The Color Of Hunger

Posts Tagged ‘music

The over.whelm.ing

S…C…E…N…T of Sharpie tickles my IMAGINATION.

My palms begin to feel…magnetic-tic-tik-tic (toc?) against this pad of paper.

(+)Positive versus (-)negative.

The pull

increasing

as reality descends.
Sweating now.

¡NO TIME! to initiate a thought process.

Bundles of recycled creativity leave me longing for more.

More of…
(…)….anything….(…)….everything….(…)….all at once….(…)

No one can touch ME.

My veins pump quick with energy, my blood a thick, rich red.
People stare yet keep to themselves.

Their
eyes dance with FEAR
as
my mind is thoroughly examined.

Skin cold, lungs numb; curiosity makes the pupils twitch.
A backwards breast stroke beneath a background of brilliant blue.
∞(.I see you.)∞
But please, no need for the negatives. Touch me, feel me, but don’t be afraid.
Uniquely Different.

FUCK routine.

I am a superhero of sorts without all those superpowers.
My heart is warm; shared sympathy never bitter.
WELCOME TO MY WORLD.

I suppose I am happy here. I suppose I belong. Bright moments contracting dull.

Life is art and I am the artist. Crouched behind that big wooden easel.

My paintbrush…

A

L

I

V

E

with so many colors.

So much FrEeDoM.

Mind racing (racing) with opportunity; fingers can’t keep up.

Perspiration via motivation. The cologne of accomplishment.

The paper softens as I progress. Happy mistakes litter the page now.

Along-with-hundreds-of-inches-of-leeway. Ahhh, leeway.

My brain seems…bruised…with numb surprise.

Cleverly disguised in white, I suggest, ‘Perhaps, a different wardrobe?’

BLUES
ORANGES
GREENS
REDS

Everything just sort of connects/blends/combines.

I’m left to smile at these results.

Today, I cannot STOP smiling.

All this awesomeness is making my face hurt.

[.Yup.]

=] ♣ [=

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I’m about as comfortable with myself as I will ever be. I like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I think, the way I live my life. I’m comfortable in my own skin. However, I can always be better. I can ALWAYS be better. Although, I never wanna pull off perfection. I wanna be the passionate one who fights to get somewhere, but I never wanna get there. I cherish the struggle. I want the impossible dream so that I never become like a majority of society and settle for average. I’d rather try super hard to reach an unachievable goal. Enjoying life in the meanwhile as it happens in the present. The great stuff is right now, not twenty years down the line.

I feel compelled to follow my conscience and my heart wherever it leads me, even if that means pain. I’m not scared of pain. These days I embrace the pain. Pain exists so that when pleasure comes, it seems that much more intense. Certain things must exist in this world in order for other things to coexist. I don’t need the unexplainable explained to me to feel good about life. I just feel good about life not knowing everything there is to know. If we never went without, we’d never appreciate what we have. I get nostalgic for the good ol’ days, but look forward for the ones to come. I don’t live in the past; I just visit on occasion. I like not knowing. I like not having everything explained to me. I like having to learn more. I like questioning things. I like pondering life. I’m prolly a bit excessive sometimes, but that’s just me. That’s just who I am.

I love unconditionally. I forgive people like you wouldn’t believe (some of them I probably shouldn’t forgive) and never forget. But I can move past. I don’t judge based on who you were, I judge based on who you are. I never lose interest in people. Mi casa es su casa; what’s mine is yours. I’m a giver like that. If you don’t feel love in yer life, it’s cuz you don’t let it in. I figure sharing is what makes a difference. Never sharing yerself, yer life, yer shit? Well, that just closes you off in a closet somewhere, huddled in the dark cold all by yerself. My life is way too precious not to share it with others, not to truly love and laugh and enjoy all it has to offer. I can’t NOT tell you how it really is, I can’t censor what I’m really feeling.

I believe everything I do every single day is my own fault. Everything that happens to me is cuz I did something that caused it to happen. If someone feels too much drama in their life, it’s cuz they like that drama or they’re not ready to let it go on some level. Life is all about choices. I don’t understand how anyone can hate anyone else. Hate is an emotional response. It’s not based in reason and logic. If someone hurts me, of course I wanna hurt them back. Duh. But I do that by moving on and becoming better than they could ever hope to be. Don’t waste yer time and energy on people and their problems. I try my best, but I’m sure as hell not perfect. I just learn from my mistakes really well.

