"Drake"_Lost%found...

I Found him.
My Drake.
Someone gave it to a friend who gave it to a friend who gave it to me.
Oh yeaaah.
Thank you Universe.

I Lost My Drake

His name was drake and he was only 11-months old. He was black. But covered in white, and had a few nicks and scratches, but that's what gave him his character, and that's why it's going to be so hard to replace him. I know I can just get another one, that isn't the problem. I want him back. Exactly him. Not a look a like, I want him. That's the problem. I put so much love into him and I never even saw this coming. I can't believe I never even saw this coming. But I have to move on, I want to so bad. I really just want to forget I even left him unattended even for a second. Why did I just leave him in that room? I almost took him. I almost took him with me. I almost did. Almost. But almost doesn't count, right. I hate this. I want to kick myself but I can't. No, literally I don't know how to do that. I'm not even sure if it's physically possible. Is it? Uhhhhhhhh. This is like torture. It's my fault. fault. fault. fault. It's like that, I hear an echo in my head. And it never stops. TORTURE. I miss you drake. You were the best friend a girl like me could have. I hope that if we ever meet again, you don't hate me.

-In Memory of A Lost Drake-

Instant Gratification

I'm rich. Not in the way you think, though. Well, maybe. I knew this would happen to me one day. That I would just wake up and be okay. I am feeling the love. Wow, I'm actually. Ya know, that. I'm one of those. I can do anything I want. I can do whatever with my life. Why am I just realizing this? I've always been famous and it just hit me in the freaking face right now. I could always do whatever I wanted and I never thought about it. Until now. Nothing has changed. I'm just rich now. Rich in knowledge. Love. Friends. Happiness. Stress. Potential. Hope. Courage. I have the whole world in my hands.

Cadence Upsidedown

Paradise.

I can see it out the back window. In between the shadows of the twilight, specks of starlight jump and dance in the sky. There, in my rear-view, is the most lovely length of bruised sky stretched across the line beyond everything. And the sun, so clever, begins to lean on the horizon nonchalantly, moving in on the earth until it is swallowed whole. It is beauty. There is a scent in the air that drifts through my window, light and fluffy with innocence. I'm in a hurry, but can't bring my foot to swell the speed; it's too nice to miss, even for a mile. Now it is dark. The half-hearted sun has accepted defeat, and now the moon gives her stolen light back. I slow down, slower, slower, even slower yet, and I feel the stopping and I see the stillness and I hear the silence and I smell the dry, cold, relentless draft and I taste. I taste it all. All and all, I taste everything about it. And everything is nothing at all. Nothing that never will be, ever, even on the occasion that it is that or this or him. I can see it out the back window, creeping closer away from me. I have seen it, yes, but it is nothing to see. I have heard only that of nothing. Being and nothingness, it is all the same. For all in all, there is no such thing as such things that--

Get Smart or Die Trying

Junior year is definitely different. There's so much going on and I'm having the hardest time figuring out exaclty how to balance this massive equation. Hell, I've got homework to do.

See you on the other side if I learn how to swim.

Not A Fan Of (Unecessary) Work

I have got to seriously learn how to better manage my TIME! I'm crazy about leaving stuff off 'til the last minute, and then when it comes time to present the product, I've gotta stay up all through to the witching hours of never ending morning and through together some random crap and say "oh yeah, took me weeks to pull this thing together", completely ignoring the fact that I called my budd last night and told them all about my porcastination and how I was never gunna finish it and I would be dead meat by tomorrow. It always turns out, though, in my favor. I have a nitch for last-minute-surprises, and it's almost always a major grade hanging delicately in the balance. I can't say it's right, but oh dear charolette, I'm good. And of course, at the end of every school year lies a fresh start. A clean slate. A new beginning, far from the old ways of procrastination that I love and cherish. And come summer, I have a renewed since of motivation to change my evil ways, "I'm so gunna do summer eading like waaaaaaaaay before summer's over, even the journal assignment. Oh yeeeaaah." So tell me, friend, school starts when? In less than a week. I'm on page 18 of 343 and have got one journal entry out of 25 in the bag. Totes, I'm gunna max out the next few days, and not even worry about it. At least not until the night before school starts.

