A seemingly simple self-request

I would stop chewing my nails if I could. And when I say chew my nails, I mean my nails and the skin around them. I have gone through so many boxes of Band-Aids it's not even funny. I can't decide whether I have an oral fixation or if I'm just super-anxious all the time. I'm sure it's a little bit of both, as with all my self-assessments. I've done it since I can remember. I stopped for like a month about a year and a half ago. I went with my mom to the spa at the Gaylord Texan and the lady there laughed when I said I wanted french tips 'cause my nails were so weak and short. I was proud of them, though.

My addiction to nail-biting/finger-chewing has helped me realize the true meaning of "I would if I could." Life concepts don't always have to come from big, traumatic events.

Well, it's a little traumatic since Band-Aids are involved.

Extra! Extra!

I cannot stand celebrity news shows. I used to watch them because they were entertaining but I've since come to the conclusion that they are just straight-up creepy. I feel like celebrities must think the entire American population is obsessive over them when really, we aren't. These shows, magazines, blogs, etc. are just a minute form of entertainment. Access Hollywood gets high ratings because it comes on right before Glee. People Magazine has a zillion subscribers so that we can have pictures to look at while we wait for our dentist appointment. We're not really interested. It just passes the time between one event to the next.

I'm not saying that I wouldn't think it cool if I saw a famous person at the airport or something, but I wouldn't creep on them. The paparazzi give these bitches too much credit. It's sad they have to live their lives in seclusion because in reality, no one really cares about them (sans Michael Jackson, apparently). Hollywood has just created this bubble around them 'cause it's something to do. A distraction from their boring, monotonous lives.

Currently Reading

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse.

"When someone is seeking...it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything...because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal."

Katie

you're just a product of loveliness

5

I was asked to write about what being gay means to me. I originally wrote something different, but I am going to rewrite that thought. What being gay means to me is openly being completely okay with what makes me happy. It took me a long time to come to the conclusion that I am this person, and I am no different than any other person. I grew up with very unaccepting parents. To this day, I still battle with my parents to accept me for who I am. As a child, I distinctly remember a book my mother gave me. “Strangers in a Christian Land.” She went through the book, highlighting various areas that she felt pertained to me, and could help me on my “journey to find god and my way back into the heterosexual lifestyle.” It was at that moment, in my 14-15 year old teenage body, that I decided I would never be anything other than what I felt was true and comfortable. I never looked back. Being gay to me means nothing more than being another person amongst the human race. Choosing to be gay isn’t anywhere in the equation, but choosing to be truly happy and loving whoever my heart desires to be with..that’s all that matters to me.

I'm aware that I have excessive bloggage issues,

but I like it.

I have childhood memories but the majority of them are only one sentence worth of memory.

For example:

I used to roller skate and I just remember how I'd brake. I'd jump off the rink and run into a carpet-covered apparatus that you could sit on.

I remember my dad took away my Carolina Mudcats mini baseball bat and threw it away because I kept hitting people.

I remember taking a spray bottle of water on the bus to school and spraying people and the bus driver made me go outside in front of everyone and empty it out.

The street that Nash Elementary was on was covered in lines of tar to cover the cracks. Squiggly black lines.

My sisters bedroom had a fire hazard sticker on the outside that read something like "In case of fire, this is children's room." (SUCH a bad idea in this day and age, fo' real.)

I used to cry at night because I'd see a doll hanging on my closets doorknob and for some reason I'd think it was my dad.

At a fishery in northwest Arkansas (it was actually quite beautiful), I'd purposefully step on every crack to fall and break my mamma's back.

I remember going to my uncle's best friend's wedding. He died in a big interstate accident on the way to coach a soccer game a few years later.

I remember "teaching" my cousins the F-word while visiting them in Paris. I told them not to repeat it. I went to the bathroom and as I was returning, they were both chanting it as loudly as they could. I also remember my aunt writing my mom about my bad language and my parents didn't believe it/care. Tehe O:).

I could go on forever.

MmHmmM!

"He that will not reason is a bigot; he that cannot reason is a fool; he that dares not reason is a slave." -William Drummond