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Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Thought Provoking Question One.

I discovered on the Internet a very unique post concerning thought-provoking questions, which was done in a unique way with photographs. http://www.marcandangel.com/2010/03/29/25-beautifully-illustrated-thought-provoking-questions/ did a good job. I would recommend you check it out. As stated, I did not come up with these questions myself, but I'd like to answer a few of them from my perspective.

1. "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you [were]?"

When I look in the mirror, I don't see a barely twenty year old. I feel much older, but not in a bad way, like in the decrepit, run-down sense of old. I feel as if in the past year, I've gained a wealth of knowledge, mainly through the easy way, but no matter how old you are or mature you are, some lessons must be learned the hard way.
Ever since I was a child, I always talked better with older people. Even my parents said I could hold a conversation better with teachers than I could with my own peers, aunts and uncles more than my sparingly few cousins.
I've been called an old soul by a few people along with a "little Benjamin Button", which always makes me smile. It might be weird to say, but if you believe in past lives, which I may or may not, I have not really come to a conclusion, but maybe, just maybe, everyone carries a piece of the wisdom that they gain into their new life. Maybe. Maybe not. I'd like to think it were that way.So yes, I feel older. Sometimes a little, other times decades. But in a multifaceted way, I feel so, so young. I'll never forget sitting out on the patio at school blowing bubbles during finals week last spring; plainly said, I was happy, young at heart. Simple things make me happy, like coffee and bubbles and rain.
What age will always boil down to for me are two simple words Rod Stewart sang..."Forever Young". Or as my grandpa used to say, "Age is only a number, it's more important how you feel."






Monday, December 27, 2010

Colleen Stanton.

Her stomach rumbled as she ungracefully rolled out of bed, placed her feet on the cold floor, and sighed. Another day. Another fucking day. As she groggily made her way to the small, cockroach infested kitchen, she rummaged through cabinet after cabinet, only coming across stale Cheerios. When she shook the box, the crumbs were so nonexistent, they barely rustled in the plastic bag. The refrigerator was bare, its innards completely missing, like a mummy the Egyptians disassembled in preparation for burial. How fitting, that she would parallel her fridge to a corpse; she viewed the house as a tomb, some cavern six feet under the ground from which she could not escape. At times, it were as if the very walls were pressing inward on her, making her fat rolls on her hips and ass squelch under the pressure. She was only sorry it didn’t kill her.

Why she was looking for food was beyond her comprehension; she wasn’t even hungry. She never was, especially in the morning. Ever since she could remember, the thought of even the most appealing breakfast, poached eggs, Canadian bacon, perfectly toasted bread, was enough to make her yak. She placed the nearly empty cereal box back in the cupboard, neglecting to throw it away even though the trashcan was within feet of her. Colleen rubbed her crusted eyes with weathered, worn hands that smelled of turpentine and clay; even though she had soaked her hands for several minutes in the nasty chemical, she could not get the earthy smell out of her hands from molding pots and mugs yesterday. It was as if the clay became her hands, fusing with the very fibers of her sinew and marrow. Colleen smiled at the thought of being a real artist, even though deep down she knew she was nowhere close to being able to label herself with such a title. She barely made enough money to afford her living expenses, but this was how she liked it. The thought of performing a job day in and day out that she despised made her want to throw up just as much as the thought of breakfast.

Making her way to her Keurig coffee maker, she patted the machine’s smooth surface like it was her pet. It looked completely out of place against her filthy countertops that were splashed with food and unknown liquids, but Colleen didn’t mind the mismatched d├ęcor. In fact, she loved it. Best decision of my life, stealing you, she thought as she slid a dirty mug under the coffee-maker, and pressed a button. Colleen stood close by, watching the machine go through its motions, and within a few seconds, her not-so-clean cup was filled with piping hot liquid. Like magic, you are. Fit for a queen. Minus the grime around the rim of her mug, but she could ignore that small tidbit of information. It wasn’t like her lips were a stranger to this glass. For being a bit of a germaphobe, Colleen could ignore such things in her own apartment, but God help James, the only waiter that would serve her anymore, if there were a water spot on her fork at the diner around the corner from her shithole residence. Something about other people’s mouths touching the silverware from which she also ate grossed her out to no end. Colleen would have brought her own set of utensils had she not been so damn consumed with her artwork.

