02.08.13

Abandonment

The worst feeling- the feeling I would not even wish upon my worst enemy- is abandonment.
It isn't like being ignored, neglected, or even disappointed. Those feelings are retrospectively temporary. They can be compensated for. In other things. In other people. In new experiences.
Being abandoned is unlike any other feeling because with it, almost immediately, come inevitable waves of other abiding emotions. And to be abandoned, well, that is permanent.
They say "abandon ship," it is because you are to never to return to it. That is probably because it is in the process of sinking or crashing or burning into nothing but a ship shaped pile of dust at the bottom of a very deep and watery grave.
They say "abandon all hope," because whatever hope you had is of no use to anyone anymore. Because there is no hope left to be had.
The word "abandon" is to "death" as is "dog" is to "bone." They seem to be one in the same, at least, in my mind.
And with abandonment comes this overwhelming sense of dread. Something you once knew is no longer. Security, love, stability, sanity, control, family... the loss of these things are life altering and depleting to the very fabric of our personal connection to reality.
Therefore, abandonment, along with dread, brings about doubt. The kind of self doubt that questions the very purpose of life. Was I ever in control? Was I ever safe? Did he ever love me? Can I even trust my own mind to tell me what is real and what isn't anymore?
The last time I ever felt this way was when I was eleven years old. As I watched my father pack up his entire life into a few beaten tote boxes. As he walked out the front door and drove away. As we ate dinner without him that night. The idea of the stable loving family I had grown into was just a fabrication, and all I could do was sit there and watch as everything fell apart right before me. I was out of control of this situation that affected my life so extravagantly. I was abandoned.
I don't know what the purpose of this post is, or why I even feel the need to share it with you. Maybe because words, manipulated into thoughts, that are then woven into sentences, and then finally visually laid out on a piece of paper or computer screen give me that sense of control I feel I have lost.
I do not know what is to come. But I know nothing will be the same. And consistency is a part of control that I no longer have.

That is all.

Resolution #39: Abandon nothing.

02.07.13

The Downfall of Us

Westfield State University

Committee of Academic Standing

            I am writing this letter as an appeal to recently being dismissed from Westfield State University because of a low GPA. This is a letter written for the sake of reinstating my academic standing as a full-time English major with a writing concentration for the Fall 2013 semester. I understand the terms of which I have been dismissed, but I also understand the circumstances causing my GPA to be so unacceptably low.

            First off, I would like to bring to your attention my Basic Film Writing class with H. Stessel, of which has not yet received a final grade. Because of circumstances that will be explained further in this letter, I received an incomplete at the end of this semester.

            Secondly, there is no valid excuse to allow such failure in one's academic career. My education, as it seems, is all I have going for me. In order for my current appalling grade point average to be understood, I must discuss my life, past and present, leading up to the last few months of the Spring 2013 semester.

            I come from a relatively decent home environment; having grown up with a stable support system of both a mother and a father, along with a younger brother, Evan. If any child could show gratitude at the immensity of decency that their childhood was, it would be me.

            In 2001, however, my parents had submerged themselves into a full-fledged divorce. I am not implying that this event in my life still affects me now, nor does it affect my current grade point average. What happens after a divorce, however, does. My father remarried in 2006, after Nathan was born, my half-brother. He was, and still is, the light of my life. With this marriage, I gained a total of four additional siblings, six if you include Evan and me. I live with my mother and my now nineteen-year-old brother, Evan. Up until I was graduated from high school, my mother worked nights. She worked incredibly hard to maintain a well-functioning home for my brother and me, which was not at all easy, and I commend her for her efforts.

            But in the truest sense of the role, I took it upon myself to pick up where my father had left off. The responsibilities of an adult being placed upon the shoulders of a twelve year old are no simple feat, but I persevered. I took on more chores and took on the responsibilities that also came with taking care of an eight-year-old boy. I made sure there was dinner on the table, made sure Evan did his homework, brushed his teeth, and had clean clothes. I put him on the bus in the morning, and was there to greet him in the afternoon.

            I started earning my own income when I was fourteen. I did babysitting around the neighborhood and cleaned up around a farm down the street from my home. I have not been unemployed since then, getting my first part time job as soon as a work permit would allow me. I now work part-time at Staples in their copy and print department. 

            I give you this background information because it is pertinent to the significant impact the events in the spring of this year have had on me. I also need you to know that I understand, first hand, what it means to be a hard worker. I have been a solid rock for my family since I was a child, and I have the determination and ambition to still be that rock. But with the pressure of being a stable support in my family, I also have, first hand, the feeling of being completely helpless and out of control of certain life events that threaten to take away from me all that I have worked so hard for.

            Out of the six children in my entire extended family, I am the only one attending college of any kind. Three of my brothers have or are in the process of graduating high school, and they chose not to further their educations. Two of them actually have families of their own. Having that been said, the weight of the potential success I may or may not achieve is heavy on my shoulders. I need to succeed. I need to get a career. I need to make my own dreams come true. Because if I don't, then what kind of solid rock would I be? I fear that if I do not continue my college career, my seven year old brother, Nathan, will look at me as a failure. And in regard to his future, think it is okay not to succeed himself.

