A Fruple Connection

I’ve been moody lately but not in the normal ways, like today I wanted to read every book that has ever been written. Monday I wanted to break traffic rules, endangering others and myself around me. Yesterday I wanted to be the guidance counselor to a relationship that had literally just ended.

I say literally because the guy called me as he was driving home, crying his eyes out and ready to drive off a bridge. Here’s the story: it was the best fruple god has ever seen in his life. The only fruple I have ever seen in my life (its hard leaving the friend zone but he somehow managed) A “fruple” are friends that turn into a couple. They did everything together, listened to the same music and even drove the same car. I knew that if they broke up, I would never have a chance at a relationship in my life.

“Okay, okay stop crying. I can’t understand you,” I said.

“I have nothing left!”

“Okay maybe you should pullover.” I'm not sure if he did or not, but he soon cleared away his tears and told me the story.

He hasn’t felt a connection to her since they became a fruple. He said, “When we were friends I felt an emotional connection, I mean we told each other everything, but I haven’t felt a physical attraction to her…yet.”

“Okay… and that means…what…exactly?” what I really wanted to tell him was, “Well buddy it’s a little too late for that.”

He went into another explanation and I drifted off after the third word, knowing he would be fine after a day or two.

As we hung up, he reached home safely with a burrito from Taco Bell held under his arm, I wondered about connections. Which is better: a physical or emotional?

Are we physically attracted to someone or are we emotionally attracted to someone? I know the obvious answer is physically attracted, we see the body, hair and the way they hold themselves first. But once we get to know that person and the emotions start coming out, like I did when I was a senior, what happens then?

Can we be attracted to the way a person gets angry? Sad? Happy? Or is it knowing that they always have a shoulder to cry on? Someone to talk to, someone they can confide in?

Knowing both sides of this ex-relationship very well, I couldn’t say who was at fault. He was a pansy ass mama’s boy and she was the ex-cheerleader turned sorority girl.

I feel like lying down on the floor, reading my new library books.

A Friendly Zone

            It’s a rare occasion when I find myself eating the Doritos that came with my beefy- five-layer burrito. It’s an even rarer occasion when I find myself stepping onto a boat with seven teenagers.

            You see, my mom and I were invited to go boating with her boss. She didn’t say anything about her two kids, a son and daughter, and their friends. But, it turned out to be okay, because I would over-hear their conversations and silently giggle to myself. It got better when the rhythmic purring of the engine over powered their short whispers and they started screaming at each other.

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

“I cant… he doesn’t like me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because its like obvious.”

            As she said this she looked over at the son, who was a senior in high school, blonde and already had a six-pack. She was in ninth grade, with three different hair colors. She was shy, covering her bathing suit with a jacket that she even went swimming in. At every chance she can get, she looked at the son. Her green eyes thinking, wondering and hoping that one day he’ll be hers.

            As the conversation shifted, my attention stayed on her last line. I got to thinking about the friend-zone, if we get in one, how hard is it to get out? Is the friend zone a hole or like place in the mall?  Is it furnished? Or do I have to bring my own shit, adding to my already shitty life?

            I wondered, even in this day and age, could we still die from a broken heart? With the technology and everything couldn’t we move on easier? With all these dating sites, apps and everything else couldn’t we find someone else to obsess about?

            I thought about newly single, who at every open chance, spoke about her ex-boyfriend. She told me she glances over at the passenger seat and seeing him not there kills her. I figured, that being in a friend zone is harder. You not only love the person you can’t be with but you have to see them love someone else. Which, in all reality, is the ultimate killer.

            And you can’t give up your friendship because then you’ll be seen as an asshole. Trust me, I tried.

            The best way to get out of a friend zone – well I wish had an answer.  But I did Google ‘Can a person die from a broken heart,’ the answer is yes. The heart has these little shit strings that can literally break in half.

            So kids, for those of you in a friend zone, break out the champagne or other suitable drinking material, put on those songs reserved for a rainy day and dance the zone away.