While she reminisced about her infamous adventure from which she had gained her prized coffeemaker, she absentmindedly meandered her way around the accumulation of dirty clothes and smashed soda cans that lie as still as dead soldiers. Had you tested her navigation skills in the dark, she would have amazed you; the piles of shit on her apartment floor had been there so long, it were as if the obstructions had become permanent fixtures in her house that could not be moved, even if she had the volition to do so. Colleen shuffled her feet across the peeled linoleum floor of the kitchen to what appeared to have been a nice living room at one time but had the appearance of being trashed in a recent frat party: Doritos were thrown about the room, a lamp knocked off of the table, dirty dishes and Tupperware containers were stacked on the end tables. The only semi-clean table was the coffee table. How stereotypical, she thought with a smile, as she placed her mug on the table and sat back on the rotting couch that smelled so much of mildew, it could gag the termites that infested her walls. The only smell that overpowered that of the mildew and mothballs was the sweet stench of the death of mice and rats hidden deeply in the walls between her and her asshole neighbor’s apartment. Colleen couldn’t understand why the rats and mice would want to live there, what with her neighbor blaring music at all hours of the night so loudly, it was enough to shake the pictures Colleen might have hanging on her walls, but did not. She had sold every picture frame that had ever held any artwork or photograph, whether it was made from her hands or not. Not that she missed the memories. Not with all of them floating around her brain, able to be recalled willingly or unwillingly to the surface of her mind’s eye.

Her stomach growled again, a gurgle of disgust, as if rebuking her for not eating. The thought of food still repulsed her. She glanced down at the coffee table, with its cracked class and rusted metal, and picked up the razorblade that lay on its cragged surface. Sliding it through her fingers, she contemplated how easy it would be just to slice her wrists, to end what had been forty-seven years of a misshapen, misunderstood existence. She laughed at the idea; only pussies dealt with life by killing themselves. And she was too much of a stubborn bitch to concede that life had beaten her. Colleen leaned forward, scraped the powder into a pile, and tapped the razorblade clean. She contemplated it, observing it like an old friend. Her stomach obnoxiously thundered, begging her for food, pleading. Suddenly, moving with a purpose no one would have thought Colleen Stanton would have possessed, she lurched forward, positioned herself over the cocaine and inhaled a long, deep breath. Feeling the sudden simultaneous calming and coming alive of her limbs, Colleen Stanton leaned back onto her moth-eaten couch and sipped from her lukewarm mug, thinking to herself with a slight upturn of the mouth, Breakfast of fucking champions.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

A Christmas Gift for the Future

If you're close to me, it's not an unknown fact that one day, I'd love to open my own coffeeshop. Only me working behind the counter, maybe my lover (second to coffee, that is) too, the aroma of espresso, and my customers to entertain me during the day, which would be fine by me. God, I'd give anything for the next five Christmases to be filled with bean grinders and coffeeclub memberships. I know how odd this might sound to some of you. But really, since I was a child, I always dreamed of doing just this. I distinctly recall sitting at our island in our kitchen, drawing the corner coffeeshop with the arched doorway and stoop that would sit in the city. The door was a blue tint with a heavy brass knob. I still have the drawing in my sketch book. I always thought of having a roof garden for patrons to get away from the bustle of the city streets, to enjoy trees and flowers while having their coffee. God, it would be perfect...

My boyfriend bought me two books this Christmas that dealt with opening your own coffeeshop. And, although it was a gift most people wouldn't have enjoyed as thoroughly as I did, I had to choke back tears. How strange, that a book concerning coffee could bring me to wipe my eyes! And yet, it was not about the coffee. It was that someone was giving to me books that would help me to accomplish my goals, my dreams, without a hint of sarcasm or doubt hidden in the meaning of the giving. That is what meant the world to me.

