I've been waiting on two things:  #1=FAIL, #2=Don't know yet but by the way things are going, I'll assume FAIL.  This is getting all very old and I am tired of the, "don't give up", "you are strong", "you can do it", "everything happens for a reason" bullshit.  I have given up now, I am not strong, I obviously CAN'T do it, and I hate the reasons why things are happening.  So screw everyone with their "stay positive" propaganda.  It doesn't work or change anything going on in my life, so save it and use it on yours.  I ask for no more prayers and good wishes, and crossing of the fingers.  Fuck.

Yep, it's me again.  Have you noticed that 90% of the time, I never finish what I start?... I noticed about 13 years ago when my mom and I would argue about cleaning up my room (and you must not know me very well).  Gaaahhh, it's my room one day, but the next day it was her house---MAKE YOUR MIND UP.  I would gather up the courage and be excited for the end result until I looked at it all.  One. Giant. Mess.  Instead, I would lay in the middle of my room wondering what life was like before I had to worry about adult stuff: like choosing what I wanted to wear at school, how rounded my bangs should be, did I need more hairspray, and how many socks I should stuff in my bra.  I look at my 4-year-old son now, and wonder how I got so lucky?  Hell, the kid threw his clothes in the hamper and when I tried to throw mine, well, I missed... Story of my life.

Who uses pen and paper anymore? I went through about five or six journals and diaries in my youth, each time vowing to write in them every night and even giving them a name. I wanted to treat them like a person that I could talk to at any moment in time, and be able to give them to my children and grandchildren to read and cherish-- like in the movies. It's 2011, and each time I go to Barnes and Noble I always walk by the stationary section touching the mature looking pens and lifting every shining paper weight. I look at the journals, in awe of the designs and envious of people that actually use them instead of placing them on their coffee table for decoration.
I was born in 1986, to a Muslim mother and a Catholic father. I know, I know, how in the world does that even work? Thankfully (or maybe not) they are not religious passed the point of saying a prayer when an airplane takes off and lands. My mother is originally from Turkey, a wonderful and beautiful country. She is the oldest of six, having to mature when her father passed away when she was only 17. She supported her siblings and her widowed mother by working too much. What choice did she have? None, really. It's what you do when you love people-- you help them thrive by thriving yourself.