Inside Bedroom Walls - Theme 14: Part II

"I could have painted that in third grade."  An insult to the Jasper Johns poster hanging on a pink wall.

"No Girls Allowed." A framed smiling boy holding a sign.

"And how many of these books have you actually read?" A sarcastic attempt to break a bad habit.

"Congratulations!" Sitting upon a desk with fancy writing saying Diploma.

"It's worse than the inside of a trash can in here."  An observation that it is finals week.

"It was all my idea.  I wanted to get you a present."  The love of a little brother wrapped in the form of a rainbow pony.

"Alphabetical... Seriously?" An obsessive compulsive complaint on organization of books and movies.

"Today you are you, that is truer than true.  There is no one alive who is youer than you!"  Birthday wishes from a little sister.


"It smells disgusting in here."  A reminder issued every three days to tidy a certain box in the corner.

"I'll be there for you." A poster of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. on a blue wall.

"DEMITRI. BLACK AND WHITE. ALMOST A YEAR OLD."  A lost pet that was never found.

"President's List." An accomplishment written on a thin piece of paper.

"Put your screen back in that window.  NOW!"  An attempted threat to prevent stargazing.

"TOMS." Two pairs of shoes that helped someone in need.

"Have you been smoking marijuana?" An accusation based off Sex on the Beach incense.

"Home. Sweet. Home." A sigh after a long day.

Cinco de Mayo, Sunday (Part V Choice #1, Theme 15)

Why last night was a bad idea.
Smoke still lingers in my hair, prevents me from sleeping.
Anxiety still floods my veins, prevents me from sleeping.
Clock still reads 10:30-- an infinite number of questions, prevents me from sleeping.
Homework still to be done, prevents me from sleeping from sleeping.
Pawn Stars still blaring downstairs, prevents me from sleeping.
Still driving to Presque Isle in the morning, prevents me from sleeping.
Still driving home Monday morning, prevents me from sleeping.
Still waking up for church, prevents me from sleeping.
Mind still racing, prevents me from sleeping.

May Fourth, Saturday (Part IV of Choice #1, Theme 15)

Sleepovers aren't just for middle school girls.
Horror movies aren't just for high school slumber parties.
Staying up late talking with a best friend about life isn't just for kids.

We didn't get that much sleep.
She didn't get through The Sixth Sense.
I didn't realize how much easier being younger used to be.

Third of May, Friday (Part III of Choice #1, Theme 15)

Too much to do.  Too much to think.  Too much to say.  Too much to finish.  Too little room for errors.

If I could have passed up sleep last night, I would have.  I'm trying to go on a no all-nighter streak this semester of finals.  There have been too many repercussions these last three semesters for a night of no sleep to look appealing.  So I settled for eleven.  Or midnight.  Or one.  Alright, I can't remember.

Stress destroyed any chance of a good night's sleep.  If someone was able to look inside my head, they would have seen a very confusing ping pong match being played.  Homework, class, piano, Cinco de Mayo, Presque Isle, trig, work, soccer, homework, on and on it went.  Eventually frustration came out in the form of tears.

My hope for falling asleep was that everything would be more relaxing and I'd have no worries.  This wasn't so.  Last night was the first night in a long time that I've had a nightmare.  It was one of the ones that doesn't leave you when you wake up.  One of those that makes you not want to go to sleep ever again.  So now on top of everything, I'm dreading climbing into bed tonight.

May Second, Thursday (Part II of Choice #1, Theme 15)

Days can be exhausting.  Especially ones that revolve around twelve hours of school.  This could involve two activities.  Homework and/or classes.  May I just say it again with a little more emphasis, TWELVE HOURS OF SCHOOL.  Who in their right mind would wake up at eight a.m. to go in and do homework until a class for an hour and fifteen minutes at 2:30 in the afternoon.  Then only to begin homework again until the library closes at 9.  At night.

Call me crazy, but I tried to open the books again after a long shower.  Ten minutes of staring blankly at a screen I wasn't even aware I was looking at led me to just say, ahh screw it.  Successful studying just wasn't possible.

Next came the nightly routine.  Brushed my teeth.  Swallowed meds followed by three gulps of cold water.  Went to the bathroom for final time of the day.  Said my goodnights, scaring mom as usual.  Then ventured towards my room to relieve my overstimulated brain.

I'd like to say I got into bed, laid my head on my pillow, said my prayers, and fell into a deep sleep.  But I can't.  I blame the producers of The Breakfast Club.  Oh, and my mom for only happening to have her TV turned on this night of all nights.  It was almost done. They were dancing throughout the library. Only ten minutes longer till I can sleep.

But no.  It just so happens mom and little sister invested in this same film just last week.  Mom was so kind as to tell me where it was and me not being able to let things go, went downstairs, popped it in, and fought my eye-lids for an hour and thirty-seven minutes.

Let's just say five-thirty came early along with confirmation of why it's not a good idea to sleep on the couch living with a family of six.

First Day of May, Wednesday (Part I of Choice #1, Theme 15)

I never set my alarm clock.  Turning the big twenty-one in December and I still have someone wake me up every morning.  With such a hectic night schedule, I use my mornings for sleep.  Sleeping in past noon isn't a difficult challenge for me.  If I don't request a wake up visit I sleep as long as I physically can.  Well, I say sleep.  It's actually more like limbo between barely awake and dream land.  I'll fight my eyelid's desperate request to open for three or more hours.  It's not really a healthy way to sleep, but it's the only time I have.

Why don't I just use nighttime to sleep like every normal person on planet Earth?  That questions easy.  Like I said earlier, the scheduled path I am being guided through permits me from doing so.  The thought probably drifting through your mind is something along the lines of, actually there's another term for that.  It goes a little something like bad time management.  One might feel they could easily argue so, but I know differently.

If I wasn't in school during the afternoon and my teachers didn't throw homework at me left and right, I would sleep at night. 
If I wasn't involved in soccer, piano, work, I would sleep at night. 
If the television corporations aired good shows during different hours to avoid distracting me, I would sleep at night. 
If the other family members in my house were quiet throughout the day, I would sleep at night.
If my cats were sane and understood the concept of the proper hours to have spazz attacks, I would sleep at night.

So it's everyone else's fault you don't sleep at night, you ask.  That all depends on how you look at it.  From my point of view, I'm the victim here.

Or at least I use to be...  The difference from then and now is last night I set my alarm clock to 8:02 a.m. 

Theme 14: Part I

Six, sometimes seven, live under the same roof.  Share the same food.  Sleep in different but similar rooms.  Wash in the same showers (but at different times).  Echo voices through the same halls.

If younger, run through the same fields.  If older, stand back and watch the fun.  Park vehicles in the same garage.  Throw bottles in the same disposable bin.  Complain about an empty fridge or cupboard.

Watch the same show on the flat-screen week by week.  Pet the same cats and dog.  Play the same keys on an ancient piano.  Strike the same soccer balls back and forth to improve on aim and strength.

Bicker about a dirty room.  Wonder the same thoughts as sickness comes and goes.  Gossip to old relatives on the phone when no one should be listening.  Or on purpose when knowing someone is listening.  Judge choices with bias to personal opinions.  Take sides when arguments arise.  Change sides when speaking with the other opponent.

Favor the youngest because he doesn't know any better.  Give the same advice as others make mistakes.  Yell, claiming what they do is always right, everyone else is wrong.  Star gaze on the same roof even when one parent has forbidden it.  Ground either of the sisters when poor decisions are made.

Pray the same prayers: when she is in the hospital, when he is ill, when her boyfriend drops out, when he moves back in with her, when she has lost a dog, when he works too much.

And through it all, love each other in the same unconditional manner: she, she, he, she, he, she--they.

Fast Forward 66 Years (Theme 13)

The blame of an estimated 11,000,000 lives stolen can be directed back to one man.  Take notice that this does not even include those lost in a war he initiated by seizing Austria, then Poland, onto other significant surrounding neighbors of Germany, and even later, France.  Some say he was power hungry.  Others claim he was insane.  It can also be argued that it was a combination of the two.  Just imagine, the power hungry insanity of a single man, just one human being, charismatically manipulated nearly an entire country's population into believing his motives were for the good of the people.

