Coughing, wheezing, time and again sneezing...

So, recently I came down with a gnarly cold. Yes, I realize "gnarly" is quite descriptive in the sense of a cold, but honestly this illness has been a beast. Usually when cold season comes around I get a crummy sore throat, a slight headache and a drippy noise. You feel "down for the count" maybe for a day or two, then you get over it. Not this influenza, uh-uh, it's been a monster (ok, exaggeration), but it has been horrible. Sorry in advance for the description but here it goes: a full blast faucet is the best description of the nature of my nose, a sore throat that has developed into a scratchy cough, sinuses so tight that they actually whistle and a hot flash fever pattern going down. So kind of gross, but hey, we all get colds and seeing that my readership is quite low, I figure why not vent on the topic.

In the middle of this madness I had a sudden funny memory of cold season in primary school. It was awful. I remember the school aways provided sandpaper Kleenexes, my mom would give me nasty cough drops that I'd only move to desperation and eat before lunch due to hunger, yet the cough drop empty stomach effect would only make matters worse. Then there's the whole issue of not being able to properly wipe or blow your nose at seven, I mean let's face it, most kids cannot avoid the "crusty nose," (nasty again, I know).

Another aspect of the cold I was reflecting on, is the issue of having a cold in class. As you sit there wheezing and blowing your nose with the abandonment that is usually only found at 75, people glare at you like "why did you come to class." This look never fails.

I'm sitting here on a what can honestly be dubbed, lovely, Sunday afternoon listening to Brandi Carlile, attempting to study the ever-so-trite U.S. History course I'm nearly done enduring, but honestly, I'm just deep in thought. Wow, that was a long sentence -- though not quite Proust.

1.) Brandi Carlile's lyrics: will someone please tell me what heartache was endured by this woman! Sheesh, talk about unrequited love. Though it's a well known fact that I'm fascinated by unrequited love, to be honest, I could take a whole class on the mystery of it, just the sole concept of unreturned love seems paradoxical to love itself. What is more amazing about unrequited love is that God deals with it everyday, as people he genuinely loves reject him time and time again, I honestly cannot imagine what that would be like. Unrequited love once in a lifetime is enough, I mean, in the words of Charles Schultz, "Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love." Well put, Schultz, and a sad statement at that, because peanut butter is good, and to think of it being tasteless --tragedy.

2.) Quirks--I have a great many, to name a few: It's very hard for me to relax, I eat cereal out of a cup if I'm eating it late, I always like to ask my roommate if something matches (a normal morning routine), I like to listen to books on tape when I'm getting ready so I do something productive with my time while I'm curling hair and applying mascara (I also enjoy them), I like walking places, I constantly injure my left foot -- no joke, I will put more red cabbage in my salad then lettuce because it's so good, instead of doodling in class I write little poems on the side of my papers, I could eat salad's every single day for the rest of my life and get excited each time, i.e., Chick Filya salad's excite me so much that it's best if I get it to-go so I don't make a scene, I actually crave caf salad, I have little concept of pain when I'm running, I've written about 60 pages of a novel so far (haha, well see if I continue this one), I could listen to a song on repeat for an embarrassingly long amount of time, I know lyrics to a hefty number of hip-hop songs, I don't do well staying up late, i.e., I get extremely tired, I get pathetically nervous every time I have to call a boy, even if we're just friends (I'm trying to get over this), I pick out my outfit the night before...at least in my head, I like to sleep with wet, clean hair, I LOVE sleeping with a fan, sometimes I can't fall asleep at night because I keep remembering random things to pray for -- this drives me crazy! I have slept with a stuffed Elmo since I was four (don't worry, I don't cradle it anymore...unusually --jk), I love the feeling after you exercise! I make homework lists, I like to blend things, I secretly think I'm going to be swept off my feet most days...it's kinda funny because I'd probably die of embarrassment if any of my "swept of my feet" scenarios happened, I hate wearing lots of clothes when I'm in the house, I refuse to take medicine unless basically forced or it's just Advil, I love listening to music before I go out somewhere big, I went through a hard rock phase/some metal songs in early high school...so don't be alarmed if I know random rock tunes, I also am well versed in classic rock/oldies, I look up random things on wikipedia or words in the dictionary everyday, if not, several times I day, I like to hand sew, I'm afraid of potato spuds, I ....well, that's enough.