Imaginary Circumstances

Not much going on in my world, to tell the truth, just adjusting to a new home. No furniture, just the electronics--TV and desktop. Well, so far any ways. So for the past week, and probably for the next two, we've been floormates without even a mattress or comforters to make the illusion of a some-what bed. (Good thing I stole a blanket from the hotel.) But that's what the kitchen counter tops are for when the floor gets too familiar a place to lay my head. I'm really loving the idea that I can finally paint my room. After so much long anticipation of this very moment, I'm at a lose as to what color I want...doesn't life always seem to work out like that? Well, mine. I think I am going to loose a part of myself in the process of completing summer reading. I don't hate the book choices, but I just can never get around to doing the whole "shut up and read" thingamajig. It's just in my DNA to rebel against any kind of work required during down time, and summer is my ultimate down time. I'm too lazy to do it, and I'm gunna have to force the work, the creative juices. I hate forcing things. Like acting like you wanna go to a party your friend invited you to, when your stomach is knotting up just thinking about walking through that door, and your mind is steady thinking up ways to get out of this trap you stepped right into. And on a bluer note, I can't seem to put my finger on who is hi-jacking my thoughts. Is it a mystery? I think it's my own creation, a figment of what could only be my imagination. I wish it was someone I knew, like an interesting fellow from not exactly a certain place, but with so much person you wouldn't even mind, and even the stylish tendencies of a European model. He could be a somebody or a nobody or an artist or (not a heroine addict!) a philosopher, a poet, even a rocker. I just want to believe I will know them some how this semester, after summer waves goodbye and I'm left in the dust, just me, school, and the world. This guy is clouding my thoughts and he's disrupting my natural flow, and I can't help but think, "Are you real already?". Maybe the love that my friends feel is pouring over into my very own subconscious, which is now some how finding its way into my conscious thoughts. Whatever my soul has chosen to do with my emotions, I wanna see it. I wanna open my eyes and realize I wasn't dreaming the whole thing up in my head. And there it is. Thank you, that's it. That's it. I've got to look for him. Bam, that just happened.

*

*

*

Photograph by RomanceXGirl (edited by Maariyah Faa'izah)

STEP ONE: "We admit we are powerless..."

For almost my entire life, I have been over weight. I can only remember being normal sized, or skinny up until the age of about five. From then on, I've always had some extra weight on my body. And usually, I never even really think about it. I mean, it crosses my mind from time to time when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror or if I see the scale lying on the bathroom floor, but otherwise, I've always just learned to live with myself. My home life is very easy going, and weight is almost never discussed seriously, seeing as me, my mother, and my brother are all over weight. But some how, I still managed to find that fat-person guilt hidden inside of myself. Most of my friends from elementary school through high school have been significantly smaller in size than me, so I guess this combined with the media portrayal of what beautiful is is the reason behind my shame of being the size I am, and not doing anything to change it. But despite struggling to find a way to change and exercise daily, eat right, and stay motivated for more than just a week, I am realizing how unimportant it all is. Being healthy is a great thing and nobody should put its benefits to the side, but being quote-un-quote "skinny" is just another part of American superficiality. I mean, what is the definition of "skinny" anyways??...according to Webster, it means to "lack usual or desirable bulk, quantity, qualities, or significance." Why would I want to lack desirable qualities or significance? This word has clearly become misconstrued by the American population. It means exactly the opposite of what the majority of us want. But still, we use it to describe someone who is "in-shape" or "attractive" or "the right size". And just as this simple word has become warped in meaning by society, so has our own perception of just what "the right size" is. I consider someone who can wear snug clothes without exposing lumps and frumpiness to be in good shape. And this is because of how I have seen the world so far. To me, if you're not a thin woman or girl, you probably won't attract many guys, and if you do, they'll be bigger than you. My perception of image is so screwed up and sometimes I can't stand it because the main target is the person I want and need to love the most, myself. But now that I have gotten past denial, I can begin trying to reverse this train of thought. I'm still in need of losing weight, but I am accepting that that doesn't mean I need to become a size 2 in order to be attractive. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it though, for now, I'm just focused on changing the mindset before the body. Plus, I'm already attractive, and dude, I'm sexy.

Get Up & Jam...