Someone with any knowledge of the Holocaust can easily answer those who were targeted: the Jews.  A little research in school brings up a few more 'categories' of victims: homosexuals, the Jehovah Witnesses, POW's.  There is even an honest quote that shows what German's viewed as different breeds of prisoners:
"First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out--
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out--
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out--
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me--
And there was no one left to speak for me."
The more time spent learning leads to what seems to be an everlasting number of stereotypes unacceptable to the Aryan race.  If ever there was ever a prime example of visible hypocrisy, Hitler didn't even fit his description of being a blond-haired blue-eyed Aryan he claimed to be human perfection.  But, this is what assisted in easily making Jewish Europeans such an easy target.

Now I'm aware I'll never have enough knowledge to answer every question our Universe holds, which in my opinion, is a blessing.  But there are some answers I'm determined to find.  Many deal with the controversial topic that is the Holocaust.  And while I search for answers, there are also questions along the way that I must deal with because of the severity of depression this genre of history is buried in. Most sounding something like, how can you submit yourself to studying all of these horrible events, doesn't it depress you?  That I have yet to find an answer to, but I've been searching for seven years.

Thirteen.  That number is the age I was when I was introduced to this real-life horror story.  I vividly remember the historical fiction project we were assigned in seventh grade.  My book of choice, If I Should Die Before I Wake.  This book, and the project that followed it, sparked so many questions that I still ask now.  By picking up this book several years ago, I found an easy answer to any future assignment allowing me to focus on a topic of my liking.

 As with everything in life, this holds both plenty of pros and cons.  Cons: missing out on other interesting subjects, depression in reading form, the big question Why?.  Pros: being well-informed on a single subject, advocating for "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it," and one I tend to use a lot, accomplishing assignments with ease and successfully.

Need an example?

Well I shouldn't be proud of this, but fall of my first semester I was assigned (at the beginning) something called an I-Search report.  To say the least it's a really lengthy project that no freshman wants to do.   We're told to pick a topic we enjoy because we'll be stuck with it for three months.  Writing the fifteen page paper is going to be a continuous effort on our part.  Do NOT, by any means, wait until the night before it's due, to write your I-Search.  You will not be able to get an A unless you start now, three months ahead of time.

December 14th, 2011 I was an acception to the norm.

An Encounter (Theme 12)

Dinner and a show.  Well, technically a game.
Lead off with a shake of the hands and a familiar introduction.
Medium height, medium build, blond hair, blue eyes.  The more obvious physical features capture a first picture.  That is, when able to shift stares from the tiled floor to each other.
Up next continues awkward silences from two filled with chatter from very hospitable hosts.  She talks up one while he pokes playful fun at the other.
First round of smokes on the porch leaves the kitchen quiet.  Minor attempts at conversation play out into five minutes of small talk.
Catching a break, or halftime, brings plates full of chicken, bread, and salad.
A table of four welcomes completed sentences of a random manner.  School, hobbies, faith, work.  Questions followed by easy answers but can leave somebody interested in more.
Second round of smokes and the exchange of words comes more natural.  Cannot say the awkwardness has disappeared, but the night is only getting better.
Out comes the board game.  Instructions to Quelf leave one noticeably uncomfortable.  Either the other three wear better masks or enjoy all the attention.
Red, purple, black, and yellow pieces circle around a path of various colors.  Cards are pulled from five different categorized stacks.  Trivia, stunts, showbiz, rules, and scatterbrains.
Laughing, yelling, dancing, spinning, reading, humming buzzes through the room until one is left standing rubbing it in the others faces.
Who's up for round two?
Third and final smoke break first.  Five minutes goes by fast with effortless conversation.
Same colored ponds.  Same categorized cards.  Similar embarrassing stunts.  Same winner boasting.
The game had finished.  And as the ending seems, not all things were the same.
Different likeness of smiles exchanged.  Different warmth in a handshake goodbye.  Different feeling driving away.

Dull to Life (In Class)

Eight to three on week days.  Two to six on week nights.  Weekends are unpredictable.  Master  is often inconsiderate when it comes to following schedule on any given night of the week.  Being of an inanimate nature, all I can do is strain to hear words coming from the illuminated screen. I’m not hard of hearing; my difficulty resides in the sound that appears to come from the depths of his stomach, but in reality escapes through his mouth.  It’s as if he is in constant competition with the television’s volume.  Who can emit the loudest, most obnoxious noise?

Playlist (Theme 11)

The Beatles... Respecting the classics: Let It Be

Fossil Collective... Declining acceptance to American University: Let It Go 

Nicki Minaj... Rapping to cheer up a gloomy little sister: Super Bass

Calvin Harris... Quieting down a rambunctious seven year old: Feel So Close 

Carrie Underwood... Tapping a foot to the beat: Blown Away

Tenth Avenue North... Feeling down and alone: You Are More

Passenger... Embarrassing encounters with a crush: The Wrong Direction

Dexys Midnight Runner... Watching The Perks of Being a Wallflower: Come On Eileen

fun. ... Driving down the highway: Some Nights

The Script... Running through the neighborhood: Hall of Fame

Chris August... Gazing at stars on the roof: Starry Night

Billy Joel... Fighting a battle of patience: Vienna 

Queen... Enjoying a moment of randomness: Bohemian Rhapsody 

Failed Small to Big (In Class)

I'm unsure exactly how this Class Strawberry ChapStick came into my possession.  Did I buy it from the impulse isle at the grocery store?  Did I steal it from my little sister's collection?  Did I come across it in my car? Did someone leave it in a school bathroom and did I pick it up not wanting to waste what was left of it?  As sure as I am this last conclusion is incorrect, I still don't know how it got into my backpack.

Over the years I have had my fair share of chapstick.  I couldn't name all of the brands I've purchased or received (or even found).  My favorite brand so far has been Esso.  You know, the one shaped like a little egg that costs three to five dollars.  Then there's the Classic Chapstick.  The cheapest buy, but this brand really goes to work on chapped lips.  Mint, strawberry, regular, etc.  Such a wide variety is offered, I can't say I've used them all.  Another of my favorites is Baby Lips, a new brand by Maybelline.  I can say for certain I've only tried two 'flavors' my whole life, but I now know to watch out for the ones that show a hint of color.  I'd rather not walk the halls of school with orange lips again.

All chapstick across the world, no matter what, holds at least one fault.  It is impossible to go through a whole stick without losing it.  Impossible.  Okay, I know I'm not alone when I say that I have never managed to go through a whole entire stick of chapstick before I manage to misplace it.  I'd be interested in seeing how much money I have spent on chapstick throughout my entire life.  My guess is that it would be alarming.

The World's Smallest Violin (In Class)

“I brought back the Beats, I’d like a violin.”

Dad lifts his fingers with a smile and ‘plays’ one with his pointer finger and thumb, “here you go.”

I’m not smiling.  I don’t find his sarcasm entertaining.

“You’re not going to make it to Europe.”

Appalled, I shoot back an argument. “Yes. I. Will.”

He defends his painful stab with a, “well I’m just saying it because, look at today’s economy.  And I mean, with the field you’re going into for study.  And look at what your college bill is going to be if you actually go out of state.”

He doesn’t even want me to go out of state.  He’s ‘worried about my mental state of mind.’  In a daughter’s eyes, this translates into “you can’t do it.”  This only makes me want to try harder, to show the world I can.  But my guilty conscience forces me to rethink my thoughts.  Look at it from a different perspective.  They’re my parents.  They’re allowed to be worried.  That’s all it is.  They just want the best for me.  After all, an out-of-state college does hold multiple cons:

Eternal debt; loneliness that can only be fulfilled by my friends and devoted family; incomprehensible amounts of stress; the freshman fifteen (or in this case the transfer fifteen); many, many sleepless nights; payments on top of payments; new medical support systems, satisfaction all but guaranteed; and the scariest of all... Change.

Unicorns + Work, minus the work.... (In Class)

He doesn't know what blackmail is.  One day he will.  I'm hoping I won't be the one who introduces it to him.  Now the dirt I have on him is in photograph form, but it won't do anything more than embarrass the kid.  Will it hurt is ego?  It will if he grows up to be one of those manly men with too much pride to be seen doing girly stuff.  At the rate he's developing, it looks like all my blackmail will do is just that.  Damage his ego.  As an older sister, I just took the picture for precautionary measures.  One day I might need him to do something for me and this could just give him a little nudge in the right direction.  This may make me sound like a horrible older sister.  Maybe you think, what kind of loving relative would premeditate on how to use physical evidence of an extremely younger sibling to their advantage?  Then I shouldn't mention I took the picture for that exact reason.  It really isn't that bad.  Just a quick snap of Zac staring at our flatscreen covered with My Little Pony unicorns, pegasus, and ponies alike, keeping him entertained.

