Anybody else remember how cheesy 90s music was?

... Yet scarily accurate.


"You, you put the blue back in the sky
You put the rainbow in my eyes
The silver lining in my prayers
And now there's color everywhere
You put the red back in the rose
Just when I needed it the most
You came along to show you care
And now there's color everywhere."

Writer's block

Never in my life have I experienced the type of few months I've just gone through.

I'm sitting here, visiting home for the weekend, and I just can't stop thinking about my future -- and how it seems to have gone from completely illuminated with opportunities to now, just a dismal, faraway pulse.

Always have I adored and enjoyed writing. Until now, it seems.

Journalism was the double-sided tape that kept my high school years together; it was all me, all success, all the time. Now, I'm a freshman again. And the food chain is much more difficult to swallow up to the top.

It seems my career path, which has been so solidified for such a long time for me, has disintegrated beneath me. Writing and reporting feels like a chore. It no longer excites me. And this really scares me.

My motivation seems lost somewhere along the journey from Tampa to Gainesville, and I'm not sure where to look for it or how to coax it back to its rightful place. My passion seems dulled, like it needs an espresso shot... or seventeen.

But I feel like I'm not just losing my passion; I feel like I'm losing my voice. Writing has been the biggest outlet for me; it has relieved my stresses, illustrated my dreams, quelled my fears and embraced my insecurities. I feel as if some moment in time between now and my high school graduation, writing and I have abandoned our relationship. This is the scariest part.

I find myself in bouts of extreme sadness that I cannot properly or healthily release. Yet, writing has not been a comfort, in professional or creative terms. That is what has me so lost.

And as I sit now in the bed I slept in for most of my life, which I have now abandoned for a dorm room bunk, I realize I really don't know what I can or will do to fix myself.

The napkin ring chronicles

It all started with a box of translucent napkin rings.


Not terribly all that menacing at first glance, really. But they stare into my soul, taunting me with images of a 30-ish me in a gingham apron, my strawberry blonde locks chopped into a crop cut and in -- wince -- printed capris, packing peanut butter and jelly lunches, with crusts cut neatly off, for a girl and a boy, maybe twins if the stars align correctly.


And then invade thoughts of color palettes -- blue and yellow as bright and summery, olive and violet as mature and Italian, perhaps?


Well, No, I say. I want to breed a football team of grody little boys that will grow up to become grill masters, not state senators or successful insurance salesmen. And I want to be chaotically disorganized, but put-together enough to hold grace and schedule elaborate summer vacations. I want to be a successful journalist, who can get out early enough to pick up the kids from school and prepare rosemary and herb chicken whose loitering scent escapes and draws my husband home from work on my own time. I want so much love between the four walls that hold my family that they're bursting at their stucco'd seams at all times.


I'm 19 years old and I'm thinking about my career, my family, my life as it will be cut and glued into the pages of scrapbooks. But I get the impression my dreams are too distant, and mediocrity too contagious.


All because of these damn plastic napkin rings, on sale for the price of abstract fear, $9.95 plus tax.


So I place them neatly back on the shelf -- perhaps for another day, when there are different colors in stock.

Holiday

Oceans away, past the deterrents of responsibility and stress, he kicks back a cerveza mas fina with nothing but the tide to provide him company and the stars to keep him warm. The salty Mexican breeze cradles the three-days-old dark whiskers emerging from his chiseled-yet-cherub face with nonchalant abandon. His toes curl into the too-perfect white sand as he gazes to the moon's reflection across lazy Gulf waves. All the while, his mind drifts into casual oblivion, and he takes a deep breath, releasing the past from the inside out.

Tracing his route back to its origin, a girl is found attempting to grasp the concept of relaxation as she faces five days home alone. Is he thinking of her? If he could, would he call her? Is he at least having a good week? Is she supposed to miss him this much? Busying herself with literature, unnecessary sleep, old friends, ice cream and domestic alcohol proves inefficient as she realizes she's teetering on the crumbling edge of the canyon she figured she'd never visit. She takes hollow, frequent breaths to ward off nausea, ticking down the seconds until he can hold her again.

