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PinkMartinis

My life has gotten a little cray
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Finals Week!

2 min read
Exciting news! I have a paper due in 2 hours, 12 minutes, and who cares how many seconds! I haven't slept in over 24 hours! My dog has an appointment at 3! I've written 1 page over the allotted 8, and I don't know how many points will be taken off! I still have 1.5 more topics to cover! And a conclusion! Hurray!

*Laughs hysterically* *Sobs*

Every. Single. Time. I always say "Next paper, I'll start a week early. End early, too, and then I won't feel so stressed." I tried to do that this time, but sleeping is so much more enjoyable.

Anyway, I've used up about...4 minutes of my writing time to spout absolute nonsense. I needed a new journal on my page, anyway. This was a pressing matter that could not be ignored. This post was necessary, don't you understand?! The entire fate of my artistic life depended upon me swapping out the old post with a new, more complex and utterly pointless one! The only surety is that if I hadn't, chaos would ensue! Don't you see? I did this for you!

I'm going to look back and regret this post. I can just feel it.
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Dear NaNoWriMo:

3 min read
Fuck you.

That is all.

---------------

*Ahem*

I am not one given to "abandon," literary or otherwise. Sometimes in my personal life, I like to pretend that I'm a throw-caution-to-the-wind-and-shove-a-middle-finger-up-the-ass-of-life type of girl. I like to pretend that I'm impulsive.

And sometimes, this is true. (Especially when it comes to shopping. And food.)

But the truth of the matter is, in the grand scheme of things, I like to plan things. I like to have a relatively clear idea of what is going to happen. Not everything needs to be mapped out to precise detail, because that would make me seem anal, but I need to have a roadmap, a plan. I need to know what's going to happen between Point A and Point B. Is it Point A.B? Point A.5? Point ab/2? Because when I know what the fuck is going on, I know how to make magic happen. *Sparkles and rainbows and shit*

Same goes with writing. I need to have a concrete idea of how Point A interconnects with Point B and how it all relates to Point Z. I need to sit and procrastinate and think. I need to take my time and plan. So before NaNoWriMo kicked off, I toyed around with an idea I've had since 2009, took time to seriously plot it. Well, kind of. I tried to only stick with general, vague ideas. I wanted to keep it loose, man. Free. Let my ideas just flap in the wind like the butt-cheeks of a retired nudist at a Fourth of July picnic.

NaNoWriMo kicks off, and I'm all like "Fuck yeah! Writing! Literary abandon!"

Do you know how many words I wrote?

447. That's it.

Because I realized that I can't write on a deadline. Especially not when I don't have a concrete idea of anything. I don't know how many words I owe the NaNoWriMo gods. I don't want to know anymore, because I'm pretty sure it looks a lot like my bank account: depressing as hell.

Here's what I do know: I would love a bottle of Moscato and a slice of cheesecake.

I would also like NaNoWriMo to be extended to NaNoWrIndefinitely.

Can I make that a thing? I'm going to make that a thing.
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I like to tell myself little lies, seedlings of falsehoods that propel me throughout the monotony of everyday.

There are the lies that boost my self-esteem:
-"Wow. Look at dem boobies! They're growing!"
-"Am I losing weight?" *Turns around* "Yeah I am!"
~which is usually followed by~
-"Dat azz!" {what "azz?" why the fuck does my inside voice sound like that?}

There are the lies I tell to motivate myself:
-"Really? You're going to eat another cookie?"
-"That looks like a seventy-year-old blind woman designed it. And then threw up on it. And then her colostomy bag exploded. Maybe it's time for a change of career plans, hm?"
-"What? That's not your stomach growling...that's a miniature t-rex slowly--Fuck it. Bitch, skip a meal."

And then there's the lies I tell myself that sound like truths:
-"I am totally going to do my assignments early in the week! Talk about being organized!" {I've been telling myself this particular brand of falsehood since the third week of the semester. We're on week eleven.}
-"Let me call her back before I forget." {There's a reason I have voicemail. It's so I don't ever have to call you back.}
-"I'll post some deviations when I get better. I'm not good enough yet."

This whole post is actually focused on the last little lie. "I'll post when I suck a little less," "I don't want people to see how bad I am," excuses, excuses, excuses.

I have filled pages and pages with sketches, drawings, doodles, each an obvious marker of my continuous improvement, a roadmap of my successes. In my mind, they're still stuck in the land of "Not Good Enough."

And maybe they aren't. Maybe they are just truly, epically shitty. But without feedback and constructive criticism, without learning from those who have "been there, done that," without listening to input from a community of students, of teachers, of experts, how can I ever expect to make the journey from "Not Good Enough" to "Much, Much Better?"

I can't.

And this is something I know I need to work on; putting my work on display for improvement, becoming vulnerable to a faceless crowd of "better-than-mes" so that I can improve and grow as a writer and artist. And I want that improvement, that growth. So I'm going to do this...

...Tomorrow.

{another lie I tell myself}
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I do. I remember being at Salem Christian in the fifth grade and we had morning recess--whether that was scheduled or not, I'll never know. Anyway, as we were heading back indoors, Josh Who Moved to Xenia (and who I had a crush on throughout that year), came rushing up to us and said, "Did you hear? Someone crashed into the Twin Towers!"