I love emotion, feeling, words, music, colors, freedom, sex, beauty. Anything that tantalizes and makes me take a second look. I want the body, the mind, and all the in-betweens. I’m a very sexual human being. I imagine everybody naked all the time. Sometimes I wish I could shut off the x-ray vision (it’s not always a pretty sight). My favorite thing about sex is that part right before. The nervous part. The not knowing part. It’s almost more naked than actually BEING naked. It’s the mystery behind the clothes that radiates sexuality for me. There’s just so many combinations, so many sensations. The shallow part of him pulling me in, the deeper part of him pushing me away, the way I want so badly to feel him around me, all around me, every bit of him, to be lost inside of him. It’s acquisition without the burden of possessions. That’s the magic of sex. No matter how lost you get in the moment, storage is never an issue.

However, I will never, EVER give up on love. Love exists and I know it’s out there somewhere. Even if it hurts more than anything in the world. It’s such a subjective thing, such a submissive part of life. But when it’s there, you just know. I also know that love can exist outside of sex and vice-versa. Almost all the time, you tell yerself yer loving somebody when yer just using them to fill some need. This only looks like love. Love takes, but it has to give as well. I know the difference and have gotten considerably better at separating the two.

I drink sometimes. I’ll smoke the occasional cigar/’special’ cigar. I don’t mind being sober or chemically imbalanced. I like to party just as much as the next girl, but’ll strip down and run around naked for no reason at all if the mood strikes. I don’t think I’m a nut. I just stopped caring what people think about me. I love to laugh and have a great sense of humor. I’m fun and compassionate and can enjoy myself anywhere. I don’t hafta leave the house to have fun. I don’t hafta stay at home to have fun. I’m spontaneous, confident, outgoing, and full of life. I’m certainly not stupid, but on the same note, I’m not afraid to be a fool. I don’t hide behind a mask of insecurity. I always intellectualize, but that never stops me from jumping out of a plane or doing something that could potentially kill me.

I love pleasure. I love pain. I’m selfish yet modest, shy yet extroverted. I have intense mental concentration. I zone out and go places inside my head where no one can find me. I dance to music sometimes and nobody understands why I’m dancing. I love to express myself with movement and love music of all varieties. I’m not afraid to cry or share my feelings in a way that leaves me vulnerable. If you can’t tell already, I love to write and learn and imagine. I wanna influence minds and spark thoughts. I take away information instead of just images from a screen; the occasional memorization of the spoken word replaced with real genuine thought process. I can walk around a book store for hours and never get bored. I could prolly do that for days even.

To me, words are like life. Words mean everything. They express the inexpressible, they help me understand myself and the world around me. They express what I’m feeling in ways much like an artist with paint would express himself or herself or itself or whatever. I write to move people, to move myself, to see where I’ve been, where I’m going, to observe and learn, to experience the joy and pain again and again, to experience how relentless life can be, how bittersweet and full of fury it really is. I need for people to understand, to WANT to understand, to WANT to know me, whether or not they’ll like what they get.

I dream cuz I’m a dreamer. I think of how much I rely on my sense of touch, how much a feeling stimulates me and the feelings of things around me. The way the skin feels, running fingers through hair, a soft pair of lips, the curve of an ear, a neck, a back, etc. I find the experience of losing it all very exhilarating. To lose my senses, to lose my beliefs, to lose my life, to lose myself totally; a great beginning to something else. A freedom from a world of unattainable desires.

I think of streams and rivers, tall trees, mossy nooks, greens and browns, the branches high above me as I stand in the middle of a forest lost and confused. I find myself looking with other people’s eyes all the time. Looking through someone else’s pupils, encountering their lives as they do, living loosely through a series of past experiences seen in the present. Think of a movie, think of love scenes, think of watching yerself fuck, think of seeing yerself through yer own eyes, except not. Sometimes I find stuff I’m not even looking for. Sometimes I find nothing. Sometimes I just do what I do.