3.) I've starting attending a new church, Granada Heights Friends Church and I seriously like it so much!

I have this battle, it persists constantly in my mind, the battle is between imagination and reality. Let me elaborate:

One of my favorite things in life is an imagination. As a kid the world was an imagination, but the older I get the more people try to convince you that imaginative thinking is not adult thinking. It's funny because in many ways I understand, but regardless, I cannot help but wonder if God gave me this imagination for a reason, I cannot help but wonder if wasting this imagination is a far worse travesty than failing to grow up. Somehow though, the older you get, the more you become disappointed, the more independent circumstance and money force you to be, the less crucial an imagination becomes.

Despite my reservations on choosing this, it is something in me that is convinced that the disappoint that my life may reap because of an abashed imagination, is trivial compared to my life without an imagination. So, perhaps I am the heroine in my own novel...STOP: in the sense that I want to make something of myself, I want to overcome, to dramatized it, evil, I want to be rescued by, yes, a hero, I want to love and live as freely as possibly, and I must do all this against the grain of so many who believe imaginations are for children -- and I will.

So, I'm not Rorie Gilmore, but I am a creditable intern;)

Looking for an internship for this summer has been a source of stress as always. Places expect one to apply in mid-October, which means application preparation starting by late August/early September, which was hard considering at that point about eight months ago I was on a deathly stuffy train in Rome. Though I have no complaints, it would potentially cause for internship suffering. Come October however, I was googling sights like LA Times, OC Register, making Skype calls and emailing professors for letters of recommendation like crazy. "Just mail it to London" was my plan. Which would entail all my clips, all my letters and the ever so costly Biola transcript somehow gathered together and mailed to London. Personally I think I deserved an "A" for effort. Then the indicator came to me, as it comes to me with most important decisions in my life, God was saying..."wait." Actually in a lot of ways he was yelling it (to put it in metaphorical terms), so I waited.

My friend Danika followed up with my waiting by offering me a proposition of her own (by now it was mid-November). She was leading an SMU trip to Africa and said I could accompany her and intern, needless to say, this was exciting. I had always wanted to go to Africa, I mean common, Africa? Besides, I really wanted to give something back to God before I graduated and a missions trip felt like an awesome way to do it. Oddly enough though, no spiritual confirmation.

Then it happened: the end of March and my good friend Alex's dad came to visit who happened to be in book publishing in Brazil. I nearly trembled with admiration in his presence, as I LOVE books and would cry with joy to work near them all summer (maybe, cheesy exaggeration). Needless to say, after prayer and thought, as much as I could stand that is before I had to mail in my resume and application. Then it happened -- I got the internship! I will be interning for Tyndale Publishing House in Carol Stream Illinois, which is 40 minutes from Chicago, and four miles from Wheaton, which is where I'll be living. What a blessings! To top it off, I get to work in the editorial department, get paid AND am living with five girls from Wheaton, so the whole thing should be an awesome adventure. I'm honestly counting down the days until May 28th, when I will road trip it there with dad and move into my home in humid Illinois. I'm nervous, but excited. Praise God that I did wait, because this opportunity was definitely one worth waiting for:)

That's it, I'm blogging more. I have decided this in the last three minutes, which I feel is long enough to make a lofty pact with myself in regards to blogging. See the thing is, I alway write, I write constantly, but I never post anything (well, I can't really say never, because if that was the case I wouldn't have the mini plethora of posts below this one), but in relation to the amount of writing I do I honestly hardly ever blog. Why? I think there are several reasons, two mains ones I explored in the post below (being too personal and not knowing who's reading), but I suppose there is a deeper underlying reason, a reason that if I ever want to achieve any form of greatness in the field of writing must be destroyed--my need for perfection. That's right, I said it, I along with millions of other humans, am a perfectionist, and the truth is, I will get somewhere with this mindset, but I will never be great, because I will always be afraid of risking perfection. So, RIP perfection (just as lovestoned was ever so sadly RIPed in a past post). True this post would be better read sectioned into well formed paragraphs, with a witty into., possibly less parenthesis, but then if I had to go through all that I most likely would not be taking the five minutes to write this, but rather thirty, which would inevitably stop me from keeping up a regular blog due to time issues. No, this is not to promise the abolishment of the paragraph or the captivating intro, those elements must live on...yet, it is my pact with myself to end blog perfectionism. So goodbye blog perfectionism, and hello blog of greatness (wow, something about the latter name I just wrote sounds very magical name meets eight year old intellect, maybe blog of greatness is a poor title--scratch that...)

