Words.

Your words wrap around my neck like
bitter, cold hands on a winter’s morning.
They cut through the depths of my being
forcing my once-strong body to retract in,
seeking refuge and solace in itself.
Your arms, once safe and warm
have turned into hammers
forcing their will over me and
reminding me that I am
and always will be
much smaller than you.

Your words cut through me like
nails on a chalk board and
send me quivering into a corner,
dazed and confused,
wondering where I went so wrong.
Your eyes, once welcoming and sincere
have turned into daggers
judging every move I make and
waiting for me falter
so you can throw my words back at me and
stomp away victoriously.

Your words shatter my soul like
glass that gives under the weight that
it can’t quite hold alone.
I am a box stamped “FRAGILE”
and you, the disgruntled USPS worker,
take joy in the act of
throwing me in the back of the truck
in spite of my bright-red lettered warning
glaring back at you.
That once-handsome crooked smile has
taken on a life of its own.

You were once mesmerized by my
beauty and strength and thoughts and
now, it seems, you’re waiting–
expecting–
for me to fall.

Through His Eyes

Through His Eyes

I can’t help but wonder if she knows her own worth. I see her every day: walking the halls, writing in her notebook, gazing out the window when she should be paying attention to the equations on the board. We write to one another when we should be completing the odd numbers on page whatever of our text books. She reads every single poem I write—unbeknownst to her, they are about her. She smiles. She says I’m talented. She praises my genius and swears that I will be famous one day. She makes me feel good. When I first met her, she was full of life. She radiated the room with pure joy. That’s what drew me to her (along with her vivacious curves and beaming eyes). She was unlike any girl I’d ever met, and she pulled me in like the gravitational pull the earth has on its contents. You see, I don’t have many friends. In fact, the majority of the seventh grade berates me. I’ve always been different. Apparently, long, wavy, blonde hair is not well suited for a boy these days. Couple that with black clothing and an introverted personality, and you’re basically asking to get thrown up against a locker. But she accepts me. She sees past the hard exterior and into my soul. She connects with me, calms me, even. Yet all the while, I can’t help but wonder if she knows her own worth.

Her darkest downfall is her self-worth. She can be in a room with a thousand people, every single one admiring her, and she will sit there: bewildered, confused, as to why anyone admires her at all. I used to think that it was humility. She simply did not want to seem vain or boastful or full of herself. I couldn’t have been more wrong. See, she always complained about her figure. The very traits, mind you, every boy in the school drooled over. When she walked, her chest bounced up and down, up and down, up and down in perfect rhythm with her stride. Her hips moved back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, taunting every pair of eyes in the room. Her hair—blonde like the sun—flowed perfectly past her shoulders, falling at the small of her back, in the very place that I envisioned my hand resting. Her eyes, those shockingly electric blue eyes, could cut through ice. She was beautiful. The All-American dream girl. I’ll never quite understand why she hated it so, when everyone around her was drawn to it—to her.

She received compliments at first. Her new “healthy” lifestyle was really paying off. “It’s just a small diet, really. I could barely tell I was losing any weight at all!” she said to me. She stopped eating anything with sugar. She said it was better for her body and mind, to “cleanse the body and soul,” she reasoned. Then she stopped eating carbohydrates because “oh, you know, I just feel so full when I eat them that I cannot make room for anything else!” she swore. Then went anything processed, then red meat, then all meat, then cheese and all dairy. Eventually, everything went, until the only thing she could bring herself to eat was bright red apples and Trident gum. With every pound that she shed, I watched a small piece of her very essence disappear with it. It seems so odd, but even her eyes changed; grayed, as if they, too, were being drained of life. I watched her disappear. Every single day, I watched her disappear. And, although I tried, there was nothing that I could do about it.

She’s beginning to scare me. She no longer resembles Marilyn Monroe. Instead, she resembles a heroin addict: rail thin, hollow eyes, pale skin and strung out on the euphoria she experiences when she starves herself long enough. I am watching her waste away. I’m not a doctor, but I’m not stupid. Her speech is slowed, her hair thinning, lips cracking, knuckles bleeding from too many hand-washes and sanitizing. Paper thin. I call her paper thin in an attempt to make her realize that she is going to blow away, unseen by the world, if she didn’t stop the madness. I cry. Beg. Plead for her to get help. Plead for the girl that I first met—the girl who lit up an entire room with just her presence—to come back to me. She looks at me, smiling, unaware of what exactly it is that is so wrong—swearing, unapologetically, that she is just fine. And in that moment, I am aware that I’ve lost her. I’ve lost the girl with the electric-blue eyes.

