Healing the Self-Inflicted

*Another sub-par entry, in my opinion, but I think I'm on my way to getting my Creative Mojo back...*

When I was in 6th grade, which I suppose would have made me twelve (I still associate times in my life with grade in school rather than age), I went with my parents and siblings to California for Christmas with relatives. I still remember the day it was confirmed that we were going. I was so excited because for one, it would result in my first plane ride, and two, it would be my first time to California and my first time meeting some of the family out there. I told myself I was going to be so cool, I was going to make such an impression on those relatives I had never met and they would be blown away by how awesome I was. I thought I was so grown up and so special but, as you may have guessed, I ended up making a complete idiot of myself.

How. Embarassing. Let me explain:

For one thing, I was a total brat to my brother and sister. I thought I was so witty with my childish remarks, and so cool with my refusal to cooperate with my siblings. I remember my aunt took us kids to Haight Ashbury in San Francisco and my brother wanted to take a picture of the house the Grateful Dead used to live in, but I refused to let him use my camera. Why? I have no idea. I didn't even know why then, but I still acted like a brat. I put up such a fight over a picture in front of an unfamiliar relative. What a lovely portrayal of character, right? Yeah. Sad.

For another thing, and on a completely different behavioral wave, I was shy to the point of snobishness (is that a word? I don't know, just go along with me here). The sleeping arrangements were such that my siblings and I stayed at our aunt and uncle's and my parents stayed with my grandparents. However, after one or two nights at my aunt's I got "parent sick" I suppose, and ended up sleeping on the couch at the grandparents'. And even worse, at one point when it was necessary that I sit in the front seat of the car in between my grandparents so everyone else would fit in the back seat, I cried until I was allowed to squeeze in the back with my father. I'm sure that came off as cool. Definitely. For some reason I just became completely attached to my father and wasn't happy if we needed to be separated.

I realize that I was just a little kid then, and most kids that age are brats at some point, and none of us are anywhere near as cool as we think we are. I also realize that it's much more embarassing and memorable to me than it probably is to my aunt and uncle or my grandparents, but it's something that bothers me from time to time. I want to redeem myself, which leads to the reason I'm reminiscing on this painful subject now. You see, my mother and I will likely be returning to California this summer to visit the family, and meet more new members (two kids have been born to the aunt and uncle since my first visit). I really want to go, not only for the change in scenery and the chance to see the Bay Area in the summer, but for the chance to finally show who I really am, who I have grown up to become.

I want to show my relatives that I have become a mature and passionate young woman with wit and talent. I want to exhibit my good natured personality and prove, most especially to myself, that I am capable of being adult, capable of being the person I've told myself that I am, because all these years I have told myself that these people see me the way I look upon myself at that age: as a misbehaved child. Just over the past year I have grown up so much, not to mention the six years before it, and this could be my chance to put all of that maturing to the test. It's actually a selfish venture, but a potentially healing and again, redeeming one. That's what a trip to California represents to me: redemption.

I should add, the picture takin' will be mighty good too.

...With The Flow...

My apologies. This one's pretty pathetic.

I'm still feeling the writer's block. Not so much with the fiction, but with expressing my own thoughts, or even interpreting the thoughts I want to express. Lately, the things that are going through my head are too boring, too complicated, or too personal to share at this point in time. I want something to go off on a rant with, I want something to spark my interest, I want to exhibit passion with my words. It's become such an addiction that I don't know what to do with myself when there's a period of "dead air."

Maybe I need to just stop looking and take in what's around me. I need to stop specifically searching for something to spark the Blogger Within and just let it come on its own. I should be looking at my writing in terms of quality rather than quantity and stop feeling obligated to post once or more a day and instead, post when I feel I have something real to say.

Maybe I should focus on the fiction, too. Last night a friend of mine told me about a dream he had, and the whole concept of it was very cinematic and adventurous. He told me to feel free to write on the idea and I think I will. It might be just what I need to get my brain back on track and produce something worthwhile to my countless readers (har). The subject requires some research as well, so perhaps I'll stumble across something interesting to ramble with doing that too.