I don't blog often, various reasons...mainly the idea of public readings of somewhat personal writings combined with the paradox of an idea that no one reads. But, maybe I'll improve. Anyhow, I like the lyrics of this song, and seeing that it tops my itunes playlist at a rather impressive 181, I thought why not post the lyrics. Is it morose? Yes. But it's nice just the same;)


Passing White Daisy by Rocky Votolato

Please slow it down
there's a secret magic past world that you only notice when you're looking back at it
all I wanna do is turn around
I'm going down to sleep on the bottom of the ocean
because I couldn't let go when the water hit the setting sun
passing white daisies taking turns
close the door walk into the street
catching raindrops on your tongue
and for a minute it all stops but it won't last man
it's just a passing moment gone
please slow it down
there's a secret place that I know where I could dig a grave out and climb underground for good
all I want to do is turn around
I'm going down to sleep on the bottom of the ocean
because I couldn't let go when the water hit the setting sun
passing white daisies taking turns
all those evenings on the back deck of our first apartment
they meant everything but the wind just carried em off
and you can't go back now just a passing moment gone

Upon the suggestion that our rendition of "Lovestoned" in a soft boot cast too racy, Chelle and I have disposed of our treasured music video.

LAME.

R.I.P.

In every hitchhiking experience there will, inevitably be, a kidnapper van, more specifically--white, windowless and commonly sighted near food services.

Ever since I’ve moved to Europe I’ve taken up motorcycle riding, whiskey drinking, the occasional cursing, leather—always black—and hitchhiking. Ok, so maybe just the last one, and maybe just once, I know, I’m a rebel.

It all began on a lovely Thursday afternoon. Doesn’t it always begin on lovely afternoons?

After a lengthy taxi ride down a never ending road, a last, we reached our destination: the White Cliffs of Dover. Serene, I thought, as the taxi drove away, is there a reason why no one was gallivanting as we were on this lovely Thursday afternoon? So what if dusk was setting in, so what if a rainstorm was in the makings, as far as I was concerned it was still Dover. I suppose this is the line where the American tourist defers from the European native.

The visit began as planned, running aimlessly along the rolling green hills, taking extremely staged photos and squinting my eyes with the hope of possibly deciphering France in the distance (fruition was not in works.)

Soon it was dark, and from classes like RADS and elements like “basic street smarts” I concluded that four girls should not be alone on the Cliffs of Dover in the dark. Sure I can strike a mean punch, but do I really want to dirty my fist? Don’t answer, just read on…

“I’m so thankful God blessed us with good weather,” almost sang Morgan.

Well, God, he liked Morgan’s praises of song, he liked them so much in fact that he decided to sing the whole group a song back of his own. First the song began in a light drizzle, which soon became a steady rain, yet quickly was a violent downpour, oh, but it gets better, about one minute later, it was haling. On the cliffs of Dover, in the black night, the ocean thrashing, the wind blowing, the hail cutting into my face, my mascara painting a clown out of my face, completely alone: romantic? Not, exactly.

After rather quickly discovering the cell phone did not work, we decided we had no choice but to walk, how far? We did not know. Would we live? Honestly, it depended on how strong our bodies were against the cold. I for one am the weakest link, so most likely would have died first, then Mindy perhaps, followed by Morgan, solely out of pity, and Charissa would have perished some hours later after wondering off on her own. Luckily this scenario did not unfold, as a woman stopped and we found out how to properly utilize our cell phone.

“The man said I’d be a good forty minutes,” Morgan informed the group.

I looked down at my blue fingers and wondered how long the blue would remain in my body after death.

“Give me the phone,” I said.

“Hello…umm, right…it’s just, if you don’t come get us soon, we’re not going to…”

“Melissa, do not tell the taxi man we’re going to die!” shouted Morgan’s voice solely into my right ear.

“It’s just we might not...”

“Melissa!”

I paused, “someone might not be alright.”

With that Freddy at the taxi company knew I meant business and was all on it (Freddy seemed reliable like that,) the only problem was, when I hung up I suddenly realized that dear Freddy wasn’t wholly aware of our location, actually, not even remotely aware.