(Prompt 52)

David's Bridal Wedding Gown size 14. Beautiful. No need to spend hundreds. I have your dress. Come try it on!

Minus five minutes ago, I have never seen a woman read an Uncle Henry's ad.  I'm going to be judgmental and go on saying I think nothing shouts creepy like an ad for a wedding dress in a magazine I see male relatives keep in the bathroom for what they consider "down time."  
Most women have a different way with words compared to men.  In this case personally I would have tried to sell it more.  It is a wedding dress after all.  That one day that women claim to be THEIR day when in reality it's just as much their soon-to-be husband's.  Everything has to be perfect.  Not a single hair out of place.  So, as I said, a woman would sell it more.  Yes it can be argued that one can only afford so many words for an ad that requires payment by each character, but the shortness of it just spells out creepy.  
After feeling a sketchy vibe from the whole idea of this ad, my main problem lies with the, "Come try it on!"  My mind has already started to be suspicious, but this last sentence screams, "you'll never make it home."  Okay I admit that I'm sounding paranoid, I just wouldn't dream of going to this dude's house and eventually show up in a short documentary on one of those channels my grandmother likes to watch.
But hey, if in these five short sentences your attention is grasped and you feel that venturing out to this person's house is a good idea, by all means do it.  I'm just saying, I warned you.

A Second Chance: (Prompt 45)

My alarm clock reads 5:45 p.m.  Why I'm feeling upbeat and ready to pull an all-nighter, I don't know.  Too much homework, too little time.  Starting hard to hopefully end easy, I dive into trig.

The Beatles clock on the wall tells me it's 12:05 a.m.  A cliche thought crosses my mind, sleep's for the dead.  Reality wise this is only justification to my decision that by this time I know was a mistake.  Fighting my calculator, I grit my teeth and count remaining problems.  One... Two... Three... Four... Five... Only fourteen more to go.

A glance at my wrist indicates it's just past 3 a.m.  Broken pencil numero tres tells me I've been dealing with math eight hours too many.  Four pages back to front of math problems lets me know my teacher isn't going to enjoy grading my exam.

4:10 p.m.: I sleep, I mean sit, in class with a poorly finished product.  Class started 10 minutes ago; 15 students remain MIA.  "Any questions on the exam before we move on to the next chapter?"  Only everyone raises their hands.  Twenty minutes later I walk out of room 117 wondering, why me?  The test isn't due for another week.

May round two begin.

Third Time's the Charm: (Prompt 43)

First attempt.  I hate dentists.  Being referred, I know this can't be good.  "Here's a prescription for some medicine that should calm the nerves.  It'll make this procedure easier."  Somewhere on Union Street I take a sip of water carrying a pill through my digestive labyrinth.  I tear up before seeing Doc.  "Now this here is Novocain.  After that goo you shouldn't feel a thing."  Lie number one.  Sitting as still as possible, I beg my mind to wander but it refuses.  "Raise your hand if you are in pain and I promise I'll stop."  Lie number two.  "I was in that room the entire time.  You told her to raise her hand if she was feeling what you were doing and you would immediately stop.  As a mother, it's my job to protect her and you wanting to get your 'job done' at the expense of my daughter's pain is not alright.  Fill the hole with paste.  We're leaving."

Second attempt.  Dentists still suck.  Doctor Pain did anything but help me overcome my phobia.  Here comes round two.  "This will numb you up before we give you Novocain." Half an hour later I claim it didn't work.  Was this true?  Probably not.  "Alright Lindsey, I put an extra packet on twenty minutes ago... It's time to open up.  It shouldn't hurt much.  You'll just feel a little pressure."  I wonder why that initiated a tear.  I blame the last doc who told me a giant needle filled with an injection that will be slowly shoved into a tiny slot surrounding my problem tooth won't bring upon suffering.  "We're going to have to use nitric oxide to calm her down.  See you the eleventh."

Third attempt.  I won't ever like dentists.  I won't ever like root canals.  Who in their sane mind would? Falling asleep in the dentist's chair, no way.  Except...This last time involved a mask.  "Are you feeling dizzy yet?"  I snap back a harsh no.  I tell myself it's not going to work.  They aren't sticking me with a needle.  They aren't drilling a hole in my tooth and straightening its roots.  As long as I have a voice, I have the upper hand.  My eyes start to roll backwards.  Can't. Keep. Them. Open.  "There we go Lindsey, all done."

Road Kill: (Prompt 51)

Hitting an animal is an experience I wish I had the ability to answer, "never have I ever," if questioned. My record was clean until a spring day last year.  Trees were budding, the sky was Caribbean Sea blue, and the sun was high up in the sky for all to see.  To say the least, it was beautiful...outside that is.

I didn't take notice of the weather.  Wasn't one of the students to complain about being stuck in class when all I wanted to do was take advantage of the beauty outside.  I was getting out of class. Actually, three classes to be exact.  There's even documentation on my transcript.  Three whopping W's where an A would have preferably resided.

I had no choice.  It was two weeks since the last time I attended class.  There was no way I was going to be able to catch up.  I secretly admit I should have listened when I was told by four different people, don't you think five classes is a little much?  You should really think about reconsidering.  Seriously, it's me I'm talking about.  I just saw that as an attack at my capability to succeed.  Bring it on, I thought to myself when I signed up for classes in the fall.

With two classes left, I hung my head as I exited Maine Hall heading to my white Chevy.  At this point I was angry. More at myself than anything else.  I had been proved wrong.  Defeated by my own thick-headedness.  My phone began to buzz and I hit "ignore" when her name popped up.  Sitting in the car tears scraped down my face.  No I would rather not gossip about OUR close friend while she's in critical condition at the hospital.  More anger surfaced.

I can't recall what took place the moment I shut my phone off and drove away to the time I walked through the front door.  That is...except for a streak of gray & orange under tire one then immediately tire number two.  A darting of colors into the woods.  A squealing of tires too late. 

A beautiful day for most, was a not so beautiful day for me.

Alienation... Literally: (Theme 10)

A mixture of sorrow and anger flooded his eyes as he pleaded her to rethink her newly accepted fate.  His persuasion went something to the likes of:  You know they're going to lock you up.  You'll be dressed in a straightjacket surrounded by padded walls.  An infinite number of thoughts swam through her mind making her perception of the present distorted.  It wasn't until true growth occurred that she allowed herself to piece together a detailed recollection of memories that belonged to the halls of a prison that wore the mask of a house.  These suppressed memories like her father's emotion-hiding humor, rest in a bin on her closet shelf.
230 days:
fill pages of journals,
splatter paint across a previously blank canvas,
read clever stories upon scraps of paper,
weave through bracelets,
smile on stress balls,
write letters in cards,
camouflage secret feelings these 'coping skills' were suppose to destroy.

On a night she just wants to remember... Needs to remember, she walks to her closet, pulls apart the doors, stands as tall as she can reaching skyward, and pulls down her past.  She sits with her legs crossed as she shuffles aimlessly through her own documentary.

Opening with a laugh: "My roommate is thirteen.  She claims to be homicidal but promises me I'm safe for she has adopted me as her new big sister.  I think dad's assumptions sound more appealing at the moment."
Cracks her thumb squeezing a smiley-faced stress ball and smiles as she remembers all of its uses: playing pass with a wall, clenching that supposedly would help her through this, target practice on fellow patients, one of three juggling balls.
Followed with an admired stare as she sets three painted pictures side by side.  A newly discovered talent from the oddest of places.  Her art assignment reads: "Just paint something and send it in.  I'll give you credit for whatever we're doing."  She staring back at her are very accurate portraits of Simba & Nala, the Little Mermaid, and Yoda.
Emotions abruptly change to fear on day 14 of her third visit: "ECT is going to help.  Doc's sure of it.  I've never really had a problem with getting my blood taken, so an IV shouldn't be a problem.  Unless it's like a shot.  Which will be a BIG problem.  I'll go three times a week for nine weeks.  I might be sleepy a lot, but I'll do anything to get better."  Let's just say opting to permanently losing memories was one mistake that will haunt her for life.
Tears of laughter escape: "Sebastian wrote me another letter today.  The staff said they've intervened because he isn't allowed to be sending me love letters.  But they showed to me anyway.  I don't remember what it said, but it was an attempt at poetry and to get my phone number.  He also danced for me... Again.  This time I got two performances.  One to, I like to move it, move it and another to Apple Bottom Jeans."

