It's hard to change the world when the world is kind of stupid

I accidentally clicked on something one day and it automatically signed me up to get email updates on how bad everything is in the whole world. It’s kind of depressing and I really would like to stop getting these updates because they make me sad, but how do you click “unsubscribe” to receiving email updates about how they’re beating women in foreign countries for trying to go to school or how polar bears are drowning because there’s not enough ice left for them to take a breather on?

So I continue to receive updates from Change.org and I even sometimes get so mad at the news item that I read it and think about it and consciously don’t switch over to flipping through YouTube videos of people falling off of stuff. Instead, I even click on the button that lets me sign a virtual petition to stop countries from throwing gay people in jail just for being gay. I really do try to be a good person. Sometimes.
But these people are in serious danger of losing my interest and it’s not just because I ran out of Ritalin. This week’s petition is…get this…to get Lego to quit making pink Lego bricks because they’re sexist.

Okay, even I admit that I’m way oversimplifying things here. Apparently, Lego introduced a whole line of cutsie items that come in girlie-girl colors and have little Lego girls in them instead of the creepy-looking Lego people that they usually sell. What the hippie petition-people don’t like is that these Lego kits for girls show the little figure-people doing things like sitting by a pool or going shopping. Apparently, that’s degrading to women. And to Legos. And to swimming pools.

I’m completely confused. If we can sell dolls that go shopping and we can sell whole room-sized play kitchens for little girls to stand in and pretend to cook, why can’t little girls have Legos that sit by the pool ordering MaiTais?

The whole point of Legos is they’re awesome and they snap together to make whole creative worlds that you can pretend to be in. Folks, when I’m escaping reality for a while, I’m absolutely sitting by a pool drinking a beverage. Not only that, but as long as we’re pretending here, in my alternate reality my body looks a whole lot more like that little Lego girl’s body than my own, plastic ponytail included.

When did it become wrong to let a girl pick out the pink toy? If those smelly little boys can have every Star Wars scenario ever thought up by nerds who still live with their moms all spelled out in expensive plastic bricks, why can’t girls have shopping Legos, as long as they were the ones who decided to play with them? Would it be better if there was a little plastic book the little plastic girl could be reading by the little plastic pool?

If you people really want to protest against Legos, I have some suggestions. One, how about we all admit that Legos are made out of plastic that was mixed together in a lab and therefore don’t have to cost more than the tank of gas I burned to get to the nearest major city that has a Lego store? Two, why the hell does it have to be so difficult to get two Legos apart without involving my finger nails and/or my teeth? Three, does it have to be so damn painful to step on a Lego barefoot in the dark at three o’clock in the morning when the dog has to go out?

Those are some mere suggestions if you’re really determined to bitch about Legos. I, on the other hand, would use that pent up energy to protest things like living conditions for children in inner-city public housing or the rape of women soldiers in the U.S. military. But hey, pick your battles I guess. I’ll be out by the pool thinking about the state of the world if you need me.

Dear Mom,

Whenever you had something to say to me, you’d write me a letter. Leave it on my pillow and forget to sign it, ‘with love’. When you’d call, I could tell you would rather be talking to my answering machine.
I know that people change but there’s only so much you can take after they continually disappoint.
And I probably sound schizophrenic because my thoughts aren’t flowing from my heart through my pen the way I would like, but I hope you understand what I’m screaming.
I’m emotionally distant. You’ve robbed me of my potential and traded it in for your narcotics. Your boyfriend replaced me, and before you ran off- you took my trust because I can’t trust anybody, after you.

I can’t reach out to anyone because my arms don’t remember what it feels like to be held.

So they’re cemented in a constant position, pushing pain, do you hear me?

Maybe this is my fault

I probably shouldn’t have expected too much from a woman who dyes her hair different color and has more piercings than I can count on my fingers.

You never told me you loved me, so it was wrong of me to jump to conclusions.
And I’m not asking for you to come back, I’m perfectly stable without you.
I’ve raised myself and don’t need your pity but mom, I want you to know that I’m strong.
I want you to know that I’m on the right path and maybe if you knew me better, you’d be proud.
I don’t know if you remember, but I can still recall the day that you left and said you would come back.

Mom, I waited for you.

I waited by that damn door—religiously.
When you left, it was a stab to my heart and with the years an infection developed from this hole that you carved, years ago.
I don’t miss you; I miss the thought of you.
I’m envious of others and maybe you’ve made me a bit cynical.
If actions speak louder than words, mom, your actions spoke louder than anything you’ve ever said to me.
And the day that you came back, you expected me to accept you
But instead I treated you like dirt and beat you with my cold heart until you ran away, again.
What was I supposed to do? How could I let some stranger who calls herself my ‘mother’ into my life? A life she was never a part of.
I don’t even know who you are anymore.
If you loved me, why didn’t you show it?
I’m sorry
I’m sorry that I haven’t gotten over this and I’m sorry I’m holding onto this grudge
But maybe I’m too stubborn at only 16 to admit that maybe I’m the one who’s wrong.
I’ll admit.
I started writing this letter a long time ago.
For years I’ve been writing “I hate you- get lost”.
But today I’m trying to write, “Come back, please”.
I want you to tell me what my first word was- even though you don’t remember

I want you to tell me that you never felt better than when you brought me home from the hospital, because it was the first time you were whole.

