A Word a Day

So I picked up this book yesterday...

Wow. So cliche for me. I pick up so many books every day but-
*cough*

So I picked up this book yesterday at Half Price Books (destination of the century, people) and instead of heading over to the religious fiction section or the language section or the history section, I went to the writing section.
Because I write.
No duh.

This book is called A Word a Day: A Romp through Some of the Most Unusual and Intriguing Words in English.
*phew*
So every day on this blog I will give you a word for today, starting at the ery beginning of the book, travelling through to the end.
The section for the next few days is "Animal Words".
And today's animal word is: "Crabwise"
Crabwise (KRAB-wyz) Adjective. 1. Sideways. 2. In a cautious or roundabout manner.
From the sideways movement of crabs.

Have a good day!



(Garg, Anu, A Word a Day. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Publishers, 2003. Print)

Optimism.

I'm sorely lacking in optimism. I'm lacking in a lot of departments though, and one of those is talent.
Personally, I consider myself having a lot of talent. I can write and play the flute and piccolo like a pro, but that's not going to help me much later on in life. The five instruments I play might get me a scholarship to college but probably not much beyond that unless I go to Juilliard which would be freaking awesome but it's not exactly on my agenda for the future. The writing may get me farther. I want to publish someday and that on my resume in the next three years before college would be so boss. But having lasting friendships and lots of optimism would be the best but I don't really have many of those.
Sure, I have friends. I have wonderful friends. I've known one of my best friends for practically longer than I've been alive, but ever since, I've been losing more friends in gradually more and more painful ways than gaining good friends. Which is kind of like a *stab* *twist* feeling.
A few weeks ago, I had the most unusual person touch my life. And they way that person did it was in such a different way than anyone else had. That person just sat. And played the piano until my tears just washed away, sang me a song that lifted me up and encouraged me and I listen to every day now.
But still. I want that again. I want to be lifted up in the arms of music to cry on it's shoulder again.
And I wonder if I will still be friends with the piano player after I leave next year and separate from all the people and all the things I've known.
When I leave, who will stick with me?
Will anyone stick with me?

This can only be tried in chance.

Fighting for Peace

I'm fighting for peace.
I'm battling through the waves of stress to get there. I'm tired. I'm exhausted and weak. And stuff was sprung on me that I don't like. I want to go lay down and watch the whipped-cream clouds drift over the cerulean sky. I want to dip my finger in them and lick the cream off my finger, but I know that it'll just taste like dirt and grass and outside.
And then, like usual God sends a song to kick me in the butt.
In this case, "Moving On", by Needtobreathe, a long favourite group of mine.

And the lyrics:
"I'm sick of good intentions, how they always tend to drown.
But then nothing seems to stay afloat living in the saddest town.
When the curtain falls for one last time and closes out the show,
Marching left, right, left, another step. Just keep smiling as you go.

*Chorus*

"You're out of room for marking days on the wall
The lines remind of just how long I've been gone.
You're holding on but now it's time to let go.
Just... let it go."

We could be the story that'll break your heart
We could be the victim of a fall apart
Maybe we could last another week  or so.
But moving on means you gotta let it go."

Moving on means you gotta let it go.
I mean. Seriously.
Let it go.
Just do it.
Then, and only then, will peace prevail.

Official.

We're facebook official people.
HERE.

GO GO GO LIKE LIKE LIKE
Accio likes!
Accio double stuff...

Flight.

My dad told me once that if I tried hard enough, I could fly.

Meaning of course, that if I worked hard enough and worked well enough, I would succeed and do really well in this world.

But I want to fly.

That breathless feeling when your stomach soars through your throat and the air is rushing past your face in a nose-numbing, waterless river and your hair flies back from your face and the smile is plastered across your face, your eyes are watering and each breath is hollow and your laughing gets snatched away by the airstream’s fickle fingers and is flung backwards into someone’s face.