Then, as if by an act of God, she falls to the floor. I can’t help but wonder if she will ever know her own worth.

Cigarettes & Summer Air

A lot of people look back on the moment where they knew they were in love for the first time and they can pin point it; map it even, labeling an exact moment in time where they knew that their life had forever changed. “We made love, passionate love, and then I knew” she said or “she came down the stairs in her little black dress and it hit me so hard I nearly lost my breath” he said or “He looked at me underneath a star-lit sky and I felt an undeniable spark”. Almost everyone remembers the moment they first fell in love. And the first time, it’s usually romantic, deep and all-too-soon. You know the stories, the ones that make you want to cry or vomit a little in your mouth. This isn’t one of those stories. Or maybe it is. The first time I fell in love, it didn’t immediately make my head spin. I didn’t dance around in my underwear or sing songs in the shower. Looking back, I can’t even pin point the day or exact moment in time that it happened. It happened slowly and steadily and it was completely out of my control. And then one day, it was gone.

I remember the first time I saw him. He had jet black hair and skin so pale that you could see his veins pulsing the blood through his arms. His eyes were a strikingly unique brown—a deep, thoughtful brown—capable of capturing your attention at first glance. He was tall and lanky, yet had a muscular tone about him. He wore black and vintage clothing coupled with dark-rimmed glasses, a stark contrast to the pastels and primaries that cluttered the world around us. When he walked he looked down, as if searching for something that he’d lost a long time ago, all the while keeping his pace moving forward. He intrigued me, this boy who I had not much noticed before, walking through the crowd yet remaining in his own world. Once the masses left, it was just he and I, sitting outside of the school. I don’t recall the exact words he said to me when he walked over, nor do I recall how the conversation continually flowed. But, there we were: two perfect strangers, waiting for time to pass by, together.

The next day, I found myself anticipating the end of the day. I wasn’t sure why I was so excited at the chance of seeing this boy again, but I knew that I wanted to. I didn’t have butterflies in my stomach and I wasn’t nervous. But I was excited. So when the end of the day came and I saw him sitting in the same spot he had taken the day before, I was relieved. I immediately walked over, assumed my designated position, and we picked up right where we left off. It was like opening a new chapter to the same book we’d been reading the day before. We didn’t skip a single page. We went on like this for a few days, talking outside the school and sneaking off of campus to smoke cigarettes without getting expelled. I enjoyed our conversations. They were raw and innocent and real. He told me about his battle with depression and I told him about my rather obvious battle with anorexia. He told me about the first girl who broke his heart and I told him about the first boy who told me he loved me, but the only thing he really took was my virginity. I opened up to him like a sunflower opening up to the sun. And I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was my sun.

We spent nearly every day together. What began as innocent conversation quickly moved to bare-it-all monologues and tearful recollections. He cried in front of me. I remember it like it was yesterday. The pain in his eyes, the tears flowing down his face, the honest, hard-hitting words that were coming out of his mouth. He was shaking. He was stammering his words. He was bare. He was entirely exposed and his soul was completely naked and laid out in front of me. At that very moment in time, he looked so small. So I held him. And at that moment, I became his rock. He was my sun, and I was his rock. Together, we were beautifully broken yet remarkably whole. To this day, it is a phenomena I can’t quite explain.

He kissed me in the rain. Not just any rain—it was a down-pouring, all-encompassing rain shower in the middle of the summer heat kind of rain. I was completely drenched. My hair was matted to my head and my mascara was running down my cheeks. I was spinning in circles in the middle of the road, allowing the rain to pellet my body like bullets from a firing squad, when he walked up and took me into his arms. He looked at me with eyes as wide as a doe, amazed at my willingness to dance through such a storm. Then he leaned down, taking my sopping wet head in one hand and the small of my back in the other, and kissed me—hard. It was the most passionate, romantic, toe-tingling kiss I’d ever felt in my life. He literally swept me off of my feet and I didn’t even see it coming. Later that night, he kissed me again in my car. My windows fogged and I remember re-enacting the scene from Titanic where Rose lifts her hand up and swipes it down the window and instantly, we laughed. We didn’t have sex. We laughed. We laughed until we cried.

