Examinating Reality

I find myself crossing back over a bridge that has swung and swayed in the Winds of Time. In a land buried beneath the old and dripping with memories. Where the light illuminates forgotten images in a warm glow. Here, I am safe. I am happy. I am free. This is my escape. My Utopia. My past.

Okay so this is my "artistic" way of describing the last couple weeks for me. It's been... Great, to say the very least. Living back at home with no homework or deadlines to speak of. No chores, either. Just work--yes, work. Work at a job I simply adore.

But the ghosts of the past seem to always rear their ugly head no matter how far away one tries to run from them. The attitudes, the drama, the back-stabbing... All I could do without and thought I had left behind in high school.

Am I wrong?

I shouldn't have to tell you I'm mad at you. I shouldn't have to whine to my best friend about how bad I feel after finding out what you said about me behind my back. I shouldn't be so angry with you that I can't enjoy a weekly tradition on account of your presence... Right?

If you were my friend--or, rather, because you are my friend--you would have noticed I couldn't even look at you then. You should have noticed I didn't talk to you that night. You should have picked up on the fact that I haven't been answering your texts by now.

I shouldn't have to hide behind my blog because I'm too afraid to tell you how I feel from fear of involving innocent people in this ugly mess. I shouldn't hope and pray you read this. I shouldn't rely on the chance that it causes you to look inside yourself and ask yourself whether or not you're in the wrong.

I wish I were braver.
I wish you were better.
I wish you hadn't hurt me.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

A Brother for Christmas

Buzzzz buzzzzz

It's just a text message, she thought to herself, I'll look at it later.

buzzzz buzzzzz buzzzzzz

She sighed. And groaned a little before rolling over. It wasn't a text message, it was the alarm. Time for work.

"Hey, you up?" came from the other side of her bedroom door. It was her mother.

She sat up, rubbed her eyes to get everything in focus and stretched her arms high above her head. "Yeah, I'm up."

"A'ight. Get ready for work."

Work. Work? Work! It sounded so weird. She thought about what it would be like to step through those big glass doors again. Only this time, she wouldn't be visiting or even taking in a movie. Tonight, she'd be actually useful for a change. Tonight, she'd be working.

She looked at the phone. Two missed calls. One from her cousin. One from her sister. She checked the times. Her cousin called most recently so she would be the first to be called back. Nothing personal, it's just how her phone listed the calls.

Riiiing riiiing

"Hey, you talk to your sister yet?"

Well, hello to you, too... "Uh, no. I saw she called but I--,"

"Yeah, well, you need to call her. It's important."

"Oh.. uhm.. okay... Thanks. Bye." Click.

She looked at the clock. Less than an hour to be get to work. She debated over calling her sister. Well, if it was important...

"Hey, Lexi said I should call you..?"

"Are you sitting down?"

Awkward. "Uh... yeah, I'm sitting on my bed. What's up?"

"So..uhm... You know how we always wondered what it be like to have a brother?"

She blinked a few times, rising from bed and pacing her room a little. Surely, her sister's boyfriend hadn't proposed... Not with no family around. No, no, no. Something's not right... "Yeah, I mean.. I guess... What does--"

"Yeah, so.. how's about a brother for Christmas?"

"Wait... what? I don't underst--,"

Then her sister let everything spill. She told her how some guy somehow used AT&T to get their phone numbers and had been contacting their cousin by mistake, thinking it was her because they're all on the same bill, talking about how important it was to speak with her. How this guy was 29 and met their father at a local bar he's known to frequent. How their father was this man's father too. And how their father had been paying child support all 18 years of this guy's life, but had never seen him or been there for him at all. How this guy knew of their existence but they had no idea of his--ever. How he was married with kids and wanted to know his family better. How he always knew they were in Lake Charles and wanted to meet for lunch one day to "talk about all this."

"So, yeah, what do you think? Like, what's going through your mind right now?"

She was speechless. "I... I think I need to get ready for work. I'll call you when I get off. Bye." Click.

She sighed, looked at the phone then the clock. Could this be really happening? Oh brother....

Fly Away...

It's the end of the semester now. You can tell because the library is filled with people. Seriously, it's impossible to find a computer nowadays. Which, when I think about it, is funny because half of the study body here probably didn't even know where the library was in August and now they're all crammed in here with their books (which were probably never opened before today) and notes (which are photocopies of someone else's) trying to make the best grade they can. I can't really blame them though. It just bothers me a little. If you haven't tried all semester, a last-minute cram session won't do you much good.

I suppose I'm a bit too hypocritical; too quick to judge. I just feel like some people at this school could really care less what their grades are. I know this because they barely show up for class and spend the rest of their time just "chillin" or smoking or drinking or doing some other idiotic task instead of trying to better themselves. I wish I could take some of these people, shake them, and ask, "Why are you here?" Like, Angelina Jolie in Wanted (EXCELLENT movie) style. The guy next to me, for example, has his notebook in his lap, a textbook on the desk, earphones in his ears, and the monitor is on Facebook. Facebook! Again, why are you here?

-sigh- What brave new world...

On a less bitchy note, I've been thinking about what I want to do next year. I'm not going to lie (to you, to myself) and say "be a better student" because I highly doubt that will happen. Highly. I could say I'll try. But knowing me and my dependable flakyness, I'll probably do really well the first week, get bored with it or interested in something else and slip back into my old habits. Just coasting along. Heh. Now that I think about it, that's kinda how I define myself when it comes to my relationship with others. I'm the flaky friend. The one you count on to be the one not to count on. The who's always forgetting stuff, waiting until the last minute, never coming through... That flaky bitch, Kaylyn. Yup, that's me.

Actually, when I started that paragraph, I did not know that would come out.

What I was supposed to say was this: I want to lose weight next year. Get healthy. I wanna eat right and exercise more. I've taken little steps already like taking the stairs (every time) instead of the elevator. Which was not so fun yesterday... I climbed like 4 flights. Then had to do it again about an hour later. 8 flights... But I felt good afterwards. Not physically, of course. Just proud. And I don't take the bus around campus. I walk everywhere. Every time. Even when it's raining. I mean, honestly, campus isn't that big. You can walk anywhere in about 10 minutes. At least I can.

But, yes, back on target: I want to lose weight. Not because I have a low self-esteem (at least not for that reason) or anything, but just to be healthy. My family's not exactly the Blanks so I have to combat genetics and my grandmothers' cooking... Hmmm... Pieee... -drool-

Ahem, yes, well... Weight. I want it gone. I looked at myself in the mirror this morning while brushing my teeth and saw something that shocked me: My collar bone. It made me smile. I have these weird little "things" I attribute to good health or good shape. Flat stomach, toned thighs... blah. And collar bones. Not scary "I can count my ribs"-skinny or anything, but just collar bones. I dunno. It's hard to explain. Especially in writing. Especially considering the fact, I type as I talk. Or, rather, type like I talk. Both, really.

So that's my New Year's resolution thus far. Lose weight. Cliche-much, I know. But I want to. I'll probably add more to it like giving up things I think are really bad to my health. Like sodas... Kudos to Rachel and Aaron! You're almost there! And, Rachel, I'm still buying you that Icee for New Year's. How's a 44-once sound? :P

I don't know how this'll turn out. Maybe I'll actually be the weight I claim to be on my driver's license...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

This Weekend...

Best. Weekend. Ever.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Reliving It and Loving It

So I try my best to have pretty cool titles for my blog. Something that's witty or alludes to what I'm talking about. Sometimes they're funny (tra la la) or reflect my current mood. But I'm noticing that with this new lay out--which I'm loving more and more everytime I see my blog--that titles don't show. Bummer. :( Maybe I'll start writing them at the top of my posts or something. idk.

Last night/ this morning was pretty fun. I stayed up the latest I have in a while. My roommate and I had a bunch of assignments to do before classes today. And, of course, I'm still taking on my own personal NaNo during the month of December. I'm doing pretty well on the latter. It flows a lot easier now. I find that now that I actually have a plan, the hard part is actually taking a moment to myself to just sit and write.

Anyway, back to last night... Adrianna and I clowned around for most of it. Wait for the fishes! Haha. Inside joke. We were up until about 3a. Actually, I finished a lot sooner than Adrianna. Since she had the light on and would occasionally ask me for help with the English she was working on, there was no point in trying to sleep. I spent my time trying to write and meet my word count goal for the day. Then I got sucked into watching loops of YouTube videos. Epic fail.

I decided to listen to upbeat music to keep me awake and alert. Plus, it helps me when writing. I started with current stuff like Lil' Wayne, who incidentally has 8 Grammy nominations, then I was hit with feelings of nostalgia. Enter 98 degrees, Backstreet Boys, N'Toon, and Sammie songs.

Everybodyyyy
Yeahhhhh
Rock ya bodyyyyy

It was really great hearing those songs again. Better yet, I actually remembered most if not all the lyrics to the songs. At the end of the videos, I looked the copyright dates. If I wasn't aware of how old, I was, that killed it. Ten years. I seem to remember running around my house screaming "Backstreet's back" at the top of my lungs and rushing into my sister's room to dance in her mirror with her like it was last week. Nope. Ten years. Wow.

So I'm thinking it'd be awesome if someone had a 90s party. Maybe like in the summer or something. But all the music would be from the 90s: Brittney, Christina, N*Sync, Backstreet Boys... All the classics. And we could dress like we did back then. Bright colors, mis-matched socks, jumpers and big hats.... I'm excited just thinking about it! Even though I know a snow storm in hell has a better chance of happening than this party, it's still a good idea, right?

Bye bye bye...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Can't think of a title... nom nom nom

So... I'm back in my dorm room after what was possibly the best home visit I've had... EVER. I was on this euphoric high for most of it. Which is weird, because I didn't sleep much. Or at all, really. But every waking moment was absolutely amazing!

After such a weekend, it sucks to think that for the next few weeks, I'll be here, following the same old routine. It's like being stuck on a railroad track. Just coasting along to some unseen destination, with no hopes of stopping, or change of pace. I don't like that. Finals are coming up. Grrrrreat.

