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The title says it all.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
It's no biggie, really.
Ooooh, how I love my life! (Note the sarcasm.) All my life I've been one of the world's biggest klutz. A wonderful gene I seem to have inherited my dad. Thanks Pops! I was a rather clumsy child, always covered in scrapes and bruises. In fact we went through band-aids so often my mom always let me pick out a box of band-aids every time we went to the grocery store. I shouldn't say let, more like I'd tell her I just wanted to look at them and then she'd end up buying me a box. Yes, I was an odd child. I had a kind of obsession with band-aids.
Just to let you get a feel for how clumsy I am I'll just slip in a few anecdotes. When I was three my brother (who's three years older than me) had to get X-rays at the hospital. It was a nice wintry day, snowing fairly heavily. As we were headed toward the door Conor and I decided to pretend we were ice skaters. So we were gliding our feet along the floor and pretending to twirl around and jump. We get to the end of the hallway and because Conor was older and bigger than me he beat me there. Just as the automatic door was opening I slipped on the rug and hit my forehead against the doorjamb, splitting my forehead wide open. Now what are the chances of that? It wasn't that big of a gash though, I only had to get three stitches. I used to go to a Catholic school and stayed after during the after school program because both my parents worked. I'm not quite sure how old I was or how it happened, but I ended up running into a brick wall. Yup, I know. Go ahead and laugh. I still have a scar on my knee. Last one I swear, when I was nine or ten I played in a summer basketball league. I jumped up for a rebound, some chick pushed me, and I landed on my foot wrong. It ended up broken and I was in a boot for just about the whole summer.
Now that you understand how I get injuries quite often and sometimes in weird manners you can see how it was bound to happen again sooner or later. This evening my family sat down to a lovely dinner of tacos. And my brother was with us for once, this hasn't happened that often ever since he turned nineteen. My puppy Maggie was all worked up because my uncle Tom stopped by to drop off some fireworks for my dad. She had just drank from her water bowl and because of her bloodhound genes her jowls were dripping water EVERYWHERE. It was totally gross. As I was trying to avoid her slobbing mouth, she bumped my leg and I slashed it on the track of the insert of the bottom of the table. And I was left with a nice wide gash on my knee. I won't go into detail, but I will say it was bleeding pretty bad. I remember saying "Why does this always happen to me?!" a few times, which made my brother laugh. He was so sweet though, he kept asking if he could do anything to help.
My dad decided I might have to get stitches. So we went to the quick fix place (I'm not sure what it's actually called) because we would have been in the hospital emergency room for hours just waiting to get treated. The doctor came in and took a look. He said that since the metal came in at an angle there was outer skin split away from the thinner, inner skin. And it would keep breaking open because of the bend in my knee. So instead of just having it glued shut I now have seven stitches in my knee. He had to give me several shots to numb it first. I won't lie, those hurt a bit. Once it was numb he started sewing me up. It didn't hurt, of course, but it was so weird! I could feel it tugging and moving around, and I knew it should hurt. I was a little queasy at first. But now it's all good, I have to go back in twelve days to get them taken out. Oh and did I mention I'm supposed to go shopping tomorrow? Maybe I can get Jordin to wheel me around in a wheel chair...
Just to let you get a feel for how clumsy I am I'll just slip in a few anecdotes. When I was three my brother (who's three years older than me) had to get X-rays at the hospital. It was a nice wintry day, snowing fairly heavily. As we were headed toward the door Conor and I decided to pretend we were ice skaters. So we were gliding our feet along the floor and pretending to twirl around and jump. We get to the end of the hallway and because Conor was older and bigger than me he beat me there. Just as the automatic door was opening I slipped on the rug and hit my forehead against the doorjamb, splitting my forehead wide open. Now what are the chances of that? It wasn't that big of a gash though, I only had to get three stitches. I used to go to a Catholic school and stayed after during the after school program because both my parents worked. I'm not quite sure how old I was or how it happened, but I ended up running into a brick wall. Yup, I know. Go ahead and laugh. I still have a scar on my knee. Last one I swear, when I was nine or ten I played in a summer basketball league. I jumped up for a rebound, some chick pushed me, and I landed on my foot wrong. It ended up broken and I was in a boot for just about the whole summer.
