"Love is watching someone die"

I knew this was coming. I've known for a long time that some day we would have to say goodbye, and I've tried to steel myself against it for years. All those days and nights with her, I thought it could go on forever. I thought I was being so neurotic when she would curl up next to me and I would panic thinking of the day long-off that she wouldn't. That day is so much closer now. So much nearer than I prepared myself for.

She's too tired to play anymore. Too tired for climbing up onto the bed with me. Too tired to eat most days. She lays with her head to the floor and a far away glaze to her eyes and it terrifies me. She's so calm now, she could slip away from me completely at any time. I habitually check on her, just to make sure she wouldn't leave without saying goodbye.

 There's this old Death Cab for Cutie song I loved when I was a teenager. It was released in '05, so I suppose I would have been 15 or 16 when I found it. I didn't know loss when I loved it. I'd lost two family members by the time I was that age, and I know what death is and how it affects a person. I had never been personally stricken, though. Today, for the first time in almost a decade, I heard "What Sarah Said", completely by chance. I was overcome with the selfishness of my own grief. I wept in the grocery store while looking for something that might suit Skylie's appetite.

I do say selfishness. Grief in itself is one of the most selfish experiences a person has. I don't cry for her, I cry for me. I cry because I am the one above anyone else who should have been there for her. I should have done more. I should have been smarter. Instead, she lays here now in her favorite chair that I set her in because she is too weak to climb up on her own. She is surrounded by half-eaten treats and bits of kibbles, but she doesn't want any of them. The medication only angers her, it isn't fair to her that I have to force them on her twice a day. Her teeth are softer now, too. she is missing two of her front teeth, and I'm not quite sure when or how they went. I should have been a better friend to her. For all the times she would come running at my tears, I was 'too busy' and I let her whither away when she needed me. She deserved better from me, and I let her down.

Feedback Burnout

I didn't know where else to put this, so I'm putting it here. While I do use this as my soap box most days, it is still my personal blog and I'm going to talk about something that is very personal indeed.

For as long as I can remember I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to be an actress, but I'm afraid of crowds. I wanted to be an artist, but I've never had the patience for theory. I wanted to be a writer, but I have absolutely no focus and no self confidence to just bite the bullet and dive head first into it. For a creative outlet I've turned here to my blog. I intended to use this space as a dump for fiction, just as a storage hub for things I half-started or never gave a chance to. I wanted it to be a vent for my female rage and my post-pubescent angst. I wanted it to be so many things, and what I feel I have done here is turned it into a circus.

I don't really write for me, I write for who I hope would be reading. I have become obsessed with tracking my page views and finding out who thinks I am cool and interesting and unique. I have become a feedback junkie and my blog has become my fix. I'd like to come back to my original intent for this, now that I have some creative juices flowing toward the WWADcast stuff that we have on the go. If you'd like to see me further make an ass of myself, I'll be over there with my clown make-up on.

I'll be back soon, and maybe I'll do some behind-the-scenes, I-want-to-be-internet-famous brooding then. Right now, I've got some editing to do.

Adultlescence: Gear Down, Big Rig

Let me begin by saying that there isn't a special subcategory of society for women's rights and it bothers me when it is implied there is. Women's rights are human rights. Period.

 

Due to recent events and discussions (hi, Zach! <3) some points on female equality have come to my attention that I haven't commented on that I feel I need to. I'm standing on my soap box today to dole out some good ol' down home May Again opinions.

 

When a group like Rapebook are running around the internet, quelling the rights of others, it really gives the movement a bad name. When you're out lynching everything you as an individual or group disagree with, what you are doing is stomping on these people and their freedom of speech and the right to expression. you aren't doing battle with the patriarchy, you're censoring social media. You are treating the symptom without getting at the cause, and because of this you are only burning bridges instead of reaching out. No person who would make jokes about violence against women is going to think twice about the issue at hand if all you are doing is telling them what they can and cannot share. they are going to feel attacked. They are going to become defensive or strike back. This was the case with the well intentioned but poorly executed Rapebook, and it has since been shut down. Any person with misogynist tendencies who is silenced will only have those ideas reinforced. in the long run, it is our own cause that is hurt.

 

Do I think these jokes are funny? Do I support those individuals out there who create and share this kind of media? What am I, some kind of backward anti-feminist antagonist? No, no, definitely not. Hell, I don't consider myself a feminist, but I say this in the same way that I say that I don't consider myself a Christian. There are more points that I can agree with than disagree with, and I will support anyone who chooses to identify as such, but it does not fit me accurately enough to be referred by. What I am is a human rights activist. IN-activist really. I wouldn't call my life very active. More accurately still, I am a tolerance activist. I am a 'mind your business' activist. 'Feminist' has too many one-sided arguments and feels too narrow for me. I like to think that I can support men and women equally and a title like 'feminist' doesn't leave enough breathing room for me. Keep all of this in mind as you continue reading. My thoughts and opinions are in regards to the individuals they are in reference to, not any particular sect of the movement or God forbid you think I mean feminism as a whole.

 

Standing up for what you believe in will be one of the hardest things you will ever face in your adult life. I say adult life because up until that point there is only a facade of singularity, but that is a discussion for another day. The first time you have to stand all alone and say 'no' when the whole world is telling you yes will never be easy. What ever is that is worth it? The effort makes the spoils even sweeter. You do not back down, you do not quit. You stand your ground and defend your ideas with passion. Not everyone is going to agree with you. There are going to be people out there who will fight you right back. "Yes!" They'll scream in your face. They'll spit on you, insult you, do anything in their power to shut you up and shut you down.

 

Keep your back straight, keep a strong jaw.

 

Take a deep breath.

 

You can handle that bullshit. you don't need to be a victim to them. You don't even need to give them the time of day. A person willing to resort to such childish bullying tactics aren't likely going to be willing to have a rational discussion with you. Don't feed the trolls. You're better off just giving them the brush off. At the end of the day, their words have no effect. they can only bring you down as much as your tender heart lets them. Fck 'em, haters gonna hate. (But never stop trying to open paths of discussion, it is the only effective tool.)

 

Okay, now take another deep breath. You may not like the rest of this.

 

At the end of the night, your personal opinion amounts to as much to them as theirs does to you. That isn't a whole hell of a lot, if you're doing it right. What makes feminists, male rights activists, what all activist groups that are only speaking up for one group is missing seems so obvious to me. Actually, there are a few things. Here is a list!