She has read and observed 230 days over the course of three hours...
Admissions.  Counselors.  Visitors.  Medicine.  New roommate.  Seance.  "Do you have any of the five: suicidal, homicidal, hearing/seeing anything, self-harm, nightmares?" Field trip outdoors.  Code gray.  Hacky Sack with a hippie.  New Roommate.  Discharged.  Writing.  Admissions.  Tears.  One of the five.  Sensory room.  Weighted blanket.  Fist against face.  Broken window.  Visitors.  No roommate.  One to one psych-tech.  Medicine change.  Three of the five.  Close patient-staff relationship.  Stuck on unit.  New Roommate.  New friend.  Sleep.  Swear words.  Injection.  Infatuated patient dancing.  Sarcasm.  Reading.  Visitors. Bandaids.  Laughing.  Non-edible food.  Basketball.  Medicine.  Piano.  Homework.  Fight.  Fight.  Fight.  Superbowl.  "Why do you feel upset?" Anger.  Moved upstairs.  New Roommate.  Pedophile. Home-sick.  Medicine.  Movies.  Cribbage.  Change.  Smiles.  Discharged.
...and she's thankful for all she has learned.  She would never change a moment, but

I will never go back.

My Totals: (Prompt 42:A)

Number of songs on current computer, rock: 332; pop: 312; Beatles: 226; alternative: 130; total: 1393.  Number of computers I've owned, PC: 2; Mac: 1.  Number of siblings, brother: 1; sister: 1.  Number of towns lived in: 3.  Numbers of schools attended: 5.  Number of times suspended: 1.  Number of detentions as a result of, misbehaving: 35; tardiness: 10.  Number of states traveled to: 13.  Number of best friends, Elementary: 2; High School/College: 3.  Number of years on Varsity, soccer: 4; softball: 1; basketball: 0.  Number of A's, high school: 13; college: 10.  Number of cats: 3.  Number of times I have punched someone: 1.  Number of blood draws: 47  Number of IV's: 15.  Number of books I own: 360.  Number of math classes, taken: 12; enjoyed: 2.  Numbers of balls I can juggle: 3.  Number of piano pieces I can play, with sheet music: 21; by memory 9.  Number of rooms lived in: 18.  Number of seconds I can hold my breath: 55.  Number of times I've been hit in the face by a, soccer ball: 313; basketball: 12; softball: 5.  Number of prayers, prayed: 5,111; answered: 12,333.  Number of crushes, physical attraction: 641; that and more: 188.  Number of times I've dragged trash to the end of the driveway: 260.  Number of all nighters: 37.  Number of dreams: 6,213.  Number of nightmares: 3,049.  Number of night terrors: 22.  Number of family members in the household, immediate: 5; other: 2.  Number of universities, applied to: 5; accepted to: 4.  Number of languages, fluent: 1; moderate: 1; beginner: 1; how to count to ten & swears: 1.  Number of countries I want to visit, North America: 4; South America: 8; Europe: 21; Africa: 11; Asia: 13; Oceania: 2.  Number of celebrities met: 3.  Number of tears, happy: 56,984; sad: 98,983.  Number of movies seen, in the theater: 517; at home: 1,984.  Number of journals kept: 24.  Number of pillows on bed: 2.  Number of "boyfriends," short-term: 4; long-term: 1.  Number of churches attended: 3.  Number of baptisms: 1.  Number of doubts: 109,812.  Number of feet sped in adrenaline pumping activities, bungee-jumped: 200; sling-shotted: 345.  Number of times sent to my room: 281.  Number of lies, received: 10,823; given: 11,281.  Number of shooting stars I've wished on: 28.  Number of constellations found: 3.  Number of animals ridden, elephant: 1; camel: 1; horse: 7.  Number of nights spent in a hospital: 241.  Number of uncomfortable moments: 16,909.  Number of turf burns: 33.  Number on my jersey: 21.  Number of words I can type a minute: 100.  Number of people I think are hypocritical: 7,000,000,000.  Number of events in history I wish I could travel back to: 3,333.  Number of children I plan on having: 4.  Number of years survived: 20.

Three Pairs of Glasses Later: (Prompt 40)

"Are you alright?!?" Ten players simultaneously bombard me.
"Yeah, it's nothing. I'm fine."  The glasses come off.  "Awesome," I exhale as I put them back on.
Dribble, pass, steal, pass, kick, GOAL. 
"Lindsey where were you?"
I wipe my face. This will be cute in pictures.

***



"Still haven't learned to wear your contacts, huh?" Sarcasm ignored I swear under my breath.  Not this time.  Place the frames on the bench behind my water bottle, good idea.  He has the worst toe-ball ever.  I follow the ball with my eyes as it speeds straight at the wall.  There goes my water bottle.

***

"Liiiinds.  I have to be at my game in ten minutes.  Just get those ones." Giggling she continues, "everything else you've tried on looks funny."
Placing the red frames in the trust of the Lenscrafters employee I make a lame joke.  Pay.  Run to the car.

***

I hit the steering wheel compulsively with anger.  "I don't like those.  I'm not going to wear for them for two friggen years.  No.  I need to go back.  Amanda.  I know you have your game.  I have to go back.  Ugh.  Please."

Three rings then an explanation of why her big sister will be arriving in less than fifteen minutes.  An exchange do to unsatisfactory assumptions.  

Speeding like a madwoman, we make it there in under five minutes.  A quick goodbye and five minutes back.

"You may pick these up anytime tomorrow after 11:00 in the morning."

***

After a day of mixed feelings, from the judgement of myself and my peers, I am undecided.  They are too big for my face.  I love the style.  Seth Rogan has an identical pair.  They're unisex lenses.  Constant justification battles continue well into the night.

A picture sent to close friends with the caption, "I'm not sure of the size, but I think I like them. What do you think?"

"Uhm... They're too big for your face..."

"I love them Linds!"

Minutes later I have managed to forget my contemplation by distracting myself with social media. 

***

My mouth hangs wide open having resolved my full-day contemplation in less than three seconds.  I must now decide whether or not it's appropriate to laugh this one off, or if I should crawl in a hole and remain there for eternity after my monumental blunder.

List of Me: (Prompt 42)

Diagnoses don't define who I am.
I think, I think too much.
My bucket list is full of originality mixed with a tint of cliches.
I could stare at the stars for hours on end.
Movies and books are my form of teleportation.  An escape so to speak.
I knew what I my transferring major was going to be the first class of World History 111.
The level of frustration with myself grows for every point I am below 100.
I will live in a city before I die.
Being a perfectionist is my imperfection.
I believe social medias are going to ruin our generation... If they haven't already.
Politics make me livid.
One day I'll be fluent in at least Spanish, English, and German.
If I do one thing with the right side of my body, I like to do it with the left otherwise I feel uneven.
My little brother is the best unexpected present I have ever received.
I go out of my way to do things for others that I secretly wish people would do for me.
When I do something I think is clever, I don't shut up about it.
I have yet to need stitches. (Other than from wisdom teeth extractions, which I don't count).
There is nothing I am more afraid of than black wolves.  No wait, the eeriness of the deep blue sea.
I don't enjoy driving, I'd rather be a passenger.
European's accents (for the most part) are the most attractive.
I'm a loner.

I hate being alone.

Cracking knuckle's make me cringe.
My little sister is my best friend.
If people knew me before my junior year they'd think I was a completely different person.
I hate to say this, but I wish I was still that person.
Snow doesn't bother me.
I keep almost anything I am given and find it difficult to throw anything away.
People constantly whining about it does.
I've gone to church as far back as I can remember.
I've only had faith since last year.
My family is the most important feature of my life.
I was born in the wrong decade.
Knowing I can be hypocritical helps me think before I speak. (Sometimes).
My type is tall, blue-eyed, dark hair, with glasses.
I'm positive that there are hackers capable of watching people through their webcams.
Understanding people is my greatest defeat.
I feel awkward 80% of the time.
Disney movies will always be worthy of my time.

I observe and retain.  This either makes me creepy or the best gift giver, your choice.

At one point I  to be the next Mia Hamm.
Now I just want to be comfortable being me.

A Morning in Vignettes: (Theme 9)

A door creaks in the distance.  My bed trembles forcing me to shift positions.  The television turns on to block out the echoes of silence.  Mind racing, I remind myself how old I am as I roll over pillow covering my head.  Blanket, pillow, and television in hand I make way to my brother's room.