I ramble a lot. But I’m simply stirred, not shaken. My life is blasted all over this page cuz I can’t help but be me. I HAVE to share myself. I HAVE to be me. I’ll look at an object and I see a million things you don’t see. You see a couch. I see it being made, who sat on it, who fucked on it, what animal died to make it. I’m not full of myself but I know I got what a lot of people want. I don’t generalize often and don’t judge books by covers, but without covers, why would I even buy the book to begin with? Everything is like that. First glance means EVERYTHING. Most of you see my pictures and they draw you in. Yes, those pictures are one hundred percent me. Or at least the outside visual me. Most people don’t seem to care about what’s on the inside anymore. I hope you do. Shit, I’d like to think if you’ve read this far, you must care at least a LITTLE more than the next guy. Either way, I’ve still got yer attention.

Laying flat on the bed, my muscles feel sore. The thermostat reads 77 degrees and it’s hot even with the window open. Something is distracting me, something leads me to something else, so I sit and write and try to make sense of it. Right now I feel like a shooting star that no one knows is falling. Like a tree in the woods that makes lots of sound and ruckus, but no one is there to witness it even if it never falls. I have to obey certain, yu know, laws of the universe, but I never know where I’m gonna end up. I just fall and fall and go boom and smack! Then I hit the earth.

Sometimes writing is all I have. Everything else is just doing stuff for the sake of doing stuff. I’ll get to points where I do things for no reason. Losing logic and reason based on adrenaline and hormones. Some days I wake up with desires unquenched. There are so many things I want, but only so much I can do in a day. Urges seem to come up inside of me out of nowhere. I’m a bit of a compulsive person. Spontaneous even. I like spontaneity. I like doing what feels good. About matters of sex and life and activity and friends and food and just everything. I have no destination, it’s not a journey. I’m just enjoying the trip.

The getting of life is hard. It makes no difference how things get started. What matters is how they end up. In someplace, somewhere, with someone, calling out to be saved. Lost, but never wavering. Take the search for love and the meaning of life for example. How does something or someone I can’t touch or see or define make me so miserably wonderful? Why do I look at thoughts and get mesmerized for hours? I honestly don’t know. I love the way I think, though. I do. I’ll see the words in my mind before I actually say them out loud. I’ll play with each letter before it even touches my lips to be used and abused. I contemplate things before they happen, before I make a move. Weigh my actions on imaginary scales that only exist in so much that I MAKE them exist. I don’t deny myself, I just ignore myself sometimes. I redirect my feelings towards other things.

The power of night turns me on, more so than the day. When the sun no longer shines and the moon rules my mind, my feelings begin to blur and dissolve leaving me stranded on an island of lost love and reinvigorated desire. The tenderness I feel for him is overwhelming, the times I think he’s out there feeling the same way. I stress the word think. I don’t know as much as I may believe cuz I really just don’t know. If that makes any sense at all. I can hope and believe and have faith all day long, but placing trust in something or someone I don’t entirely understand, have never really met, always feels like a risk. And maybe that’s part of the high of being with them or not. The not knowing, the gamble, the fact that I’ll never gain anything until I lose everything.

I would lose it all for some people, but I don’t think they’d lose much of anything for me. I would jump off a cliff for those select few. Whereas they might buy me an orange juice with some booze in it only to be angry about the price and end up keeping the receipt to hold over my head years from now. It’s a crazy sort of feeling that I just don’t know how to quit. Some people say and believe they’re positive people. And sometimes they are. But a lot of the time they’re nothing but doom and gloom disguised beneath fake smiles and tainted kindness.

Days stretching into weeks. All the night clubs and bars I passed tonight downtown, full to capacity on a Thursday night. People searching for sex, searching to become numb, searching for a way not to feel, not to experience. Searching and not even knowing they’re searching. What about tomorrow? The day after? Is it all about just making money so you can spend the money you made? Yup, I’m just rambling now. Fuck. Nothing good could ever come of this.

So, today I came across the most amazing techno/electronic/funky/sexy/crazy/amazing/beautiful/wicked/awesome song. Allow me to explain.

This Song robs me of breath. I grit my teeth without realizing I’m gritting them and find myself frantically searching for an inhaler. Even if I did have a few puffs to spare, they’d be gone before I made it past the 1-minute mark. This Song makes me dizzy, it’s so awesome. Demi Moore would divorce Ashton and remarry him again, just to have This Song played at the wedding.