            Already, I feel as if I have failed one of my brothers. Evan has been by my side his entire life, looking up to me to be his example. And I thought I had done a good job, at least, up until he started his senior year of high school. He began hanging out with all the wrong people and making poor life decisions. He has been involved with drugs, alcohol, and parties of which no high school-er should ever be involved. He has skipped classes and stayed out late, not coming home until the early morning. He gets angry easily, more so than he has ever done in the past. I have tried speaking to him about his behavior, and he shrugs me off as if my words don't matter. Needless to say, my worry was not for nothing. On May 24th, 2013, his nineteenth birthday, my brother got arrested. With his erratic behavior leading up to his arrest, I can honestly say I was not surprised, and yet, at the same time, shocked beyond belief. This was my little brother walking by me in handcuffs, the little brother I had played in the backyard with, read bed time stories to, and made sure he wasn't bullied by the other kids at the bus stop. This was Evan, of whom I had been taking care of my entire life. I know I shouldn't personally feel like a failure for my brother's mistakes, but some part of me blames myself.  It's all the ‘should have,’ ‘would have,’ ‘could have's’ that have been running rapid in my brain.

            And with those worrisome thoughts come more worry for my mother, who weeks prior to my brother's arrest, had gone through a gall bladder surgery. May 10th, 2013, my mother was taken into surgery at Baystate Medical Center. We had known for quite a while that my mother was experiencing pain and discomfort, her medications for back pain breaking down the insides of her abdomen. We knew she was going into surgery that is common and standard, but the fear of a mistake in any procedure still weighed on our hearts. Without my mother, I am not really sure what I would do, or how I would survive. She has been my provider, my comfort, my rock. And those inevitable doubts crept into my mind and distracted me from my academics.

            As if my mother going into surgery and my brother making poor decisions was not enough, I also found out, at the beginning of May, that my home is going up for auction on June 18th, 2013. This is the home I had grown up in, made memories in, and lived in my entire life. I stayed on campus this past semester in an apartment full of five other girls just as a way to test myself, to see if I could adapt to the change of not living at home. The thing about having your home in Westfield, same location as your school, is that I can drive five minutes and be home in time for Mom’s dinner. I spent more time at my home on Springdale Rd than I did in my campus dorm. It eats at me, the thought of someone else, a stranger, living in my home, in my room, and in my kitchen. I have never moved before, never lived somewhere else before. This house, as old as it is, is where I belong. And now it is being taken from me. There's nothing I can do to stop it. And that's the worst part. Not having control. I have words and opinions, and they’re going unheard.

            My words, my thoughts, my feelings, and my opinions are all I live for. I am a writer. I have been writing novels since the fifth grade, and my imagination has still many more to produce. That is my dream; to write my novels, and to read novels like mine. I wanted to go to Westfield State University because this school could further expand my horizons when it comes to my writing. The work is challenging and yet insightful. The professors are tough and yet approachable. And I can see my dream within reach. My ultimate goal, within the next few years, is to get a career as an editor at a major publishing company, all the while publishing my own. And, after hard experience and saved up knowledge, I wish to start my own publishing company. I want to be able o make other writers' dreams come true, as someone will do for me. I want to work with authors and get their books to be the best version of itself. And I want to make readers around the globe inch to the edge of their seats in suspense, the way books have done for me.  

            I know that I am a better student than this past semester has proved me to be. I know I have what it takes to be at your school and I know I can accomplish anything so long as my dream still waits. I only pray that you see the compassion I have in these words and hear my plea. If you require documents for any of the above events, I am more than willing to provide those to you. I thank you for your time and undeniably generous consideration.

Kayla Fontaine

Resolution #38: Never. Never. Never give up on your dreams. No matter how many cards are stacked against you, if you never give up, you will succeed. Period. Fight for who you want to be and what you want out of life. Fight until it hurts, fight til you die. Whatever you do, just keep fighting for you.

02.06.13

When Beauty Turns Ugly

     No matter the profound concept that everyone should feel comfortable in their own skin, the world is like an annoying buzzing bee telling everyone that they have to look a certain way. That means fitting in the requirements of being fit, making the gym the after work mistress. Models gracing the catwalk, celebrities on the Red Carpet, and even the 50-year-old grandmother who worships the Bow-Flex machine all make it seem that "skinny is in." Unfortunately for Hollywood, not everyone is Bow-Flex commercial material. So, the question would be, where do the normal people fit in?

     Since the beginning of time, when people first discovered that they could influence a group of people with certain trends, all anyone has been concerned with is the image others see of them. Back then, corsets and powdered wigs told the world who was cool or not and no one really understood the concept of false advertising. There were no photo editors or make-up artists, but with whatever resources they had, they definitely tried.

     Now?

     The not-so-skinny people who are trying their hardest to fit into what society claims is good looking by getting thrown onto reality TV shows like The Biggest Loser or I Wanna Look Like A High School Cheerleader Again. But here's the mind-boggler, what defines good looking? Normal? Skinny? Or fat?

     There are literally two extremes to this scale. The wicked skinny which is pretty much based around being built only of skin and bones, being picked apart by the media, turning anorexic or bulimic to solve their overweight problems and  settle the fears of becoming fat.

     Then there are the those on the other end of the spectrum who don't stop eating and rely on food to be the comforting best friend when they get put down for being obese.