And maybe I should stop saying "maybe" and just get on with it. Yeah, maybe. Just maybe.

Room Eleven (very, VERY rough draft)

The beat up old station wagon rattled along the highway, threatening to fall to pieces at any moment. Andrew had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the radio volume dial, turning it up as high as it would go. Some old country song now blared through the speakers, another lonely guy singing about his pickup truck. It was well past midnight and all Andrew wanted was to stay awake long enough to make it to the next town. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. What a day, he thought. He couldn't believe they found him. So much for witness protection.

Andrew had been driving all night, he wanted to get as far away as he could. There were lights ahead at last; it was the small town of Trenton and he came to it just in time, for the young man could barely keep his eyes open. I'll have to ditch the car, he thought. It'll have been reported stolen by now. I'll figure out how to get out of here in the morning. He braked just before entering the town and carefully drove the old car into the ditch. Then, Andrew just sat there for a while, staring at the dried blood on his knuckles. Blood that wasn't his own. He began to be lulled by his stupor, but reminded himself that the car was too suspicious.

Walking the rest of the way to town, all Andrew could think about was the look on that woman's face. She didn't have to die. Why couldn't they have let her go, she was just trying to protect him. Why did she do that, anyway? he thought. I barely knew her. He spotted a retro looking sign up ahead. The Green Valley Motel looked a little shady, but at least he'd get some sleep. The young man went into the office, a musty smelling little room with green carpet, and stepped up to the desk. A greasy-haired man of about fifty sat dozing in a chair with his feet up on the desk. Andrew rang the bell, startling the clerk awake.

"Wha-? Hey, whaddya want?" the greasy man asked gruffly.

"I need a room," Andrew answered, looking at the floor. He didn't want the man to see his face.

"Be forty bucks," said the clerk as he turned to get a key off of a peg on the wall behind him. "Room eleven's the only one we got, boy. Ain't scared, are ya?" he asked with a crazy smirk and a glint in his eye.

"Eleven's fine," said Andrew warily. He had no idea why he should be scared.

Andrew set the cash on the desk and took his key. He left the office with his head still down and found his room. The door of room eleven was chipped, painted seafoam green, illuminated by the nearby street lamps. He pushed the key into the lock and it turned with a click. The door creaked open and a strange, warm kind of breeze whooshed across Andrew's face, actually rustling his hair. It smelled strange, like stale death. It was as though the room had let out a breath it had been holding in for years. Andrew was to tired to care or even really notice. He just wanted to plop down on the bed inside the pitch black room and get some sleep. Little did he know that soon, he would never want to sleep again.

Ordinary Things

I've been having a lot of trouble blogging properly. I must be having some kind of emotion/writer's block. I don't have the passion I'm used to having when I write. I hope it's only a temporary thing. Anyway, in light of my block, I'm just going to write about a couple of random, ordinary things. Enjoy.

For a couple of weeks I've been thinking about joining a softball team. I love the game and I'm surprisingly good at it, but in the past I've had what I like to call "sports stage fright." The whole time I'm on the field I think, I'm going to make an idiot of myself. It's strange because I don't have actual stage fright. In fact, I love acting and performing. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm not pretending to be someone else when I play sports like I obviously would be in a play. Gosh, I love the game though. It's so American, so red, white and blue.

So, I think I'll go to my brother's practice tomorrow and just watch. Feel out the people and see if it's something I want to commit to. It might be easier to be on an adult team with my brother. It's the church team too, so I'm thinking there's a good chance they'll be nice. I only hope that if I do join the team, I get fair play time. I hope it's not something people will be too competitive or too serious about. I just want to be active and be around people this summer.

On another topic, Dharma went to the vet and got booster shots today. The poor kitty had an allergic reaction and was "itchy twitchy" all day. Her ears got red and hot, her skin crawled, her tail twitched, and she couldn't sit still. She looked really miserable. So, we took her back to the vet and she got two more shots to counteract the reaction. She looked so tired on the exam table. She probably hadn't had any naps all day.