What do we do, we can’t even explain this deserted road location to Freddy, what to do?

Out of the corner of my eye I watched, I watched as Mindy’s arm stretched boldly into the night air, I was convinced she was getting ready to give a war call, or possibly had I caught her mid-Macarena? But, no, her little thumb boldly popped out, and pretty soon the whole clan of us had our thumbs out. Low point—define a low point?

It’s hard being rejected in life, especially when you’re a hitchhiker; my feelings were seriously “toyed with” as each car passed on by, sure we were a tad wet, maybe not in the prime of our beauty—they should have picked us up anyway.

My personal favorite rejection was as follows: “honk, honk!” I cranked my neck to see an “adorable” white, windowless, “kidnapper van” pass us up. Now, I’m going to be honest, that rejection was more of a comfort then anything.

Do not fear my friends, eventually a beamer pulled to the curb and picked us up. And don’t worry; it was completely safe, only one of us got chopped up in little pieces. Ok, slightly distasteful, sorry…we all made it back safely—praise the Lord!

"She 's been sick for some time--thank you for asking. No one asks, about Sprinkles."--Angela, The Office

Invasion of the Irish

Now I don’t normally lye in bed at 12:15, blaring the sappy sounds of Ginny Owens, with a laptop on my lap and an earth green facemask caked on my face—but today this was the case. Let me qualify: I had been up since nine, but seeing that the air temperature in my room is akin to what I would only assume a poorly insulated igloo, I had not dared to abandon my sanctuary of blankets. Secondly, I had just received this new Ginny Owens song which resonated well with my life, so I thought why not blare this on repeat, sure it’s a little melancholy, but who’s going to judge? Thirdly, the laptop on bed was merely a stroke of convenience—the only way I could write my paper while in the sheer decadence of my sheets. Then lastly, yes, that early moss-like clay mask, that my friends, is my sad attempt at maintaining attractive pores—no other reason. So alone I sat, and alone I was. Was.

Bang, bang, bang. I was convinced God himself was tearing down my door. Suddenly the key hole started clanking and a tan vested grandpa-esk, jolly Irish man walked into my room like it was no ones business, followed by what I can only assume was his wife and assistant who walked about six steps into my box, I mean room (it’s quite small,) plopped down a trendy lawn chair and took a seat.

“It’ll only be a minute, got to check your electric plugs,” almost sung the Irish fellow, not yet aware of the state of my face.

“I—ahh, I have a facemask on…” I like to state the obvious then let the other party interact as they will.

The corners of his aged lips fought with what I’m assuming was roughly sixty years of maturity to refrain from what could be considered impolite laughter at my state. It’s ok, just laugh, oh please, someone laugh…

“What’s wrong with your face?” He asked, almost concerned.

I pulled up my ironically matching green blanket covering my face, and sunk deeper into my sheets, loosing my treasured spot in Language and the News Media, feeling somewhat ill.

“It’s for my skin.”

“Anti-aging,” the wife chimes in, implying an evident ignorance to the fact that twenty-years-olds condone little time for anti-aging.

“It’s ok, we don’t care at all about your face, just checking your plugs,” chimes in the Irish fellow, with obvious sympathy in his voice.

Note to self: gee, I’m cool.

Something in the Air
...because London fall is THAT good....

Deep within the mornings shiver, a silence slow to speak,
My heart, it leaves, all the blither, to partake in a world inside me,
A messy bun, mud-caked running shoes, a silver key strapped to my lace, and as the dawn decides whether to paint autumn or winter, in the shadows of this morning I sneak,
Dust settles down, my feet almost soar past this ground; heaven above is all I see,

There’s something in the air today, a breeze that pleas to beckon us folk,
Something in the way the wind blows, in the temperature of these racing winds—and I can feel a change, no trite or subtle change, but a change for all that’s been broke,

Asphalts edgy, oh so edgy, so I ditch this trial for some unhampered soil,
Trust is sketchy, oh so sketchy, but today trusts seems worthwhile,
There’s a tear in my left eye, it’s been falling since I began, and as I watch the wind break it sings back to this toil,
A child-like heart, what can I say, I twirl under trees, I crunch on every leaf, I think I made them smile,

There’s something in the air today, a spice God set to evoke,
Something in the way this season remembers, in the way I no longer have to forget—and I can feel a change, no trite or subtle change, but a change for all that’s been broke,

And in these unseen moments, these blessing we often overlook, I am there,
I watched each leaf, of crimson and gold, I watched them spiral, this magic so often untold,
Those buses and trains, fancy cars and stuffy planes can keep on dreaming, but oh how they should care,
Because in these shadows—right past their clocks, the season is changing in an instant or two, autumn seduces her winter, yet they just keep on growing old,

There’s something in the air today, a blessing we often fail to invoke,
Something in the way life twists in an instant, in the moments we let pass us by—and I can feel a change, no trite or subtle change, but a change for all that’s been broke.