I'm listening to Christmas music now. That makes me happy. I started blasting it in my mom's car as I drove it around LC late Thursday. So, of course, I ripped the music to my laptop so I could take it with me back to BR. And now that I have a new micro SD card, I once again convert my phone into a 2-gig music player. Oh yes! Christmas music while walking to class. Good stuff.

A lot of people's birthdays are today, I've noticed. My roommate's. My cousin, Ryan's. My cousin, Lil' Donald's. Kendrick Wilkins. And then tomorrow is my best friend's. Along with some other people who Facebook has informed me of. But a lot of birthdays are coming up as well in the month of December. So is there something about March that makes people want to conceive? Valentine's Day lovin' maybe? Too much drinking during St. Patty's Day? I dunno...

I think it's fun to figure out about when you were conceive. Either count back 9 months (~ish) from your birthday or count 3 months ahead (which is /much/ easier). So I'm the product of a mistletoe kiss gone too far or too much champagne on New Year's. Hm... I wonder if my mom remembers... I wonder if she'd actually tell me...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Give Thanks

A year ago, as I sat down to write a post similar to this to celebrate the holiday season, I reflected on how much my friends are like a second family to me. It's funny, going back and reading that post now. Funny how I feel the same about people, the rollercoaster I've ridden with other people, and... how some people in that post are now irrelevant.

So I'm giving thanks to progress. To change. To enlightenment. Thanks for getting rid of fake friends. Less drama. Less stress.

Thank you all.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas, 2008 Edition

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all the through my house,
no one dare move, breathe, or roam about.
The tree had been decorated with wonder
and all the gifts were nestled safely under.
The boys lay in their room,
Little Johnny snug in his Batman costume.
And down the hall, inside the girls’ room,
there were nothing but dreams of Orlando Bloom.
When an alarm suddenly sounded
“What the hell?” Mommy and Daddy shouted
We pressed our faces to the glass,
hoping to see what lay out on the grass.
The porch lights were all a-glow
illuminating the front yard below.
And what was bestowed upon my eyes
came as a complete surprise.
There, in our yard, was a sight to see:
Santa himself had crashed into the SUV.
On the passenger’s side, he left the biggest dent
Then, he spoke, hands raised, swearing it was an accident.
Daddy shook his head from side to side
While Mommy looked as though she could have cried.
We all watched the reindeer,
their injuries most severe.
Dasher lay there twitchin’
Dancer and Prancer hemorrhaged from the fall
Comet and Cupid were so stunned, they moved not at all
Donder and Blitzen were missin’
And I won’t repeat how we found Vixen.
Santa was most upset,
knowing his Christmas deadline would not be met.
“Please, help me,” he said,
“My sleigh is wrecked and my reindeer surely dead.”
We begged and pleaded,
realizing how much our help was needed.
Mommy and Daddy agreed, and we began our good deed.
Santa’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights! his dimples so deep!
He thanked us a thousand times and began to weep.
Little Johnny flew into action, in true superhero fashion
He found Donder and Blitzen, much to Santa’s satisfaction.
The girls patched up Dancer and Prancer, fixing them in a flash
and I tended to Dasher, helping him up from the crash.
Daddy went to Vixen,
and after he was done fixin’,
he helped Mommy with Comet and Cupid.
They eventually moved, if not a little bit stupid.
With a gust of winter air,
a little magic and a lot of prayer,
the sleigh miraculously rose to the sky,
and we all waved goodbye.
Santa thanked my family once more
and away we watched them soar.
The children and I went to back into the house, and climbed into bed,
trying our hardest to wipe those images from our heads.
Daddy turned to Mommy, and said with much assurance,
“I don’t think this is covered by our insurance.”

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Fresh Start

Whew! Thought I'd never see the day. New layout!

Rachel was right, though. It is A LOT of personalization after you get the code. Which can prove to be a bitch. Where's that text coming from? Oh, okay, I see not. Click, click, click. Preview page. Nice. Oh damn! What about this? What the... OH! Yeah, okay, links. Click, click. Preview. Damn. What is this? Err... too.much.text.

But I'm proud of the result. Hope you guys like it too!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Open Mouth, Insert, Pull Trigger

It's painful to think I have to give up now. It kills me. I'm killing myself. "It's just not the right time," they say. "You're too overwhelmed." "It shouldn't exhaust you like this."

Even with all these (reasonable) excuses, I still feel horrible. But it's too late to push through now. I'm wayyy too far behind. I've wasted so much time.

I do want to finish though. I will finish. This has helped me get back into writing. For that, I am thankful. Now I know I can complete a project. That I need to. That I want to. Just.. timing.

So, my dear readers, I ask you--because without you, I am nothing--which would you rather: Me post pieces/chapters/sections/blurbs periodically here (like every Friday or something) OR take on a project of my own (like make the 31 days of Dec my new goal)?

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Avoiding Writing an Actual Blog

WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING? Memnoch the Devil by (of course) Anne Rice

WHAT TIME IS IT NOW? 9:49p

WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? laptop touch pad

FAVOURITE BOARD GAME? Dirty Minds. Haha. Seriously, Candy Land.

FAVOURITE MAGAZINE? People.

BABIES? No.

FAVOURITE SMELL? Baby powder and clean linen.
WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD? Food poisoning, I've been told.

FIRST THING YOU THINK OF IN THE MORNING? Fuck, school.

HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOU ANSWER THE PHONE? 2 if I like you. 4 if I really don't wanna answer. Haha.

FUTURE CHILD'S NAME? D'Artagnan (seriously, I LOVE that name).

FAVOURITE COLOUR? Blue.

WHAT IS MOST IMPORTANT IN YOUR LIFE? Faith.

FAVOURITE FOOD! Pancakes.

IF YOU COULD PLAY AN INSTRUMENT, WHAT WOULD IT BE? I've always loved the piano...

DO YOU LIKE TO DRIVE FAST? No. It scares me.

SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? Yes. Brownie, my black McNeese teddy bear.

WHAT TYPE WAS YOUR FIRST CAR? None yet...

WHO IS THE PERSON FROM YOUR PAST YOU WISH YOU COULD GO BACK AND TALK TO? Luis Cerna.

FAVOURITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK? Strawberry daiquiri.

WHAT'S IN THE BOOT OF YOUR CAR? N/A

DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI? No.

IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WANTED WHAT WOULD IT BE? Author.

EVER BEEN IN LOVE? Yes.

GLASS HALF EMPTY OR HALF FULL? It's poisoned.

FAVOURITE MOVIE? Oohh.. Uhm... Toss up between Count of Monte Cristo and Man in the Iron Mask (neither of whihc I own, now that I think of it. Haha.)

DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT KEYS? Psht. No.

WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? Dust.

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST AMBITION? To be a published author.

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST WEAKNESS? People I care about. I'll do almost anything for them .

IF YOU COULD BUILD A HOUSE ANYWHERE WHERE WOULD IT BE? The Italian countryside. I hear it's beautiful.

WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING? Jeans.

BEACH, MOUNTAINS OR CITY? Beach.

TECHNOLOGY OR ART? Art.

COMEDY OR HORROR? Comedy.

FAVOURITE PHYSICAL FEATURE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX? Eyes.

FAVOURITE TIME OF DAY? Depends on the weather. If it's hot: afternoon, cold: night.

THE LAST CD YOU BOUGHT? I bought? Psht. Last one I received was Cheetah Girls: One World.

WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE PLACE TO BE MASSAGED? Shoulders.

WHAT'S MOST IMPORTANT, STRONG IN MIND OR STRONG IN BODY? Mind.

WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING? Haha. Morning. Ya funny.

WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE KITCHEN ITEM? Skillet.

WHAT MAKES YOU REALLY ANGRY? Small minds. Intolerance.

WHICH DO YOU PREFER, SPORTS CAR OR SUV? SUV.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN AFTERLIFE? Yes.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SEASON? Summer.

IF YOU COULD HAVE ONE SUPER POWER, WHAT WOULD IT BE? Read minds.

DO YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT? No. Deathly afraid of needles.

CAN YOU JUGGLE? Does multi-tasking count? Haha. No.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE DAY? Oooh.. uhm... Saturday.

WHICH DO YOU PREFER SUSHI OR HAMBURGER? Damn. Uhm... Sushi, actually.

WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE SOAP? Dove.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE MEAL? Fried porkchops, mac & cheese, mashed potatoes, and kool-aid.

IF YOU COULD TAKE A VACATION ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD WHERE WOULD IT BE? England! Duh.

(Thanks, Harrison!)

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

So how's NaNo going?

How's it going? How's it going?! I'll tell you how it's fucking going. It's hell! Absolute hell.

Oh, I love writing and I want to feel accomplished so I'm going to enter this contest to write 50,000 words in 30 days. Yeah, I know. No, you don't get anything for winning. Well, it's just to say I've done it, to feel good about myself. Published? No. You just.. do it. Well, you can't officially start until midnight Nov 1st. I gues syou can cheat. But then you wouldn't feel as accomplished. No, they don't read them. Just count the words. That would pointless, though. I could just write crap or copy something if I only wanted to reach 50,000 words. Yeah, I know. Yeah.

Word count? Oh, it's coming along. Well, I don't feel inspired today, so I wont' write. What do you mean it's the 10th?!?! What the fuck? Let's see... That 1666 a day.. and I've missed like 8 days so... Oh shit!

Must write. Write whatever. Write what sounds good. No, no, that's crap. Yeah, yeah. Oh, yeah! That's awesome. Awesome. Keep going. Oh, this is great! Yes, yes, more words! Keep writing. What does she see? How does she feel? Is this relevant? Did you allude to that.. Yeah, yeah. Good. Let's see... WHAT?!?! 1027 words?! But I wrote so much. Fuck fuck.

____

Yeah, it's something like that.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Shifting Gears and Moving Forward

Alright, so it's officially Nov 5th and now that all the election hype has died down and the votes are actually counted and we have a new president elect, (Wow! run-on sentence much?) I can actually focus on NaNoWriMo. I can actually start NaNoWriMo.

I have all these ideas in my head. Lines I want certain characters to say, names for them, names for places, basic plot structure and few twists... But actually getting them down in written word is nearly impossible. Especially considering the fact I have 8330 words to write by the stroke of midnight tonight if I want to stay on track and complete this. Which I WILL!

