Take charge, little trembler.

It's amazing how much I've grown up in the past week.

Monday, I paid the long overdue water bill that my parents had been ignoring since April. With the running water finally on, (fuck yes, hot showers!) there was laundry to do. A LOT of laundry. And dirty dishes stacked atop each other for miles and miles. So while my Mom napped and my sister played a computer game, I scrubbed every inch of the bathroom, mopped all the linoleum floors and tackled the laundry and dishes.
Next day, I went into the grocery store and spoke to the hiring manager.
Short, intimidating, and to my opinion, a general asshole. I introduced myself, shook his hand and asked if he'd reviewed my application yet.
"No?" is what he said. But he'd get right on it, he assured me.
Strange little man. I'll have to admit, I didn't WANT to work there. I just wanted to get a job. Anywhere. All the cashiers dislike me already for some unknown reason so I knew it wouldn't be fun.
Regardless, I filled out my application as flattering to myself as I could and apparently made a good impression on the manager.
Wednesday, Daddy got out of detox. (That's a whole other story right there). He didn't want to stick around the house so we decided to hit the mall.

Rule #1: Never go shopping if you don't have money.

My Mother never read that handbook.
Whilst browsing the many shops filled with material things I know I'll never be able to afford, I stumbled into a small costume jewelry shop called Princess and was given an application.
I filled it out, brought it back, and instead of being interviewed by the manager, I met the big wig. I mean, the guy who owns the chain. He's opened 16 stores across the country and here's little ol' me who's never had a job before, asking him if he'll take me on.
He asked me to call him "Mo". Short for Mohammed, I assume because yes, he is Muslim. Mo speaks low, but with authority. He looked me straight up and down, asked me why I thought I could do this job, told me that it wouldn't be easy, that he doesn't tolerate his employees standing around, asked me if I thought I could handle it, then hired me. I was psyched.
But also nervous. Very, very nervous. Terrified, in fact. So terrified, I woke up at 3am the next morning and waited for my alarm clock to go off at 7.
At 9:30, Mom dropped me off and I waited for 30 minutes in the food court of the mall for Ben, my manager to open the store at 10.
Ben is.. interesting. 24 years old, Muslim, can barely speak English and has the hots for me. Great. 
He showed me how to stock and price, how to run the register and take credit cards, etc. Four hours later, I was running the place myself. Seriously. Ben went to sleep in the stock room.
But it was fun! I met and helped so many people. All walks of life and all races of women came pouring in that shop asking me to help them find a bracelet, necklace, ring, etc to match their outfit or to go with their prom dress.
For 11 hours, I stood and walked around that shop flapping my gums and putting my good taste to work. Then at 10pm, we closed shop and counted the money (cough, $1,234.94, cough). 
Home, shower, valium, bed. I'm proud of myself.

"The brave may not live forever, but the cautious never live at all."

Far from home in my mother's jewelry box.

Slow. Disoriented were my steps. Feeling along the walls for the support I've always longed for. The support that was promied me. It was almost like waking from one of my many unremembered dreams. Dark. Dizzy. Familiar smells that I've never smelled before. If there was light, I'm sure I'd see the familiar faces that I've never met.
Just as I thought I might be wandering through some black part in the back of your mind, a light appeared. Tiny, flickering. And I followed it. Closer and closer, soon my head was spinning with things I thought were only imaginary.
More lights. Blue and yellow and white like mini gems glowing from my mother's jewelry box. I reached for them. And when I woke up, I was in the city.

Ellen Degeneres is not high, drunk, emotionally unstable or a combination of the three.

Note to self and other potential amateur bloggers: When writing a blog, it is in the interests of yourself and your readers to not be (a) high, (b) drunk, (c) emotionally unstable (i.e. sobbing hysterically), or (d) a combination of the three. Unless of course, you want hilarious/embarrassing feedback.

Also. Am I the only woman in America who thinks Ellen Degeneres is the most beautiful person in modern showbiz? 'Cause if I am, just tell me. 

In case you're wondering, I am heterosexual. My Mother asked me once if I were a lesbian, because at the time, I was too shy to approach a certain boy that I liked. She, (who never had a bashful day in her life), took it that I wasn't really attracted to the boy and must be scared to admit to my alternative sexuality. She asked me so bluntly that it really hurt my feelings and after snapping at her the obvious truth, I burst into tears.
That aside, my sexuality has never been questioned. Yet, I think, if the opportunity arose, I would do Ellen Degeneres. I mean, is she gorgeous or what?
It's strange to think that with all the glamour girls and fashion divas in the world, the celebrity that I most admire for beauty, intelligence, and all around sexiness, should be the one woman who is open about being a lesbian. There is just something about her that radiates confidence. And well, she is beautiful.