And then your mom pulls up to a stoplight or you have to roll the window up and the dream is closed off behind the glass of a window. And you sit back and imagine.

Where would you go if you could fly?

I would go back home. Heresford. Tiddington. Stratford-upon-Avon. Penzance. London. Langollen. Tarrington.

I would go abroad.  Canada. All over Canada. Japan. Kotelny Island in it’s beauty and zero population and negative five degree weather. Bundle up, y’all!

I would go to Texas. Visit my sister in college. My cousins in Helotes. Love on my widowed grandmother. Help her weed and feed the birds like I used to do daily. 

And then I would stay with her and feed the birds and scatter the seed. Watch their bright blue and red feathers glimmer in the sun. Listen to the hummingbirds sing over my head, whirling through the bright blue sky, the dancers of the air.

Wishing I could be like them. Their food is always awesome. They have a variety. They could eat out of a different feeder every day. And they get worms. And they get to look amazing while they're at it. I mean, come on. Have you ever looked at a cardinal? A blue jay? So beautiful.

But I can’t be them. I have to wait. Until I can find my feathers, that right windstream that will pull me up and push me forward. 

So I can soar.

Snensory Snapshot

I know it's spelled 'snensory'.
Deal with it.

But this is a story.
Entitled: IT WAS AWKWARD.
Rules: Don't use to be verbs (you have three freebies though)
Don't state the above telling sentence in the story.
The story doesn't have to be about something being awkward. It can be just slipped in there. But it must be there.
Make it sensory.
But have fun xD
(This is not a true story, btw)

The Date

We met on a blind date, through mutual friends, shaking hands in the low, thick night, thin with stars, bright with a voluptuous moon, casting silver shards that dripped through our hair like melted mirrors, shining in our eyes.

Same as any other blind date. The silence tangible, the conversation thin as the soup and awkward like the bussing boy, and it stays like that until the entree course where the conversation becomes worth our time, and we start talking over our clams and linguine, the garlicky aroma of the sauce winding in the air between us. We tell tall tales over sweet, chilled cheesecake, drizzled with chocolate, and gasp and laugh over our spoons at what the other has accomplished or failed to.

Tonight, we become strangers and thus, equals.

After our dinner, we wander around the small, empty mall, drinking crappy, overpriced coffee until the shops close and we get kicked out into the cold winter air to wander the streets, laughing over the now lukewarm lattes in our frozen hands.

Now, he takes me dancing every Friday night, and we dance and talk and laugh until two in the morning as the music sways us, spins us, and it is beautiful.

And every friday night, we set ourselves at a park bench and talk for hours, drinking more crappy coffee, me in my teal dress and awkward converse, him in his shirtsleeves. The espresso shots in our coffee are pulled too bitter and the foam is wet and bubbly. The slice of pound cake, laced with lemon and glaze, sat out all day and is dry and stale, the yellow crumbs getting caught in my skirt and his shirt. But with him, the lemon is sweet and the coffee is warm and we laugh again because it isn’t awkward anymore, and we are happy.

 Sweat, like laughter, lingers on our faces and we chase after our breath in the snow-speckled midnight air, and we put our coffee down and he grabs my hand and spins me in the parking lot, snow and ice slippery underneath our feet. We slip and slide and laugh like little kids but we don’t care how ridiculous we are, because we are with each other and it’s late and everything is ridiculous early in the cold winter mornings. 

And he stands there and sways me in the waning moonlight, as the snow laces my eyelashes and chill slips up our arms and raises goosebumps. 

And music floats on the air towards us, flotsam and jetsam on the wintery wind.

Mis Amigos.

Jennifer is sitting next to me. She's is awesome, a blessing. Janelle is on my other side. She knows me better than just about anyone, and frequents this blog. (Hey there, Landelle!!). MacKenzie is next to Janelle. She's my emotional rock, my encourager, an inspiration.