Brand Name: Italian, Gay, Fat and Single

The only saving grace from having dinner with my father’s side of the family was me moving three hours away. Being that I was home and able to attend Sunday dinner, I was wishing for something that could save me.

That something came in the form of a text. Will you go shopping with me? – Newly single. I jumped at the chance, standing up and saying, “I have to feed my dog. I’ll call you sometime next week?” I kissed her cheek. She packed me a bowl of pasta, some meat and a few homemade breadsticks and off I went.

Its not that I hate having Sunday dinner with that side of the family, Its just that I don’t know how to be myself around them. I also haven’t told them about my sexual orientation, in fear of the mafia coming after me. They are always so serious, talking about who died, who wishes they were dead or whose having a baby this week. 

On the road to meet newly single, I wondered why Italians were always “part of a mob.” Why blonde haired girls are always the dumb cheerleaders. Why gays are always the one to go to for fashion advice. Why are Asians always the good ones at math, science and reading?

Why are we always branding ourselves? Are these stereotypes even real? I wondered, for the briefest of moments, who even came up with those called ‘brandings.’ Because I have met a smart blonde… Okay she was dirty blonde. I had an Asian friend who wasn’t good at…. Well she didn’t know how to give directions. And my dad’s side of the family… well… I'm not allowed to talk about that.

As I pulled into a parking space near the front, homeboy doesn’t walk far distances, I found newly single sitting on a bench, eating a pretzel. Without even saying a hello, I asked her, “Why did you call me?” She seemed afraid, like I was going to hit her or place a mafia hit on her or something.

“I don’t know. Because. I guess… you were free?” I took that as the best answer and into the mall we walked. I’m still not sure why she called me, my fashion sense is not quite a sense but a feeling.

I feel like looking like a homeless drug junkie and I hope I don’t meet my boyfriend today.

Turns out that my help wasn’t really needed. She didn’t buy anything and we chatted for most of the trip about her impending addiction to alcohol. “Because I have nothing left.”  Maybe sarcastically. Maybe not.

Dinner Catastrophe

Having dinner with an ex-boyfriend: disastrous. Having dinner with two ex-boyfriends, their new boyfriends and a newly single best friend: catastrophic. As the ex-boyfriends introduced the new boyfriends, the table talk turned from “What are you doing?” to “Who are you REALLY doing.”  From boyfriends to penis’s, our only break coming from the waitress, delivering our food to shut us up.

“My boyfriend and I haven’t had sex since…. Oh, I don’t know,” newly single said.

“Well sweetie… that’s why you broke up!” I said.

“What do you know? You haven’t had even had it….” The table got silent. I'm sure the risky table talk was silenced right then and there. It didn’t help that I was staring at the ex and his new BF, who played volleyball at the college level. Like I gave a crap.

“He didn’t know he was gay—"

“Well I knew, I just wanted to make sure.”

“Honey, the only balls you play with are your own. I mean, you shower with other men for gods sake,” newly single said. She still had quite an attitude at her asshole boyfriend, who left without a word. Well actually a text.

“Chels, have you talked to him?” I asked, stepping on soft ground.

“Of course not. Why should I? I worked my ass off in this relationship, and he did shit.”

“Maybe it was the sex,” ex-boyfriend one suggested.

As the table talk, one again, turned sexual, I wondered, “Is there really nothing else to say?” Why is it that we always turn to talking about sex or relationships? Is it because everything else is too boring? That maybe talking about sex will make us stronger friends?

“What do you do with it? Like it just hangs there, like do flick it or something?” new boyfriend asked the table.

“No, we dress it up. Call it cinderdick.” Newly single said. You have to hand it to her, when she’s pissed she’s funny. When she’s funny she’s blatantly sexual.

But, like every good thing, the conversation expired. We ran out of things to say, to make fun of and our plates were wiped clean. As we left the restaurant, an ex-boyfriend said something, which elicited a last laugh, “I’m thinking about getting a tattoo of a compass on my left shoulder.”

“GAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.”

The Bedazzled Vagina

An eighty year old woman bought an outdoor lagoon style pool. She swims her twelve laps early in the morning and spends her afternoon reading poolside. On Tuesday, she swam her laps and instead of reading by the poolside, she had a visitor. Her eighty-year old male neighbor had come over wanting a swim in the lagoon style pool. After about three laps, he got out, dropped his pants and asked the eighty year old woman for a skinny dip. She yelled at him to put his pants back on, and kicked him out of her house.

We all looked at her with wide eyes. We sat in a circle, her stories drowning out the noise of the eighty’s tribute band. She started laughing and said, “Ohhh, I have a ton more.” And in all honesty we wanted more. This woman had a better sex life than I did. She looked and moved better than I did as well. She wore a white suit, black pumps and drank at least a bottle of wine by herself.

As she started another story, I got to thinking about idols. The people we look up to, maybe even want to be. I wondered why we look up to them, when deep down inside, they’re just like us.

Here’s another story: a woman my mom works with bedazzled her vagina. She saw it online. I’m not sure if she just googled it or something but she found Jennifer Love Hewitt and her bedazzled who-who. She instantly wanted to do it, even finding a store near her who carried bedazzled vag-jewels. She got home and I can only guess, put each jewel on her…vagina…

It’s safe to say that both of these women are my idols. They took action, control and managed to stay true to themselves. Yes, I have other idols, gaga, my mother and many, many others. Cupcakes, donuts and the people who think they look good at the beach, wearing those god-awful one- pieces while smoking are a few more.

But I also got to thinking; can we be our own idols? Why are we always idolizing famous people when we have people right here, down to earth and able to talk to. We have ourselves, even though many of us don’t feel like an idol to ourselves, but you are an idol to someone else.

My idols are the ones reading this. You took the time to read, talk or even share this with your friends or family. You give me material to write, things to see and places to go.

Thank you. 

Spring Breakmance

We all dream of a perfect spring break. One where the sun shine’s, the roads are empty and the people are always willing to party, every minute of everyday. We all dream of having a perfect romance during spring break, which I TM’d Spring Breakmance.

Depending on when your spring break is, usually the end of March, these things will come naturally. My spring break happens at the end of April, which means none of these have happened… yet. I still have a whole week and many, many things can happen. Right?

But, like many great things, all things must come to end. This statement got me wondering, “Why?” Why do all great things have an expiration date?

My mother and I drove up to town, in a search for an extra income. During the short drive, we got to talking about Grace Kelly. Actress turned princess turned tragic death case. Which I know is semi-resolved. She had an amazing career, winning an Oscar for one of her movies. She married a prince and moved to one of the most beautiful countries in the world.

This idea of expiring held my attention as my mother walked into her interview. Which was in a nursing home. As I looked around, the women being pushed in wheelchairs, the men, being pushed by their wives. One couple stood out in particular. She was asking her husband who visited him lately. He stared at her in a blank way. She wanted to know who gave him Easter flowers. And he couldn’t remember. It’s like the memory of the last few days, expired the minute she asked him.

I thought to school. The projects we stressed about, the people we met all sooner or later went away. Summer break has to be one of the fastest three months, I’ve ever experienced. The reason why things expire, or the only one I can come up with, is to make us love that thing with all that we have. Even if the thing that expires is milk or, god forbid, people.

We left the interview with another paycheck coming in. Mom starts Monday. My spring break started today.

Side Effect:Gay

The blood drive came through school today and as usual people lined up with the promise of two free movie tickets in their eyes. I was never one for giving blood, fainting at even the smallest drop of it. And I mean, it’s my blood, selfish I know, but what’s mine is mine right?

As I looked on at the hoard of people, someone called my name. First, I didn’t know people even know my name and second I was surprised he even remembered it. The guy calling my name met me at a GSA meeting, which stands for gay-straight alliance, like we’re banding together to start a war or something. I walked over to him, I didn’t have class for another ten minutes and haven’t seen him since the meeting.

