Strolling down memory lane....

I was underwhelmed by Stonehenge.
Fruit and I in Philadelphia
Martha's Vineyard
Martha's Vineyard.
Kayaking.
Cruise. New England.
Me in Bath. The first thing we told our guide was that he looked like Ron Weasley
Wags!
Follow the crazy chicken!
ha, that.
me as a baby.
Fruit's freshman week!!
My family. Hat park. Junior year.
Rocky Mountain National Park.
Me and fruit.
Kayaking!
My short lived career as a Mullen Cheerleader! (ha, for a play)
My eighth grade graduation. I do believe Mom looks proud.
Fruit's 8th grade graduation
The day Maddie broke her car.
Ha, not even sure. In the Green Bean though!
Me and Fruit before my first Sadie's dance. Freshman year of high school. Still have those shoes. Wore them the other night!
Mining somewhere in S. Dakota
Cruise!
Snorkeling!
The COSMOS!!!
Stellas
Target. Never go to Target. We wore these ridiculous sunglasses all the way to Steamboat
Maddie's car. Lunch break. Senior year. We had a weird thing about hats.
Oh my! Furry boots at Wal-Mart
Fruit and Katie
GRADUATION!
We realized we'd never been pied. So we got some pie tins and whipped cream and went for it.
Senior prom. Emily, Katie and me
The lawn gnome. The day after senior prom.
Stoplight. Colorado sky
Snowboarding. Before the accident.
Mullen basketball game in Boulder
the DQ LOUNGE!! (melvin in the background)
Me, Fruit, John and Emma
After the time we learned how to snowboard. We ended up in the hospital after Katie's accident.
Steamboat. That time Katie and I learned how to snowboard.
Ice skating. Copper Mountain.
I once let Katie Crayola marker makeup on my face. It was a school night. I had to wash my face about 89 times to get all of the color off.
Homecoming senior year. The dress cost me $30. Loved it.
That time I was a firewoman in that play.
Leaf in rain.
My lawn gnome, Pi! Honors geometry sophomore year. Ended my run of honors math classes and also began my short love affair with a fourteen-dollar gnome.
Fruit and I in D.C. with Mom for spring break one year. (I think I was 16)
Peace
I feel like I spent days trying to take pictures through a Jones soda bottle.

The Jesus wig/beard combo.
Mr. Craig's honors English class.
Senior pictures
Senior pictures.

I do believe this was taken at a Mullen pep rally. The quote from that day was, "White isn't a Mullen color." the reply was, "Look around." The racial university (the only word I could come up with to oppose diversity) was made apparent that day.

Fruit took this picture. Katie and I at Walgreens sitting on her car.

This picture was taken on Alameda somewhere with Wade from Colorado Christian University. This is where the term "yakkle hat" was born.
Katie and Maddie at bingo.
Obviously, I'm sitting on a planet.

Emily and I have lived in our apartment for 14 months now. I've been in college for more than three years. I've not been in Denver year round for the same amount of time.

So in honor of nothing really, but in honor of my youth, I'm posting a "Remember This?" blog.

Beatles Party Wrap Up

These are the pictures from the Beatles party. Emily was a blackbird, I was Lucy in the sky with diamonds, Maddie was Mean Mr. Mustard, Hunter was a hippie, Eric was Mr. Kite, Katie was the sun, Anna was strawberry fields...and so on. It was wonderfully fun.

Not much else to say today. Tired. Not doing my homework. The usual.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

This new yearning for fiction is not unfamiliar, but rather, long forgotten. I have not stretched that muscle, if it was one, in years. I have not savored the taste of delicious sentences strung together, the words pulling it across the page in too long. I reconnected, first with a book that I think you should read before dying, for me, it was quintessential-katie-barry-reading, quick, beautiful, slow, spacey, gothic, heartbreaking, at times predictable and sweet, "The Shadow of the Wind." His second book is currently available in hardcover only, and I am biding my time before I buy it.
Perhaps since I now own a library card, I could go there and look around and find it.
But, my latest project is oddly fitting at this point in my life. "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," by Milan Kundera.
From it, thus far, I bring this idea, rather, these ideas:

Fidelity gave a unity to lives that would otherwise splinter into thousands of split-second impressions.