-No matter how passionately you feel about a cause, you are just as capable of being wrong as those you appose. Just because you are speaking from the heart does not necessarily mean you are speaking factually. Please check your sources and educate yourself while educating others. Make sure that you're speaking from reason and truth as well.

 

-The opposition have just as much right to free speech as you do. In your effort to promote your cause, there should never be a time that you are actively trying to silence another. It is not about being the only voice heard, it is about being the clearest. Let your message resonate with those who hear it. You have to let society think critically and learn on its own. you can't just scream the loudest and expect to win. That didn't even work out in kindergarten. this is why people like the redhead in the U of T videos looks insane to the general public and this is why people like her are hurting us.

 

-Society is not one organism. Society is formed of millions of people that think, feel, and react in unique and individual ways. To say that all something are something is just as damning as saying they are not. your adversary is included in this. Do not presume to know them based on their stance. Each and every one of us is a person alone and comprised of much more than gender, heritage, faith practices, sexuality, age, weight, or how that individual chooses to dress. Don't assume to know what my feelings are about women's rights because I am a woman. Do not assume to know my opinions on justice because you have had others act similarly unjust to you. Do not assume to know my education, finances, or choices I have made with my life based on my employment. The only way to know these things about me, about anyone, about a method of thought, is to take the time to learn. Ask questions.

The reason I bring this up is because of a phrase that is apparently quite popular, but i had just heard. "Your rights end where my feelings begin." Uh, what? No. This is not true, and I'm not sure how anyone could even hold that notion. A person's rights are not up for your moral approval. You can't help what offends you, it is true. At the same time, you can't help what you find amusing either. Just because it isn't your taste in humor does not mean you can decide for everyone. This applies beyond feminism, this is for everyone and everything. When it comes to justice, and that's what this boils down to, your reason should guide you, not your feelings.

 

I hope that anyone who is strong enough to stand up for what they believe in is also strong enough to handle the criticism. If you can't, then you are partially to blame for your own suffering. There isn't an internet police force, and when you put yourself out here, you are opening up a pathway of communication. You may not necessarily like what you get in return, but the same applies to any media and any message. Always remember, there has never been a statue erected of a critic.

 

I will stand behind anyone who is fighting for freedom, whether for an individual, a group, or all of us together. I have nothing but respect for those out there facing down the (figurative.Literal?) loaded gun every day, but I can by no means condone silencing another for your own gain. What we are all fighting for is equality, right? The same rights and freedoms, regardless of sex, race, religion or what have you. This includes free speech. Why would a person want to rob another of that for their own benefit? If you are protesting for the tolerance of women in society, lead by example and show those chauvinists what the word really means.

Adultlescence: If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say

More often than not, I'd rather bite my tongue than say something that might offend someone or come back to bite me. Some days it seems like I should just sever it entirely.

When you talk about someone else behind their back, it doesn't reflect on them nearly so much as it reflects on you. It says a lot about your respect for other people, their privacy, and their intentions. Unless you know for sure what the situation is and it is your situation to handle, it isn't your place to pass judgement on those who are left with it.

Respect.







Then again, some people are just pricks.

Adultlescence: Makeup Wake Up

I'm not very feminine. Surprise! I hardly ever wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt, and when I decide on the rare occasion to wear makeup, I smear it on my face with my fingers. It feels like I'm painting on my face. I love painting. For all of the arguments I will make against gender oppression, one would assume I would be as anti-makeup as I am anti-dieting. My body is the only one I have, the only one I will have, and I work toward loving it as it is regardless of social pressure and the media's portrayal of the 'ideal physique'.

So, surprise again! I really do like makeup. I like that on a sour day when I'm not feeling 100%, I can play dress-up in the bathroom mirror anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. I play with the plethora of colours that eye shadow and lipstick comes in. I blend and blend and blend. That doesn't mean that I need to hide my face under all of these cosmetics. Quite the contrary, I like to use them to enhance what God and my exceptional genes have blessed me with. A little bit of eyeliner and a dash of dark purple eyeshadow in that crease part above my eye, and my green eyes pop. I look damn fly. It is a confidence booster, for sure.

Makeup isn't the root of my confidence. I think it is truly sad when girls say things like "I can't go out of the house without putting my face on." or "I look disgusting without makeup." Really, ladies? Really? That kind of negative self talk just turns my stomach. But who can blame girls for thinking like that? The media is completely against us. Makeup advertising campaigns play off of our insecurities so that we will feel obligated to spend more money on their products.

(Et tu, Ellen? )

Ok, maybe I'm mistaken, or maybe it is just Ellen Degeneres always making me laugh, but that didn't seem so bad. That is pretty straight forward marketing saying exactly what they are selling and why it is worthwhile to have. You know, if you have wrinkles that is. 

Maybe Cover Girl is just very good with their advertising because this one doesn't seem so bad either. It presents the product in a very honest way, I think. "This mascara is going to thicken your lashes. What were you expecting?" Good job, Christie Brinkley. I can't help but feeling that as women, we are misplacing our outrage. How dare some corporation tell me what I need in my life and on my face to be happy, successful and beautiful. They should be petting me on the back and telling me what a good job I'm doing. Isn't that how advertising works? The point of ad campaigns isn't to make you feel bad about yourself, it is to make their product seem desirable and necessary. 

I don't blame media. In order for consumerism to function properly, there needs to be a demand to meet the supply. Girls want this stuff in their bathrooms and on their face. But why? It isn't that complicated, ladies want to look better to have an easier time attracting a potential mate. There are ques on your face that speak to your potential partner, and if a little bit of blush makes my potential betrothed assume I am healthy, who am I to argue with nature? I can throw down a few bucks, have the cheekbones of an athlete and sit right here eating cupcakes all day. Yes please. 

It has been quite a few years since I've picked up a 'girly' magazine (unless you count Popular Science and aren't gender-biased) so maybe things have changed since my last issue of 'Cosmopolitan' but I don't feel like the ads are hurting me at all. Hell, nothing in that magazine hurts me, regardless of what certain feminists tell me. In any magazine you pick up, there are topic-central ads bursting from the pages and 'girly' magazines are just the same, focusing heavily on makeup, fashion, beauty tips or what have you. This isn't some huge media conspiracy, this is -once again- supply and demand. If we didn't want these things in these magazines, they wouldn't be there. Sales would drop and the editors -who are virtually all women themselves- would need to rethink their game plans. 'Cosmo' isn't trying to turn us women into painted up, over-sexed airheads because we're doing it to ourselves. Our insecurities come from elsewhere and it isn't right to attack those who are just cashing in on it. They aren't telling you what to wear or how to paint your face. they are a glossy 'what's trending' feed.