Now that you understand how I get injuries quite often and sometimes in weird manners you can see how it was bound to happen again sooner or later. This evening my family sat down to a lovely dinner of tacos. And my brother was with us for once, this hasn't happened that often ever since he turned nineteen. My puppy Maggie was all worked up because my uncle Tom stopped by to drop off some fireworks for my dad. She had just drank from her water bowl and because of her bloodhound genes her jowls were dripping water EVERYWHERE. It was totally gross. As I was trying to avoid her slobbing mouth, she bumped my leg and I slashed it on the track of the insert of the bottom of the table. And I was left with a nice wide gash on my knee. I won't go into detail, but I will say it was bleeding pretty bad. I remember saying "Why does this always happen to me?!" a few times, which made my brother laugh. He was so sweet though, he kept asking if he could do anything to help.
My dad decided I might have to get stitches. So we went to the quick fix place (I'm not sure what it's actually called) because we would have been in the hospital emergency room for hours just waiting to get treated. The doctor came in and took a look. He said that since the metal came in at an angle there was outer skin split away from the thinner, inner skin. And it would keep breaking open because of the bend in my knee. So instead of just having it glued shut I now have seven stitches in my knee. He had to give me several shots to numb it first. I won't lie, those hurt a bit. Once it was numb he started sewing me up. It didn't hurt, of course, but it was so weird! I could feel it tugging and moving around, and I knew it should hurt. I was a little queasy at first. But now it's all good, I have to go back in twelve days to get them taken out. Oh and did I mention I'm supposed to go shopping tomorrow? Maybe I can get Jordin to wheel me around in a wheel chair...
Friday, July 16, 2010
Living Art
I want to start off by saying I sat down here with full intentions of writing about something that's been nagging in my mind lately. But I'm pretty sure I have ADHD because I somehow ended up on Photobucket and then I somehow ended up looking at pictures of tattoos. Don't ask how this happened, sometimes I just have no clue how my brain works. So now instead of hearing about a legit problem in my life, you will be subjected to my rambling on tattoos.
From the start tattoos have always fascinated me. I mean let's think about it. Actually liking an image/picture/quote/etc. enough to have it permanently inked onto your skin. I repeat: permanently. And it's not just like la-dee-dah I'm going to get this drawn onto my skin and it'll stay there forever! (As I believed when I was a young child.) I mean it does happen like that, except you probably won't be la-dee-dah about it (unless your a masochist or you've had it done so many times it doesn't bother you). Because it's going to hurt. A combination of my Catholic upbringing and my parent's personal opinions of tattoos influenced me to look down on tattoos/people with tattoos. It's like there's some kind of taboo on it. It can be considered trashy and scummy to have tattoos. Despite this I was always fascinated by them.
Now I may or may not have offended. You might now be considering me some snot who thinks she's better than everyone else. I promise that's not how it is. Now I think it's kind of cool. It takes some guts to go that far to express yourself, putting personal stuff out there for everyone to see (or not, depending on placement). Either that or your extremely drunk, which I still refuse to believe happens as much as I've been told. It's taking the saying "wearing your heart on your sleeve" and putting it in the literal sense. Some people's tats can be so personal, yet there they are. In my opinion, that's really awesome. To be that comfortable, to just not care what people are going to think. It's also a good bullshit blocker. People are either going to like you for who you are or they're not. Tattoos are an intense way to express yourself. And I really admire people who do express themselves in that way.
I won't lie, I totally want a tattoo. Nothing major, no sleeves or anything big. Probably something small on like my ankle. (I would choose like the most painful place, but once I get something in my mind I can't let it go.) Something meaningful that's there forever. I kind of like that concept.
