' forth with my fingers crossed saying to myself, please, lord, let this year be good. PLEASE. I can't bear for another bad year. 2008 was really bad for the most part and all I'm hoping for is a nice and neat little ending to wrap this chapter up.

I am walking into this with high hopes, though, as I always do. God, when will I wise up and stop hoping for each year to be better than the last one? But no matter what, I always end up thinking to myself, yep, this year is going to be different. I can feel it. Really, I don't feel shit except even more hopeful than the year before. I'm sure I'll get it into my little head one day to stop hoping and just accept that a new year doesn't mean anything really. It's just another day on the calendar and a way for keeping ourselves organized with the dates.

I was having a little browse, though, through some of my old archives (because with me being hopeful, I also get nostalgic) and perused through some of the past new year's that I've shared here on My Mumbling Thoughts. There was one time when I celebrated early and another one that I didn't post, but where I ended up passing out at half ten and waking up on my bathroom floor alone with an empty bottle of vodka in my hand. 'Cos you know, I'm a classy gal like that.

Oh, this shitty holiday.

This year, I'm not going anywhere, I'm not doing anything particularly special or acknowledging it in any way shape or form. Wednesday is Wednesday, just like how it always is, and when I wake up, hey! it's going to be Thursday. Look at that.

I was thinking of going out with Mendy and celebrating with some of her friends, but to be quite honest, I'd much rather sit at home with my fingers crossed and a bottle of wine. I guess that would be considered "acknowledging" this so-called "holiday," but whatever. I never was good with following through anyway.

I did have a laugh looking through some old posts, though. I mean old posts. Old for me, considering my wee blog is only a mere three years old. First of all, I used to ramble! Good lord, I would never shut up! All I did was bitch about this thing in the office, or that thing in the office. Blah, blah, blah, moan, moan, moan. And my writing style wasn't very good either. I was quite boring and who knows how I managed to snag some pretty cool readers (I love y'all!). But I was consistent and wrote pretty much Monday through Friday like a dedicated little bee. I have certainly come far since being an administrative assistant in a power company working for stereotypical archetypes that get turned into sketches for SNL. Now I want to go back to the admin world, but with a little more life experience under my belt and a better understanding of who I am as a person and my voice that I want to project into the world.

Sure, these past two and a half years at university have been a rough ride for me. I know I've blogged about how this sucks, or that sucks, or how goddamned depressed I am one day and how I'm perfectly fine the next. I am a constant, never-ending bouncy ball that hammers through each day completely blind and yet still sees everything in front of me. But it has overall been AMAZING and I wouldn't change one goddamned thing for the whole world. Coming here to university and being surrounded by my uni life has been tremendously helpful (while at the same time being curse since I can NEVER get away from it). I've learned a lot at good 'ol RoeHo about being a writer, myself as a writer and how I want to continue my writing "career" whenever that gets started. My expectations have been put into perspective and while I do think that my degree is a bit of a toss off, it's still challenging and forces writers today to really look at what they're doing and think twice about putting something out there for people to read. So aside from all of my "life issues," being at university has helped me, I think, in more ways than one.

One of my lecturers, Leone Ross, said to a room full of 25 potential and - here's that word again - hopeful writers that about five us will move on to have successful writing careers and get published in some form. The writing industry is more competitive than the music industry and perhaps if we're lucky, one of us might even be the next J.K. Rowling* even though it's highly unlikely. She didn't want to tell us to crush all of our hopes and dreams, but really, c'mon...we're not all going to get published, be successful and live happily ever after. That just doesn't happen in real life.

She did say, though, that there are different alternatives for us all other than aspiring to be the next Big Thing. We can publish short stories in anthologies, work for freelance newspapers and magazines, publish online and still have a successful writing career. It may not always be glitz and glam, but hey, who said we were writing for the big bucks anyway? Those who write solely for money will eventually run out of steam and their lack of passion will end up being their downfall.

I'm excited to see where I'll be in the next three years. If anything, these past three years have been a means to answer some of my very own quesitons I had for myself before I even stepped one foot at university. The girl who once didn't know what she was going to do with her life, now has a better idea and clearer picture of where I want to be in this world and how to get there. I suppose ending each year with a big celebration is fun or necessary for some people. I certainly know what it's like to need closure for some things. But I don't want to stop or pause or put an end to things. I just want to keep going and going until I'm satisfied with where I end up.

* Why is it that J.K. Rowling is always the one person to get compared to whenever being judged on how successful you are? I can't stand it anymore.

Posted by Sam at 04:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

So I've been writing.

Correction. I've been thinking about writing, how I'm going to write it, planning it out, making lists, sketching it all together and composing bits and pieces in my head.

I've also been reading.

There's one book that I have called Will Write For Shoes which is really good and makes sense, and then there's also one I have to read for one of my lectures that starts in a few short weeks called The Weekend Novelist, which is always getting referred to in all of these other books I've been reading, but it's just so hard for me to properly get into it. Why does it have to be so painful for me?

And I'm still reading good 'ole Virginia Woolf. God. She's just so awesome. Why can't I write like her and tell stories like she does? All of her words make sense when they're pieced together.

And mine?

Well. Let's not talk about that right now.

This past week has been me chilling at Helen's house, because last week was my last week of work since they told me that I was no longer needed. I didn't get fired, but my temporary job just came to an end. It happens. I knew it was going to happen. It wasn't a shock. I decided to take advantage of this free time that I've been given and get a good start on constructing the first chapter of the novel I'm supposed to be working on, because I've been wanting to send some stuff over to my friend, Erik (not VA Erik, but blogger friend Erik).

And what have I written? A page and a half of boring, mindless drivel that serves no purpose in my story. And what are they always telling me in my lectures and these writing "self help" books? They tell me that EVERY WORD MUST SERVE A PURPOSE. And I'm all, "hey, let's write about stupid shit that doesn't belong in the story, but you think should go there because, why not?"

Yeah. None of it makes sense.

I've decided I'm going to scrap it all because it's all a load of wank. Trust me. I would let you read it, but I'm not that mean. I'm not that cruel. I wouldn't want to inflict that kind of pain upon you.

All summer I've been piecing together this story that I've thought of, I've been sculpting it all together and planning, planning, PLANNING. I even have the first two chapters sketched on notepads, have done all of my character checklists, thought about them all and have re-structured things so that they fit better and have scrapped ideas that seemed good, but would be better to be left out in the long run. All that's left to do is to start writing.

Write.

So I started and have decided that since the first page and a half sucks (which it has taken me weeks to write that pathetic page and a half), I'll just get rid of it and start again.

With the page and a half that is, not the story. I'm keeping everything else.

I don't know why I choked. The only reason I can think of is because I just put way too much pressure on myself. Already, I know. When I sit and think about it for any length of time, I get all holy shit, this is the beginning of my first real novel and I panicked. I proper freaked out in my head and lost sight of what I wanted to write about, whose voice I wanted to be speaking throughout the story and forgot that writing is supposed to be fun, not stressful. I wanted everything to be perfect and when I finally took to the keyboard my fingers decided to betray me and write something completely opposite to what I've been thinking about all summer long.

So that page and a half? Is going straight into the little trash bin icon that sits in the bottom right hand corner of my screen.

I may have said good-bye to the past two years that have caused me so much grief, but that doesn't mean that the fear I have inside me hasn't gone away. My fear is that it'll happen again, and I definitely do not want an encore of any of that. I'm excited to get a start at a new year, but I'm so scared that I'll fall susceptible to all of the same things and will end up right where I was only a bigger failure.

So this story, this novel, I've been putting everything into it all summer. I want it to be fresh and funny, but I also want it to be a proper representation of me, my writing skills, what I've learned over the past two years and tell a story that is super close to my heart. I don't want it to be a "chick lit" or a "dramatic story" or anything like that. I want it to be about life and have people relate to it and take something away from it.

I remember when I was in the second grade in Mrs. Bowman's class. We lived in Denver, Colorado at the time and it was when I learned about the tall tale. We were told that we were going to write our own tall tales. We were going to write them on those brown sheets of paper with the blue dotted lines on them that kids use when they first start learning how to write, and that each sheet was going to be connected to each other. Then we were going to take a picture of Paul Bunyan's head and his blue ox, and staple it to the top of our story, and then staple their feet at the very end. The finished products were going to hang in the hallways from the ceiling to the floor and be on display for anyone to read who walked by and cared to read whatever a second grader had to say.

Boy, I got excited. I remember thinking to myself that I was going to write the most and have the longest tall tale ever, and my story was going to make sense and be ten times more awesome than everyone else's. Why? Because I was awesome, that's why.

I took my brown paper with the blue dotted lines home and I worked on it for TWO WHOLE DAYS, which for a second grader is a fucking long time and a big sacrifice. I missed out on Ghostwriter, which was one of my favorite TV shows. But I wrote non-stop while Momma cooked dinner for us, all throughout the day and only stopped to sharpen my pencil.

When Monday arrived and we started piecing our stories together, I saw that many of my classmates wrote about six or seven pages and that was it. I had easily written the most and was so proud that the bottom of my Paul Bunyan's feet needed to be rolled up and paper-clipped together because my story was just THAT long. I remember there was one boy whose story was longer than mine, but it didn't matter in the end and you want to know why?

Because Mrs. Bowman kept my story. She asked me after our stories had been on display in the hallway for two weeks if she could keep mine to show other students in the future what a good tall tale is, and what an impressive writer I was at such a young age. She said she understood if I wanted to keep it for myself, but I told her she could have it. She didn't ask the other boy. I saw him shove his into his plastic backpack later that day.

I may have gotten slightly derailed over this new story of mine, but the second grader that still lives inside of me is dying to get to writing again; properly writing, just like how I did in Mrs. Bowman's class. I want to be able to get so freaking excited about a story that I don't stop for anything except to recharge my laptop battery. The second grader Sammi Jo wasn't afraid of writing anything back then, and she shouldn't be scared now either.

Posted by Sam at 11:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Helen knows that every day when I get home from work, I have to take up at least fifteen minutes of her life while I update her on all of the mundane facts of my day; the lady on the train that fell asleep on me, or another Office Story that I have from sitting at my desk for eight hours. She turns off the TV, sits up a little straighter and gives me her full, undivided attention while I ramble on about nothingness.

That's just me, and she knows it.

She is my best friend (one of a small handful I have and keep close in my heart). We have had a couple of rough patches, but nothing that we haven't worked through and came out on the other side brighter and closer. It's something that I believe all best friends have to go through, because no relationship is perfect all the time. We get annoyed with each other, fall into a funk, a mood and can get easily irritated because the other one is just blinking at the other. Why does she do that!? God!

But for the majority of the time, we are best friends. I consider her a sister.

Helen is beautiful. When I say that, I mean it in the purest way. She is beautiful both on the outside and the inside, and to me, that is extremely hard to find in a person. She's ridiculously smart and there are so many qualities that she has I wish I could have in myself; one of them being that she's financially independent to the max. Helen keeps her finances very private, never discussing them with anyone, and I wonder if I should take a page out of her book. She has never had to borrow money from anyone, and keeps tight lips about the number that flashes on the cash machine.

Aside from the fact that she knows how to manage her money, though, she is damn near perfect. She's what I like to call "classic beauty". She has blond hair and the bluest sparkling eyes that she dresses up with glittering eyeshadow and a slick layer of mascara. She chooses all of her clothes carefully and everything in her wardrobe fits her like a glove. She has her own personal style, and knows how to work it. She is a true London Girl, being born and raised here and knows the city inside and out.

On top of all that, she's ridiculously sweet and will do anything to help you within reason. You can't not like her. It's virtually impossible, and she's so personable. I see her when she chats to people and she just has a way about her that makes you want to be her best friend. She's my little princess and I can't wait to see what the future holds for her; she deserves everything in the world.

My darling little Helen, though, does have her own fair share of woes. It pains me to see her when she's unhappy (damn you boys that can't see a good thing when she's right in front of you!) and there's nothing more I would like to do than just to make all of her problems disappear. I know how she is, how she can be and how she beats herself up over things that she shouldn't be worrying about. I wish I could make her see all of the wonderful things that I see in her, that everyone sees in her, but that she occasionally can't see from time to time.

She's moving to Paris on the 9th of September. Since she studies French and Classics, she's required to do one of her uni years abroad in the country whose language she is learning, therefore taking four years of uni rather than the traditional three. She'll be in another graduating class than all of us. She'll be gone for our third and final years. She'll be missing out on the London uni scene. But she'll be gaining so much more in return. She is embarking on a new journey, getting a clean slate and is starting over in a brand new country. (Sound familiar?) As much as I'm going to miss my wee Care Bear being so close, I'm equally excited for her and can't wait to hear about all of the French Things she's going to be doing. I wonder if their university life will be the same as our university life? Probably. It's just all in French.

And it's not like I'm never going to see her again. I've already told her that our first reading week that we have, I'm hopping on the first Euro Star train and coming to visit her so we can be Parisian together and terrorize the locals. They'll hate us, but we're going to love it. I want to get the full experience of eating lots of bread, smoking inside cafes and getting looked down upon by all of the french folks that despise us Americans. It'll be great.

I haven't thought about her leaving that much. I'm not sure if she has really thought about it in depth. I know she had a day or so after she returned from Poland, but we don't talk about when she's not going to be here. I don't think I'd be able to handle it. What will I do without her? Who am I going to have long, hench chats about boys with? Whose shoulder am I going to cry on? Whose room will I go into and lay on the bed and have chats with while she's getting ready for work or a night out? Who am I going to eat peanut butter and nutella with at 11:30 at night? What am I going to do? What is she going to do?

She has been with me through so much over the past two years. I remember when we were practically inseparable from each other, and living virtually parallel lives. She was the one who I always cried out for whenever I was drunk and being extremely emotional. She was the one who listened to me well late into the evening and took care of me when I couldn't take care of myself. She was always the one I would think to call first or want to talk to first whenever something BIG would happen to me throughout my days. She was my first best friend here in London, and for that, I will always be grateful that I know her.

If I know my Helen, I know she's going to be fine, more than fine even. She's so strong (a lot stronger than she thinks), and she will flourish with all of those frenchies like a fish taking to water. And when I come to visit her, we will have changed a little bit more, but not that much. She will always be the small English girl that I wanted to become best friends with when I first moved over here. And we will always be amazed by how similar, yet extremely different we are at the same time. I will miss spending time sitting quietly with her in the morning whilst we eat breakfast, and have it not be awkward. There aren't that many people in the world that I can do that with, and with Helen, I just know. I find myself saying quite a few times to her, "don't act like I don't know you and how you are."

Ah, yes. And we will always be lesbians together. One day, it's going to happen. I know it's already written in the stars.

Posted by Sam at 04:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember when I was really young -- perhaps eight or so -- and Mel had done something to royally tick me off. I can't remember exactly what it was now, but it was bad enough for me to convince her that she wasn't part of our family. She wasn't blood related and that Momma wasn't her birth mother, but rather her adoptive aunt that took pity on one of her friends and decided to raise her "as her own". I even went so far as to pull out a family photo album and point out who her "real mom" was, who just so happened to be one of Momma's friends from a few years back.

"See," I said, pointing to Momma's friend, Doreen, who had blond hair and was English. "That's your real mom. Who knows where she is now, but she just dumped you here because she didn't want you."

Yes, I was cruel older sister.