Betrayal means breaking ranks. Betrayal means breaking ranks and going off into the unknown.

The first betrayal is irreparable. It calls forth a chain reaction of further betrayals, each of which takes us farther and farther away from the original betrayal.

And thus you have the beginnings of my contemplation.
If you know me, you know that I am driven, possessed, by the idea of love. My life is nothing without love or the idea of it. I am constantly searching for the perfect love, for the love that crushes my soul and one day I am determined to write a story that embodies my ideas of love, a tragic tale that brings everyone to their knees in despair and agony but then opens their hearts to the momentous feeling that love can be. It doesn't have to be sensational.
Lately, I've been loving Katie. We have reconnected and I get butterflies when I think about seeing her. (She does too. We've discussed it. It's a best friends sort of thing...I always base the way that I feel about boyfriends on the way I feel about her. I never get bored with her, even if we're just bumming around the house in sweatpants. Target is an adventure. Tea can have endless possibilities. She gets me on a strange level, our lives are oddly parallel at times. We once decided, long ago, in high school, that we were "each other's other" and to be honest, I still believe that. Maybe we're older and possibly more mature, but we're still there. We can pick up like there's never been any time spent away. It's safety, adventure, peace all rolled up into one.)
But lately, I've been loving myself, my possibilities, the idea that my life has just begun. And that has stemmed from the loss or dramatic transformation (I've not yet decided which) of one of my loves.
But anyway, to explain the sexual nature of the first picture, because I'm sure you're scandalized, she's trying to recreate a moment in which she felt loved. It represents her grandfather, and her father and the ways in which she felt betrayed and the ways in which that moment spent in front of the mirror was her moment of love with some man who was having an affair with her and now she has affairs to try to recreate it. It's beautiful.
I'm not done yet. I've been too busy to read properly. So I'll let you know. I realize that this whole post dedicated to the first 100 pages of a book I'm sure will change my life (I had realized that by the third page) seems crazy or collegiate, and it is. Both of those things.
Remember the things you got really excited about and then cringe about now? Maybe it's like that.
Some things, however, never die.

I'm also posting my draft of a story I turned in for Fiction class. It was supposed to be about loss, but I never found the time to finish it and when the time came to turn it in, I was forced to end it abruptly. So the shift is there; I recognize the failings of it but hope that you understand that I have not written anything such as that in a long time. I will be editing it, because I liked where I wanted my story to go and didn't much like where it went.

"Bear"

It hadn’t even been a bear at all.

It was a stuffed pink pig, soft to the touch, with dark eyes and stitched lines for hooves. But his cries for “Bear, bear!” wouldn’t be quieted until he had it. Store after store his face retained that puffy baby frown, his little brows thrust together in an angry line. His mother finally cracked, worn out from a days’ shopping and reluctantly retraced her sandal-clad steps to the toy store. There it sat, that stuffed pink pig, nestled in a display with a hundred other plush toys. The little boy’s delighted squeal rang out as the cash register clanged and closed on her crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

His arms reached out from his stroller, his pudgy fingers grasping for the stuffed pink pig. His triumphant smile soothed her frayed nerves and softened her nearly-angry look He rode out of the store like a little king, clutching the new toy. She wondered if that counted as bad parenting, giving in like that to his demands. It occupied her thoughts the whole drive home.

Are you a bad parent if you don’t let your child cry? Are you a bad parent if you do? It hurts her to see him hurt, she knows that, but it hurts worse to watch him turn out spoiled and selfish, even though she knows she’d have had the best intentions.

Her husband is no help, she thought. He’s at work. The little boy can get a beer from the fridge for his dad upon command, but does that make it love? She rationalized these thoughts, turning left on Broadway, thinking that it’s alright. They’ll have plenty of father-son bonding time when sports come around. Her husband loves sports. He was the third basemen in college, when life was easy and their plans hadn’t included the little boy.

