Tag Archives: The Way the World Is


There is a podcast I have been following called the Minimalists. They invented a game called the 30-Day Minimalism Challenge and it challenges you for 30 days to get rid of 1 more item each day.
This means that on day 1, you get rid of 1 item. Day 2, 2 items, and so on and so forth. The main idea is to de-clutter your house but also to make you realize how many things you truly own. 30 days is not the maximum. It can go further if you want, though I have to wonder at what point do you run out of items? Day 84? Day 62?
So I challenge any of you who read my blog to join me. I plan to start on the first of the new year and see what I can reduce out of my house. 31 days, 496 items. Are you up for the challenge?


Find more details here: https://www.theminimalists.com/game/

Untitled post- a free-form poem.


I told my mother I had a boyfriend over coffee when the sun was rising
She told me to be careful and refilled my coffee cup.
No relationship brought to a sudden end
from the secret I just offered up.

I talked to my mother about my boyfriend in a coffee shop with a teacup in my hands.
I tell her he reminds me of a cat and my father.
She tells me about when she got engaged
and how communication is worth the bother.

I admitted to my brother I have a boyfriend in my truck with the radio on
He said “oh, I remember” and stuck his hand out the window
I found out my mother had told most of my family
and that none were terribly shocked to know.

I tell my boyfriend about my mother in pieces at a time when I think of them
Mentioning the ten children, the cooking
and how she fosters puppies with 3.6 legs
And he doesn’t say much, just listening.

I wait for the world to crumble to pieces because of my boyfriend
Sharing my business and mixing my worlds isn’t comfortable
but these people care about me more than anything
In the end, listening is all I really need.

Nice Costs Nothing

I’m the oldest of 10 children. I have five brothers and four sisters, and this is only slightly above average size in my family. Children are blessings, bundles of joy that are prayed for, begged for, rejoiced over.
So naturally, there’s a lot of them.

From the time I was 2, I have been an older sister. I’m now almost 20 and I still have tiny people as siblings. The youngest are four now, and even though they are definitively the last biological children my parents will have, there are 16 years between my birthday and theirs.
I have been in charge of small children, in control of their survival and health, for probably more years than I should have been. I have a remarkable ability to track wandering toddlers, and juggling wiggling babies is second nature.
The other second nature I have walked away with- slightly related to the first and unavoidable, in my opinion- is a terrifyingly fierce protective instinct. A friend once labelled it a hero complex.
I love an underdog with every fiber of my being. People who cannot protect themselves instantly earn my protection, and I will fight to the hyperbolic death for their cause.

I don’t qualify myself as a nice person to most people. If you’re going to harass me on the street or waste my time with inanities, I’m not a nice person.
If being nice involves lying about my feelings on a matter, then I’m not a nice person. I will not tolerate your nonsense or laziness, and ignorance or cruelties will gain you my harshest words. Continue reading

Tracks and Childhood

Humans are incredibly nostalgic creatures.
The lengths to which we will go are incredible, when childhood memories or memorabilia are involved.
Why do you think vintage action figures are so valuable? Why else is scrapbooking a massively successful industry? People are terrified of losing themselves, as defined by physical and mental imprints on the world.
If you ask anyone what their first car was, they will be able to respond almost instantly. Most people probably still remember the first big purchase they made with their own money. Almost everyone has their first home address memorized, and home videos are full of “baby’s first things”. Sounds and smells and textures are all physical triggers in accessing memory banks.

Last week, I moved out of the apartment I’d been staying in for the past few months. I’d moved in with my best friend at the time, and we had been planning to get a house together when her lease expired at the apartment complex. However, over time, differing schedules and lifestyles created a good number of tensions, and there were several long, tearful conversations, where frustrations and personal affronts were discussed at length.
I don’t know about anyone reading this, but I never enjoy those sorts of conversations.
All in all, stresses were high, and something needed to change.
So change, it did.

In the space of an afternoon, months and years worth of planning, wishing, and dreaming culminated in my moving into a tiny, two-story house.
The roof needs replaced, the doors don’t quite seal all the way, and the floors creak when you walk across them.
The bathroom floor leaks into the kitchen if the bathtub gets a little too excited.
The back yard isn’t fenced.
The floors give you splinters if you drag your feet.
The windows stick, and most of them don’t open, unless they’re the ones that have been replaced.