When we got home and let her out of the pet carrier, she stumbled out as though she were dizzy, and it was a little scary. She couldn't walk properly, like the allergy shots made her feet lame. My mom was really worried, but in time Dharma's itchy twitchies wore off and she was walking more normally. Now she's asleep on the arm of the couch. Poor Dharma's pooped. We love that sensitive kitty.

Meet the Pets: Pepsi

Meet Pepsi: The Baby

Nicknames: Poodle, Doodle, Noodle, Poopsie

Quirks: Is most comfy held against my right shoulder. If switched to the left, she will scramble back to the right. Comes to the phrase, "Gimme you!" Hides dog biscuits all over the yard in the summer, remembers where they are in the next and relocates them. Ocassionally senses Dharma's seizures and is happy to help her through them. Doesn't know how to bite people and if she does bite hard, it's by accident. Scared of vents. Loves tearing apart erasers. Recognizable by unusually large ears and cartoonish ear hairs.

Favorite People Foods: Fries, Chips, Ice Cream, Goldfish Crackers

Why We Love Her: A raspy howler that misses me too much to eat when I'm gone, Pepsi is always ready to go "nigh-night," and loves kisses. She's a big baby and my shadow. Perfect.

Feedback

A few days back I posted a short story, The Detention, and I'd love some feedback. It's been entered in a short story contest and, though I had to force myself to stop editing before I passed the entry deadline, I'm pretty proud of it. Please read it and let me know what you think!

Meet the Pets: Dharma

Meet Dharma: The Indoor Cat

Nicknames: Dimmi, Dimarma, Dimarie

Quirks: Insists upon drinking out of a dixie cup in the bathroom, but will settle for the toilet. Wakes up Mom every morning by tipping over the water cup on her nightstand. Goes in to several brief seizure spells a day in which she doesn't seem to recognize her surroundings. This is brought to an end by either sniffing at one of her people, or sniffing and ocassionally nibbling the cheeks of my Pomeranian, Pepsi, whom she takes pleasure in chasing around the house. Plays fetch with toy mice. Must sample the outdoor cat's food before it goes out, even if it's the same as hers.

Favorite People Food: Fruit and vegetables, canned or fresh.

Why We Love Her: Demanding, cute, curious, smart, and the best snuggler, Dharma is the queen of the house and we wouldn't have it any other way. Oh, and those paws are pretty kissable too.

Letting Go

I love the fact that I'm not even a year out of high school and I have to think fairly hard to remember the names of all but one of my LHS teachers. Why is this good? Because it means I've let go of those times, I've let go of such teenage frustrations. You see, back in high school, many percieved me as some kind of threat, as a slacker, or a quiet and disturbed teen. Mostly female teachers assumed automatically that I would not be a good student and I believe they also thought I was a stoner, even though I recieved A and B grades and I never got in trouble in or out of school. As a matter of fact, as far as my behavior went, I was and am a goody two-shoes and really, a Mommy and Daddy's girl.

I don't even know where such assumptions came from. Was it my black eyeliner? The dark-colored clothes? The fact that I have never been a suck-up and have never made unfounded excuses for occasionally not having my homework? Maybe it's because I have never conformed for the sake of conforming (not to say I'm a non-conformist, because there's no such thing), never been afraid to show my faith, never given in when I thought a different way. Just maybe.

Anyway.

Such teachers would tell me that, if I actually tried, I could be a good student, or would give me a lower grade on a project and reprimand me because I was absent and when my father brought the project in to school for me, it was after the class period I would have been in. I have even been told not to take certain classes because I probably wouldn't do well. At the time, of course, these things were very maddening and very frustrating. In fact, if it hadn't been for that one teacher whose name I easily remember, I would have lost all hope in the belief that there actually are gifted and compassionate teachers and would have hated my last year of school altogether. But I've managed to move away from those petty belittlements and double standards. They no longer bother me. I know now they helped to shape me into who I am today, and who I hope to become in the future.