I asked him if he donated blood. He shook his head no and said, “They wouldn’t let me because I had sexual contact with another man.” This took me by surprise. I didn’t think they would turn away a person who was willing to donate free blood, gay or not gay. O positive or not O positive.

“Yeah, but you don’t have….” I ventured to ask, even though I had no idea.

“Nope. But I could…I guess. Its whatever, they don’t want this fabulous blood then screw them.”

“But anyone can get aids… Its not just gay men.” I told him. He shrugged his shoulders, striding away from the bus.

As I walked away from the blood bus, I wondered, “Is being gay a curse?” One where we have to hide our true feelings for someone. One where we can’t get married or donate blood. Will we have to wear rainbow colored signs announcing our sexuality? I couldn’t help but wonder, “Are we the knew segregation?”

I know that the blood bus nurses were only trying to be safe. But why not test him anyway? Were they afraid the curse will spread? Or were they trying to stop it? Or were they just doing their jobs? I mean, there was a sign hanging from the door that listed the Do’s and Don’ts of donating.

Be careful everyone, I heard the GAY is going around. Protect yourselves. Your children. We’re taking over.

"Can I get your nudes?"

The only way to deal with an eight hour is to have a teacher who is quite the looker and cracks great jokes. This is a rare find, as many teachers are deemed old and cranky, but since I don’t go to a normal school anything is possible. I said quite the looker because he is extremely cute, even with his balding hair and hipster clothing. It’s his personality that I find even more attractive.

Today, he told us a story about his old high school. I forgot to mention he is nearing his late thirties, but age is just a number right? His old band teacher, who will be unnamed, was caught digitally penetrating a young female student.

Digitally penetrating?  What the fuck does that mean? Did he take a picture of his ding-ding and send it to her? Did she take of picture of the picture he sent her? How? WHO IN THE HELL COMES UP WITH THIS SHIT?

As class raged on, my mind only thought about these questions. Is multimedia the new sex? Is the question, “Can I get your nudes?” replacing, “Can I get your number?”

I asked my friends about sexting during a break. We all went around the table, and generally said the same thing, “Its okay if you’re in a committed relationship. If not creepy and fucked up.”

“I had a friend, her boyfriend sent her a dick pic over snapchat.”  We all looked at this girl, the one who stayed quiet during class. Snapchat is a good way of sending nudey pics; its there for seven seconds and disappears forever.

“Unless someone screenshots it.”

But still, my thoughts went unanswered. Why are we doing this? Is it to always be immortalized? I thought to celebrities. When they post a nude, if they even do, people will always remember them as being that celeb that posted a nude. The same with politicians.  Or angsty teenagers.

As I left class, my thoughts came up with an answer. We do it because we can. We have the tools right at our fingertips. And maybe, it makes us feel free. Or some shit like that.

I googled what digital penetration was. Its what you think it is, except it involves gloves.

4 Words...

There it was the message that had a thousand eyes. The message that made my heart beat faster and my head pounded. I started getting dizzy, lightheaded, but that was maybe from not having breakfast. The walls are closing in, the clothes you decided to put on were too tight.

“We need to talk.”

Depending on who this is coming from, a lover, a friend or family member, the way we react can be drastic. I got this message this morning, from the club president, and instantly I thought of everything I did wrong. Which was a lot, now that I sit back and think about it. It can mean many things, from talking about the day, the relationship you are somehow fucking up or something bad was happened.

Turns out a member of the club dropped out, felt the club advisor role was too much to handle. His girlfriend just had a baby and he was too busy taking care of them to focus on school. I found out later that he dropped out of school. The president and I would split his roles down the middle, which means added work to myself.

I was already creating posters, adding new members and finding most of the information worth sharing. I would have to take down everyone’s name, what their dream goal is and how they plan to get it. I don’t really know why we need that…

Four words. Four simple words and yet we are terrified by them. Afraid of what will come after those four words. Afraid of what those four words will do to our lifestyle, our relationships, both personal and intimate, or us. Why? Should we be afraid if we already know the outcome?