Packing, like modern art

To me, packing is a nuisance, that’s right, a royal pain. But, I will admit, it’s necessary.

I’m the type of packer who waits until the night before, stares at the closet for a concentrated forty minutes, then packs with the same determination as a fly escaping a swatter. My system, though deemed entirely too risky by my mother, as night before packing in her book is living on the wild side, is quite comfortable for me.

Actually, over the years my methods have become increasingly more…uh, lighthearted? Sure, we’ll call it that. I have taken to using trash bags, not the small ones, but a durable, sizable one. I simply toss all my “clutter” into the bags and drag them to my vehicle with a look of “will some strong guy come rescue my trembling feminine arms” written on my face. And though I end up completing the task entirely alone, packing up, especially for college, has become a form of modern art for me, in the sense that my clutter transporting has become a masterpiece.

But this semester I face a new issue: stuffing my “clutter” into two REI burnt orange duffels, each needing to weigh in at a meager (and I mean meager) 50 pounds—piety me. The straightener, the towel, the bedding, all too weighty to bring and will have to be purchased. As for the décor, that is far too frivolous for my expedition, and I suppose my beloved stuffed animals are luxury items I just won’t need. Friends, I’m down to the wire. At this moment I have about three piles of shirts and sweaters that could fill up one suitcase in its entirety—something has got to go. How many sweaters are too many sweaters? How much do I really love jewelry (a lot,) hmm, I’m going to have to downsize on the less important things first. One pair of Pj’s for four months? It could happen.

Someone, please, bring me a garbage bag, I want to do some modern art packing, this suitcase stuff is just not doing it for my creativity, or spatial issues for that matter. Six days until I leave and counting…wish the packing good luck, or rather, the packer.

Vienna waits for me:)

Slow down you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me why
Are you still so afraid?
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You better cool it off before you burn it out
You got so much to do and only
So many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

Slow down you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight (tonight)
Too bad but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself
That you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong
You know you can't always see when you're right(you're right)

You got your passion you got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize
Vienna waits for you

Slow down you crazy child
Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while
It's alright you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize...
Vienna waits for you.

And you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through

Why don't you realize...Vienna waits for you
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

A Bullet Through Beauty

I like beautiful things. I don’t know whether this is a curse or a blessing, but regardless, it stands true.

Yesterday I was driving on a particularly scenic road and began reflecting on the concept that God does not make mistakes, and since we were made in his image, since the earth was created by his works, it infers that beauty is pleasing to God. Though when does this desire for beauty go too far?

In 1 Peter the concept of outward beauty having no measure to inward beauty is expressed so beautifully. And though I’ll be the first to admit I have a passion for jewelry and am divinely pleased when my outfit matches just right, I do recognize that in comparison to inward beauty this holds nothing. I do not say this because I know it’s right to say such things, I say this because I know it’s true; inward beauty is sincerely breathtaking, and upon each witnessing of such a fleet I confirm this even deeper.

I have met so many truly beautiful people, and I don’t mean broad white smiles or flawless skin, I mean…when it boils down to it, a truly humble person (though no one is perfectly humble.) To me, humility, among other godly attributes, is to be prized, and must be ever important to God.

Though I have stated all this, I fall back to the beginning once more: I like beautiful things, i.e., I want with every piece of my heart to be beautiful both inwardly and outwardly, and I find myself desiring this to such a level that I wonder what in my nature triggers this.

Maybe this is just a “Captivating” rooted idea, maybe my desire to be lovely is something that I feel entitled to, but rather should not dwell upon. Though, I will admit that most women, if not all, want to feel lovely on some substantial level. Just as men want to feel like warriors, or something like that (perhaps I’m falling into a “Wild at Heart” Pit.) Regardless, I think it’s so sad how some people can hit you where it hurts the most, and be fine with that. And I think when it comes to many women, a blow to our beauty seems to be fairly, if not entirely, brutal.