I would love nothing more than to become an acclaimed writer and have my books required reading in my twelfth grade English teacher's class. I would love to be invited back to school as a guest speaker and tell those kids that high school drama doesn't matter, because all that matters is faith and a strong belief in oneself. I want to prove everyone that thought I was hopeless wrong. I would love to do these things, but fortunately, it's not what drives me. Glorifying God and being true to myself is what drives me, and if all of the above comes with it, then awesome.

Like I said, today I have to think fairly hard to remember the names of the people that tried to bring me down in school. I won't forget the experiences, of course, but the feelings of frustration for the people that brought them on are just no longer worth my energy, and knowing that feels great.

The Detention

The following is a work of fiction:

I was perched cross-legged upon a massive boulder that rested in the middle of a clear, shallow mountain stream. The sunlight poured down, penetrating the thick growth of branches that belonged to the surrounding ancient evergreen trees, bathing my body in its warmth. The steady flow of the crystalline water created a soft, white noise, lulling me into perfect contentment. I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. Just as I released it, a rush of wind brushed harshly across my body with a loud whistle and then disappeared as suddenly as it came. I felt Goosebumps form on my arms, and at the same time an all too familiar apprehension overcame me. I opened my eyes to see nothing but inky blackness. The sound of that gently flowing water was gone, replaced by a petrifying, motionless silence. No, please, not again, I thought fearfully. I was pulled suddenly and violently into a kind of black hole. My body was being flung in every direction within the whirling vortex, but there was no air brushing my skin or flowing through my locks. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn‘t feel. I was smothered and scared; all alone, empty, falling deeper and deeper into a never-ending vacuum.

“…mma….Emma!” I heard Mr. Haskel say loudly, a twinge of irritation in his voice. I lifted my head groggily from my desk and pushed my long, recently dyed-black hair out of my face. I must have fallen asleep during one of his boring lectures again. I looked around at the class, all of whom were staring at me, feigning an annoyed and defiant scowl and trying to forget the overwhelming emptiness that so suddenly consumed my dream.

The teacher crouched down so his unusually light, brown eyes were level with mine and said, “I want you to come see me after school.” He looked meaningfully at me for a moment and then stood up and strode to his desk in the back of the room. “I want you all to right a five-paragraph essay on the topic we discussed today, it will be due at the beginning of class tomorrow.” The bell rang, and I quickly grabbed my things and headed out, turning just before the doorway to throw Mr. Haskel a dirty look.

Jon Haskel was the eleventh and twelfth grade English teacher at Jefferson High School. He was about 40 years-old, with an average build, and short black hair that had just begun showing his age with a few gray hairs. Aside from these physical features, students would say Mr. Haskel was most recognizable by the fact that he always insisted upon wearing a tie, though it was never tied correctly, looking too loose, terribly uneven, or both. He also had an odd reputation among the other teachers, often being perceived as a recluse, rarely leaving his classroom, and never partaking in staff gossip. In the previous couple of months, Mr. Haskel was just another faceless teacher to me. Lately, however, he had become someone I felt a distinct dislike for. Haskel always singled me out in class these days; he had a knack for asking me in-depth literature questions when I was in the worst of moods and I often caught him looking at me during study time as though he expected me to be causing trouble. Now, he had really done it by giving me an undeserved detention.

Through most of my last period of the day, which was Art, I had Haskel on my mind. In fact I was bitterly creating a dark and abstract painting, depicting how I loathed him. Why do teachers think they own students? I thought as I mixed a dark blue hue with my brush. Haskel can’t tell me what to do! Filled with spite, I resolved that I would conveniently forget the pointless detention, and began formulating plans for what kind of trouble I could get into on this Friday evening. My Fridays had become increasingly exciting since my discovery of the wonders of alcohol a few months back. Alcohol meant I was an adult now--not the pathetic little girl that cared so much about grades and what other people think that I was at the beginning of the school year. It became apparent, however, that ditching wouldn’t be an option once the end of the day announcements hit the speakers.