     According to the Anorexia VS Obesity in North America article on www.lilith-ezine.com, "71 people between the age of 12 and 44 die from eating disorders like anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa a year," and, "86% of all eating disorders were developed at an age of ten or younger." On the other hand, the article also states that over 10,000 people have died because of effects of obesity, such as, heart disease, diabetes, stroke, fatty liver disease, blood clots, and heart attacks in the past year alone." And if it was ever assumed that the female population was just the gender getting the blunt end of this crisis, men have it too. Males may not be the majority of the percentage of people who have an eating disorder, but according to The Alliance for Eating Disorders Awareness, www.eatingdisorderinfo.org, "An estimated 10 to 15% of people with anorexia or bulimia are male." If there are this many problems with people having eating disorders and being unsatisfied with their body weight, why hasn't society come up with a happy medium with how people are supposed to look?

    It's not like it was in high school. Students, since mother's preaching health lectures aren't at their finger tips, are having to fend for their own needs, and that includes hunger. So eating an unhealthy meal, if just to satisfy the rumbles in the stomach for even an hour, is what cuts it in college. And when it comes down to the last nanosecond and the paper that was due two days ago is still sitting unfinished on the edge of that desk, determining the pass/fail status of a college student, pulling out their hair and biting their nails due to the pent up stress built up over the course of a one semester time period, something has got to give. And usually, it's the button on those baby phat jeans that cost nearly forty dollars. Set the scene, it's freshman year of college, and the summer mind-set of weekend BBQ's, day-cation get-aways, and soaking in the sun on the beach are all faded away, the only thing on the mind now is that term paper causing a road block to success. Where does the average American college student go when they are stressed out and under pressure? According to www.kidshealth.org, "People sometimes eat in response to anxiety, homesickness, sadness, or stress, and all of these can be part of adapting to being away at school." And being free to do as pleased, now that mom's cooking isn't an option, the campus cafeteria, with all it's greasy goodness, will welcome any stressed out teen with open arms.

Students eat what they can afford, and if they can't afford to go to the gym afterward, or maybe don't have the time, how long would it take for someone to speak up about their hot-pocket obsession? The decisions people make every single day to eat this or to not eat that is literally what keeps them going. So when 'America runs on Dunkin,' what does that really say about America?

As for me, I have this urge to avoid mirrors, this overwhelming consciousness to cover up my gut and flabby arms with thick sweaters and the color black. I look at other girls, especially those I am friends with, and think, well, wouldn't you know... I'm the fat one in this group. It's absolutely depressing. And I have cried over and over again about my body, never having been satisfied with how I look. I can't afford the gym, but I can afford my ice coffees. I know I have control over what I eat, or, what I don't, but I know that I am also weak. I give in to my tasty temptations, just like mostly everyone else. But this is the part that is extremely personal. And I haven't told many people about my past like I am telling all of you now.

When I was fourteen, I developed bulimia. I went to summer camp, a christian summer camp, might I add, and was made insecure by all the the other girls who were there with me. One of my friends at the time, I haven't spoke to her in nearly ten years now, told me to just eat what I want, then throw it up later. Being the naive little fourteen year old influential child that I was, I tried it. And it worked. At least for a while. By the end of the summer, I was down to 115 pounds. Which, by doctors words, is extremely unhealthy for a girl my age and height at the time. I was on my way to being comprised of just skin and bones, and it still wasn't skinny enough.

This whole binging and purging thing took place over the course of a year and a half before I finally gave it up. My other best friend at the time, who didn't go to summer camp with me, but saw me wasting away, snapped me out of it. Her words, to this day, still resound in my head, "You have no one to prove anything to but yourself. If you can be happy just being you, then you're doing it right. And God didn't make you for no reason. You are not a mistake, and you know you are beautiful just the way you are."

So, today, I am feeling like maybe I weigh a little too much. That maybe these jeans are just a little too tight. That maybe I don't have the kinds of relationships I want in my life because I'm just not good enough for the weight and body type that I am. That looks matter more than heart. And maybe I am a little insecure with myself. Maybe I have that disease most people with eating disorders have. Maybe I am just looking at myself with disgust because all I can see is the bad parts, and there is no one there to show me the good. Maybe I am just making a fool of myself on my internet blog because now everyone knows I am as imperfect as they come. And maybe knowing all of this will make people want me even less now than they did before.

I try to make my posts funny, relate-able, and even upbeat, but this one just needed to be written. I have kept this part of me hidden for the longest time. And I'm not really as afraid of it as I used to be. But just because I'm not afraid of it, doesn't mean I don't feel it. I don't feel skinny. But I don't feel morbidly obese either. I just feel normal. And nowadays, normal just doesn't seem to be good enough.

Resources: 1. www.lilith-ezine.com

                  2. www.eatingdisordersinfo.org

                  3. www.kidshealth.org

Resolution #037: Define your own normal. And be happy with it. No matter what.

02.04.13

Ode to the Desperate Housewife

Stop. Look again, Storyteller.

Rising from the ashes.

Salty & sweet.

Rediscover books--where dreams go.

Piece of cake.

Start playing.

One color goes with everything.

Keep walking.

Zig

When

They

Zag.

Where does your inspiration come from?

Relief.

& for our next trick…

Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou Romeo?

The “good guy” almost never has a beard.

Make a wish… say goodnight.

Playing by the rules lets

You

Down.

Where will you stand?

…on sunshine.

Don't it feel great?

J

  U

M

P.

Learn from that mistake.

Call their bluff.

Make your mother-in-law believe you can cook.

You could use a bet.

Get creative.

Keep quality time.

One

Step

Ahead.

Believe.

Welcome pure imagination.

