"Susanna: You know, taking us for ice creams in a blizzard... makes you wonder who the real whack jobs are."

"Girl, Interrupted" was never just a movie. It was an ode to all women, crazy women in particular, but maybe we're all "crazy"...sexed as females or not. I remember the first time I saw this film, only knowing Angeline Jolie from movies like "Mr. and Mrs. Smith." You could imagine how scary it was, how enlightening the experience of it was, to see a famous actress take off all those layers - emotional and otherwise. I think I was twelve when someone first had showed it to me. Too young?

But then again, I was too old at the same time. It all made sense to me. Eerily made sense. Susanna, the main character in the film was played by the lovely Winona Ryder; I knew her from the 80s movie "Heathers." Don't you just love her in those types of roles? She's definitely sweet and innocent, yet surprisingly full of angst and rage even when she passes her adolescent years. I just love her. I can't really explain the movie, just watch it and you'll know. You'll know. It's funny, crudely funny, but still funny nonetheless. And it's heartbreaking.

It's on Netflix. I watch it on a monthly basis.

Influence, and why I am the way I am

Let me warn you. I will be blaming certain people for my own actions, and this post may make you feel uncomfortable. But a lot of what I have to say is valid, and a lot of what I have to say can never be said for the simple fact that no one ever lets me finish a sentence. And that's why I write. No one is interrupting me when I write--is it even possible to stop someone in their tracks if you don't know what they're saying until they hit "Send"?

I would consider myself to be a great listener, but there comes a time in your life where you've taken as much as you can take, and you've listened to so much tragedy and you've witnessed so much trauma that sometimes you  need to be the one that's heard. But then again, should I take back my disclosure statement? Should I really blame others for my own misguided thoughts? Of course not. But it's hard not to when it's all you've ever known. But that's another case.

My life, my family, and my friends. A variety of different souls, all abused, betrayed, or loved and cared for, still neglected, and misused, shaken to their defining cores.

But why am I the way I am? Do I care too much? Do I say too much, or to little, to the wrong and to the right people, at the wrong or right times or in the wrong or right places?

Ever since I was little, I loved people for their traits, I loved people for the way they made me feel, and the ways in which they allowed me to make  them feel. I sought love. I seek love. And everytime I get it, something happens and it breaks me. My heart isn't broken, don't think that for a second, does anyone even truly believe in that shit? It's your brain that breaks, little by little, every time you let yourself get too involved with another human being.

Parents have to love you. And I would never blame them for my own actions, I would never blame them for what I choose to do with my life. That's all on me.
Best friends? I could blame them. Couldn't I? Don't I have that right after so many years of putting my all into something-then boom, they leave you like they never even cared in the first place.

And most people who do that, I can just stand up and say "Fuck you," and that's fine. Not that it's the best thing to do, but it's something.

I love myself, I love my friends, I love my life. Not everything IN my life, and definitely not some of the actions of my friends....but you get the picture.

Carpe diem, right?

Early Memory

Goodnight Moon, written by Margaret Wise Brown...was a favorite of mine.
The first time I read it, I don't think I actually read  it. I'm positive that my mom read it aloud for me, taking her index finger over the tiny raised bumps on each page, showing me the corresponding pictures after each line, that even she couldn't see--but wanted me to, because she knew they were important somehow.

Only being three or four years of age, visual words were only given meaning from the mouth of my mother, who could no longer make sense of the letters with her eyes, but instead her fingers. I guess I learned to read a little late in life.

Previously, I understood the alphabet, the numbers, and the words to use when speaking or what to call things, but  my first grade teacher taught me how language pulled together to make a story. In elementary school, my reading level was graded alphabetically, and as soon as I was taught the basics, I advanced to the highest level (for my age) a few months later.

Goodnight Moon was a fresh start.
Like an everything bagel with cream cheese on a sunday morning, after church, with few too many glasses of No-pulp-orange-juice to count.
Goodnight Moon inspired me, despite only having short of a hundred words in its entirety, to want  to write...about everything.