Two Kinds of People in the World...

There are really only two kinds of people in the world.

MEN and WOMEN

Oh, wait.... and...

People who knock before entering... and people who don't.
Liars... and "Honest Abes"
Those who doodle in their notebooks... and those who take actual notes
People who dream of flying.... and people who dream of being at school naked
Sports fans... and normal human beings
Those who give... and those who take
Idealists... and Realists
People who bake potatoes... and people who mash them
Those who watch out... and those who feel their way
Those who push through the crowd... and those who let the crowd bat them around
Those who sing in concert halls... and those who sing in the shower
Those who aspire to run... and those who run to perspire
Teachers... and people humble enough to listen
Souls that feed... and souls that devour
Laborers.... and CEO's
Aspiring authors... and literary agents
The successful... and the couch-ridden dreamers
Those who dictate... and those who create.

A belated Merry Christmas and many Happy New Years to you all!!

The Yearless Week

Christmas is a beautiful season when I gather together with family and friends to look back over the past year, or to Christmases long ago. It's a time to reflect on the changes I've seen, the hopefully better person I've become, and the wonderful family and friends I have gathered around me. It's a dark and cold time of the year that we illuminate with twinkling lights and melodic carols to help ease the onset of winter.

News Years, on the other hand, is a time when I look forward to the new year that presents itself . I look ahead to what I will accomplish and the experiences I will partake in. It's a time for setting goals and making plans. It's a time for seeing the image of my future in the toll of a clock chiming midnight.

However, there is an odd week wedged in between the end of the year and the start of a new one. I ceremoniously (and because I need a nickname for everything) named this the "yearless week". It's like that awkward stage between your childhood and the teenage years; when your no longer a child, but not old enough to be a teenager. Man, were those good times (cue sarcasm here).

This yearless week seems to be chalk full of mindless zombies going to and from work, all craving naps and stumbling from their stuffed bellies of turkey and pie. The children have no school, and therefore mindlessly eat, play video games, watch movies, and eat some more. I have no actual stats for this, but I wouldn't be surprised if this were the singly more unproductive week... ever... in the history of the world. Not just in work, but in one's personal life as well. There's a lot of staying in our pajamas. There's copious amounts of eating. And let's be honest. We don't have any real desire to be productive.

Maybe I'm basing this entire post on something that no one else experiences. Maybe I'm only broadcasting how freaking lazy I am, but let me show you how my morning went today.

My Plan:
-I had planned to get some shopping done to buy a birthday present for someone
-I had planned to get showered early in the morning
-Before showering, I had planned to run a few miles; nothing too crazy but enough to get me going
-I had planned to at least put on makeup.

What Really Happened:
-I woke up around 8 o'clock to get a good start on the day
-I ended up just sitting in bed until nearly ten.
-I ran on the treadmill for all of ten minutes.
-I didn't take a shower until noon.
-I played my guitar for probably a good couple hours
-I reluctantly put on real clothes to come in to work at 2, makeupless and my hair a frizzy mess.

The yearless week can hit you at any moment; take care to make preparations for the storm. My secret? Don't be too ambitious. Be settled with having date night in front of the TV. Be alright with going to bed at 8:30. (That's my plan tonight). Make peace with the fact that you just might be a lazy bum until Sunday, when the year starts anew and somehow makes us all feel a little more able.

A little more able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Of course we won't be able to.

But that's completely beside the point. 

Me, quite simply and frank

I've been looking over recent posts as of late, and realized something rather funny. I sound hopelessly pretentious in so many of these, like I have the secret blueprints to life and I'm divulging them slowly in measured doses for your own good. One of my similar posts from over a year ago actually made me laugh out loud because of how know-it-all-ish I sounded. It made ME want to slap ME.

So today I'm going to try writing the truth, uninhibited and frank. Wish me luck. Fantasy and fiction I write well; reality is a horse of a different color!

I secretly love rainy days.
If socially acceptable, I would never wear shoes.
If possible, I would dry my hair in the sunshine every day.
Very few things make me happier than being the reason for someone else's smile.
Nothing cures me of sickness and sorrow like a good, nonsensical laugh.
I lie more to myself than to anyone else.
I crave pickles on a monthly basis
I hold everything in until there is no room to put it all.
Then I pick up a pair of boxing gloves and go at a punching bag until I'm sobbing uncontrollably.
My mother is my guardian angel
I often imagine my life as one big musical
I tend to pocket call people when I'm singing at the top of my lungs to the radio.
When I'm cooking, I dance and sing into a wooden spoon.
I'm inwardly afraid of what people think; not of what I'm doing, but who I've become.
I always look for meaning in my dreams; even the crazy, drug-induced ones. (legal drugs, that is)
There is this paralyzing fear that comes over me when I think of losing anyone else that I love.
I love going to a popular college hangout and watching people on awkward first dates.
I believe cooking and eating together can mend a broken family.
I secretly revel in awkward conversations.
My friends are my light; my family my armor.
I see bits of the future in my dreams.
I tell people I have no realistic goals for my future career, but all I want to do it write.
I secretly still believe I can write and publish books. Honestly. But I hate sounding naive, so I don't let anyone know it. 

The Seventh Year of Christmas

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
But there's a smile, a laugh, a voice missing there.

I may cry the day I take the tree down, but then again; I cry when I stand it up and decorate it too. So how am I to be trusted? Christmas is just one of those times of year, a time when I'm not in full control of the way I lash out or of the tears that fall at the most inconvenient of times. And this season now marks the seventh Christmas I've had to spend without my mom; the woman whose eyes twinkled brighter than any light around the holidays.

And it's funny to look back at the shattered thirteen-year-old girl I was seven Christmases ago. I refused to look at the Christmas tree, locked myself in my room sobbing for hours on end; I couldn't hear a Christmas song without breaking into tears and shrieking at anyone within an audible range. All I wanted to was to lock myself away from my family and anyone who had the audacity to smile or say anything pleasant. I mean, how dare they? I even tried to focus on the selfish nature of what presents I would receive. And I tried to fixate on that and forget everything about what Christmas had always meant to me. But even as I waited for my turn to unwrap a gift, there was nothing exciting or anticipatory about it. All I felt was pain... and emptiness.

I listen to Christmas music now, almost as a religion. I take any chance to wander around looking at Christmas lights. I spent hours decorating the house until it's aglow in twinkling lights and garland. I've been cooking and planning for a straight week to prepare a true Christmas dinner for my 12 family members who are attending this year. And I do it all for her; I do it because if she were here, she would be cooking and decorating and blasting Christmas music all over the house. I do it because taking on her responsibilities brings me closer to her than I ever thought I could be after her death; closer than I'd ever dared to hope.

I sit on the couch, staring up at the tree. It's been a long day of shopping and running from store to store maniacally. The ham and pies wait patiently to be baked; the presents to be wrapped. But I only stare into the ethereal glow from the Christmas lights. A heaviness in my chest almost brings tears to my eyes, but something stops it. It's a numb kind of fuzziness that warms my veins and tingles the ends of my fingers. Almost as if someone unbeknownst to me is wrapping their arms around me; someone I can almost feel.