We never did have sex. We talked about it. We fantasized about it. We even wrote poetry to one another about it. We wanted to, but for one reason or another, it never happened. I think part of me was scared to have sex with him. We were two very passionate people by nature that I’m not sure that our bodies could have handled what the sex would have been like between the two of us. The passion between us was built on our words. He painted pictures of me that I was unable to see for myself, and I made his world brighter with my words. The energy between the two of us was undeniably earth-shattering. We didn’t expect it. We never saw it coming. We didn’t even consciously nurture it into what it inevitably turned into. One day, he was just an intriguing stranger walking through a crowd of pastels and the next day, he was my sun. He let me keep the pieces of me to myself that I wasn’t able to share and he took every last inch that I was willing to give. And I did the same for him. He made me feel free. We were free.

He was the first time that I ever felt love. It was raw. It was passionate. It was real. And just like every other first love, it came to an end. It wasn’t abrupt and it wasn’t a clean break. I’m not sure when we decided that it needed to end, but with time, we went our separate ways. Every now and then, we’d reignite our past. We’d call or text or go on small dates to “catch up” with one another. We’d look back fondly on the moments we shared together and how we helped one another heal. Neither one of us could ever fully let go. Every time we saw one another, I instantly became his rock and he my sun. No matter where life took us, the universe always pulled us together, allowing us to pick up right where we last left off. And then one day, unexpectedly and unprovoked, our universe broke into two distinct solar systems with two separate gravitational pulls.

Sometimes, on warm summer nights, if I close my eyes and outstretch my hands, I can taste his cigarettes on my tongue and feel his hand in my hair.

Short Story

“Who would have thought that after all of these years, we would finally be standing right here?” Emma said, relieved. Eli stayed quiet, his arms draped around her waist. Emma only stood two inches shorter than him, yet she felt so small in his arms. She always claimed that his arms were the safest place for her. The spring breeze tossed her almond-blonde hair in Eli’s face. He inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scents of lavender and thyme, recalling the years that had passed between them. Ireland was beautiful this time of year– even more beautiful than they had imagined. The photos that they had flipped through from the travel brochures just didn’t do it any justice. They had always meant to come sooner, but never could seem to find the time. “Life,” Eli thought, “just passes by so quickly.”

The flowers were in full bloom. Canvases full of yellows, purples, blues and greens were on display throughout the country side as if Van Gogh himself had painted master pieces onto the hills. Bright yellow sunflowers laid at their feet, encircling the space that they created for themselves. The sun shone on Emma’s face, highlighting the lines that only time and a life full of memories can create. Eli loved looking at those lines, each one reminding him of a different moment in time. Emma gracefully bent forward, careful not to dirty her lace-trimmed skirt in the fresh soil, in search of the perfect flower to place behind her ear. Eli always loved the way the yellow pigments within the pedals complimented her bright blue eyes. Her fingers landed on a small sunflower, about the size of a lid from a mason jar. Careful not to lose any pedals, she plucked the flower from its spot and placed it delicately behind her ear. “Those eyes”, Eli thought, “I never had a chance once I saw those eyes.”

“Darling, look at me!” Emma cried as she spun around, eyes closed, arms outstretched, embracing the warmth of the sun coupled with the refreshing gushes of wind. The soil beneath her bare feet sunk, ever so slightly, with each joyous step. Around and around and around she spun until her legs finally grew weary and she fell, merrily, to the earth. She laughed a long, appreciative laugh that echoed on the hillside, thankful for the brief lapse in time and gravity. Eli watched as another small line appeared on her cheek, just above the line that appeared the day their only daughter was born. Eli couldn’t help but fall in love with Emma all over again, but that was nothing new. He loved seeing her so immensely happy and carefree, holding the world around her on pause while she soaked it all in.

