I had my first Hooters experience this weekend. I don’t think I would care to enter that establishment ever again. Not because the food was bad, it was in fact quite tasty, but because I have never felt like less of a human being and more like a malformed object.

I almost hate to harp on it. The subject is so old, so overdone. If I don’t like the restaurant I’m just a prude, I have no sense of humor. After all, it’s only a restaurant right? No, not right at all. It wasn’t something I could bring up at dinner. There was no point to starting the argument, and I did enter the establishment knowing what it was. All it would have done was ruin what was a perfectly fine time amongst friends. Except I felt dirty, under appreciated and, above all, objectified. There was no way to “know” what that restaurant was. How do you explain the feeling of objectification to someone who has no concept of the idea? How do you make mentally stable, heterosexual, white males understand that forgetting a woman is a person isn’t funny? They understand being harassed, or discriminated; they have experienced those situations. Many have felt some pressure concerning their appearance. But they have no concept of what it is to walk down the street and know that every man is immediately making judgments about who you are based on nothing but your appearance. They have never entered a room and seen eyes immediately scorn their too large ass then light up upon viewing a friend’s much slender frame.

Some would say they know those feelings. Some would argue they have had to listen to women oogle men as they walk by. Isn’t that the same? No, it isn’t. There are some similarities. I am guilty of appreciating a man loudly if he is attractive. But I don’t judge. I don’t make assumptions about his personality. While not all men do, it is still a very, very prevalent trait in our society.

If a woman wears too much make up and skimpy clothing she is a whore or ho. If she wears too much clothing and not enough make up she is a prude and boring. If she cuts her hair and wears no make up she is a dike. Men can wear whatever they want; however they want. At most they’ll be called a fag, but if he’s big and strong (or has big and strong friends) he can proclaim that he just wants to do his thing and he is lauded for it. A woman is only judged. Over and over again all because of how she looks.

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of biting my tongue in a restaurant like Hooters because my friends can’t understand why it is incredibly insulting and that while I knew what the restaurant was based on I should still be allowed my outrage. I’m tired of fighting a battle every time I meet someone new. Having to prove to them that just because I’m fat does not mean I am a lazy, nonsexual slob. I’m tired of watching men drool over boobs and short skirts while simultaneously calling them whores but also demanding everyone look that way. Anyone who doesn’t is condemned to be “one of the guys”. Fuck that. Why can’t I just be a woman? My own woman? Why do I have to be a girly-girl or a tomboy? Why can’t I just be me? Why do I have to explain that I don’t like Hooters because every second of every moment I was in there I knew, KNEW, I was being compared and judged to the waitresses. It bothers me that those girls can so easily be forgotten as people, remembered instead as tits and ass.

I will catch shit for this ranting. I know that even as I write it. I’m a feminazi now, some lesser form of woman that can’t be happy and hates men. Well fuck that too. I can be happy, but not with a world where equal pay is NOT a reality and men think with their dicks so often eating disorders still mar the bodies of the young. If that means I’m labeled a lesbian feminazi so be it. I’ll die happy with my vibrator for company, but I will not keep quiet. I will not look the other way. It isn’t right. Objectification is not right. Whether you are male looking at female or female looking at male or any combination thereof. Appreciation is fine. Forgetting they are a person, not fine. If my friends disown me and I only attract women in camouflage then I guess that’s the price I pay. But I cannot stand idly by while these problems persist. Because they are problems and they are real. Just because you don’t want to believe it, just because it doesn’t affect you directly right now doesn’t change the reality. What about when you have a daughter one day? What about a sister or a cousin or a friend? Do you want this for them? Do you want a world that doesn’t let you be what you want to be? That simultaneously demands purity while scoffing virgins? Is that right? Everyone should be allowed to be the best person they can be, physically and mentally. If that means you’re a size 8 or 18 so be it, so long as you can do what you want to do and are happy. When will that be enough? When will we stop judging and just live? Who are you to judge another person? If s/he has not and is not hurting you what right do you have?

I would apologize for offending, but I’m not sorry. I won’t be. I can’t be. This is how I feel because it is real. I refuse to apologize. I refuse to accept my place in society as the fat white girl who is one of the guys. If that’s all I get fuck it. I’ll take my vibrator and go play by myself.

You are what you love, not what loves you.
~Adaptation

Wow, those are great words I think. I just watched that film for the first time tonight; I highly suggest it to anyone who hasn’t seen it. Some won’t appreciate it. Some will love it. I don’t think I can put it into words yet; it is simply something that must be seen and decided by one’s self.