Recipe for a happy kitchen.

Long live the revolution.

Resolution #035: Break the mold of whatever stereotype you have been assigned by society. Dare to be boldly unique and surprise the hell out of everyone else when you shine and they are left to burn out...

02.05.13

Love The Way You Lie

I'm sick of the beating

I won't take the hating

Nothing but tears in these hands I am weeping

Too much to handle

I rock and I cradle

Frozen memories

Just photos on a mantle

The glass that's been shattered

All beaten and battered

My heart's been torn open, not that it mattered

Your silence is screaming

Your eyes they are gleaming

Slowly you kill me

Is this life worth living

Without you I'm strong, I'll come back, won't take long.

(I miss you, I love you, you left me here bleeding)

One day, you'll need me, you'll beg for me, Baby

(I'm crying, I can't breathe, please just stay with me)

Threw it away, knew what to break, just watch now, I'll forget your name

(I need you, a drug, I crave you, addicted)

Desperately thriving in these words I've encrypted

I'm better than this

Just a two sided fence

Pulling and tugging

This game I can't win

You want it, you got it

I give up on you now

Letting go of this hold

Just let me figure out how

You said that I'd never get my time

Hear me now as I sing and I rhyme

Too afraid to let anyone close

Let me have just one last dose

One day you'll see

The beauty in me

The one you will miss

You can't have me like this

Take these tears that I've cried

And drown out all your washed up lies

Feel the same pain

You'll cry out my name

I'm the one you threw away

I'm the one who said I'd stay

This is how it must feel to be let down

I had big dreams before you came around

Once or twice I let it by

Your sweet nothings, my sacred lullaby

I've seen this before

Heartache's endless war

Timeless routine

Sickly pristine

It's pathetic really

Seeing you here before me

Nothing but empty promises you're selling

How did I not see this coming?

Almost gave in

Those eyes I get so lost in

My hope in you will soon decay

Don't worry, hunny, you'll be okay

Each tear you shed, just play this track

Hear as I walk and never look back

Resolution #036: Do not be the reason for someone else's misery. Do not hold someone back from achieving their fullest potential as an individual. If being with you is not making someone happy, the best thing you can do is let go.

02.03.13

Ask The Sexpert!

     I did this research assignment for one of my classes and I thought I would share it with you. Of course, as a warning, it is more female oriented, and most guys will probably get grossed out just by the mention of the word period. But I implore you, this is information of which I think every human being on the planet should know about. And I made incredibly comical. So.... Read at your own risk. :)


    
     It’s that time of the month again. Where mother nature has just become your worst enemy and
all you want to do is chow down some Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and a bottle of Pamprin. Your “girly
mess” is in full swing. But here’s the kicker, you’re also feeling a bit like a cat in heat. You and your
partner are getting hot and bothered, and you’re not sure if getting physical is such a great idea.
    
     Nevertheless, the massacre in your pants should not hinder you from having a good time.
     
     Since the dawn of time, even when women first realized that this monthly phenomena did not
make us evil witches and werewolves, the “period” has been a dreaded routine hated by all vagina
owners. We stock up on Playtex Tampons and Dove chocolate, hibernate under our covers, and
embed ourselves into the very fabric of our dark colored sweat pants. Worst part of it all, we have to
hang that sign outside of our bedroom door that lets our sexual counterparts know that we are
“temporarily out of order.”
     
     In the likelihood of sounding like a Kotex commercial, I say, don’t fret! Your period does not
have to mean that you have to hang your kinkhat or put down your magic sexytime wands. Here’s
some vital information you should probably know. There are actual benefits in engaging in sexual
intercourse during your menstruation. Let me repeat some of those key terms from the previous
statement : benefits, intercourse.
     
     There are two basic phases of a menstrual cycle. The follicular phase and the luteal phase.
(AskBaby.com, 2007) The follicular phase is the phase where all the blood and gore take place. This is
the phase people are most terrified of. Both you and your sex partner steer clear of this phase once a
month because of the age old myths about how awful it is. The “house of horrors” contains the mostly all
of following: bloating, cramping, mood swings, bleeding, fatigue, irritability, headaches, backaches,
everything aches, spontaneous crying, laughing, and/or screaming, and an intense craving for junk food.
     
     In short, it’s five days of pure hell. Oh, the joys...
     
     Sex is good. So why not have it on your period? Let’s start with bloating. You know that feeling
you get right after an orgasm that makes you feel like a frisky little feline stretching in the sun? That same
feeling happens even when you are bleeding out of your cervix. So if you don’t feel sexy because you
have intense bloating on your period, the moments right after an orgasm will make you not only feel
pretty, but also less gross. (Rodriguez, 2009)
    
     Moving on to cramping and anything else that could possibly hurt. Without getting all kinds of
technical, an orgasm is simply a release of pressure and feelgood chemicals in your brain. These feelgood chemicals are called endorphins. Orgasm can ultimately relieve strain in muscle tissue because
the amount of dopamine released in the brain during orgasm relaxes your body. A study done in the
European Journal of Neuroscience actually analyzed orgasms in women, saying that the chemicals
released during orgasm seemingly temporarily shut down the temporal lobe. “The deactivation of the
temporal lobe is directly related to the level of sexual arousal.” (Georgiadis, et al.) They also bring up
the French, who call an orgasm, “Le Petit Mort,” which in English is translated as, “Little Death.” Since
their findings show that the temporal lobe is shut down during orgasm, it lives up to its French name.
     