So by way of the awesome Twitterverse, I have had the chance to receive a 2009 sampler of Downtown Record's latest new kids on the scene. (I was so hyped when I realized that that's what I had received--9 FREE tracks!) I was originally hoping for some Kevin Michael EP tracks, but I wasn't completely bummed when I didn't see the kid's face anywhere on the demo. The entire thing was packed with some great grooves, but by far, the biggest thing on there was a track by a young lady named Mapei. By all means. I dare you to check click her pic above and check the track out and NOT bop that head...

Song: "Leader of the Pack"

Artist: Mapei

Album: Coco Butter Diaries EP

(Available on iTunes - 4 tracks $3.96 or get the single for $0.99)

Always Happy. Never Satisfied.

I just had another notorious fight with my big brother. And the topic was my selfishness: he called me spoiled and "never satisfied". I guess I come off like that to some--well, at least I do to my brother. I personally can't really see it that much. Well, okay, I DO have a severe tendency to become quickly distracted from one shiny toy to a seemingly shinier, newer one, but who doesn't? And I KNOW I can't be the only teenager out here that has a desire for various objects that are just out of reach...or maybe $600 out of reach? (It's my nature; expensive taste is something that found me, not the other way around!) So, okay, I'll admit that I should probably enjoy the stuff I have already, ya know, settle down and enjoy things more than just a few times. But it's just way more fun to look for new stuff. I like the new and the bold, or the old and undiscovered. Things like vintage leather jackets and hipster sneakers intrigue my senses; I love love love anything with a greater potential lurking behind it, and if I know that I am the KEY to that potential, then it's sorta hard to not at least dream of having these things...or to avoid the strive to save up so that I can one day own 'em. I am so interested in the world around me, and can you blame me? It's always changing and always thinkin' up something new, so it's only natural for me to impulsively want to try and keep up. But my reasoning for this post is much simpler than my explanation as to why I live in the not-now: I wanted to share a piece of my dream, a shoe that rocks my world with it's simplicity. But it's still so diverse. I'm saving up for it...

Shoe: Sneaker

Make: Royal Elastic

Model: Queen Hi - Blue/Orange/White

Price:$75.00

The "Guy" Thing Isn't About the Guy

So I figure it's about time I strike some chords that I haven't talked about yet. I know, it's only my freaggin' tenth blog, but whatevs. I am officially giving myself room to stretch my wings here. I'm gunna try to cover at least one significant topic a week, and I've already done one (A Deeper Look Into Who Be M.F.E.) so you can just consider this a bonus because I love you like that.(; So what's up? Well, it's about boys. (Learn to expect things like this: I'm a teenager!) I'm not that big on a long intro to things...so I'm gunna keep this one rolling. When a guy starts taking interest in me, there can be a plethora of feelings and thoughts jumbling around inside my head. Why does he hang around me? Does he like me? Am I likable? Is he single? Is he joking, or is he serious? Was that a hint? Is he hitting on me? Am I girlfriend material? Does he want me to be his girlfriend? Is he gunna ask me out? Am I attractive enough to ask out?....the list goes ON, trust me. But my all-time favourite rant is this: "Am I over reacting?". I like this question because the little voice in my head never fails to bring it up, and it almost always puts me in check. If I'm talking to a guy that I find attractive and he seems interested in the conversation, that same little voice jumps in before I can begin to speculate: "He's not that into you. He's just making polite convo, so don't jump to conclusions...". And to an extent, that voice is my friend. It helps me calm down when I find myself in new guy situations and keeps my expectations low, so if it turns out that the voice was right, I'm not surprised. But that's the brim. Besides that, that voice is the devil. It constantly nags me about how I'm just not good enough for any guy, lowering my self esteem gradually. It is a self-protecting device that harms me. And mastering the art of controlling that voice is vital to preservation of self. So I began to try to ignore it. Of course, it got louder, but after much practice and many inspirational YouTube videos, I believe I have uncovered a better deal of my other voice: self-confidence. I'm here, at a cross roads of immaturity and higher thinking, and so I try my hardest to get to the latter. I tell myself, I am good enough. I say, "Girl, you are who you are, and that's not gunna change, so don't wear yourself out tryin' ". I give myself pep talks more often instead of letting that selfish little voice dominate my feelings. I look in the mirror and make myself find something I like, every day. I find new things sometimes, and sometimes I pick the same things: my eyes and the way they curve when I smile, my dimples, the wild nature of my independent hair...and I also find out what I don't like, but that list gets shorter every time. I make sure to keep the negatives at a minimum, and for the things I'm not happy with, I just shrug and say oh well, "change it or leave it be: cause you sure nuff can't do half of either". Little things like painting my nails or taking an extra long, warm shower can work miracles. The best therapy for me though is just speaking my mind, and not allowing that little voice to have a say. It's the sweetest victory when I get those moments of clarity and have a strange courage to just sit back, relax, and do "me". And it's all good and gravy. I realize that I am who I am, and if another person won't accept that, it's okay. It doesn't matter. Sooner or later I will attract people who DO like the person I am by nature...all I have to do is show them who I am by nature. And I'll get used to doing that more everyday, with practice. With the mirror, and positive thinking, and reassurance. I will begin to grow into something new and more beautiful than before. And I will be smacked into a new world by something amazing: self-love. That's the bar. That's where I wanna be. Because once I get to the point where I can maintain that "moment of clarity" permanently, I'll have arrived. And it's obvious when some one's arrived: everyone in the class turns their head to look at the person who's coming through the door 30 minutes past the start of class. And that's me, I'm late. But at least I'm approaching that door. And when I open it, every one's eyes will be hot-glued on me, "me" me. Even the guy that's outta my league, cause now he's so not. I'm outta his.