Though I didn’t know the exact situation, I knew that someone either quit or we were being promoted. Finally being able to have campus meetings would is still a dream to us. But, if need be, well choose another club advisor out of the hundred people who joined our little club and everything will be fabulous.

Oh, remember Trixie? The diapered dog that my classmate took in? He gave her up for adoption last night. Said, “She was shitting all over the place. I even stepped in it.”

Little Diva and her Parents

With the sun high in the sky and the birds all singing their little songs I thought to myself, why stay inside all day and do absolutely nothing when I can go the pool. I can swim, read and tan. I can look at the men, if there were any. I can steal free food from the clubhouse and not make dinner for myself.

I put on my bathing suit and left the apartment at one sharp. I was sunburned, tired and hungry at two sharp. But, for that little hour I didn’t read. I didn’t tan. And I didn’t go swimming, because every human being who has an apartment at Whisper Lakes was at this pool. Kids were rampant and shouting. Teenage college boys were diving into the pool and the woman never stopped talking.

As I looked around, afraid this will be my life when I have kids (LOL), I focused on one family in particular. A husband, his wife and their two kids, a boy and girl. The girl was older, she didn’t need those stupid flotie things, and the boy was about five. It looked like she was in total control over her whole family. She commanded her father to bring her her water goggles. She demanded that her mother get in the water or she “Won’t go to dinner with you guys.” and she pouted her lips and started stomping her feet. 

Yeah cause that’s scary. But, as I watched the parents run around like chickens without heads, I wondered why are we always willing to do stuff for our kids but not ourselves?

I bet every parent is like that, including my own mother. Whenever she calls the first thing she says, “How are you doing? Do you need anything?” I guess it was worse when I was child, always on her hands and knees, willing to bend over backwards for anything my sister or I needed.

Is it just a simple “You’re my baby and you always will be.” Or is it because they know, that someday, we’ll pay it back?

My mom knows that I will. I just need to get to Hollywood. Sell something other than my body and we’ll be driving down that highway in a convertible with no clue where we’re going.

Love ya, Mom.

A Doggie Diaper

My classmate got a Pug-Maltese mix puppy named Trixie. Her story is a sad one, she was left outside and the classmate, out of goodwill and a little bit of shame, picked her up. She was hungry, and looked it as well he later told me, and he fed her a little bit of Walmart chicken and their bond was sealed.

My roommate and I were invited to her unveiling, where everyone oohed and ahhed at her little beauty. And her little doggie diaper. Seriously, little Trixie was wearing a little diaper with little ducks on it like she was a newborn baby. Yes, she was cute. Yes, I held her and missed my own puppy back home. But I wondered why she was wearing a diaper.

My classmate changed her diaper every hour on the hour, even bringing out a changing mat to change her on. We watched as Trixie fought, but she soon gave in, using his finger as a chew toy. As people drifted away from her cuteness and started talking about recent updates in the collegiate world, Trixie tore off her diaper and shit on the carpet.

Right where everyone can see her. As she walked away, her head held up high, I wondered about being the center of attention. Why do we always feel like we’re the center of it when we really aren’t?

This sounded better in my head. I promise. Lets take a look at Trixie. It was her party and for the first hour or tow everyone loved her, played with her and held her. Then our attention drifted and we focused more on each other than Trixie. And she noticed as well.

She believed, in her right mind, that shitting on the carpet would garner more attention for her. It did for a little while, before her owner brought out the snacks and our minds, once again, drifted. Except for the classmate, he bent down and scooped her right up, kissing the top of her forehead. She was completely in love and one little shit accident will not screw this up.

One can feel sad for poor little Trixie. Like we do ourselves, when we are no longer the person being talked about, thought about or loved. Except, know this, everyone has someone who always thinks about you, talks the shit out of anyone’s ear about you and loves you unconditionally.