My play count column has reached thirty-five for This Song within an hour of downloading it. And it’s 4+ minutes in length. (This Song makes impossible shit possible.) I wish I could create my own genre in Itunes. I would put This Song under an independent label better known to music fans as “ABSOLUTELY FUCKING AMAZING”. It would be the only song in its genre. People would buy billions. The music business would resemble a sort of Avatar-like boost in popularity, but eventually get so big that the entire movie industry would be considered ‘just a fad’. All thanks to This Song.

If This Song were a fashion model, she’d be the skinniest, most attractive model in show-biz. A healthy skinny though, as in sexy skinny and not part of a tree branch skinny. This Song’s strides would be one with her stilettos. Her legs would extend and collapse at perfect angles when on the runway. Cameramen that gathered in mobs beneath her feet would drop to their knees, surrendering helplessly to her soft, yet difficult outer beauty. ‘Maybe she was born with it’, would be the joke of the century.

I think my imagination and This Song just fell in love. It puts me in a world of blurry trance, a fantasy land with side-effects consisting of constant movement and rapid heartbeat. This Song holds me hostage to its positive vibes. The bass on it could re-invent water. The treble holds enough power to turn Obama Republican and Michael black again. AC/DC would be lucky to have This Song even consider touring the world with them, because worldwide tours are against This Song’s religion. That, along with the whole concept of having a religion to begin with.

This Song’s Myspace page would be set to private due to the amount of followers it would receive on a daily basis. It would probably freeze the Internet on a global level if it did end up switching to public. In fact, This Song puts Google to death simply by profile views. You couldn’t count how many hits it had in the  first hour of live streaming, if you combined all the hands in America and multiplied that number by twenty. (“Shit that’s a lot, maaaan”). You bet yer ass that’s a lot.

This Song is so incredibly hard to stop listening to. Just thinking about it gives me a nosebleed and causes me to forget how to spell my own name. I start to fade out from reality but come back again, solely to hear the rest of it. I’m fascinated by how many high and low parts This Song consists of. Techno music has a few here and there, but This Song is a high and lows pimp. It’s so well-written, my five senses are having a tea-party inside of my head. But instead of tea, they’ve got Starbursts and Red Bull. My tastebuds are moving with the backbone of This Song’s chorus. Like bundles of tiny red Pop Rocks, they bounce in beelines on the surface of my tongue. This Song always laughs with me when my mouth goes numb. A manly laugh too, the laugh you never seem to hear anymore; the loud and hearty chuckle uttered by a confident man who could give a rip less what people think of his cackle, sometimes even making fun of himself.

This Song could randomly walk through a fancy night club in downtown L. A. and be asked to DJ within thirty seconds of entering the place. The disc jockey would stop his music and the dance floor would go silent. “No, no, I liked what you were spinnin’. I wanna hear you spin.” This Song would go on a marathon of modesty and excuses before crossing the finish line of temptation. It couldn’t help it, music was in its blood. {Ahhh, the irony.} This Song would always end up spinning the best shit, too, never settling for a boring show. Its fingertips would caress the record in such an exotic way, it’d make you believe there was a zoo of instruments inside the vinyl itself. You just couldn’t see them. You had to feel.

The word ‘feel’ was This Song’s job. People considered it a chiropractor to their lyrical backbone, a doctor of sorts, who couldn’t tell you how to spell ”Ph. D” to save its life, but could lay down a throwback track so hardcore, that a sad, old, deaf man would drop his cane and start dancing the ”Funky Chicken” to it. Then This Song would turn Grandpa’s little walking stick into a cluster of speakers and turntables and Grandpa into a damn good DJ. The old man would mix for hours, hypnotized by the way the black record brushed gently against the soles of his skin. He would be alive again, revived by the therapy of sound. This Song would even coin a name for its treatment. It would be referred to as ’stimulation of the music muscles.’ Music memory. The art of finding one’s self between the crosshairs of a good beat and an even better baseline. Getting lost in tempos, but refusing the map. The Lewis and Clark of creativity. And boy does This Song like to be creative.

This Song would force Santa to turn anorexic with how intense its lyrics are. (Pssst, it doesn’t have any lyrics.) He would fire all his little elves for bald midgets, who whistled portions of Beatles’ songs when they worked. This Song would be their Christmas theme song, even though it had absolutely nothing to do with the holidays. It didn’t have to. The pure brilliance of its inner beauty and outer details were enough for it to replace the national anthem. The “Star Spangled Banner” would be a thing of the past and completely unheard of to younger generations.