These are my people. These are my encouragers. They help me grow and learn, encourage me to write and love God.
And we are talking about dead animals, our cats killing things, and Kenzie's hermit crab.

Yup.
We're mature.

Crashed.

Yesterday, tragedy struck.
My hard drive in my faithful laptop,  Evans Jr., crashed.
BUT
I backed him up the day before. So I'm hoping that a majority of my work was saved. I still have to reinstall everything, recover all of my files, including homework assignments, all my pictures, thousands of songs, and tens of thousands of words worth of writing.
I'm pretty bummed, to say the least. It'll take like, three days for them to replace my hard drive, but I'm just glad that I can get everything back, and that Evans was under warranty so I didn't have to pay a cent. *gratefulness*
So I'm typing this out on my mother's laptop, and listening to the Dave Brubeck quartet.
Jazz :)
Smooth and epic. It's hard to go wrong with jazz. I love it. I play it. I listen to it. It is the foundation of good music. It is epic. It's just so rich. There are no rules in jazz other than the key signature. As long as you are hitting the right notes, you're fine. You'll be amazing. Trust me.
It's loose, toe-tapping, energizing music that fills you with pure amazingness. My personal favourite is Take Five. Such a great song, challenging to play, fun to improv, great to listen to. It's just amazing. The feel of jazz is different too. While classical is smooth, silky, like velvet, jazz, though in it's own way feels smooth, is sharp. Pointed. It orders you to get up and dance, and you won't mind.
Every time my dad plays jazz in our house, he always pulls me or my mom aside and starts dancing with us, swaying us, spinning us in our kitchen or living room and we laugh and no one can complain.

Jazz is the night sky. Smooth, bright, dark, silent, all at once.
Jazz is a roaring fire. Loud, warm, energizing, beautiful.
Jazz is music.

Things.

A newly released movie.
The smell of fresh ink on paper.
A new book.
An unopened adventure.
A pair of shoes that fits perfectly.
Getting an A on a test.
A bike ride on a cold day.
Going down the highway really fast.
Having no homework.
Giving the perfect gift.
Finishing something.
Selling something.
Doing something worthwhile.
Seeing someone's proud of you.
Getting compliments when you feel ugly.
Someone telling you you're worth something.
Realising you are single.
Knowing that you are free.
Knowing that what you did doesn't matter.
Satisfaction.
That song that defines your life.
Getting a letter.
Writing a letter.
Being missed.
Having someone concerned for you.
This is pleasure.
These are things that bring me happiness.

Purpose

Me, walking into my teacher's aide job today.
I walked up to him and asked him if I had anything he wanted me to do today. Usually he doesn't, so I sit and watch A Very Potter Musical or Holy Musical B@man all period. Or be useful and do homework.
But today he said, "I have some copying for you to do."
And I pumped my fists up in the air and walked across the room saying, "I HAVE A PURPOSE!!"
Needless to say, all the eighth graders stared at me weird. But still, it felt good doing something, even if it was waiting around for one hundred and thirty five copies of vocabulary tests to copy.
Le sigh.

It's nice having a purpose. Knowing you're helping someone. That what you're doing will benefit the greater good someday.
It's like.
I don't know.
I don't have a metaphor for it.
*rips out hair*
*curls up and cries in corner*

So have a good night everyone.
I'll die not being able to think of a good metaphor.
O_O

KIDDING!
I won't die anytime soon. Not planning on it. I'll just go with God's flow. Cuz that's best.

OUT peeps.

Opinionzz

So I wrote two versions of one story. And I need you to tell me which one I should end up using for the assignment.
Like I said, same story. They have the same ending too.
It's called: Finale.

So here we go.
OPTION 1: Narrative.

“Babs, did you ever dream of houses?”

“Nope.”

“Neither did I.”

“C’mon, Dot, let’s go.”

“Alright.”

Lights dim. I carry my cake down the stairs, through the audience as clapping fills the air. Reaching the table at the end, I set my cake down.