“…and Emma Russo, report to Mr. Haskel’s room directly after the bell,” echoed the dull female voice over the intercom.

Awesome, I thought. Just announce to everyone that I have a detention with that jerk. I knew now I’d never get away with telling Haskel that our appointment slipped my mind.

The electronic bell sounded three times, signifying the school‘s dismissal. I took my time putting away my painting supplies, I may have accidentally-on-purpose spilled my water cup, thus elongating the cleanup, and once in the halls, chatted up every friend I encountered, and even stopped for a bathroom break. Then, unable to come up with more ways to stall, I reluctantly made my way to Mr. Haskel’s isolated room at the end of a narrow, carpeted hallway. By now the school was quite empty of students, which I took advantage of by lazily weaving down the abandoned corridor toward my impending destination.

Finally I was standing in front of Mr. Haskel’s closed classroom door. I stood facing the opaque glass that formed a window in the worn oak, making the inside of the room look like nothing but warped splotches of color, and took in a sharp breath. Resentment overcame me and I begrudgingly decided to make this detention a difficult one for Haskel. Perhaps then I’d get out sooner. I placed my hand on the scuffed brass knob, turned, and slowly cracked the door open.

“’Sorry’ is the last thing you’re ever gonna say,” croaked a desperate, uneven voice within the room.

I peaked around the corner and saw a wiry boy about my age in a black tee shirt and ripped jeans, sporting messy platinum blonde hair standing tensely in front of Haskel’s desk. He was holding a shot gun--pointing it directly at the teacher who stood on the other side.

“If an apology is what you’re looking for, Michael, you’ll have to find it elsewhere. I’m not sorry for asking the best of you,” answered Mr. Haskel clearly and quite calmly, his eyes fixed intently upon the boy.

I carefully stepped backward into the hall, my heart was racing. The bitterness that just a few seconds ago engulfed me, was replaced by adrenaline, fear, and a concern for Mr. Haskel that I never thought I could feel. For a moment I was frozen, holding my breath. What should I do? I thought. Should I go tell someone? What if it’s too late by then?

I heard the muffled voices of the student and Mr. Haskel within the room. I could see no one else around and I knew someone must get help. So, I carefully slipped off my tattered black canvas backpack and leaned it silently against a locker, stepped out of my dirty white flip flops, hoping to make as little noise as possible, and set off at a jog down the hall toward the office. I rounded the corner into the main hallway, the one I left just moments before, and collided with another student. She appeared to be a freshman from her small stature and the way she stared at the floor while hastily apologizing for running into me. I didn’t respond and girl was about to go on her way, but as though out of reflex, I quickly grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward me.

“I need you to go to the office and call 911. Somebody has a gun,” I whispered darkly. To my surprise the girl did not protest. She simply nodded and took off in my place toward the main office.

I must have made the decision when I bumped into that freshman, but I don’t remember coming to any definite conclusion as to exactly how I was going to proceed. I just know that I turned around and ran back to Mr. Haskel’s room with the idea that something had to be done before anyone got hurt. Voices still emitted from the room when I retuned. I hesitated for a moment and nearly backed out, but a sudden and frightening pause in the dialogue on the other side of the door made me act. I turned the knob quickly this time, pushed open the door and stepped inside. I still had no idea what I was going to do. Everything felt so surreal.

I could see Mr. Haskel still standing behind his desk. The boy called Michael had his back to me, his gun still aimed at the teacher. He apparently hadn’t heard me enter but the flicker of Haskel’s gaze in my direction was all he needed to know they were no longer alone. Michael whipped around and the weapon was now pointed at me. I was shocked to see that “Michael” was the boy I knew as Mickey. He was a senior, a grade ahead of me. I had partied with him just a week before, only then his hair was dyed purple. The boy’s face looked enraged yet terrified. He was gripping the gun so tightly that his knuckles were white, but it was still noticeably shaking.

“Mickey, what are you--” I began to say softly, taking a careful step in Michael’s direction.