PB + J = <3

So why do I love PB&J so much again? Don't you dare ask me that question. I think it's quite obvious...well, okay, I'll tell ya. It's just so GOOD. Like, you seriously know something is special when it's g-o-o-d...it's freaggin' one letter away from spelling God. It IS the king of all sandwiches...I mean, how many sandwhiches can you make with one slice of Great Value and two ingredients? (That's exactly what I thought. Uh-huh.) And I happen to know how to make a mean PB&J. I am total beastmode when it comes to the art of sandwich making. I guess the sandwich gods adore me, what can I say? Don't believe me? Feast your hungry little eyes on that picture up above. Um-hm, that's one of my creations. So just know that if you ever come over my house, you've got a sandwich with your name written all over it...okay, maybe not, I don't want you to die of ink poisoning...bleh. Oh well. Just don't sew me.

A Deeper Look Into Who Be M.F.E.

I've never been an avid church goer. The few memories of church I have are mainly rooted in experiences from early childhood, when I spent my summers with my grandparents. Sunday mornings would always start earlier than any other day, and I would always resent the fact that I had to be dragged along to Sunday worship. On the ride there, there was hardly any conversation, just the gospel station playing some slow-tempo, melancholy melody that seemed to last for longer than three minutes and thirty seconds. I never understood why we only listened to the gospel station on Sundays before church. I guess this routine was the source for my anxiety towards gospel music; I still can't listen to a church hymn without feeling oddly foreign. The church of choice for my grandparents was our family church. It was no stranger to age, a small building that you'd definitely pass right by without noticing if you weren't looking for it. The congregation was all family: blood relatives of mine. Except for the poor occasional boyfriend or girlfriend or colleague that got suckered into coming for a visit. Most people only visited once, especially those who randomly came upon the church with no ties to any of the family, my family. Looking back now, I imagine they must have been taken aback by the service. It was an interesting service, alright. After loitering about the pews and making idle conversation for about an hour past the intended start of services, everyone would shuffle to their places and get settled in for about another five minutes. Once the old women were situated with their paper fans and us children had been hushed, we would open up with hymns. The longest preamble to anything I've ever witnessed were those hymns before service. There would be a jumble of different ranges singing one song, some voices in tune, others hopelessly lost in another key. I would always look around to see those who remained seated, swaying along to the singing, but with lips closed. They were the non-members, non-family. I'm reminded of this image every time I visit a new church and the parish stand to rejoice in hymn, while I remain seated, a foreigner in familiar territory. After rambling through about three or four of never-ending hymns, the pastor would take the pulpit and share some verses, which he would expand upon endlessly. It was the length of service that bothered me most. At the age of six or seven, no child wants to sit anywhere for hours on end. And even though my grandmother tucked away fruit roll-ups in her purse to disperse to me, my cousin, and my brother mid-service, I soon developed a feeling of indifference toward church service, a feeling that spilled over into my perception of any church I visited afterward, no matter what the message was. Though I attended the church in the summertime until around the age of eleven, I remember the times surrounding six and seven most vividly. Maybe it's because those were the ages when it no longer was acceptable to sleep through service. Though I still wasn't quite old enough to understand the sermons, I remember getting an occasional nudge from my grandma if I began to doze. Sometimes it was just a side look from her that would remind me of my