***

My eyes claim it's 7:35 but my body screams otherwise.  "We tried waking you multiple times."  Frustration. "Socks was sleeping on you?" No time for a shower.  Only the essentials before running out the door.

***

Ten minutes late requires an apology.  "Don't worry. We can fit you in."  I close the dressing room curtain.  I emerge with hospital pants, sneakers, and my long sleeve t-shirt.  Anxiety floods me over expectations involving the return of my cartilage piercing.  Key around my wrist, I wait to be called. 

***

"Claustrophobic?" No. "Pregnant?" No. "Implants?" No.  "Piercings?"  Taken out.  The door shuts.  I'm raised then slowly inserted.  I pray I pass test number two.

Suspension?: (Prompt 36)

A door shuts behind me with emphasis.  I do not sit until an indication has been made for me.  I land across from two men of two completely different proportions.  I saw my friend in the hallway. I know what's coming.  Without a pause I'm accused and guilty due to association.

The smaller one gives a sympathetic look as I try to find words.  Being glared at by the other elicits a stuttering response.  As if he were a machine gun he fires question after question at me.  When my story "doesn't add up."  I'm offered twice as many days of suspension.  I begin to cry.  When I timidly repeat I wasn't the fourth culprit, an awkward silence fills the room.

Staring at me does nothing for him and after what feels like an eternity, I'm demanded to go back to class.  I must wait there for my punishment if no one else comes forward.

A six hour bus drive. One boys varsity soccer game and my own. A meal with teammates I called friends.  Two weeks of ignorance later, an authority figure has lost my respect.

First Step Into Adulthood: (In Class)

Dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, I was wearing my common attire.  Other girls I presumed to be here for the same reason were all dressed up, drenched in make-up wearing their finest clothes.  Now I laugh at their appearance, "It's a head shot, they're not going to be looking at your white, highly-priced, Abercrombie jeans."  But at that moment I felt underdressed.  Fidgeting in my seat waiting for my turn, I took out my poinytail.  Having my hairdown might cover my middle-school sweatshirt and hopefully make me more presentable.  Sneeking a peek in a questioning room like mirror, this is not the case. I'm overcome with a sense of annoyance forcing me to put it back up.   It isn't long before my winning number is called.  Not on purpose, I have forgotten about my appearance.  I'm commanded to smile and with a flash, my picture is taken.  I'm offered a glance at what will identify me for the next five years of my life.  I walk out more satisfied than 'Abercrombie' arguing with her mom.  I snicker as her fading words resemble a sentence much like, "you should be allowed more than two shots. I mean no one gets a good picture on their first try."

I did.

Down in (what we call) the Boondocks: (Prompt 37)

"I'm sooooooooo bored," Nicole and I dramatize simultaneously.  

"I have an idea," Nic smirks slyly as we loop around a houseless street at the end of her subdivision.  

Slowing down I say, "K. Let's hear it."

"Wait. Stop.  Let me get out of the car and I'll show you," she demands unbuckling and opening the door before I even have time to put the Impala in park. "Okay.  Roll my window down. Yep, that's good."

"What are you doing?!" I question sharply as she grabs the handle inside the roof of my car.  She then lifts herself up until she doesn't touch the ground looking as if she's is part of the white paint of my car.  

I more than chuckle to myself as Nic yells, "drive!"

I don't exceed ten miles per hour but I'm requested to stop before she falls off due to a loose grip.  

The Canadian Five Dollar Bill

Trying to find something to do other than twiddle my thumbs I begin to listen to the words vibrating from the speakers behind me.  When shotgun blasts them to an unbearable volume, all of my physical features squint in agony.  My backseat companion coerces her into lowering the dial.  I thank her with a nod. 

Three quietly jamming are content.  I reach for my bag, avoiding a toilet water drenched cellphone.  I snag my wallet deciding to study newly exchanged Canadian money.  For a few moments I attempt to grasp the concept of one and two-dollar coins.   I would think it would be more expensive to produce coins versus paper money.  When unable to figure out my curiosity, I put away the Loonies and Toonies and replace them with a five.

I wish American's weren't so cheap. Instead of adding drops of color and shiny fake gold, we should transform them into pieces of paper drenched in exotic color.  I guess I'll have to find some other source of entertainment as I go cross-country this coming summer.

Should I know who this man is?  He has a face much like one you would expect to see from paintings of another era.  The 1800's I suppose.  I enjoy reading French words in my head mistakingly with a Spanish accent.  Still in my own mind with a rampage of one thought after another, I begin to examine what I believe to be the front.  Can't our country put our national sport on our money?  Just look at those kids playing hockey.  Wait a minute...  I never played hockey.

Through A Little Sister's Eyes: (Theme 7)

For being a perfectionist, I would think her room would maintain better organization.  I mean, she will write and re-write her notes during school until she has reached what she considers acceptable.  Don't think twice about asking her to borrow one of her books.  It doesn't matter if it's a second-hand (which she has few of) or first copy.  She has trust issues.  Past traumas of friends crinkling the pages or tearing a cover, I don't know.  The other day she pulled her current free read out of her bag and it had a crease on the front cover.  I stifled a giggle when she ran off to the other room because I knew she was tearing up.  She tried to laugh at herself, but I could tell it was a struggle as she kept peaking at the book while attempting homework.  Her mind was definitely preoccupied for the day.

This brings me to her attention, or lack there of.  I swear if she was in a padded room with no doors or windows, give her a book, a piece of paper, and a pen to do an assignment with, she'd find some interesting thing to distract her from the task at hand.  Her mind is full of wonder and amazement with the objects that surround her which all require her attention.  She also is too antsy to sit for more than five minutes.  It's as if her legs need to be constantly moving.

Although her mind seems to be in a more rapid motion than others, she doesn't say much except when home.  She's quiet.  A thinker at their best.  She observes and remembers things that most people don't.  Not only is she very good at remember birthdays, but names as well.  Unlike others in college who seem to make habit of forgetting names, she had to pretend she forgot names of classmates because that was what was common amongst her peers.

Some might categorize her as awkward, but I think there's much more to her than that. She has a hard time conversing with others in everyday conversation, but like I said, there is so much going on in her mind.  I think this gives her difficulty in processing her thoughts like you and I.  This leads to her frequent stuttering and blushing in her daily interactions.

She's in a much better place when we sit on her roof and look at the stars.  She likes to try and grasp the reality of how large the universe is.  She has a deep appreciation for these balls of gas burning billions of miles away.  Other than star gazing she loves nothing more than to watch movies, listen to music, and read books.  All common traits that most of the human population seems to possess, but like stars, she appreciates it.

We don't seem to always agree on movies because of course mine are bad choices.  But her Oscar winning, mood-disorder containing, Holocaust deep, "films" are amazing.  Reluctantly I must agree she has a pretty good sense of what a good movie is.  The history one's especially.  She is thrilled with anything, and I truly mean ANYTHING, that involves any type of history.  Trust me, I get a new random fact in tremendous detail every day.  I'm always learning something new.

Music is no different than movies.  She's been going on lately, ever since she was introduced to "good music" from The Perks of Being a Wallflower, about how the Top 40 is ridiculous. She let's some songs slide, but she's a real lyrical type of person.  She brings meaning to every song she hears, and if she can't it's most likely not "good music."  She's not the kind of person you'd like to argue with.  If she knows you and is comfortable with you, there's just no winning.  She's always right.  So I don't bicker with her anymore about Lil' Wayne being the best current artist because obviously she's correct with it being fun. or Of Monsters and Men.  Her and her Indie playlist.

Other than when she's right, she is wrong.  And I think she's wrong about a lot of things.  Most of the things I think she's wrong about aren't superficial materialistic items or media involved topics.  She's mostly wrong about the opinion she holds about herself.  Without going into detail, it's not positive.  She feels her problems don't need a voice.  She has a pride that is like no other and thinks she can do it all on her own.  This makes her a great listener, but I have to watch her actions and mannerisms to notice when she's not doing well.  I know she is a lonely person, she always has been.  I wish there was a light-switch I could turn on to make her see herself how I see her.

But she is stronger than any person I know.  She loves her family and friends.  She also tries to give people the benefit of the doubt.  Whenever I feel the need to go on a rant about someone I don't like she always insists I see it from their point of view and there is more to the situation than meets the eye. This is why I love my big sister.