But there are radiators in every room downstairs, rippling with heat, and providing a toasty seat to chilled bottoms.
The floors are a light, golden-brown hardwood, and when it catches the sunlight, it glows.
There’s a threshold between living room and dining room that to a seven year-old, embodies the glory and power of a thundering river. She will spend many years leaping across it, imagination aglow with the feat.
The stairway has a narrow ledge parallel the top half of it, and a ten year-old girl likes to walk along it and pretend a bottomless chasm drops away below her bare feet. She will stand at the end and curl her toes over the edge while she watches family members trudge up the stairs in a routine they don’t even think about.
The upstairs bathroom is bigger than the master bedroom, there’s a funny, slanted corner to one room, where there wasn’t quite enough room for both the stairs and the bedroom, so they had to share.
The closets are all at least six feet deep, and one of them was big enough to hold the world of a thirteen year-old as she dreamed about boys, wrote about fantasy worlds, and hid from the outside world under her blankets. The evidence is still scribbled on the walls, if you care to decipher the handwriting.

Now, a nineteen year-old lives in the master bedroom, stocking feet folded under her legs to protect them from the drafty cold. Boxes are scattered about the floor, and clothes are on the floor, for want of a better place to go. The rooms are empty and they echo, and the upstairs had to be aired out for two days to get rid of the stenches of cigarettes and pot that were lurking in the corners.
Tatty carpet pieces have been rolled up, explicit DVD’s discovered in closets, and floors scrubbed and refinished.

It’s been half a decade at least, but this blog post is proof that some dreams do come true, if you’re willing to wait.
I now live in my childhood home, and I don’t plan to be going anywhere soon.

When All Else Fades

Here’s the thing.
Many of my posts are to do with how much I don’t like people, or particular persons, or how I wish they would all go away.
If it wasn’t already obvious, I have my walls. I shove people away when they get too friendly too fast, and I’m perfectly content to be by myself.

I recently discovered that someone into which I had been pouring a lot of my time and energy wasn’t all that keen on me. That they didn’t care, would probably be more accurate.
If I’m honest, it wasn’t entirely platonic, at least on my end. But that’s not the part that hurt. Not most of it.
The part I don’t understand- what really gets me- is that they just let me keep trying to win them, let me keep pouring myself into them, when they knew it would never happen. I wanted so badly to be in their inner circle, and they knew it.

I’ve had two or three conversations in my life that have made me want to curl into a ball and just close my eyes. To forget that I had to ever get up and carry on.
This was one of them.

So now, if my pattern holds, I will retreat into my walls of composure and collection. I will pretend to be okay.
Co-workers tease me about being emotionless, or a robot, or that I’m incapable of feeling anything aside from malevolence.
Times like this, that comes in handy.

When you take away everyone and everything else, what I have left is me.
I have my coping mechanisms and my imagination and my incredible ability to think myself away from situations.
What more do I need?

It’s Not A Neck Tattoo, It’s A Life Decision

Alternate titles for today’s post were as follows.

Neck Tattoos and Boyfriends
Please Don’t Flirt With Me (ft. I WILL Hurt You)

Dear the extremely creepy guys in the janky old car in drive through,
When you pull up to the drive through window and immediately lean forwards to stare at me, I see it. I know what you’re doing, and exactly where your eyes are lingering. (Here’s a hint, my face is up here. You know, with the eyes?)
Your cheekbone piercing is not attractive. You leering at me, looking me up and down before you hand me the money, or refusing to let go for just a split second too long, is not appreciated. Yelling at me as the window closes makes me want to ignore you.

When I open the window, before you grin, before asking if I have a boyfriend, I would like you to stop and think for just a moment, no matter how foreign this concept is to you.
I have been taking orders, making drinks, checking bags, paying out, and handing out food to customers like you for almost 2 hours now. As you speak to me, I have another order in my ear, and this person wants their order taken right exactly now and exactly right. I made at least four drinks while you stared at me, and have not stopped moving since I’ve been in your field of vision. And yet I have stopped all of my other tasks to focus on you. I hope you feel special.
Do I have a boyfriend, you ask?