Makeup isn't evil. makeup isn't superficial. Makeup isn't patriarchal oppression. A bare face isn't rebellion. Inner beauty will always outweigh your physical appearance. Makeup is just a product that you can either enjoy or avoid. It is a few ounces of coloured powder, it isn't a ball and chain. First and foremost, before you can be beautiful with makeup on, you have to come to the terms with your own natural, unique beauty regardless of age, race or body shape.

The Best Part of a John Green Novel

Tonight, I am a completely different person. Tonight, I am Rachelle Cohen, enjoying the last few moments of serenity before the world crashes down. She doesn't know what's going to happen next, so she is blissfully ignorant. She smiles so much, it makes my cheeks hurt. She is so naive; a quality which seems to grow rarer every day. She thinks the best of everyone she meets. She is the social butterfly that I've been having such a hard time being lately. She just wants to sit back, listen to Nataly Dawn and talk.

I've been neglecting doing any solid writing lately. Instead, I pick fights on forums and sling out unedited posts on this blog. I've just been regurgitating every brief thought that comes to me. I spent a lot of yesterday trying to do something creative. I thought it would be a good time to start fleshing out my characters for the novel that I talk about incessantly but never write down. I must be a total pain in the ass to listen to about it, I'm sorry!

Yesterday didn't go so well. It felt awkward and uncomfortable to try to speak for my characters. How would they react? What would they say? All of my characters have a little bit of me in them, but I think all fictional characters do. But I'm not Rachelle. Some of the questions I'm using, for example:

1. What is the thing that has frightened you most? Do you think there is anything out there that's scarier than that? What do you think that would be?
2. Has anyone or anything you've ever cared about died? How did you feel about it? What happened?
3. What was the worst injury you've ever received? How did it happen?
4. How ticklish are you? Where are you ticklish?
5. What is your current long term goal?
6. What is your current short term goal?
7. Do you have any bad habits? If so, what are they, and do you plan to get rid of them?
8. If you were a mundane person, what would you do with your life? What occupation would you want, and how would you spend all your time?
9. What time period do you wish you had lived in? Why? (Looking at this as an attempt to change history doesn't count.) What appeals to you about this era?
10. How private of a person are you? Why?

I don't think I could answer most of these questions about my best friend and be even remotely accurate. It feels weird to just pull it all out of thin air, to know a person like I know myself. Earlier this week, I turned my nose up in disgust at my father and brother watching UFC, and then immediately return to read 'Conan of the Red Brotherhood'. Within two paragraphs of picking it up, the barbarian hero cleaves a pirate in two. No big deal, Conan. What's the difference? Aren't I just trading one violence for another? I'm still finding entertainment in bloodshed.

When you dive into a book, the story comes alive and the characters feel real. When I read about the Vixen docking at Thieves' Port, I can almost smell the salty air. Any bibliophile could explain to you what I mean. You become immersed. I can only hope that the characters I write about will come alive to my readers. A believable character is so important to a novel. It is the main reason I read 'Paper Towns'. So here I am, filing out the second half of Rachelle's character development questionnaire. Even if I am making it up on the fly, I know a little bit more about my hapless heroine. I hope it transfers over well, otherwise this seems like a huge waste of time.

The Demon in My Brain

The demon inside of me stirs. She is awake, which invariably means I too must be awake. She is restless. She leads me around and around, weaving an erratic patten through this city of mine. I think she's hungry, but I can never tell with her. Like a fussy child, my demon refuses to tell me what she wants but turns her nose up at all of my suggestions.

She nips at my toes until they ache, cold and damp from Halifax's wet winters. She pleads with me to take her inside. I know how she hates the cold and I try to steel myself to the weather as best I can, but nothing seems to be enough for her. Beads of sweat gather in the small of my back under layers upon layers of cotton and wool, but she still finds something. My demon bites my face and ears or chews idly on my fingertips. The only place she is content is buried under a mountain of blankets, curled up in bed.

If that was enough to satisfy the monster inside me, I could manage her much easier. That would be too easy for her. My hidden imp instead must lay in wait for the perfect moment to pick a new fight with me. The bathroom is too far, she cries. She won't relinquish her safety and comfort. Instead, she waits until the urgency is overwhelming and I may not make it. She feeds on moments like this, I think. My fear and shame give her strength.

When she is strong like this, she needs little sustenance. She turns her nose up stubbornly at most forms of food, or lets it land heavily in my stomach in protest. She twists and squirms uncomfortably inside of me when I eat things not listed on her brief list of acceptable edibles. She isn't cruel to me in this way. My demon will not make me nauseous or reject my meals, but there is a sickness to it. A heavy, weak, unhappy sickness. A hamburger for lunch will upset her for the rest of the day, which means she will upset me for the day in turn. My demon likes apples and muffins best this year. last year, it was toast with jam and the year before that was crackers and peanut butter. once in a while she is content with a cheese sandwich or a chicken strip, but it is best to stay with the safe bet. Carbs are always a safe bet.

The limited diet isn't so bad. To be frank, the loss of appetite is the greatest of her tricks. I love food and I love to eat. She insists I'm not hungry. After leading me past grocery stores, convenience stores, fast food chains and restaurants, she'll simply change her mind. "You aren't hungry anyway." She tells me in her small voice, soft and convincing. "You just wanted a coffee all along." As always, I am obliged to agree. Coffee is her true weakness. To stay in control, she must be awake. Who knows what a good night's rest will do to me or her control? So she hides sleep from me in that secret place she stores my appetite. She truly is a demon.

Why don't I fight her? Why do I let this tiny, demanding imp control me? It really isn't that simple. My demon is not an unseen parasite that is eating me alive. We co-exist symbiotically. Most days I am a mere vessel for her, my own mind hiding in some safe corner for the spring thaw. My demon thinks and speaks for us both but she needs me to act. She is a mere muse.

Two minds in one brain. They dance and swirl around each other inside of me, sometimes colliding but rarely conflicting. Some days that are harder than others, it can be difficult to differ between the two of them. On these tough days, we don't bicker. She doesn't make demands of me and I don't push her. Hard days can shut us both down, leaving my body abandoned as a hollow shell staring off into the middle-distance of nothingness. Hard days are void.