Mel cried, obviously, and ran upstairs to Momma asking if she really was part of our family. Momma had to assure her that yes, of course she was part of our family and that no, Doreen was not her birth mother. If that was the case then Momma wanted to know why she had to suffer through the hell that is Childbirth.

I would grow up and there would always be a small part of me that hated myself for ever telling Mel that she wasn't part of our family. Mel is, in so many ways, what holds our small family together. If it wasn't for her, I'm not sure where Momma and I would be these days.

In reality, she is my younger sister, the baby, the last wee youngin'; but her role is more like the middle sister. Momma and I bicker at each other, and she's unfortunately the referee that is stuck in between the both of us, listening to each of us bitch and moan about the other, and in the end Mel just throws up her arms and screams, "WHY DON'T Y'ALL JUST SORT IT OUT YOURSELVES. YOU'RE ACTING LIKE TWO-YEAR-OLDS!"

And Momma and I will just sit with our arms crossed not looking at each other, hating the fact that she's right, and she's the youngest.

But my sister, my best friend, my Pookie, she is the greatest friend that I've had my entire life. Our relationship isn't a complicated one. We don't ever need to explain anything to each other, because we just know, this is how it is. This is how we are. I know that Mel isn't a sappy sentimental person, and we rarely tell each other "I love you". That's just not what we do. It's not because we don't love each other, but it's because we don't have to tell each other as a reminder; we know that the love is always there, constantly surrounding us. There's no need to point it out and make it out to be some Big Deal.

I've given in to the fact that my younger sister is also smarter than me. Mel knows everything about Everything. She's a whiz at Jeopardy and knows plenty of useless information that no human being should ever know; but it's there, in her brain, just waiting to score 400 points. She also knows everything there is to know about Designer Name Brands, high fashion couture, and can spot knock-off purses from a mile away. It's a gift really.

She also has a sixth sense about men that we date and will tell you whether or not he's the right guy, simply by you talking about him. I don't know how she does it, but she knows every single time; and not just with the guys that I'm interested in or Momma goes out with, but my friends as well. We'll disagree with her and tell her that she's wrong, but later on down the line (whether it's two years or two months), we learn that she was right the whole time. It's scary, but I've learned to trust her word and never argue when it comes to Mel's Boy Approval.

I could go on for days, weeks even, about how cool and understated my little sister is (who's not so little standing tall at 5'8"), but she's one of those people that you have to meet to understand. When people first meet her, they tend to either not like her or think she's really shy. She won't speak much, but that's only because she's quietly watching you, observing you, judging you and deciding whether or not you're worth her time. You may even forget that she's in the room, but that doesn't mean that she's not listening. And you'll know when she has made up her mind about you, because when you least expect it, she'll pipe up with one sentence, one sentence that is so dead on, so poignant and funny, that you'll be laughing for five whole minutes while trying to hold your bladder together. That's just her.

Nobody else will ever come close to figuring us out, not even Momma. We have millions of inside jokes, and can quote a lyric from a song, or recite a certain part from one of our favorite movies and just Get It. She will only do her Chander dance for me. And trust me, that is something special that I wish she would share with the world. She recommends TV shows that I'll like, sends me music, and she'll know what I'm talking about when I say, "it's all happening." We will fight, argue and hate each other, but five minutes later everything will be fine and we'll go back to laughing because, good lord, she farted again and it was a silent killer. We have conversations with each other while one of us is in the shower, and she'll scare the living shit out of me when I wake up to find her face five inches away from me, staring. And when I ask her what she's doing, she'll say simply, "just waiting for you to wake up so we can watch TV."

She'll be turning twenty-one this year, officially making her an adult that can legally purchase alcohol (even though she's not much of a drinker, unlike her big sis). She still works at Target and could open up her own store and run it smoothly if she wanted to. She's just now starting to get over her fear and has begun her driving lessons, and is going back to school this fall back home at our local community college. She's doing things at her own pace, and is in no hurry to step out on her own in this big, intimidating world. And I don't blame her. It can be a harsh place to live in sometimes.

She's not so little anymore, though. She has been growing into her own person for a while now, making decisions and learning just like me how we're going to do this whole Life thing. I consider us extremely lucky in that we don't have to do it entirely alone. I'll always be there for her, just like when I got suspended in high school for three days for threatening to run over a girl with my car who was bad-mouthing Mel around the school. And Mel will always be there for me, making sure that I get care packages from back home stock full of TV shows on dvd and my favorite magazines (where she has already filled out the crossword puzzles - Thanks Pookie).

boop

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And that would be the tattoo I got for Mel. You know Garfield and his bear Pookie? Well, that's what reminds me of Mel. For as long as I can remember, she has always been Pookie. So I got the tattoo just for her.

Posted by Sam at 02:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

It seems like I am continuously learning who are good friends, who are great friends, and who are lifelong friends that I should hope to know until we're old. For as long as I can remember, all the way back to the fourth grade when I knew Stephanie Ramazini, I've traded, recycled and gained new best friends every single year. Stephanie kicked off first, then there was blond Heather, red-headed Heather, Tabitha (whom I got in a big fight with and never spoke to ever again), Shella, Kirsty, Gina and finally Sarah in my junior year of high school.

Halfway through my senior year when I lived in North Carolina, Momma moved me up to Virginia with me kicking and screaming the whole way. I didn't want to leave halfway through my senior year, yet it was my fault for leaving in the first place. She said I could stay if I remained on good behavior, but because I was going through my "rebel phase" (which appears to only now be fading away), I was forced to move twenty minutes away from the nation's capital leaving all of my small town friends behind with no word, not even a small note saying good-bye. It must have seemed like I had been kidnapped, however, skipping school and getting my friend's dad to pierce my belly button when we were all drunk after Thanksgiving was not part of the Momma-Sam agreement. I had relinguished my rights as a free spirited 17-year-old and had to spend my last six months of my high school career in a brand new school, with brand new faces, in a brand new location. It was quite possibly six of the worst months of my entire life.

During my time spent at T.C. Williams (yes, where they filmed Remember The Titans), I kept to myself mostly and worked to get my GPA up. While I was living in my small, southern town it had sunk to a pathetic 2.1, and by the time I walked across the stage to collect my diploma I managed to raise it all the way up to a 3.5.

Yes, it was quite an accomplishment, but it didn't mean that I was happy while I worked on getting those good grades. I was very quiet, meak and hated every new person that I came in contact with or tried to get to know me. Everyone there was stupid and didn't understand me. Or better yet, I didn't understand them; what was with them calling cigarettes 'jacks' anyway? They had stupid words in Virginia.

I did briefly make a new friend, Lauren, who was in a similar boat that I was in, only she was from Oklahoma (who knew people actually lived there!) and she was a junior. We met in gym class and talked about how shit Virginia was together. It was a nice common ground and we understood that we weren't really best friends, but that each other's company would do for the time being until it was time for us to go our separate ways.

In between my alone time hating everything that was in Virginia and my time spent with my temporary friend, Lauren, I met Mendy. I can't remember exactly how we met each other and started talking, but I'm pretty sure it was during one of our many gym classes that we loathed. We would sit in the locker room getting changed into our gross uniforms and talk about how pointless physical education is for students in the 21st century; we'd be lucky if we burned off our calories from lunch. We also thought it was a bit hypocritical to have a gym teacher that closely resembled Fat Albert.

Immediately our friendship clicked into place like two pieces that had been waiting to find each other. She was so funny and smart and made me want to speak differently, more like how an educated adult might speak; and she helped me not feel so alone like the weird, awkward, small town outcast that I was. She was my soulmate, the one person who just got me immediately without having to ask any questions. We were inseparable, and yet at the same time we could go for long periods of not speaking to each other and not have the time apart make one bit of difference. We could so easily pick our friendship up right where we left off and slip back into the S&M (hehe dirrty) ways. We went to concerts (oh, so many fulfilling gigs we went to), we worked so hard to come to London, and in between we spent the rest of our time chilling by the pier in Alexandria, talking about the future, talking about life in general, and talking about when we would be free from our parents and living independently.

She is, to this day (aside from Mel who I've obviously known all my life), the only best friend I've had for longer than two years. Six years later after I made that unwilling move to the state I once despised, and we're still going strong like an old married couple. We've had our disagreements, the occasional argument, but more good times than bad. I would certainly not be who I am today without her.

I remember after I told her that I was going to try and move over here to London so I could be closer to Ash and start a new life away from all of my different ball and chains (i.e. Momma, my job, my boring routine life); she was not the happiest person and it took her a while to give me her support. The whole time we had always talked about how we were going to move away and live together. We would get jobs together and be poor college students together, and here I was just taking it upon myself to break our future plans without consulting her about it first. It was a strain on our friendship and probably the hardest hit we've ever taken.

Looking back on it now it's silly, because lord, we were so young. She was just seventeen, and there I was at nineteen going on twenty and our lives just felt so big as if we were at a major crossroads (god, that sounds so shit and cliché, but there's really no other way to describe it). But we were. We were leaving our teenage years behind us and welcoming a new chapter into a more adult life. Sure, we thought we spoke like adults and acted like adults, and for our age we were considerably mature, especially Mendy; she was always more like the adult between the two of us. However, we were still so inexperienced and didn't know shit about life. As much as we thought we were our own person, we heavily relied on each other. Breaking off all of our mutual plans left us alone in this great big world and that was terrifying for us both to accept.

Now we are certainly different people, we are both our own person, we both have moved away and have been living our own lives, creating our own rules and have that freedom that we both talked about so long ago. I am no longer in the firm grips of Momma and have a strong relationship with her now, and Mendy has been supporting herself, continuing her education and engaged.

Indeed. Engaged.

I've never met him, but I know Mendy, and I know she's a smart gal. I may not understand getting married at twenty-one, but I understand her, and I know that she wouldn't be doing it unless she was completely sure. And that's the thing about us -- we may not always agree or are on board straight away with each other's decisions, but that's only because we worry and are concerned for our friend. But the trust that we have in each other puts our worried thoughts to rest. I know she will only do things that she's ready for and from the sounds of things, they're really happy with each other, which is all I could ask for. I am there for her through the good and the bad, just as I know she is for me no matter what we get ourselves into.

Mendy: I really miss you, I miss our eternal conversations, I miss you being my soulmate. You've always been able to understand me like no one else. We have changed a lot, but in some ways I think we'll always be the same. I hope our friendship never changes.

Me: It's true, we have experienced many changes over the past couple of years but I believe the two of us will forever remain to be 19 and 17-years-old living in Alexandria. That part of me you have for eternity. It is something that I have never taken for granted.

Posted by Sam at 06:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The weather plays an important role in my memory, as I'm sure it does for many other people. It surrounds us 24/7 whether we consciously realize it or not. I think about it almost as much as a meteorologist might think about it, but probably in a different sense. I think if it's going to be extremely warm, then which summery top will I want to wear; or if it's going to be cloudy and rainy, I have to remember to pack my umbrella for the day, even though I hardly use it. I enjoy feeling the raindrops fall on me even if it is particularly cold outside.

But the weather triggers different memories inside of me, memories that don't necessarily hold any kind of importance, but are replayed across the front of my mind nonetheless. Whenever it's particularly cold and crisp, with the sun shining and being reflected off of the frost that has stretched out across the leaves from the night before, I remember the mornings when I'd be leaving for work early and climbing into my car. The garage door would be open with the morning sunshine falling at all different angles. I'd squeeze in between the wall and the edge of my car, crank on the engine, sort out which CD I wanted to listen to that morning, strap myself in with the seatbelt and wait until the car was warm enough so I couldn't see my breath every time I exhaled. Those were my mornings every single day, Monday through Friday while I worked back home. The routine is engrained inside of me, and even when I went back for Christmas holiday, sometimes I'd wake up and wonder why I was still in bed. I was supposed to be sitting in traffic fishing out my second cigarette with the window cracked so to not let all of the heat escape.

Summertime holds so many more vivid memories for me, though. The swealtering heat, the stale lingering moisture in the air and how I would do my best to not move unless it was absolutely necessary. With every movement I was sure that I was generating more heat and making it hotter than Mother Nature had already inflicted upon us. North Carolina summers were always scorchers and there were some days when Mel and I didn't do anything in the house except lay in our dark rooms with the ceiling fans on the highest setting to keep the air circulating. Momma hated running the air conditioner all day because it "ran her goddamned bill through the roof," so she left it on a timer and we would get our hands smacked if we dared touch it. Those ceiling fans were our best friends for nearly four months every year.

We would watch the evening news with Momma and the weather(wo)man would let us know if we were at level Red or level Orange, and if that was the case they told us it was probably best if we stayed indoors. If it was level Yellow, then it would be safe for us to venture out into the natural sauna and they would always remind us to wear our sunscreen for protection.

When dusk finally came late in the day people would step outside briefly to water their lawns. "That's the best time to do it," Momma would say to us. It was so the water wouldn't be wasted just evaporating underneath the unforgiving ball of fire that baked us with no remorse, never giving us a break until sunset. It was a temporary relief until the sun rose again the next day.

After a week of trying to think of new ways to prevent from melting, I would step outside and smell a change in the weather. The smell of rain was always so thick and even though the clouds had yet to roll in I knew we should be expecting a nice thunderstorm even without the help of our local weather forecaster. I became so in tune with predicting the thunderstorms that sometimes I would sit in our breakfast nook and wait as the dark clouds quickly took their respective positions above our house and watch for the first drop that would immediately dissipate after hitting the scalding concrete. One by one I watched as the raindrops fell and evaporated until there were so many falling that the ground couldn't keep up with absorbing them all. That's when I would stand up, push the chair back under the table and walk outside barefoot without an umbrella.

I would walk the entire neighborhood alone as my clothes became heavier with the weight of the rain on me and feel the warm water slowly run down the side of my face and hit me on my eyelashes. I'd be sure to keep an eye on where my feet would step as well to avoid smushing the worms that came up from the soil gasping and breathing the fresh air. Steam would always rise from the hot asphalt and I walked through the mist as if I were the only person in the world who ever did this sort of thing.

Usually the lightning and thunder would start erupting in the clouds after some time and that was my cue to start walking back home. Momma didn't mind that I liked going out in thunderstorms when it was a heavy, steady rain, but she didn't like it when I would go out with a greater chance of being electrocuted. After I was back indoors, I'd towel dry myself off, slip on some lightweight pajamas and feel like thunderstorms were Mother Nature's gift to us for all of the suffering hot days when we thought we could no longer take it.

We don't get many days like those here in merry old England. We get rain, but it's cold and there's never any steam rising up from the streets. I'd never take a stroll outside when the rain pours over here. When I'd come back inside I'd be purple from the cold and have to go to the hospital for hypothermia. Summertime here is very different and a lot more unpredictable than from North Carolina. Every day I'll check what the weather will be like, and if the temperature begins to peak above 72 degrees (F) I can already begin to feel the prickle of heat on the back of my neck and the sweat shine on my face. I get all sweaty with excited anticipation and can't wait to feel the warmth surround me, to feel the layer of humidity on my skin and have to peel my thighs off of plastic chairs and benches.

This week has been like that for me, pushing all of those memories up to the surface and leaving me aching to be back in our house in North Carolina with the windows wide open, drinking sweet tea, eating bar-b-que and wiping my forehead with the back of my arm because it's just so goddamned hot outside. The warm weather here (which is hardly 'hot' in comparison with the heat from home) is a decoy and off in the distance is a mirage of my past summers.