Here's the dilemma: I've decided to change stories. Yup. I'm insane. The story, piece, idea, whatever I originally planned on developing into a 50,000-word novel is no longer up to par for me. I don't feel as though I can go all the way with it. Even in my head, I get stuck so I know trying to write it will be an epic fail.

However, this new idea I have--although, technically an old short I'm just going to expand and develop--I feel I can really go somewhere with. It seemed to have positive feedback when I posted it here before, so we'll see how well I can develop it further.

As always, I know I have a ton of support helping me through (Rachel, Nick, Harrison, Mr. Taylor... Love you guys!). And I don't intend on disappointing.

So "keep it locked" here for all NaNoWriMo updates as I "officially" start.
Today.
Right now.
Here I go.
Seriously.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - Oh, and in case you're wondering exactly which one of my previously posted shorts I'm going to use for NaNo is, it's
this one.

Sands Through the Hourglass...

I was supposed to write (and post) a really cool poem today. One about Halloween, of course. It was going be very awesome with fast pacing and eerie word-choice. And I was going to repeat the line: "On this the night of All Hallows' Eve..." It was going to be epic.

But, I'm having a little trouble focusing.

Because as I'm looking at the date, I can't help but thinking I have less than 24 hours before beginning a journey that I cannot turn away from.

I'm speaking, of course, of NaNoWriMo.

I have pledged to write a full novel in the month of November. That's 50,000 words in 30 days. Period.
Which averages to about 1666 words everyday.
Which averages to about 60 words an hour.
Which averages to like a word a minute
Every minute.
Of every hour.
Of every day.
For 30 days.

And why would I subject myself to such torture and stress? Because I'm a writer. It's what I do. It's what I love. And what makes me happy. Deadlines are inevitable. It's like Christa says, "Writing's never done. It's due." And this deadline I'll be forced to follow. There's no changing when November 30th will come and mark the end of NaNoWriMo.

So, here's to the next 30 days!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - Also, I've decided to start a new label for the series of posts specially dedicated to NaNoWriMo. Chronicling my progress and possible meltdowns and what not as I travel along this road.

Insomnia

It's the strangest feeling: Knowing that I should be sleeping now. Knowing that if I just laid my head on the pillow and relaxed my body, I would undoubtedly fall asleep. Knowing that History is going to be unbearable without a good night's sleep.

But I also know that I haven't done my Speech homework. And that is one of the many things plaguing my mind now. Ordinarily, I'd just say "Fuck it," close my laptop, embrace the darkness, and go to sleep. In the morning--okay okay, afternoon, I'd frantically rush to the library to type some sort of outline of a bs speech I plan to deliver in less than an hour....

Actually, that sounds really good right now.

I can't deny who I am.

Fuck it.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - Funny, this is not the direction I imagined this post going in when I first began writing. :P

Can't think of a title... Tra la la ?

I've began to notice that when I sit down to write on here, I really don't know what I'm going to churn out. Often times, unless I'm retelling a story or have had some miraculous revelation about life I feel like sharing, I just stare at the blank screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard waiting for inspiration. And I start to think, "Is this healthy? Should a writer really not know what to write?"

It's scary sometimes. Knowing that even I don't find my daily life interesting enough to document or my imagination creative enough to produce something of merit.

But then I think of all the other ways my writing does live on. Being a self-diagnosed Gaiaholic, I undoubtedly write everyday. Multiple times a day when lucky. From stories of an orphaned French girls to a mystical forest dweller and his charming sister, I know I'm creative. But these things are only as good as what I'm given. These stories are not my sole creation. I'm always working on such projects with other people. People whom I've never met before. People who give me things to respond to and I them. And I fall in love with these characters we've created, with the luxurious worlds we've built for them and I am intrigued by how much we're able to conceal from each other until the moment is right for plot twists.

So I begin to wonder if I can do this on my own. Without someone else providing a question for my character(s) to respond to or ponder. Without someone else constantly awaiting my reply in order to continue something. (Because Lord knows I abandon stories like a 15-year-old crack addict abandons babies) And I don't think I like the answer I come up with.

So is that the answer then? To change my dream from being a best-selling author to a best-selling co-author? Ew. I don't like the sound of that.

I need some initiative.

A lot of initiative.

I need an English class.

Or at least a routine outlet for writing.

I miss Christa.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Sweet Stranger

I find myself where I’ve been before. Everything is the same, yet somehow greatly different. The people still remain as I remember them but there’s a change in them… a silent secret I know nothing of. It’s as if I’m missing something. As if I’m the outsider now. C’est la vie, I suppose. But I can’t shake the feeling that I don’ belong here anymore. That I’m no longer part of this cycle. It’s their time to shine. This is made all the more clear when they begin to share stories. Stories I’m not a part of. Stories I wasn’t there to witness. I’m an outsider. I don’t belong any more.

They were so happy to see me and I equally ecstatic to see them again. We talked, laughed, and joked as if nothing had changed. As if I hadn’t been away for months. As if I belonged. We were trapped in a time capsule, where we were all equals. Where we all belonged. Then reality struck again when it came time for them to depart. I couldn’t’ follow them this time. I wasn’t a part of what they were doing. I would never be a part of that anymore.

I thought this would work out more like a puzzle. Where we each had our own intricate designs, yet when we came to together, we fit. We fit in with each other to paint a beautiful picture of friendship. And no matter how far apart the pieces scattered, when we came together, we’d still have that same image. We’d still fit. I’d still fit. But it’s not so. Some of the pieces are worn, damaged even, now. Some pieces do not fit where they once did and the picture can never be the same. It’s a sad realization I’ve come to. But this is the way it is.

Make no mistake, I greatly enjoy anytime I spend with my friends and always wish I had more time. Who else can you laugh at David Bowie’s “smuggled grapefruits” and crappy 80s green-screening with? (Tra la la) Even in doing the most random of tasks, we still enjoyed each others’ company. At the very least, I enjoyed theirs.
Maybe we won’t be a perfectly fitted puzzle again, but hopefully the pieces can all remain in the same box…

.:~o*’Kaylyn’*o~:.

Hmm...

I always find it interesting whenever I begin to write here. What do I wish to say? What do I want people to know about me and my day? What I wish to discover about myself? Am I inhibited because I know people are reading? Do I hide things I wish not to be questioned? Why do I even do this anymore?

I wish I could write freely. Just.. whatever comes to mind... whatever gets typed out first. "Flush out the crap," as Christa used to say. But for some reason there is a critic within me. A mean, nasty critic constantly demanding the best; perfection. Try as I might, I can't escape her tauntings. You want to be a writer, don't you? Writer's don't write like that. Use bigger verbs. More mature adjectives! A middle schooler could have wrote this... You're going to starve.

The scariest thing, though, is the voice itself. It's not my mother. A teacher. Someone who I look up to. A critic. It's... me. I am my own worst enemy. I am my toughest critic. Perhaps that's why I try to correct other peoples' works. To know that, indeed, I do have some working knowledge of the English language and mechanics. To prove to this self-editor that I can write. That I'm meant to write. That I must write.

Am I crazy?

I'm so lucky to have the support I do. Friends. Family. Loved ones. Or, rather, one. I'm lucky that not just one... but many people have seen some small glimmer of light within me; even when all I see is darkness and error. That I "talk like a book" and often get more enjoyment from listening to other people talk, their vocabulary and mannerisms than hearing myself. That I can easily loose myself in a book and never want to return to reality again.

I have to remember why I started writing.

This critic must be silenced.

I gotta jump.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Will ye go thither with me?

So, I'm a part of the Lacumba Players here at school. Which is just big, fancy college-talk for drama club. The most exciting part undeniably is being able to act on a real stage, inside a real auditorium, with real lights bearing down on us. Our current project is Everyman, a medieval morality play. It's... quite enlightening.

Here's Everyman in 5 mins (by me):

God: -looks down on Earth- "Oh hell no! I died for these bitches and here they are lying, cheating, stealing... Just spitting on my commandments! Uh huh. I don't think so. Death, bring your ass!"

Death: "Yes, your Lordship?"

God: "You go down and grab Everyman. We need to have a 'talk.' Got it?"

Death: "Certainly, my king! He'll never see me coming..."

-Death descends to Earth-

Death: "Where you think you going, Everyman?"

Everyman: "Excuse me? Who are you?"

Death: "You mean you don't know?"

Everyman: "UH.. no."

Death: "I'm DEATH! And God is pissed. Y'all need to have a chat."

Everyman: "Oh snap.... Heh heh, let's say I give you this $20 and you turn around. Let's just try this again in about twelve years. Hm?"

Death: "I don't think so. Let's go."

Everyman: "Whoah, whoah! Can I at least take some people with me?"

Death: "Psht. If you can find someone. Suuuure. Bring 'em all to God! You have one day."

-exit Death-

Everyman: "Damn. God. Death. Who to take? Who will come? Ah, yes, my family! A-yo, cuz! Wanna go to God with me?"

Kindred: "Nah. I don't see that happening... You on your own, buddy."

Everyman: "Damn. At least I still have my goods (worldly possessions)! Let me just gather them all up..."

Goods: "Yeah... No. I'm just property. I have deceived you, don't you see? You spent all this money and time on me. And now I am leaving you. See ya!"

Everyman: "Played."

Everyman: "What now?"

Good Deeds: "I'll go to God with you..."

Everyman: "Really? Sweet. Let's go!"

Good Deeds: "Not yet. I'm a little weak... You know you ain't done enough good deeds, homie. So, uh, yeah, take my sister. Maybe she can drop some Knowledge on ya."

Knowledge (Good Deeds' sister): "You need to go to Confession before you can holla at my sister. You ain't good enough yet to even be seen with her."

-Everyman and Knowledge go to Confession-

Knowledge: "Get on your knees and start praying."

Everyman: "Oh blessed Confession! Heal me so that I can holla at Good Deeds. She a dime, son!"

Confession: "Uh... Here. Take this. It should help."

Everyman: "A whip?"

Confession: "Yeah. You gon pay what you owe, Everyman!"

-commence beating himself-

Knowledge: "Now, you are ready."

Good Deeds: "I liiiiive! Let's go to God now."