If This Song decided to move to South Africa, its entire fanbase would move with it. Later on in life, it would write a book about the adaptation to African culture. The book would be titled “Caucasian Invasion” and would put Mark Twain to shame. It would be considered ‘too controversial’ to be sold in Walmart. When This Song heard about the boycott from Wally World, it was so frustrated that it bought the entire Walmart franchise, shut it down, fired all the workers, and opened it back up again. Only this time Wally World was a massive chain of rollerblading rinks with free admission.

People would travel from all over the world to bask in This Song’s success. Little kids considered This Song to be their idol. They wanted to be just like it. Parents would even name their children after cities This Song’s rollerblading rinks were in. It always had a way of making people smile, too. No one could understand how outstanding it made them feel, it just did. (There’s that “feel” word again.) The addiction to emotion was way too incredible to pass up. Every emotion was stimulated when listening to This Song. Sad, happy, mad, funny. You name it, This Song stimulated it. I’m not even sure if it should be called a song. The offspring of Wonder Woman and God himself would be more in the ballpark. (Or maybe Matt Bouldin; that guy’s a stud. A very attractive, tan stud.)

It’s almost intangible how talented This Song is. When it was born, it came out wearing bright green aviators and had a Puerto Rican cigar perched between its perfect apple-red lips. It weighed fifteen pounds and spoke seven different languages, primarily Italian. Over the years, This Song would loose its accent, but never its pride. Cooking up killer spaghetti and lasagna dishes for hungry rollerskaters would be its specialty. Right behind being the best tune in the history of the world. “No big deal” it would say, confidence and poise behind every word. “I can’t explain it. I guess it just runs in my blood.”

This Song =

~ “Charlotte” by Booka Shade ~

I hate mornings with a passion. A PASSION. Waking up too late is always too early. Especially when I get to that point where under my blankets is like fifty times warmer than the air temperature in my room. I love getting to that point. I haven’t gotten up to see single digits on my alarm clock in three weeks because of that point. Which is why today was a major exception.

Last night, I found a job posting on Craigslist that I considered actually worth taking a shot at. A deli server at this mexican restaurant on Riverside Street called DeLeon Deli. Not even two blocks from the plaza, this place would be the perfect place to work. I could board basically any bus in Spokane, anywhere, and end up at work within the hour. Sweet, I thought to myself, hopping on the 65 from Cheney. This trip downtown may actually have a purpose for me this time. Haha, if only I knew.

I actually enjoy riding the bus. Most people bitch about the creepy bums, or the nauseating smells, or the fact that the bus is always late to their stop, but I like all that stuff. (K, maybe not the smells, I’ll pass on those.) To me, it’s all part of the ride. I put on my headphones and can go on 8-hour binges of random bus routes without getting the slightest urge of boredom. Every person that gets on has a different song, too. I’ll pride myself on finding that song.

It’s almost like a game. The fatter the person, the more instrumental the beat gets. The more facial hair a guy has, the more classic rock sound the song will have. Every now and again, I’ll get a young mom with like ten kids at her side, nine of them in strollers. I’ve found that sad songs work best here, “Scar Tissue” being a family favorite. I don’t consider myself to be passing judgement, and you shouldn’t either. I just have fun analyzing personalities before I actually get a chance to meet that person. It’s entertainment. Plus, it’s free.

I end up getting downtown about noon-thirty. Finding Riverside Street was easy and finding the deli was even easier. Resume in hand, I walk into the Heroes And Legends section of the building and ask the young bartender that was currently on duty if this was the right place to get an application. She half-heartedly reached under the counter and handed me one without changing her facial expression or saying a single word. Whatever, I’m thinking to myself, maybe she’s had a rough start today or something. Who knows.