Marriage had changed all that, ended her hopes of traveling the world, seeing Paris, London, Milan before she was 30. Instead she found herself 28 and begging to see the inside of a restaurant with white tablecloths and salad forks. Now she found herself sponging crumbs off a play table daily, washing bibs and little smocks and pants for a small creature she’d never really come to own. Folding clothes was monotonous, but it must be done. Everything must get done.

A shrill horn blast behind her startled her. The light had barely turned green! She jumped and then accelerated, her foot throwing the gas pedal to the floor, which startled the little boy in his car seat. Her frightened brown eyes looked in the rearview mirror angrily to stare at the other driver. His constant stream of nonsense words continued uninterrupted. He was waving the little pig around, talking to it, perhaps, or maybe about it, directing it in some unseen child-play.

The little boy and the stuffed pink pig became best friends, as only children and toys can. Upon arrival home, he immediately dragged the pig, which was a little more than half his size, up the stairs to his little nursery, setting it down while he reined over his possessions.

His room was marvelous, that much was sure. It had a hand-painted mural on the wall, hand-painted by his mother as a pregnant woman, her best attempt at welcoming the creature into the world. It was crudely drawn, she’d traced the pictures she’d found with a pencil and improvised from there. Bright colored animals kept him company, their shapes distorted and strange. The flamingo, tucked away in a corner, looked wobbly on his one foot, about to fall into the wilted leaves surrounding him. The mother elephant and her baby were square; they’d been cute in the picture, but now looked obese on the wall. Baby magazines are so deceiving. Of course you can paint a mural. Of course it will look just like this. Of course everyone will see it and love it. Of course not.

His little hand painted toy box had never seen the excitement of the wall, and instead was red and yellow and green, all over. It hadn’t been completed until after he’d been born, which may account for its rather sloppy construction. But it was sturdy enough, containing the mountains of toys. Sometimes, the little boy would throw open the box and throw all of his toys out.

His mother would come in to find toys littering the room, scattered army men and wooden building blocks, plastic trucks, the school bus, the train set, tracks and all in every corner of the room. She’s pretend to look around, waiting to see his little fingers or a tuft of his blond hair peek out from under the lid. He’d giggle and giggle as she opened the closet door, looked back and forth, then checked under his blankets. Finally, he’d burst out, gurgling in his baby speech and she’d pick him up and swing him around and they’d laugh together.

She cooked dinner, just as she did every night. She tied her soft brown hair into a knot at the back of her head and then ran her slender hands over her head to make sure she’d captured every strand. A pot of boiling noodles sat before her, mildly unattended. She chopped lettuce for a salad. Her husband, the tall-hulking third basemen, didn’t even really eat salad, but she kept making it. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but it had become a routine.

The sound of his key in the door startled her. Long ago the excited love-butterflies had died away, but she still enjoyed his presence, enjoyed him feeling close to her, even though he’d never stay to talk to her but would rush over to turn on the television for highlights of the game. It comforted her to know that he was home with her.

“How was your day?” she greeted him, turning to face him with a sauce-covered spoon in her hand.

“Usual,” he despondently replied, throwing his keys into their key bowl on the counter. “The deal isn’t a go yet, and I can’t figure out what else they’re going to need to push them in our direction.” He kissed her check softly, grazing her back with his hand on his way to the refrigerator to grab his cheap light beer.

“I’m sorry, I hope it comes through soon,” she replied, stirring sauce that simmered on the stove.

“It will, and with that bonus, you and I are going tropical!” his voice picked up, a lively sentence. The can came open with a sharp snap and the corners of his mouth pulled up in a smile. He took a drink and made that satisfied sighing sound she had once loved so much and now purposefully ignored.

She was careful not to let him see how excited she was. For months, they’d needed some sort of vacation. They hadn’t had alone time since the little boy was born and he was nearly two. “Really? We could go this year?”

At that moment, the little boy ambled into the room, clutching the stuffed pink pig by the neck. He smiled at his father and then hobbled over to give greeting, chirping, “Bear! Bear!” The dad picked him up, tossed him into the air a few times and then set him back down and turned.

“What is that thing?” Sharp.