It is true that we should not dwell on our outward beauty, but at the same time, I feel that it displeases God equally to critically abash others outward beauty, particularly those of the female sort. I will attest to the truth that it is not easy being a girl, especially in such a materialistic culture, though surprisingly, I have found some of the harshest critics, not to bash Biola (because I love Biola,) right in the home turf. I suppose what it is that I’m trying to say, is that it isn’t easy to maintain nice hair, a flawless face and a stylish outfit (though to many this is not even outwardly enough,) and honestly, I don’t think that is a real measure of beauty. But regardless, many comments detour otherwise, suggesting that many people (male, and females are guilty of this as well,) think they deserve a level of attractiveness, and will dish out cutting comments in an attempt to secure this.

In conclusion, beauty is important, and I know it’s important to God as well, though his idea of beauty is rapidly different then ours. My prayer is that we learn to build each other up, rather then down, and that we are mindful of the way we evaluate others, as words have the power to really affect people, and beauty should be something treasured, not picked apart.

MY GRANDPA ROCKS!

God is good.

Sometimes I forget to just stop and think this. In my life God has been good, and what better way to attest to others his wonder, his glory and the very truth of Christianity, then by sharing how God is good in our lives. Sure, there are rough points, but I believe it's in the rough points that we see the depth of his love. Then in the high points, in those beautiful high points, we cannot forget him.

Right now I don't feel like complaining, I don't feel like worrying, I just want to bask in how good God really is.

Yes, the phrase may be ambiguous, but ambiguous be it. In its defense, the phrase "I love you" can be quite ambiguous, though its implications stand tall. Therefore, "God is good" may be frequently used in Christian circles, and in reality be a fairly board thing to say, though, in my opinion it's the broad effect of the phrase that gives it that infinite mystery, that undefinable wonder. So, in all its infinite treasure--God is good!

Johnny Cash "Walks the Line," I draw the line...

I absolutely detest loosing friends, I feel it’s not necessary, as friendship, in its essence is free, and to loose it, well, makes me ill.

The problem is there are some friends who take, take, take, and at times friendship requires giving. Some friends hurt you and they simply do not care, and since most would attest such characteristics add up to not really being a friend, it is advisable to let the fake friend go before they suck every piece of dignity from you. That’s the part I’d rather not partake it.

Though how long can a person allow themselves to be dragged along until they are forced to let go? A relationship takes two sides, and if one person has nothing to add, I suppose the friendship just withers.

Then, of course, there’s the spiritual concern. Love your neighbor, forgive others…the list of philanthropy continues. Though were these words meant in a way that requires the emptying of oneself for the sake of loving another who doesn’t care for us? In some senses yes, as Jesus did this with us, but in a Christian friendship I do believe there’s a line, and somewhere between the absence of dignity and the minor effects of self destruction the line becomes quite evident.

It’s just; I used to believe there was good in everyone, that a cold individual was a cover-up and that everyone surely felt. I’m not so sure anymore. I do however stand behind the idea of some sense of good in each individual, as being made in the image of God requires this, but the cold part, that’s the part that is becoming disappointingly true. Cold has no place in my logic, seeing that the idea of hurting others makes me distraught to such an extent that I often find myself replaying innocent conversations in my head in an attempt to qualify that I have a character that is sensitive and mindful. And though I fail at times, it is in my failure that I learn and grow, but the cold hearted seem to rest in a stagnate pool of self absorption and oblivion, rarely recognizing the pain they have caused others.

Upon establishing this, I further to say that people of that nature have no place in a friendship, as that kind of take only leaves a person worse off then the beginning of the friendship, and edification runs dry. Regardless, I continue to avidly detest the sole idea of the loss of friendship, but I suppose sometimes it’s the only way, and if it really is the only way (unless one’s inflicted with superpowers and can see another way) it must be God’s way.

Despite it all, I am so sorry. Hey, at least in Heaven we won’t loose friends.

~The storyteller extraordinar: my Grandpa

My grandpa is the single best storyteller I have ever met. I could sit on my grandparents canvas couch for endless hours and listen to his stories. He’ll talk about anything from how things used to be, to the way things should be, to the funky birds in Africa—it really doesn’t matter, because, to me, it’s all interesting.