I sit down, start filling this thing out, get to about the fifth letter in my name, and lo and behold, my wonderful pen runs out of ink. Shit. My mind automatically starts planning Plan B – the bartender lady has to have another pen I can borrow. Actually, I know for a fact I spotted some on the far corner by the cash register when first coming in here. So I ask her politely, making an extra effort to apologize for ‘my little inconvenience’. She rudely interrupts me before I have a chance to even finish my sentence, preaching about how when job hunters go job hunting they should be prepared. Then proudly adds that her lovely deli is no exception to this.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on,” I explain to her, laughing a little on purpose to try and ease the tension. “I did come prepared, my pen just ran out of ink.” Apparently, she didn’t find this situation as humorous as I did. “Well that’s not my problem, is it?” I couldn’t believe it. She then disappeared behind the bar in a hurry, telling me she had customers to tend to. (I saw two men in the entire restaurant, maybe three.)

Jesus. H. Christ. It’s not like I’m trying to buy the bar from you, woman. Although at this point I think I would, just so I’d have the power to control who gets hired here and who doesn’t. (Hmm, guess who’d be the first to go?) It’s a pen. How hard is it to take ten seconds out of your incredibly busy schedule (*cough*, sarcasm, *cough cough*) and provide me with a writing utensil that’s sitting not even five feet away from you? Seriously? Were you really that set on teaching me a lesson? Boy did you show me. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat for at least a month now, I feel so guilty. Pshh. Please.

Frustrated and tired of pretending to play nice with my friend at the bar, I stuffed the blank piece of paper in the deepest part of my backpack and left DeLeon Deli with no intention of returning my application. I know jobs are far and few between these days, but the whole ‘customer is always right’ concept is still ranked pretty high in my book. Even if the customer happens to be a potential future employee.

I’m not a person who gets fired up that easily, either. Patience is usually one of my better characteristics and I often use it to my advantage. However, there was something about the tone she used that got to me. Almost as if I were the lesser being in her eyes; like she’s on some sort of higher pedal stool in life just because she started a career and I’m looking for one. Which I find to be rather funny. I mean, come on now. She knows damn well that she had to go through the same job finding shit that I’m currently experiencing. Everybody has to start somewhere.

I guess it’s for the better though, right? Hell, maybe I would have got shot in a robbery working at this place, so God made the bartender go into ‘bitch mode’ for a few minutes, knowing I wouldn’t come back with an application because of it. Or maybe I’m overlooking the fact that I’m just another stubborn 18 year old who thinks too much about things and can’t get a job to save her life. Whatever it is, I can’t explain it, so I won’t try to. Wish me luck on tomorrow’s pre-planned adventure. Destination McDonalds. Haha, just kidding. I’m not that desperate. Yet.

“I have 59 days left until school is done with. Forever.”

You have absolutely no idea the glee it gives me to finally be able to say that. Letting those eleven words slip off the tip of my tongue with the greatest of ease, without even having to tag along ‘just kidding’ at the end of them. The burly black doors of freedom have just burst open, revealing infinite fields of caramel kettle corn, orange popsicle trees, and smiling wisps of cumulus clouds that transform into Swedish Fish when you snap yer fingers. Although, I’ll have to admit, being a senior at Cheney High School has been quite an exciting and rewarding journey. Let’s rewind to the golden years for a paragraph or two.

I began my educational pathway at a tiny little brick schoolhouse out in the middle of nowhere. Ahhh, Great Northern. I believe my graduating class (6th grade) had five of us in it. Quite a turnout if I may say so myself, considering the whole school (K-6th) housed approximately 32 students in total. Despite the limited number of kids to become ‘besties’ with, Great Northern is, and always will be, my most memorable school. And since it was so small, you really got to know your teachers and vice versa. One particular individual, who will always be remembered in my book, is my 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Kathy Vela. I was always the shy kid in the corner, you know the one. Where anything and everything I said triggered a dark shade of red to sneak its way across my chubby white cheeks. Well, being the understanding mentor she was, Mrs. Vela managed to coax me out of my anti-social habits, slowly but surely. To tell you the truth, she was one of the first people (besides the good ol’ rents of course) that I felt I could fully trust. This was awesome for me, because I was a very self-conscious kid back then, (I sported double-row braces, leopard framed glasses, and insanely curly blond hair) and she provided that safety barrier which I knew I could always fall back upon.

After saying goodbye to Great Northern and all the unforgettable memories I had created there, I moved on up to Cheney Middle School. For me, this was a huge, crazy, overwhelming change. To put it in simplest terms, everything that was going great for me was violently sucked up into a giant gray cloud, never to be seen again. Imagine if Earth was just an enormous, dirty dust ball and the Milky Way was a top-of-the-line Hoover with incredible dust ball GPS built into it. SLLLLURP! Total disaster, right? Well, that pretty much described my life as a 7th grader. That is, until I met music.