     The act of sex comes with its ups and downs. The act itself is tedious and full of effort.
    
     Sometimes some extra stuff has to be added to the mix just to get going. But if you happen to be on
your period and you find you really don’t want to break open the tube of lube sitting on the nightstand
waiting for you to get your naughty on, don’t worry. The mess downstairs is actually a good form of
lubricant. Getting it on has just become one step less.
     
     According to an article by EverydayHealth.com about having sex on your period, it actually
does shorten the stay of your Aunt Flow, “Sex during your period could also help to shorten your
period by a few days. You will still have a normal, healthy period, but the additional contractions that
your uterus experiences during orgasm might help shed your menstrual blood faster, therefore ending
your period a bit sooner than usual.” (Rodriguez, 2009)
    
     So when the days are as dark as the pants you’re wearing, and you feel like no one could even
think of looking at you let alone touching you, think again. Having your period is sexy. And in regards to
sounding like an Always commercial, yet again, have a happy period. It may come with a lot of terrifying
symptoms, and people may scatter like cockroaches to a beam of light, but get your hopes up. Showers
were invented for a reason.






AskBaby.com. (2007, August 06). The menstrual cycle. Retrieved from
http://www.askbaby.com/themenstrualcycle.htm

Georgiadis, J. R., Kortekaas, R., Kuipers, R., Nieuwenburg, A., Pruim, J., Reinders, A., &
Holstege, G. (2006). Regional cerebral blood flow changes associated with clitorally
induced orgasm in healthy women. European Journal Of Neuroscience, 24(11),
33053316.doi:10.1111/j.14609568.2006.05206.x

Rodriguez, D. (2009, January 21). Having sex during your period. Retrieved from
http://www.everydayhealth.com/sexualhealth/
sexduringyourperiod.aspx



If you were thoroughly grossed the fuck out, oh frikkin well, man the fuck up. This isn't something to be a baby about. Eventually, we all have to face the facts. But other than that, you're welcome for the ever-flowing fountain of knowledge that is me. 

Resolution #034: Embrace Mother Nature. Shit happens. Just deal with it and move on. No need to get emotional about it. :D

02.02.13

Dear Mrs. Lonelyheart,

     Though you may not know me, I am a complete stranger to you, I may not be as foreign to you as it may appear. I know you. I am you.
     Not in a physical realm, of which would place us both in the same corporeal body, but in soul, the way we feel and think and love.
     I know you feel so small, so completely insignificant and so utterly invisible. I know you feel like you need to be someone, but feel like maybe being no one is all you'll ever amount to.
     I know you feel frustrated with the world, its ever-present pressure weighing on your shoulders. The need to be perfect, the pressure to be beautiful. I know that society has told you how to be, who you should be, and what you should aspire to be. But I also know it lied.
     I am fully aware of all your insecurities, because they are mine. You are conscious of your fears, and more often than not, allow them to guide you. I do too.
     You are afraid of being alone, of being abandoned. You do not attach yourself to any one person for this very reason. People always leave.  You are afraid to love, for your heart cannot bear the pain of loss. Not again. You are afraid to fly, because if you do, you are afraid you might be the only bird in the sky. You can stand on the edge of this cliff held above the rest of the world so high, but you are afraid to keep still, because if you stay in one place, enjoy the view, you know eventually someone or something will come up behind and push you over. And in that retrospect, you fear the fall. You are afraid to speak, afraid to form words, sing, because if you do, your breath might be stolen away.
     The people in your life pay no mind, hold no concern, care not at all, your fears are kept to yourself. If they knew how you felt, they might pull away. It's okay, I am afraid of this same outcome. Because it's happened before.
     You are afraid to fail, because your future depends on your success. The story being written for you isn't finished, but you fear the ending. What if this story turns into a tragedy? What if I don't ever get my happy ending? I ask these same questions.
     The relationships you hold are fleeting, temporary. If they even come close to being something else, the walls go up, you keep them all out. Getting close is risky, feeling love is scary. Your heart knows not to take the chance, it has learned its lesson well. It, in cooperation with your mind, hold everyone at arms length, because rational thinking takes control over your sporadic emotions.
     I relate to you in the most intimate ways, Mrs. Lonelyheart. I feel what you feel, I fear what you fear, I keep the same distance you do. I wash my pain away by painting a picture in words on a page, and create characters who are much braver than I. I create stories that I know have a happy ending, because I know my ending is not yet determined. I have an outlet to live vicariously through. Do you?
     I feel helpless in this world, feel so unimportant. My words will go unheard, my thoughts forever lost in a history of writers much more known than I. I know I am looking toward the future, my future, with apprehension. Because I fear the most of the people who will never read, never see, what truly lies beneath. More than just skin, more than just this shell, I know I have more to give. But will others accept me? I know you ask this question again and again, trying to find the answer in anyone you can. But the men you waste your time with do not know what acceptance means. They can't give you the answers you need. Your friends are so wrapped up in their own problems, their own doubts, they don't have time to console you.
     My message to you, Mrs. Lonelyheart, is not to give up. This is not a pity letter; these here words are that of love. I love you. I need you in this world. I appreciate the air you breathe because that air is mine as well. I give you hope, not because I have some to give, no. But because I find hope in everything around me. There is hope in the trees, as they sway, standing tall, just like we should. There is hope in the ocean, its vast expanse of life, roaring up to shore, washing away the solo set of footprints of which we have walked. There is hope in the stars, the same stars that I know billions of others, all around the world, view every night. That hope revives me, reminding me that happiness is possible. There is someone out there, standing under the same bright sun, who was made for me. Made for you. Made for us. And they will, some how, some way, some day, find us. They will resurrect all that has died within us, those butterflies we thought were gone for good. They will love us unconditionally, they will never judge, and they will make us feel safe, as safe as we deserve to be. They will hold our hearts in their hands and guard it as precious gems, as our hearts deserve to be guarded.
     I am telling you to find your strength. In the little things that make you happy. In the bigger picture of life itself. You are not alone. You never will be. Because you have me.
     I know you, Mrs. Lonelyheart. Because I am you. I am fighting for you. Because that means I am fighting for me. I am keeping my eyes locked on the sky, conversing with the stars, hoping you will hear my pleas. Because these times are excruciating. And when I feel like I am on the verge of collapsing to the earth from the exhaustion this world has laid on me, I talk to you. I know you can't hear me. I can hear me. And that's enough.
     Though you may not know me, I am a complete stranger to you, I may not be as foreign to you as it may appear. I know you. I am you.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Lonelyheart