Ironically enough, he does not know that I wrote these exact words in my senior year book: "I plan to attend a private university for international business/entrepreneurship. I will travel throughout Europe, meet an amazing man, and eventually open my own coffee shop in which I will stock the novels I'll write."

Well, I go to Elizabethtown. Check.
I was International Business. Check. (Scratch that off of the list).
Switched to English to better write the novels. Check.

And met an amazing man, whom I'm hoping I can one day travel with in Europe and that he will one day be there when I buy my own place to open my dream coffee shop. <3

Funny the way things work out...

Friday, December 24, 2010

Excuses, excuses!

Friends, I apologize for not writing. I promised myself over Christmas break I would write more on my blog, but low and behold, sleep has a way of sneaking up on me and dragging me to dreamland in the oddest of places. The other day, I fell asleep on my sofa sitting dead upright, only to be rudely awakened by the four-month old creature my parents adopted. Rocky, if you haven't heard, is the newest addition to our family. And he is the cutest puppy ever. No matter how cute your puppy is/was, I'm convinced this adopted teddy bear is the most precious thing I have ever seen. But anyways, back to my excuses for not writing.

See, you know the phrase "things aren't always as they seem to appear,", right? Well, how accurate this is in this situation! Funny thing is, I HAVE been writing. Just not on my blog; I've decided it's time for me to actually write, not that what I write on here isn't actual writing, but it isn't edited, reviewed, and re-edited...the whole shebang, you know what I'm trying to say. So after a little bit of planning and a lot of frustration, I am now on my third page of a manuscript. And I am very, very excited. Of course, I've hit some bumps in the road, but I'm plugging along pretty well so far. My goal is to hopefully have something finished in rough format in a year, and if things keep progressing like they are right now, I will have a storyline completed.

I'm trying to keep it a bit hush-hush, although I realize posting to a blog that I am writing a book is not the most private of ways to keep a matter secretive, I decided I owed my readers a bit of an explanation for my laziness. Of course, once the holidays settle down, I'm positive I will be back on my blog, writing away.

My main issue is, it is very difficult for me to think of prompts, so I have a proposition: If you have a subject you would like for me to write a blurb on, I will definitely take employment! I crave new ideas that are out of the box from my mind, so please, comment away and give me some prompts.

I hope you all are enjoying time with your families. Merry Christmas!

With love,
Lauren.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Dream a little dream of me.

When I stop sleeping, I will write. True Story. I promise.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

untitled.