Music has always provided me with an outlet from the stresses of everyday life. I believe, where words fail, music speaks. If I woke up one idle Thursday morning to find out I had lost my hearing I could not fathom what I would do. It would be the ‘deaf’ of me. For example, when two of my best friends are arguing, and I know they’re both wrong, the ability for me to remain silent is almost as hard as falling asleep on Christmas Eve. So to play it safe, I just pop in my earphones, and trade their heated words in for a much needed daily dose of Chris Martin’s (Coldplay) incredible British accent. Works every time.

But anywho, back to my reflection, 7th grade continued to 8th and that’s when I discovered I had an itch to snatch a spot on the team of dancing, jiving, and all but boring Show Stoppers. These guys were breathtaking in my eyes. I want to be up there so bad, I’d tell myself day after day. But it was more than just a ‘want’; it was a ‘need’. I needed to showcase my soprano voice, needed to represent my fellow Nighthawks, and most of all, needed that sense of pride that came with performing alongside the best of the best. And so one chilly September morning, I swallowed my doubts and uncertainties and tried out.

Two weeks full of worry, baggy eyes, and stubby nails had finally come to an end as I anxiously read my results off the little metal bulletin hanging in the cafeteria. I had made it! Engulfed in happiness and satisfaction, I had finally found my place. Soon after my euphoric moment by the little metal bulletin board, life seemed a lot more enjoyable. Classes were easier, aiming distance for that 4.0 didn’t appear half as far, and Mr. Waud had to have been one of the most down-to-Earth teachers to make a difference in my life.

My favorite piece of middle school (besides choir) would easily have to have been the Fridays. Every Friday, rain or shine, my two best friends and I would dress up in a theme that we ourselves had created. I don’t even know how we thought of this idea, or the reasoning behind it. It was just ‘one of those little things’, that eventually evolved into ‘one of those big things’ by the end of the school year. I suppose you could have called it our mid-life crisis, but instead of blowing $30,000 towards a brand new Mustang convertible, we transformed our Fridays into (and these are just to list a few) Disney Day, Nerd Day, Backwards Day, Indian Day, Dress-Like-Your-Dad-For-A-Day Day, Superhero Day, Goth Day, Gangsta Day, 70’s Day, Hick Day, Pajamas Day, Beach Day, and just so many more. Everybody always thought we had literally lost our minds, but I guess they were right in a way. However, to me, middle school Fridays were always too far away, but when they finally did get here, they made school so much more worth going for.

Although our Fridays were extremely entertaining, Britney, Kaneeka, and I had to leave them with the Nighthawks. Despite the I-don’t-care-what-anybody-thinks-of-us attitudes we had once possessed, being a freshman was a scary thought. Plus, atomic wedgies, wet willies, and all the other senior pranks that were supposedly going to happen to us always managed to leave quite a sour taste in my mouth. So that was that, sad but true.

Prior to contray belief, freshman year proved to be an outstanding one. Closed campus didn’t really affect me because when yer a freshman cafeteria food is part of a normal/consistent food source. I don’t know what it is about being a senior, and I still can’t explain it to this day, but going out to eat means something more than just grabbing some dollar fries and a Big Mac. It’s like a rite; a passage. When you have the ability to leave school grounds, be it by friends with cars or maybe even your own car, there’s that ‘cool factor’ that comes along with it. Automatically, you become that much cooler. It’s honestly one of those labels that will never get old.

But enough about the food part. (I’m hungry can you tell.) I flew through my freshman year holding steady a solid 3.6 cumulative GPA. This was quite a feat for me, looking back now and knowing that I wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box, nor did I have the attention span to make up for it. I met many irreplaceable people along the way. One of them being my volleyball coach, Cherie Gwinn. She was one of the most enthusiastic people I’ve ever been coached by. Staying after practice to improve her players’ skills didn’t bother her in the least bit. “Are you sure you wanna stay, Coach? Cuz I totally understand if you don’t.” She’d always respond back to me telling me how ‘practice makes perfect’ and how she was here to help me out in that little saying. Thanks to her, I shocked everybody (including myself) and made varsity my sophomore and junior year. It was just such an awesome feeling; one of my high points in life so far.