From the start tattoos have always fascinated me. I mean let's think about it. Actually liking an image/picture/quote/etc. enough to have it permanently inked onto your skin. I repeat: permanently. And it's not just like la-dee-dah I'm going to get this drawn onto my skin and it'll stay there forever! (As I believed when I was a young child.) I mean it does happen like that, except you probably won't be la-dee-dah about it (unless your a masochist or you've had it done so many times it doesn't bother you). Because it's going to hurt. A combination of my Catholic upbringing and my parent's personal opinions of tattoos influenced me to look down on tattoos/people with tattoos. It's like there's some kind of taboo on it. It can be considered trashy and scummy to have tattoos. Despite this I was always fascinated by them.
Now I may or may not have offended. You might now be considering me some snot who thinks she's better than everyone else. I promise that's not how it is. Now I think it's kind of cool. It takes some guts to go that far to express yourself, putting personal stuff out there for everyone to see (or not, depending on placement). Either that or your extremely drunk, which I still refuse to believe happens as much as I've been told. It's taking the saying "wearing your heart on your sleeve" and putting it in the literal sense. Some people's tats can be so personal, yet there they are. In my opinion, that's really awesome. To be that comfortable, to just not care what people are going to think. It's also a good bullshit blocker. People are either going to like you for who you are or they're not. Tattoos are an intense way to express yourself. And I really admire people who do express themselves in that way.
I won't lie, I totally want a tattoo. Nothing major, no sleeves or anything big. Probably something small on like my ankle. (I would choose like the most painful place, but once I get something in my mind I can't let it go.) Something meaningful that's there forever. I kind of like that concept.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
James Bond, girl style
I not so secretly wish to own:
- Dr Marten's
- RayBans
- Jeep Wrangler (I'm sorry Mallow, but can I put your top down? No, because that's not how Cherokee's are built.)
- Crotch-rocket (For those who don't know, please Google. They are amazing. And no, it's nothing dirty.)
- A magical, never-ending library filled with thousands upon thousands of books.
- Lastly, a helicopter. Just because.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
dumby slaps for Kate!
I never plan on doing stupid things. I swear to you. Would it be cliche to say they just sort of happen? I guess I understand why people say it now. They really do just happen. Don't get me wrong, I know it's all my fault. I don't have to make that one choice that changes everything. I could always just do what I know I should. But that's rarely ever the case now is it? I guess I was beginning to feel invincible. Getting away with all the crazy stuff that's gone down in the past, God what is it now? Four, five months. But no one's invincible, nothing lasts forever. I'll admit I knew this day would come, I just always put that thought in the back of my mind. But that day has come. Not even fifteen minutes fresh. My summer's changed now, the rest of my high school career probably. Now I have to think even more critically. Possibly even do the right, responsible thing from now on.
I know what I did was wrong. I know this. I know this. But good stories hardly ever come from following the rules, obeying the law. And that is how I justify myself. In the end all we have is stories, and who wants to be stuck with sucky ones? I've created a lot of trouble for myself, but I've learned a lot these past months. I can get through this and come out even better.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Bianca and Bailey
I cried once after Bianca died. Only once, right after we got the call from Mom and Dad at the hospital. Mom was sobbing in the background as Dad quietly explained that the car crashed right into the driver's door. Causing so much damage that she couldn't last through the surgery needed to save her life. As soon as he had hung up the phone I threw myself face down onto my bed and cried. It was one of those cried that seems to take away all of your strength. Great, body shaking sobs that start from the very center of your body. You cry so much, so hard, you can hardly breath. And once you're done you wipe your face and feel dried out, your body hollow.
After I cried I sat up on my bed and just stared at a picture of us taken recently, I think at our brother Ian's birthday party. We were both sitting close together on the couch, looking off to the side laughing. You would think I'd be used to it by now, but it always made me feel a little weird seeing her, looking exactly like me. My twin, my carbon copy. We both had long blonde hair, blue eyes. Our body's built the same: five foot six, not extremely thin, but definitely not fat. Our foreheads and noses crinkled the same way when we laughed. That's all anyone sees when they look at us, our twin-ness.
