A Rambling.

I am 22. I attend a University in an accelerated course for my Bachelor’s Degree. I watch Pretty Little Liars, listen to mainstream Top 40 radio, and my favorite book is Catcher in the Rye. I’m sure by now a total of three out of the five people (if that) who read this have already clicked the ‘X’ button on their screen to get my filth off of their precious MacBooks. Yes, I also own a MacBook.
Being age 22 means that I am constantly going through the odd feelings of being better than everybody but at the same time being irrelvant and unimportant compared to everybody else out there. It’s only logical to compare my life to Michael Jackson’s legacy, right?
Everybody has me figured out by now. College student, feminist, activist, etc. I guess I could claim all those titles, but for a title don’t you have to actually do something? Sharing an article I found interesting on Facebook doesn’t necessarily make me brilliant. I can also assure everybody that I have not done any research on the topic aside from said article.

This is what is going on today. But, instead of actually doing something about it, I’ll just write a blog post. I wouldn’t want to cause too much attention to myself (or would I?)

Sometimes at night I sit and think- ‘Have I really changed that much since high school?’ Granted, it’s only been five years, but a lot can happen in that timespan. Hell, a lot can happen in five minutes.
Let’s list the changes:

1. Moved out.
2. Went natural.
3. Got a full time job.

That’s about it. I’ve picked up some different hobbies and retreated back to ones that I’ve dropped off. I’ve binge-watched Orange is the New Black with the best of them, along with Californication. On occasion I’ll get drunk alone in my apartment and smoke marijuana. (I’ll never buy my own pot though, because I don’t do drugs. Isn’t that the thought process?) All the while, I’ll bitch about how much I “hate” people and how “life sucks” yet I want to “help” people with my degree. Pick a side, will ya?!

Listen- I love going to school and what I’m learning, but I’ll tell you what I really want (and what I believe most people want) We want to be remembered. We want to be famous! For what? It doesn’t matter. From Nelson Mandela to Britney Spears, everybody has left a legacy. Some have left a legacy so large that it seems that nobody can fill those shoes. Those shoes shouldn’t have to be filled!

The world is a big place- I mean, it’s really fucking big. Why should everybody be saying “This person is going to be the next Michael Jackson” or “This person is going to be the next Maya Angelou”? Michael Jackson and Maya Angelou did their duties. They have already graced the world and they have already left.

Stop trying to compare yourself to those who have already made their mark. Stop following in the footsteps left by them. There is a lot of fucking land and ocean to be discovered. Leave your mark someplace else.

Fuck.

She sits in an old wicker chair from her grandmother. It looks centuries old, as if it was hand carved out of bark from the old peach tree she grew up hearing stories about. The back right leg is centimeters shorter than the other three, and when the chair rocks there is a small creaking sound. It doesn’t disturb her though. In fact, she treats it as company. The sound reminds her of old conversations she used to have, listening to everybody’s problems. She had a knack for that. Listening. Not many people know how to really listen without judgement nowadays. Staring out the window, she could see the kids playing. They would ride around on their scooters, checking their mobile phones, crammed with applications for every social networking site available every five to ten minutes. These children couldn’t have been older than ten. The woman continues to gaze out the window, past the tears in the screen and the smudges on the glass. Lifting up her coffee cup, she takes a sip. It’s empty. It’s always empty. It is chipping at the edges and stained. There is yelling from the children, laughter emerges. Her expression remains blank. 

Animals are savage. They kill to survive. 

Humans are deranged. They don’t kill. They hurt, injure, abuse in every sense they can.

For money. For power. For love. 

For fun. 

Hot Rich White Girls Need To Stop Posting Motivational Quotes

Good things come to those who wait: Why you shouldn’t settle in your 20’s.

Unwritten

As we get into our early to mid-twenties, ew gag me…I swear I was just sixteen yesterday, love becomes a more popular topic of conversation every day. It seems like I can’t go anywhere, family parties, work, the grocery store, hell I can’t even go to the bathroom in a public place without running into someone who is bound to ask that dreaded question, “so are you dating anyone.” My answer is always the same, “no, why would you date one person, when you could be dating five.” Then comes the awkward chuckle followed by the look, you know the look,  usually accompanied by the aw honey, you’ll find someone. Well…thank you? I know I’ll find someone, well duh, I’m fucking awesome. It’s not a matter of finding someone it’s a matter of finding the one.

“Disney lied, there is no such thing as fairy tale love.” Well call me crazy, but…

View original post 736 more words

Writing Is A Weird Thing

The 8 Worst Pieces Of Advice You’ll Ever Receive

23 Life Lessons You Get From Working At A Restaurant

There’s a bridge a few blocks away from where I live- I’m not sure why it’s there, or what it’s been used for in the past, but as of right now, it has been located over the train tracks in my town. I’ve used it to cross to the other side of those tracks because fighting through the wild brush and broken beer bottles as a child was too much for me. I didn’t want to risk any poison ivy, possible cuts, and of course the possibility of getting run over by a train. Now that I’m older, I chuckle at that notion. 

I committed suicide ten years ago. 

Riding my bike down Glover Avenue, I passed 7th Avenue, 6th Avenue and came to Atlantic. I left my bike, one that my father had made me for Christmas one year (a blue boy’s BMX racing bike) at the foot of the steps before climbing them. Rusty and old, I am struggling to remember if all the shaking was coming from my nerves or the oncoming train. Standing on the platform, I can see it- as if it was perfectly scripted from a book, one that “misfits” from all over the world would talk about, though it is a bestseller. Catcher in the Rye anybody? Slowly, I drifted out of myself and soared straight down to the ground, my head colliding with the tracks before the blaring of the horn. It was too late to stop now, Mr. Conductor. 

I walked back down the stairs and jumped onto my bike. I headed back to my home for dinner, around 6:00 pm. I sat, eating what was probably some sort of pasta dish before heading up to my room to stare at my new self in the mirror. The deceased version of myself.

This version of myself has been to my proms and graduation. It has been through deaths and weddings of loved ones. It has worked minimum wage jobs in the hopes of pleasing everybody around itself. It has been exactly ten years since I committed suicide, at age 12. 

I am dead and I haven’t seen God.

I am alive and I haven’t felt God. 

In fact, I haven’t felt much of anything.

Self Deprecation

It’s been months since I’ve written. Not just here, but anywhere. Falling into an adult routine of growing up has sucked the creativity out of my mind. That’s just an excuse though- I could go outside, I could recall past emotions, I could skip a few days of my medication. I could do anything just to write. So why don’t I? Perhaps it’s because I already have lines and lines of words tossed together, but they still don’t have a home. Perhaps I’m just lazy. Do you want to know the real answer though? It’s because I am my own worst critic. I believe that happens to all of us, especially if we identify as artists. We study the painters, the writers, the musicians before us and try to mimic them- this is the downfall. They paved the way without knowing that they would change the world. Or maybe they just took a lot of drugs. Probably both. 

The downfall to writing (at least for me) is listening to other things as I’m writing. Even now, I’m listening to music (but that’s okay since these aren’t lyrics), but when I attempt to write for my own band, the same words that I just listened to spew across my page. I just wrote down lyrics of another band like a fifteen year old stuck in math class. 

Maybe I’m scared that nobody will like them. I think I’m more scared that I won’t like them, because ten out of ten times, I don’t. Why does it matter if I like them though? Aren’t they expressing how I feel? My emotions, my thoughts. 

I have big dreams, but the only thing standing in my way is…me.