I’m ready for a job, ready to write, more ready, perhaps, than ever before in my life. But the economy does not agree with me. I have sent out a story to friends for the first round of criticism. There comes a point with a story that you cannot fathom how to fix it. You know there are problems. They stare you in the eye, daring you to fix them. But for the life of you it is impossible to figure out what must be done. As the author you know what you are striving for and that constantly overshadows what you see in front of you. At that point you simply have to let friends read it, suffer the blow to the ego that will undoubtedly accompany their criticism the best you can and move on. I think perhaps it is a disillusionment of sorts when people realize stories aren’t birthed from the mind whole and perfect. An idea is there, a hope, and you write towards that. You try to capture it on paper but it fails, over and over again. A friend of mine once said this to me, “It isn’t hard to write the story. That’s just shitting all over the page. The hard part is fixing it, making it good.” He put it in perspective for me. I always knew my stories could be great if I worked on them, but I never saw it through. I got the idea on paper, out of my head and cut myself off from it. I love my imagination, it’s seen me through some very rough times and having the story thought out was enough for me. But now I want more. Now I want it to help someone else. I want to write for others.

Another friend once told me it was bullshit to write for anyone but myself. Not his exact words but the idea I think. The conversation was halted before a true debate ensued so I’ll say right now I might be warping his thoughts but that isn’t the point. The point is that some people believe that. They believe it about any art, any thing. To compose, music, literature, or art, or to compete for anyone other than you is faulty. A waste of time. I disagree. I disagree strongly. A person should live for what they want to live. If it’s other people than so be it. If it’s yourself, even better. It isn’t what you live for—it’s simply that you live. Not enough people live anymore. They hide behind cynicism and big words and forget that sometimes, simpler is better. Sometimes being your own person isn’t all that much fun. Company can be entertaining.

Some have never been their own person. They are at the other end of the spectrum having only lived for others. They don’t know what it is to self indulge because all their life, joy was wrought from making other people happy. It is all about the middle of the road. If you stay in the middle of the road you never fall off into the ditch. You never careen down into the ravine. In the middle of the road it’s always safe and smooth, minus a few potholes. There is never any danger of going over the edge.

A person must first find what makes them happy. What can you love more than anyone else? What do you think about when you dream? Or what do you wish you could dream about? Not another person. It cannot have anything to do with another person. To be of use to other people you must first be of use to yourself. To be of use to yourself you must first be able to survive, happily, alone. That means you have to know yourself. You have to know what it is you love. What do you strive for? What do you want to be when you grow up? And growing up is never done until you’re dead.

While you work towards that, while you sweat and strain to reach that goal everything else is filler. It isn’t necessary that you attain that goal; it is necessary that you have it. As long as you know what it is you want than you discover everything you need to get it. While you discover everything you need to get it you find wonderful little things along the way that help pass the time on your journey. Then, and only then, are you of use to other people. Because now you can be happy on your own striving for your own goal, or you can be happy with them helping them reach theirs. But when they drain you, when you are tired of them you can step back and retreat to your place, to your dreams. That is the key. Your dreams rejuvenate you. Striving to make yourself a better person for purely selfish reasons keeps you balanced that you can be there for others when they need you. That way you can always be there for others because you haven’t burned out.

Writing and music are my dreams. I do them inherently for me. I write a story to affect people, provoke a reaction. I perform to inspire people, entertain. But ultimately it is for me, even though the intent is to affect them. By affecting them I fulfill my own personal, selfish dream. We are at heart selfish. That isn’t a bad thing. The key is to understand the selfishness. Know how much is needed to survive and maintain sanity. That way you can help others at no real cost to yourself. It makes you happy to help others so the act is in fact selfish not selfless. But making helping them is what you’re doing so the selfish act seems selfless. Everyone goes home happy. Isn’t that better than destroying yourself for people you end up hating in the end?

Life is easier when you love it.

So I spent $58 dollars on comic books today. I never cease to amaze myself with my foolish ways. I can’t help it; comic book heroes are just too damn studly. I also went for a walk somewhere in the neighborhood of four miles, I am particularly proud of that. Not that walking four miles is a great accomplishment, but when all a person has done since graduation is sit on her ass and read comic books, walking is a very good thing. I’m still waiting for the pill that makes my double chin go away—I think I could deal with the ass and thighs if my chin would just shrink. It’s the little things in life.