Resolution #033: Hope is something to be found in everything in we do, see hear, feel, smell, touch, and discover. Hope is precious. Hope is vital. Hope is forever. Have hope, give hope, be hope for someone who needs it. Chances are, everyone does.

02.01.13

Fundamentals

In being a single hot female, I have come to terms with the fact that guys will probably only ever talk to me for one thing in particular. Which isn't all that horrible, at least, until said guys see me without makeup. Then they run for the hills. But anyways, guys are very transparent and incredibly basic when it comes to their needs. 

Need beer now. Need sports now. Need woman now. (insert classic caveman impersonation here.)

With women, it's a whole different story. We're like a fucking jig saw puzzle with a million little pieces waiting for the right man, or men, to put us together. It's exhausting and complicated and this is why men think we're absolutely out of our minds. Well, they aren't wrong. Men probably have to beg their girls to tell them what it is they want directly, beating around the bush being the only response they get. It's like pulling teeth. But women are just as basic as men, at least, in retrospect.

I need chocolate. I need wine. I need new shoes. I need a new guy. 

That's about it. 

Just kidding! 

Women find that they need a lot of shit just about all the time. I should know, I need a bajillion things right now. A massage, a million bucks, new brakes on my car, a good grade in Black American Lit, breakfast.... I could keep going, and that whole sentence was strictly me. But since this world is 6 billion or so and counting, there's a fuckload more needs than just mine. No matter how special I think I might be. 

The moral of the story is, not all needs, small as they seem, should go unheard. I am an insignificant human being in this world and do not have the fine priviledge of being in a relationship. I do not have a man who is there to cater to my needs. I cannot cater to a man's needs. Mainly because the only man in my life right now is Lucky, and his needs are simple enough: eat, shit, sleep. Oh, the life of a dog. 

But since I am me, I attract those guys who only seem to have that one specific need. 

I am not obligated to fulfill a man's "need," but yet they feel as though, for lack of a better term, women owe them the fulfillment of that need.

I have tried this online dating crap, and I don't know why I thought it would be different than meeting people face to face before stalking profiles, but it's not. Every other message I get, no matter where this guy is located on this green earth, asks me to hook up. They ask me how big my boobs are, comment on my bedroom eyes, and make note on the fact that I fill out a Batman tee shirt pretty fucking well. 

I could complain about it, bitchfest and all that jazz, except then I will get the most obvious question from everyone... why does your profile say you are looking for casual sex if those messages bother you?

Okay, one, these guys don't even say hello or anything to introduce themselves. They just dive right in with "want to fuck...?" Sure, dude, let me just get on that whole sleeping with strangers from a dating website thing. Um...no. I don't know you! I have no idea who you are as a person! Except, well, now I know the fact that desperation has no limits. But seriously, that proposition for sex isn't going to work. You could a serial killer or some batshit crazy stalker. Rude.
Secondly, and this is the main reason I write this whole thing, is to clarify that my definition of casual is probably different than yours. So I am here to define, for you, what casual means, to me.

I do not want a serious relationship. But that is not going to stop me from liking, or maybe even loving, someone. I have sex because I enjoy it, but most importantly, I enjoy those of whom I choose to have sex with. I have no expectations, romantically speaking, but I do have standards. And I am picky. I need to trust you and you need to trust me. I sleep with guys I can openly conversate with about any topic, because sex is more than just a physical pass time for me. I am friends, some best friends, with most of the guys I have been with. 

I don't know if this casual sex definition plays well with my previous posts, but I hope it clears shit up. At least a little.

I have needs too. They're just customized to fit me better.

Resolution #032: Figure out what it is you need. If it is a need that can be met right away, go ahead and knock yourself out. But if it will take time and energy to meet your need, whatever it might be, just make sure you are meeting that need in the exact way it needs to be met for you. Only you can know what you need. So make yourself happy by fulfilling them accordingly.

01.31.13

 Zero to Sex in 60 Seconds…

In re-reading my last post, I feel kind of embarrassed. I think I portrayed myself more like a slut with a vengeance rather than a seriously concerned vagina owner. And this fact scares me. My mind and my blog have no filter; I spew on here exactly what I think in my pretty little head. Which may be my first problem.