Posted by Sam at 02:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember the first foursome I ever had. Well, the only foursome to be correct. It wasn't long after Ash and I had broken up the first time, and I was left alone in a giant building with nearly three-hundred middle-aged men that always stared at me while I typed prettily behind my desk. They disgusted me and I always said no matter how desperate I got, I'd never touch any of them with a barge pole. Aside from the interns who only came around during the summertime, I was the youngest person there at the ripe old age of twenty. I'd prance around the office in my cute outfits, teetering on my designer heels and knew that the majority of the men that I came in contact with could barely speak without chewing on their own tongues. It never made me uncomfortable, but more angry that I couldn't even go into work without having to swat off their inappropriate comments about my tiny size, my young legs that easily carried me everywhere and their accusations that I teased them simply with my presence.

But back to the foursome. I was "tricked" into it, and because I was pathetically naive back then, I didn't understand what G meant when he kept on asking my friend, Sarah, if I was "cool".

"Is she cool?" he kept asking her. And Sarah kept on reassuring him that, yeah, I was totally cool.

After G left us outside in the suffocating Virginia heat, Sarah asked me if I wanted to go out to a happy hour. Of course I agreed, because when do I ever turn down a chance to get rat assed drunk? I don't. She told me that we were all going to meet up at seven after work and that her and I could meet at work and then drive over to the bar together. It sounded just like every other happy hour except she told me not to tell anyone else about it.

"We want to keep it quiet, you know, only a select few that don't piss us off," she explained to me. And it made sense. It sounded fine to me, and I was glad that I wasn't going to have to listen to Earl ramble on about his pyramid scheme and try to convince me to buy his book on money saving strategies.

Seven o'clock rolled around and I met Sarah in the work parking lot, just like she said and told me that we were going to meet G and another guy, C, at their hotel. Apparently all of the bars were strict on carding on this particular evening and they thought it would be safer, since I was still underaged, if we just hung out at their hotel room and drink beer. I wasn't too keen at first, but Sarah said that it would be fine and it'd be fun.

So there we sat, just the four of us, in G's hotel room drinking light beer and watching Deadwood on HBO. I felt like I was back in high school, awkward and unsure of what to do. I didn't even like beer. Where was the vodka? Or the southern comfort? Or hell, even the tequila? I nursed one beer for about an hour and that was all I drank the entire evening leaving me stone cold sober.

I'm not entirely sure how anything got started either. It just seemed like one minute we were watching TV and the next Sarah was sitting on top of G's lap making out with him.

Huh. So they're like that. That's cool, I thought to myself. I knew that Sarah was separated from her husband and on the side she would hook up with random co-workers whenever she felt like it. I never judged her; I could care less who she slept with. Of course there wasn't much left for C and me to do except sit there and make even more awkward small talk.

C told me that he had never done anything like this before, and the only reason why he even considered it was because G said that it would help his marriage.

"Do what?" I asked him stupidly.

"You know. This."

I sat there trying to grasp onto what he was saying and it finally smacked me right in the face when Sarah lead G into the bedroom part of the room and tossed her top aside.

Ohhh....wait a second. I'm supposed to be - with C - here? Now? Oh god.

I could have gotten up and said no thanks, it's not my bag of goodies. I could have left. Nobody was forcing me to stay there and participate. But for some reason I stayed. I stayed and I let C take my halter top off, and we shared the bed with Sarah and G only to switch partners halfway through.

To this day I'm unsure of why I stayed. I was completely sober and if I had it my way I would have been out my face or on my drug of choice, but that wasn't an option. I don't even remember much of anything except that I didn't like it, I faked it the entire time and didn't even feel like I was a part of the whole thing.

A couple of days after the whole ordeal, I sent one of my favorite bloggers an email describing the entire evening and asked her for advice, for guidance, for support. I told her that the whole time I didn't feel like I was there; it was as if I was hovering above near the ceiling and watching some other person inhabit my body, and I observed the entire thing from a bird's eye view. I told her that I didn't have anyone to talk to, anyone who wouldn't judge me; I mean, I had just slept with two married men and a married woman (who, yes, was technically separated). I was confused and felt entirely alone.

She sent me a full response that helped me find the light at the end of my mental tunnel. There was so much in her response, but there was one part in particular that stood out to me and to this day I live by her words:

I think the best gift you can give yourself is a blank check to make mistakes. Forgiveness is divine, and finding the divinity within yourself is crucial.

Those words were exactly what I needed to help me move past that situation and not make it out to be some kind of huge deal. I had had a foursome. So what? Okay, they were married, but that was their problem to deal with, not mine. I even forgave Sarah for not telling me the whole truth about what was already planned for the night, and told her that in the future she could trust that I wouldn't freak out and go mental on her. I was capable of handling those situations, but I'd like to be prepared for them beforehand. I like to be kept in the loop.

I took that night and my mentor's words and decided right then and there that I wasn't going to feel bad about my mistakes any longer, whether they be sexual or not. I was young, single and allowed myself to live freely without reservations. It made me brave. It occasionally made me reckless when I wasn't in a sober mind. And it enabled me to live with myself and be okay with the life that I was carving out day by day.

Now, almost three years after I sent her that email, I'm happier with myself than I ever was back in VA, or with any of those old perverts that fantasized about me and fucked me to feel younger and better about themselves, regardless of how I felt. I feel more in control of my life and comfortable in my own skin. I know there's still a lot of things that I need to come to terms with, but I'm sure I will with due time. But I've had my time alone, I've had my one-night stands, I've had my fair share of drunken encounters and drug/booze infused nights. For so long I was scared to allow someone into my heart, so I kept them at arm's length and felt more in control when I was emotionally detached from them. Now I just want someone who will look me in the eyes when we lay together. Finally I can say that I'm ready for that.

Posted by Sam at 12:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember when I was in the nineth grade living in rural North Carolina in a small town with a population of six thousand people. A girl in some of my high school classes with bleach blonde hair, Amber White, fascinated me. I'm not sure what it was specifically about her that I was attracted to; maybe it was how she could manage to look cool in a pair of overalls and a white vest top; or maybe it was that she was the only girl in a group full of boys who were known around the school as the "tough guys," "the bullies," "the assholes". I envied her. I would see her sitting at the back of the school bus, where all of the 'cool kids' stayed every afternoon, surrounded by four or five of her muscle jock bullies, and wonder how she did it.

Despite wearing little to not make-up, Amber was a complete and total knock-out. Her blue eyes were the first thing that grabbed your attention against her pale complexion that was almost porcelian like and glittered just like the pink Smackers lip gloss that she always applied at least ten times a day. She was not as fragile as the porcelian doll that she resembled, however, and also had a reputation of being tough and rude because of the guys she always hung out with. I even remember her being suspended for a couple of fights that she started herself. To a plain, 13-year-old girl with glasses, I found her to be amazing, and aspired to be just like her. I wished that I could walk around our high school as if I owned it, just like Amber did.

Continue reading "Chapter 1 - Girl Meets Girl Pt. 1" »

Posted by Sam at 09:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The two of them turned in a semi-circle and started north to leave the sunflower field. Peaches was so excited that she didn't even realize that she had walked slightly ahead in front of Henry.

"Hey now, wait up for me," he hollered to her.

"Sorry. I'm just a little excited."

"I'll say you are. So, are you sure you know how to get us out of these sunflowers?" he asked as they were walking side-by-side now.

"I'm pretty sure I do. My friend and I have walked out here a few times when our parents have had dinner parties. Her uncle is always telling us that this is the way to get onto the Main Road," she told him confidently, even if she was slightly unsure of herself.

"Well as long as you know where you're at."

The two of them walked along partially in silence, looking around at the unfamiliar territory that they were now exploring. The sun was shining brightly above them, but they didn't feel the spring weather heat underneath the shade provided by the giant sunflowers that still surrounded them. Everything seemed new and untouched to Peaches, and with every step she took, she could feel the excitement radiating throughout her.

They did make conversation though, and learned about each other. Henry told Peaches of his "brave escape" (or fall from the delivery truck), and Peaches told him about her small day-to-day experiences that he found very interesting, but that she thought was boring and mundane. With all of the talking that the two of them were doing, they didn't realize how much time had passed and eventually they found themselves on the Main Road.

It was a quiet two lane road that took the travelers by surprise. They weren't expecting to see the road so soon. Up a little ways ahead of them was an old country truck that was pulled over on the side with a flat tire. It appeared that Peaches journey was already over, even though she wasn't ready to turn around and go back home.

"Well dear Peaches, it has been fun, however, it looks like this is where I shall leave you. I lucked out as well with that truck up there for a ride," Henry said with a bit of sadness in his voice. He tried to sound chipper, but after having Peaches around as a travel friend, he had quickly grown fond of her. She was right as well, and was lovely to travel with.

"Already? That's it? That's my adventure? But we just went for a walk," Peaches said, feeling let down.

"Yes, but wasn't it an exciting walk?" Henry asked her, trying not to sound too patronizing.

"Well, it was nice walking with you, sure, but we didn't really see much else. I just thought that there would be a little more." Henry could hear the disappointment in her voice.

"You should probably head back now. You don't want your family wondering where you are. Thanks again for helping me out of the sunflowers. I couldn't have done it without you," Henry smiled and turned towards the blue truck that was getting ready to take him to his new, unknown destination. He hated to be so short with Peaches, but he never was good with goodbye's.

Henry was halfway down the road, leaving Peaches alone and dumbfounded. She couldn't believe that he had just left her on the side of the road to walk all the way back alone. That wasn't a walk in her mind. It was a rip off. And she wasn't impressed in the slightest.

She had an idea, and decided to hop along without Henry knowing. She figured she could be back before dinner time and nobody would even notice that she was gone. Well, they probably would, but she had to justify leaving in her mind to make her feel less guilty about leaving without telling anyone.

Without thinking or looking back, Peaches began to follow Henry and would surprise him once they were both on the truck. One way or another, she was going to get her adventure.

**

Quietly, she climbed up the back of the blue truck like how she watched Henry do it previously before her. She saw these green, plastic containers that were holding all of these different aluminum cans and decided that would be a good place to hide out until they started moving. Once the truck was en route, she'd surprise Henry and he wouldn't be able to make her go back after that. He'd have to let her stay with him.

While she was hiding out though, he heard something behind her.

"Psst. Hey. You there. The strawberry milkshake. How'd you get on here?" the squeaky voice said to her.

She turned around, but didn't see anything.

"Who said that?" Peaches said out loud to the unknown voice.

"Me, over here," a little hand was sticking out from one of the plastic crates and waving to Peaches.

She walked towards the case and saw that the voice was coming from an aluminum Pepsi Cola can.

"Hello," Peaches said to the stranger.

"Hey. How'd you get up here? You don't belong here," he said to her.

"I'm with a friend. Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm Pete," he told her. "We're all here because we're going to the recycling center. But I've never seen you before. You weren't with the others when we all got picked up, and I'm sure I would have remembered you. Are you lost? The recycling center can be a pretty scary place. Not a place for a sweet, innocent milkshake like yourself," he said to her.

"No, I just climbed aboard with my friend - "

"Peaches!" Henry shouted to her.

"Henry!" she said smiling and excited.

"What are you doing here?' he asked her, but didn't seem as excited as she was.

"I was just explaining to this Pepsi can about our adventure," she told him innocently.

"You're supposed to be on your way back home!" he scolded, almost as if he was her father.

"I thought you'd be excited to see me."

"I am," he said. "But you shouldn't be here. You should be on your way back home."

"That's what I was going to tell her," Pete chimed in.

"Well, I'll go home when I'm ready." Peaches had put her foot down. She wasn't going to be told what to do, just because these two thought she was too delicate to brave the outside world. She was very capable of taking care of herself.

At that moment, the truck lurched forward and began to drive towards the recycling center.

"I supposed there really isn't any turning back now," Henry said.

***

To be continued...

Posted by Sam at 12:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

So for one of my lectures I have to write a short story. It can be up to 5,000 words and it's due in a couple of weeks. I've started mine, but I'm sure I'm going to run way over our word limit and will have to spend a lot of time trimming it down. I want to keep all of the original though, and figured I could share it with y'all as I'm writing it up.

It's about a strawberry named, Sabrina, and a milk carton called, Mitch. I know. Cute, right? They end up having a baby strawberry milkshake, Peaches, who wants to travel and explore the world. And this is what I have so far....

P.S...don't forget that this is a very, very rough draft and that there is going to be a lot of editing. I'm sure I've made about a zillion mistakes.

***

In an open field where all you could hear were the crickets chirping and the frogs croaking, there was a tree that stood quiet and tall. It seemed out of the ordinary in the open field, but you could tell that it was old and had been there for many years. Kids footprints were left behind from when they climbed all over the branches, and it provided a canopy to the random farm animals that passed by on hot summer days.

Down below there was an even more out of the ordinary elephant leaf that was called home by an even more out of the ordinary family. A strawberry named, Sabrina, and a milk carton called, Mitchell, made a comfortable house out of the giant leaf and lived their days out in the cool shade.

Mitch worked on the farm that was near the tree, minding the cows and making sure that each bottle of milk that was produced was A-OK approved by him and his highly trained staff, while Sabrina was a stay at home wife who kept everything neat and tidy, and made sure that the house was run smoothly. They were a happy and loving couple that lived a simple country life, and each day was full of sunshine and ladybugs.

Sabrina was more than happy to stay at home and decorate the giant elephant leaf and tend to her garden. She was particularly proud of her sunflowers that grew tall and added shelter around their house. Although, she was getting up in age and she told Mitch that she would like for them to try and have a baby. She had always wanted a little family to call her own, and nothing would make her happier than to have a tiny child running around in the grass, and chasing after the butterflies. Mitch, being the caring husband that he was, would do anything to make his wife happy. He smiled, gave her a hug and a kiss, and told her that he would also love to have a little baby.

It wasn’t long until little baby, Peaches, was born under a rainbow. She was a tiny strawberry milkshake and was the apple of both her parent’s eyes that could do no wrong. While Sabrina took care of the daily chores, baby Peaches would run around in the garden playing with the friendly grasshoppers and butterflies. She had a habit of wandering off into her own little world until Sabrina would call her back closer to the elephant leaf.

"You know I don't like it when you go too far my dear. I like to be able to keep you within eye and ear shot. There's a great big world out there that you don't know about, and I'd like to keep you safe and away from all of the outside dangers," Sabrina explained to her young daughter.

"I know mama, but that's what I like. I want to go explore everything and see what is out there that I don't know about. It's all so terribly exciting," Peaches said with bright, sparkling eyes.

"Terribly exciting, sure. But terribly dangerous as well. Just keep close to me for now. One day you'll get to see it all, but not yet. I'm not ready for you to go out there just yet."

Peaches sighed, slumped her shoulders and went to sit down in a patch of grass where her mother was doing some gardening. She knew that her mother worried about her and wanted to keep her safe, but Peaches couldn't help but wonder what else was beyond all of the sunflowers. Her friend's crazy uncle, Terry the tomato, would always tell the girls stories about where he had been and all of the great adventures that he had been on; places called the "supermarket" and the "restaurant" and how he managed to slip away from the monstrous grasps of "people." Peaches wanted so badly to see all of these different things. She could only sit and imagine what it all must look like and be like when she was sat at home with her mother in eye and ear shot.