So this month looks to be particularly interesting as far as mood swings go. I am definitely looking forward to the rest of the week. The further into my cycle I get the greater the chance of a bitchy response when talked to. My poor mother, this is why living at home is not a good thing. I mean honestly, who better to set a girl’s PMS off than her mother? She always wants to tell me what to do while I’m in the middle of a comic book. I don’t do a damn thing 90% of the day, talk to me then, not while I’m sleeping or reading. I know my life is so tough.

And yes, that was sarcasm for all the relatively slow people out there.

Ah, see? I’m even a bitch in the blog. You have my sincerest apologies.

Months like this I want my own mansion complete with indoor/outdoor pools, hiking trails, stables, and state of the art computer lab. And maybe a harem full of handsome men that gave great massages.

That’s not too much to ask is it?

I hate it when I am a whiny snatch. Not to be crude, but sometimes the crude description is the best. I hate to lose emotion because of propriety. Let me explain. In my last entry (I believe) I harped about a teacher writing me a not nice note. Upon reevaluating the situation, as painful as it really is I would have to thank her instead of being irritated with her. I never reached angry, but I was certainly affected. It was a good thing. Every now and then it’s good to have your ass handed to you, even if all the whooping isn’t totally deserved. I think a general ass kicking with or without validation is good for the soul. Keeps a person balanced.

Here is the problem with modern society. Everyone pussyfoots around everyone else and is so scared of saying the wrong thing nothing ever gets said. What does get said is so watered-down and tactful that the real emotion behind the words, the very thing the speaker is trying to communicate is lost. The general idea might make it across but not the specific. No one says, “You are a fucking asshole and need to stop stroking your cock.” Instead it’s “hey, that wasn’t cool man.” Granted the first quote might make an appearance in an argument but that isn’t the time for such a statement. Arguments are the time to think things through, be very careful what you say since emotions are out of control and thoughts lose all logic. In every day conversation bluntness is wonderful. It might catch people off guard, it might even offend them, but there is never any confusion where you stand.

I’ve found there are two types of people where bluntness is concerned. Type A) gets in a huff, completely ignores what you are telling them and concentrates instead on how you are telling them. For these people such bluntness is useless unless you’re looking for a good show. Type B) is another situation entirely. These people might be offended at first, but come to their senses within a marginal amount of time. You can always rely on them to think through what has been said and come to a decent conclusion concerning it. I fall into type B. It is a definite possibility I will bite your head off if confronted with such bluntness, but after a bit of pondering I will come to my own conclusion and have one hell of a discussion with you. I do, in fact, appreciate in the end. The letter, while mildly offensive and certainly blunt, did one very spectacular thing for me: it made me think. Whether I agree with her or not is inconsequential. What matters is that she told it to me how she saw fit, no catering to my thoughts, no tactfulness, just good old fashioned, no Vaseline ass-rape. I can respect that. It made me consider aspects of my life. It made me look at my writing in a new way. It made me refuse to settle for “okay”. I might still give her a fuck you, but a thank you is definitely close on its heels.

So I have officially been torn another asshole. It was to be expected I suppose—a person never really knows how they are doing until someone replies no holds barred, but I’m not sure that eases the pain. Well, there isn’t any pain to speak of because I know it is all a matter of opinion. Let me explain.

I would like to be a writer (for those of you who haven’t figured that out yet). As such I write stories; recently I wrote a story for class. Our final portfolio consisted of turning in 10,000 + words in any form we wished. I chose one large story. We could include a SASE that our teacher might offer us a reply on what she thought, reply to us as an editor if you will. I received my reply today and boy, did she not like it.

It was amazing really. Maybe the most honest reply I have yet to receive regarding one of my stories, except no one seemed to hate it as much as she did. For that reason I am not overly distraught, she freely admits she doesn’t like genre fiction and since my story is heavily genre fiction I can delude myself into thinking that has something to do with it. Unfortunately, I am a firm believer that I should write well enough everyone should appreciate it even if they don’t like the story. I obviously failed that goal. But I have to thank her for the critique. It was refreshingly honest. She said, “I hated your story.” I can’t fault that. The part I can fault was her attempt to tell me what sort of person I am but hey, that’s all right. She was right (which says something for her powers of perception) but she has no clue that I already know everything she said. I’m a big fan of knowing myself. Helps cut down on surprises. I suppose it is the pedantry with which she wrote the letter—assuming she was telling me because she was the only one with balls enough to do so and I would never realize any of this on my own. Oh well, it was good of her to do so. If I ever forget my faults I now have a written record of them.