My demon can be dark sometimes. She can say hateful things and urge my body to act cruelly. My demon has a temper, especially when left ignored for too long as I have been doing now. She demands her caffeine fix that I have been avoiding. She is rapping her knuckles against my forehead in annoyance. The ache is a nuisance. My demon is a pest.

Second Cup has served me a nice, hot honey tea latte. my demon is already settling back in the warmth. her protest to my decision of a cheddar scone instead of the morning glory muffin she had immediately chosen is evident in the thick, groggy feeling in my abdomen, but there must be compromise, even when dealing with demons. maybe now she'll be satisfied enough to let me work productively. please, imp, let me be inspired. Let me create a world and develop a plot. Let me write about more than your nagging. Don't make me wait for spring again, I want to be me sometimes too. I'm not asking much, just a little time to create without the wave of depression ushering me back to bed.

Maybe I have it backwards. maybe I'm the demon after all and my muse is merely fighting to the surface. Maybe she is floating in this abyss with me, suffering as I do. Who do I think I am?

The Ballad of Peter Parker

I love Spider-man. This isn't a secret. Of all my super hero crushes, Spider-man has stood the test of time. He was the first, and he'll be my last. Spider-man is my one true love.

I can forgive issue #700, even if I don't ever pick up an issue of 'The Superior Spider-man'. Comic books just run dry sometimes. They pass their own expiration date, no matter how hard the writers and fans try to deny it. Does anyone else remember the meltdown that occurred with DC fandoms when they first announced the reboot of many of their most popular titles? AN UPROAR, I TELL YOU. I still read all my old favourites, and I even used it as an opportunity to pick up some titles I hadn't read before. When you want to get into a new series, starting on an issue like #537 can be daunting. There is so much that was missed. You're jumping into something that already has so much history, so much back story. It is discouraging. Everything that comes together must inevitably come apart and The Amazing Spider-man is no different. Peter Parker's time has passed and he bowed out as gracefully as possible.

I will not read 'The Superior Spider-man". What is Spider-man without Peter Parker? The fact of the matter is I am not in love with Spider-man, but the boy behind the mask. Peter was just a scared kid when he first put on his spandex suit. An awkward, nerdy boy who went unnoticed by the world. Tony Stark is a billionaire playboy, Reed Richards is a world-renowned scientist, Thor is literally a GOD! Peter was just a boy trying to get through school and keep his girlfriend happy. He was a genius that rarely got the credit he deserved. Someone who would later work in a think tank with the world's greatest minds spent most of his time behind a camera lens, working freelance for a newspaper that was edited by a man who hated him in and out of the mask. Sure, Peter wore plenty of hats in his life. He was briefly a science teacher at his old high school, assistant high school coach, et cetera. Just think about that for a moment. This man had a masters degree in biophysics, and he was a freelance photographer barely making enough money to make web fluids. That hardly seems fair.

Peter had more than his share of bad luck and short straws. He was constantly under attack, constantly worrying about those he loved, constantly disappearing for the sake of the city. And for what? What did Peter the man have that he didn't have to give up for Spiderman? Peter is the most selfless, sacrificing person in comic book history, and I don't care to hear any arguments on the matter. He has faced loss after loss, hurt after hurt, heartache after heartache and he kept going. The city he is sworn to protect considers him a menace, and he fought on for them. With his last breath, he still fought for them.

Peter was an outcast with an unfaltering sense of humor. Loyal to a fault and kind to anyone. He could have, at any point, killed the King Pin, Lizard, Morbius (especially Morbius) but that isn't Peter. He would only use the necessary amount of force to subdue his foes, petty criminals and super villains alike. Beneath Spider-man's thirst for justice beats Peter Parker's heart. A heart that beats for his family, his city, his country, his planet.

Without Peter, who would Spider-man be? You can read about it in 'The Superior Spider-man' if you'd like. Otto Octavius has swapped minds with Peter, and when his old, crippled body died, Peter died with it. Spider-man's legacy lives on, with Otto living the life he stole from Peter, but it isn't the same. Not to me. I hear in this new series Peter is still in there somewhere, as a ghost or a subconscious or some such. It may be a great success, it may be a flop. Who can tell so early? As far as I'm concerned, there is only one Spider-man and there will only be one scared, lonely boy behind that mask I'll care about.

Growing

"You probably shouldn't have told your parents about your blog."

This passing comment has been nagging at the back of my mind for most of the day. Not that I don't like that my mom reads my blog update by update, because I think that's awesome. It is a great way to communicate and share with her - as with all of you - what is going on in my life and my mind, keep her informed, keep our bonds tied. The thing that has been itching is the idea of self-censorship. There are times that I sit down to write, only to hit a block and throw out the entire work. I think to myself  'do I really want my mom to read that?' or something similar and second-guess myself.

After much thought, I have decided not to let it bother me. I am who I am, regardless of who is witness to it (minus holding in farts around other people, that is). This is specifically my space, my mind to share with you. I can't change the person I am, I can't please everyone. I love me, and if you don't care to hear my opinions, you're in the wrong space. Mom, if you call me because I wrote a swear word on my blog like you do on my facebook page... I don't know what I'll do. Probably sigh at you.

That's right, I swear. I swear a lot. I curse and I mutter hateful things to inanimate objects sometimes and I make terrible jokes and I dance when I'm bored. As long as I'm not hurting anyone, I think I have every right to do so.  In the future, there's a chance I'll talk about sex and sexuality, drugs, religion, or any other in a plethora of touchy topics, right along side the usual whining and nerdy things. Do I care if my mother reads it? Not really. She's my mom, she over anyone has reason to want to know. ( Don't worry, Mom. I'm not addicted to heroin or working the streets. )



In other news, I've opened up a Facebook page for easier access to my updates. This way I can stop clogging up my friend's newsfeeds with links to the same page - this one! I'd also love to hear your feedback on my work thus far or suggestions for future works. What would you like to see? More Adultlescence? More movie reviews? More short stories? More what?

Join me at  https://www.facebook.com/ItsMayAgain, and if any of you out there have any ability to do mare with web design than me...oh God, it's all so bland. Help?

Adultlescence: A Friend in Need

Do you hear that? Ahh, my friends, that is the sound of my furnace starting back up for the first time since Saturday morning. The sweet sound of warm air circulating into my apartment. Can you think of anything more beautiful than that?