-blah blah blah Discretion, Strength, Five Wits and Beauty crap out blah blah-

Everyman: "I die."

Doctor: "Damn, another dead body? Damn... Listen up, y'all! As you can see, you can't take anything with you but your Good Deeds. So, be ready. Because you never know who your real friends are until it's time to die."

END

So all the time we've been spending with this piece, I've had time to internalize the characters, decipher the lines, and generally understand what the Church was trying to teach the people of the Middle Ages. It's a good message, really. Because, honestly, who would go with you down Life's hardest roads? Sure, your family says they would. Your friends. Your lover. But would you go to God (or death) with those you claim to be close to?

One of the fellow actors in this play asked me if I would die for those I call friends now. Without missing a beat, I said yes. I began thinking of all that I have done for my friends and loved ones. The assignments, the sneaking-out, the lies, the road trips, the late night/ early morning phone calls... So much to others. And yet nothing to me. And all I've asked for in return is companionship.

Right now, I honestly wouldn't mind dying for a friend. Because I don't use the term lightly. If you are my friend, you've obviously proved to be something extraordinary. Someone who has proved to be dependable. Someone special. And I hope that, in return, you can say the same about me.

.:~o'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - I'm dying tomorrow. Any takers?

Tiger Tales

Last night was probably one of the single most greatest nights of my life! Well... maybe not. There was my birthday party. And Sweeney Todd ;) And the Houston trip. And-- Okay, so maybe not the best. But definitely top 10. For sure the best concert experience I've had in a loooong time. (Hopefully Oct 25th will be awesome too!)

Even though I don't attend LSU (What was I thinking?), I still got to enjoy some of the perks of being a Tiger. One of those privileges being... Sean Kingston and Gavin Degraw in concert! LIVE! It was... unlike anything I've experienced in my life before. The performers were about (I'm not lying) 10 feet from me. I could see the diamonds in Sean's chain, the sweat from Gavin's forehead, the tightness in his bassist jeans (mm mm). What made it even better was partying it up with my #1 BR buddy, Franco Diesel (haha).

Of course, I couldn't step foot on LSU's campus repping my blue and gold. Especially not during their Gold Fest (homecomming preparations). Big no-no. No worries! Just before the concert, I went to Tiger District and copped a $10 "Geaux Tigers" shirt. It's gold with big purple lettering. The shirt which, by the way, I'm totally wearing at school. Right now. I hate to say it, but I look damn good in purple and gold. (T.S. Cooley anyone?) Both my roommate and I "converted" in the car while Franco damn near mowed down about 3 people. I swear he was trying to kill us... Haha. (Truuuck!)

But of course it wouldn't be a true outing if their wasn't food involved. After showing my roomie Coop., we jetted to Hello Sushi. It was really nice inside and they branded everything with the logo from the paper around the chopsticks to the scantron menu. We may have to go back and get shirts... Hmmm.

All in all, I had a good experience on LSU's campus. Both my rommie and I were Jaguars camouflaged as Tigers. (Still in the cat family though!) I think if there were some way to continue classes here at SU but still vicariously live and party on LSU's campus, I would totally do it. Correspondence classes? I dunno. Hopefully, we can find some football tickets that won't cost me my firstborn son. Although, they would get the raw end of that deal. XP But I think an LSU football game would be... total college ecstasy. We'll see...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

9460800 minutes... 9460800 moments so dear...

After all the excitement, all the waiting, all the hype... I'm finally 18. I didn't lose my virginity to crazy sex with my boyfriend (which is nonexistent); I didn't smoke my first cigarette (nor buy a pack even); I didn't visit any "adult" stores (but Harrison seeks to change that); I didn't get a tattoo (but I wouldn't do that even on my 21st). However, this is what I did do:

After an amazing party (seriously, I wish the night never ended), I decided I would enjoy the right-of-passage for all fun-loving newly-turned 18-year olds... clubbing! So I changed into a shamelessly revealing V-neck halter top and skirt and headed out. However, nothing went as planned. Or even that well for that matter. Here's what happened:

September 20th, 2008: My 18th birthday. Being a lifetime resident of Lake Charles, I naturally wanted to go to Cowboys. I thought the racist practices everyone warned me against had gotten better. I thought my older sister, cousin, my good friend and I would have no problem getting in. Boy, did I have a rude awakening!

After standing in line and being scrutinized by at least 6 security officers and the two girls behind the counter, I thought we were golden. I thought to myself, "Finally, I'm legal and I'm going to enjoy a club."

Well, I walked in, turned the corner, and TWO security guards grabbed my male friend by the arm and began lead him around the club. Never being inside before, I foolishly thought they were escorting us away from the walkway for obstructing traffic or something. When they neared the door, however, my older sister kindly asked one of the guards where they were taking my friend. He put his hand in her face and told her, "Hold on."

Without explanation, they took my friend outside the door and then and only after we were completely outside the club did they say his "shirt was too long." His shirt, by the way, which was a medium American Eagle polo shirt. Any shorter and he would have revealed his belly button. Then, they demanded we take off our armbands and leave. We weren't inside for two minutes! I went back to the car and cried.

So my once-in-a-lifetime 18th birthday wouldn't end badly, my friend suggested we go to Crystal's. And even though it was nearly 1:30a and the club closed at two, I was so upset and hurt that I agreed. So we went to the gay bar. One word: Whoah!

Me: -eyes watery, upset-
Gay man inside: "Oh, honey, what's wrong?"
Me: -relays Cowboys story-
My cousin, sister, and friend: "They so racist... omg..."
Gay man #2: "Yeah, you shouldn't have gone there."
Me: "Well, it's my 18th birthday, so I thought I'd at least give it a try."
Gay man inside: "Look, don't worry about it, because let me tell you something," -looks me up and down- "Nice breasts, nice dress and lovely legs. Honey, you're gorgeous!"
Me: ^___________^
Gay man #2: "Well, you should've come last night. Tonight's drag night."
Me, my cousin, my sister and friend: "...Excuse me?"

I saw... things...

After that... experience, we were walking to the car and this older guy walked out of one of the bars. He had tattoo sleeves on each arm and looked like he had been drinking since dawn. He recognized my friend.
Drunk guy: "What are you doing here?"
Darius: "It's my friend's birthday." -motions towards me-
Drunk guy: -stares- -begins to approach hand outstretched- "Well, hello..."
Me: "Uhm.. hi." -shake-
Drunk guy: "You are a very pretty girl... So it's your birthday?"
Me: "Yes, my 18th birthday."
Drunk guy: "Oh, then you're my favorite kind of girl; the legal kind." -moves a little closer-
My sister: *ahem*
Drunk guy: -backs away a little- "Hey, man, it's this pretty girl's birthday."
Drunk guy #2: -passes over my sister and cousin and stares at me- "Well, happy birthday."
Drunk guy #1: "How'd you know I was talking about her?"
Drunk guy #2: "Well... you said 'pretty girl,' so naturally I looked at her."
Me: You're both like 30 though...

There's so much more I wish I could... remember and relay. The night ended like so many other outings I've enjoyed in Lake Charles.. at L'Auberge. Le Cafe is 24-7 and pretty cheap. It was about 3am, and I ordered French toast. Yum yum. Me, my sister, my cousin and Darius laughed and talked about the night, life, and vampires (don't ask).

All in all, I have a lot of memories. I thank God and everyone who contributed to the celebrations for allowing me to have such an amazing birthday.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Who writes short shorts? I DO!!!

The cool winds began to blow, signifying the beginning of fall. While all slowed to a calm demeanor outside; inside, a woman found herself screaming at the top of her lungs, tossing her head from side to side, clawing at the bloody sheets of her bed. It was the end of a most trying pregnancy. They say the first is always the toughest. Her pain ended hours later with three simple words: “It’s a boy.”

Isaac Hawkins was a most decorated soldier in the King’s Army. While returning home one night from routine orders, he found himself in an unfamiliar alleyway on London’s lower end. He was vaguely familiar with the area. They said there were only two things that could be found here: cheap ale and cheaper women. Isaac was disoriented and admittedly a bit lost. That’s when he saw her. Her eyes were soft; her words gentle and kind. Seeming to be an angel appearing from thin air, she offered to “help” the lost soldier find his way back to camp. She managed to sweet talk her way into his pockets and, eventually, into his bed. After a dizzying night of passion and ecstasy, Isaac awoke to a cold, empty bed and nothing to remember this mysterious stranger by but the name she whispered into his ear. “Mary.” He cursed himself for being so foolish and managed to return to his camp in the morning and never told the story to anyone as he tried to forget the entire ordeal himself.

As a child, Christopher never wondered about his father’s absence as he was never left wanting for a male influence in his life. His mother always made sure he was clothed and fed, but most of all loved. Every night, she would kiss his forehead and sing him to sleep before going to “work.” His days were spent with a young woman he referred to as Nurse Anne, who played games with him, told him stories and generally educated him. Because his mother’s earnings went directly to food, clothing and other necessities, there was never enough to send him to school. But young Christopher didn’t care about such things. He thoroughly enjoyed his home life and never wanted to leave.

But the lower end of London was no place to raise a child. No, it was more of an end than a beginning for those who found themselves there. Feeling horrible for the position she had forced her innocent son into, Mary saved for many years to send him to a proper school within the city where he could learn and make something of himself. When Christopher was twelve, she had done it.

To put it simply, Christopher hated that school. The children teased him because of his tattered clothes and disheveled appearance. What little friends he could manage to make were torn away from him because their parents felt that he came from “bad blood.” He was ostracized, ridiculed and humiliated day in and day out for just being who he was. If children weren’t laughing to his face, the teachers were whispering behind his back. Every night, he cried himself to sleep within his dormitory; wishing things could go back to the way the way they were. It was at this school that Christopher began to wonder about his father. Where was he? Why had he left a woman with a child and no money? What had become of him? At age sixteen, he knew what he had to do. He left the school and went in search of his father.

His search brought Christopher out of England and into France. It was only by a stroke of luck that someone had placed his strange accent and last name. They asked if the boy was part of the army. Figuring this would lead him to his father, he said yes.