I don’t care about what people think of me. This is a fact. But I do want to get some shit out in the open and clear the air.

I am not a virgin. Okay, this one might be a little too obvious, but some people are just dumb as rocks. So, there you go. My written words to your eager eyes as proof of my promiscuity. Congrats.

Next, I have slept with a handful of men. I am kind of nervous about brushing up against this subject because it feels like I am trying to molest a cactus rather than something warm and fuzzy. Sex is a taboo topic that people, for some reason unknown to me, are so afraid to talk about. And I honestly have no idea as to why, I mean, it happens. Sex happens. People are having sex everywhere, right this very second. Not I, obviously, since I am finger fucking my keyboard, and that does not count. And in regards to sex being a non-approachable discussion, more specifically so, is the number of people you have actually had sexual interactions with. My number, if you must know, as of this exact moment in time, is 25. I have slept with 25 men. To some people, this number is absolutely, inexcusably inappropriate for a woman. I would, in their eyes, be labeled a slut. However, since no fucks are given on my behalf about what other humans think of me, fuck them. I care more about what my yellow Labrador named Lucky thinks. And he loves me. Anyways, since I’m writing a post here, I will give you my personal opinion about what a slut is. And it ain’t me. My number has nothing to do with the slut scale factor.

Slut- (as taken from urban dictionary) Someone who provides a very needed service for the community and sleeps with everyone, even the guy that has no shot at getting laid and everyone knows it. She will give him a sympathy fuck either because someone asked her to or she just has to fuck everyone she knows. These are great people, and without them sex crimes would definitely increase. Thank you slut, where ever you are.

 My definition goes something like this: a person, male or female, who gives no fucks about where their genitals spend the night, so long as it isn’t in their own bed. And if it is in their bed, they aren’t alone. A slut does not feel an emotional attachment to anyone he or she bones, and neglects even common courtesy, forgetting names and faces altogether. This person does not care whether the person they sleep with already has a significant other, they only consider it a game to be won. Sex means nothing, and will forever mean nothing. Pity fucks be damned.

Now, I am going on the record, right here, just for you, to say that, I, Atomic Cupcake, have had, to at least some extent, some caringly warm and fuzzy feelings for every single person I have ever slept with. I have never had a one night stand. I have never forgotten a face, and certainly, never a name. I have actually fallen in love with several of them; CD, IC, JS, JJ, and DB being the major ones (full names will not be disclosed, just initials. You know why.). I have held some sort of labeled relationship with majority of them, whether serious boyfriend/girlfriend or friends with benefits. I am still really good friends with roughly all of them. And I have never been the one to break things off (except once, for abuse reasons). I have had my heart broken, ripped right out of my chest, thrown to the ground, and stepped on over and over again. The emotional blender and I have become well acquainted through the years. And I have cried, a lot. These things do not make me a slut. In fact, they make me the exact opposite. I am human, and I may come off as this bad ass chick with a give-no-fucks attitude, but at the end of the day, my instincts still kick in. I ache for comfort. I want to be wanted. I hate being lonely. Just like everyone else on this motherloving planet.

But just because I talk about sex… a lot, does not mean that I am this ginormous slutbot with daddy issues. My father and I have an excellent relationship, fuck you very much. I write my posts as a way of getting shit off my own chest, while also entertaining the hell out of you. It’s an undeniably awesome package deal. You’re welcome.

I beg of you though, do not think of me as this poor sap now that I have shared with you my inability to be emotionally invincible. I am still this super bitch with a mean streak. Maybe. But anyways, I just needed to say my piece. As usual.

Resolution #031: Do not let your words mislead your actions. It is true what they say, actions speak louder. If you say something, brag of something, complain of something, etc., you best have the actions to back your mouth up. Quit talking out of your ass to people who will never know what, exactly, it is that you mean until you show them.

01.30.13

The Crazy Factor

I apologize in advance for the craziness that will be this post. I apologize for the explicit details from my own life that I incorporate as examples to further my rant. I also apologize for the crude and ridiculous amounts of vulgar language. Oh, wait, no I fucking don’t. Carry on…

It has come to my attention, not really all that recently, but over the course of my entire sexual experience on this earth, that men, although supposedly less emotional beings than women, are, actually, in fact, out of their ever loving minds. I kid you not; readers o’ mine, men are dramatic and erratic and out of control, an unhealthy, unorthodox combination.

Don’t get me wrong, women, in their own right, are absolutely bonkers. Raging mad. This is not a surprise to anyone.

But, and being a girl in our modern American society, I, just like all the other girls who have ever played with Barbie’s or watched the Disney princesses growing up, have been conditioned to expect the very manliness from those who own penises.

I take a quote from one of my favorite films, “He’s Just Not That Into You,” and explain this a little deeper, “A girl will never forget the first boy she likes. Even if things don’t quite work out… But usually someone is there with words of wisdom. (Do you know why that boy was so mean to you? Why he did and said those things? It’s because he likes you.) And there it is. That’s the beginning of our problem. We’re all encouraged… no, programmed… to believe that if a guy acts like a jerk… that he likes you.”

With this being said, girls are brought up being conditioned to be naïve when it comes to men. Boys don’t cry. Boys play sports. Boys are supposed to lift heavy things and get the lids off the pickle jars. Boys are supposed to like bugs and dirt, and save the damsel in distress from the spider in her room. Girls are supposed to just play dress up and accept the role of being some boy’s door mat.