For the past few days, I have been relying pretty heavily on my friends' mercy. I've been couch surfing since the weekend, and it has been quite the adventure, but I'm glad to be home. I know that I would have survived the cold here in my igloo just fine, there wasn't any danger to me or my kitties. There are many people out there in worse situations than the one I found myself in, and I'm not proud of my melodramatic reaction to the heat going out.

My friends are some of the most wonderful people you will ever have the luck of meeting. I love each and every one of them for so many reasons more than their willingness to help me out when I needed it. Everything from letting me sleep on their couches, lending me their bathroom for a hot shower and personal hygiene, going to lengths to repay old debts so I could fill the oil tank, letting me stay in their house for an afternoon off, showing me how to bleed the oil lines, or even giving me a snack when I'm looking down. In such a small way I needed support and I received it in such vast quantities. Not one of them would ever ask for repayment, they are glad to help knowing I would do the same for them.

I have a hard time asking for help. I have always had this need to prove that I am strong and independent. I can do it all on my own, I'm a big girl and I don't need to be babied. I can't always pull it off, though. I do need someone to lean on from time to time. I rely a lot on my friends - a lot more than they realize - but there is always going to be this one person who I can count on. At any time, on any day of the week, mountain or mole hill, my mom will always have my back.

Being a parent can't be an easy job. Everything becomes secondary to the needs of your child, and they don't even realize it. In a child's mind - and I know this, because I have one - they are truly the center of the universe and everything must bend to their will. I want, I want, I want, I need, I need, I need. It is virtually endless. Having a highly sensitive daughter like me could not have been any easier. The mildest upset could send me into a fit of tears and I hated telling anyone why. I still am pretty difficult to handle in that fashion. Hey mom, remember how I cried all through Christmas? Yeah, that happened. A couple of times.

I've talked to excess about what kind of guy my dad is, and I love him to pieces. I'll always be his little girl, though. There's something about the way my mother and I relate that I know she sees me for who I am now, not the five-year-old I was. Next to Skylie, Mom is the one who hears all of the nitty gritty, knows my faults, knows my dreams. I think every woman in the history of civilization has said it in some form or another, but my mom truly is my best friend.

When I called her Sunday night, I was low. I was in a bad space of monotonous paper work, chilly fingers and burnt coffee. I needed to talk. I didn't call to ask for anything, I just needed a sympathetic ear and some of my mother's love. I have an even worse time asking of things from her than anyone else. I want to prove to her, more than anyone, that the hard work she put into raising me has paid off. I am a strong woman now. I can handle my own shit, so to speak. When I can't do that, it is almost embarrassing in a way. Like in some form, I've let myself down. That maybe on some level I've let her down.

That's ridiculous. We all have our weak moments. We all fall down sometime. Mom is glad to help me, just as she helped me learn to tie my shoes or brush my teeth or wipe my own ass. But maybe she needs me too. With both of her children grown and gone, who does she have to dote on now? For twenty years, there was a kid at her heels, making requests, needing her. Now that we're gone, there's a lot of time and energy that once went to kids that just floats by. Maybe when I need her, she needs to be needed.

I used to fight her on everything. I don't need anything, I don't need help. I can do it. Maybe that's selfish. This week, she helped me out again when I was struggling. I couldn't fight her now. I am so grateful for not only this, but everything. I think the best thing I can do is let her know how much I appreciate her and everything she does for me.

Mom, you are the greatest. We come from a family of amazing, intelligent, strong women, all of whom have their own talents and abilities that makes us all stronger together as a family. I am so proud to be one among us. You are the glue that holds it all together. You are a moderator, a mentor, a hostess for everyone. In times of crisis, you shoulder your own pain and carry us all. Mom, you're a rock. If I turn out to be half the woman that you are today, I will be more successful than I could ever hope for. I love you.



Hey, other readers who aren't my mom. You should call yours. Like, now.

Gangster Squad & Letting Go

"Mickey Cohen can have the whole damn city, he just can't have you." - Connie O'Mara



I absolutely love action movies. For being as anti-violence as I am, it is surely an odd mix. The reason I like them is quite simple, it is the same reason I can play FPS's for hours on end without a care in the world, but seeing a heated argument makes my stomach turn. When I play my games or watch Josh Brolin punch Sean Penn in the face, I know it isn't real. No one is actually getting hurt by fake punches or pixelated bullets. It is a safe outlet of aggression. But I digress.

Last night, I went with a friend to watch 'Gangster Squad', a highly stylized period piece loosely based on true events. I loved it. Emma Stone plays a lovely cardboard cutout in beautiful gowns, the soundtrack was excellent, and the characters were just fleshed out enough that they were semi-real, but they did not overshadow the obviously built up main characters. Sean Penn as Mickey Cohen was spot on. He was a rabid dog. He was violence incarnate. It was exactly what I had hoped for.

I was surprised at how much of my heart went out to the sergeant's wife, Connie O'Mara. The woman was pregnant through the majority of the movie, tied to the house, and scared out of her mind for her husband who would go out into LA every day to wage war against the mob. With Mickey Cohen at the head, the mob owned Las Angeles. No, like literally owned it. Crooked cops, paid off judges, the mayor was in his pocket for God's sake. Mickey Cohen was untouchable and the whole city knew it. Connie knew it.

Every morning, Sgt. John O'Mara went out the door to fight the good fight. Every morning, Connie would make him breakfast, stand behind him, help him where she could. Connie may not have been a gun toting bad-ass, but that girl had more balls than I could in that situation.

I can't help it. I have a nurturing nature. I want to strangle all of my darlings in my apron strings. I want to keep them safe, but I can't. I need to be able to let go sometimes too. I need to learn from Connie, who could jut out her chin in defiance of her own heart and watch her husband plot. John would pore over stacks of files, and where was Connie? Right beside him, pointing out the seemingly obvious answers and hand picking the perfect team. Where would I be? Locked in the bathroom until my husband agreed to never ever ever put a gun to another human being again.I would cry hysterically until he took up a safe, quiet job. My husband, ex-gang hunter, CPA.

After the baby was born, Connie flees LA at her husband's urging. The city was far from safe, and he had to protect her. She leaves rather unwillingly, but not once does she ask him to run away with her. He has to stay, he has a duty, a mission to complete. He can't just walk away, and she knows it.

Throughout literary history, what makes a strong female character is her ability to silently persevere. What makes us as a gender so strong is not our physical build, but our strength to carry the burden of a hurt heart, a sea of emotional turmoil, a hundred nagging issues at the back of our brains. We do this without breaking a sweat and often without shedding a tear. At least, without shedding those tears to an audience. We don't need to be able to carry the weight of a limp body, because piled on top of our already heavy hearts, we are carrying yours as well.