So now there is really only one thing left to do. Keep working on writing and send out to magazines. If all the editors hate my work as much as she does I can take that as a sign. But, somehow, I get the feeling that opinions will range far and wide. That, if nothing else, is a good reason to just say fuck you.

Well, drunken debauchery is an excellent way to avoid the parents. My mom took it very well when I stumbled in the door at 11:30 in the morning…not wearing my clothes. Granted I had only borrowed a t-shirt to wear while sleeping on the couch but you know. It certainly didn’t look good. Not even a word, though. I was definitely impressed. Ah! I spelled “definitely” correctly the first try. For anyone reading this who cares a big ha-ha to you! Ah yes, if only my life were half as exciting as I made it out to be. Don’t let anyone know it’s not if you wouldn’t mind, would ruin the reputation.

So I think now is a good time to restate the aforementioned tragedy of moving back home: I’m never getting laid.

I have been surprisingly productive; I’ve applied to several jobs. I even sent a resume over night for a job that a friend was kind enough to apprise me of. My hopes are certainly not high, but at least I’m trying. Now I can say I’m a bum with great intentions. So I had some fantastic thoughts and they all went away. I guess I will have to share them some other night. Dammit, Dave just came on (Dave Matthews for those of you who don’t get the shorthand). I used to hate Dave but I’ve found a little appreciation for him. Many of his lyrics are quite spectacular. I hate all the radio songs, though, go figure. The problem with Dave playing, though (which was where I was going with this thought) was that it does not help calm the sexual drive. For any gentleman reading this let it be known Dave Matthews Band might help you get some booty you don’t deserve. Remember that.

Alright, I’m done rambling. Yeah right.

Ah yes, I have officially moved back home. Not even a full day and I’m already itching to get out. This is not good. Please don’t misunderstand—I love my parents and personally, I think they might be the best parents a kid could have. However, it isn’t easy for any child to move home after two years (never visiting more then three days). There are the aforementioned perks, dishwasher, washer/dryer combination (for free I might add) but there is also having to ask to use the car, having to weather the “are you going to come home drunk?” looks (and some times talks). The real annoyance though, at least for the moment, is that I don’t have anywhere to put anything. My room is officially computer nerd heaven (computer, tv/vcr, playstation 2 all close together) and I still have more stuff. Books and CDs and posters and pictures and knickknacks and shit and shit and shit.

Alright, I’m better now.

I have to take this time to state this though: my parents are fantastic people and certainly not as horrible as others. While I do have to weather the “are you drinking” looks and the “oh my daughter is a ho” looks they still let me do my thing with a minimum of fuss. I really can’t argue with that.

Now if I could just find a way to get laid…oh wait, any random relatives reading this ignore that. Ah-ha, I made a funny. So I think I shall continue finding homes for my mountains of junk. I wouldn’t be a pack rat except it’s all got so much damn sentimental value attached. And everyone gets so fussy if you don’t display their gift.

Wait, I’m bitching because I friends that give me stuff…yeah I’m going to go not be dumb now.

Ah, the week comes to a close and with it my college life. A part of me is so ready to be done, I have two more papers to write before all my work is finished. But another part of me is sad to see it go. I had a marvelous night of random tears Tuesday. It was very female of me, but I make no apologies. I've never been more scared than I am right now. There is no thought more depressing than to move back home with my parents where I will be unemployed for who knows how long. Lord help us all.

It struck me yesterday why exactly I am frightened. I am now forced into action. No longer may I dwaddle around in Mac-town, dreams of fame and fortune floating around my head, without really working towards anything. Now I have to either try to make something of myself or truly become a loser. I have decided to try and make something of myself, have in fact worked very hard on my writing in an attempt to do something with it. If it fails I don't know what I will do. Writing is one thing I always thought I could do, naive perhaps, but true all the same. If I fail what will I do with myself? What job will I pursue? Will I stay in Mac-town forever? That is unacceptable. I refuse to allow myself to dwindle away into obscurity, but I suppose what is keeping me awake is the fear I will have no choice.

I had a nice surprise, though, I recieved an almost compliment from a friend whose opinion I highly regard where writing is concerned. He was kind enough to critique a story for me and didn't absolutely hate it, I'm mildly hopeful about that. The realist in me knows I will never know how good or bad I am until I start sending things out, trying to be published. What a rude awakening to find out you are as mundane as everyone around you. I can only hope that will not be the case.

Well I've rambled something fierce...I didn't even really have anything important to say, but I felt like writing anyhow. In truth I should be working on my papers so perhaps it is time I do that. In the words of Bob Ross "thank you and god bless."


p.s. I know I can't spell!