Before he knew it, he had unwittingly enlisted in France’s army. The men here were different. Unlike the children at his English school, they immediately accepted Christopher for the person he was, not where he came from. He was able to shed the dark shell of his past and become a whole new person; uninhibited – boisterous, if you will. He enjoyed the comradeship he found among fellow soldiers and proved to flourish in training activities. His eyesight was so keen that a friend gave him the nickname “Hawkeye.” The name was deemed fitting and stuck to Christopher. He never forgot his mission, though: to seek out his father.

It would be two years before he learned that his father had died in battle while Christopher was just a baby. The commanding officers couldn’t believe Isaac Hawkins had had a son. From their stories, the young man learned his father was an honorable, respectable man and soldier. Those who worked close with his father agreed that Isaac would never abandon any child he fathered, no matter who the mother was. This finally closed the missing chapter in Christopher’s life. His heart was as peace and for the first time in years, he slept soundly through the night.

Years later, his duty lead him to Romaera. He was a young man about twenty or so, newly promoted to the position of Captain. Hawkeye and a small group of soldiers were sent to protect the rapidly growing town as the infamous Clock Tower and Cathedral had brought tourists from all corners of France and the population was growing faster than resources allowed. Rather than barging in with a list of rules and regulations for the people, the Captain took to getting to know the people on a personal level. This gained him the two things he needed to keep order: adoration and respect. Given his likeability, the people appointed him as their Voice. He graciously accepted, knowing that he served them and not vice versa.

Yes, the Captain and his men found a home in Romaera and unanimously opted to stay even after things were stable. Everyone loved him. Well… Nearly everyone. Captain Hawkeye has a true enemy in Father LeCroix. During the two’s first meeting, it was clear to him that LeCroix looked down on the Captain. Somehow, LeCroix had found out about Christopher’s past in England – about his mother. It would seem that LeCroix feels as though the lovable Captain is sinful and “unclean,” due to his mother’s sins. And he never lets him forget it. It is the Captain’s supreme hope that the two-faced Father will be shown for what he truly is and pay for what he has done to the people.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

FUCK YOU!!!

I am so mad right now! Like... so mad, I can't function. I just want to destroy something. I'm really hoping this vent will help. Though I seriously doubt it. I'm writing this as it comes to me. So, hold on, it'll be a bumpy ride.

How dare you! How fucking DARE you, you bastard! After 18 years, you want to assert authority?! Now? NOW?!?! On this day? Why now, hm? I can't believe you! You're unbelievable. I will never forgive you for this. EVER! Seriously, I will never speak to you again. I'll have my godfather walk me down the aisle. I'll leave the room when you enter. And I swear to God, if you ever dare to even talk to me... AHHHH! Maybe that's too far. I shouldn't involve God in this. He is not to blame. YOU are. You fucking bastard! I never liked you much before, you know. But this takes the cake! The straw that breaks the camel's back, as they say. I hate you now. I really think I do. I may as well.

I only turn 18 once. And you've made it your mission to fuck that up as well. Another notch on the birthdays you've managed to fuck up belt, hm? Congratulations. Bastard.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - Well, that didn't work. I'm still pissed.

You can be anything you want to be... But will you?

Over the past few days, I've realized a few things. These realizations have come to me as a result of religiously watching the DNC for two days straight. After watching both Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton give their soon to be world-famous and moving speeches, I've realized.. I suck. Seriously. These two women stood up in front of hundreds of thousands of people (not to mention the millions--like me--watching at home) and passionately delivered speeches that would move anyone with a heartbeat. They talked about the struggles of their parents in order to make a better life for their children. Their own struggle to overcome even more obstacles for their children. And I thought to myself, "You know, Hawkins (because I always call myself 'Hawkins' in my head), they're right." These women are absolutely right.

My parents have worked so hard and will continue to work hard to send both of their children to college and see them graduate. Now that my older sister has achieved that goal for herself, the pressure's really on me now, I suppose. I used to think, "Okay, they want me to go to college to make something of myself. To get out of the house or pay rent to stay." But now I realize my parents just want me to succeed. A success, mind you, by my standards and my standards alone. To not only graduate, but be confident enough to push my book (which I really hope to complete something by graduation) on publishers or go on to grad school.

But I'm stuck. Stuck between the naive writer I am and the polished (published) author I need to become. Stuck between the dedicated artist I need to be and the lazy bitch I really am. Stuck between an idealist and a realist. Stuck between... SO MUCH, it seems. I don't know how I will make the jump I need to be successful. I don't have a plan or calendar or deadline or anything that would push me to do well. I just have... me. And the desire, the passion, the want to be an author. There is no plan B, though. No alternate career choice. "No doubling back," as Jason Mraz would say (though I don't think I'm using the term correctly now).

So, today, I'm making a promise. To myself. To you. To my parents. To Michelle Obama. To Hillary Clinton. To future generations. And I promise I will make you proud; I will not let your hard work go unnoticed; I will not let the American dream pass me by; I will give you something to read and enjoy. I will be an inspiration to someone, somewhere just as my idol, Anne Rice, has been to me. I will complete something. And it will be great.

If you've been keeping up with this blog, then prepare to see more shorts. More poems. More creative... pieces. And, hopefully, a lot of them will be completed. I want to do this. I have to do this. I will do this!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Whew!

To avoid the inevitable onslaught of the same questions, I've decided to write this blog instead. Knowing that my memory sucks and not much of the experience would make it here, I decided to jot down notes as I went along. Some apprehensive, some as they were happening, and some reflective. So forgive the tense(s)of this blog. The actual transcript of this is scattered among two notebooks (as I wrote on what was readily available) and my mind. Enjoy!

______________

The first day of school. Yeah, I've been here before... Except this time it's me who set the alarm clock that I heard go off this morning and me who's responsible for making sure I'm up, dressed and ready on time. I'll pick out the clothes I wear not according to any dress code or guidelines. And there will definitely be no picture taken in the front driveway to send to my great aunt in Virginia.

Hot water is more of a luxury than a necessity this time. And instead of just one girl, I'm sharing the bathroom with three others. There's no one to ask where my socks are this time, no one to bring me, no one to by me donuts and milk. It's just me. On my own.

When I get there, I'll have to address my instructors by "Doctor" or "Professor." No Mr. or Mrs. here.

French was... quite interesting, to say the least. It was a small class, about 12 or 14 students total. The professor appeared in the doorway, a big smile on her face, and asked, "This is French, yes?" But she spoke quickly with a heavy accent. She mostly what I expected. A young, vibrant woman who seemed to love the language and love to teach it to students. Her name's Dr. Fatima Chajia-Fahd. And I must admit, when I first saw the name (Chajia) on my schedule, I thought she'd be an Indian. I don't know why because I don't think it is an Indian surname... But Dr. Chajia is from Morocco, North Africa. Which is cool because she said she was technically "from everywhere," so I'm guessing she either moved a lot or has mixed blood. She reminds me of my middle school teacher who sported a tattoo around her naval and smoked regularly. Very cool.

Then there was History. "Your experience here will be like no other," was one of the first things that was said to us once class began. Red flag! Last time I heard something like that, I was about to "embark on my American journey." A tall, balding, soft-spoken man who wore a suit and tie stood at the front of the classroom. Which I thought was strange, given that it was the first day of school. Perhaps he wanted to make a certain impression on us... That he was a learned man. Funny, a simple button-down and khakis would have sufficed. He spoke very slowly, as is choosing each word carefully to convey his message. In many ways, he reminded me of a minister or preacher. Every time someone reached in their purse or unzipped their backpack, though, he would get a little rattled. He'd pause, find his place in his speech again, and continue speaking. I wonder if he noticed me, watching him, studying him. He interested me greatly. People like him usually do. The quiet ones. His jokes weren't Apollo-grade, but they warranted a soft "heh heh" and stifled chuckles from the class.

My roommate, Adrianna, has this class too. But my French class ran late so today I was stuck sitting in the back while she's up front. I feel... odd in this class. The atmosphere is... off. Everyone seems nervous. I can't explain it. Maybe it's just first-day jitters. It's a big change from the 12-student French class to this 40 some odd auditorium style class. I'm sure I'll get used to it. I just figured it would be smaller, given the fact this is an Honors course. Oh well. As if sensing the atmosphere, he told us "not to come in so tense. I know y'all are coming in here wondering what the hell is going on..." That I found interesting. It loosed the mood some. If only a little.

Before we left, he read us all an email. It was entitled "The Funeral." It was weird, predictable and cliche. I didn't enjoy that as much. But I applaud his efforts to teach us something.

I had a minute to myself after those two classes. Actually, it was more of an hour-long gap between my classes. I decided to go to the library just to sit, read, write and reflect. The 4th floor's really the best for things like this. About 80% of the student body doesn't even know about a 4th floor in our library and the other 19% have no use for it, seeing as how it's nothing but reference books and old educations VHS collections up here. Which leaves the 1% of students (like me) who like this floor for it's solitude. It is so quiet up here. Like, immaculately quiet. The only downside I find is the feeling I get for disturbing this peace. Even as I write, I can hear my pen scratch over the paper and it's somehow magnified in this sound vacuum into a disturbance. I may as well be busting up concrete with a jack hammer. Then again, there's only two other students in here right now. And, as if following some unwritten code, we've all scattered ourselves to opposite corners of the room, the shelves dividing and concealing us into our own little sections. I suppose it's not completely silent up here. The longer i sit, the more sounds I become aware of. The hum of the lights above me... the cricks of the settling wooden bookshelves beside me... faint noises from people 4 floors down... -sigh- I wish I could stay up here longer.

My Speech class positively surprised me. While I expected the teacher to be an old, possibly fat man who wore glasses and carried an over-stuffed briefcase, what I got was a bottled-blond, middle-aged white woman who wore a string of pearls around her neck with matching white star earrings. I was really liking the class. Then... we moved. Buildings.

I hate this new classroom. The desks are smaller and less comfortable. I only have room enough for my notebook here. And it's muggy here. Not to mention this classroom's windows face the street. So all the pretentious jerks who speed down The Strip--as it's called here--with their music so loud it vibrates their very windows can be heard. Oh joy!