Pablo Neruda's "Me Gustas Cuando Callas" *

Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente, y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca. Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca. Como todas las cosas estan llenas de mi alma emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mia. Mariposa de sueno, te pareces a mi alma, y te pareces a la palabra melancolia. Me gustas cuando callas y estas como distante. Y estas como quejandote, mariposa en arrullo. Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza: dejame que me calle con el silencio tuyo. Dejame que te hable tambien con tu silencio claro como una lampara, simple como un anillo. Eres como la noche, callada y constelada. Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo. Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente. Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto. Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan. Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.

*English translation at http://thue.stanford.edu/jacquie/callas.html

Mechanics of a foreign language

A language unknown grips my tongue like an unruly serpent, and subversion is not an option. This is no textbook-taught language with past participles or subject-verb agreements; these are not words studied like vocabulary and memorized for recitation or recollection. It's an unspoken language, not dead, just an eclectic style of communication. Through passion, the lust of love is transmitted to me and I no longer feel lost in translation. Radiating body heat between wildly palpitating hearts acts as a clause that could stand on its own but is supported in prime ways by a deeper meaning, a context provided by emotions exchanged in love. And the foreign concept of "making love" is revealed, in a language I could never speak. But now it all comes together, and I speak with this new, fiery tongue without hesitation in my heart

Disclaimer

I am your worst nightmare.

I am the live embodiment of every crazy chick you've seen in the movies and on TV,

the girl who thinks too much, who runs her own tests, who questions her own judgment, and runs to her friends for help,

the girl who lacks experience and self-confidence and thinks you're capable of fixing it.

I'm that girl, the best friend, the less-than, the better-luck-next time, try-again

I am the girl satirized on weeknight sitcoms, the girl who always comes alone,

the girl who salvages phone numbers, who greedily devours leftovers,

the girl whose heart has a low melting point of sweet nothings and cheap ploys.

I am the girl who closes her eyes before she jumps, and normally ends up beaten and bruised at the bottom of a pit, unable to escape.

I am the girl who has a Hollywood-standard definition of affection, tattooed in neon on every inch of my heart, and believes not in tears that don't pave a path to Prince Charming.

Yes, I'm crazy -- I'm the girl who scares everyone away because I love to care.

I am the girl who just doesn't know what she needs, can have, or truly wants, so she settles with the next-best and hopes for it to not turn out a mess.

I'm that girl -- the one who, plainly stated, knows no better,

the girl who gets in over her head time and time again, all the way in, in hopes that maybe -- just maybe -- I can catch the eye of a hopeless romantic, the kind of sweetheart over-exaggerated in the movies, who opens doors and means all his words, the idealist guys they make up in Hollywood.

So consider this my disclaimer, and read carefully

Now that you know these things, feel free to proceed

because I'm that girl, who makes every hope flee.

twice upon a time

unlike the Cinderellas and princes-in-shining-armor of my childhood,

a sort of love has found me in a wayward tower,

in no distress -- doing just dandily, thank you --

atop a foundation perhaps too firm, too barricaded, too secure.

now a second chance, this rescue is no longer a mere make-believe fantasy;

the storybook form of insatiable intimacy and infatuation

finally strokes tender strings left unplucked within a heart in remission,

and this sort of love scales uncharted walls for my attention, climbing to reach -- of all people --

me.

gone

The smile spread across her pursed red lips reveals

vulnerability, expectation, passion, ecstasy

Her searching hands find a pillar of strength,

between the arms that ease her descent to desire

The eyes she wades into, invite her to stay

but overstaying a welcome is beyond her capabilities

Thoughts abounding in a boundless ambition

paint her cheeks scarlet with secret lust

Whilst the warmth of his trembling fingers

is finely imprinted in her worrisome memory

Yet she is somehow left alone to watch her pillar make his way

back to self-restraint and responsibility

"Please," she bites her lip and pleads.

"Think," he replies as he prepares to leave.

This is the moment that she knows

it's bigger than them both,

as she peeks over the edge of desire,

and into a dark crater of still-unknown sin and joy

She considers the fall and calculates the risk

and decides he deserves not to be dragged along the jagged rock

But then he grasps her head, her neck in his calloused hands

and she realizes he's more ready than she

Staring fear in its face,

she finds security in the strings of a joint fate written long ago,

mulls over the recent past and present, forgetting the future

Giving in to him and happiness as she leaps into uncertainty.

heat lightning

He holds her hips between tender fingertips and she leans into the blanket of his body.
With her head on his chest, she closes her eyes and sighs for the life she can't let herself live.