One day, when Peaches was playing alone in the tall blades of grass, she heard something rustling to the right of her. She leaned in a little closer, then looked over her shoulder to see what her mother was doing. Sabrina was busying herself with preparing dinner for that evening, and had her back towards Peaches. Peaches then took this opportunity to investigate the rustling and stepped through the wall of grass that was separating her from the intriguing noise.

She was surprised to see a chocolate Hershey's bar crouching and looking rather startled. He was squinting his eyes and covering his head when he looked up at her.

"Hi," she said and smiled to him.

"Hi," he said back with a little apprehension.

"I'm Peaches," she said and put her small hand up in a sort of wave.

"I'm lost. And slightly confused. Where am I?" he asked her.

"You're in my backyard," she laughed at him. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from Hershey, Pennsylvania. I've escaped and am on the run. I'm trying to get back to my hometown. Do you know how I can get there from here?" he finally straightened up and dusted himself off a bit.

"You've escaped? From who? Are you on an adventure? I'd love to go on an adventure. I'm unsure how to get from Hershey, Pennsylvania from here, but I'm awful good company and would love to join you if you don't mind too much." She was so excited about this new friend she had found and would do anything for him to let her come with him.

"Whoa now. I don't even really know who you are. Besides, I'm more of a lone traveller. Company really isn't my thing." He cleared his throat. In truth, Henry, who still had not told Peaches his name, had "escaped", but it wasn't as exciting as he was making it out to be. He had simply fallen off of the delivery truck that was carting him and the rest of the chocolate bars to their nearest store to be sold to grubby little kids that would beg their mothers at the checkout counter for the sweet treat.

"Oh," and Peaches slightly hung her head and was visibly disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "But I just don't want to be kept very long. I've got friends and family back in Pennsylvania. You understand."

"I suppose, yes," Peaches said, and sniffed a little.

"Now, now. Don't cry," he said to her in a gentle tone. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to go traveling with me anyway. While you may be excellent company, I'm probably terrible and would not be a decent companion. Besides, you live here. Why go so far when this place seems nice?"

"Because I want an adventure!" Peaches yelled out, and startled herself a little bit. She didn't mean to be so loud and harsh. "I'm sorry," she said, and composed herself. "I've just always wanted to see what else is beyond this place. Yes, here it's nice, but I'm curious to see what else is out there. I've heard stories from others about what lays beyond our sunflowers, but I want to see it myself. It all just seems so exciting and new."

Henry looked at the young strawberry milkshake and smiled a little. He liked her and thought it wouldn't hurt if she came along. At least for a little bit. Besides, she probably knew this area better than he did himself.

"I suppose," he said slowly, "you could come with me for a little bit. But only to get me out of these thick sunflowers. They're everywhere, did you know that? Once we've made it to the edge and I'm back on the road that I came from though, you should turn around and come back here. Would that be enough of an adventure for you?"

Peaches' face lit up and a big smile came across her face.

"Oh thank you!" she said and started jumping up and down.

"I'm Henry, by the way," and he extended his chocolate arm out towards her. Peaches stepped forward and shook his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Henry. Let's start this adventure shall we?"

***

To be continued...

Posted by Sam at 08:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The thing about the internet, is that it's a crazy thing. People can use it for good or evil, depending on the knowledge that they have. It's a battle that I'm sure lots of people struggle with on a daily basis.

I use the internet for personal gain. It's neither good or evil, but I suppose personal gain can be construde as 'evil'. I email people, do this here blog from time to time, and when I'm not doing any of that, chances are you can find me on facebook. Actually, I'm 99% certain you'd be able to find me there. I am what you would call a "facebook stalker" or a "facebook whore". I spend way too much time cruising that horrible invention, just going through people's photographs, reading their walls, looking at all of their friends, and going round and round in this big, giant facebook circle.

Of course, facebook could be a good thing. You can find friends from a long time ago that you haven't spoken to in ages, and facebook is the tool to use in order to reunite you both. Or perhaps you have a lost love that you want to find and spark up the 'ole flame again. It's just one giant reunion, and people go nuts on there. People like myself. Who probably don't have much else to do except constantly cruise the internet and take a peek into people's lives and see what's going on, based purely on what people have said on their wall, or by going through all of their pictures to see where they've been, who they've been hanging out with, what they've been getting up to.

I probably abuse facebook for it's capabilities. That's a blatant lie. I do abuse facebook for it's capabilities. I look at people's profiles when I shouldn't, and heaven forbid something comes out that can track who's profiles you visit and how many times, I'd be screwed. It would expose me as a facebook freak that needs to have their account deleted and completely banned from the facebook world. I'd probably have to check myself into a rehab center, because living without facebook would be too much for me to handle. I'd crack and have some kind of meltdown, I'm sure.

The thing is, I can't help it. It has now gotten to a point where it's a compulsion. I do it completely out of habit now, and if I don't, I feel all off balanced and crazy.

I know, I should already be in some kind of 12-step program, simply because of the above sentence.

Mostly it's just my curiousity. I just want to know because I'm nosy and can't help it. And for some reason, it gives me a small sense of power, that I know things about people, that maybe I wouldn't otherwise know because of their profile. I'm a sick weirdo that way.

Keeping all of that in mind, I now will tell you a story about an almost encounter that could have happened completely by chance, but didn't because of the small amount of knowledge that I received from facebook. Did you follow me on all of that?

Even though Ash and I broke up over a year ago, occasionally (read: at least once a day) I may happen to find myself on his facebook profile. Believe me, I didn't think he would even have one since he used to tell me how much he despised MySpace with all of it's bright, neon colors, and all of the teenie boppers that inhabited it's space. I figured it would be a shot in the dark that he would be on facebook, so when I typed his name in the search bar, it was mostly just for shits and giggles, and just to put my curious brain to rest.

Continue reading ""But I’d rather not celebrate my defeat and humiliation here with you."" »

Posted by Sam at 03:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Even though I've lived my entire life with other women, I never particularly liked it. It was always a challenge living with only women around the clock. Who knew women were so bitchy and complained about everything? And damn, do we like to argue. It's like a hobby we all decided to take up. I love Momma and Mel to pieces, but there were times growing up when I thought that maybe things would have been a lot more laid back if there was a man in the house, just to take the edge off of all the female craziness.

It's probably why I normally hung out with only boys growing up. They were a lot less stressful and didn't let every day worries nag at them. We could all just go and hang out and not have to fuss over every single tiny thing. Besides, I always thought it was cool for me to be the only chick in the group. It made me feel special.

And now, here I was living with nothing but chicks. God, all of the hormones that would be flying around. I could already tell that this year was going to be drama infused and once the newness of everything wore off, we'd all be at each other's throats like in the Real World. I could see each of our faces flash across the screen with our names and our personalities all being defined according to cable television.

I'd probably be the old, boring American from Virginia who didn't understand the London scene with it's crazy outfits and funny words.

Continue reading "London Story Pt. 3 - "My thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth"" »

Posted by Sam at 08:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

After I had everything that I had brought with me piled inside of my room, I sat on the edge of my questionable looking single bed and I took a second to soak up where I would now be living. It really only did take a second since the room was tiny by my standards. Extremely tiny. And in my opinion, gross.

There was one window that had the greenest of all green curtains. Lime green. And the window was one of those odd windows that you had to pull forward on to open, rather than lift up or swing out, which didn't leave me an option of smoking inside of my room. I knew it was forbidden to smoke inside my room, but I thought if my window permitted me, I'd at least be able to sneak a couple when it was raining. Not so much.

My bed was a tiny little single bed with a single spring mattress. I was afraid of it. Who else had laid on this thing? Who was with them when they laid on it? Gross. Gross, gross, gross. It was pushed in the corner underneath my green window with the bedside table next to it. I had a not-so-matching purple chair that seemed extremely random that sat next to my desk which took up the majority of my wall. My wardrobe was connected to my desk, and those were really the only two things that I liked in my room.

From the wardrobe was the en suite bathroom with the infamous lime green rubber floor. I must also mention that this particular rubber floor did not have a drain for any excess water that would spill out from my shower. Instead it would just sit there and take about three days to completely air dry. I hated the rubber floor and would always hate the rubber floor, right up until I left. My mirror took up the entire wall behind my sink and my shower, and it was oh so very strange in the early days to shower and be able to watch myself while I cleansed head to toe. I would eventually get used to it though and found it quite handy to have a full mirror with me in the shower (I know; dirty).

After I quickly scanned my room, I decided to jump head first into cleaning my new space and setting up everything I had brought with me. Sure, I smelled really badly of airplane and was dead beat exhausted, but I figured once it was done, it was done and I could crash on my germ-free and in fumigated mattress.

It was a much more daunting task than I had previously thought. All of the dusting, the hoovering, scrubbing, wiping, and then taking my febreeze bottle and dousing everything to try and get that old, unused, student smell out of there. Not only that, I was battling these enormous flying mosquitos that were absolutely harmless but creeped me out and sent shudders straight up my back. It did all get finished though and I did feel a lot better knowing that I had made my first tiny steps to living out on my own.

All of the international students had arrived four days before all of the other UK students so we could get a headstart in learning our surroundings and settling in a bit.

I think I needed more than four days.

Continue reading "London Story Pt. 2 - "There's a world I've always known, somewhere far away from home"" »

Posted by Sam at 02:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Treat others the way you would like to be treated. It is a lesson that every child is usually taught at a very young age. And yet here I am, 21-years-old, just now learning this lesson.

While struggling these past few days to write the second half of my story recapping my past year in London, something hit me in the middle of the night while I was also struggling to go to sleep...

I am a mean person.

Really. I am truly a mean person. I know for a fact I'm not the world's meanest person, but I can be really horrible at certain times. Of course, generally, I would consider myself to be a decent human being. I am nice day-to-day, but there are some times, important times, big times...when I don't think, I temporarily lose my semi-stable mind and turn into a mean person.

And of course, "mean person" is simply an understatement. I can be a downright bitch.

When I think about this past year, this Big, Defining year for Sammi Jo, I have to force myself to think about everything. Everything. Even the things that I don't want to think about that have shadowed me for the past however many months. Things I never told anyone or wrote about up here in any kind of detail or length. Not because I didn't want to. I always wanted to talk about it, because that's how I sort things out in my brain. But of course since I am me, and have to be complicated in every sense, I believed if I just didn't talk about it or aknowledge it, it never happened, therefore making me seem like a decent person once again who never turned into that horrible bitch in the first place.

I am, of course, talking about Ash and the massive fall out we had at the beginning of the term.

At the time when everything was happening, I was so fucked both mentally and physically. I was ill, I was depressed and generally always high or drunk. I never felt inclined to write about it up here either since I didn't think it'd be right splashing our business out on my blog. What happened between us was our business, right?

Right. Us two and all of my flatmates because I liked to bitch about him when there was really nothing wrong to begin with.

But now, with the all of the time that has gone by, with everything that has happened, with all of these thoughts constantly following me, I have to get it out. I need to. I figured that one of the reasons as to why I am unable to carry on with my recap of this past year is because I haven't properly dealt with that entire situation, alone, with myself, inside my brain. I simply let it wash over me and didn't get anything resolved. I'm unsure how I even manage to shove things aside so easily and pretend that they never occur, but I do it and every single time, no matter how much time has passed, it always seems to creep up behind me and then haunt me until I have dealt with it.

I couldn't carry on writing because I didn't know what to say. How do you talk about something you really don't want to talk about in the first place? But I didn't want to ignore it completely. I couldn't. It was such a big thing to happen to not mention it at all, and I didn't want to leave it out anyway. I wanted to include it and finally talk it out like I normally do.

So I am now.

Continue reading ""Guess we can't go back to what we once had"" »

Posted by Sam at 07:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I don't know how it happens. How do I manage to get temporary amnesia every single Friday and believe in my heart through and through that tonight, this very night, is going to be different than last week. Something will be different. Not sure what, but it will be. Sure I'll be with the same people, we'll be going to the same place and doing the same thing, but it'll be different. Somehow.

And so off I go, into the night keeping my eyes on watch for the new, different thing.

It never happens. Instead I end up in the same spot outside of the Froebel bar, with someone, crying on their shoulder about who knows what. Who cares? It's all bullshit. None of it even matters. None of it. I whind up waking up the next morning listening to the same sound that wakes me up every Saturday. The London rain.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.....

**

I don't remember the day, the time or how the weather was but at the same time I remember it all as if it were yesterday. Momma was there, Mel was there and so was Amy. The only three people who were with me at the airport for my Great Departure off to Good 'Ole England where I was going to expand my knowledge, become more worldly and experience life for the first time on my own. At the time I thought it was really fucked up how I only had three people with me, but now when I look back, I'm glad there wasn't a big group of folks there to see me leave. I'm not sure why, but I preferred it to be just those three. I do wish that Mendy could have been with me, but she had to work.

It all moved so slowly and I was glad to check in and get rid of all my stupid luggage that I was bringing over with me. How the fuck was I going to manage two massive suitcases and a shoulder bag? Oh yeah, and my bookbag that I wanted to bring on the plane with me plus my giant Coach bag that I call a "pocketbook". It might as well be another suitcase.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you're only allowed one carry on the plane." the lady behind the check in counter told me.

"I do only have one carry on. It's my book bag. This is my purse." Did she not know what a Coach bag was? It only contained my entire life.

"No ma'am. The rules have changed. You're only allowed one carry on."

"Seriously?"

She gave me a look as if to tell me that she really didn't want to repeat herself.

"Goddammit. This is such bullshit."

It was already turning into a good trip for me.

Continue reading "London Story Pt. 1 - "Starting out, with nothing but crippling doubt"" »

Posted by Sam at 06:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I come from a family who likes to talk. A lot. About everything. Not only do we talk a lot about everything, but we enjoy all of those nitty gritty details that most would find offensive or repulsing. It doesn't matter if we're in the middle of watching a TV program or eating dinner, nothing seems to bother us and we've never come across a line that shouldn't be crossed. Our problems, our thoughts, our feelings, our ideas, our troubles, our worries, our highs and lows - it's all out there to be viewed, analyzed and probed until there's nothing but dust leftover.

The thing that I've never really understood or have gotten used to, is that sometimes things just need to be left unsaid. I never take into consideration that some people simply Don't Want To Hear It. They would prefer not knowing and remain in the dark on certain subjects or events that are going on. So whenever I'm talking about something and I cross that line of Too Much Information and the person doesn't respond in the same way that the rest of my family does, I'm not sure how to handle it. I can't process or fathom that certain things or topics make people uncomfortable.

"What? You don't want to know about this? You don't want to talk about it with me for hours on end until we can no longer talk or hold our eyes open? But why?"

This past week, I did just that. I let my mouth run away with me, yet again, and gave too many details to someone who simply Did Not Want To Hear It. They ended up not talking to me for two days and then asked me why I felt so compelled to tell them this. Why?

And it's a very reasonable question. One that I feel deserves an answer. One, however, that I'm not even entirely sure how to answer, considering I don't know the answer myself. All I know, all I can figure out, all that I'm assuming what the answer might be, is it's just how I am.

Now for some that might be an acceptable answer to give. "Hey, man, it's just how I am. Deal with it, alright?" But for me and my brain that never shuts off and likes to spin things around until I'm so dizzy my eyes swirl around like those characters in crazy cartoons, it's not an acceptable answer. There has to be more. There needs to be more in order for me to feel like I have a better understanding of myself and give a proper answer to that who is asking.