“Emma, no!” Mr. Haskel interrupted desperately, thrusting his arm forward, with his palm out in a stopping motion. His eyes were shifting tensely between myself and the boy. “Michael, please let her go, she has nothing to do with this.”

“YOU SHUT UP!” Michael shouted as he turned back to the teacher. “You can’t tell me what to do anymore!”

Somehow keeping my voice steady I said, “Mickey? What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“I’m teaching him a lesson, Emma! He has to learn that he can’t treat people like this!”

I looked at Mr. Haskel who was already watching me. He was pale and his face was shining with sweat. The teacher shook his head very slightly as if to tell me not to try anything, but I ignored the warning and shifted my eyes back to Michael. “Like what, Mickey?” I asked tentatively. I had to keep him distracted. I had to keep him talking.

Michael turned his head back in my direction. “You--you know what?” He said, his voice cracking. “It doesn’t matter now, because I’m gonna end it!” He turned back and adjusted his grip on the gun.

“NO! Mickey, wait!” I shrieked somehow knowing that if I hadn‘t, Michael would have pulled the trigger. “Is he worth it? Is this jerk worth throwing your life away?”

The boy let out a sob, shifted his weight and looked at the floor, allowing the barrel of the weapon to lower slightly. Mr. Haskel seized the moment of weakness and lunged across his desk for the boy’s gun. The two struggled silently and fell to the floor. The gun was being forced in all directions. I just stood there, transfixed on the struggle, with no idea what to do. I couldn’t move anymore.

The gun went off abruptly. I think I screamed, but I don‘t remember hearing the sound of my voice, only quick bang that came from the weapon . The bullet barely missed Mr. Haskel who was attempting to pin Michael to the floor, and lodged itself in the ceiling, causing a small shower of white dust. I think the discharge even caught Michael off guard because he willingly let go of the weapon. Panting, Mr. Haskel held the gun out of the boy’s reach and scrambled to his feet. Michael still lay on the floor, now freely sobbing and trembling. I could feel my legs growing weak as I stared at the fresh hole in the ceiling. Haskel must have laid the gun on a desk or something because both his hands were now gripping my shoulders.

“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly. “Emma?”

I took my gaze off of the ceiling and met Mr. Haskel’s eyes. “I…yeah,” I answered in a shaky voice. The teacher helped me into a nearby chair.

“That was very stupid,” Haskel said as he and dropped into a chair across from mine. He was breathing hard and I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead. “…thank you.”

I looked over at Michael. He was still on the floor, no longer a threat. “The police should be here by now,” I said quietly.



Three months later, Michael was convicted of attempted murder and was sentenced to a mandatory eight years in prison, a lenient punishment thanks greatly to the sympathetic testimony of Mr. Haskel himself. The teacher and I went on to become good friends, bonded forever by our experience. We often had long conversations in his classroom after school during my senior year and in one of those visits, Mr. Haskel told me that my detention that day wasn’t one at all. He had requested my presence with the intention of asking if I needed someone to talk to; he noticed my dramatic change in behavior over the preceding months and was worried. I often wonder if I even would have listened to him if our meeting had gone as planned and Michael wasn‘t there.

Reflecting on the incident now, I still don‘t know if my actions then were the right ones. I could have easily found another teacher for help or gone to the office instead of the freshman and left Mr. Haskel and Michael alone in the classroom. I do know, however, that if I had not done what I did, I may have never become the person I am today, and Mr. Haskel may not even be here. I worked hard to clean up my act in the wake of that day, realizing that I didn‘t want to risk becoming as lost as Michael, and fought my way to the top of the class in my senior year. I even graduated with honors. It has been two months since my last day of high school and fifteen since the incident with Michael. My appreciation for life now is immeasurable. I have a full scholarship to attend college in the fall, and I’m really looking forward to my studies. I hope to become a teacher.

Within the Crystal Ball

As I look through my friends' MySpace profiles, I often come across a standard information quiz which includes the question, "How do you want to die?" A lot of the answers are death by skydiving, and some have gone with the terribly vain and reckless answer of, "I will never die!" But I have been thinking about this question, and I ask myself, how would I want to die? It's really a big question. I mean, none of us have control over how we will actually die, short of a successful suicide (which is not a good thing, of course), but when dreaming of an ideal yet realistic future, death is still an inevitable factor.