Hey, Fatty.

In the past year and a half, I have lost and kept off roughly 50 pounds. There wasn't some grand life-altering diet that I picked up, and my physical activity levels haven't increased (possibly decreased?). So, what's my secret? Ah, the simple elegance of IDGAF.

At my peak, I was weighing in at 195 pounds. At 5'7", I was no longer overweight, I was slightly over the obesity line. I didn't really feel obese, whatever that would mean. I did feel fat, though. I felt heavy, I felt blown up. I felt BIG. I felt like people were looking at me with disgust and pity. Our culture is continuously pointing at our bodies, making us compare what we have to what others have, pushing us toward the ideal. Thin is In. I was out.

When I adopted my 'unrelenting optimism' policy, I had to give up a lot of ideas about myself and about others. Tolerance is a difficult thing to have 24/7. There are plenty of days when "You are who you are, and I forgive that." is almost impossible. Days like that, I resort to plan B. I Don't Give A Fuck. IDGAF. In my teens, I was so self-conscious about myself, my body, and the image I put out into the world. If someone made a snide comment about my clothes, my sensitive tiny teen self would have an inner meltdown. This can really put a lot of stress on a person, and it is a SCIENCE FACT that stress is a factor in weight retention.

Don't like my haircut? IDGAF.

Don't like the clothes I wear? IDGAF

Don't like the fact that I'm overweight? Guess what? IDGAF.

As soon as I stopped caring about my weight, it stopped being a problem. I am now sitting semi-comfortably within the 'normal weight' range on the BMI index. This isn't a pat on May's back for beating weight problems, this is about weight discrimination. When I first started losing weight, it came off pretty quickly. The comments I received were unreal.

"You look so GOOD!"

"Oh my God, are you still eating?"

"You're so pretty now!"

Not to mention the excessive attention from male friends who previously had no interest in me than my ability to pwn noobs. Me? ME?! I'm still the same obsessive, neurotic, semi-unhinged girl and having a smaller waistline hasn't changed that. It makes me really uncomfortable when friends and family would talk to me like I am somehow a better person now that I'm thinner. I mean it, literally speaking to me like a more worthy individual based on my body. Is that insane?

I think it has been covered enough that what the media portrays as appealing is fucked up, so I'm not going to beat a dead horse. I want to talk about how overweight people are portrayed.

Fat people are mean. Fat people are lazy. Fat people are dumb. Fat people don't bathe. Can you think of one fictional character that is overweight and NOT a villain or comedic relief? Can you think of a fat man who is a hero? Even rarer, can you think of a fat woman who is sensual? NO, THAT'S GROSS.

Get over it, ladies and gentlemen. We are out there every day, fighting the good fight for equal rights. Down with sexism, down with racism, down with homo and transphobia! We do all this, but we still give that big guy on the bus dirty looks because he doesn't sit comfortably in one seat. That's his body, not yours. He isn't hurting you. The only reason he's bothering you is because you are told to be bothered. There are plenty more factors to a person's size than what they eat. Metabolism, the amount of sleep they get, their bloodline, stress. Being fat doesn't mean a person lacks willpower. Get over it, stop judging him by what you see. Why do you give a fuck?

My own personal struggle with weight hasn't exactly ended. You would think that now that Ms. May was within this 'ideal range' she would be happy. Afterall, she has achieved something women are supposed to STRIVE toward, and she did it without trying.Yeah, it did make me feel pretty good as an overachiever, but something else happened, something worse than being big. A wedge was driven in between myself and a few of my friends. One of the few joys us girls have is being able to be open about our body issues and having one another to comfort them. We are witness to the pains of one another, and that really isn't something my male friends get to do with one another. At least, not when I'm around. Maybe they do. I digress.

When my female friends have insecure moments and confide in me about their displeasure with their hair or their clothes or whatever, its fine. When I have issues with those same things, they have my back. When I get insecure about the fact that there are days you can see my ribs where my cleavage once was, I get venomous stares like I'm bragging. I really am not. When my roommate was still here, I felt like a scavenger in the kitchen. We would spend almost $200 on groceries, and I would have to ensure I was buying at least a few things I knew he didn't like just to be sure there would be something in the house to eat. I do not enjoy that there are times I make my friends feel bad about themselves. I want them to feel beautiful because they are.

I went from being that curvy, sassy girl I was to having the body of a 12 year old. I don't feel sexy, I don't feel desirable. I once received a comment from a loved one that I'm "just not as nice to cuddle anymore." That devastated me. Aren't skinny girls supposed to be an ideal? I am still self conscious, I still worry about belly fat from time to time. I will always have flaws. Well, so what? So do you. So does everyone. I am my toughest critic, but it gets easier. I don't think anyone else in the world (save Scott Miner) would ever notice my eyebrows are uneven or that my toes have hair on the knuckles. Flaws make us wonderful. Stressing out about what other people think of them is a complete waste of time.

Say it with me now, people. IDGAF.

Adultlescence: The Weaker Sex

Today, my boss made a poorly worded statement about why he chose who he did to shovel the sidewalk. Now, the discussion had nothing to do with who he chose. We were discussing the importance of being aware of the property and yadda yadda yadda, he got J____ to do it this afternoon. He was the only other guy on and Mr. Boss certainly wasn't going to do it.

He was the only other guy? There were twelve people in the building, but J____ was the one to do it because he's a man? Oh, really.

I am not saying that J___ isn't stronger than me, because he is. I am not saying I'm angry that I didn't get to go outside to play in the snow, because the winter is my nemesis. My point of offense is that J___'s testicles do not make him automatically suitable for any job other than creating sperm.

Physically, yes. Men are built for upper body strength. Science fact. Women are better equipped for lower body strength, and that is also science fact. I am not arguing averages, I am arguing who was on hand. There are plenty of men who are weaker than the average, and there are a lot of women who are stronger. J____ having a penis does not grant him super strength and I did not care for his comment. Of course, Ms. May and her inability to let anything slide, I called out Mr. Boss.

"What did you mean J____ was the only guy? What about the girls?"

I think it was clear from the looks on the faces of the women around the table (which greatly outnumbered the boys) that he had struck a nerve and this was his chance to backpedal. Nah, not Mr. Boss. Not about manly men things. He unapologetically backed up exactly what he had to say and quickly dismissed the discussion.