Continue reading "Wherein I'm vague and yet, oh so detailed." »

Posted by Sam at 02:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

My window is rolled down halfway as the smoke from my cigarette is being directed out of my car. The traffic outside sounds a lot louder than it normally does but I suppose that's because I'm not listening to my music loud like usual. I'm having yet another conversation with myself as I squint my eyes and try not to be blinded from the sunrays that are being reflected from the cars that are surrounding me.

Gridlock traffic in the mornings are normally the perfect time to sit and ponder situations that you've been shoving aside ever since that defining moment almost six months ago. The only thing that goes through my mind though is that if I've been avoiding it for almost six months, what's one more day going to do? I'll think about it another time, another morning, another traffic jam...

The truth is that I know there will never be a perfect time to sit and wade through all of the thoughts that have been collecting at the back of my mind nor will I ever be in the right mood. It's just something that has to be done in order for me to move on, gain some kind of closure.

So I sit as my fag dwindles down to the filter and think about our relationship, or the lack of relationship that we've had since I decided that I no longer wanted to be with him anymore. I think about how I handled it and that if I could do everything over differently I would. There's no need to completely disappear without any warning or explanation. You might as well have tied him to the back of a pick up truck and dragged him fifty miles down a dirt road. I wonder if I've really moved on or if I'm just over all of the drama. Part of me is still tethered and somehow I feel like I may never let go. Or be cut free...

I blame myself for almost everything but realize that I'm only human, and humans are allowed to make mistakes. I never wanted any of this to happen. Nobody ever wants things like this to happen. There's nothing good about it. You want to believe that you can be friends afterwards and hope that things won't end on bitter terms. The only coping mechanism that I could reach out for and grab a hold of immediately was The Drink and we all know that after a while the distraction fades and you're left sitting alone feeling numb with the same questions on repeat inside of your brain.

What did I do? Where did the problem begin? Can I fix it? Is there any point? Why did this happen?

I revert back to my old ways and shrink inside my shell where everything is fine and dandy. The sun is always shining, the drinks are always fresh and I don't have any worries, because worrying doesn't do anything except slow people down. I didn't want to be slowed down. I have plans, ideas and tons of work that has to be done. I can trick myself into believing that I'm happy and stable when really I've simply suppressed the hurt, anger and frustration.

It all caught up with me though and one day everything that I had been running away from was standing right in front of me, looking very pissed off and had even more questions then I had to begin with.

"DEAL WITH IT ALREADY!" my mind screams out in agony. "PLEASE, FOR ALL OF OUR SAKE'S DEAL WITH IT!"

I didn't know how though. How am I supposed to completely let go of a person that I've known and loved for two years? How am I supposed to walk away and forget about everything? What am I supposed to do?

And I learned there's nothing that really needs to be done other than to say good-bye.

Posted by Sam at 10:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

It's dark and I'm sitting by myself in the back of an SUV. I pull my underwear and pants back on that have been down by my knees. I slide my shoes on, grab my rain jacket and search desperately for my fags in my pocketbook.

My mind is on pause and I can't seem to figure out what just happened.

Not sex. There was no sex.

I'm glad to check that off of my list.

**

The next morning I wake up hungover and searching for some comfortable clothes. I've misplaced my brain and refuse to look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

When I arrive at work I stare at my feet and make sure not to look anybody in the eyes.

Do they know? Probably. No, they can't know. It never happened.

I sit at my desk and try to go on with the day as normal. I check my voicemails.

T: "Hey, Sam. It's T. I'm just calling to see if you made it in okay. Are you okay? You know, you should really talk to H. You guys have to work together so it'll make things easier if you talk it out. Give me a call, okay?"

I don't have to talk about it. I can avoid it and remain in denial.

I search through my snacks to see if I have anything that is bread or bread-like. My stomach is churning and the water that I have doesn't seem to be helping me out fast enough. I flash back to the night before.

**

H: "You know, I'm the luckiest guy, sitting back here with the two most beautiful women on our contract."

"Uh huh. With the lowest self-esteem," I think to myself.

It's dark and I can barely feel the hands that are touching me. I'm so drunk that I can't feel my legs. How many drinks did I have? One, two, seven? Quite a lot I know that.

H: "What can I do to make you feel better?"

Is he talking to me? I don't remember saying that I felt bad.

A little kiss on the forehead, cheek and then mouth. That's supposed to make me feel better? The hands continue to move on my skin. I can feel the palm of his hands. They're warm. I'm cold. I'm so cold.

In the moment I don't care about what's going on. He keeps talking and I lay there like a vegetable. There's nothing emotional about it, I feel nothing. All I can make out are dark figures and the only thing that catches my eye is the glint of light that reflects off of his ring that has been wrapped around his ring finger the whole time.

**

After work I find myself at Tower, my new home away from home. I buy some CDs and then sit in my car listening to the soothing sounds of Hotel Lights. There's an overcast sky and the clouds appear to be teasing us. Will it rain? Maybe, maybe not.

I can't help the quick flashes from the night before that randomly pop up in my head. It doesn't matter how loud I turn up my music, how many cigarettes I smoke, or how hard I scrub myself with anti-bacterial soap in the shower, it's still there. I squeeze both sides of my head with my hands and think if I squeeze hard enough they'll be pushed out of my head through my ears.

My only way of keeping some kind of control over it is falling asleep. I'm so tired from the late night and the drinking. I fall asleep with the last words that T said to me as she dropped me off at my car that was patiently waiting for me in the parking lot.

"Don't worry about it, Sam. It never happened."

If it never happened, then why am I carrying it around with me everywhere that I go?

Posted by Sam at 07:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Mel: “How long have we been driving for?”

Momma: “Twenty minutes.”

Mel: “Are we there yet?”

Traveling with the family is normally not my idea of fun, unless I’m passed out in the back seat asleep. So our ride down to North Carolina was perfect since I was asleep for the entire 5 ½ hour trip. I stuffed Mini’s earphones into my ears, turned the music up loud, and then effortlessly drifted off into my own world.

When we arrived I didn’t even believe that we were in North Carolina. I’ve always associated visiting North Carolina with staying in our house in my old childhood neighborhood. This time though we were in the Queen City amongst tall sky scrapers and manicured flower beds. It just felt like we were in a different part of Virginia.

After we dropped everything off in our hotel room we hopped back into the car and picked up some KFC for dinner. We were going over to Janice’s house to hang out with her for a bit.

As we drove around on all of the familiar street names I noticed how everything was the same, but different and brand new at the same time. My stomach also began to growl with hunger whenever I’d see a Bojangles or Hardee’s. We don’t have any of those in Virginia, and it had been so long since I last had one of their gravy biscuits. It used to be a tradition of mine and Tim’s whenever we would work on Saturday mornings at Jersey Mike’s. We would leave a little early and meet at Bojangles for breakfast.

We continued to drive farther into the small towns of Belmont, Dallas and Gastonia. I forgot that there was about every single kind of Church of God on every corner and the fish camps were already packed full to the max. Tiny mill houses lined both sides of the road and I saw a lot of people who were sitting out on their front porches catching the wind and trying to find some kind of relief in the hot temperatures.

It was strange to see and I felt something strange inside of me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something was off.

Momma turned down onto Janice’s small road that leads down to her and George’s house in the woods. Mel and I reminded her to go slow and keep an eye out for all of her outdoor cats. We’d hate for her to run over one and we know that Janice would have a fit if something happened to one of them.

I stepped out of the car, took a deep breath in and it was like we had never left. I felt the humidity hug around me and smacked a mosquito that had already landed on my arm. It was unusually hot for this time of year.

I walked up the squeaky porch steps and opened the screen door. There was Janice sitting at the dining room table, working on a crossword puzzle.

Janice: “Hey y’all.”

Me: “Hey Janice. How are you?” I walked up to her, sat my bag of food onto the table and gave her a hug.

Janice: “Oh, I’m doin’ alright. Go get them paper plates over there and we’ll start eating.”

No time at all had passed. I can’t even count the number of times we’ve been over to Janice’s house for dinner, but it’s the same every single time. We all sit at the same place around the table, we cover the same subjects (politicians, illegal immigrants, gas prices and the taxes on land) and after we’re finished eating and cleaning the kitchen, we watch television until its late and time for us to go.

Some routines just never get old.

After the sun went down, we were all watching TV when Mel and I noticed something on the front porch.

Me: “Um, Janice, what is that out there?”

Janice: “Oh, it’s just a raccoon. They come up there at night and eat the cat’s leftover food. Give it a little longer; there should be a couple more.”

Me: “I swear, every time we come down here you have a different critter that we see.”

Momma: “George, I thought you were taking care of those raccoons. What happened to your traps that you’d set out?”

George: “Can’t no more, the cats might get in them. I got tired of burying them too.”

Janice: “He was getting a lot of them. I remember last year he killed at least a dozen.”

Mel: “Well raccoons are cuter than them opossums we saw last time. That little thing was ugly.”

**

The next day was another blazing hot day. Momma came back by the hotel to pick us up for dinner after her and Janice had finished their shopping, and they decided that we could pick up some food from Big Man’s Fish Camp for dinner. Mel and I decided that we could drive around town for a bit before we picked up dinner and see what had changed since we had been gone.

So we did.

I saw my old high school, the neighborhood that my friend and I had got lost in when we had skipped school one day and saw our old house. I drove down roads that I could have driven with my eyes closed at one point in time but was finding it difficult to remember certain turns now.

I was expecting a melancholy feeling, some sadness, or the weepy feelings while all of the memories from back then swarmed inside of my body, but there wasn’t anything. They were just buildings, just roads, just houses. I didn’t feel the same kind of attachment that I had once felt years ago.

After we were done riding around our small town Mel and I stopped by and picked up the food for dinner.

Mel: “That girl who was in there was really weird. She asked me, ‘you’re not from around here are you?’ I told her, ‘well I used to be. Not anymore.’ She said, ‘so where you do live now?’ I told her we lived near Washington DC and she said, ‘really? What’s there?’ I couldn’t believe that!”

Mel continued going on about small town life with small town people but all I could think was that it had finally happened. We were outsiders and locals could now tell just by looking at us that we didn’t belong there. I never thought the day would have come, nor did I really want it to come.

I’ve always prided myself in being the small town girl who broke away (not really by choice) to live in a city but never forgot where she came from. I never wanted to be one of those stuck up snobs who looked down on those who never did leave the small town. I love it and wouldn’t want it any other way, but having that girl say that we weren’t from around here, knowing automatically that we were from out of town, was something that I didn’t expect to happen and it rubbed me the wrong way.

I suppose its okay at the same time though. It’s so easy to get caught up in small town life, with the slow pace and simple ways. It’s comforting to have those places where you can walk into a store or restaurant and know over half of the people’s names or know that no matter how many new businesses come into town some things will stand forever. After a while though you lose track of time and before you know it, seven years have passed and you don’t know where it all went.

I realize now that some folks are happy to stay planted in one place for their entire life. It’s not wrong, it’s not right, it just is. Perhaps that’s all they want is to stay in their small part of the world that they have carved out for themselves. And then there are others who weren’t meant to stay put in one place for their entire life. They were meant to roam all over the place, carrying with them bits and pieces of a past that taught them no matter how big the cities get or how fancy the clothes are, you can always go back to your small town for a visit and remember that there’s more to life than the fast lane.

Posted by Sam at 01:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It seems like a typical hot summer's night but I won't let Mother Nature fool me again as she has done so before. My windows are open and I have my fan turned on low to create a slight breeze inside my small bedroom. It all feels very familiar and I am reminded in this moment how much I enjoy the warmer months.

Mel has gone to sleep and Momma is downstairs working on her homework, which leaves me upstairs wide awake with my thoughts. Perhaps it is the change in time but I am unable to sleep. Mel and I have just finished watching Pride and Prejudice (the newest version with Keira Knightley) and I thought that it was really good even though they cut out a lot of scenes.

It got me to thinking though about women back then and how women are today. If you think about all of the things that have changed for us, the differences are startling.

In today's society women are taught that they do not need a man in order to be successful. We are very capable of climbing the corporate ladder just as well (if not better) than any man. We can own our own house, buy as many fancy cars, hold a political office and do whatever we set our minds to. We have our own voice and we can stand tall on our own ground. Of course roads are still being paved for us and we are still battling certain things, but the playing field has definitely been leveled quite a bit. We also have numerous role models to look up to who have proven multiple times that it's all very much possible.

Its girl power all the way, baby.

However, back in Jane Austen's time, women didn't have as many privileges. The only "job" that you really had while growing up was to find a husband that could take care of you and your family, and if you actually enjoyed the company of your husband then it was considered an added bonus. People literally couldn't afford to be in love and the pool to fish from for eligible bachelors was incredibly smaller back then.

The rules were strict and it was practically impossible to get away with over half of the things that we get consider to be so casual these days. Back then, the slightest touch of one's hand was taken to be a bold move. That seems strange to think about nowadays when talking about sex is so open and accepted among so many.

I would be considered one of those guilty people who “lives in sin” (according to some) and is extremely open about certain topics. I even consider it to be a badge of honor that I wear proudly. I can easily sit back and joke with the best of them about blowjob etiquette and sexual fantasies. It's all very tame, at least to me.

But secretly, deep down, I envy those simple times when courting a woman was carefully thought out and planned. It is the hopeless romantic in me that lurks underneath all of the independence, stubbornness and pride. I may have been taught from a young age that I don't need a man to complete me and I can be whatever I choose to be, and I'm grateful that I was raised knowing that those options are there.

That doesn't mean that every so often I fall back into my soft pillows and dream about a day where I'm completely swept off my feet just like all of those other timeless women that we always read about in the legendary novels.

It would be nice to have a moment that appears to be taken straight out of a movie script and have a man who can see straight through all of my bullshit. He would show up randomly when I'm least expecting it, as a grand gesture that proves just how far he'll go for me. Then, of course, he would spout off an unrehearsed speech that is completely spontaneous, original and would tell me with absolute honesty just how much of a fool he is without me by his side. It doesn't matter where the speech would be either; we could be in the cliché pouring rain, alone late at night, in a crowded room in front of tons of people or even at the grocery store. It doesn't matter. He would be standing in front of me saying these incredible things, and what woman wouldn't want to hear these wildly romantic words falling out of the mouth that is attached to the man that she is also so hopeless without?

And after he was finished confessing just how much he loves me, I would in true fairytale fashion, lay a kiss on him that is so pure, so perfect that even Hollywood wouldn't be able to recreate such a moment in time.

That’s all crazy talk though. These days I’m too busy trying to find myself and learning how I’m going to stand on my own two feet. I live in Reality and I can’t think about being swept up in a whirlwind. Besides, things like that don’t happen often. Or perhaps they do happen and I'm just too busy to notice what’s happening right in front of my face. All I know is that when the time comes and I'm ready, I probably won’t settle for anything less.

Posted by Sam at 01:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I guess I should just get it out of the way right now before I go any further.

I don't like doctors. I'm not a fan of any kind of doctor.

None. Zero.

If you have any kind of Phd attached to the end of your name, you can be gauranteed that I'll be a little wary of you and keeping a close eye on where your hands are.

Yesterday I had to visit the dentist. The doctor of the mouth.