Getting ready to walk back down the aisle between the seas of chairs and seas of faces.

Rolling on the waves of applause. 

I look at Katie. 

She smiles at me and we share a laugh, and hug each other as if to strangle each other.

“I can’t believe we’re done!”

“I can’t either!”

 Straightening my “Mrs. Los Angeles” sash and arranging the silky red shawl about my shoulders, I pat my curled hair, hairsprayed until cemented. It’ll be a pain to wash out tonight. 

I look down at myself. High heels are invisible beneath the black silk skirts around my legs, pickups in three layers. The strapless bodice fits like it was made for me.

The onstage lights flare back on again. 

Michael comes out, his own bow. Then Abby and Janelle, radiant in purple and bright pink, respectively. They bow, Janelle’s curls barely moving. A whole can of hairspray was used to keep them in place. Next is Marnie. She gets a loud round of applause, as she’s the winner. She is Mrs. California. Noah is next, bowing in his pinstriped three piece suit and goofy horn-rimmed glasses. Katie and I look at each other again.

“Let’s go!”

We run down the aisle, Katie tripping and catching herself, me trying not to fall over my skirt hems as I run up the stairs to the stage. We bow to the loudest wave of applause yet, as we are the lead roles, and then we back up. I grasp hands with Noah on my right and Katie on my left. Lifting up our hands, we bow in tandem, then straighten. We point to the technicians in the back. Then God up above. And clap ourselves. I look up at Noah and Katie. And we laugh. And we’re happy and we’re sad because our play is over. And we laugh because we are relieved. 

And it is our finale.

It is our finale as a cast of seven freshman. 

It is our finale as a cast of Mrs. California.

It is our finale as a cast directed by Kristie Murphy.

It is our finale as a cast.

It is our finale.

Finale.

OPTION 2: Metaphorical.

Riding the waves of applause. 

Knowing our way down the steps, down the aisle. 

Holding the tray with the cake, stale now from three days of plays. 

Looking at Katie. 

Laughing. 

Finding the table at the end, setting our stuff down. 

Turning to each other. Laughing. “I can’t believe we’re done!” Hugging each other so we can’t breathe. 

Composing myself. Deep breaths. In and out. 

I’m done. I’m done.

Straightening my skirts, black silk and tulle. The blue sash reading, “Mrs. Los Angeles”. The red scarf around my bare shoulders. I brush invisible crumbs off of the strapless bodice, down the dark skirt with the pickups, teetering in t-strap heels. Touching my curled hair, hairspray crunching. 

Lights flaring on. 

Bows. 

Michael first, in shirtsleeves and suspenders. 

Janelle and Abby, radiant in vibrant pink and purple, respectively. 

Marnie, Mrs. Modesto, Mrs. California. All sparkles and va-va-voom in her fitted, bright red dress. 

Then Noah, in his grey, three piece pinstriped suit and goofy horn-rimmed glasses, coming down centre stage. 

It’s our turn now. Looking at Katie, I smile. “This is it!” She straightens out her clothes. Only one in jeans and a stripy sweater. 

Ride the growing surge of applause forward, like a boat at sea. We each do our own bows, straightening, backing up. Grabbing each other’s hands. Noah on my right. Katie on my left. We raise clasped hands triumphantly to the sky, then down to the ground, bowing. We straighten. 

Point to Craig in the back. 

Techies. 

Up to God in heaven above. 

Provider. 

Then clap.

I look up at Noah. Glance at Katie. And laugh. We all laugh. Because we are done.

And we keep laughing. And we’re happy and we’re sad because our play is over. And we laugh because we are relieved. And we are sad because we are done.

And it is our finale.

It is our finale as a cast of seven freshman. 

It is our finale as a cast of Mrs. California.

It is our finale as a cast directed by Kristie Murphy.

It is our finale as a cast.

It is our finale.