The answer is no. But you don’t get to know that. If I answer you truthfully, you will take it as an invitation to press your advances on me. You will take it as a personal challenge to get me a boyfriend- probably you or your creepy friend. You will never leave my drive through, and I have times to make.
So yes. If you’re asking, I have a boyfriend.

I can see the frustration on your face.

“Are you just saying that?”

Now, isn’t that interesting. How many other girls have you interrogated?
How many have made the mistake of answering you truthfully?
Do you now expect women to lie to you as a default response?
I feel sorry for your previous interests. I wish you knew how to take ‘no’ for an answer.
Here’s your food! Have a great night, sir.

Picture Window


I am an introvert, if this was not established in previous posts.
I don’t know, I might have made it really obvious.
People’s perceptiveness varies.

But I digress.

To the business at hand: I don’t make friends very well, and I’ve decided to go on a ramble as to possibly why.

First, some information on the Introvert.

Introverts live in their own world, and sometimes they emerge to wander around the real world in great confusion. They don’t like to let a lot of people into their own worlds. Do not ask them to share their feelings with the group.
We’re brilliant at finding the quietest place to avoid social commitments, or at vanishing into our rooms to read through three books in two days, or to finish that one project we may or may not have forgotten. Introverts are not exactly low maintenance, but at least we don’t require daily socialization.
Think of it as introverts being to extraverts as cats are to dogs. We decide on that one particular person we will allow around, and everyone else can please go away ASAP.
The only difference is all cats are plotting to kill you. This is only true of some introverts.

Continue reading


No, the title is not a glitch.

Both my laptops have simultaneously given up a ghost of a wifi signal, leaving me only two bars on one and nil on the other, supposedly “better”, one.

This has been perfectly timed with the move I have made recently, which sets up some suspicions.

In answer to all of you burning with curiosity, I switched rooms with my sister, giving me a window seat and one less room mate. This room mate is nearly six, so she presents a different set of challenges, but she is not woken up by the Christmas lights I like having perpetually on.

The only downside is, she adores me and everything I own.

‘Downside?’ you may ask. How is this possibly a bad thing?

In that she asks for every single thing she sets her eyes upon.

Old bag of stale peanuts? She wants it.

Random rock you don’t remember picking up? She adores it.

A bag of expensive chocolate you got for your birthday? She must have them.

Not even the doorknobs Pinterest inspired you to buy, on which to hang scarves, are safe.

“Can I have one??” has rung in my ears for as long as she has known how to talk, but moving into the same room with her means that now, she wakes me up with them, standing by the side of my bed with the object in her hands and eyes at optimum pleading width.

I’ll make no secret of the fact that it’s difficult to keep my temper, but it’s also gotten me thinking.

Small children are notorious for being shameless in asking for things. People are infamous for being unable to resist them. How much could we get if we turned off our inhibitions and asked for everything we saw and desired? The world could be at your feet.

Brazenness and bold attitudes are rewarded in this life.
Why, the presidential campaign could be yours for the taking, should you only ask.
A small African country could be handed to you on your whim.
You could probably get the British to do anything if you were polite enough, if only because they couldn’t bear to be so rude as to refuse you.

Perhaps this is a dangerous notion, as I think on it.

There is, after all, such a thing as too much power.


-wanders away pondering-

Subject 37, Installment 1

Chapter One

I had reached the town that was my destination, my feet sore from the journey and my entire body ready to rest. Sleep and food, and on my way again in the morning.
It was snowing here, in this small, placid town in central America, the white flakes of purity falling against the purple velvet of the night sky above me, the soft, warm yellow glow of electric street lamps, and the dull green-grey-black of a circle of neatly trimmed lawn, where wild flowers were allowed to grow freely in the summer, encouraged in fact.
This circle of dead, frozen grass was split into quarters by wide, smooth sidewalks with grass growing between the squares, and ringed by knee high walls that broke off at each entrance to the inner circle. Continue reading