College kids are whiny, snot-nosed brats. At least the great majority of us are. I sat in a couple classes today (with the same teacher) and she more or less had a mental breakdown. It was very obvious she was distraught, shedding tears in one class. I later learned the cause of it all was a vicious letter sent by one her students, one of my classmates. Now I wouldn’t say she is the best teacher I’ve ever had but she does try very, very hard. There’s a lot to be said for that. Doesn’t necessarily help me with my education but I don’t feel it is right to be a raving bitch to the teacher when she tries so hard to appease everyone. Not to mention, when it comes to getting papers back, so long as you get your first one back in due time (that you understand her grading techniques and what she is looking for) do the others really matter? Does your life truly depend upon receiving that paper?

In the other class I had with her people were complaining she held us over for a bit. One girl verbally attacked her after class. Honestly, she held us over to help us. The girl did not have other classes that night and she could have left if need be. Is arguing with the teacher on the last night of class really going to help anything or just ruin somebody’s day? Why does nobody think of these things!

All in all that was a pretty pointless rant, I just felt like doing it. Ah, the luxuries of having a blog.

I look forward to graduating I think. No longer going to class, dealing with idiots in the real world instead of the classroom, being unemployed…wait. Maybe graduating wasn’t such a good idea. I have to admit at the beginning of the year it seemed grand, but at that point I still thought I was going to make my escape from Mac-town. Little did I know, I’ve been sucked in like every other living soul that lives within a twenty-mile radius of this blasted town. I had an epiphany last year, walking home from the bar. I should have stuck to it and ran.

Mac-town is the black hole of the Midwest. Everything that travels nearby is sucked in, lost forever in its ebony depths. Once lost you are never heard from again by the outside world, never achieve greatness or do anything of note. I find myself terrified that I won’t escape before it’s too late. I spend my days worried I’m doomed to live here, with my parents, forever.

Those are the marvelous thoughts I’ve been having of late. I apologize to anyone I depress; it isn’t really my intention. But if you read this, take this blog to heart. Don’t be a snot-nosed bitch. And don’t lose yourself to the nothing that is Mac-town.

I saw X-Men 2 again today, and once again it was a double-edged blade. It has always been this way for me. To experience something truly great, music, movie, or novel is as painful as it is enjoyable. As I was relaying this feeling to a friend I finally realized why: I write for others. I perform for others. It makes me happy to affect other people, to inspire in them the feeling inspired in me when I listen or watch or read something that is truly great. To watch a movie I honestly love is painful, because I am suddenly struck with the horrifying thought that I will never do anything of that magnitude. Few people do.

Many, though, many achieve greatness and it lies in shadow, unnoticed by the general populace. I would be more than happy to be one of those unknown masters. It doesn’t matter how many people see my work or appreciate it, what matters is that those few who do are touched. Most people I know write for themselves. They write because it makes them feel better, alleviates them in some way from life’s mundane and sometimes painful existence. But that isn’t why I do it. I write because I want to share—I want to share what I have learned, what I have felt. A truly great piece affects me by manipulating my emotions. At the end of the piece I have lost myself in the reality of whatever it is that engages my attention. I have escaped from my life and experienced another. I have learned and grown. I write so that I can do that for others.

What if I never accomplish that?

That is the thought that keeps me up after seeing such a movie or reading a truly enjoyable book. Some things educate; some things entertain. The really great ones do both. I want to be really great. I suppose the only way is to work and learn. I can only pray that what I strive for lies within me—if not it will be a very sad day when I reach the middle of the labyrinth and find no golden fleece. Time will tell.

In the meantime I will look forward to X-Men 3.

Wow, what an absolutely marvelous day. I wake up and get to have pretty clothes bought for me, two graphic novels bought for me and then I get to see X-men 2. That right there, just made the day. To put it simply: that movie fucking rocks. Plain and simple. Not to mention Hugh Jackman, in a moment of pure girlish indecency I have to say that is one beautiful man. I won't say anymore about the movie so as not to give anything away but let's just say if you haven't seen it you need to. I cannot wait for the third one to come out. The night has then progressed with me reading one of my graphic novels, coming home, dressing up in my pretty clothes, going out the bar and getting drunk. Could I have had any better of a day? Not mention I got go see two friends I don't see very often anymore, both of whom are very dear to my heart. Some days I love my life.

