Ever since I can remember, reading has been a major part of my life. My father was in the Air Force so my family would move around often, and once settling into a new place, the first order of business was to locate the library on base. My mother often ended up working at these libraries and would bring me along; as a home-schooler, the library became a sort of a second home for me.
When I just a wee girl, my mother would check out so many children’s books that people used to ask if she was an author. I would feel a surge of happiness, a surge of something akin to what I can only describe as power, as we walked home with a bag filled with books balanced between us, a handle in my right hand, a handle in her left. Contained within that canvas bag were whole universes waiting to be discovered. I quietly anticipated the moment we would arrive home and I could crack open those delicious books and get lost in the shimmering words and vibrant illustrations, devoured by an eternal wormhole where there was no beginning and no end.
Growing up without a television meant that the written word and my imagination were my main sources of entertainment. The intensity of my relationship with reading was so great that I never really quite found my way out of those pages and was always blithely caught in a place somewhere between reality and fantasy. I was fascinated by the notion that an ordinary object could possess magical powers and that a young girl like me could move objects with just her mind or even bend space and time. I believed that magic existed in the everyday, that one only needed to look around her to find the fantastic and otherworldly. It is no wonder that authors such as Roald Dahl and John Bellairs so appealed to me. Roald Dahl’s black humor and bent towards the macabre and John Bellairs’ gothic aesthetic embodied everything that I looked for in a book.
I still read a lot of children’s books and on any given weekend can be found sorting through a bin of old books in search for new additions to my collection, typically those written in the 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s. Reading books for the young keeps my mind fresh, wholesome, and free. Isn’t that what we all want to be?
For me, the pursuit of “love” has altered my life in ways that I could regret, if I live life with regrets. I don’t, but if I did, I could spend the rest of my days mourning lost opportunities to fulfill my potential. Most of the relationships that were borne out of my hot pursuit of love were as hollow as a cocaine high. Fast and furious, fizzling flat fast. Fool’s gold. Like any drug, the dangerous cousin of love’s got to be quit cold-turkey. Not in parts, not in halves. Not a sip, not a puff, not a line, not even a bump.
True love, it doesn’t take away opportunities. It doesn’t make you jealous. It doesn’t make you afraid. It doesn’t need chasing. It doesn’t need short skirts or drinks at a bar late at night. Love is sober. Love should be seamless, effortless, organic. It will enter your life without so much as a sigh. It will surround you when you least expect it. You might not even realize that it’s there. Love can wait, but time never does. That’s a lesson I learned a decade too late.
Searched for over and out1:38pm
Searched for you don’t make mistakes? don’t repeat this story then1:24pm
Searched for kill ME1:24pm
Searched for kill my father1:24pm
Searched for kill my mother1:24pm
Searched for love keeps you alive, it don’t numb your soul1:24pm
Searched for i’m dumb but i know that much1:23pm
Searched for it doesn’t feel this bad1:23pm
Searched for what is love1:23pm
Searched for what do you want?1:23pm
Searched for don’t want to sprint and lose my legs1:23pm
Searched for dont wanna get hurt1:22pm
Searched for don’t want to get fucked over1:22pm
Searched for let’s throw this down and call it a tie1:22pm
Searched for don’t even try1:21pm
Searched for it’s fucking over1:20pm
I had to cut my hair. It caught fire last summer. Then it started falling out. Telogen effluvium, as it’s called, is characterized by early entry of the hair follicles into the resting, or telogen, phase. Those hairs then fall out. Regrowth is expected, but hair grows slowly. Emotional trauma and severe stress is the primary cause for this alteration of hair cycle. My crowning glory, now…not so much. That’s what I get for my vanity, I suppose…
A girl should never cut her hair. To think how many times a girl has fingered my locks and ruefully admitted that she shouldn’t have trimmed her hair so short! Countless occasions!
The last time my hair was really shorn was when I was 8. My mother cut it to my chin and gave me blunt bangs that brushed the tops of my eyebrows. I looked rather like a dutchboy, which was nice for a while, though the bangs did give me pimples (which was alright since the bangs were there to cover them). I’ve grown my hair out since then, with nary a cut and seldom a trim. My hair is my trademark; a tangled, wavy mane tumbling down to my waist. It keeps me warm in the winter and sweltering in the summer-time. When I’m shy, it closes like a curtain over my eyes. I have beautiful hair; that’s what strangers tell me almost every day. What they don’t know is that without it, I am nothing.
RIP Ruslana, June 28, 2008
Jean-on-jean: It is a little gauche, but very chic. For my personal style, I always try to keep something a little off, because it keeps the look fresh and unself-conscious. The typical New York girl can be a little too perfect, too measured. To throw something on and look great anyway, to look completely effortless, is ideal, I think.
(Paris 2008) I was attacked by two men from the banlieu in the vestibule of the building on the very evening I arrived.
As I lay on the ground, I comforted myself with the thought that it was going to be a memorable trip. Misfortune and mishaps always ensure that those moments will stay with you forever.
Indeed, this is why I always make sure to cause a little pain to those I desire never to forget me. Just a little, you know?