Great.

The only reason why I even considered going and having my teeth checked was because I need new retainers. The ones that I have right now are pretty old and gross me out. Of course I still wear them almost every night so I can keep my teeth all straight and looking picture perfect. I just leave them sitting in listerine for most of the day.

Now I know what you're thinking. The dentist? Dentists don't make retainers, Sam. Orthodontists do.

I know this, however, the insurance that I got with my company doesn't cover any kind of orthodontic treatment for me. I didn't think I had to pick that option since I've already gone through the braces phase and what's the point in paying extra money every single month when I'm not going to ever visit an orthodontist again? All I needed were retainers so we specifically picked a dentist who does specialize in making those handy dandy retainers that I need.

So I set myself up an appointment to have my teeth cleaned and make another appointment to have my retainers made.

I went a couple of weeks ago. The hygenist said that I had beautiful teeth.

"Do you get your teeth bleached?" she asked me.

"Um, no."

"Wow, they're really white. Do you use those whitening strips?"

"Nope."

"Well what is your secret because they're amazing?"

"Um, I smoke."

*Awkward silence*

After my visit with the hygenist, there didn't appear to be anything wrong. She said that my teeth were gorgeous but I should set up another appointment with the dentist so he could do a complete oral exam (gosh, to me that just sounds so dirrty) since it had been so long since my last proper dentist appointment.

I complied and had my second dentist appointment scheduled. I wasn't sure about this whole "complete oral exam" she was talking about. It sounded kind of scary. What the hell were they going to do to me? I just needed molds to be made for my new retainers and then I would be out the door. I could really care less if I had any cavities or gingivitis. Those require treatment, and more treatment means more appointments, which means more excess pain, which means more money that has to be spent, which means, which means, which means...

All I wanted was my stupid retainers.

So yesterday was my "complete oral exam" with Dr. Cook and his assistant, Kitty.

Seriously.

I was so close from getting out of the chair and saying, "you know what? I change my mind. Thanks."

It didn't start off too badly. He did the usual feel around stuff and I laid there trying to find a spot on the ceiling that I could concentrate on. It all seemed pretty routine to me.

Then he brought out this long, shiny, sharp looking thing.

That definitely caught my attention and made my eyes get a little wide.

I shut my mouth and mumbled through pursed lips, "what's that for?"

"I'm just going to run this over your gums and check for gingivitis."

"Is it painful?"

"Nah, not so much. Go ahead and open wide for me please."

I frowned, took a deep breath, and reluctantly opened my mouth yet again.

I braced myself and decided it would probably be best if I just shut my eyes.

The next thing I knew he was jabbing my gums and calling out random numbers to Kitty.

"One, two, two, one, two, two, one, one, two."

I didn't understand what the numbers were about and didn't exactly care. All I knew was that he was probably doing something wrong because that metal thing that he was running along my gums hurt really bad.

Of course my mind went into serious over drive and I began to mentally cuss him out.

Oh you motherfucking asshole! What the fuck are you doing?! That shit hurts. Take that out of my mouth. Right. Now. Ouch! Oh, you cunt. You motherfucking cunt. I hate you. I hate you and your stupid assistant Kitty. I hate your momma. That's right. I talked about your momma. Oh fuck, that hurt! Okay, I was only kidding. I don't hate your momma. I'm sure she's a very nice lady. She's nice and she told you to stop hurting the nice girl with that sharp object. Ow. Oh good god make him stop."

After he finished I quickly closed my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth to check for bleeding. There wasn't any, thank goodness. If there was he and I were going to have to take our conversation outside.
"Okay, Samantha. That's the end of your oral exam. Things seem to look fairly well. I only have one concern though which is the back molar on the bottom right hand side of your mouth. It appears to have grown in slightly crooked and it doesn't join your top molar when you bite down. I'm afraid I would be too worried about giving you new retainers before you consult an orthodontists."

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. Don't worry, we can refer you to one of our orthodontists if you don't already have one and - "

"No, you don't understand. I can't go to an orthodontist. My insurance won't cover it. I don't have the money either to pay for it myself. My only option is you guys."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we won't be able to make retainers for you unless that back molar is corrected. We simply don't provide those kind of services here."

"Great."

They gave me all of the information for the orthodontist anyway in case I changed my mind or magically stumbled upon a couple of million dollars.

So I left the office with a sore mouth, one fucked up tooth, and an orthodontist number that I couldn't afford. To make myself and my mouth feel better I went to Baskin Robins and bought a hot fudge brownie sundae. They didn't tell me that I had any cavities so I figured it couldn't hurt anything.

Posted by Sam at 01:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Momma and Daddy got a divorce when I was four years old and Mel was two. We never really wondered where he was or asked many questions. Growing up, Momma rarely mentioned him but even at our young ages we already had a pretty good idea about what kind of man he was.

Or the kind of man he never was, to be more precise.

The older we got though, there would be times when we would be sitting around swapping stories and occasionally he would make a cameo. We would get Momma’s side of the story that would add another piece of the puzzle about who our father was back in the day.

They met in the Philippines. She was stationed over there while she was in the air force and met him while her and some friends were out and about. Momma was young, had low self-esteem, and he paid a lot of attention to her. She thought she was in love and despite what her friends told her, she had already decided that she wanted to marry him.

At the time he worked at some kind of factory, but after he met Momma it wasn’t long until he also joined the air force. The two of them flew back to America and they married shortly after.

He was automatically granted United States citizenship.

They moved to Illinois where Momma had her dream house built from the ground up. She got it decorated and it was your classic 70s house with bold prints on the furniture, green shag carpeting, and huge wall units to hold the huge stereo systems that took up half of the house. When I look at the photos now it’s funny to see a glimpse into that world captured in a small space of time. The pictures have that orange tint to them which adds to the era and gives it that extra feeling that these should be handled with care because it’s part of our history.

I was born six years into their marriage on October 7th, 1985. Momma loves talking about when she was pregnant with me and how that was the only time when Daddy stayed sober for an entire year. She tells me that he was home every night, he would run out to the grocery store whenever she got one of her wild cravings, and did all of the classic husband-things that husbands do when their wife is carrying their child.

She tells me it was the happiest time of their whole marriage.

Mel was born two years later on October 20th, 1987. Apparently he already knew the drill and wasn’t as attentive with Momma the second time around. That’s not to say that he was completely absent, but he didn’t seem as excited like he was when she was pregnant the first time.

Mel and I were only in Illinois for a year or so until we moved to Virginia. After two years there, Momma was transferred over to California and that’s when the family of four was spilt down to just us three ladies. She got her divorce and full custody of the two of us.

Although Momma never talked badly about Daddy directly in front of us, throughout the years we would over hear stories from other family members during the holidays or eavesdrop whenever Momma was on the telephone to Grandma.

He was an alcoholic. He slept around with many, many women. He would steal money from Momma and buy ridiculous, pricey items that they would never use or broke after owning them for two weeks. He liked to gamble. He would stay out late, he never called, he would drink and drive (which Momma hated the most), he verbally abused her, and he expected Momma to keep the house clean, work full time, and accept all of his shitty ways.

In the end she eventually overcame everything and decided that she no longer needed to stay with another person that caused so many problems for her. It took her years to clear the debt that he put in her name, and she was constantly arguing with our lawyer about how he never paid the full amount of child support every month, but she pressed on and we managed fine without him.

We received two cards a year from him; one on our birthday and the other on Christmas. It would always have $50.00 enclosed and a little message from him saying that he loved us both and missed us like crazy. Maybe we could write him sometime, send him a picture, or perhaps meet up if we wanted to. Momma always told us that if we wanted to spend time with our father, we could. She would get it arranged for us, but we always declined. We were still too young and meeting a man that we didn’t know was way too scary for us.

After my eighteenth birthday, the cards stopped coming for either one of us. He no longer had to pay child support for me and all ties were officially cut. The only thing that I have left from him is my last name.

I can’t say that I miss him or that I’ve always been searching for that father figure to have in my life. I’m not constantly sitting back and wondering what life would be like if we did have our dad around. The norm for Mel and me was Momma’s Laws and that was it.

However, I never thought that I would meet a man that I automatically connected with and who I would ask to adopt me if only it wasn’t such a strange request.

**

We had just moved into the new building at work. We didn’t have anything set up and of course that had to be the week when we were having the site lead meeting. It was only the biggest meeting that I’ve ever witnessed my entire time working. Every single site lead from all over the world was coming so that they could all sit around a very large table to talk about very large issues that affected our company.

It was my first week and I was still learning my way around. I was thirty minutes late even though I left our house an hour and a half early. I still managed to get lost and felt terrible when I walked through the front door. C was running around like a mad woman escorting people upstairs and was slightly pissed off that she didn’t have any other help.

Once I arrived, I assumed my position at the front desk and began checking off names and giving out badges to everyone. The meeting started at 9am, breakfast had yet to be delivered, and I couldn’t keep anyone’s name straight.

It was insane.

Things got sorted though and around 9:30, the third floor went back to complete silence and it was only me with the crickets.

A little while later, I was cruising the internet and trying to find something that would keep me entertained, when the door opened and in stepped a man. Immediately I could tell that he had to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t then he sure carried himself that way. He was dressed in an extremely impressive suit and had this charming air that surrounded him. He wasn’t arrogant, he was confident but not in that annoying way.

I noticed that I sat up straighter and wanted to do something to impress him or do something so that he would notice me. I wanted him to like me so much.

I didn’t think that it was weird at the time; all I knew was that I had to get to know this man no matter what.

And so I did.

Me: “Hi, sir. Are you here for the site lead meeting?”

Man I needed to know: “Yes ma’am, I am.”

Me: “Okay, well, I just need to know your name so I can give you a badge and then I’ll call C to escort you upstairs.”

Man: “My name is, Vince [enter last name]. And your name?”

My heart did a little dance in my chest. I know it’s not weird for people to ask what your name is, but nobody had ever asked me my name before. They would just take whatever they needed from me and left. Asking to know my name meant he wanted to get to know me, right? My hopes shot through the roof.

Me: “Samantha, but people call me Sam.”

Vince: “Sam. You’re the new admin for this location?”

Me: “Yep. They told me that I would get to run the whole 3rd floor.”

Vince: “Well, Sam, it’s very nice to meet you. I do believe that we’ll be working with each other a lot in the future.”

He extended his hand so we could shake.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I learned after a while that he looked over all of our locations in the US and had to visit our headquarters often. We would definitely be bumping into each other.

Over the next couple of months, Vince and I would have to call on each other for small things; timecard errors, the Org Chart, or staffing problems. He would come up from headquarters down in Florida and we would have lunch together and catch up. Even though he was so high up on the Corporate Food Chain, I never got the feeling that he was taking pity on me or doing any of it to appease me. He seemed to genuinely care and for me that was special.

Now whenever we get together its common knowledge that we have to go out for lunch. Vince knows that he must take time out from working so we can get something to eat. We talk about music a lot and it’s funny to hear him talk about moshing when he was young and the kinds of bands that he likes to listen to. I would never have pegged him for an alternative, heavy metal kind of guy, but alas, he can head bang with the best of them.

**

These past two weeks at work were tough for me. I had to call on Vince for some advice. For a little guidance. For a caring shoulder to lean on.

He had to come up for three days to deal with some things and we got together so I could talk about my issues.

Vince: “I’m not going to make any promises, Sam, but I’ll definitely keep an eye and ear out for you.”

Me: “I know. I’m not asking for any promises. I just wanted some advice.”

Vince: “All I can ask from you is to hang in there. Don’t let things get you down and you know if you need anything you can always call on me. I’m a great listener.”

Me: “I know. Thanks.”

He smiled and a feeling of calm came over me. Vince knew about my problem now. For some reason I knew that things were going to be okay and I would be looked after. I wasn't worried about him like I was with my other managers on the 5th floor. I knew I wouldn't be placed at the bottom of the pile and quietly forgotten about.

I felt a million times better.

**

I guess in some ways it would be considered strange, odd, or weird. I mean, it is, right? I would never tell anybody at work, "I'm a full Vince fan and if it was up to me I would want him to be my dad." That just sounds plain creepy. Mostly I think it's about if I ever did have a real father I would like for them to have a lot of his qualities; smart, funny, respectful, and present. I know that no matter how busy he is or what kind of day he's having, if I come to him he'll give me his full attention and do whatever it is possible to try and make my problem disappear. He can find a balance and won't take out his problems on you. When we go out and we aren't talking about work I kind of step back and think, "huh, I guess this is what it would be like."

But most of all, he cares.

And that's all that really matters, right?

Posted by Sam at 08:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I know I'm young and I haven't had as much work experience as some people, but I can say that in the four jobs that I've ever worked at, drama in the bathroom has followed me no matter what state I live in.

My very first job was part time in North Carolina at a little sub joint called Jersey Mike's. The best sandwiches in the whole world if you want my opinion, but a little on the "too pricey side." Even with my 15% employee discount, I was pinching pennies.

Anyway, I remember one Saturday afternoon in late summer. We were packed full and the four employees that were running around crazy to keep up with all of the orders were maxed out and on the edge of a complete breakdown. I just so happened to be one of the four employees, and I was working on the register. I hated that goddamned machine.

So it was blazing hot, busy as hell, and the next thing I know a little kid comes and stands right next to me behind the counter.

Tiny Kid: "Something's wrong with your bathroom."

Me: "What? Who are you?"

TK: "I wanted to use the bathroom, but the door is locked and water has started to come out from under the door."

Me: "Shit."

Indeed. Somebody was kind enough to clog up our toilet, lock the door, and then leave...leaving us with a huge mess. On the bright side (if there really is a 'bright side' to toilet mishaps) is that it was only too much toilet paper and too much toilet water. Nothing really surprising that a mop couldn't handle.

I worked at another company where I didn't do anything except enter boring information into the computer all day. The bathroom drama didn't actually happen to me (thank goodness), but a lady told me when she went to get one of those toilet seat covers that a spider crawled out from the container that holds them.

There's no need to hover and cover. I simply hover.

Most famously though, is when I used to work at a bank (which shall remain nameless because this is far too disgusting and nobody would ever want this situation tacked onto their name) and somebody...well...they got ill all over the floor. No, their lunch didn't come back up, if you catch my drift. I guess they tried to sit down and...missed.

At the same job, a man was also discovered in one of the stalls. Nobody is really sure what he was doing, but he wasn't going to the bathroom. My guess was that he was secretly video taping all of us and our bare asses were somewhere on the internet for perverts to view who were willing to shell out $25.00. I thought it was a little funny, but that kind of creeped everybody else out.

It seems like the trend for men to go into women's bathrooms continues though. Today I found out that a fellow male co-worker (who I don't really like at all) went into the women's restroom here on the 3rd floor, and said that he didn't leave until he was finished doing his business. Apparently he was very much aware of where he was, he just refused to leave until he was completely done.

Can you imagine though what might have happened if a woman was already in there or if somebody had walked in while he was there?

The shit would fly, I'm sure.

Posted by Sam at 09:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When we lived in North Dakota it wouldn't get dark in the summer time until about eleven o'clock. That was awesome when we were out of school. Momma wouldn't make us come inside until the street lights flickered on. We would roll in the house with about a million mosquito bites covering our little legs and then spend the rest of the evening sitting on our hands trying not to scratch at them.