Zac at Four: (Prompt 30)

"No girls allowed." I wonder if he'll feel this way ten years from when this photograph was taken, 2009.  We'll see.  The little hands he used to hold the wooden sign are bigger today.  Then he used them for finger painting, bubble blowing, and holding mommy's hand.  Now he uses them for other things.  'Big boy' activities.  Throwing a baseball, playing video games, writing stories, but NOT to hold little girls hands.  Those hands are still reserved for mom.

 

Prompt 34: Part II

I want you to know that my following question for you is encompassed with respect.  How old are you?  I've known you my entire life, but I swear you have not aged a day.  I'm not trying to be nice in a cliche way, I'm being completely serious.  That day Cisco bit your hand, I mustn't have been five, you looked almost identical to the last time I ventured into kitchen to catch up with you and Eddie.  I know you've aged since then, and not just spiritually.  I do want you to know I think of you often.  Our neighbors now aren't as kind.  They don't have an enormous garden with tomatoes I can eat like a apples.  Oh, and apparently we need to "put a muzzle" on our dog because it "shouldn't be barking so much"... I'm sorry I didn't visit you after you broke your arm.  I get so caught up in the here and now and there is always an excuse as to why I don't have time to make it over.  To be honest, my excuses are just for my justification as to why I need to do whatever I feel to be more important than visiting the kindest woman I know.  Before it's too late, I'd like to thank you.  Not just for the book on life you gave me, but for everything.


A part of me wishes we still stayed in touch.  Actually, that part of me attempted to stay in contact with you.  Throughout my entire high school years I admired you.  From that first day of Spanish followed directly by German, you had my full attention.  Your ability and knowledge of four languages intrigued me and inspired me to lead the path I'm leading today.  I know you were aware I frequently did most of the class' homework, but I enjoyed doing it.  I always participated, payed attention, volunteered for anything, got the highest grade each term.  But you never seemed to be satisfied.  I don't know what I did to make you despise me the way you seem to.  Even though everyone disliked you, to this day I still stick up for you.

Prompt 34: Part I

We were so little, yet I still manage to have an abundance of memories full of our adventures.  I enjoyed the ones involving travel soccer the most.  Even though you weren't MVP like me, we both managed to make it the greatest hour of our school-packed day. You were my best friend for four years.  I was positive we had a friendship headed for lasting a lifetime.  People change though, and that's exactly what we did.  We changed.  I sometimes think of my school time in Bangor.  And each year on October 27, I mentally wish you a happy birthday.


You wouldn't even be two.  I'm aware animals have short lives, but one year is too short.  You weren't even a full grown cat.  I only have myself to blame.  Demi, it was I who saw you last.  I brought you inside because the basement gave me the creeps and I needed company.  I was ignorant of an open trapdoor until I saw you prance up the wooden steps like the little princess you were.  I swore under my breath, but I was under the impression I'd be seeing you for supper.  I still look hoping to see you run out from behind the bushes each morning to greet me before I rush off to school.

Attempt at minimum usage of adjectives (Theme 6)

Here words strung together so cleverly by author's of today and yesterday can become your reality.  That is if there is time to do more than stare longingly at the books that occupy an abundance of shelves.  It is highly unlikely this is the case.  College consumes a majority of the waking hours belonging to a day.  There is no time to open a typewritten masterpiece, let alone actually be capable of reading one.

So many other distractions are calling in a place that is supposed to be an easy place of concentration.  Can't you read, NO CELLPHONES ALLOWED.  Girls gossip in the corner with backpacks looking rather light to actually be carrying homework.  A man with headphones blaring what can only be caused by the newest computer game initiating his fingers fluid movements.

Where are the librarians at?  The media impression implies they are supposed to be mean old ladies with wire-rimmed frames who bustle around the place spitting "shhhhhhhh," in noisemakers faces.  The closest person to a librarian visible behind the desk is a college student too absorbed in the brilliant technology that is a cellphone to even pay attention to the couple fondling each other while giggling as if they are home alone on the couch.

This isn't a space for those with short attention spans to work in peace.  But this shall have to suffice for no place like mentioned actually exists.

It was nothing like I imagined, it was worse: (Prompt 29)

"You seriously don't have a Twitter account, what is wrong with you?" I know her question is rhetorical, but I have a tendency of thinking into things more than the average person.  So in my eyes, she aggressively seems to be implying I must be mental all because I don't want to follow my generations need to burry their faces into technology 24/7.  

But, I am also too polite (and timid) to explain to her my reasoning for not following the crowd.  "Uh, no.  I don't," is instead what I hear exit my mouth.

"Yeah. You are crazy.  It's so cool. You can like see other people's posts without all the annoying things Facebook uses.  Like you don't have to follow people you don't want to and it's not like collecting friends on Facebook.  I mean you can pretty much start all over.  Oh and if you don't want someone to follow you, you can like make your thing private.  See these hashtags?" She doesn't even wait for my affirmation to the new term this social media has created for the pound sign, "yeah they let you put words together so you can like see other people that have said the same things.  OMG I haven't even told you that you can follow celebrities!!! I'm following JB. That's like Justin Bieber if you didn't know.  But like you need to be careful because they are only the actual famous person if you see this little blue circle with a check mark in it.  Isn't this awesome?"  

Focusing on how many times she said like, I was unaware she even asked me a question until she anxiously repeated it once more.  "Uhhh.. Sure?" I answer questioningly.

"You absolutely have to get one.  I can be your first follower!!!!!!"  

This over excitement makes me feel sorry for her ignorance of quality-filled pastimes available to us.  But, she is my friend and I have a guilty conscience about the oddest situations.  This unfortunately qualifies as potentially turning into guilt. "Okay, I guess I'll get one. I'm going to make at home. Later though." 

Later that night:

Studying my new Twitter page, I begin to follow people I know and as suggested a few celebrities.  One who is definitely NOT desirable and I intentionally skip over, is Justin Bieber.   People such as Jim Sturgess, Emma Watson, Ben Affleck, Matthew Perry, and David Spade make the cut before I get bored.  

I scroll past classmates' pages and read some of their tweets.  Some are funny, some are re-tweeted (when you click a button to post what another person has said so they still get credit for it), some are happy, some are quotes, some are lame, etcetera, etcetera.  Boredom consumes me once again prompting me to sign out.  As I shut my laptop I think to myself, "ah whatever. This isn't going to consume my life. I guess it's not so bad."  

A year or so later (today):

"Not so bad," what was I thinking?  It's terrible.  It's humiliating, embarrassing, deceiving, attention-seeking, annoying, time-consuming.  There aren't enough words in the dictionary to symbolize what Twitter is.  I will reluctantly admit there are some good qualities it possesses, but far more evil ones.  Never have I heard so much whining or complaining.  I'm aware I complain more than need be, but NO. BODY. WANTS. TO. HEAR. IT.  So why post it for hundreds of acquaintances (even millions of strangers) to see?  I look down upon those who actually give the attention to toothpick sized girls who say they're fat.  Or the gorgeous ones who ask why they're so ugly.  UGH.  Next time you say something witty or song lyrics and try to play them off as your own words, please, just don't.  You seriously have 9,000 tweets and you've only been using this for a year and a half?!?!  And I'm told I need to get a life instead of wanting to spend my hours reading books that actually require intelligence.  #Andwhatsupwiththis? #or #doing #this #every #tweet?  For your information, it is a pound sign.  NOT a 'hashtag'.  I am positive I have found one of the culprits of today's horrid grammar.  Social media.  Texting.  Like our speech is also so awful cuz of this, u kno?  Oh, and thank you for notifying us all you are eating toast, now working out, now with your bff, now life is awesome, now you hate people that can't speak English well.  Half of the people who make use of Twitter would never say the things they tweet to someone's face.  NEVER!  I'm also positive if you want to talk smack about someone and quote almost word for word what they said or did, they're going to know you're talking about them.  When you rant about people who speak meanly about others it makes you look hypocritical. And it kind of makes you look like a bitch.  

Though I am annoyed beyond belief, I have yet to delete my account.

Elementary School: (Prompt 26)

Why I'm participating in Track and Field, I'm uncertain.  It's my senior year, peer pressure, lack of an interesting life.  I'm just glad it's almost over.  I wouldn't say I'm ending on a strong note.  After all, this is a Junior Varsity meet and I am the only senior participant.  Oh, and the best I could do was place second... In shot put.  I would like to say this season has been good for one thing, but it hasn't.  Blistered toes, calloused heels, sore muscles, lame Saturdays, pure exhaustion.  It even brought me here.