Perpetual romance addiction?

I can imagine myself as the woman running through the dark and snowy streets of London in zebra print underwear, desperate to make things right with the man I love. (That's Bridget Jones' Diary, btw.)

I am, hopeless in that sense. Terribly romantic. Sickly obsessive over "the little sweet" things. I don't think there are many girls who don't dwell on their daydreams, but maybe not so many do it as often, or as well, as I do.

The human mind is a strange and changing thing. The human heart, moreso. I may not have as much experience with romantic involvement as some, but I've shed my share of tears. That's why, at 9 months, I'm for once, really happy. For once, I've found something worth hanging onto. Something that's not going to twist me round and round 'till I break, and then walk away.

I'm tripping on a burst of dopomine whenever he says my name. This, is heaven.

Something I've realized though. After the 2 years of pitiful teenage "heartbreak" that I endured, it was only after I decided that those guys were stupid for hurting me and that I didn't need anyone to be happy, that I began this new journey. Those other guys were stupid. They didn't know how badly they hurt my feelings, pride, self esteem and therefore, I couldn't be angry with them any longer. I let go. And that felt good. Forgiveness does bring happiness, because for once, I was finally happy. Then came the step of accepting myself. Who I was, my thoughts, my opinions, my story. I am me and I don't need them. I don't need anyone to be content with who I am. I don't need a boy to convince me that I'm a beautiful woman, inside and out. I don't need to feel wanted. It is nice, yes. But it's not a need.

For the first time, in a long time, I would wake up and say, "I can do this on my own.". I got sight of my dreams, my hopes, my feelings. I didn't worry about who was watching or what he'd think or if I could survive without a boyfriend. It was then, that I met the man I call my own now.

Yes, it is nice to hear him tell me I'm beautiful, that I'm wanted and he loves me. But it's even nicer to know that he means it and he's not just paying lip service. I don't need him for that and he knows it.
I took on a whole new meaning to my life and I guess I had to love myself before I could ever really love and be loved by someone else. I don't mean selfish love. I mean, confidence in one's self, security.

It feels good to need someone for the right reasons.
Not just because I need to cling to someone and their image of me.
I'm finally in love.

Pyromanical

Bonfires bring out the strangers.
People laughing and drinking and throwing up and screaming and fighting and spitting. People bleeding. Somehow, the roar of the flames and the spirits flowing freely, awakens a fire inside. A dangerous one. Cleansing and destructive, an element all to it's own. A chemical poisioning, yet clearing.
Buzzing around in the dark, inner flames begin to lick at old wounds. And they all become animals.

Future Kinks of America

In my Aunt's apartment complex, there's an 11 year old who fancies himself my boyfriend.
Half my height and a blond mess of hair, he follows me everywhere. I've a feeling that my blue jean short-shorts have driven him into early puberty. Everytime I'm over, here he comes to tease me. And being the natural tom-boy that I am, I'll strong arm him, throw him over my shoulder, generally rough house with him. This has gone on nearly everytime I'm at my aunt's, since last Summer.
But a thought occurred to me yesterday. I read recently that when a young boy pre-puberty is influenced by a bigger, stronger girl, it may affect his future adult sex life. In most cases, the boy never learns to 'make the first move' on a girl and therefore, goes throughout his life awkward around females 'till by his luck, he meets a girl that doesn't mind being dominant.
I began to wonder if maybe, I'm screwing this kid's life up. He'd lead an awkward life of fantasy until hopefully, one day he'd meet a girl like me that wouldn't mind wrestling, straddling and tying him to the bed.
Then it occurred to me that maybe that's not such a bad thing. There'd be less rapes if more men were less dominant. Maybe I'm saving this kid from becoming a teenage father. Maybe if I start rough housing with more 11 and 12 year olds, the teenage pregnancy rate will drop tremendously throughout the state. And it would all be due to me.
Then it came to me that maybe, just maybe, I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about anyway.
So here's to future romps with T* and I sincerely hope he doesn't get a girl pregnant in highschool. Even if it means the only reason he couldn't is because he's still obsessed with me and my long frame and tight, hip riding jeans.