However, when school was still in session, bed time was eight o'clock on the dot for us, and not one minute later. We put up tin foil in our windows so that we could block out some of the sun rays and then cover that with our curtains, but there would still be an orange glow all over our walls. When you're 9-years-old, it's really difficult to sleep when you know that there's still three good hours that could be spent playing outside.

Momma's room was on the opposite side of the house of mine and Mel's, so she didn't have to worry as much about the sun turning her room into a tiny incubator in the evenings. She still had the tin foil, the blinds, and the curtains, but it looked relatively normal around eight o'clock at night.

Occasionally, when I just couldn't fall asleep and had spent about two hours tossing and turning, I would get out of bed, creep down the hall (carefully, trying not to squeak the wooden floors) with Sussie and my small blanket in my hands, and then sit down in front of Momma's bedroom door. I had to work up the nerve to go inside because I knew that she'd be angry with me for still being up so late. I would sit in front of the blue glow from the television coming from the bottom of her door and listen to what she was watching for a little bit. If I hadn't fallen asleep in front of the door after sitting there for a while, I would stand up, slowly open her door, and peek my tiny head inside.

Sometimes she would still be awake and tell me to go back to my room. Other times she would be asleep and I'd just crawl in on the other side and fall asleep too. But then there were some nights when she would still be awake, ask me what I was still doing up, and then tell me to climb in next to her. We would fall asleep with the evening news on or some random late night talk show. Those were the best.

Last night after I got in bed, I was restless. I tossed and turned and couldn't shut my mind off. I was facing my windows and stared at the moon that has been shining brightly over me these past couple of nights.

It got to the the point where I just couldn't be in my bed anymore. Not just my bed, but my room. So I got out of bed, grabbed Sussie and my green flannel blanket that I'm always wrapped up in around the house, and creeped down the hallway in front of Momma's door. I sat down on the floor and listened to what she was watching. It was Commander in Chief. Momma can't wait until we really get a female president.

After a couple of minutes, I stood up and slowly opened her door. Her windows were opened and her fan was turned on high. She looked like she was still asleep so I slowly started pulling the covers down on the other side of her bed so I could crawl in. I hadn't even pulled them down halfway before she jumped up startled.

Momma: "Oh, Samantha! Goodness. You just about gave me a fucking heart attack. I didn't hear you come in."

Me: "Sorry, Momma. Hey, what time is your alarm clock set for?"

Momma: "5:15. Why?"

Me: "I was wondering if I could sleep with you tonight."

Momma: "Sure, baby. Hop in. But you've got to make up your side of the bed tomorrow morning."

Me: "No worries, I will."

After I got all situated, we watched a little bit of TV together.

Momma: "Is everything okay?"

Me: "Yeah, everything's fine. Why wouldn't they be okay?"

Momma: "It's just been a while since you last slept in my room."

Me: "I know."

Momma: "Are you sure everything's okay?"

Me: "I just don't like sleeping alone."

Momma: "I don't like it either."

Poor Momma. Hearing her say that made me so sad. She had been sleeping alone for ages and here she was, years later, still chugging along, waiting...A small tear rolled down my cheek.

We became quiet again for a moment.

Momma: "You know, you wouldn't be having this problem right now if you hadn't slept with him."

I busted out laughing. It was such a Momma-thing to say.

Me: "I know."

Momma: "I'm glad you decided to sleep in here. We haven't done this in so long. It's kind of nice."

And you know what? It really was.

Posted by Sam at 10:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

A middle aged, partially bald, not-so-wise man once told me that if you can't save $1,000.00 you'll never be able to save $100,000.00. For some reason these words rang so true with me. So what if it's obvious. I'm slow.

Ever since I had to get the brakes on my car fixed and drop about $1,000.00 on just my car, I've been slightly depressed with the reality that...well...I suck at saving money. I really do. I've been coming to terms with the fact that I'm irresponsible and have pretty much sunk my chances of paying for my first year of college.

You always see it in the movies. That's how they always start off.

Picture it. The first scene.

Girl is in her car, fag puffing in her mouth, windows rolled down, and jams blasting out of her speakers. Girl has a very serious look on her face. Girl is dirt poor but has a dream. Girl continues to drive in no particular direction in order to follow her dream regardless of the fact that she's dirt poor. The odds are all against her. The likelihood of her actually overcoming her odds are pretty much slim to none.

Things are bleak.

Eventually though, she makes it to her destination where she knows a total of zero people. She takes some random jobs to get by and lives off of ramen noodles for the first six months at her new home. Things are hard, but she's happy, because goddammit she's following her dream no matter what anybody tells her.

One day though, by chance, she meets somebody. It could be a new best friend, a potential love interest, or somebody with "connections" and they give her a new option, a different door to open, a new point of view. All of a sudden, life for Girl begins to move at a much faster pace, so much so that she can hardly keep up. That's okay though, because all of these events are helping her get closer to her dream.

Drama ensues and Girl cries because she wasn't expecting or prepared for any of the drama. She second guesses herself and wonders if she made the right decision and has many deep thoughts. But during all of the drama, Girl learns some hard life lessons and this makes her a better person. She sees a lot of truths in things and gains a better understanding of how things are done.

Once all of the dust has settled and all of the dramatic events have taken place, Girl finally reaches her dream and there's nothing but smiles, hugs, and warm chocolate chip cookies.

This is what I was getting ready to do, only not really.

I have been doing so much research on how to get myself over to England as fast as possible that I overlooked some important things. Things like, um, opening a savings account WAY long ago. Things like, I won't be able to apply for my student visa until 3 months prior to me attending classes and that if you can't prove that you are able to support yourself completely on your own, you won't be accepted. They will deny your ass and not feel bad about it.

The work visa was a good idea in theory, but through talking with many different people, it seems that somebody like myself will never ever receive a work visa. Besdies, the UK doesn't want me trying to stay there permanently. No, no, no. Temporarily, sure. Having the option of staying for however long I want though, absolutely out of the question.

So not many options left for me. Way to go Irresponsible Sammi. You are a failure and have blown all future chances of making it to England by January. You are a Fucktard.

But wait. There is light. A very small stream of light, but light indeed.

See, on Monday I was a bit bitchy on the phone with, Ash. I was in a crap mood (as I have been for a couple of days), and didn't want to talk about anything. I was having a pity party for one, and by god I could cry if I want to.

That's not the light part I'm talking about.

When Momma got home, she asked me how my day was. I couldn't handle it anymore. The tears came flowing down my face and I was doing that annoying sniffling bullshit where you're crying so hard that you can't breathe. Momma listened to me while I told her my plan of moving in January, regardless of how much cash I had and that I would just find work when I arrived. She listened to me whine, complain, and feel sorry for myself. I told her everything.

So Momma did what Momma does best and she told me how it is. She kicked some much needed reality into my head and wouldn't take any of my bullshit excuses that I'm always dealing out for others to feel sorry for me.

Please. Momma was in the military. She doesn't have time for any of those games. She has been taught if you want something, then goddammit go out and get it. It's okay to dream, but don't sit around and wait for the shit to come falling out of the sky . Do it responsibly and with a full proof plan. The last thing she wants is for me to go anywhere unprepared where I'll be struggling.

After two and a half hours of me crying and getting a clearer picture of the situation, I fell asleep. I woke up with my eyes so swollen that I couldn't tell if they were open or closed. I took a shower and prayed that the swelling would go down. On top of all that, I put ten pounds of make up on so I could try and disguise the fact that I had been crying all night and even potentially while I was sleeping.

That's not the light either. Hang on, I'm getting there.

I was still in a shit mood the next day, but it wasn't as bad. I was relatively busy with some random jobs around the office, but during my breaks and down time, I e-mailed about four people who I thought could help me out with my situation. I didn't sugar coat anything for them. I told them how it is:

I'm a soon to be twenty-year-old who wants to live in London with my boyfriend. I'm poor, in need of a job, and need an alternative way for me to get a hold of some cash since I don't want to re-apply for 2007. That would suck and not only would I be extremely pissed off, I'd be disappointed in myself. What can I do?

This morning I had two e-mails in my inbox.

This is the light.

Their names are Val and Heidi.

I asked Val if Roehampton was going to be visiting the states anytime soon. Preferably in the DC/Virginia area, because I wanted to go and talk directly to a representative. Val told me that I had just missed them by a week (bugger) and they didn't have any future trips on their schedule but that she'd be more than happy to answer any of my questions.

So I asked her my questions and this is what she told me in a nutshell...

- I should get a job upon my arrival in the UK. It'll be so, so much easier and less painful than everything I'm doing at the moment for a work visa.
- Roehampton is recognized by the US Department of Education. I need to fill out a FAFSA form. (I knew this but haven't gotten around to filling it out since I'm a procrastinator. It's just good to know that it will actually be accepted.)
- I also need to check out the IEFC. They're like FAFSA and will hook me up with some nifty cash without a fee.
- There are plenty of discounts for Americans through the IEFC. I'm looking forward to them.

Since Val is going to be out for the next couple of weeks, she forwarded my e-mail to her work colleague, Heidi.

Heidi sent me an e-mail also. In a nutshell, this is what she said...

- She does work in the International Centre, however she is also a full time student at Roehampton and in her third year. She's having a kick ass time. She hopes that I also have a kick ass time at Roehampton.
- Val was right about finding a job in the UK. So, so much easier after I arrive and I do not want the British Consulate to be concerned that I'm this worried about getting a job in the UK as they might think that I might want to take a full time position and stay permanently.
- Her best advice for me is to get all of my bank accounts sorted out before I even leave the US. She sent an e-mail to a contact of hers and is waiting to hear back from him.
- A man by the name of, Erich, is the new representative for the IEFC and I should ask him any questions about their financial aid.

I felt so good. So relieved. So much lighter.

When I see these two women, I'm going to give them a hug and a kiss, because they have once again made it seem possible for me to get my shit together and make the 2006 entry even though I'm dirt poor. I'm not going to have to turn on my red light. No. I'm going on financial aid, bitches.

Now I have to actually fill out the applications which are boring, I hate, and would much rather let a large truck reverse into me at a high speed.

Who cares though? I just need to do it, and I need to do it before the end of fucking time.

So nothing MAJOR occured. I haven't gotten a big check from Ed McMahon nor have I won the lottery. I just realized that even with all of my mistakes (that I've made more than once) the poorest of poor people can go to school overseas and there are some very nice people who work there that are willing to help me out and talk to me regularly until I get everything sorted out and finalized.

I also realized that I have a serious money issues that I need to address. With that, I've got a different plan, but that's an entire post in itself.

Posted by Sam at 10:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I don't watch the news. Ever. It's mostly because there's nothing but sadness on and I prefer not to listen to it all if I can help it. It's nice to pretend that there isn't any Evil in this world. I know it's wrong and I'm probably just hurting myself not staying caught up on all of my current events but I'm one of those people who likes to not deal with things. So I don't deal at all.

Some things just can't be ignored though and this weekend was my first real look at Katrina's aftermath. I mean, I've heard about it, read some things online, and caught a couple of glimpses from commercials on TV, but I haven't really sat and listened to everything that is going on.

My god. No words to describe how horrific it is down there. My heart goes out to everyone who has been effected, the families that have been separated, and all of the volunteers and local government who are working endlessly to lend a helping hand.

With the anniversary of September 11th, I did take some time to sit back and reflect on Sunday and I'm so grateful for everything that I have. Life may not always go the way I want it and I do like to sulk and say that things suck but I also know that things could be much worse and I need to quit complaining about it all.

I remember September 11th as if it just happened yesterday. It doesn't seem like four years has passed since then. Crazy. I was a sophomore in high school and was in homeroom when Brandon came in and said that we weren't going to second period. An airplane had crashed in to the Twin Towers in New York. My first thought was, "what are the Twin Towers?" Yeah, I know. I was a real bright one.

We had televisions in all of the classrooms and on every single screen was live pictures from New York. I thought that there had been a terrible accident, not that we were being attacked. Terrorism was the last thing on my mind. I didn't even know what terrorism was.

Then the other building was hit.

What the fuck?

So maybe it wasn't an accident.

To be watching all of this happening live miles and miles away was so surreal. It wasn't happening. This was just some crazy movie.

After the Pentagon was hit, I thought we were all going to die. People were hijacking airplanes and crashing them into buildings? They made it to the Pentagon? We're all going to die. I remember people saying that they were headed for Charlotte, North Carolina (I lived about forty-five minutes from Charlotte at the time) and began to seriously panick. I was glued to the TV at that point and had a new fear burned inside of me.

After Pennsylvania, rumours ran rampant and I heard about the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sears Tower, even the Mall of America. I didn't know how to react. Cry? Be angry? Sad? The only real feeling that I could identify was confusion and I just wanted to go home and talk to Momma. Momma would know what to do and how to react. I couldn't stop thinking about all of the people who were in New York. I saw people jumping out of their windows, people running in the streets and complete chaos. I felt helpless for all of them.

Everything else is history. The news had twenty-four hour coverage for months it seemed. The rumours continued. There was talk about reinstating the draft. They were mentioning bringing people out of retirement. I was afraid they were going to take Momma back. She had served her twenty years in the air force and had been retired for about three years. I had never been more scared.

Our comfortable foundation was shaken on that day and people are still recovering because of it. People will still be recovering from Katrina for years too. It's all very much devastating and no matter how hard I try to push the Evil out and keep it away it still manages to find me, and every single time I still get the same pain inside of my chest. It's hard to find perspective and try to understand why things like this have to happen.

I never know what to say when situations like these arise. What is there to say? Sometimes there isn't anything you can say. Just do.

Posted by Sam at 01:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I woke up on time for once and was excited about getting to work. Mostly because I knew that I wasn't going to be staying all day and when I left, I'd be off to the airport to pick up Ash. To say that I was nervous was a bit of an understatement. I smoked two fags on the way to work and was very aware of my breathing technique. Slow and steady. Try and keep the fingers from shaking out of your skin and for fucks sake don't start hyperventilating.

After I had changed from "work shirt" into "picking up Ash in this precious Big Squeeze t-shirt" my cell phone rang. It was Mendy.

Me: "Marko."
Mendy: "Polo."

We hung up and jumped in my car. It didn't feel like I was about to see my boyfriend that has been living across the Atlantic Ocean which has kept us apart for nearly eight months. It felt like I was on reality TV and this was all some kind of hoax. A big busty blond host would surprise me at the airport and say, "you are on the new reality TV show, 'Fuck, that joke is cruel!'"

We arrived a little early. Like, two hours early. It took us a small while to figure out where we should be going, but all in all it was fairly easy. Since we had a bit of time to kill, we decided to get a snack so we'd have something to munch on while staring at the arrivals screen.

I got two pieces of bread with cheese, lettuce, and tomatoe on it (supposedly a "sandwhich") for roughly $6.00. Not worth it. Mendy lucked out with some apple fritter that was surprisingly really tasty. It's very hit or miss at the airport.

Ten minutes later, we quickly realized that this was going to be quite a wait, so to entertain ourselves, we made a short video with Mendy's camera, smoked another fag, went to the bathroom, found some chairs so we wouldn't have to sit on the floor, and talked about how we were waiting, yet again, for Ash just like when we had gone to London. What a lovely coincidence.