When I was a kid he always had the best games to play. I remember I would crawl into my grandma and his bed on mornings after I had slept over, eager to snuggle between two of my favorite people. He would be watching some morning talk show, and I would lie quietly relishing every moment. As soon as a commercial would hit the screen, I would climb onto his knees, then when I least expected it, he would drop his knees, and I would squeal with sheer delight.

In the evenings he would watch his programs on TV, and when he looked good and snoozing I would waltz over (in my grandma’s floor length princess-worthy nighty,) crotch on the carpet and tie his work boots together. Then, I would sneakily steal his hanky out of his pocket and resume hiding it in the unsought corners of the house.

But the tables spun both ways, as my grandpa had tricks of his own. He would take my beloved Elmo stuffed animal (actually my Elmo that I claimed was spelt Almo) and would strap him to the fan with duck tape, then when I least suspected the kidnapping, he would crank the ceiling fan to full speed and tell me to look up: there barred to the cheap wooden slabs would be my little treasure spinning as violently as a Ritalin desperate kid in the Disneyland Teacups.

Every summer we’d go on a vacation, usually to the ocean, but sometimes to the Black Rock Dessert or some place way in what my grandparents called, the “boonies.” My grandpa would go out during the hot summer days and collect magnificent rocks then come back in the evenings and tell my grandma and I all sorts of stories.

Those were the days.

My grandma is…well, amazing, but I’ll save that for another post.

Part II: The Anti-Darcy (written by the request of Michelle)

The Anti-Darcy: the Victorian Literature version of the Anti-Christ, if you will—nothing short of a cad.

The Anti-Darcy can be found in the most unexpected of places, usually with some formal viscid to throw his suitors for a loop. Selfish, narcissistic, leaking with pride, his only amiable quality is reputation, which he compulsively seeks to repair, restore and relinquish, as his true identity must never be revealed.

Do not be afraid, Anti-Darcy’s are scarce; having such superhuman qualities like coldness at any cost, that no proper human could or would attain this. And though I advise the reader not to fear the Anti-Darcy, I will advise to be leery of the being because no bite can delve deeper.

Deceitful, single-minded and thoughtless, a step beyond aloof—character and respect hold no place in this form.

The only downfall is unlike Darcy, the Anti-Darcy is not fictional—not fictional at all…

D-A-R-C...Y? Because we want him.

What is it with the female obsession with Mr. Darcy? No one has actually seen Mr. Darcy, no one has actually spoken with Mr. Darcy, let’s face it, Mr. Darcy is fictional. But that does not stop the female force—no, on the contrary, it really only gives it room to grow, to idealize, to imagine, and pretty soon no man, in the romantic sense, can esteem to remotely comparable to the Mr. Darcy. Let’s face it, we are born with a male archetype, and just like the idea of good and evil being planted in us from day one, so is our idea of the male hero entirely compatible with Darcy.

What strikes me about Darcy is the fact that he is the trust of heroes, in really, a real life setting. It is not as though he scaled castles walls or floured the stormy sea to rescue his love and pursue world peace, but rather, he began as a rather stogy character stuck on himself, on his life, on his opinions—or so it seemed. But that all quickly changed as the story began to unfold.

First off, Mr. Darcy liked a girl not for her position in society, her looks, or even her charm, but really on the basis of disposition alone. He recognized that Elizabeth was different, that he could never tire of her, that her intellect was rapid and her thought original, it was her mind that caught him—now that is admirable.

Secondly, he was courageous. He chose to tell her all that he felt for her, risking a chance of rejection and a lower view in society. A true gentleman he proved to be, who was honest with both himself and others.

But then, the grand finale of it all, the “kicker,” if you will; Darcy overcame his most violent battle for the cause of love, he overcame pride. And with what courage he overcame it with. When Darcy found why Elizabeth was frustrated with him, instead of whining and complaining that it wasn’t his fault he proved it with nobility and fixed anything that he may have done with such a dignity he could not help but steal any girls heart. Darcy, an ordinarily prideful man, put aside his pride for the love of another, hence, demonstrating the power of love, and how great love makes a person better.

So, perhaps Darcy is fictional, but regardless, what women could resist. After all, how can you resist the perfect fictional man?