You are the Trixie in their eyes.

Am I too Sexy?

There is nothing scarier than being invited over to a game development student’s apartment when he has his girlfriend over. He drops his normal attitude, stops playing the video games and actually focuses on his girlfriend and friends. A true change for this said development student who I met when I first came to Full Sail.

Our friendship started in an unimaginable way. We bonded over the latest video game called Titanfall. Though I had no clue what it was about, nor have I ever played it, we talked about something we both knew: Characters. He made me laugh, I made him laugh and in my mind we were the perfect couple.

Except for the fact that it seemed as if the last time he saw a shower was when Reagan was in office. And for the fact that he was into video games and I haven’t played a video game since high school ended. And his girlfriend.

His girlfriends name is Amber, also in game development. That’s all I know about her except that she has three different hair colors. We spent about fifteen minutes together, and she left for class.

The front door wasn’t closed for ten seconds before he asked me, “Was I being too sexy?” The question caught me off guard. He ran his hand through his hair and started pacing back and forth. “I shouldn’t have asked her to dinner.” “I shouldn’t have worn his shirt.”

I’m not a guidance counselor and wasn’t equipped to deal with this situation so I told him bye and that we should hang out again. On the short walk home I thought to myself.

How do we know we’re being sexy? When we know is it then too much? Is there never enough sexiness?

Though he isn’t sexy, he has his charms and looks. He has a personality that anyone could love, even myself. I thought to celebrities where sexiness comes off as a second nature. People like Ryan Reynolds, Ryan Gosling (basically anyone named Ryan) and Jennifer Lawrence. Do they ever look at themselves and think, “Wow I am sexy.”

Here’s an experiment: I want you to wake up every morning and say to yourself, “Wow I am sexy.” See how those four words can change your day and attitude.

Me vs You

I have a new class each month unlike traditional colleges who have the same class for five months. This month we’re learning about scriptwriting format. Only took us five months to get here. I swear if we learn the same fucking material again…

This past week, we had an assignment that was only supposed to be the beginning part of a longer work. No more than ten pages, no less than five. We could write a screenplay, for both movies or TV or a novel. I chose the screenplay because that’s what I’m used to (and because it’s the easiest for me at least)

We all walk into class Tuesday morning and instantly the first thing out of everyone’s mouth, “How long was yours?” or, “I thought mine was pretty good.” And the ever classical, “You wrote about that?!?!?!”

“Mine was eight pages.”

“Mine was ten. I had to stay up most of the night editing.”

“I only had six but I think its pretty good.”

No good morning first? As we walked into the classroom I wondered why that was the first thing we said to each other.

Why are we always in a battle with each other? This battle may leave the school ground and enter the highway where you see every car you’ve ever wanted since childhood. What’s so great about their car that yours doesn’t have? Is it the color? The way it’s made?

“I have heated seats…in the front and back.”

“I have TV sets for the kiddos.”

“I have child protection locks.”

It can leave the highway and enter the supermarket where it gets packed away only to enter the household. I wondered do these things give us the upper hand? If so, why? How? Is it to be a better person?

The same can go for relationships. “How in the hell did you get HIM as your boyfriend?!?!” or “That’s your girlfriend?”

Take me for instance: drives a hand me down of a hand me down. Uses his mom’s cell phone (mainly because she didn’t how to work an Iphone.) Wears the same clothes from Walmart or Old Navy. The same shoes.

Personally, I don’t care about what car im driving, the brand name im wearing or the phone that im using. As long as the car gets me from point A to B, the clothes…. well for clothing my otherwise naked body and the phone for….keeping in touch. 

BBG:The Musical

There is one thing I miss about high school: Theatre. It’s where I met most of my friends, some of my best friends and made some of the greatest memories. It's where some of us fell in love and hate. Where some of us drifted away from each other. Where we learned who our true selfs are. It just so happens that I was missing all my little theatre babies when I got a phone call from the choreographer, a woman so perfect and beautiful I label her as my spirit animal.