This teacher may be one of my favorite this semester. I've already decided. Simply because she asked the class one question: "How many of you identify yourselves as African-American?" Now, for an old white lady to ask such a question to a room full of Black college students with potentially short tempers and even shorter attention spans took BALLS. No one, of course (thank God), was offended. There were a few girls who proudly abstained from personally being identified as African-American, saying they were "just Black." But I think our professor was expecting this. Still, BALLS.

I was in familiar waters once the time came for biology. Same building and classroom as the summer. I wish the teacher was the same. She was awesome! But this'll do. I've gotten mixed reactions from people when I told them my teacher for this semester so I don't know what to make of that. It's like someone trashing a new movie despite the critical acclaim and your own eagerness to see it, only to realize this is the same person who would rather watch Step Up 2 over Smart People. Yeah... something like that.

This biology professor spoke very fast and paced about the front, waving his hands wildly. He's younger than a college biology professor I would expect to see. He reminds me a lot of a mixture between a cool older cousin and a lecherous car salesman. Something about his eyes... There's a comedian who he's a dead ringer for but the name won't come to me now. Dr. Cole, that's his name, Dr. Cole made me smile with his antics and impressions of what was going in out mind. Even as he whirled around the class is his eccentricity, I listened to everything he said. Now I don't know what the other students were complaining about.

I think if I had to describe Dr. Cole, I would say he has the sarcasm of Mr. Sickmann, the sexual interest of Mrs. Hamilton, and the humor of Richard Pryor or Chris Rock. He says things like "tig ol' bitties" and "jizz," then corrects himself with the scientific terms for us. I think I'll like this class. A lot. He says he's going to try to learn all 120 of our names by midterms. He'll definitely remember mine because I'll practically live in his office. Hey, biology is hard! (As I learned over the summer.)

Whew! That's it! My first day.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

[Continuing] Horror

I remember when Anna was younger. Maybe about four or five. And she tip-toed into my room in the middle of the night and she had managed to pull herself up into my bed. By the time I had rolled over and took notice of her, she was already fast asleep. Half of my being wanted to shake her, demand why she had done this, scold her for coming into my room without permission... Then I saw her face. Her small, doll-like face with streaked with tear trails. I sighed. She had had another nightmare. I was sure of it.

Anna claimed she could contact the spirit world. That supernatural creatures would speak to her. I entertained her for a few years but once I was older, I realized how ridiculous she was being. How naive. But there was one thing I couldn't explain: The nightmares. Anna had terrible, vivid nightmares that would wake everyone in the house with her screams. To hear her describe what she saw in her dreams would even send chills down my spine. There was no explanation for how well she could recall those horrifying images. Abuela said Anna had the "ojo tercer." The Third Eye.

"Anna," I said after a moment. "Do you remember the bedtime stories Poppa used to tell us to get us to go to bed when we were being too noisy?"

I heard her clothes shift in a nod.

"Do you remember how he told us we would be safer here than in England? How this was the land of our ancestors, even though we had never set foot on Spanish soil? How the blood, sweat and tears of early Spaniard explorers enriches this dirt? And, in every story, no native was killed in this forest?"

"I thought you didn't believe in those stories... You said I was--,"

"I know what I said, Anna. But now I'm saying that maybe you were right... Maybe there is more to this world than meets the eye. So how do we get out of here?"

I felt her throw her arms around me and squeeze me tightly. The sudden shock of feeling her body's weight against mine forced me to take a few steps back. I wrapped my arms around her and patted her on the back like Momma did. I couldn't believe it, but I was putting my trust in my younger sister. I, who should have protected her from any danger. I, who convinced her this was safe.

"First," she said with new-found excitement in her voice. "We need to contact the spirits of good. They'll know what to do."

So how do you like Southern?

In a few words, I don't. Not yet, at least.

I feel a little guilty for not posting in nearly two weeks. It's not like I haven't had anything to talk about. So much has been happening! Here's the shortcut version: My sister had graduated from college while I have just entered. I moved into a dorm room and spent hours with my roommate cleaning, disinfecting, and making it more "homey." (pictured should be on Facebook soon, I hope). There was... the block party. Oh gawd! The block party...

But, yeah, I have been... swamped. But everything's moving forward and I don't like it. At all. I feel like I'm being pulled away from my old life and thrust into a new one. But I liked the way things were! I really did. All of us together... not a care in the world. Now there's registrations, apartment shopping, dorm room troubles, scholarships, classes... it's all so different.

-sigh-

I need to write again. I could use the escape.

Searching for Inspiration

As I sit down to continue some old work or post a new one, I find myself... inspirationally-challenged. There are so many ideas in my head. It's nearly impossible to calm the storm of ideas long enough to see through the fog and write something coherent. But I know I must write. Writing is the very blood that courses through my veins. It is my strength. And my weakness. It's actually pretty funny; I can't imagine myself doing anything but writing. I'm not good at anything else. I have no marketable skills. I lack the patience to try to learn something else. It's just.. my passion. Writing.

I like to think of what first attracted me to writing. Why I love it so much. I think if I can figure out what first sparked my interests, I can be the lean mean writing machine I was in high school. And, I've found the first thing that attracted me to writing was not writing at all, strangely enough. It was reading. Reading what others had already written. How their worlds opened trails into these unseen worlds parallel to my own. And sometimes within our own worlds. And, then, I remember thinking to myself, Hey, I really enjoy this reading thing... And I was consumed. I was read anything I could get my hands on. Book stores became my favorite place to go and I began to examine the writing process in-depth to find out how these authors had done what they done. How a completely average mind could give life to not so average thoughts and ideas. What I discovered is that I, too, had one of those over-active, imaginative minds and I, too, could create. And I did.

Somewhere between the end of junior year and now, I've realized I've lost that initial drive. My chutzpah, if you will. There's always that voice inside me saying, "This isn't good enough." And I wish to silence it. But I can't. I have become what all writers fear: an editor.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Trying a new genre. Horror.

We weren't supposed to be out this late. We weren't supposed to go past the second lamppost. We were supposed to tell Mamma and Poppa where we were going before leaving the house. But I was never one for following the rules.

It was so cold when we stepped out onto the abandoned street. And silent, too. The street which rumbled with carriages and rang peddlers selling their wares during the daytime was now silent. It was eerie. I poked my head around the corner first, tip-toeing alongside our building. Anna kept staring down at her hands. They were shaking violently. "Maybe we should go back," she said, afraid of the lashing we'd both get if caught. I asked her if she trusted me which was always a guaranteed way to get her to do damn near anything I told her to afterwards. She shook her head.

"Good," I smiled. "Now, come along before someone sees us." She hastily made her way over to me without making a sound as I had done. I gave her a reassuring pat on her shoulder.

Before long, we were in the forest. The elders called this place "Bosque de la Muerte." The Forest of Death. When I was a young girl, they told me of the horrible creatures which lurked in the shadows, between the twisted trees and beneath the forest floor itself. But the stories didn't frighten me as they did Anna. She believed in the creatures from the old fairy tales. And truly feared them. I laughed at her ignorance.

I tried to recall some of the stories as we walked through the forest. It was truly beautiful at night; the moon bathed the trees in a hazy white light, illuminating the way for the stray leaves to dance about the cool forest floor to the music of the crickets and the owls. I felt Anna's hand squeeze mine suddenly. I turned around to see her eyes fixed on a point far off and wide with fear.

"Los diablos," she whispered. "They're watching us."

I pulled her along, deciding it was time to leave. I found it hard to enjoy the solice the forest had to offer with Anna's sniveling whines in my ear. Perhaps we'd return when she was a bit older. And more adventurous. I continued walking, assured I was going in the right direction. But the trees somehow seemed different. Yet, they were also all strangely the same. I tried not to show my fear to Anna. She ought not to see her elder sister like this. But I could feel my heart pound against my chest and my breaths become shorter with each step.

"We're going to die here, Sophia." Anna said after we traveled in circles for what seemed like hours.

"Don't be foolish. The sun will rise in a few hours and we will simply use that to guide us home." I said evenly.

She shook her head. "How will we see the sun through all the trees?" My eyes followed hers to the tops of the trees.

As we stared at what was a starry night sky, the forest began to shift and move. The top branches of the trees grew closer and closer together until a thick, opaque canopy was formed over our heads. I rubbed my eyes several times, knowing I was hallucinating. But Anna looked on, too, as if she knew this sort of thing could happen. Soon, we were enveloped in the darkness. No moonlight. No stars. No hope for the sun.

"We're going to die here, Sophia." She said once again, her voice not full of fear but assurance.

Summer, here I come!

So finals are tomorrow. And I should be studying. I really should be studying. More than likely, I will. Okay, okay, I will be studying. A lot.

But as I think about it, I feel like another chapter of my life closing. One of those been-there-done-that type things. Lesson learned, I suppose. Summer school is not for everyone. Especially not lazy, forgetful bitches like me. But all is well. After finals, I'm going home. That excites me.

I can't wait to sleep in my own (queen-sized) bed again. With my own bathroom!! Trust me, these things you'll miss. Don't take these things for granted.

So.. goodbye to impromptu trips to Houston, Perkins Rowe, Barnes & Noble, Mall of Louisiana, Cortana Mall, Cinemark and Rave. I hardly knew ye.

"I love you"

"I love you"

Skin on my skin,
flesh against flesh,
set my soul afire
with your sin.
Breathe into me your faults
and I’ll make them mine.
We are one now:
Two souls forever entwined

Skin on my skin,
flesh against flesh,
awaken in me that carnal desire
that lies deep within.
Kiss me again
and tell me I’m yours.
I’ll bend to your will
and adore you all the more.

Skin on my skin,
flesh against flesh,
whisper in my ear.
Tell me those words
and I’ll tell you too.
Look into my eyes
and tell me
“I love you.”

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

I..don't know

I wanted to write something profound, something good. Or maybe continue one of my old favorites. Instead, I got this:

We lived on the same street. Did you know that? Probably not. I used to watch you ride your bike with my brothers while I stood in the yard and made chalk drawings in the driveway. My brothers thought they were dumb. But you didn’t. You always used to say they were “cute.” It’d make me blush but I’d turn away before you could see me. That seemed like so long ago. But I remember it like yesterday.