He is following me. I noticed him about fifteen minutes ago entering the store after I had parked my Subaru in Walmart's parking lot. Meandering in and out of aisles at a relaxed pace, I did not really notice him visually, but I could feel his presence lurking behind my steps. Every now and then, he would come the opposite way down the aisle, and as our carts almost were past each other, our eyes would lock, and he'd give me that slight all-knowing smirk. I could not help but to grin in secretive delight.
Jordan and I do this a lot. Maybe it's the underlying actor in both of us, but we purposely ignore each other while we're shopping, pretending we are complete strangers in this giant abyss of groceries. Amid the Campbell's Chicken and Rice soup and Lipton's iced tea mix, Jordan and I share glances and smiles as the people around us are oblivious to our mischief.
Sometimes we'll cause a scene. Well, perhaps I should say I sometimes cause a scene. One time, when Jordan had forgotten to empty the garbage, even though I'd asked him three or four times to do so during the course of the day, I lost it. I told him I was going shopping, grabbed my keys, and stormed out of the house. Of course, because of the type of man he is (an amazing one), he followed me there to try and talk to me on the stage of our performance. I believe, in this instance, Jordan underestimated me; perhaps he thought a public location would be the best place to approach me, only to swiftly grab me and kiss me, to tell me he'd emptied the garbage before he followed me and that he would never, ever let it happen again.
What he did not consider was the fact that I was in my element; the gray concrete floor of Walmart was my stage, and that night my role was the Crazy Bitch. When I saw him coming down the bread aisle (which I'm sure all of you know is one of the busiest damn aisles in the entire store, and that day was no exception), I immediately could tell he was also playing a part. I read his face: prince charming finally there to claim his prize. Sorry Jordan, not happening today. My stubbornness kicked in, even though I knew that him forgetting to empty the garbage was really not that big of a deal.
I snatched a loaf of rye bread off of the shelf, the kind with the crunchy crust and hid it along my right side. While people shopped all around me, I made my way down through the aisle, palms getting sweaty from my anticipated plan, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead at the Deli sign. Jordan, who was staged as an innocent bystander pondering whether to purchase whole wheat or twelve grain, gauged when my cart would be passing, and purposely took a step back into it to bump me off course, to alter our fates.
"I- I am s-so sorry, miss," he stammered. Great, he's pulling out the stuttering accent as well. God, I'm going to look like a bitch when I do this.
Before he could continue his premeditated lines, I swung the loaf of bread by my side into the side of his head, and continued to beat him with it. Jordan threw his hands up in anticipation of the blows, but never said my name; he realized, deep down, this had beating had reason, but right now, it was a performance.
After a few blows, I suddenly realized that every eye was on me, now holding a very battered loaf aloft in my right hand. Somehow managing to keep a straight face, I gently placed my weapon back in his rightful place, leaned into Jordan and whispered, "Maybe that will teach you to take out the garbage when I ask." With this, I left the aisle and abandoned my cart, nearly empty. As I walked toward the exit, I could feel several pairs of eyes on me, and suddenly a pair of hands. Oh my God, someone called security. I'm going to be arrested for beating someone with a loaf of bread. Could that be a felony?
Suddenly I realized the person who was dragging me out of the store was laughing, and I turned my head to see Jordan linking his arm with mine. Standing in the parking lot of the supercenter, we dissolved into laughter at what had just occurred. He pulled me in close, our breaths fogging in the winter air and said, "That was so funny, I think I may forget the trash everyday now on." And with that, we both got in our respective cars, only to drive home and well...make up.
Three years later, and we were still going strong with our shopping performances. I'm not entirely sure what sparked this odd phenomena, but what fed it to continue were the looks on people's faces. Jordan and I both knew that we had to be the topic of numerous dinner conversations.
Today, I actually shopped for the purchase of shopping, which I told Jordan I was doing after work. I honestly was not anticipating him to follow me there, and one might laugh, but when I saw him at the opposite end of the condiments aisle, my heart jumped a bit in my chest. Jordan and I have been together now for five years and just recently got engaged. I could not think of another person I would want to spend my life with. Anytime our eyes catch each other, there is a palpable fire present. Even in the grocery store, when Jordan 'accidentally' brushes my arm, and smiles that smile that shows all of his dimples, the one where people can't help but notice what they think is love at first sight, my heart beats slightly more rapidly. People think we are crazy when we tell our tales, but I don't mind. To me, we're just reminding everyone that love can be around any corner, even between the bread and the condiments.

Good dog.

He gets home. He leaves. He gets home. He sleeps. He gets home. He looks at me like "what the hell do you want?"

God, if only I could speak English. What do you think I want?! Attention! Give me some good, full-hearted attention like you give that brunette chick that's always over at your house!
All of those people out there who say, 'oh, if only I had the life of a dog' should be smacked. Hard. Not that I'm tooting my own horn here or anything, but I have to admit, I am a pretty cute pup; blonde hair, thin build, and a face that just screams to be kissed and loved. I've only been living with this guy for a few months, but I've already got a list of complaints.

Complaint Number One: Turn on your heat! What month do you think it is, June?! I mean, I know I'm a dog and everything, and you might look at me and say, 'ahh, you've got hair, you'll be warm.' Yeah, maybe if you set it at a reasonable temperature. That one day, it got down to 55 degrees in here; do you know how cold that is?! And you can't even leave on the fireplace heater for me while you're at work. Cheap bastard. When you do have the fireplace on for me, you comment on how cute it is that I sleep curled up in a ball, my wet nose only fractions of an inch from the glass that separates me and those fake logs. I mean, I guess if you think me literally freezing my tail off is precious, then fine, but you have issues. If only I had thumbs to dial 911 to report you to the proper authorities for a psychotic episode or something.