new duty: stay awake, even if service stretches out from 2 hours to 4. The closing of service was about the only thing longer than the opening, however. This was the time when any one present in the church who had a word or two to share with everyone could stand up and speak. Though they hardly had just a few words to share. A regular speaker was one of my uncles. He always had something to say, and I learned to associate his presence at the pulpit with an extra 20-30 minutes tagged on to the closing of service. He never failed to put his word out, and half the time, the topics would soon stray to something not so close to church. It didn't take long for me to get used to this pattern of religion, and as soon as I got used to it, I began to resent it. I never even actually payed any attention to the bible until I was in my teens, around 14, but I can remember feeling anxious on Sunday mornings as far back as age 7. That's 7+ years of having a clouded view of religion. As you can imagine, I never really developed close emotional ties to church those years or to anything that related to it...prayer, gospel music, living the so-called Christian Lifestyle. All of these things I related with others, not myself. I never could imagine myself as a Christian, even though I was never a troublesome child. In fact, I began to build a guilt because of the lack of feeling I had towards my family's religion, my religion. I thought that since I felt "un-Christian" it was also obvious to everyone else I knew, like some one had written across my forehead "WARNING: NOT A TRUE CHRISTIAN!". Every time I had a conversation with a friend about religion and I said I was Christian, I could hear a little voice in my head scream: "IMPOSTOR! YOU DON'T REALLY LOVE JESUS! LIER!". I became paranoid that once my friends found out my real feelings towards church that I would lose them. Even today, I feel ill-at-ease conversing heavily about church matters or the bible. It wasn't until recently that I began to think that maybe it was okay to veer from Christianity. Now, I am in no way downing the religion, but somethings just aren't for everybody. Breath, sleep, eat, grow-up: these things everybody must do, and I don't think I'll hear any one complaining seriously about having to breath to stay alive anytime soon. But things like the clothes you choose to wear, the people you choose to hang around, the advice you choose to follow, the way you choose to present yourself, the things you choose to do, they all have one thing in common: you choose them. And choosing something other than what the person next to you has chosen doesn't make you a bad person. It took me 9 years to realize this. But finally I have, and I am beginning to look beyond religion and what others expect of me. I'm focusing more on me. I'm looking for ways to further myself, as an individual and a member of society. And whether or not I have to use religion to get to a higher place is slowly becoming less of a concern for me. Yes, there are still days when that relentless guilt strikes me and I feel the need to crack open my dusty bible and kneel and pray awhile, but I am slowly internalizing that a "non-Christian" is by no means a "non-good-person". I still call myself christian, but now I've begun to lean more towards agnostic beliefs. And that does not make me a bad person. I am still a spiritual person, and I do believe there is a God. But I'm beginning to discover God for myself, without just going by what others believe. Thank God for that.

New Lessons to Learn

A really odd thing happened yesturday. I wrote a short story. From a man's P.O.V. A sexually aroused man's point of view at that. Wierder things haven't happened, but hey, I'm okay. Maybe this is a new leaf to peel back...whatever in worlds that means. For goodness sakes, I read the the piece back and I didn't even recognize it as my own. Freaky stuff. Like I remember writing it out and the other, but I can't recreate the emotions in my mind that drove this one outta me. I guess some stuff just comes out and you can't really negotiate the details. I stopped though. I'm afraid I can't claim this one. Here it is.