The question asked by friends of mine continues to be, "Why don't you want to talk about what it was like to go to school here?"  To this I don't have a good answer.  If I wasn't playing mute, they might here something to the likes of, "You can't see it, but in the front I met my best friend of elementary school after getting off the bus for the first time.  One day of kindergarden I ran form that small playground back to the bathroom unable to make it in time.  In that hallway I found out about September 11 and never looked at the world the same.  The bigger playground on the far side of the school is where my best friend and I had our first kisses at the same time.  Cassie and Josh, Kyle and I.  This track is where we used to walk twice a week in third grade.  I would often walk alone because Allison, a new girl who pulled her hair out a lot, wanted to be Cassie's best friend one day and mine the next."

As the bus pulls away I take another look at the warn down brick building I use to call my school and think to myself, I had it made.

Safe Haven: (Prompt 27)

No one speaking.  No television set buzzing.  No music blaring.  No child yelling.  No car accelerating.  My expectations seem unrealistic living in such a busy world, but I truly value silence.  Constantly encompassed in chaos this is hard to find, but

in here it is quiet.

No onlookers glaring.  No promises unfulfilled.  No qualifications required.  No judgement.  My own faults are unwelcome.  Being quick to judge along with other traits we as human beings possess make it unbearable to surround myself with this planet's population.  But

in here no prejudice resides.

No illuminations protruding.  No sun burning.  No headaches forthcoming.  No warmth welcomed.  My dislike of brightness would be inconvenient to a "normal" person's average day.  Living is impossible without excessive amounts of light, but

in here it is shaded.

No assignments unfinished.  No applications to be filled.  No unwanted meetings scheduled.  My hours are limited leaving me stressed beyond belief.  Every waking moment is consumed by daily worries of finishing this, that, and the other thing.  But

in here there are no commitments.

No continuous wars.  No family members bickering.  No grudges held.  No feelings conflicted.  My firsthand experiences of human interaction create feelings that contradict one another.  Individuals existing in various communities hold a sense of pride and a obsesses over always being right, but

in here it is peaceful.

No self-esteem sensed.  No confidence lacking.  No assumptions painful.  No perfection defined.  My troubles unwillingly shape themselves around the opinions of others.  Publicized society obligates everyone must be the skinniest, the most adventurous, the tallest, the smartest, the prettiest, but

in here being oneself is always acceptable.

Where's My Pencil?

"Lindsey! Have you taken my crossword puzzle?"  My grandmother yells at me a few feet a way as if I can't hear her.

"Uhh, no... I don't use regular pencils.  I'm a mechanical pencil kind of person."  I defend myself.

"Where did you say you put it?" She squints at me trying to figure out what I really said.

Frustratedly I repeat, "I told you I don't use regular pencils."

"What?!?"

"I. DO. NOT. USE. REGULAR. PENCILS."

"So you don't have my pencil?"

Her handicap makes me feel ashamed of yelling.  "No, I do not."

She begins cleaning the counter in search of her pencil.  I see her go sit down without success in finding it.  "Could you please go look for me honey?  I'm tired and would like to rest my old legs." I nod and walk off as she opens the weekend paper.

Minutes later, I return to break the bad news I was unsuccessful in finding her favored writing utensil.

"I'm sorry I couldn't find it."

"Find what?  I don't need anything.  I'm just doing my crossword with that pencil you gave me for Christmas. You could help me out if you'd like. Here, four down is: "A Western Lake." It's five letters."  She looks at me in all seriousness.

Instead of laughing and criticizing her for now having her pencil which she just asked me if I had and not telling me before I looked everywhere, I say, "try Tahoe."

Procrastination Battle

Friday: This vacation is going to be different.  I'll do my homework at the beginning so I won't have to worry about it at the end of next weekend.  Also so I won't have to worry about it during the whole week and let it ruin vacation.  Oh, yeah!  That will leave Sunday free and I'll be able to watch the Oscars in peace.  Perfect.

Sunday: Cleaning my room was more important than doing my homework.  Yes it did take a day and a half to clean my room (and it's not even fully done), but it will be worth it in the end.  Now I'll be able to do my homework in here without stressing about the mess on the floor or the desk.  I'll be comfortable. I have all week to do it.  I can do it before the weekend and I won't have to worry about ending it lamely. Wednesday and Thursday sound like perfect homework days.  If I don't get to watch the Oscars, it won't be a fun night for me or anyone nearby.

Tuesday: I can't believe this.  How did I miss this online exam?  It wasn't on the page Sunday when it said the assignment was due, was it?  This is not okay.  I never miss homework.  This is so not like me. I don't know what to do.  This is going to ruin my average.  50% for tests?  I'm screwed.  Calm down.  Just e-mail him and tell him you overlooked it, be honest.  That's what they want, right?  Phew, so glad I was able to do that.  No questions. I am doing my homework tomorrow.

Friday: I had other things I needed to do Wednesday and Thursday.  I need the extra money, so working more will be worth more in the long run.  I haven't been able to hang out with Julie in weeks now because of our clashing schedules. Who knows when I'll be able to again.  Room is clean, no plans, tomorrow is going to be a perfect all day homework day.  Don't freak out, just continue watching this movie when you could actually be doing your homework.  What is wrong with me? Why do I have to procrastinate all the time? This is getting old.  Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Sunday:  How am I supposed to support Argo or Silver Linings Playbook while doing all this homework?  I don't think I'll ever win the battle of procrastination with my homework.

Canadian Journey

Our legs burn as we climb the inclined rocky terrain.  The two men walking ahead of us exchange words of excitement.  Their appearance doesn't suggest they are in the right shape to have the ability to speak.  Nicole and I attempt to hide our heavy breathing which makes us incapable of holding a conversation.  When we reach the top an attractive young man standing on extended white crane greets us.  The four of us climb the crane's ladder to join five other adrenaline seekers.

The worker begins speaking rapidly in French.  When he takes notice of mine and Nicole's expressions he asks if we are American and apologizes after we confirm his suspicion.  He sticks to speaking English which everyone knows.  After he explains what we are exactly going to be doing, he asks if any of us plan on being dipped in the water.  Nicole's hand shoots right up.  He tells her she'll be going first and walks her down the crane-like plank to harness and jump.

I wait for my turn while others around me speak in French.  A feeling of awkwardness overcomes me and isn't relieved until a new worker switches shifts and strikes a conversation.  The reality of what I'm about to experience has yet to hit me.  My only request is that the cord doesn't break.  I am made to watch one, two, three, four, five people jump before it's my turn.  As I am being harnessed I watch the guy before me take his dive.  The crew isn't allowed to push you, you must do it at your own free will, but this guy hesitated for five countdowns.  At this moment I was hit with an overflowing rush of anxiety.

I walk the plank.  I begin to feel slightly light headed as I stare below me at the crystal blue lake.  I am unable to locate my friends down below as a surge of extreme dizziness makes it hard to see.  I wonder to myself if this is normal but choose not to tell a soul.  I drove ten hours to be here, I wouldn't want something as small as fear ruin my chance of checking this off my bucket list.  I am hooked by my ankles.  I stand at the edge of the gate and a set of mixed feelings flood me. "FIVE!" anxiety; "FOUR!" excitement; "THREE!" determination; "TWO!" fright; "ONE!" the rush of free-falling.

A Narrative on a visit to New York City

It isn't nighttime but the foggy sky permits flashing billboards and lights to brighten up the small space occupied by people, buildings, and vehicles.  Cabs, red buses, vans, cars, trucks, and bikes speed through the strip designated to them at a pace on would think to be unsafe for the surrounding pedestrians.  Unlike my family, this fails to stop me from racing to the edge of the crumb covered sidewalk.

Without words, I make an attempt at hailing a cab by violently waving my hand above my head.  I am completely ignored by more than a dozen cabs.  The rest of my family casually walk up to my side and ask me what I'm doing.  Frustrated with their lack of punctuality I agitatedly indicate the fact that we must reach Ground Zero by five p.m.  After a small pause, I roll my eyes as I tell them it's now four fifty, a.k.a. rush hour.  I'm told to calm down, which has the opposite effect on me than the intentional suggestion.

Mom and the others walk towards the end of the sidewalk before I have time to make a scene.  After a deep breath and heavy exhale, I follow them and sulk while they attempt to hail a cab.  As much as I want to make the Ground Zero reservations, I get a sense of delight when her and my sister are unsuccessful.  A small smirk crosses my face.  Since I know it's going to be a while, I begin to observe my surroundings.