All this time I was trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I was going to be face-to-face with Ash again. What does one do in this kind of situation? How do you say hello? We talked everyday, but this would be completely different. It may seem simple, but for some reason I was painfully aware of everything I was doing. How I sat, held my arms, and just all of my body language in general. What would I do when I saw him? Run, leap, and embrace in slow motion like in the movies? Or just stand back in absolute awe like, holy motherfucking hell, there he is.

I knew it wasn't a big deal. I would do whatever I felt like doing as soon as I saw him as would he.

We stood up so we could see better. There was a big board indicating which flights were in customs and we saw that his flight was finally off of the plane and standing in line waiting.

We stood. We watched little siblings fight with each other and fall on the floor. We listened to random religious people sing "Hallelujah!" repeatedly. I heard my name over the speakers.

"Samantha (insert last name), please come to the Information desk by baggage claim 14."

Me: "Holy shit. Mendy, did you just hear my name?"

Mendy: "What are you talking about? No, I didn't hear your name."

Me: "Dude, I swear to you that I just heard my name over the speaker. They said to meet them somewhere. Baggage claim 14? Fuck."

Mendy: "Are you hearing things?"

I take her by the hand and start walking. I heard them. I begin looking for a busty blond, lots of ballons, and cameras. They're here. I know they're here. And I'm getting ready to cry a whole lot.

I see a man who looks like he knows something. What that means, I don't know, but as soon as I saw him, I knew there was something up with him. He looked like he was searching for me. He was the bastard that was going to tell me that I was on TV. What an asshole.

I walk up to him.

Me: "Did someone just call for me over the speakers?"

Info Man: "Are you, Samantha?"

I wanted to say, "that depends. Are you working for that blond who's going to make me cry?"

Me: "I am, yes."

Info Man: "Ah. We called for you twice. I need your address for, Ashoke. He's standing in the customs line and he needs it in order for them to let him through."

Me: "Oh, sure. Not a problem."

That was a close one.

I struggled to remember my address and wasn't sure about the zip code, and handed it to Info Man while my heart started to come down from the immediate jolt of adrenaline.

Mendy and I got closer to the door since we were pretty sure that he was about to come out at any minute now. They had everything they needed, right? Just let him go now!

Meanwhile, the religious group were still singing for random people who were coming through the international arrivals door. Singing, clapping, and cheering. I kept my breathing under control. I was focused on the door and every person who walked through had the potential to be Ash. Even the old white women with three kids could have been him.

It happened when I briefly took my eyes off of the door. I was looking at the man with the guitar and in the corner of my eye, I saw him come flying towards Mendy and me with a luggage trolly. Before I could even think, I was swinging through the air. Who would have thought that Ash could pick me up so easily? Well, I am me. I think anyone could pick me up that easily.

"Oh, Sam. I missed you," was all I heard.

Relief washed over me. No hyperventilating. No shaking. I inhaled his shirt and took his hand in mine. Finally. Fucking finally we were together.

Posted by Sam at 01:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.

What some fucking bullshit if I've ever heard it before.

Holiday is over, and Ash is gone now. In the time it took for me to take a deep breath in, exhale, walk down some stairs at Dulles Airport, and look back over my shoulder, it was done. Ash was gone, and again I was left with the same feeling just like eight months ago that this was wrong. All of this was terribly wrong and something needed to be done sooner than immediately to put everything back into place.

I took another deep breath, wiped the tears from my eyes that had began to seriously impair my vision while walking and pulled out the ear phones from my new mini iPod that had been purchased while out at Best Buy. I fumble with "Mini" for a moment and within a couple of presses with my fingers, the first track from The Zutons comes blaring into my ears.

I begin to walk in no real direction and faces blur as I walk past at what feels like lightning speed.

God I have never been so happy to just walk. Walk and walk and walk with music pounding out any thoughts that was occuring at the moment.

A couple of steps and I landed in the ladies bathroom. In the first stall I wiped my eyes and was practicing some heavy lamaze breathing. An image of my sixth grade gym teacher suddenly appeared in my mind reminding me to always breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.

"It's normal to cry at the airport," I think to myself. "Don't worry. People understand, you're going to be fine. Now get your shit together and prepare to face your mother and sister. They've already landed. You need to be able to drive. You really don't want to deal with your mother at this time. Don't cry. There's no need to cry. We had a great time and are lucky. We are the lucky ones. Remember the good. Don't cry."

Fuck.

It was a sort of nice coincidence that Momma and Mel were landing just as I had to drop Ash off at the gates. They were coming in from their holiday and would want to yack on and on about everything they did, what they saw, took pictures of, the different people that they had encountered while away and explain in extreme detail everything that had happened and I had missed out on.

I would want to pry out my eyes with a burning stick.

Another deep breath and I was back walking in the airport a bit slower than before but still with my music. I found their baggage claim and took a seat nearby.

A flash of Ash laying downstairs while watching TV appears in my head.

"He's gone," I think. My throat tightens.

I inhale sharply and try to find something absolutely unrelated to anything to focus on.

The lady next to me was dressed up from head to toe in pink and smelled strongly of bad perfume. I wanted to gag, but she was a pretty good distraction.

Luckily I didn't have to wait too long and was able to leave with Momma and Mel talking my ear off as I predicted. I didn't hear a word of what they said, but still added in my, "oh really?" and "that's nice" comments every so often. I had forced myself into a numb state in order to survive the ride home.

When we arrived, I fell quiet. I went to the bathroom, took off all of my jewelry, and went upstairs to lay down on my bed. I felt nauseous like my insides were being yanked out of me through my toes. I couldn't understand how everything had just happened so suddenly and I wasn't prepared for any of it. Then again, how do you prepare yourself for something like this? I didn't have time to deal, to decompress, to process, or accept anything. It was like a crash course of emotions and I tucked everything away in order to not cause a major scene.

My numb state slowly began to fade away and as I sat in bed looking towards the windows it was hard to imagine that only a couple of hours ago, both of us were here.

I had a proper cry. I wallowed and felt sorry for myself. I knew it wouldn't be the last time but I felt okay for the moment and remembered him just being here. It wasn't my imagination or a dream. It really did happen.

And lord did we have a fucking kick ass time.

Posted by Sam at 01:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

So I was reading over where I used to post lots of rambling stuff, and discovered a post I had put up about two months ago when I first started my job here. It doesn't seem like a lot has changed...sad.

Now because I'm bored, uninspired, and feel like it, I'm going to share my words that explain exactly what I do on a pretty normal basis.

..................................................

6.30.2005

If there was an award for the most amazing receptionist, I do believe that I would win or pull a close 2nd. I mean, I'm responsible, dependable, extremely organized, efficient, and hell, funny, which isn't a well known receptionist quality, but good to have in any kind of situation.

So somebody please tell me why I’m bored 75% of the time and no one wants to delegate work to me? (well, aside from The Man, but that's a different post all together.) Huh? For the 25% of the time that I am actually busy and have work to do, I'm really happy. I'm sending things off to FedEx, organizing the conference room, scheduling meetings, transferring calls, ordering supplies (now that I have my new nifty Staples account), faxing things to different people, and doing whatever C, asks me to do. I'm good. I'm quick. Say I'm impatient, but if these people don't give me something steady and productive to do during the day, I just might explode.

All I keep hearing from different people is, "don't worry, you'll get work soon," and "Sam doesn't realize it yet, but she's about to be really busy."

When? When am I going to be busy? Somebody please fucking clue me in, because this is not okay. I came on this job under the impression that I was going to stay busy. It was a great opportunity for my education and I was going to learn so many new things. So far I've learned how to work our semi-complicated phone system and that's about it. I thought I was going to have things to do. Work was going to be flying at me in all sorts of directions and I was just going to tackle it all head on and show everyone just how kick ass I can be. Has that happened yet? I'm afraid not. Now at the end of the day, I'm just so tired from doing nothing, and even though I knew it was possible, I was really hoping that it wouldn't be the case.

Of course, going to Popeye's doesn't help me any. They do have some kind of sleeping potion in that chicken.

On the upside, I have gotten WAY better at learning everyone's name. They have slowly realized that, WOW, we do exist down here on the 3rd floor. Who would have thought? My desk area is almost complete, and we should be getting the rest of our furniture by the end of the month. Until then, I'm just filling up space with more and more supplies. Staples has become my new favorite store in the world. Target will always and forever remain number one though. I didn't know that our contract was so poor, so they're being a bit scarce with what we can and cannot buy. I understand, but having to roll chairs into the conference room from our unclassified computer lab because there just isn't enough to go around, has become a real pain in the ass for me. Not only that, when we first moved in, our printer sat on top of two trash cans flipped upside down because we couldn't find a table for it to sit on.

When I'm not doing the few things that C asks me to do or chained behind my desk, I'm usually catching up on my blogs or talking to Em. Em and I have moved past the casual conversations and have become...well...working gal pals. It's way better than not having anyone to talk to at all.

I suppose I should probably get back to doing something. C did ask me to scope out some picture frames. That should take up at least twenty minutes of my life. Tomorrow should be better for me. It's Friday and they're throwing R (HR guy) a farewell party. He's going back to headquarters in Florida. The only reason why I'm going? Two words: Free. Lunch.

..................................................

It turned out that it wasn't a free lunch. I had to pay for what I bought, which was a grotty hamburger. Oh, and we still don't have enough furniture downstairs. I like what Bart said..."It's just B.Y.O.C. in the conference room. Bring Your Own Chair."

I cannot wait until my suffering ends.

Posted by Sam at 01:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My goodness, I am so, so, so very happy that today is Friday and I'm not working tomorrow. This has been the longest freaking week of my life! I worked eight hours on Sunday (because I'm a freak, but also because we get paid double time), and overtime this week also.

Needless to say I'm a little tired.

I don't know why I don't just take myself upstairs and fall asleep, but for some reason I just don't feel like it. I feel like sitting here and typing up lots of randomness in my head that has been floating around and mulling away while I've been driving to and from work. Of course I have a crap memory, so I can't remember any of it at the moment, so I'll just type out what I'm thinking now.

Which is that I need a vacation. A real honest to goodness vacation. My friend and I went to London this past New Years and called it a "vacation." Oh, how wrong we were. It was a mind blowing, life altering experience. There was no relaxation whatsoever. We walked, we tubed, we saw/heard/smelled and experienced it all. My GOD was it a fucking good time. The best ten days of my life. Now I'm battling the entire universe to get back where I want to be so badly.

I can't really explain it either, which sucks, because I like telling people about it, but I don't want to come off like I'm bragging. So instead I down play it all and act all modest that I (at nineteen years old) and my best friend (who was seventeen at the time), got onto an airplane, flew 4,000 miles, over an ocean, far away from home, outside of our country, and stayed with my boyfriend in his flat.

Sounds crazy, right?

What was even better was that everything went according to plan. It was blissful the whole entire time. Nothing went wrong, which never ever happens. I was expecting something bad to happen. We would lose our luggage, someone would get food poisoning, get mugged, and have all of our important information stolen. But none of it happened. It was perfect. We went everywhere we wanted to go, the weather was nice, we got along great with his friends, there wasn't any complaining about feet hurting because we were walking so much, the food was good (shout out to Nando's), and nothing was stolen...at least nothing that I know of. And of course, most importantly to me, aside from the great city itself, is that I got to spend priceless time with Ash, my fantastic boyfriend.

There's just so many little details and a million memories that we all have created within such a short amount of time, that it doesn't seem realistic at all. It can't be. Sometimes I just sit back and think, "That really didn't happen."

Leaving was hell to put it mildly.

What I also can't believe is the fact that it's over halfway through July, and I'm still not there yet. I remember when we first got back, I was ready to pack up the rest of my things, get back on an airplane and live with Ash for the rest of my life. I would be happy as a clam. However, I doubt that everyone I know in America (my mom especially) would have been just as happy as me. I'm doing it the more..."responsible" way.

I have managed to get into a college over there, so snaps for me. Unfortunately, I'm poor and can't afford to go this year, so I had to defer it until 2006. I've got a bit of a bad shopping habit and it takes control of my life whenever things don't go my way. I need some sort of instant gratification, otherwise I freak out and have major break downs. It's not a pretty sight at all, so I'd much rather buy a new pocketbook or some shoes that I can create an entire outfit around.

It's just hard. Real hard. And I'm really impatient. I've got these constant questions swirling around in my brain like, "what can I do to make this whole process go any faster," or "why do I have to do all of this crap anyway?" I'm a simple girl (not really, but I like to think I am). I just want to wake up every morning in London, with my man by my side and hear the traffic outside the window. Is that so much to ask? I can't just live and be happy in another country?

From all of my research that I've done since we've been back, I learned that it does not work that way.

Unless we get married. Momma would love that, I'm sure.

Posted by Sam at 01:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember when I was working at Jersey Mike's, and my best friend at the time asked me to come outside with her to smoke. She lit up a Marlboro Light and began puffing away as though she was born with a fag in her mouth. I was intrigued. I wanted to try. What made them so fabulous that everyone I knew was smoking? Not once did she ever ask me if I wanted one. No peer pressure whatsoever. There was nothing "after school special" about this situation. I simply asked if I could take a hit and see what the huge fuss was all about. So she passed her fag over to me, I took it into my small fingers and inhaled.

I started coughing and choking like I had swallowed gasoline. I looked over to her, and in a strained voice with watering eyes, sputtered out, "smooth."

I was a regular smoker from that point on, and have also been trying to quit ever since that day. It's been more then an uphill battle for me. Constantly thinking about the health side effects and fluctuating from a pack a day, to half a pack a day, to two packs when I drink...it's a nightmare. I've given up how many times I've tried to seriously quit. Recently though, was my best go. I quit for over two months and thought that maybe this time I had won. I had done the necessary research in order to beat them this time around. There were methods that I was using regularly, and I even believed this time that I was going to make it. Then I could walk in to a restaurant and ask for the non-smoking section. I would quit smelling like an ash tray, and I wouldn't feel like I really need them in order to make things better. Which is what I've always hated about them. Needing them.

I started back up roughly about a week ago. I don't know why. It was probably some stupid reason that I used in order to buy them and feel the smoke filter down into my lungs. It was quite a relief actually. I felt so good, but then extremely guilty straight afterwards.

The thing is, sometimes it's the only thing that I can think of that'll make me feel a little better. Wow, that sounds so sad. They're just so immediate and available that it's a comfort to know that I can always go back to them. I feel sad? Smoke a fag. I'm really happy? Smoke a fag. Feeling confused? Smoke a fag. Raining outside? Smoke a fag. Just ate a meal? Smoke a fag. Driving to or from work? Smoke a fag. Driving anywhere? Smoke a fag. Listening to music? Smoke a fag.

You see the trend.

I'm taking this relapse as a one off though. At least that's what I'm saying right now. I'm going to keep going strong and not smoke anymore, for any reasons. Hopefully. Too bad its so mind controlling and all I can keep thinking is, "Well, what if I were just a part time smoker? Or a light smoker?" As if there are such things.

I suppose it wouldn't be as bad if I didn't lie about it all the time. I lie to family and friends about how long I've been smoking, why I do it, when I quit, when I don't quit. It's even worse than the bad habit itself. All I see though when I do light up is disappointment or whenever I talk about it, the sadness that comes out of their voice. They don't like that I do, and I can't blame them. So I'd much rather just avoid it all together and pretend that I don't smoke anymore, other than feel the shame that I get from them. It's all just terrible.

Huh. I sure could go for a fag right about now.

Posted by Sam at 01:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)