She had three tickets saved for me, I had the weekend off and jumped in my car and drove the short three hours home. About halfway there another phone call came in, this time from my BBG.

A BBG is a gay mans dream, his confidant and his rock. She’s the Big Black Girl and she came with me to see the musical.

(I asked her permission to call her that being that she created it back in theatre, I think, junior year?)

I picked her up and after about a minute of screaming and calling each other faggots (I haven’t seen her since Christmas and she hasn't called me that since graduation) we were on our way to the old school. We chatted about small things, what happened to us since Christmas, if anything did happen (with me nothing happened and she wasn’t surprised.)

The musical was called “How to succeed in Business Without Really Trying.” It was one that I have never heard of and was a little timid to sit through the whole thing. Turns out, I was wrong. It was one of the best musicals I’ve seen, one of the funniest as well. The cast, all my little babies, were fantastic. It brought a tear to my eye as I watched them because I remember when they were little itty-bitty freshman.

Then we walked into the dressing room's and found out that they were not the itty-bitty freshman that we remember. I remember telling BBG, "Honey is this what it feels like to get old?" 

The musical ended and the audience stood up, and it made me realize something. Even though we complained about high school, the teachers, the homework or the people, it was still there to make us realize that it was just a part of life.

It may have sucked for some us but we still came away with something. We came away with the person we are today. At least I did. 

The Waiting Game

I got a phone call this morning asking if I would be a part of a photo shoot for the club I’m VP of. I rubbed my eyes and made sure I wasn’t dreaming. No, the phone call was real and the person talking was real. So, of course, without thinking I told him I would do it.

You see, the words photo shoot and Joe Russo do not mix very well. I spent a good five hours making sure my outfit was top-notch and myself. As it neared the meeting time, I left my house feeling fine, fresh and fabulous.

It turned out that I was the only one who showed up. I thought I was too early (I have this thing about time I need to get to places at least an hour early) or that the phone call was fake or a joke. As I left, second guessing myself, the photographer showed up. He said, “Sorry, I couldn’t find my lens cap.”

He told me what to do, where to go and how to pose. And I felt like a model. I was looking and feeling my best. I told him short info about the club like what we did and why and what our main objective was.

After we wrapped up, he showed me the pictures and said, “Now we wait.”

We parted ways but my mind lingered on his last word. Wait. Is waiting a good thing?

I asked my roommate the minute I got home. She answered, “It depends on what you’re waiting for.”

It can be a bad thing. Like waiting for that package, date or person allowing you to only think about those trivial matters. I googled the side effects of waiting and many results came up with stress, headaches and prone to laziness.

Honey, that explains my college life.

Waiting can be a good thing. It allows you time to think about a situation and allows you to make the right choice.

And that’s fine, fresh and fabulous.

Manipulation Block

The one thing every writer must face sooner or later hit me in the face like a wave and left me staring at the blinking black line.

WRITER’S BLOCK.

I wondered how I would construct a simple idea into the page without rambling. I wondered, “What the hell am I doing?” I also wondered, “Why the hell didn’t Gravity win Best Picture?” With the blinking black line, the passing minutes and my brain going a mile a minute I slammed my computer screen down and took a drive.

I didn’t know where I was going or why. I didn’t know what I was going to buy or even if I needed to buy anything. I decided at the stoplight that a soda was the best bet; I was thirsty and only had three dollars on me.

The nearest gas station in on the only intersection that literally everyone was on today. As I stopped (for the fourth time!) I saw someone walking on the median. My first thought was that someone got out of their car and walked to the destination they desired. But, as he got closer I noticed he didn’t have a car. He didn’t have much of anything except a piece of cardboard with “Help me I’m poor” written on it.

He walked past my car, looked in the window and walked away. He looked homeless, his pants had stains on them, his shirt was ripped and he walked with a limp that seemed almost too real. As the light turned green I wondered if this was just an act, a front to get people to feel sorry for him.