No one ever really looks for our differences, but as twins, trust me, we did. Like how her nose was slightly up-turned, mine more straight. Her eyes were a deeper hue of blue while mine had a greenish kind of tint to them mixed in with the blue. As a dancer she spent more time inside than I did, so I was tan while she was paler. Her body was tin, less curvy than mine, the way dancer's bodies usually are. I rode horses, so my legs were more muscular, I was just more curvy over all. As we grew older these little differences became so important to us. We tried to separate from each other, detach, distance ourselves. Never did I imagine the distance would become too great. Big enough to separate us completely. But one little crash did it in the span of a few seconds.
While the differences in our appearance may not have been obvious, our personalities were. Bianca had been born first, fearlessly leading the way just as she would in just about everything else. She had always been the more outgoing one. She was the one who made the first friend in pre-school, a girl names Shelby who was timid and shy like me. But where as Bianca made me shrink back and kind of disappear into the background, she made other people more outgoing like herself. She was always surrounded by large groups of giggling friends, gossiping, getting ready to go places, and then disappearing to parties and dates. I preferred to have less friends. Not because I couldn't make them, but because I couldn't stand the constant chatter, all the drama. Same as with boys. While my experience is only limited to two, Bianca had a steady stream of boyfriends from the day we turned thirteen.
It wasn't just that she was more outgoing or personable. She was more lively, defiant. We contrasted, night and day, a bold slash of red and a docile dot of yellow. She was always in motion, from one thing to the next. Always getting in trouble for sneaking out of breaking curfew. I, on the other hand, was back in the shadows, moving silently through life, doing what I was told. I found it easier to let her be the shining star. It was enough for me to just be near her.
After I cried I sat up on my bed and just stared at a picture of us taken recently, I think at our brother Ian's birthday party. We were both sitting close together on the couch, looking off to the side laughing. You would think I'd be used to it by now, but it always made me feel a little weird seeing her, looking exactly like me. My twin, my carbon copy. We both had long blonde hair, blue eyes. Our body's built the same: five foot six, not extremely thin, but definitely not fat. Our foreheads and noses crinkled the same way when we laughed. That's all anyone sees when they look at us, our twin-ness.
No one ever really looks for our differences, but as twins, trust me, we did. Like how her nose was slightly up-turned, mine more straight. Her eyes were a deeper hue of blue while mine had a greenish kind of tint to them mixed in with the blue. As a dancer she spent more time inside than I did, so I was tan while she was paler. Her body was tin, less curvy than mine, the way dancer's bodies usually are. I rode horses, so my legs were more muscular, I was just more curvy over all. As we grew older these little differences became so important to us. We tried to separate from each other, detach, distance ourselves. Never did I imagine the distance would become too great. Big enough to separate us completely. But one little crash did it in the span of a few seconds.
While the differences in our appearance may not have been obvious, our personalities were. Bianca had been born first, fearlessly leading the way just as she would in just about everything else. She had always been the more outgoing one. She was the one who made the first friend in pre-school, a girl names Shelby who was timid and shy like me. But where as Bianca made me shrink back and kind of disappear into the background, she made other people more outgoing like herself. She was always surrounded by large groups of giggling friends, gossiping, getting ready to go places, and then disappearing to parties and dates. I preferred to have less friends. Not because I couldn't make them, but because I couldn't stand the constant chatter, all the drama. Same as with boys. While my experience is only limited to two, Bianca had a steady stream of boyfriends from the day we turned thirteen.
It wasn't just that she was more outgoing or personable. She was more lively, defiant. We contrasted, night and day, a bold slash of red and a docile dot of yellow. She was always in motion, from one thing to the next. Always getting in trouble for sneaking out of breaking curfew. I, on the other hand, was back in the shadows, moving silently through life, doing what I was told. I found it easier to let her be the shining star. It was enough for me to just be near her.
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