Now I realize most of you don't care what my day was like, but I share it with you anyway because it was especially spectacular. And I'm drunk and that's my perogative. Yeah, I'm almost positive I didn't spell that right. Oh well. The only downside to my day--I forgot to take the damn movie back. The movie sitting on my desk I was going to take back. I think I have somewhere in the vicinity of $7 worth of late charges now. Oh well. I like that. Oh well. Hehehe, I'm drunk. Good night.

p.s. Hugh Jackman is still hot. I love the X-Men. Each and every one of them. (Colossus was fantastic too!)

So I have begun the monumental task of packing my stuff up. It’s that time—time to move back home with the parents and be unemployed. I discovered something about myself as I packed, though. I knew I had a lot of stuff, knick-knacks, books, school stuff, etc. but I never knew how much I had. I am a book whore.
I love books. I always knew I loved books. I never knew the sheer number of books I had acquired over the past two years. These books aren’t even all that I have. There are still more at my parent’s house. Where the hell are they all going to fit? I have upwards of 60 gallons of books (there isn’t a specific count right now).

So the night has continued and massive drunkenness has ensued. Go figure. For once, I am the sober one. This is a new experience for me—well not new, but certainly not something I’ve felt for a good four years or so. I almost don’t know what to do with myself. It has been so long since I was in the company of a drunk person while sober myself I’ve forgotten how to handle it. I feel bad for being sober, what does that mean I wonder? My only answer is to hide in my room away from the scary aroma of our living room; it smells decidedly like a brewery actually.

Ah, sleep pounds at my eyelids but I refuse to give in. I don’t refuse, however, to end my blog.

Goodnight Sweetheart well, it’s time to go/ ba dum da dum/ Goodnight Sweetheart well, it’s time to go/ ba dum da dum/ I hate to leave you but I really must say/ Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight.

This is a stress relieving post--if I don't write something idiotic, nonsensible and completely unrelated to anything of value I might quite possibly shoot someone.

I hate people. No, not really. I hate stupid people. I just wanted to say that.

I'm actually a very loving person, I think. I couldn't tell you for sure, the judgement would really have to come from those around me. And then it would depend greatly upon who you ask. Some people really appreciate my bitchiness; others just think I'm a bitch. I've really used up all my patience though. I despise games, you see. Playing politics, not telling people what I really think, catering to thoughts if you will. Hate it. I do it on occasion because it is easier to cater than deal with a pissed off friend but honestly, some days it is a very good thing I don't see many people. I suppose one of the nicest things God has ever done for me was not have a friend ask me what I think when I really have something to tell them. Friendships survive because I employ just enough tact to get by, but think of the fireworks if we all just let it go. Say exactly what we think, however we think it. There would be a lot of pissed off people. I'm sure I would be one of them. As long as everyone gets to argue back--that is the important thing. I hate it when someone unleashes on you but doesn't have the balls to fight it out. Those people are like sneaky ass-assasins. The creep up behind you and *WHAM* you're ass-raped before you ever get a chance to clench. Then they're gone, disappeared into their shadowy lairs.

My mind is numb *poke* *poke*. Nope, nothing there. Guess I better go before my scary scenarios of ass-raping continue. And just for the record I have no problem with anal sex (for other people)--I just don't like it when lubrication isn't even offered. That's just rude.

I write tonight next to my open window, caressed by summer wind laced with the scent of rain. Lightning illuminates me every few minutes, covering my body with a bluish tinge for a heartbeat before expending itself, leaving me again in the yellowish hue of my lamp. I love this time of year—it is what I wait for from the first day temperatures drop to unbearable. It is the only thing that propels me through winter with good spirits. I rely on the spring every year. It revitalizes me, rejuvenates me. The morning I wake up, walking to class in jeans and sandals, and see the grass shining emerald under the sun, trees dusted in newborn blooms I experience a moment of complete happiness. As I stand on the street, staring out at the landscape of Illinois I forget my allergies, I forget my studies, I forget my life. I breathe the air, cleaned through constant rain and take off my sunglasses, amazed at the vibrant colors and I’m not sorry to be in Macomb. I don’t regret a single choice in my life. For that instant, with that first awareness of spring with the music of wind and the cleansing of rain my life is justified. No matter what I have done or not done I am part of something greater. I am part of something purer. Long after I’ve died spring will come again and again and every time, a part of my soul will bloom with it. That is why I love spring. That is why I will never live somewhere seasons don’t change. Without the yearly reminder of nature rising life would drone on, monotone and boring.

Nights like this I’m more then happy to be alive. Nights like this I’m thankful.