“What thing?” she replied slowly, still stirring, knowing exactly what he was going to say.

“That pink thing in his arms.” He took a sip of beer angrily now, no satisfied sigh here but rather a hard gulp.

“It’s a pig.” Simple sentence.

“A pink pig?”

“Yes, we went to the mall this afternoon to get presents for your brother’s girls’ birthdays next week and he saw the pig and fell in love.” She stated it matter-of-factly, subtly shifting her feet so that she was standing directly in front of him.

“I think the last thing he needs is another toy, especially something like this.”

“Like what? We’ll get rid of one of his other toys. He’s obviously become attached.”

“Like pink. Girly-shit. I don’t want my son growing up with girly shit. He’ll have to remember that for the rest of his life. He won’t be a real man, he’ll be a man who knows he carried around a pink ball of fluff for the first years of his life. He’ll be a pussy.”

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” she was trying to be calm, the layer of icy anger was apparent in her voice. She had no idea why she was defining the stuffed pink pig; she’d not wanted to buy it in the first place. But seeing the way the little boy had carried him around all day, hugging him close to his chest and rubbing his little cheeks on its body had changed her mind. “It’s just a toy. The color of it doesn’t matter. He’ll probably be bored with it soon enough. We’ll sell it or trade it in for a brown bear or something manly enough for you.”

The argument ended there. He had nothing left to say. He knew she’d be angrier with him if he pressed it, so he kept his mouth shut. He was a smart man, after all. He was the one working to support the family. What did she do all day? Perhaps it was time to think about her getting a job.

Dinner was uneventful, the normal exchange of minimal conversation, a desperate attempt to reconnect with their past. She fed the little boy, trying to keep his shirt as clean as possible. When she wasn’t looking, he grabbed a small dish of sauce and began smearing it around on his tray, coating his arms in a fine layer of tomato glaze. His little laugh caught her attention, reminded her of what she needed to get done and brought her back. She cleaned him while he held his arms out and begged for “Bear!”

Those nights seemed as though they’d stretch forever. Sometimes, she’d find herself covered in spaghetti sauce or some sort of vegetable puree, sometimes she’d find herself exhausted, overworked, overtired and every now and then, she’d find herself overjoyed.

She’d never really connected with the little boy. He was hers, she knew that, but he wasn’t really hers at all. Even his stuffed pink pig got more attention from him. Even his father, the man who drank beer on the couch or told him he couldn’t throw a baseball, got more love. It wasn’t until the beginning of fall the year she’d reluctantly purchased the stuffed pink pig that he became her little boy and not just the little boy that lived in her house, called her “Mama” and drank whole milk.

They were walking to the park, something that they did most days. It was a cloudy, overcast day. The still-green grass was made greener by the gray lighting and the orange sweater the little boy was wearing stood against the concrete sidewalks. There they were, the two of them, two strangers holding hands on the way to the playground. The little boy, of course, was carrying Bear, who by that time had become a part of the family. His little hand was wrapped around two of his mother’s fingers, protectively.

At some point between the walk there and the playground and half of the walk back, he must have dropped Bear, the stuffed pink pig, or set him somewhere, because they were stopped, waiting for the white light of the crosswalk when the wailing began.

“Bear! Bear!” the familiar cries rose up from the little boy. His pale cheeks began to turn a rosy color, his eyes scrunched up and began to leak tears of true frustration. His mother did not know what to do. Upon a quick search of everything they were carrying, which turned out to be quite a bit: the diaper bag, filled with milk cups, diapers, wipes, a pacifier (just in case), bandages, a crushed granola bar, her own purse, filled with milk cups, the makeup she’d never gotten around to putting on that morning, a hair brush, a book for the time she’d never have to read it, diapers, wipes, three pacifiers (just in case), her wallet, and a pile of receipts. The blanket was there. But the stuffed pink pig was not.

The cries continued. The walk sign had come and gone. There was no hope now. Her eyes grew wild with desperation. She knew how much that pig meant to the little boy, knew how much he’d miss it if it were truly gone and how hard it would be to replace. The searching stopped. She grabbed him, picking him up and settling him on her hip and then she strode across the street, retracing the steps of that morning.