- - - - - - - -

http://www.quizilla.com/stories/9819364/izaaks-contridiction

The Look-A-Like

Tell me why it seems I'm always not in the right place at the right time? My mom called me today on her way home, as she usually does, but her voice sounded especially hype: she had some good news. Honestly, the first thing that came to my mind was, "did we get the house??". We're shopping around for a new house. But by the tone of her voice, I could sense it was better than that; it was indeed. She was on MARTA and by a fluke of events, a young man who happened to look like the male model Tyson Beckford was sitting across from her, wearing simply blue jeans and a white T. I couldn't believe that woman's luck. WOW. I egged her to take a picture, but it couldn't happen with out being too obvious. She said when he got off, all the women near her started chatting and giggling about him, and I bet they were. Hmmm. I wish things like this would happen to me...but wait, only I would want the guy to look like Kevin Michael:) Jeesss. Jeess.

The Book About Nothing

So when I first realized that the book I've been creating was deleted, I was kind of upset. But I got over it. I just had to accept it was gone and there was no turning back. So I let it go. I started all over again. (Which wasn't all that bad.) Anyway, the book is still under heavy construction and has more potential than ever. I can't wait until it's finished and I can publish it and hold it and say, "look, this is what I have made, an actual book". It won't be long now.

p.s. wanna make a creation of your own?>>>blurb.com

Famous Stars League

My mom and I were just talking about famous people when I had this delayed epiphany. I call it delayed because I don't know why I haven't delved into the idea before,: famous (and rich) people have it MADE. I mean, seriously. There are few things that I can think of at the moment that can't be fixed with a $million+ annual income and famous connections. Worst comes to worst, you get down and you can just call up Usher to serenade you, or have P-Diddy throw you a party on his yacht, or call up Doctor Phil to give you a pep-talk, or even go on a shopping spree with Sarah Jessica Parker. Okay, maybe not all famous people have such valuable connections, but that doesn't mean they couldn't. They could definitely approach fellow stars who they admire and ask for a picture or autograph without coming off as "the crazed fan". What advantages they have at their disposal! And of course, there's the money. Money, money, money. So much of it and (if they have the sense to manage it right) enough to last a lifetime. The only thing that I might get tinged by from time to time is the all-seeing presence--the paparazzi. They really do seem annoying. But besides those bimbos, it'd be sweet to live that life. Drake, now I gotta go get famous just to see if I'm right.

Music Discovery 'O The Day

I've never been a huge fan of rock bands with loud guitar lines, screaming lead vocalists, and insanely inaudiable lyrics. Surprise, surprise because today's Discovery 'O The Day is along those lines: "Bulls On Parade" by Rage Against The Machine. In such a time appropriate era as well. The Message: War is a never ending game of Russian Rullette, while it's reasoning is mysterious, the outcome is obvious. *M.F.E.

A Poptart A Day...

So I'm just wondering--what is it that makes pop tarts so good? Is it the light frosting that compliments its breaded texture? Or maybe it's the irresistible filling on the inside that's just the right amount of sweet...I'm at a loss. No matter the mysterious reason, I find that most of my friends are addicted to this delightful little pastry as well. I still remember when we realized that the school vending machine had finally switched over to the 2-pack pouch instead of selling just one measly pop tart. We all grinned in satisfaction and high-fived. I've got to hand it to Kellogg's, even the little animated characters on the packages make me crack a smile; it's an all around good thing.

Why Wait?

It's happening again. Life is exuberantly floating by, and I still haven't discovered a way to make it stop; or at least slow down enough to include me in its antics. It's like pedestrian crossing in a way. Whenever you're on the street and you're the pedestrian waiting for the light to change, it's like it takes forever and a day. Time you could have spent walking to your destination is gone; inadvertently wasted into the abyss never to be seen from or heard of again. It's that vital to me. I don't want this summer to be just another wast of time. I've loitered around the house many a summer, laying in bed until sometimes 3 in the afternoon. I've wasted too many hours in front of the computer or TV set spoiling my summer freedom. My biggest pastime: doing absolutely nothing. I am a very creative individual so there is no reason for this insane wasting of time, I could be writing poetry or reading books or going out with friends or going somewhere...the list goes on. I can't quite understand why I have such a productivity deficiency during the summer, but its there, its here now. I've put a plan in motion to stop this dissipation head on: a book. I'm creating a photo anthology to help my creative flow stay alive in this drought prone season, and I hope to the highest mountain top that this plan doesn't fall through. I'm bored and I'm finally doing something proactive. Bump the crosswalk; I'm jaywalking this business.