When he tells her his truths, she bites her lip and avoids his smoldering stare.
He tells her she's beautiful and she shyly accepts the compliment from a sometimes stranger.

Making inches-away eye contact, her heart isn't filled with butterflies.

It's so full it could burst into blossom.

She later sits alone on the porch, watching the lightning in the dark.

And wonders why she can't let herself be happy.

Reality sets in....via my MacBook

There they were. Right in my palms, in all their shrink-wrapped glory. A rich navy blue satin gown and matching cap, with a gold and blue tassel punctuated by a polished golden “2011.”

It was beautiful.

But not enough apparently.

I had picked up my cap and gown at school, expecting some kind of out-of-body experience, or a sign from the cosmos, that sort of thing. At the very least, a hint of the realization that in a few short weeks, I wouldn’t have to worry about six periods of finishing next period’s homework, shuffling through hallways full of lust and angst, hiding my cell phone while I text “my mom,” or maintaining a 6.07 GPA and a resume that prompts colleges to foam at the mouth.

I didn’t feel much of anything, until I logged onto my e-mail account and clicked on my College folder. There, an homage to my scholastic dedication was found in “come to our school!!!” messages from the likes of Northwestern, University of North Carolina, Columbia University, University of Chicago, Notre Dame, New York University and acceptance notifications from four of the five colleges I applied to, including the one I chose, University of Florida.

It’s obvious I’m ecstatic about my choice to move to Gainesville come August. My little blue Civic flaunts a Gators sticker and a stuffed alligator hangs from its rearview mirror. Every day, I’m rocking an obnoxiously bright orange lanyard and, often, matching blue UF apparel. But something about seeing these other schools’ e-mails seemed so nostalgic, and I wasn’t sure how to feel.

I slowly checked the boxes next to their chipper subject lines, one by one, feeling bittersweet about what I was doing. I scrolled back to the top, paused, and hit the mass “delete” button, effectively getting rid of my once-potential universities, until all that was left was Florida.

I don’t want to say I teared up a bit at the notion that it is permanent, but that’s how I felt. I took a big breath, looked at the left-hand side of the screen, and clicked “edit folders.” I deleted the label “College.” And typed in its place “University of Florida.”

The PawPrint goodbye

This is a rough draft of the letter I've written to be published in my final issue of The PawPrint, my high school newspaper. It will become a more collaborative effort with my fellow Co-Editor-in-Chief, but this is my original, initial work. As one of the biggest successes of my high school career, this newspaper obviously means a lot to me. So hopefully this piece will be somewhat enjoyable for outside observers :)

“THE PAPER IS HERE!” I squeal, prompted by a text message from a fellow staffer who has received the shipment of 800 full-color newspapers upstairs. As my teacher allows me to leave and bring some copies, voices erupt in pleas for their own copy and hands shoot up, attempting to grab my attention in hopes that they get an issue, too. The atmosphere in the room is in such a high state of ecstasy, it somehow rivals my own. And this newspaper is literally my pride and joy.

Needless to say, my heart skips a few beats when I see a student body as excited as I am for new issues of the newly-popular, newly-awesome PawPrint. It’s becoming a household brand at Durant, the school of its inception; the same campus, in fact where before we came to the helm, it lined trash cans and dirty floors as the literal scum of Durant High School.

But somehow, we infused within these 16-20 pages an unparalleled sense of relate-ability, of raw humor, of creative prowess, of innate coolness. And as we’ve grown as students and as human beings through these past four years, so has the PawPrint evolved with us, accumulating its own sense of style and maturity, and even its own fanbase. And now people tear copies up from our newsstands as if they can’t get enough. We stir controversy, and get Durant talking. The PawPrint’s final destination is more likely within the hands of an engaged reader than in a Hillsborough County Schools dump truck.

In the newsroom tucked behind the wooden door of Room 459, success is a tangible thing. Within the same pages you see every month in your classrooms and in the cafeteria are our dedication and hard work, quarrels and frustration, inside jokes and laughter, our passion and hearts. Each word, headline, photograph, caption, and even advertisement is the result of our incredible staff’s hard work. Nobody knows the sweet taste of this triumph better than us, the two girls whose names are now synonymous with “the newspaper,” or “PawPrint” across Durant -- the two ambitious girls who were once sophomores with a figurative defibrillator, breathing life into a scant black-and-white four pages with a creepy cartoon kitty (correction -- “Cougar”) on its front-page title header.