The went along the cement sidewalks, all gray, searching for that glimmer of pink. They found nothing.

They went into the coffee house, where she’d allowed herself one cup today. They found nothing.

They went and they went and they went. There was nothing along their route. The playground loomed ahead of them, vast in the possibilities of places to hide a small animal who couldn’t answer your cries. She didn’t want to think about the person who would have taken the animal. It was no longer new or fresh looking. Instead it had a well creased neck from being carried all the time. The stitched hooves were dark with dirt from being dragged along down streets, grocery store aisles, even church.

They searched up the slide, the first place you should always look for missing toys. They searched the orange and blue plastic structure until the little boy was nearly breathless from his crying and the mother found herself nearly there as well. They looked under the see-saw, in the highest of the little towers, ran across the little wooden bridge, under the little ladder. No stuffed pink pig.

She was looking around, her eyes were searching wildly. Under the lone tree in the middle of the grassy part of the small park, she saw a flash of pink. She grabbed the little boy’s hand and pulled him toward it. There it was, sitting under the tree, propped neatly against the bark. The instant he saw it he let go of her hands.

“I love you Bear!” his little lungs yelled as he ran toward the bear. She knew what he really meant. The three of them left the park, walking hand in hand in hoof.

I am not happy with it, particularly, but it is what it is and for the time being, it is mine.

On another note, I have been exercising and have found it enjoyable. It's really not as hard as you think it's going to be. Swimming and then some sort of machine thing followed by a happy sauna adventure.

I applied to graduate.

Tick, tock, time won't stop.

Assorted pictures, none taken with my camera. I bought it but I haven't had a chance to really take any pictures yet and I'm not entirely sure that I like it.

It's the indecision that's marking my life right now. I'm drowning, overwhelmed by possibility and obligation, torn between the feelings of monotony and the pain of the unknown. I'm barely getting by, it's strange. I think I'm happy but I know there's something pulling at me. We've watched the relationship crumble, snap back like a rubber band and maintain. I'm watching myself go through the motions not knowing if I believe or not. I want to. There's the notion that there's love enough to go around but it's always around, a round circle. One wants one, who wants another, who wants still another and the earth is born.
Here I am surrounded by concrete in a great city, a city of greatness and I'm finding myself mediocre. It's a theme lately. What is there for me? What does the world want?
Karma's a funny creature. She knows what you want and she withholds it, knowing that you can't be enough for what wants you. That too is circular, cyclical, unending, unchanging. Fix you Karma, fix your life. But what if that decision could tear your life apart? Leave one for something that's not even real and then you've got a problem. Stay because you think you should and lose what you never even knew you could have had.
Maintain, maintain, maintain. Remain, remain. Abstain. It's all madness, it's all pain. It's a sick, slow refrain. Circling like a buzzard in the desert of the newly dead.
So that's the weekend update. It's telling, I tell you. The pictures hold the key. You'll see.
Decisions, decisions. Not yet. Slowly, steadily, preparing. That's the way I'm going with this. For now I'm trapped in a glass bowl, emotional, forsaken.
I want to be free. I am secretly free-spirited, I think. I think you knew that, I think it's apparent. I am counting the days to Rome, to Europe. But then I was thinking, what's after that?
In my mind, my sick twisted mind, I stay there and fall in love with what's his face and I lose everything and in real life, I'll come back here alone and lose everything. So then what? Fresh start. It's hinging on Europe, for me. Hinging. Swinging back and forth, tipping, precariously. Balance.
I know the answer, I'm not ready.
I need time.

Uneasy Evening.

It's an uneasy evening in the city. Now that the season is fading and the earth is nearly dying, the sunsets are weaker, blue, as though the heat-induced glow of summer's pinks and reds is too much to muster. The winds pick up, soaring through the streets, catching them all unaware. The lake is churning, walls of water sloshing over the embankments, wet cement under the feet of the runners. Tumultuous, turning, thrashing. I always have the urge to be a part of the lake when it's like this. It doesn't seem cold even though the water is a misty gray that seems foreboding. It's oddly beckoning, a beacon in the dead world. It's saying, "I'm still alive." Still alive, but not nearly still life. I am driving up Lake Shore, not seeing anything but red lights in front of me, slowing, slowing, never stopping, slowing, speeding, no, not speeding, slowly slowing, slow. I only see the water, am captivated by it. I break its gaze, the urge doesn't fade. Even as I drive away from the lake, I wish to be there, to sit and watch the waves break and tumble.