Complaint Number Two: My toys. Come on, how old am I? 21! and what do you buy me? A green squeeky toy. You know, the sick thing is, you and that girlfriend of yours get more of a kick out of it than I do. "Ha ha! It's so funny, the squeeky toy is under the rug and OH MY GOD, it SQUEEKS!" What a concept! And you people are the top of the food chain?

Complaint Number Three: My food. Going back to the whole cheap bastard thing, for all of you people out there, Old Roy is only cheap because it is disgusting. Yeah, you think I'm a dog, oh, I'll eat anything. Mmmm, not happening. So, remember that time you bought me that new food and I got so excited because I actually thought it might be decent, as in not containing chicken beaks? Then you pulled it out of the grocery bag, and if only my head were a little higher, I would have full on nailed you in the crotch; you did buy new food, but more OLD ROY. Come onnnnn, cut me some slack. So, in protest, I didn't eat. I mean, to your knowledge I didn't, but I've become quite skilled at picking things out of the garbage without disturbing them. You would come home from work for the next week, look at me, and ask me if I were ok, why wasn't I eating? And you would even say to that broad of yours that I hadn't been eating and she would say, Oh, she probably doesn't like her food: BINGO, buddy! For once, this chick right about something!

Revenge will be mine. You wait. New pair of Armani loafers: in my mouth, all slobbered up. That Christmas gift she got you: oops, my tail knocked it over! Shattering glass.

Oh, p.s- that Tempurpedic bed: really comfy when you're not looking.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Oh Byron, you're such a dog.

I'm in a British Romanticism class, and I absolutely fell in love with the infamous Lord Byron. His character and personality are so intriguing. This is the last work that I have to read for this class, and I loved it.

On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze -
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus -and 'tis not here -
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece -she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! -unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here: -up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out -less often sought than found -
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

Lord George Gordon Byron, 1824.

Maybe some brief history and interesting information about Mr. Byron to come at a later date. Finals are coming up, so the blog might be "riding bitch" for a while.

Monday, December 6, 2010

A blurb on Christmas. :)

So I've been away from blogging for a little while; sometimes, unfortunately, college gets the best of me, and it is difficult to find time to write. It's especially hard when I do writing in all of my other classes, and by the time I get to the computer to write what I actually WANT to write, I'm exhausted.
Has anyone noticed all the Christmas Cheer going around? I know here at Elizabethtown, it is everywhere: people writing Christmas Cards in the Blue Bean, Christmas music being played all over campus, Christmas-themed parties being thrown in the quads. My boyfriend made me an amazing Christmas drink a few weeks ago, his own concoction: delicious!
I seriously wish every month could have the same cheer. Maybe it's just me, but from the end of November to the beginning of January, people are just nicer. I know I feel much more alive. The only thing that upsets me is the commercialism that has occurred with Christmas. Somewhere along the generations, I think the true meaning and feelings have been buried under the obligations and stress of shopping for people you barely know, spending money you don't need to spend.
I know as a college student, I really don't have much money to spend. So, time to get creative with gifts. I'd give some ideas, but I don't want to spill the beans because some people might be reading this post. I love thinking of personal gifts that have an intimate meaning behind them; from the time when I gave my mom shadow boxes of my brother and me when we were little, she loved it more than any purchased gift could ever mean. So, this Christmas, show your love in a different way. Create things for the person you love, give meaningful gifts to your parents, maybe something from your childhood.
Also, I attend a college with a motto "Educate for Service", and I was thinking about this today; I've been so wrapped up in myself and school that I haven't had time to go out and do anything for people. I remember in high school, I volunteered for a soup kitchen, and it was freezing outside, but the feeling of goodwill warmed me up a bit. Last year, I drove to a mall to buy Legos for an underprivileged child (and wrecked my car in the process, but that's beyond the point; I MAKE SACRIFICES), and (besides the car wreck), I felt pretty good about myself (it was raining and my windows were really foggy, ok. No women driver jokes).
But anywayssss... So instead of buying, give of yourself. I honestly think that giving a part of yourself to another person, whether it be through volunteering or making a gift for them that has a true meaning means the world to the receiver. I know it does to me.