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.