During the days of an apathetic editorial board and less-than-helpful adviser, we took charge. We taught ourselves foreign design concepts and programs. We demanded content from staffers. We sold advertisements and ran budgets. We did it all, all by ourselves.

In hindsight, it’s almost unrealistic how much our laborious efforts have paid off. And not only have we achieved the right to say we’re definitely “WINNING!” but we’ve also become like journalistic sisters. Together, we’ve dedicated our lives to this publication. Together, we reap the benefits and pride of this publication’s prosperity. And together, we’ll exit Room 459 with a sense of bittersweet accomplishment that we’re not sure we’re quite ready for right now.

Going off to college in Gainesville and Washington, D.C., respectively, are relatively close realities from our vantages right now, writing this on our MacBooks in a newsroom in which we’ve taken refuge the past three years of our lives. It’s frightening but electrifying in a way only other seniors in our position can understand.

Regardless, though, it’s the PawPrint that we have accepted as the collective hallmark of our high school careers. The PawPrint has taught us responsibility and enterprise, professionalism and initiative -- all attributes that all of Durant associates with us, and all the same attributes that will carry us into our respective futures. And while we bid adieu to our adviser Miss Shannon Tucker, our wonderful staff members and section editors, as well as an administration, faculty, and student body who have steadily believed in the PawPrint, we look back at the progress we together made possible. And we bittersweetly hoard our last PawPrint collaborative effort in this issue -- until we give our last papers away to all the classmates who beg for their own copies, with a fulfilled smile spreading across our faces.

Blue skies rising (sonnet assnmt)

Pressed like petals between the thin pages

Of memory, lie thoughts of this winter,

A faraway future, distant ages,

Followed by speculations that splinter.

From whom do I claim my long-lost blue skies?

Where may these limbs extend, beyond their means?

Twist this spine to reach for a sun too high,

And fall too far from the shelter of greens.

Yet in its time, darkness finds clarity.

The wheel turns over, and winter births spring.

In my falling up, opportunity

Nurses me with the hopeful song it sings:

The sun sets on time contemporary

As a new stage in life nears its daybreak.

a new perspective?

A column assigned for me to write for my school paper. Whatever.

We all know by now that the fiancée of Tampa Bay Rays star Matt Joyce is an intern in our guidance office. I found out sitting in Mrs. Dupre’s office with three other guys. I lit up -- the Tampa native right fielder is probably my favorite Ray.

“Oh yeah, of course you like baseball now,” one of the boys says, after seeing my reaction. The others laugh.

I roll my eyes.

What they don’t know is I could tell you his batting average from his time with the Rays last season (.241), that he bats left-handed, boasts 10 home runs and a 40 RBI.

This assuming prejudice happens. A lot.

I would ask who’s tired of seeing Barbie-wants-to-be-a-journalist onscreen at ESPN, but I know that only about 0.4 in 10 females -- the gender that might agree with me -- will actually be reading this sentence under that intimidating “sports” heading up there.

But guys? They don’t seem to care too much how accurate or professional women in the sports realm are, though, so long as her blazer is tight and her blouse low.

When men do care, though, it’s shown by dismissing females’ analysis or input in sports-related conversations. See: above.

But then again, I almost don’t want to blame the male kind for these stereotypes. Seems to me that it is too often that girls suddenly “looooooove” football as soon as the quarterback waltzes into hearing distance range. And we’ve all seen chicks ask the cute baseball player from seventh period how many “goals” he made at last night’s game. Come on, ladies.

I look up to reporters and analysts like Erin Andrews of ESPN. She knows her stuff and she’s classy, yet she still gets a lot of criticism for being just a pretty face. And even women who aren’t as, err, well-endowed are treated in the same way. Even in an era in which decent female reporters are starting to populate sidelines and a few sports shows’ anchors are women, we’re still judged as a gender in the sports industry.

Yeah, I’m aware that pretty much every guy has probably stopped reading by now, dismissing this as another cry for equality. I don’t care about “equality,” really. I just want the male kind to know that we can do it just as well as they can. Maybe even better in some cases.

But the point I really want to drive home is two-sided.

Girls: don’t fain so much interest in a sport of which even the basics confuse you, or act like an expert in a realm you won’t care about after your relationship becomes Facebook-unofficial. Do, however, have interest in your guy’s on-field performance and learn about his passion. Guaranteed that you’ll get major awesome points in his book.