I remember how your pants used to sag below your waist and I always thought it dangerous because your jeans were always so close to the spokes on your bike. I used to worry you’d get hurt. I didn’t want that. You’d always drink Coke when you came over to watch movies with my brothers and I always thought it was unhealthy on account you had been in the sun all day. I wanted to tell you something then but I knew my brothers would just yell at me. They hated when I interrupted you guys. But I would sit at the top of the stairs and watch you until Mom said it was time for me to go to bed. Your favorite word was “wicked”. Every time you said it, I’d smile. When my oldest brother broke his arm, you said his fall was “wicked cool” and I didn’t worry about him so much after that. You never left your shoes on for very long at our house. And you’d always kick them off in the same place in the kitchen by the back door before sliding into the den to sit on the couch and prop your feet up on the table. One time, I hid your shoes behind the plant on the back patio. I knew it wouldn’t take you long to find them--you were always so smart. But at least I got to watch you for a bit longer.

I hated you for moving away and leaving me like my brother did. I hated that I wouldn’t get to see you ride by our house anymore or worry about you falling down on the street. I hated that I’d never get to hear you burp loud enough to shake the windows and make Mom frown; that I’d never get to hear you say “wicked” again; that you’d never leave your shoes on the back patio. Most of all, I hated that I never told you how I feel. I hated that you were the only boy I ever loved.

“What’s it say, man?”

“Oh.. huh? It’s.. from your kid sister. Didn’t you read it?”

“Nah, she said it was to you. Said it was your going away present for college or something. I dunno. It’s probably something dumb. All she wrote me was a recipe for Mom’s chocolate-chip cookies. High school girls… Am I right?”

“Uh.. yeah. It’s dumb. I’m just going to make a phone call. You guys still live in that house on Cherry Street? Same number, I mean?”

“Yeah. But I don’t see—,”

“Thanks, man. I’ll catch up with you a little later. See ya.”

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

No, really, my English professor is insane!

So after nearly a month in summer school, I would venture to say I'm adjusted. Somewhat adjusted. Acutely adjusted. Okay, I'm still wondering what the hell possessed me to continue my education here, in Baton Rouge, so far away from my friends and family and other people I love. What the hell was I thinking? I could have simply went to McNeese, kept my job and saved some money. And I'd still have my bed. And my own shower! But I digress. This is not why I sat down to write this blog. I'm writing because I am now truly convinced my English professor, Dr. Marx is a crazy old bat.

Today, she handed us this sheet (I did not change a single letter. This was really it):

fashul eckspretions and hed moovmints

can yu tel how sumwun feals ubowt yu bi reding boddi langwij? authoryteas klame yu can, frum thu luuk uv skorne, however phleting, too thu suttle nods and brite ize that sae sumwun iz reeseptyv too yor thauts.

katee, cevintene, sez, "mi frends muthir duznt like mee. i noe she duznt." i askt katee whi she thaut this. "well, for wun thing, she duznt luuk at mee when I tawk too hir," katee ecksplaned, "she luuks uwae tord thu dor or ukross thu rume, as thoe she wonts too esscaip. and sumtimes she looks at mee as if too sae, "yu luuk phunnie in those klothes," i ges its thu wae hir ize luuk cold and hir lips ar presst toogethir. she duznt nede too sae wun negutiv werd too mee." thu muthirs boddi langwuj had sent u messij lowd and klere.

emmajin u luuk uv mokkirie on yor fais. teeth kum toogethir, lips kloze with u slite downwerd tirn. uzhuully we are kwik to eerace such u luuk frum owr fais beefor uthers see owr inner thauts, if yu are obzirvint, thoe, yu mae lirn too kach all mening beehind thu mask peepul ware - or think thae ware. as yu beekum moar in toon with boddi cumunicaissions, yu will noe wen too giv yor frends or yor parints u wide burth. yu will spot thu times peepul are tens. yu will aulsoe beeginn to understand yor one boddi langwij, too bee uwair uv whut messijez yu send.

And then, after we struggled through trying to read that aloud in class, my English professor just smiles and says, "Okay, now, what's wrong with this paper?"

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Bah

Here we go again. Me, opening my browser window, logging into blogger, and starting a new post... hoping to write something profound. Or at least likable.

It's funny. Because, honestly, I shouldn't care. This blog is supposed to be mine and mine alone. I should be able to write whatever I want. But I don't. I don't because.. well, because I know other people will read it. Because I know, for some, it's the only glimpse into my life they'll get. And who's fault is that? Yeah. Okay. But still!

Anywayz... Yesterday was amazing. Fresh Market, CVS, Starbucks, Mall and BARNES AND NOBLE!!!! That's all I have to say about that. Barnes. And. Noble. Yup. Be jealous.

While in Barnes and Noble, I noticed something. I'm a writer. An aspiring author. Which I knew already. But it was most definitely confirmed then. The feeling I get when I walk into that place... (or any bookstore, for that matter). I mean, I just have to be a writer!

That's what I need to put on this blog... More shorts. Poems. Writings. I would have to write some though...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Frozen

I don't know what to say. I'm sorry just doesn't seem like enough after all I've put you through. All of you. I've wronged each of you in one way or another, I'm sure. And I am sorry. It's never my intention to hurt anyone, I swear. Like that makes a difference anymore...

What is it about those words that make me feel so bad? I should known what was hurting you. I should known what I've done. What I was doing. Who was I becoming. It's not me. Not the me I want to be. Not the me I'd thought I'd be. The me you need. You couldn't tell me that, could you? So you wrote. And, now, every time I see those words, I'll know that I've done something to hurt you. I find myself frozen; wondering how I could be so oblivious. Why couldn't you just tell me if it bothered you so? How could I have blamed you if the fault was mine? You should've told me. I'm sorry.

Or maybe it's not me. Maybe those words weren't meant to be read by me. Perhaps in my twisted subconscious I feel guilty for neglecting you. I feel guilty because I let you slip away and didn't think twice about picking up a phone. I feel guilty and when I wanted to talk to you, something convinced me not to. I'm sorry.

I'm frozen. Trapped under the ice of my cold, bitchy demeanor. I'm pounding against the thick permafrost that is my ignorance. There's no air here. Only arrogance. I can't breathe. There's no light. Only lies. Will you help me, friend? Will you help me if I say I'm sorry?

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

So how's college?

The alarm sounded promptly at 6am. She rolled over and reached out to silence the monotonous buzzing. The snooze button didn't work. It never did. The clock was at least six years old. Was it six? Yes, six sounded about right. Perhaps eight. Instead, she groped along the side of the clock to find the switch which turned the alarm completely off. The siren stopped with a satisfying click. She sighed, sat up, reached into the air and blinked the small dorm room into view.

Her roommate was awake. That was different. Inetta was her name. Her 8am class had been canceled due to the lack of paid students. Lucky bitch. "Bathroom's flooded," she said over her shoulder before going back to the last-minute cram session she'd entered in.

She nodded. Time to start the day. She grabbed the ring of keys from her bedside desk. There were five keys: one for the closet doors, one for the suite and dorm room doors, two for her padlocked trunk under the bed, and the key to her home in Lake Charles. She smiled down at the picture attached to the rings. Such good memories from that night-- April 5th.

The clock now read 6:12 am. She opened the closet and began gathering what she'd need for the morning. It was sad, really, having to lock everything away. But what could she do? With a towel, soap and change of clothes in hand, she headed for the bathroom. A lake stood where tile flooring was meant to be. She sighed. Squish, squish, squish... Her foam shower shoes waded through to the shower. She turned the knob and quickly pulled back. Cold water. Great. Maybe if she allowed it to run for awhile with the knob turned past the engraved 'H'... Still cold.

Oh well. Better than being dirty, she'd decided. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into what was possibly the most uncomfortable shower she'd ever taken. And now she was shivering and covered in chill bumps. But she was clean. Squish, squish... Back into the dorm room.

And now, the freezing temperature that she'd appreciated under the warmth of her covers the night before was her biggest adversary. "Hot water's out, too," she said to her roommate, who had now moved back into her bed. She'd sifted through the clothes in her closet to pick out what to wear to class today. Shorts or capris? Short sleeve shirt or-- who was she kidding? It was going to be about 90 degrees outside. Short sleeve t-shirt and capri pants it was.

She unplugged her phone from the wall. No messages. She inserted her headphones to the device and picked a playlist from the music player application. Morning Mix. "Later." She pressed play. As the guitars began blaring, her steps became faster. It was the cafeteria she made her way to now. She was never really one for eating in the mornings. But, hell, they had some damn good pancakes.

7:40am. Time to begin walking to class. She brought her plate to the slowly moving conveyor belt and disposed of her trash. She dug the phone out of her pocket and found the earphones which were buried in her backpack. Resume music. Once she was alone on the path to the main campus, she began mouthing the words to the song that was playing. "..drink from half of a broken bottle.."

By 10:20, she was done. Thank God. The classes were nothing but tiresome repeats of things she had heard since about the 6th grade. Her notes were detailed and colorful to keep her awake. Back to the dorm for a nap. A long nap. One that would last until about 4:30pm or so. Oh yeah, good stuff.

She signed on to her IM programs. All four of them. It wasn't long before she was prompted with the age-old question: "Hey. So, how's college?"

She smiled. "Good."

.:~o*'Kaylyn'o*~:.

I want...

The Other Boleyn Girl DVD. NOW!!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Take a Bow

All the world's a stage
and there's no back door.
You give them what they want
and they'll always want more.
Take your heart
leave it on the stage.
Close your eyes
escape from your cage.
Hide your tears
there's no room for them here.
Act the part
show no fear.
Be who you want--
who you were meant to be.
Or hide behind a mask
and never be free.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'o*~:.

D-Day

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm avoiding sleep right now. I'm avoiding sleep because when I open my eyes again, everything will be different. I feel like Lucy Pevensie when Asland tells her "All that you know is about to change." That is a very scary thought.

I did everything within my power to stall packing because in some twisted subconscious way, I guess I thought I could stall the entire process. There's no stalling time. It's like a giant bolder from rolling downhill or something. And you can do is either get ahead and let it hit you hard or stand behind and watch it slip away.

When I was younger, I envied my sister so much. Her beauty. Her popularity. Her style. Her age. She seemed so much older than I. And with age came more privileges. I never saw the growing responsibility. And now that I'm staring down the same path she once walked, I wish I could stay younger for just a bit longer.