Alright, so I know these are horrible pictures, but I took them on my camera phone, which is nearly ancient technology compared to my old camera. As soon as I can get to Costco, hopefully tomorrow, I can promise better pictures to appear shortly.

The concert was nice. Marilyn Manson is the most over-rated "metal" musician out there. The concert was about as hardcore as a high school punk band performing. It was something that I had fun enjoying, but I also had fun looking around me. Metal kids, punk kids, all of them decked out in their gear enjoying the music are funny to watch. They all think they're so hardcore, and it flashes me back to high school. Ah, we used to over do the eyeliner and put on red and black and go out and act all bad. Cute, really.
But seeing Marilyn Manson in concert is something I can now cross off my list of things to do before I die, so that's nice.

We were driving home exhausted and had to pull over to sleep because neither of us could stay awake. We set an alarm and locked the door and were woken by a knock on the window. Police officer with a flashlight. We answered all the questions, not on drugs, just sleeping because we're trying to get home, Chicago, 21, 23, here are our IDs. He checked, told us we were parked in a roadway (although it was a "roadway" between a closed Wendy's and a closed other fast food place that we thought was a parking lot) and that we weren't in any trouble. We drove home after that, thankful for the rest.

Home safe. Tired. But safe.

Return

I felt the first wave of homesickness hit. It was late, I was exhausted. Emily's mom always says, when you're upset, just go to bed. I'm never upset like that. Not about that. All of a sudden, it was that strange urge for Mom, the need for a hug, for something. And I turned and found only my moldering apartment. Emily heard my unsung cry, before I even started crying and came and held me while the tears rolled down. And then instead of sleeping, I stared at the night.




I have just purchased my very first frequent flier redemption ticket. Instead of feeling joy, I feel nothing. Just robbed. Now I won't get into my rant about Frontier Airlines right now (I'm procrastinating Spanish homework) but trust me, I feel like I deserve more than crappy seats after four years of traveling. But maybe that's just me. With their new fare categories, they make the flier choose the impossible: pay more upfront or pay more later. I always spend more upfront (getting the free bag and the choice of seat [nothing worse than being stuck in the middle; with my luck, it's always crazies] is well worth that extra $20 each way). But now that I'm redeeming my ticket, 20,000 of my miles can't buy me that. Instead, I'm economy. I'm the lowest of the low. I'll get my seat assignment when I get to the gate. I'll be sitting in row 23B, right in front of the bathrooms or crammed between a crying child and a widow. My backpack will be crammed under the seat because I wasn't able to check a bag because that would cost me. It'll be wonderful. I'll curse Frontier but be grateful I'm not flying Southwest. I'll arrive, annoyed and crumpled, ready for a hot bath and some Wendys.

Tonight is the Marilyn Manson concert in Wisconsin. Hunter and I are at eleven months today, but I'm somewhere else. You know when you hold onto something you know you no longer fit into because you like the way it used to look/feel? It's like that. We're scraping, pulling, twisting threads together trying, but I'm not convinced I'll be able to get back into it. But that is life, isn't it?

I told Dad I was going to Rome. His first question was, "What does Hunter think about that?" My answer was that Hunter can think anything he wants. I'm 21. I'll be 22 and in Rome and I'll have the rest of my life ahead of me! I'll travel through Europe. I'll stay at hostels. I'll eat crazy things, drink crazy things, meet crazy people. I'll take too many pictures of things no one wants to look at. I'll be made fun of by locals. I'll make fun of locals. Hopefully some things will get lost in translation, hopefully I'll be swept away by some beautiful foreigner, and I'll send postcards home and write of our tragic, star-crossed love. I'll come home smiling, dirty, reeking of Europe, elitist, humbled, and most importantly thoroughly and irrevocably changed. And Hunter, well, he'll be here.