Bros: be open-minded to the female perspective on sports. Let that girl who regularly wears Buccaneers t-shirts into your conversation about Josh Freeman and where the Bucs are headed this upcoming season. Listen to the points your female friends might make about the Lightning’s turn-around season. You might just learn something you didn’t think of before. It’s all in the perspective -- and us girls, in plenty of cases, we’ve got something new to add to the conversation if guys would really listen.

fairest of them all

In the spirit of short stories/anecdotes (see previous post), here's a little previously-unshared something I wrote two years ago for my writing collection entitled "Aesthetic Pride" that I'm still pretty proud of.

Fairest of Them All

Her alarm had been set for precisely 7:15 A.M. the previous night. However, when it rang to awaken her the next morning, she didn't have the discipline to get herself up on time, and ended up rolling out of bed sloppily at 7:21 A.M.

She showered, then spent exactly 43 minutes on her hair when she had aimed for 30. Next, she put on her eye shadow, mascara, then eyeliner in that exact order, or else it all just looked like shit.

She left the house at 8:57 A.M. and arrived at work, late, at 9:33 A.M. Fortunately, she had arrived before her boss, as she was well accustomed to.

She heard the faint, but familiar horn of an all-too familiar car from outside the office at 9:47 A.M. She pulled the oval mirror from her desk drawer on her left in order to fix her hair and pull down her low blouse to reveal the new implants and highlights she had gotten for a man who would never notice her.

At 9:52 A.M., he walked in. Wearing a crooked, dirty tie like only he could, complete with dark circles hanging under his eyes and even a night-old five-o’clock shadow that made him look even sexier somehow.

She smiled, pushing out her chest to follow his path as he crossed the hall towards his office. “Mornin’...” he slurred, with a wink at her breasts.

At 9:55 A.M., she hurriedly got up from her desk, and followed him to his office. He grinned hungrily. She flipped the blinds closed on the office window and moved towards him at 9:56 A.M.

At 10:22 A.M., he got up as she quickly followed his lead. She swiftly stuffed her two centers of gravity back into the blouse, and straightened the skirt on her thighs.

The two glanced toward the wall, facing the giant mirror in his office. As she looked into the mirror to fix her lip gloss, her heart fell. She cursed this mirror for blatantly exhibiting her faults -- she absolutely despised this mirror for showcasing all of the reasons for her current unhappiness.

“You know, I’ve always loved this mirror,” he said, as he straightened his tie in their reflection.

Stood up.

It was the night. I'd cut the tags off of a new tank top and slipped on some freshly-washed dark jeans. After scorching my hair into submission at 350°F and applying a few ounces of mascara, I at least looked ready for 5 PM, the pre-arranged time I thought I’d see a shiny, new black-and-yellow Mustang pull up into my driveway.

We had met through a mutual friend a few weeks ago. He had that typical blond hair, Ken-doll look about him, Whitestrips-fresh smile and plastic muscles included. He got my sense of humor, and he acknowledged my desire for simple physical contact. He was just sweet like that.

My shoes click-clacked as I paced, trying to keep pace with my giddy anticipation. Click-click. Straighten that strand of hair again. Click-click. More eyeliner. Click-click. Another Tic-tac.

Soon, my clock glared 5:01 at me. Casually late, I reassured myself.

And then it was 5:05. 5:10. 5:20. 5:45. 6:30.

Maybe blue-eyed blonds were overrated?

I checked my cell phone frantically, desperately searching for a new text lost in my inbox or maybe a missed call I hadn't seen during my hour-and-a-half-long vigil staring at my phone.

I typed "Kyle Heady." "Call."

Ring... ring... ring... ring... "You have reached the voice mailbox of--"

Click.

I looked to my mirror, staring at my straight hair that shone under the dull light of my bedroom.

I turned on my laptop, typed "Facebook" in my internet browser, and clicked on Kyle's profile.

"Poker at my house tonight! 10 dollar throw down, hit me up!!"

Yeah. I'd been ditched.

Story of my life? Perhaps. But this wasn’t something I couldn’t handle. So I turned on Jay-Z’s “On to the Next One,” pulled out my Snuggie and sweatpants, and called it a night, just for me. And maybe Ben & Jerry.