Why am I so mad? I didn't want to do the stinking job, why does it matter that J____ did it? Really, it doesn't matter, but it was how he made his decision that got under my skin. We have plenty of very capable, able-bodied women on staff. We have people of all shapes and sizes of both genders in our store. Gender relations is a very particular, sensitive subject, but I for one have always been very proud of my company for setting aside those differences. Up until now, I have never felt like I have received any sort of special treatment because of my gender. I never even considered it would be a problem. I, as a business person, have no reason to bring my tits to the workplace (don't get me started on uniforms). Today, I was told there is in fact things I cannot do for my company as well because my genitals are located inside my body.

It may seem like small potatoes, to be so worked up about shoveling the walk. This is where it starts, but where does it finish? Girls are taught that sports and physical activity are unfeminine and butchy. We should sit quietly with our knees together and ankles crossed. Women don't exercise to keep their obviously-important-to-societal-standards weight in control, they diet or develop eating disorders. I suppose a lack of a balanced, nutritious diet may leave a girl physically weak. Hell, I'm not a doctor, I'm just hypothesizing.

For our company's plan for wellness (staffed with virtually all women, one of which is an Olympic athlete), we are encouraged to participate in this year's Bluenose marathon. I knew as soon as the plan was launched that I wanted to participate. At the beginning, we were told to pick an attainable goal to strive for. mine was a half-hearted promise that I made to fill in the blank on the sheet, but I think today I have a new goal. A promise to myself and a point to make. Mr. Boss, you better start putting in some effort to this plan, because I'd like this to be a proper challenge and not just an embarrassment. I'm going to run that marathon, and I'm going to beat you. My vagina does not make me weak.

This may sound awfully petty and spiteful, and it is. I'm letting negativity into my life after very recently writing at great length what a cancer it is. I'm being a hypocrite, and I'll admit that. This goes against every point I've tried to make on this blog, but if I spend my time practicing, when will I preach?

Crazy Cat Lady

I have no problem admitting that my cats are two of the most important beings in my life. My kitties are my companions, always there to greet me at the door after an especially exhausting day serving the masses. Hell, Audrey won't even let me in the door before she is crying to be picked up and held. I am not a crazy cat lady.

Skylie is eleven years old, and in all of those years of her and me against the world, it stands to reason that she would be jealous of the tiny, big-eyed invader that perches up on my shoulder. She looks at me with those green eyes accusing, and it may seem silly, but I feel like I've betrayed her in a way. Skylie, that aging diva, has seen me at my absolute lowest and she let me bury my face in her side and cry my angry, pubescent tears with nothing but love and patience. Trust me when I say it, I mean my absolute worst. I spent so many nights in her younger years, sobbing and explaining to her my grief in a language she can't possibly understand because there is no fear of judgment. It was the best of both worlds, really. Being able to be my absolute truest self alone without ever being alone. She was and still is my best friend. I am not a crazy cat lady.

Audrey is so new and so excitable. She is still a tiny, energetic baby. She meets me every day at the door when I come home, and whether I'm gone for five minutes or five hours, she is just as happy to see me. She dances around my boots and meows up at me like the world is whole again. Audrey came to live with us because she needed me. She was abandoned and alone, she needed a home. It is pretty clear to me now that I need her just as much as she needs me. There is something tragic about coming home to an empty house, no lovably obnoxious roommate asking me "What's up?" while I'm standing in the doorway with my uniform on under my winter gear or barreling into my room to tackle me while I'm reading. There's not anybody anymore, just the girls and me. Despite their best efforts, it is still painfully lonely sometimes. I think Audrey sees that as a challenge. The more withdrawn I become, the more she cries for attention. She is very good at reminding me that the house isn't really so empty, and I love her so much for it. I am not a crazy cat lady.

Interacting with people has never been nor will ever be something I am good at. I overthink all situations and spend too long mulling over the right words or the proper emphasis that I usually don't end up saying anything. I'm an awkward duck. Cats are just easier. They either don't realize or don't care about what makes me special or unique (read: weird or crazy). My girls put up with a lot of ridiculous shit from me that, God willing, no human eyes will ever need to witness. And for what, you ask? For meals on time, for fresh water in the bowl (though Skylie still prefers drinking from the toilet) and the occasional scratch behind the ear. They don't play mind games, they aren't interested in some ulterior motive, they just want to soak up love.

I am not a crazy cat lady.

The Domestic Yeti

The first thing you must know before you begin to domesticate your yeti is that yetis are indeed wild creatures and may never be perfectly domesticated. If you are reading this in hopes of a perfectly housebroken lap yeti, you may want to reconsider. Yetis are dirty, smelly, crude, territorial creatures that should, at all times, be treated with caution. If training yeti still interests you, check out my helpful hints for you novices.

STEP 1: Acclimatizing your Yeti

Yetis, as I said, are territorial creatures by nature. When you first bring your wild yeti to your home for the first time, be sure to give it plenty of space to explore. Don't be too concerned about your yeti causing any damage to the home. Yetis are only destructive when they feel threatened. the best way to let your new yeti grow accustom to the new surroundings is to sit back in a comfortable chair (you may be there for a while) and focus your attention on something else. You can either read a book, play a video game, or knit if you're any good at it.

Yetis are curious creatures, so expect it to spend quite some time poking about in your things. The most common places your yeti may investigate include, but are not limited to:

-Bookshelves
-DVDs
-Consoles/game collections
-Television
-Computer/internet connection
-Pantry

The kitchen is the only certain place your yeti will spend an extended period of time. Yetis have voracious appetites, so it will be important to plan ahead and have your kitchen stocked for its arrival. Yetis are not particularly picky eaters and it would be to your advantage to have a plethora of snack foods available for it.

The time you will have to wait while your new yeti becomes comfortable in your home will vary. very social yetis may only need as little as ten minutes to have a snack and poke about before they are ready to interact, while the more skittish may need much longer. Fear not, you just need patience. When your yeti is ready, it will come to you, but it is important that you let your yeti make the first move.

STEP 2: Gaining Trust

It is easy to get caught up in the excitement of having your yeti that is willing to interact, but don't be hasty. Before you can tame the beast, the yeti must feel completely comfortable with not only the home, but with you as a master. Don't feel discouraged that your yeti doesn't immediately roll over onto its hairy back and beg for belly rubs. They are a proud species, and you must respect that.