Finale.

Sighs.

Apologies for the rants before.
I'm pretty mad. And really frustrated. So I'm sorry for the rants.

Because sometimes there's that sickly sweet, sticky feeling.
And it's just resting there.
On the back of your tongue.
Bitter.
Giving goosebumps.


The metaphorical bricks are teetering.
And the wall is crumbling.
And words are the only way to get these emotions out.

So I'm sorry.
I apologise.
*bowing*

Ghosts, or otherwise known as more emotional barf.

Just some stuff.

The ghost in the corner.

That one.

The damp eyes, glassy marbles.

Blotchy skin. Red and swollen with crying. 

“Salt makes everything better. Sweat, tears, and the sea.”

It’s true.

Sometimes.

Soul empty. 

Almost peace.

Almost turmoil.

She’s walking the fine line between, metaphorical bricks crumbling under her weightless feet. Mortar rotting and giving way as she tightrope-walks the frail wall of life.

Between peace and turmoil.

That awesome, empty, aching feeling that hurts so good. That feeling where she’s spilled out everything and she’s all gone and spent mixed with the bittersweet taste of confidentiality, hoping that it stays and hoping that mere friendship can preserve what she’s just imparted, and that heavy, weightless feeling settling on her lungs so that each breath just hurts.

Hurts so good

She’s made peace. She likes it. Peace feels good. Turmoil doesn’t. It’s still writhing underneath her skin, but she’s letting it go. She’ll work it out eventually.  But for now, she’s going to enjoy the temporary silence. The roaring silence, screaming, ripping at the seams. But it’s not breaking.

Hasn’t broken.

Yet.

Emotional barf.

Not having a very good day.

Have fun with this one people.

I’m sick and tired of being the one who tells everything and knows nothing.

I’m sick and tired of being the tagalong.

I’m sick and tired of being the one who is always hiding.

I’m sick and tired of you.

I’m sick and tired of being the one that’s always right— in the end.

I’m sick and tired of being the one that is always wrong— at the beginning.

I’m sick and tired of being the one who gets the brunt of your anger when I’m right.

I’m sick and tired of you.

I’m sick and tired of being guilty because your misery is my fault.

I’m sick and tired of being the weird one.

I’m sick and tired of being the stranger.

I’m sick and tired of you.

I’m sick and tired of being ignored.

I’m sick and tired of you demanding of me.

I’m sick and tired being demeaned. 

I’m sick and tired of you.

I’m sick and tired.

I’m sick.

I’m tired.

I’m done.

Thoughts.

There are some things that just... happen.

And I don't really understand why.
But they do.

And it's sometimes good.
And sometimes bad.
But they all work out.

A Warm Christmas~Vignette

How do you define home?

Mine’s probably different from yours.

A house can make a home, but your home is not always your house.

A home is where your heart is, an old cliche that actually rings true.

My house is a home, but not my own. 

Looking at me, no one could guess this, but I’m a country girl at heart. So mine lays in the heart of the great state of Texas, with my recently widowed grandmother

This.
Two years ago.

Stepping into an airport, Seattle chill slipping down our backs, a 5am ice cube wind creating goosebumps on our ribs. Boarding passes. Security. The same deal. 

No coats.

No shoes.

No belts.

Take the liquids out.

Walking under the grey arc, hoping you didn’t forget yesterday’s tip money in your pocket, that it won’t set the beeper off. Knowing that there’s nothing scarier than being examined by that hard-eyed security lady.

Relieved that you remembered to take it out this morning for this exact reason five minutes after you panic. 

That boring plane ride. Watching the sun rise. The top of St. Helens sticking out above the cotton candy cloud cover. Setting down in San Antonio. Hugs from the grandparents. The hour ride into Boerne, the roller coaster road. Chatting. Politics. Jobs. Business. 

Getting to the house. 

Warmth.

That good smell that comes with home.