I've edited twice now. Not editing, really, adding.

I want to live. I'm worried that no one will ever love me and it's become a strange fixation lately. I no longer want to be married and settled so soon (not that it was ever soon, but it was soon enough). I want to wait and draw it out and be sure. I want someone who gets me, who's not afraid of my baggage (there's quite a bit), who's not unsure--about themselves or anything, who's strong and capable yet sweet and snuggly, who's funny, charming, handsome, devilish, wild, driven, but most of all, intelligent. I want someone to capture my mind. To challenge me and enthrall me and leave me shaken and breathless not just because of a kiss but because of an idea. I want someone who wants to talk philosophy. I want someone who walks that middle line, though, someone who's not all play and who's not all talk, someone who's not too pretentious, yet not uncultured. I want that person to love me and adore me while realizing that maybe I'm not perfect, I want more than "you'll do." I want equality, connection, completion. Does he exist?

Multitasking

I do my best work completely distracted or completely under pressure. At this very moment, I am tending to my crops on my imaginary Facebook farm, updating my status, listening to a new band from Colorado called Pretty Lights, updating my blog, watching a show on the Food Network, emailing Aunt Sally and going between the internet and two different word documents trying to get a script done.
But that was intended to be a real blog.
I went to see about Rome. They aren't accepting applications until the end of October. : (
Rarely do I use the emoticons but this called for one.
Tired. Exhausted really. This semester has been wild already. It's going to be a long haul.
Ugh. More later, I'm guessing.
I wanted to write all about the city tonight, the way it looked and my experience in the American Girl Store (the very first time!)
But that will have to come tomorrow.

Marilyn Manson!

After a rather tumultuous weekend that included me losing my keys (still haven't found them) and Hunter breaking up with me (first time being broken up with, wasn't that bad), we've decided on a better course of action (obviously we were back together [I hate that word] in about 20 minutes) and have decided that we're going to try and have more fun together.
The problem was this: I am 21. Now legal, the world is an endless source of party fun. He is nearly 23 (the 18th) and has 2 jobs, which limits his ability to have fun. He gets jealous of me getting to go out and also the guys I go out with (started with the Irish) and then we fight. It's reminiscent of the Billy Joel and Katie Lee Joel (I think that was her name) marriage. He was 60-something and she was like 25. Problem.
Anyway, for his birthday, we're going to go up to Milwaukee and see Marilyn Manson perform. Tuesday night will be a hectic one (next week, not this one) because we'll have to leave immediately after I get out of class (fiction writing, the one I still hate) and then drive all the way there, see the show, and then drive all the way back so that Hunter can get to work by like 6am.
So that's the plan.
It should be fun. I'm nervous. I'll probably be the only person there in a cardigan.

Escuela hoy. En la clase de espanol, tengo un examen. Despues de la clase de espanol, tengo la clase de escribe de fiction. En la noche, mi y Simon (mi carro guapo) voy a la Northbrook a retrieve mi telefono de la UPS.

That is probably terrible grammar but I'm going with it. Just to prove to you I did my Spanish homework.

Oh, also, I've decided I don't like the tumblr thing for writing. I'd prefer to have it on a Blogspot page. I'm going to have it switched over soon, so don't worry. I just feel like tumblr should be used for more of text updates, like this blog. (I'm not going to be moving this one though, I think it's quite happy where it is.)

Writings of Mine Posted Online

Hello.
I hope the weekend is going well. My keys are still missing, which isn't turning out to be such a great thing.

However, I do have good news.
I have begun posting my writing to the internet.

www.katiebarry.tumblr.com

This isn't edited like I edit this blog, so don't be surprised to find different subject matter, the possibility of cursing, and other artistic license.

Enjoy! I've been trying to layer different sets of writings, so you'll be getting some recent and some very old. So I'll be playing with the layout and stuff for the foreseeable future.
I don't know very much about Tumblr, so we'll see how this adventure goes.

Have a great day!