In the words of Sadie, Peter, keep the gates open for me tonight.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'o*~:.

Too lazy to type...

Candid thoughts on graduation, college, life...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

The End of an Era

With the help of modern technology, this will post as the event is actually happening rather than in retrospect or predicting the future...

Right about now, the coliseum is filled with hundreds of people, their chatter sounding more like a monotonous buzz than actual dialogue. The attendants are weaving their way in and out of the more or less neatly arranged rows of anticipating students. I'm standing here, between Lindsay Hazel and Amber Hasty, a spot I've gotten used to over the past four years. And, as I think about it, this will be the first time in 17 years I'll be recognized before an Amber. Poetic justice in its own twisted way.

The buzzing subsides as the band begins to play pomp and circumstance. In that moment, 300 plus students all go silent, their hearts nearly beating to identical rhythms. Du duh. Du duh. "Okay, everyone," one of the teachers who was unfortunate enough to work the holding cell this afternoon says. "Remember, smile." In unison, the class of 2008 exhales. With the pride of his class with him and the actual class behind him, Caleb Abshire steps forward into the coliseum.Du duh. Du duh. Hundreds of flashes go off, documenting this momentous occasion. People cheer, air horns are sounded and even--yes--a cow bell or two ring. Cheers echo throughout the hollowed dome and last until John-Paul Zimmerman takes his seat.

All too soon it ended with the principal making one final announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you..." Du duh. Du duh. "The class of two thousand..." Du duh. Du duh. "..and eight!!" The coliseum explodes with laughter and good cheer. Hats fly into the air as people begin to flood he floor. It's over. We've made it.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Yeah, I stole it! Do something.

I WANT to be happy.
I FEEL like crying way more than I should.
I SING in the shower, in the car, a lot.
I URGE to see change.
I NEED stability, order, safety.
I HATE ignorance.
I ENVY natural beauty.
I REGRET The Incredibles.
I CRY at the end of RENT. Everytime.
I THINK about the future.
I YELL when I'm angry. And hurt.
I MAKE stories.
I PUMP IT UP!
I DESIRE true love.
I DEMAND a fair chance.
I WORK for change.
I LIE to avoid conflict.
I WATCH entirely too much tv.
I ASK why?
I SLACK off.
I KEEP secrets.
I CHANCE a lot to fate.
I LUST ...sorry, Jesus.
I IGNORE things not worth my time.
I BREATHE ...duh!
I FORGET to say how much I appreciate you.
I LOVE whole-heatedly.
I KNOW my limits.
I FORGIVE if you ask, earnestly.
I DESPISE your wastefulness.
I BRAG about my laptop. But it's sooo AWESOME!
I HURT when you yell at me.
I PROCRASTINATE like a second religion.
I CAN only dream.
I CAN'T be immortal.
I HIDE behind a mask of naivety.
I PROMISE to always be there as long as you want me.
I LOOK at my life and say, "Damn, how'd I get so lucky?".
I SNORE maybe?
I LEARN when I want to.
I SCARE easily.
I DANCE to the beat of my own drum.
I AVOID conflict.
I WAIT for my chance.
I EAT when I'm bored.
I STUDY psht.
I BUY smartly
I DRIVE inattentively.
I STEAL ...NO.
I FIGHT battles worth it.
I GIVE in a heartbeat.
I TAKE what I'm given.
I CONFRONT ...no.
I SLEEP a lot.
I FLIRT shamelessly.
I BITE if you like that ;).
I IMAGINE a world of my own.
I TOUCH and watch it all slip away
I ARGUE only in debate. And when provoked to.
I INSIST on my privacy.
I ASPIRE to be that published author.
I CHEAT with sign language
I GO to the Rock.
I DIE without you.
I BITCH when I'm in pain.
I PAY what I owe.
I DEFINE according to what I've always known.
I JUDGE though I shouldn't.
I DRAW in the margins.
I WALK --okay, I admit it, quickly.
I WAKE to the sound of my phone.
I SCREAM when I'm scared.
I PRAY a lot.
I SPEAK quickly.
I PLAY on the internets.
I THANK God for everything.
I READ fantasy, anything that provides an escape.
I DREAM day and night.
I ACT like the child I am.
I VENT to my sister.
I WISH whenever I find the chance.
I DO not believe you just read all this.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Like a bad dream you can't wake from

Thought I'd try a different way of writing. Here goes:

It wasn't supposed to to happen like this...

"Is this Emily Thompson?"

We were supposed to be happy...

"This is Tommy Parker of the Chicago Police Department. I'm sorry to tell you this, but your husband's been in a car accident..."

We were going to share our lives together...

"Ma'am, we had trouble locating his next of kin. Did your husband have any family here in Chicago. We like to inform the families when things look as though they are going... badly."

We were going to live...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Faceless Terror

Her countenance is unlike any other,
for she is your best friend, your enemy, your lover.

She holds the world in the palms of her hands;
along with your hopes, your dreams, and your demands.

She only bends to Her will and Her will alone,
saying goodbye to all you’ve ever known.

And She will turn in the blink of an eye,
leaving you begging God why.

She strikes like lightning, bright and bold
and all your secrets are foretold.

You may worship Her if you please,
but She will bring you to your knees.

Stand in amazement and watch Her create,
You will never see such talent--such passion than in the artwork of a bitch called Fate.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'o*~:.

Damn you, Natasha. I need a pocket full of sunshine.

The Psych AP test is tomorrow. I should be studying. I really, really should be studying. But I can't. I can barely focus right now. So, in an attempt to make sense of the storm that's raging inside my head, I'm going to throw some psych terms into this blog. Hold on, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

According to Maslow, we all need to fulfill a hierarchy of needs in order to achieve self-actualization; the highest form of living. Physiological needs should be met first: food, water, shelter, etc. I'm full. Heh, check. Next, our safety needs... No check.

While away with my friend today, I got the strangest call from my daddy. "Kaylyn, you was in my room today?" Psht. As if. Why the hell would I be in your room? "Well, someone was in here...All my stuff is all over the room. Someone went through them cabinets. It's on your momma's side, too." You're crazy, old man. How can you be so toasted at 11am? "Well, somebody was in here..." Well, it wasn't me. "Aww... and I see where they came in, too. Right through this window. Hell, they done broke the window and clammed in here. Somebody broke into the house." Excuse me? Come again. Broke in?!? Our house? My house? Robbers... in my room? "Okay then. I'll call your momma."

That's it then. My safety needs aren't being met at the moment. Which makes it damn near impossible to focus on anything else. The need for safety is dominating my self. I feel so guilty. If I had been home... I should've been home. But I wasn't because I was out with a friend. Out of city. Out of state, actually. Without parental consent. Without parental knowledge... If I had been at home... Assigning blame, I'm sure is a common reaction of guilt. But is it common to blame one's self? If I had been home, I could've stopped them... I could've called the police. I could've... died.

If I had only been home...

.:~o*'Kaylyn'o*~:.

The Final Countdown

He was yelling. Again. He was always yelling about something or another these days. "I told you to put the remote back when you're on that computer," he would say. Or "Wash them dishes; today." It was always something never clean enough, never in the right place, never correct in his eyes.

Fuck him. She didn't need him anymore. Seventeen years brought nothing but the memories of his absense from birthday parties, "family" meetings, school functions, awards nights. She wondered where this learned dependence for him had manifested itself within her. There were plenty of people who survived and thrived without presence such as his. So why did she feel the need for him? Why put up with this shit? There were tests to study for, finals to take, classes to pass.

Three weeks. Just three weeks. She repeated it over and over in her head until it sounded more like an occult chant than a reminder. In three weeks she would be gone and she'd have think very hard about ever coming back to this place. The forms had been filled out in plenty of time. Now, all there was to do was wait. Wait here, with all of his senseless bullshit and take it, until June 2nd - liberation day. She would shed tears for those who would be left behind. But not for him. Never for him. He hadn't deserved them. He'd never deserve them from her. She refused to grant him the satisfaction.

As she pounded at the keyboard in a frenzy of emotion and thought, his voice poured into her ear. "Don't forget to do them dishes tonight." It was more of an order than a reminder.

She slammed into the keyboard, typing very quickly to catch the moment in its rawest form. "Yes sir." she said simply, turning her attention back to her work. She didn't bother taking her eyes from the monitor.

"And I mean all of them. Not just what'll fit in that dishwasher. There's no excuse for that. You hear me?"

Was there no end to this? Must she be constantly reminded of the oppression she felt by him? The disgust at the sound of his voice? The sinking feeling in her heart when he enters a room?

"Okay, Daddy."

Save. Publish blog.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

So, even though I've already been accepted to Southern, I'm still getting letters from other (very persistent) colleges. Here's a letter I've gotten from Northwestern:

"Whoah! What a ride!
This thing called life you mist take in a stride.
You began in kindergarten, writing your name;
This was the first step in your journey to fame.
Second grade proved to ride your nerve,
As cursive writing made you find that curve.
Fifth grade presented you with multiplication tables,
But now pre-calculus? Are you able?
A great big change in junior high-
To that one-classroom-day you said goodbye.
Now it's classes, teachers and notebook change-
it's enough to drive you quite insane.
Guys found girls and girls found guys.
I'm sure you dealt with sigh and cries.
Your freshman year you wanted to hide,
But you couldn't. You'd just learned to drive!
Dances and dating - it was all real fun.
You finally made it, way to go!
But guess what? It gets better you know!
Everywhere you turn the choices abound;
It's enough to spin your head round and round,
One of the biggest, most important you'll make
Is which college to choose. Your future's at stake!
I must admit, I'm partial you know,
But Northwestern State is the way to go.
The people are friendly, there's help all around-
Plus you'll be so impressed with the beauty of town.
You owe it to yourself to give us a look.
You won't find our beauty in any old book.
The first thing you do is apply - go ahead!
Then choose your major - art or pre-med?
If you don't know your major, it's no big deal;
You have time to decide so don't spin your wheels.
Education's important but happiness is too,
Apply and come visit, see if NSU is for you!"

If I wasn't sure about it before, I definitely am now! Haha. Nice try, NSU.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.