“Eli!” Emma shrieked with joy, “Do you remember the day that we met? Oh, my, that was such a wonderful day. I knew, right then and there, that I would marry you one day. Oh, you were trying to be such a show-off, throwing bales of hay, two at a time, over your shoulder. You knew I was watching you. You saw me blush every time you looked my way! Anyway, there you were, throwing your bales of hay two at a time, until your knees buckled and you fell to the ground! Of course, I came running over to make sure you were okay, but you wouldn’t let me near because my Papa was headed down to the barn and you didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. After all, it was your first day working for him. Do you remember, Eli? You were so embarrassed you barely spoke to me! But you looked me right in the eye, and I knew, Eli. I knew from the way that you looked at me that I would be your wife. I knew from the way that I felt around you that I would love you forever. And here we are, 46 years later. Oh, Eli, that was a wonderful day…”

“Mom?” Cassie said as she touched Emma’s shoulder, “Who are you talking to?” Emma looked up, taken aback by the grey storm clouds that were rolling through. The rolling hills of yellows, purples, blues and greens transformed into rows of stone and marble headstones, mostly void of color and attention. The color rushed from her face, leaving only rosy cheeks bitten from the chill. Cassie looked at her mom, saddened and confused. Then she reached down and touched the top of her mother’s ear and said “Oh, Mom! That is a beautiful flower!” Then Emma carefully laid sunflowers at her father’s grave as she kissed her hand and placed it on top of the headstone. Emma looked at Cassie with her bright blue eyes, and for a moment, she swore she felt arms around her waist and smelled the aroma fresh hay.

Our Responsibility

Our Responsibility

You are a fraction of the person that you are yet to become

and already you occupy so much of my being

Put away are the years of parties with neat rum

The memories of which are fleeting

All to look out for your wellbeing

 

You are a fraction of the man that will mature over time

and already you take notes from your father

Even when he falters you think he sublime

To him, you are never a bother

He stands tall like an oak, your coauthor

 

You are a fraction of the child that will continue to bloom

and already you are bursting with wonder

But do not try to grow up too soon

For these years are yours to play with and ponder

While your father and I try not to blunder

Intentions

Intentions

Round and unending to seal my fate

It sits, unaltered, entrenched in its place

Holding the depths of its weight

 

The meaning is certain, not up for debate

It retains the vows that I spoke without haste

Round and unending to seal my fate

 

Life’s circumstances may try to berate

All that it represents, knock us out of the race

Holding the depths of its weight

 

At times it is difficult to appreciate

But it remains stagnant when I fall from grace

Round and unending to seal my fate

 

It speaks of my intentions; my honorable state

Armed for the battles that we’ll surely face

Holding the depths of its weight

 

Its purpose is steady, its power is great

Although all can see it, it’s mine to embrace

Round and unending to seal my fate

Holding the depths of its weight

Crazy Runs In Your Blood

You may not know this but
crazy runs in your blood.
You are the product of a wide-eyed dreamer who
saw the perfect symmetry between insanity and beauty and
spent each waking minute devoting herself to
tracing the lines between the two,
searching for a crack in the plane to slip into,
spiraling in a perfect vortex
while the scenery blew by in
blurry pastels and opaque reasoning.
You see,
crazy runs in your blood.
While the world around you may tell you that you’re
“too small” or “too bold” or “he just needs some medication for that”,
I say: No, he’s just got my
imaginative mind and
creative hands.
We dream in bolds and italics.
We look at the indentations in paragraphs and wonder what was supposed to fill in the gap;
why the long pause between thought and expression and
why must we leave so many spaces untouched?
While others are busy following protocol and directions and
making sure their word count meets the criteria,
adjusting their views because of the marks of a red pen,
we are busy drawing in the sand and waiting for the ocean currents to change
for the thrill of witnessing our old marks swept away
allowing us to start fresh again.
Crazy runs in your blood.
We can’t sit still for long.
We let the auras around us permeate through our souls and directly alter our course of life.
Some may say we are unsteady
unattainable
incapable of finding ourselves because if we don’t
“get smarter, child” we will surely miss their predetermined mark.
But
you will miss their mark
by a long mile, screaming
“I DID IT MY WAY, MAN!”,
while the rest of the world sits by shaking their heads,
pondering where you went astray,
pacing their carbon-copy homes in their
carbon-copy communities raising their
carbon-copy kids
muttering “but the world just doesn’t work that way”…
but it does, child.
The world works in whatever way you want it to.
The world is full of wonder and secrets
waiting to be unlocked
by a beautifully reckless wild soul.
A crazy child.
A crazy child.
Crazy runs in your blood.

Why I Hate The Fat Acceptance Movement.

*Shields self from overwhelming angry mob of people who will only read the title and not the entirety of the post*

I hate the fat acceptance movement. There, I said it. The movement in and of itself consists of women, mostly, who are overweight and do not like being fat-shamed, gawked at or made fun of for what their body looks like. The movement throws all caution to the wind and forces everyone else to view plus-sized women in bikinis and leggings and all sorts of normal clothing that non plus-sized women wear without shame. What has this world come to?!