I didn't know what the Twin Towers were at the time--not like I'd be given the chance to forget after that day--but it sounded terrifying. I was frightened. I was excited. Frightened for all the obvious reasons, excited in a nervous, fretful way, and most certainly not in the way that a 10-year-old student should be excited on a beautiful Autumn morning.

Whether we watched the news in class or not, I can't remember. I don't remember the teachers really discussing what happened, and if they did, I was too busy ruminating, chewing my thoughts over and over, trying to consolidate the fictional wonderland that was my childhood and the reality of the cruelty of humanity. It was not until I was more than a decade removed from the plastic chairs and oversized desks of private religious education that I would come to understand the root of humanity's persistent cruelty: religion itself. But that is neither here nor there, not in this story, anyway.

One thing I did realize, however, as I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, was that things were never going to be the same. And for a child who had woken up carefree and blissfully naïve, that was a horrifying realization.

The schools dismissed early. Since the buses did not service us directly and were too busy shuttling the public school students to the safety of their homes, my father came to pick me and my sister up. I could be imagining this--this was over ten years ago, and a lot of my memories are still lost in the haze of childhood amnesia--but I think that it was a deceptively perfect day, with large, white fluffy clouds stretching over the scarce landscape, and the sky a blue of storybook fame as it complemented the vibrant hues of late-summer leaves. And it wasn't fair that so beautiful of a day had to be absolutely ruined. And it wasn't fair that thousands of people would never experience another morning so perfect.

…And it wasn't fair that they would never even experience another day.

Looking back, it's my hope that they treasured their morning. That they looked up into that same sky through the eyes of a child and felt a deep stirring in the depths of their bellies, that sweet knowing that surpasses all knowing that you and the sky are one, those swaying trees are your arms and legs, that sweet, crisp air the lifeblood that nourishes almost all living things.

Again, I don't remember everything, so I don't know if the five-minute ride home was spent in uncomfortable, mournful silence, or if my father tried to console us in that awkward way parents do, carefully skirting around the most brutal details, trying to console their children with half-hearted words while they themselves are trying to keep their worlds from falling apart.

It doesn't matter, really. I was lost in my own head.

I remember coming home and sitting on our vintage floral couch that still smelled like the home of the neighbors who had gifted it to us. I remember that the first thing my dad turned on was the news. Channel 2. Channel 7. Channel 8. Regardless of the channel, it was the same thing. The same "Breaking News" headline. The same pale faces, haunted eyes, trembling lips; the same facade of calmness and bravery that I immediately learned to distrust. The same horrifying footage: the dark billows of smoke that shrouded the air, the crumpling of tons of metal like the cardboard boxes of children's make-believe castles, the shadowy silhouettes that looked like bugs tumbling from the flames--the dark truth of which I would not learn until years later.

My father stood, arms crossed, pacing in front of the television, eyes fixated to the images on the screen. If there's anything that I remember clearly, it's the shaky video footage of observers, and the way that a jet looked as it collided with stone and metal, the way that the raging orange flames contrasted with the solemn black billows that erupted from the gaping wound in the tower's side. I remember that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I rotated between the comforting arms of my father and the soft cushions of the couch that smelled like safety.

My mother came home, dressed in those ugly green scrubs that nurses are punished to wear, coupled with an equally hideous purple lab coat, and a dark maroon stethoscope hung round her neck. She looked hectic, angry, frightened, and confused. She yelled at my dad for having the news on in front of my sister and me--though I'm fairly certain that my sister had escaped the best way she knew how, and was curled on the opposite couch fast asleep. But it was too late, we had seen it, there was no use in changing the television now. So we watched it together, me squashed between the hips of my mother and wrapped in the arms of my father, as the TV told the story of how the United States changed forever.

And for some little girl lost in the golden cornfields of Ohio, whose greatest fears until that moment had consisted of mud, spiders, and the dark, it was a startling introduction to reality. But the world still turned, as they say. The sky did not darken to match the grief of our nation. The clouds did not gather overhead. The birds did not stop singing, the dogs did not cease their barking, and distantly I heard the old, familiar tinkle of chimes dancing in the wind. The flowers did not shrivel and the leaves did not fade to grey. (And the spiders did not have the courtesy to hide and mourn, much to my dismay). Rather, a beautiful, sunny day descended into a stunning evening, the sky painted with one of the famed sunsets that makes Ohio a little more bearable.

It was in the darkest times that there was the greatest beauty. It was in this that I found the greatest comfort on September 11th, 2001. And this is how I remember that fateful day.

-----

I try to write a little bit of fiction in a personal journal everyday. I had honestly forgotten the date until I opened up my journal this morning, and I began to reflect on this day 11 years ago, like I'm sure so many others have done and continue to do. So I began to write. It's mostly just freewriting, me chasing thought to thought with little care for the in-between, but I just thought I'd share. What's your story?
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Featured

Finals Week! by PinkMartinis, journal

Dear NaNoWriMo: by PinkMartinis, journal

{i like to lie to myself} by PinkMartinis, journal

Remember, remember, the 11th of September? by PinkMartinis, journal