Since we’re on the subject, let’s talk sports. My whole life, whether it be bush or competitive leagues, summer or in-season, sports have always been there for me. Perseverance and determination are big factors, but are also big learning curves. Take track as an example.

I absolutely fell in love with track and field. The atmosphere was awesome, I was actually excelling at what I did (high jump + javelin) and I had Stralser to keep me going and to help pick me up when I was down. Sophomore year was kind of a bummer because I missed going to State by a mere 4 feet for javelin. That hurt, it really did. However, my junior year, I decided to venture outside the box, and tried my luck as a pole-vaulter, working harder and more determined than I ever had in the past. Turns out, hard work pays off. My height masked my faulty drop step, and I ended up going to State with an 8’6’’. To make things even more perfect, I threw a 112’6’’ the next day for javelin and beat out the two Pullman girls, thus sending me to State in my second event as well. I was ecstatic. Perseverance, determination, and an open attitude to embrace/try something new had struck gold for me.

I can not explain to you, within a two sentence radius, or even an eight paragraph essay what all of my educational experiences have taught me. First of all, there’s just too much to list, and secondly, my words would not be enthusiastic enough to represent my past. I can tell you this though; I am a very independent learner. Don’t get me wrong, I love meeting new people. Taking differences between my attitude and beliefs and accepting someone else’s is one of life’s simple pleasures. But when it comes to learning, being stuck in a group is definitely not leaning towards my ‘educational benefits’. I’m not sure how to reason with you on how, or why that is. It’s just who I am as a learner. It’s kind of unique in a way, because if you take my outside-of-school activities and then try to match them with my inside-of-school activities, you’d find that opposites attract, considering I’ve been in team sports my whole life. Funny how that works.

To further my education, I am planning to attend college, but don’t know where or when. To be completely honest, I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Freshman year I had my mind set on becoming the most well-known veterinarian in the history of Cheney. Hah! The following year, my choices narrowed down to a sharp tie between any job having to do with animals, and/or a field in sports broadcasting. Like I’ve said before, I love sports. I always have. Put me in almost any game situation and I will perform to the best of my abilities. But get me in front of a camera, and the whole room seems to spin, leaving me totally speechless with maybe a few ‘ums, uhs, and hmms,’ here and there. Therefore, broadcasting live in front of hundreds of people on a daily basis is out of the question.

About halfway through my junior year, I realized that I didn’t really mind what I ended up doing, so long as each day of my job was unique and different and preferably took place outside. I mean, I could never ever be one of those people who do the same thing over and over again, hour after hour, day after day. Take a Wal-mart greeter for an excellent example. “Hello, how are you? How’s yer day going today? Welcome to Wally World, I’d rather be knitting purple elephant sweaters with Grandma Rosey, but enough about me, what’s up with you?” Okay, maybe I exaggerated a bit on the last one, but I needed to make my point. Point being; repetition = not exciting = boring = not me. So once again, I still have no clue what I want to be.

However, I do believe that the skills I’ve developed over the years, in and out of school, will provide me with a huge ingredient in impacting my future dreams and career stepping stones in whatever I end up doing. They will also allow me to learn from my mistakes in the past, and correct them in the future. Or even better; not even make them at all.

Writing this senior reflection paper has opened my eyes in many ways, and makes me realize how lucky I really am. Throughout my experiences, K-12th, I’ve found that life can be a journey to nowhere and everywhere, all at the same time. Meeting new people is always something you should be encouraged to do because you never know where they might lead you in life. I’ve also learned that before things get better, they have to get worse first. Which sucks in the short perspective of things, but pays off to a tee in the long run. Before I end this masterpiece, I want to thank all of the people who’ve made a difference on my outlook of life and say one last thing. I may have no idea where I’m going, how I’m getting there, or what I’ll end up doing, but by God I promise it’ll be everything but boring.


Spokane, WA. 26 years young. Aquarius, of course. I am a very optimistic individual driven by passion and creativity. Music is my inspiration to everything. I dig the nightlife. I enjoy discovering new craft beers and breweries. I like animals more than humans. The ocean is amazing. I have no idea what I wanna do with my life and prolly never will. But I'm going to succeed because I'm crazy enough to think I can.
September 2019
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