Fruit. Good baking. That obscure ‘old people’ smell.

The old couch upstairs.

My bed.

More comfortable than any king sized monster you’ll give me.

Settling down around the tree downstairs. Poking around the branches, trying to find the ‘lucky’ pickle for the fourth year in a row. Hearing the door crack open, the hearty greeting of my uncle and aunt. My cousins, one just a year younger, one just a month older than me. Michael and Matthew. They’re the brothers I never had. Goofy and fun. You’d never know Matthew’s adopted. 

We set down for a late night snack. Fresh grapefruits. Sour and candied on the tongue, the juicy pink flesh with sugar on top. Candy meyer lemons that pickle our tongues, pucker with sweet. Sucking the sugar-like juice from each wedge, running down our chins. Picked yesterday from the Rockport house. 

Talking and laughing until early morning.

Eating more than we really need. 

Reluctantly hugging good night.

Laying awake, too excited to sleep.

Curling up in the dry air, warm sheets. 

Lungs filling with anticipation and excitement for whatever will come tomorrow.

For our warm Christmases.

With warm memories.

And warm.

Warm.

Crabby

I'm sorry to have to say it to your face, Lucy, but it's true. You're a very crabby person. I know your crabbiness has probably become so natural to you now that you're not even aware when you're being crabby, but it's true just the same. You're a very crabby person and you're crabby to just about everyone you meet. Now I hope you don't mind my saying this, Lucy, and I hope you're take it in the spirit that it's meant. I think we should be very open to any opportunity to learn more about ourselves. I think Socrates was very right when he said that one of the first rules for anyone in life is 'Know Thyself'. Well, I guess I've said about enough. I hope I haven't offended you or anything.(awkward exit)
~Schroeder, You're a Good Man Charlie Brown

Crabby.
Aren't we all sometimes? I mean, we're not all like Lucy from Peanuts, but we can be pretty nasty sometimes. We all have our 'Lucy' moments, and we all need that 'Schroeder' to kick our butts and put us back in line. Admit it.
I've had many people kick my butt, be it my youth pastor in a sermon, my friends being honest, or my parents trying to help me succeed. It's a shock at first. I'm saying, "I wasn't like that! I was being reasonable. I did NOT snap at you. I wasn't being stupid. Was I?"
But then I think back, and realize I was being a butthead. I can give whatever excuses I want (I was tired, I was working all day, I didn't sleep at all last night) but nothing can make up for what I said or did in my roll of emotions. There was something underlying, something mom said, something dad did, something my boss wanted me to do, that set me off. Or something someone said. Something my best friend did (or didn't) do. Someone rejecting you. Ignoring you. Not caring. Any of these things could lead to crabbiness.
So next time you're crabby, think about it. Try to be nice.
And remember, Schroeder was right when Socrates said that one of the first rules in life was 'Know Thyself'.

I love Peanuts :D


Blessings for tonight!

An English Assignment

*sighs* I have an awkward way of writing.

Dear friend,

This summer I read books. I read a lot of books, because I read too much, but I’m just going to tell you about two. I had to read them for school, but since I enjoyed the books so much I didn’t mind. Of course, these were the ones I picked and not ones that were opicked for me but, what the hey. I still enjoyed them.

The first book I read, I picked off a list. Of books. The school wanted me to read. It was entitled: Pygmalion. Written by: George Bernard Shaw. I know the title is weird, but we’ll get back to that later. It was actually a play. A really interesting one. In fact, the movie “My Fair Lady” starring Audrey Hepburn, was based off of this play! I’ve read the play before. It’s less than 80 pages long. Really really easy read. And a funny and enjoyable one. It’s about this man, Professor Henry Higgins who studies phonetics and the basic way people talk and say things, and how he takes a Cockney flower girl, Eliza Doolittle, under his wing to teach her to become a lady, to speak, dress, and act properly. He has a bet with his friend to see if he can pass off Eliza as a proper lady. Along the way, Eliza meets this boy named Freddie. Shaw ends the play in such a way that you are left guessing: Does Eliza go out on her own, does she marry Freddie, or marry Professor Higgins? It’s a long running debate that has changed with different movie adaptations, musicals, commentaries, and so on. It’s a fun and easy read though, with an interesting twist at the end. The title, “Pygmalion” is derived from an ancient Greek myth where King Pygmalion of Cyprus fashions a statue of a beautiful woman and fell in love with it—creepy, I know. But Aphrodite hears is prayers and pleas and comes and brings the statue, Galatea, to life. (Magical!!)