Fact: Men are human beings too. Men have emotions. Men can have doubts and insecurities, broken hearts and wounded prides. And with these facts, this means, also, men can act insane.

I consider myself to be a rational human being. I still get pissed off, jealous, depressed, and all that other emotional shit, but I have learned to keep it in check. At least when it comes to men. The men in my life however, and maybe it’s just my poor judgment in character, but they just have no idea what to do with anything emotional. I’m not talking about my emotions, I am talking about theirs.

One guy I was seeing, who seemed to be normal, at least in the beginning, decides that he has developed some sort of feelings for me. He and I had been intimately on and off for maybe a good eight months before he said anything to me, but finally, and maybe a bit resentfully, confessed how he felt. Now, for some reason, because it is already presumed that I, being of the female persuasion, coerced him or manipulated him into spilling his emotional guts, but I implore you, this was not the case. I was very open with him from the get-go. I told him I liked him, probably more than I should, but that I held no grand expectation for him to return the feeling. I liked our friends with benefits routine just fine and I didn’t feel the need to be in a relationship with him. And that’s what I told him. So, he explains his feelings for me. Great. Except the next morning, after I went home with him, after an amazing night of not just sex, but talking as us about the idea of us, he acted as though nothing ever happened. As if the sun popped up into the sky and wiped the last 12 hours right off the calendar. We haven’t spoken now for almost two months. Blows my fucking mind.

So, I moved on to the next one, whatever. I had been kind of talking to him for a few months before we got physical, and everything seemed awesome. He was the friends with benefits package I had wanted. Someone I could hang with, but also feel completely comfortable being naked around. I was content. Until the motherfucker had the fucking nerve to call me crazy. What the fuck? In our entire time of talking to one another, hanging out with each other, and fucking each other, not once, not a single fucking time, have I ever acted crazy. Like I said earlier, I know how to separate my emotions from the greater scheme of things. But, apparently, Kayla can’t fucking win at this whole friends with benefits game. Either I just can’t pick them, or there’s something wrong with me. And honestly, there’s nothing wrong with me.

It all boils down to this, GUYS:

1. If there’s even a remote possibility that you want to be with me: in a physically gratifying way, a friend’s way, or even of the acquaintance variety, fucking say so.
2. Once you make up your fucking mind about me, which shouldn’t be too hard, don’t change your mind over night. And if you do, at least explain to me what the fuck happened. Dropping off the face of the earth is a good way to get your stupid ass drop-kicked.
3. If, maybe because I’m awesome, you want to pursue a kind of friends with benefits thing with me, don’t fucking assume shit.

•             I am not going to suddenly flip a switch inside myself that turns my chill chick into a crazy bitch. Go ahead and do you, kid… I will be okay. Have your merry band of bitches, your little black booty call book, and your bro squad. I don’t care. I do not get jealous. Just because I have slept with you and/or still am sleeping with you, doesn’t mean I have staked claim on you. I will not, God forbid, act like your girlfriend. I am also not your bitch. This is not a one sided venture. You want to call me? Do it. But that means that when I call you, you do the same thing I would do for you and pick up the fucking phone. I am not a back pocket bitch, nor a back burner broad. We are hooking up for each other’s convenience, not just yours.
•             Take a look back and figure some shit out. I am a completely honest and open person. I speak what is on my mind. Hence the words you are reading right here. But, I expect the same kind of honesty, at least to some degree, with you. If you invited Tuesday Tina over when I text you to hook up, just say so. Have fun and wear a condom. Don’t make up some lame ass excuse about how your grandma needs to have her hip replaced for the third time and there’s no one else willing to drive the bat shit crazy woman to the hospital. Unless of course that is the case, in which I am sorry to hear that, tell her I wish her the best. Poor woman.
•         Do not assume I am crazy. You’re definition of crazy needs to be extremely modified if you ever, for any reason, beyond writing this whole fucking post, think that I am crazy. In any of our conversations, before and after we started hooking up, have I once, just a single time, ever brought up any of the red flag crazy words?
• Love
• Relationship
• Committment
• Marriage
• Babies

                     

No? Didn’t fucking think so. You’re welcome, douchebag. Until I bring up any of those words in the context of making you think that I might actually want any of them, especially with you, then you have nothing, and I do mean nothing, to worry about. Crazy avoided successfully. Really though, until I start asking you to run to CVS to go pick me up some fucking tampons, the word “crazy” should never be used to describe me. Or, frankly, any of the girls you are seeing. That’s just fucking rude.

The exception to any of this though is when we are actually exclusively dating. You are my boyfriend, I am your girlfriend. And right now, as it stands, being single is the life that is right for me.  I am focused on living a full regret-free life. School and work are my top two priorities. And I do not need any man to hold me back or bring me down. I am not about to get attached to some asshole with a God complex who thinks he can control my every fucking move. Been there, done that, fuck you.

I know this whole bitch-fest makes me look as insane as they all assume I am, but I really just needed to let this all out there. Off my chest. I needed a good ranting and I don’t give a damn if it contradicts what I am saying.

Okay, I’m done.

Resolution #030: Do not assume. Period. Not every person you meet is crazy. It is okay to talk openly about your emotions and your assumptions. Set your expectations to meet your standards. But do not jump to any conclusion before you open your mouth and use your words. That only makes you the idiot.