Worn in sidewalks are occupied by the most diverse of crowds.  Times Square at rush hour brings all kinds of people to the streets.  Tightly congested walkways are jammed packed with both tourists and New York natives.  Men and women.  Boys and girls.  Tall and slender.  Short and stout.  Every shade of skin color known to man.  Business people wearing suites of darker shades.  Women with skirts and men with ties.  Tourists studying maps wearing back-packs.  Small children holding their nannies hands  too small to be seen unless through a gap in the crowd.  Average Joe's walking about that don't draw eyes.

Eyes.  I realize dozens are fixated on us.  Uncomfortable, I stop studying the area around me and turn to my mom right as she attempts to open the back door of an unmarked black car.  As she gets hold of the door, the car takes off.  She stumbles back onto the sidewalk and my sister and I simultaneously burst out laughing and ask her what she was thinking.  She defensively claimed he motioned for her to open the door and she assumed it was a different type of cab.  Still laughing we walk further down the strip to see the same car sitting still with the driver motioning us to get in.

Mom, Amanda, and my uncle open the door and squeeze into the back seat leaving me to sit in the front.  A nicely dressed Middle Eastern driver opens the door for me.  In a heavy accent, he demands I get in fast.  I reluctantly slide into the leather seat. As I buckle up our driver explains how it is illegal for cabs that aren't yellow to pick passengers up in Times Square.

We give him our desired destination and he heads south towards Battery Park.  Right when I begin to relax, the true driver in him is exposed.  All New York taxi drivers are aggressive, but calling our driver aggressive is an understatement.  Whilst driving chaotically, he takes out a device similar in looks to an mp3 player, places an earphone in his left ear, and converses with someone in a different language.  My paranoia tremendously increases and I now feel more uncomfortable than ever.

The judgmental part of my persona has come alive.  Black car, foreign driver, talking in a different language on a device I've never seen, driving like a madman.  All red flags that lead a paranoid me to think he is conspiring something with the person at the other end of his conversation.  My mind races.  In it I keep repeating over and over that I don't want to die. I want to get out. Get out now.

My heart plummets as we come to a long line of traffic just blocks away from the end of this nerve wrecking journey.  When I thought I couldn't possibly be any more anxious, the extreme aggressive nature of our driver prompts him to cut out in front of a large moving truck almost leaving us crushed.   The fact he's done speaking with his "friend" doesn't ease my anxiety.

Right as the clock strikes five thirty, we're stepping out of the vehicle across the street where Ground Zero rests.  Mom hands him her last twenties because he can't take credit cards.  I walk away before she even says thank you.  I don't care that it's pouring or that I'm headed in the wrong direction. I don't even care if we're late and can't get in.  I'm just glad we're out of the black cab.

Walking away, I scold my mom and go on a judgmental rant on how I felt that whole ride and conclude with promising never to get in a black cab with no markings ever again.

Black & White, Then Add Some Gray

A vacuum makes a loud humming noise in the hall.  Two girls are immersed in some conversation close in proximity to the vacuum.  Someone in the office cackles loudly.  All this is heard with my ears.  My eyes are busy and absorbed in the Statistics final that sits in front of me on an off-blue desk.  I begin to rock back and forth in an attempt to distract from the noise.  Incapable of concentration, I pick up the test.  Test in hand, I make way towards the office and pass it in.  I left two questions blank.  Flustered being an understatement, I speed-walk to my car.  Open the door.  Clench my teeth.  Cuss angrily.  Stick the key in its ignition.  Speed off to Olive Garden for my 20th birthday celebration.





A purple vacuum hums and clangs around two blonde girls gossiping obnoxiously.  "Oh my gosh are you serious?"  Shut up. I mutter to myself.  I'm alone.  Just me and this Stats test I'm never going to finish.  "Hahahahahahahaha." A woman cackles much like a hyena.  More distraction.  I tap my pencil on the painted blue desk while rocking back and forth.  Somehow I manage to let myself believe that rocking will drown out the noise.  It doesn't.  My breathing starts to become rapid and each length of breath gets shorter.  The rocking gets worse.  The man vacuuming shuffles into the room that I only I occupy and apologizes.  Says, "sorry miss, didn't see you there."  He makes his way out.  I wonder if he saw the frustration in my rosy cheeks.  I look back to the test.  Flipping the pages, I begin to talk to myself.  Like saying the problem aloud will help me solve it.  It doesn't.  With the girls getting louder, the vacuum still running, and the cackling going on in a room adjacent to mine, I give up.  I put my crap in my bag.  Put the pages I've ripped apart back together.  I get up.  Hand my test in unfinished stuttering angrily, "I.. I.. I can't do it.  I'm d-done."  Hastily I leave without chance of being acknowledged.  Happy 20th birthday to me.

"I don't know why they're not paying me for this"

"I'm gunna jump in first!"

"No. I am."

"How about you two jump in together?" I interject before the feud of these six year old boys forces me to pull over into the breakdown lane.  I glance up into my rearview mirror and have to stop myself from laughing at the scowling looks being exchanged between the soon to be first graders.

Simultaneously they grumble, "fine."

Before I get a moment to thank them for being so mature, Aidan and Zac are already deep into a rapid conversation.  I let the boys chat without interruptions for the remaining five minutes of driving time.



I put the car in Park.  Without hesitation, Aidan and Zac open the car door.  I hear the doors shut and see them run from the white Impala as if their lives depended on it.  A smile spreads across my face and I get out and walk towards the backyard of mine and Zac's cousins' house.

"DON'T GET IN THE POOL BEFORE I'M AT THE POOL AND CAN SEE YOU!!!!!!!!" I scream at the top of my lungs to make sure I'm fulfilling my responsibilities as babysitter.

"Come on Lindsey!" Whines Zachary.

Aidan joins in, "yeah, we wanna go in."

Setting a bad example, I sprint towards them on the extremely large back porch.  By the time I reach them, I pant, "ju-... mp.  You... Can..  Jump."  Splash.



"Lindseyyyyy. Aidan's jumping over the side of the pool.  Look!" Zac points his finger to the green grass beyond the pool we're wading in.

"Zac, it's fine. He's already over. When he comes back I'll tell him that he shouldn't be doing it.  But you shouldn't tattletale like that.  It's not good. Okay?"  I look at him with a slightly stern expression to assert my request.

"K."

To make sure Aidan's alright, I swim over to the side of the above ground pool.  I hear him singing "I'm Sexy and I Know it" which makes me burst with laughter.

Walking towards me he winks and says, "watch this."

What this is, I'm not exactly sure.  The closest word for this is dancing.  He swats his hips, attemps to spin on the ground, and moves his legs ferociously about.  Once finished, he runs over to the pool and flops back in.

"Wow Aidan. You're a good dancer." I compliment.

"I know right? I mean, I don't know why they're not paying me for this," he rolls his eyes in frustration.

Webcam Rant

I'd rather you not leave me open as you change.  Yeah, I can see you alright.  More of you than I wish to see.  I liked it better when you were paranoid about people watching you through me when you first got this Macbook.  At least you were considerate then.  Is it too much to ask for you to cover me with a towel when you get ready for school?  Just because I'm covered doesn't mean that Queen will stop blasting through the speakers.

Speaking of speakers... Are you deaf?!?  Well if you aren't deaf by now, you will be soon.  I don't understand why you feel it's necessary to turn the volume up to the max.  On the other hand... I do enjoy the original artist's voice better than yours.  So you know what, keep maxing out the volume.  But ONLY if it's not some horrid pop song like... like.. Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe." Can you believe that song is nominated for "Best Song of the Year"? What artistry is there behind repeating the same thing over and over and over again?  None I tell you.  None! Zero! Zilch!

Something else that should stop repeating is your complaints.  Talk about annoying.  Come on, do you really think the reason you have so much homework is because your professors hate you?  The reason you're always whining about having so much homework is because YOU SAVE IT ALL FOR THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!!   For someone with a 3.9 GPA, you don't have much common sense.  Oh, and do NOT expect me to throw you a pity party.  It's YOUR fault.  

Kind of like you blaming your cat for that mysterious yellow spot on the rug.  You know what I'm talking about. Don't try to deny anything.  Mac was open and I saw it all go down.  Your carpet's not stained because of Kiara.  You need to stop bringing drinks into your room.  One of these days you're going to spill something and it will kill this computer.  You'll be screwed.  

But hey, I'll look on the bright side of things.  If you destroy the laptop, I won't have to watch you try and take pictures of yourself for yet another social media.  Talk about embarrassing.