Why do I hate the fat acceptance movement? Because I think that it is absolutely ludicrous that such a movement has to exist in the first place. What in the hell has this world come to that a woman cannot leave her house without getting ridiculed for her size or post pictures of herself in a bikini without getting harassed about her weight or appearance? Why on earth do we instinctively think “what is he doing with her?!” when we see a “normal-looking” man with an over-sized woman? What would we ever do if *gasp* women were all treated with respect based off of their personalities and sheer human existence instead of what their body looks like? WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO OUR RIDICULOUS SOCIAL HEIRARCHY THEN?!

Well, I’m here to answer that question for you: our ridiculous social hierarchy wouldn’t exist. And it shouldn’t.

Statistically, 24 MILLION people in the United States struggle with an eating disorder (www.anad.org). Is that not a shocking enough figure for you? How about this: of ANY mental illness (think: depression, bipolar, schizophrenia etc.) eating disorders have the HIGHEST mortality rate. THE HIGHEST! Because of our ridiculously skewed social ideals and media-driven unrealistic body image expectations, people are actually dying. D-Y-I-N-G. People are dying from trying to force their bodies to do something that is completely unnatural and unrealistic. Do you need proof that we have gone to the extreme? Proof that from a young age, unrealistic standards are engrained into our brains that we carry on to womanhood? Here are some harrowing figures for you: “69% of girls in 5th-12th grade reported that magazine pictures influenced their idea of a perfect body shape; 42% of 1st, 2nd and 3rd graders want to be thinner and 81% of 10 year olds are afraid of being fat” (www.anad.org). TEN YEAR OLD GIRLS ARE AFRAID OF BEING FAT. What in the bloody hell is happening here?! As a society, are we not responsible for the well being of our youth? Are we not responsible to protect the young minds around us? Are we not, at least partially, to blame for allowing these ridiculous notions to fester to the point of no return?

These notions are seeded into the minds of the young where they take root and sprout into full-on oversized weeds that strangle the life out of the souls of society. These images and messages that the media and society dish out turn thriving children into body-obsessed and weight-obsessed shells instead of confident, sassy individuals. These “weeds” engrain themselves into the make-up of a person and refuse to let go, even into adulthood where “we should know better”. Logically, we do. Emotionally, we cannot help it.

Fact: When I was in 3rd grade, I restricted food for the first time. Remember those Steak-Umms that were so delicious because you could microwave them with cheese and instantly you had a cheese steak? I stopped eating them because I was afraid they would stick to me like glue.
Fact: In 4th grade, I went on my first “diet”.
Fact: In 5th grade, my brother told me that I was fat.
Fact: In 6th grade, I made myself throw up.
Fact: In 7th grade, I was a vegetarian. Because, you know, save the animals and you shed a few pounds.
Fact: In 8th grade, my brother told me that I looked grossly, rail-thin sick.
Fact: In 9th grade, I only ate apples. And maybe a slice of turkey every other day. My mom used to check on me periodically throughout the night to make sure I was still breathing. I passed out and my mom found me in the hallway. I was hospitalized. I weighed in much under 100 pounds. I’m 5′ 5″.
Fact: In 10th grade, I chose life. Most of the time.
Fact: There are still days where I cannot stand what I see in the mirror. There are still days that I feel gross and unattractive. There are still days that I cry. There are still days where I tell my husband that I feel ugly, fat and all around terrible. Never once has he agreed. He says “you’re beautiful and I love you– all of you”. And you know what? I believe him.

Although I am in a much healthier place today than I was before, there are days where it’s not easy to be in my own skin. I see models and movie stars and beautiful women all of the time and compare myself to them– but I shouldn’t, because my body is just that: mine. It has served me well. It birthed a child, allows me to breathe, allows me to perform daily tasks and even seduces my husband on a daily basis. I am a warrior. Because of my own experience with battling anorexia and body-image issues, my heart hurts for the youth and adults that struggle with how they feel about themselves. I’ve come to the realization that even though I WANT to love my body, no matter what shape, size or weight it is, there are days where my former-self takes over and I cannot appreciate the real gift that my body has given me: life. If we, as a society, choose to realize that beauty comes in all shapes, sizes, weights and body-types, we can begin to re-build the confidence that every single person deserves. It is down right irresponsible that we have allowed anyone to feel shameful about themselves to the extent that they feel too embarrassed to even walk out of our own front door.