Are fronts the new form of manipulation? I know this sounds bad, but I couldn’t believe him. He looked fine other than his clothes. How do I-we- know he just didn’t rip them? That he’s just using this act as a way to get free money?

People are, in nature, the best manipulators. Manipulating everything and everyone to get what they want or need. As I thought about this my mind got to thinking about relationships. When a friend finally meets that special someone they change who they really were for this person.

One friend actually started baking when we all knew she was a horrible cook. Another became a self-made scholar when all she really wanted to do was self-make drinks. I wondered if we can’t truly be ourselves then who are we really?

When I got home, with my seventy-nine cent cola, I got through my writers block.

The Long Road Part 2

It takes me about three hours and twenty minutes to come home and back to school again. I spend about two hours and thirteen minutes yelling and screaming at people to "Move their ass," or "Get out of the fast lane if you aren't going over eighty." After venting my anger on whoever decides to get in front of me, I continue singing at the top of my lungs.

So, there I was, at exit 23 on Interstate 4, when traffic stopped moving all-together. We inched up, slowly and slowly and then stopped for what seemed like twenty three minutes. Being that I couldn't yell, scream or curse at anyone I looked around.

I looked at the cars, what style they were, color and make. I looked at the people driving them. Many were from out of town and had those horrible hats, protecting their faces from the blast of the sun. Many of them looked back me, wondering what I was doing looking at them.

I looked at bumper stickers, the ones covering every inch of useable space. One caught my eye. Well, one has been catching my eye. It has one word on it and the background is black, sometimes blue. The letters are white and anyone can see it from a mile away.

COEXIST.

I can only imagine it has something to do with the homasexuals (spelled wrong for a reason). And this sticker got me thinking:Are we the stickers on our bumpers? Are we really coexisting? Is your student really on the honor roll or is that from another kid and you just never took it down?

As traffic started to move again I thought about the states that haven't approved gay marriage. They sure as hell aren't "coexisting".  I thought about the people who don't approve it at all, who scream marriage is just between a man and woman.

Having that bumper sticker means that you can coexist in a world without racism, prejudice or hate. It makes me believe that your kid really is on the honor roll and that you really have four dogs.

As traffic started moving at a descent pace, I stopped screaming and cursing at everyone who was going slow.

My one good deed for the rest of the month.

A New York Comfort

There are two kinds of weddings. One is the traditional storybook wedding. In other words, the one every woman wants from birth. In other, other words the one my mother cries at every time it’s on TV. Then there are the New York firefighter weddings.

The two are extremely different. And I found myself in the middle of one over the weekend.

They have the same ideas and feelings but the guests are extremely different. Firefighters, well the ones I’ve seen, are nasty, crude, a little mean but extremely funny. They are the ones that know how to have a good time but are the first ones to help in any given situation.

There was one in particular, he told me his real name but I soon forgot it. I guess it didn’t matter much since everyone called him by a nickname. I told him I was a writer. He exclaimed, what I guess was excitement; I don’t think he’s ever met a writer in person. He told me, right before he left for the bar, “Nobody likes a coward.”

As we drove away from the reception, my eyes looking at the buildings painted with graffiti, I got to thinking about comfort. Comfort zones, foods and places. I’m not sure why. Maybe because it was twelve, maybe because I had a few drink’s.

Few= 1.

Does it make us a coward if we leave a comfort zone? What happens when we do? Do we become braver, smarter or better?

We all have a comfort, even though many us do not make it public. We all leave a comfort behind, sooner or later. And we gain comforts sooner or later. But are our comforts the things that describe us?

My comfort food is cake, especially Crumb Cake. My comfort place is sitting at home, my dog sleeping on my lap. My zone is whenever I sit down and write, when I actually find the chance to do it. These comforts describe me to a tee.

A firefighter is comforted when helping people. It doesn’t help that said fireman above was the only one helping people to their car in pouring rain.

It also didn’t help that I wasn’t giving up my seat to help people.