So, how do I want to die? Well, I want to die saving someone else's life. It's the ultimate sacrifice, the heroic act. I like to tell myself that it's only the fact that I've saved another's life that's the reason I want to die this way, but I'm not going to kid myself. Part of it is that it's a guaranteed way to be remembered. We are all selfish beings, it's in our nature, and we all want to be in some way immortal, which is possible through the impression we leave on other people. I do, however, take solice in knowing that dying in a blaze of gunfire after a bank robbery and a 30-minute car chase, having taken as many cops with me as I could didn't even register as a possibility. That would certainly leave an impression as well.

Right. Anyway.

The reason this question has stuck in my mind is because I'd like to believe I would actually give my life to save another's. I mean, not just my friends or family, but anyone: a stranger, an enemy, a child, an elder. But you see, one never knows how one would act in such a situation until one is actually experiencing it. My ideal self would make that sacrifice with no hesitation, but my real self, myself at this moment? Who knows? I am quite logical and I tend to think before I act. I'm absolutely sure I would act to save my neice's life, my sister's life, the life of any person I truly care for without a moment's hesitation. But some random, middle aged person? A little old lady? Like I said, that logical, unemotional side says, "I'm a young woman, should I put myself in mortal danger for an elderly person, a person who likely has very few years left anyway?" Still, at the same time, my compassionate side says,"All human life is of equal value." Both make sense to me. The question is, which side would I listen to if the situation presented itself? Obviously, I will only know when and if it happens.

I do know one thing for sure: however it may happen and potential pain notwithstanding, I'm not afraid to die, because I know where I'm going after it happens.

Everyone's Paradise

I want to find my paradise. Sometimes I tell myself that I'm going to live in a private, airy bungalow on a sandy white beach in Hawaii. Other times I dream of that traditional family in a colonial town and a charming home with wood floors and crown molding. Still, other times I dream of that life as a successful actor in Los Angeles, or a life in the Rocky Mountains, a nice stone house on the edge of a clear mountain stream. Everyone has their own definition of paradise, a perfect life in a perfect setting.

Right now my mind is on the beach paradise. I would love to be a successful writer, able to work wherever I want and therefore have a private little stretch of beach, needing nothing more than my laptop and beach gear. That would be the life. It's so strange, a couple months ago my paradise would have been the traditional family, but now I feel like just going with the flow. I don't need a boyfriend right now. What I need is to learn about myself and maybe then I will desire a companion and a family. Then again, maybe not. It might not be God's plan for me, who knows? As of now, I'm not worried.

I want to focus on honing my talents and making something of myself. Something that the world will notice. It's true, I want people to know my name. I always have. The only thing that has changed over the last year or so is that I'm not so sure I want to be physically recognizable. A degree of anonymity can certainly be a good thing. I think life as a writer would be perfect for me. But really, I only pray that God leads me into His destiny for me, whatever that may be.

I am blessed to have an unwaivering faith, and such a good life right now. I know we are all given challenges and my toughest ones may lie ahead, but I also know God presents us with those challenges not only as a test, but to make us stronger in our faith. I know He will take care of me, and I know that as long as I work to glorify Him, He will give me my paradise.

Introduction

Hello, everyone, and welcome to my blog. My name is Shelly, and I live in Nebraska. I plan to use this blog mainly to reach more readers, which means most of my posts will be from my already-established MySpace blog. Yeah, I use MySpace, but reluctantly. Being the tender age of nineteen, I have a lot of friends that are off to college with profiles on that site, so I post there because I already have readers, and I like having readers. So, I hope you take the time to read what I post and see what I'm about because I like to think I'm not your average "young person." I try my best to use structure in my writing and present myself intelligently on the web. I am an aspiring novelist, so some blogs may even be works of fiction. Enjoy.