So, why do I hate the fat acceptance movement? Because I despise the fact that we even need to have a movement to accept ourselves just the way we are. Rock on, plus-sized ladies in leopard print bikinis flooding the internet. You inspire me.

Jigsaw Puzzle

Attempting to piece together fragments of my heart was
much like trying to piece together shards of broken glass;
You see, each shard brought with it its own tiny sting,
pricking delicate fingertips in
remembrance of why it was shattered in the first place and
there always seemed to be pieces that
wouldn’t quite fit together to form the
perfect shape that I was blessed with
on the day of my birth.
Many fingertips attempted this jigsaw puzzle only to
walk away with shaking heads and hands of defeat thrown in the air,
unknowingly…
or maybe knowingly?…
taking a piece of my puzzle with them which
created new challenges for the next poised fingertip to encounter.
But you,
You showed my your unwavering fingertips and whispered
“Let me try”.
You welcomed the challenge with
calloused hands and
slowly began to
pick up each broken piece and
carefully craft new little shapes with
whatever pieces were too far gone to reconcile.
With each new shape that took form
I became aware of new possibilities within me.
My once precarious frame was refreshed with
new adventure,
gushes of life,
flashes of realizations;
love.
An unwavering love that
proved that although fairy-tale endings are only for movies
I can have a close-to-fairy-tale-life.
What began as innocent late-night conversations over
coffee and cigarettes
quickly spiraled into a whirl-wind hurricane of passion and I
eagerly awaited each moment where
you drew me in and enticed me to
fall into you.
With each tender kiss and gentle touch my
body became aware of sensations that I
was previously unaware existed and
each earth-shattering-toe-curling-oh-my-God-don’t-stop-this phenomena
begged for me to melt into you and
I couldn’t get enough and
I still can’t.
You fulfill me
in so many ways that
I cannot imagine a life where I do not share your last name.
This beautiful collision of
fate and chance
has forever changed my course of life.
Because of you, I am a new me
A better me;
A jigsaw puzzle, complete.

 

A Note To My Readers

Dear Anonymous Person perusing my blog somewhere in the world,

Thank you for visiting my blog and taking the time to read through and respond to any posts that you find relevant, enticing, thought-provoking or otherwise. It is truly very humbling to put my thoughts out there in cyberspace and have confirmation that someone, somewhere, is actually reading what I have to say. It is an honor to receive responses from each and every one of you, and I will try my best to stay on top of approving the responses and replying to you.

With that being said, I need to make something very clear: I will not, under any circumstances, approve a comment that hyperlinks to any type of marketing or advertising ploy. The intention of my blog is, solely, to have a forum where I can express my thoughts and my readers can reply with their thoughts and we can then have a circle of communication. Please do not attempt to use my blog as a marketing tool or ploy to lure people in to purchasing “discount bags” or “the worlds newest and best major fat loss secret pill” or anything in between. I reiterate: I will not approve these comments, even if you have something really awesome to say before the URL attachments to the post. If you want your “something really awesome to say” to be posted, follow this simple courtesy, and you are good to go!

I am aware that you need to enter a name in order to post any comments. If you wish to remain anonymous, create a penname. Call yourself Super Man, Bat Woman, Lady Liberty; whatever you need to do. I totally respect that, but don’t try to put a hyperlink there either, because– fun fact!– I can totally see that, too!

Part of blogging and responding means that you, as the reader, may have an opinion that is completely opposite of mine. That’s the really awesome thing about writing: we all get to feel however we want to about the piece. PLEASE do not hesitate to post your thoughts, questions or beliefs here. I will never place a comment in the trash simply because you do not agree with me. I’m pretty open to every school of thought and I am always interested in learning new and exciting things. We are human, we are all different, we are all pretty awesome– let’s celebrate that! The only time that I will not approve a comment is if it directly attacks or belittles another reader. That’s a no-go, dear friends, so don’t even try it.

Thank you for your consideration in these matters. I look forward to reading future comments from all of the beautiful people that happen to come across my blog. I appreciate each and every one of you and although I probably don’t personally know you, I know that you are one hell of a human being!

Sincerely,

-C