This letter isn’t meant to make you feel bad and I’m writing it consciously knowing that guilt runs through your veins like porcelain ready to shatter in your stomach.
Stop saying you regret how you raised me because I don’t regret what you made me.
Let go of all the mistakes that we made and let that take us somewhere
Maybe we can get there someday.
And I’ll tell you that when I think of my childhood, I think of your freckles.
If the first step to getting there is telling you “I love you”, I will carve it in Braille on your pillow so it’s the first thing you feel in the morning.
I will pull my umbilical cord out of my stomach and tie it to your wrist so when you feel lost, you have something to pull on- mom, I promise to stop walking as soon as I put this pen down, as long as you promise to realize a daughter is more than just a noun.
My arms are open and waiting and I’ll walk more than halfway if you promise you will meet me there someday.

The first slam I've ever written-- AND shown someone.

I was wondering if someone could explain to me the meaning of this word. One that’s over-rated, over used and over heard.
I’m sure they’d prefer to give me a synonym.
To the bent meaning, eminence and structure of this word.
This word, love.
Burdens me with confusion.
Wondering if it’s a mere illusion, a delusional aspect of life that can be viewed upon something that makes everything right or has you up all night.
Wonder what’s on that significant others mind at the exact time.

Has you writing poems that rhyme with corny titles like, “Be Mine” or “You’re One of a Kind”.

But, yet no one can truly define this word: love.

No one can explain to me that, love is an intimacy that can’t be defined by literacy- occasionally lyrically.

But it still isn’t really specific with the true exquisite passion when you feel this word.

That this word- “love” is so indescribable, undeniable.

That, what you’re left with is indefinable.

So I came to the conclusion that this word: “love”- could not be real.

That it was solely infatuation that you temporarily feel.

So I-- shove aside this momentary distraction of examining loves reaction.

My mind was fully set.

But then, you happened.

It started off slow.

It felt really incredible.

Falling with the inevitable.

But- it was more than just the physical, it was the chemical.

You never being ideal, it was what I though I’d need.

Like, I need to breathe the vapor.

Inhale at the skyline.

That. . . it was our relation. . .

Out of every selection- I had found heaven and perfection in an individual such as yourself.

Making me feel all the emotions that I never knew could be felt.

I guess this word will remain- Undescribed-

And undefined, too.

But I honestly don’t mind spending my time trying to find this word with you.

<3

It's not me, It's you.

Yes, I'm pissed off and most people irritate me. But if people weren't so ignorant, self-absorbed, and down right stupid, I wouldn't be so bitchy all the time.

My future house.

Writer's Block

Charlotte Withers, a typical insecure 17 year old high school outcast, leans against a tree trunk.
Uh, wait, this is an awful way to begin a story.
How about: An ordinary teen named Charlotte Withers may seem decent but appearances are treacherous. Char is insecure, angst-ridden, bizarre – all the symptoms of a modern-day Ishmael. (I hope someone caught that biblical reference. You know, how Ishmael was the son of Abraham and was cast out after the birth of Isaac? Yes? No . . .? Okay, I'm guessing it's a no.) Maybe I should throw in some archetypes into this hopeless mix. But what if no one even catches them? More allusions, perhaps? Is anyone even reading these blogs? Hello? . . .

That's what generally runs through my mind as I slam into a creative wall also known as a 'writer's block.' It can be frustrating; it can be depressing. Sometimes it forces me to reevaluate my talents as an aspiring writer. I wonder if there's an original idea in my wormy brain, hiding in the corner of the grungy basement of my mind. Or maybe I've exhausted my inventiveness and the only way to manage is to slightly obscure an existing thought. But it's unlikely I'll ever resort to such tomfoolery.

No matter how high or intimidating the mental 'block' may be, creativity thrives in the cavern of every mind – of both yours and mine. You just have to be motivated enough to poke and prod your way through the dark to discover it. That newfangled idea isn't going to conceal itself in obvious places like behind the bathroom door or under the bedsheets. No, it's a crafty one – a sly entity. It prefers unusual spots such as the crevice of a cracked linoleum tile or beneath the floorboards. Don't underestimate its aptitude. Once you come across it, however, it becomes a writer's ultimate pal. It is boundless; it is infinite. It gives and lends and forms ideas and permits you to use them.

When I collide with a writer's block, I tend to feel a sense of defeat. I mull around and ponder where my stories strayed, when the ideas stopped flowing. But the time and place are insignificant. Just write about anything. Compose an account of your day. Open a word document or whip out that ball-point pen and paper and jot down whimsical ideas. Observe your environment and chance upon inspiration. Jam out to music and heed the lyrics. Go for a stroll and think aloud. These walls, mental barricades, obstacles aren't there to keep you down; they're there to be broken by tenacious writers who are cognizant of their ability. This applies to life. If you desire something enough (and I mean, willing to reach the absolute limit), nothing will impede you. Thus is the glory of the dynamic human spirit. So just keep writing, just keep writing, just keep writing, writing, writing – and you're golden.

"Keep your head held high gorgeous. These people would kill to see you fall."

Have you ever had those moments where you doubt yourself and what you're capable of? I have felt as though everything I try to create or manufacture in my mind or on a piece of paper, is being compared to everyone else’s.

How is it fair to judge one piece of artwork from another and call it better, when the skill and dedication is the same? It makes me not want to let my mind wander and my pencil create lines because, honestly, I feel like the works I want to make won’t be as good as those who are considered “more artistic” than me. It’s my passion to go to school for writing and English so someday I can make a living off something I love, but there is a consistency of people who feel like it is their own personal duty to crush my dreams . . .

To everyone who thinks their art or creation isn’t worth it, I’m here to tell you that it’s beautiful.
Don’t give up your dream.