Spend the next few days with your yeti, pay attention to its needs. Make sure it has an ample supply of fresh food and water. Listen to your yeti while it moans and groans about yeti things. A good yeti is more than a pet, it is a companion, but to have a good yeti, you must be an excellent master.

Find common ground with your yeti. It shouldn't be difficult, if you are any sort of yeti fanatic. The most common interests of yetis are science fiction, video games, being right all the time, reading, expensive cigarettes, movies, drinking all the milk, hibernating, and groaning about yeti problems. Talk with your yeti, and laugh at the yeti jokes that aren't that funny. Smile a lot at your yeti.

STEP 3: Asserting Your Dominance

Once you and your yeti have bonded, it may already be time to show it who is boss. A common problem most yeti trainers have is showing the yeti who is boss. It is important to having a good relationship with your yeti that it knows its master, not that it knows it's master. You should not treat your yeti harshly or abuse the poor beast, but you must be quick and fair when correcting poor behaviour. Spare the rod, spoil the yeti.

Your yeti will be able to out muscle you at every turn, so it is important that you plan with cunning. Though most yetis pride themselves on their heightened intelligence, they are still a dim species and easily outwitted. The biggest step of progress you can make with your yeti is convincing it to admit you are right. Your yeti can concede on anything, the subject matter isn't as relevant as the act of admission.

Another common tactic is the accidental injuries your yeti will inflict upon itself when it tries to overpower you physically. Don't be afraid when this happens, it is the yeti's way of trying to win back its role as the alpha. After successful completion of steps 1 and 2, you should have complete faith in your semi-tame yeti not to hurt you. (Note: If your yeti does inflict any intentional injury onto you, it is not meant to be tamed and should be released back into the wild IMMEDIATELY) Yetis, like most feral creatures, wrestle one another for sport, as well as asserting their role within the household hierarchy. Your yeti will win if you let the game go, but an ill-placed elbow or a half-cocked knee and your poor yeti will become the victim of his own excitement.

Stop the game immediately at this point. Your job now is to coddle your poor, hairy monster and kiss its boo-boos better. The idea isn't to make your yeti think that he is in danger in any way. Quite the contrary, when your yeti knows that you wouldn't, you've got yourself a yeti that will, in fact, roll over onto its back for belly rubs. But there is one final step that is, quite possibly, the most pivotal. 
 
STEP 4: Feed the Beast

It is a big step for these creatures to relinquish their crown as the alpha. If there is one thing that can bring your yeti back from the mopey slump it will inevitably find itself in. The answer, for any of you who has met a yeti before, is obviously food.

They say that the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I don't think that is a scientifically valid, but it certainly applies to your yeti. While your yeti is recovering from the bruising you have just dealt to its ego, it is best to stock your pantry with lots of sweets and yummy treats. For being a surly, lonesome species in the wild, there is very little in life that can keep a yeti down when it has a happy tummy.


Note: the description of yetis in this guide comes from years of experience. Please be sure to always act with caution when handling your yeti. These are ferocious creatures of the wild, not labradoodles.



There, Darcy. Look what I did because of you.

Adultlescence: Hate Leads to Suffering

I was born to be an optimist. Even my blood type is "be positive". Sometimes it can be difficult, but it is so important to try to find the good in a situation. If a person spends all of their energy focusing on negativity, it just breeds more negativity. Likewise, when you focus your attention on the good, it affects more than the superficial issue at hand. It comes down to a choice, one you will make in every situation in every day of your life. Will you feed your hate, or will you choose compassion?

Have you ever met a person with an infectious smile? Of course you have. All smiles are infectious. Laughter is contagious. Happiness is so easily handed out, it seems almost selfish to keep it to yourself. You will lose nothing by giving away a smile to a stranger you pass on the street, but there is so much to gain by such a simple gesture. When that person inevitably smiles back, you've turned your own goodwill into a profit. Doesn't it make your heart lighter to have a person smile at you? In some small measure, such a simple act of civility can lighten the weight on your shoulders. It can make you walk a little taller. It can stroke a bruised ego. That is just one example of the hundreds of thousands of ways that you can make your own life easier by a simple alteration of attitude. The universe, I believe, is a great neutrality and everything you give into it, you get back. You have to, or the universe becomes unbalanced. By that logic, the more love and compassion you let into it, the more you get returned. This is just basic karma.

Your life is the longest thing you will ever commit yourself to, but really, in the grand scheme of things, it is a mere bat of your eyelashes and it is ending. Each and every one of us will live a solitary, insignificant life and when we die, it will inevitably be forgotten. This idea doesn't scare me. I understand how some might find it so, but I must disagree. Wouldn't it be a great amount of pressure to live your life for future generations to awe at? But trying to create a legacy for yourself is just as selfish as letting yourself blend into the background and avoiding the stress. The fact of the matter remains that maybe one of the people you have met or will meet in your life will be 'memorable' and the rest of us will be given our monuments as tombstones indistinguishable from any other in a field of tombstones.

That may not exactly sound like the most optimistic point of view I realize, but I for one always work better under pressure. All you are given is this one, very short period of time to do, see, say and eat everything that you want to do, see, say and eat. With such a limited time here to accomplish whatever it is you as an individual consider to be important, how can a person find the time to be pessimistic? Negativity is contagious. It is like a cancer that infects you and spreads through your mind and body. When a person gives in to their hate, they are feeding it and allowing it to grow. It can start small; a stubbed toe, a rainy day, a hair in your dinner, but it doesn't end there. You let that stew inside you, and nothing is as bright as it was originally because of that one black spot you let into your life. That black spot turns a not-so-great cup of coffee into the-worst-cup-of-coffee-ever and the black spot has grown. As it grows, it gets stronger and stronger until it isn't a bad day your having, its a bad week. A bad life. Hate has the power to rule you, but only you have the power to let it.

What does a person have to gain by putting so much energy into their own misery when it is so simple to twist around on itself. Change it. Rearrange it. Fight it. Right it. Raise a little hell, raise a little hell, raise a little hell. No one is going to fight your battles for you, you have to stand on your own two feet. The point of importance is that you do stand. Stand and fight and make things better.  I may be one small girl, but I have an unrelenting optimism. I nurture it and let it grow, and my world looks a little brighter every day because of it. Positive thinking is a little harder to spread, I find. Hate is easy because you will never have to blame yourself. You can be the victim all your life if that's what you choose, but remember you do have options. There will always be hate in the world, but you don't need to let it swallow you whole.