The second book I read is one I picked myself and happens to be an old favourite of mine: Leviathan, by Scott Westerfeld. The first in a trilogy, Leviathan is a steampunk novel set in the early 1900’s—World War II. But it’s not the same as it was. In fact, in this science based alternate time, the Allied forces, France, Britain and Russia, are called Darwinists. They’ve taken the life threads of various animals and mutated them together to make amazing ‘fabricated beasties’, and the Axis powers, the Ottoman Empire, Germany, and Austria Hungary, are Clankers. They base their economy off of machines, gears and pistons. Our main characters are from each side. Deryn Sharp longs to be in the Darwinist army, sailing miles above the ground in jellyfish-like ‘Huxleys’. But Deryn’s one problem—she’s a girl! So she disguises herself as Dylan Sharp, a boy, and ends up aboard the great whale-ship, Leviathan. Meanwhile, Aleksander Hohenberg’s parents have just been killed and he is left, heir to Austria-Hungary’s Clanker Empire, and hide his secret, because he is next in line to be killed. He is left with his fencing master and a few mechanics to get out of the country on nothing but a walker. As soon as he gets to his destination in Switzerland, though, he witnesses the crash of a fabricated beastie: the great ship Leviathan, and through a series of events, Alek and Deryn (Dylan?) meet, both with secrets that could drastically change everything. I personally adore this book. It’s well written, the art in it is fantastic, and it’s a well thought out book. The next two in the series, Behemoth and Goliath, are well done too, and though the way Westerfeld ends the whole series is unsatisfactory, they are still enjoyable reads. 

Fencing, and perseverance.

I would've never gotten into fencing if not for perseverance.
And my mother.
But mostly perseverance.

While looking for a sport after I quit dance, my mum won a week of fencing camp for me.
Well, why not?!
Of course, I fell in love. And so I just kept going through that week.

One week.
Five hours a day.
Five days a week.

So good.

And so I got signed up for the school year.

Two hours a day.
Two days a week.
Nine months.



On the first day, I almost turned myself around and walked straight out of there. I had changed my mind. I did not want to fence. I was doubting and really anxious.
But my mom turned me around, kicked my butt, and sent me right back in those front doors.

Of course, I was in a lot of pain (knees, that's later), but I relished the chance to fight, defend, attack.
So I kept going.

And then school happened, I got the lead in our school play Mrs. California.
(That's me, the blonde one in the middle. Mrs. Los Angeles, or Dot.)

Left to right: Abby (San Bernardino), Marnie (Mrs. Modesto), Noah (Dudley, Dot's Gas Company Sponsor), Me, (Mrs. LA, Dot), Katie (Babs, Dot's best friend) Janelle( Mrs. San Francisco (and my bestie)), Michael (Stage Manager)

And then finals. And so I missed from April on. I couldn't do any summer acting. That sucked. So pretty much, I've jumped back into classes after five months of un-practice. And it feels SO GOOD. (Apparently, finals brainwashed me of the wondrous feeling of stab- I mean, poking people.)

After huge problems with my knees (apparently the kneecaps were out of place), and one summer of physical therapy, electro stim therapy, an MRI, and lots of x-rays, I'm finally back in place. And totally ready to keep poking.

Have a great day evening.

Good-night!