Cornucopia of the Brain

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 4:

2012-02-03T23:00:00.004-06:00

(aka, 'Yep. Just Me.')

I don't think I'm alone when I say that Valentine's Day as a single woman makes me reevaluate myself. Not so much in a 'Why am I single?' way, but more in a 'Where am I now?' frame of mind.

For some women, when you're single (especially when it's recent), I don't think you can help but recall last Valentine's Day. Was it spent alone? Was it with the one you recently broke up with? Or was it a night you can barely remember because of the ridiculous amount of shots you took, and you're trying to erase the memory of that guy/girl you woke up with in the morning (You swore they were hot/younger/normal the night before; you ignored your friends' protests because you assumed they were jealous of how lucky you got).

I've spent the last 7 and a half months of my life learning to be single again. I'm slowly figuring it out. It feels different this time, because I'm finally at an age where I realize that I would like to have someone stick around for longer than a year, and a kid doesn't seem like such a bad idea under the right circumstances.

On the upside, I have a secure job that pays well, a place to live, a cat that cuddles with me every single night, and great friends. And Hulu. I'm working feverishly on both music and my novel, and I'm still pursuing other interests.

But on the downside, I'm alone.

It's this single factor (double-meaning!) against all the other positive aspects of my life, but it can still depress me at times, despite the fact that I'm not looking at all.

And don't give me the line about not relying on someone to make your life complete; I don't look at it that way. I look at romantic love as an incredibly unique and beautiful way for two people to express themselves, and anyone who hasn't felt it--well, I'm truly sorry. I believe in love, I believe that it can be a fantastic feeling, better than any psychedelic I've tried (I'M KIDDING, RIGHT?). I think it can bring out the best in people, and improve our quality of life. But I also think that it doesn't do any good if you can't love yourself first.

So instead of getting sad, let's evaluate ourselves this Valentine's Day. Where do you stand on love? For yourself?

Me? I'm still working on it.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

(W)ri(gh)t(e)

2012-01-15T14:24:00.003-06:00

The other day, I posted a status about how writing lyrics is much easier than writing a fiction story--most likely because it's shorter. One of my friends replied with: "(part time) Pusher of Pens." Ha.

So right.

So, write.

Write Now.

Right now.

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

Of all the Things I've lost...

2011-12-20T23:25:00.002-06:00

...I miss my discipline with writing the most.

I'm beginning to think that I (along with 90% of the writers in the world) am a sadist. Who else would do this to themselves? I tease myself with the NaNoWriMo challenge (which I failed in every way possible) which came to a sudden halt with that latest batch of shit-luck, and now that things are looking up (I'm not homeless, my temp job is now a permanent job with benefits), I'm all vermischt about the holidays (One of my coworkers uses many Yiddish phrases; I've been picking it up).

Today I wrote for about an hour, then got distracted by music. But I NEED music to write. Especially because there is something loud in the apartment, and I think it's the fridge. The hum actually keeps me up at night. The wine could possibly be exacerbating this issue, but you just don't tell a writer to give up her muse (seriously, it's been helping).

I've come up with this crazy hare-brained goal of actually having something worth reading by the end of spring. For me, that's like, late May.

Which means I have 5 months to write this novel(la): including numerous rewrites, a couple pair of eyes not belonging to me, sleepless nights, crying, self-injury and lots and lots of wine.

So glad I got this pay raise.

Here's to the 22nd attempt at keeping up the blog, and keeping up the writing.

I swear, the only constant going for me right now is knitting.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 3:

2011-11-20T18:51:00.003-06:00

(aka "Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go...")

Okay, so let me start this off by saying:

I'm kinda homeless.

Well--in between apartments, I suppose. Because of this, I had to put all of my belongings into storage until things were figured out. I spent ALL of Saturday with a friend packing up my things and getting them to a storage facility.

It's in these moments that you reevaluate your worth in possessions. What do my things say about me? Why do I have this item? What would it mean if I threw it away?

I don't know how it happened, but I managed to practically fill an 8x8 storage space with all of my belongings. Of course, I could barely fit it all into my studio, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. But really, what is all this shit?

Toward the end of the storage journey, I found myself on the elevator with 5 bags thrown over me, and all I could think of was Erykah Badu's fantastic lyrics:

"Bag lady, you gon' hurt yo back...Draggin all dem bags like that. I guess nobody ever told you, all you must hold onto, is you, is you, is you...."

I know it was more metaphorical than literal, but there's something to be said about those of us who cannot easily let go of our belongings. How do we look at life? Do we let situations roll off our backs, or do we hang onto them, like the sweater that doesn't fit us anymore and has a hole, but we can't bear to throw out? And for me personally, does this reflect my current situation?

I used to save love notes shared between me and my exes. At first, I rationalized it as my enjoyment of the written word; a way to document expression between two people in love. But after some time, I began to notice that I would look at these letters and this wave of nostalgia would wash over me...with a pinch of regret, or maybe anger at having been so stupid to be in love with that person. How could I not have seen the writing on the wall? or Why didn't I follow my instincts? This lack of ability to let go of the past would prevent me from growing in relationships because I was too busy hanging onto these experiences; these people.

Perhaps when I am able to move my belongings back into an abode, I will seriously consider what I take with me. I know that I have things strictly for sentimental value, which isn't bad. I keep my sister's jacket, and I wear her ring every day. These things I don't personally see as a hindrance. But the love letters, or maybe an item of clothing kept from an ex, a sign of a mistake made, or an unwelcome gift could keep you from moving on. Sometimes constant reminders of the past can trap you in that mindset.

I think it may be time to do some cleaning out. I'd like to make some room for my future.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

NaNoWriMo UhOhMoFo

2011-10-31T23:55:00.002-05:00

That's right, kiddies. NaNoWriMo starts in 4 Minutes, I've got a notebook and pen in my lap, all of my notes and plot points around me, and I'm ready to go.

And a little scared shitless.

What if I can't keep up?

What if I run out of steam?

What if I get distracted by trivial things?

Oh yeah, that's right--I won't.

I'm registered on the site. If any of you are doing it too, let me know. We can do a write-in together. I'll give you one hint about my screenname: It begins with 'Pusher', and ends with 'ofPens'. I mean, what else am I going to use? It's tattooed on my body, and is hella motivational.

So, this blog will probably begin to be more active with updates about the masochistic joy I get out of literary expression.

And now it's midnight. Gotta jet.

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

Hey!

2011-10-05T23:55:00.002-05:00

Hey guys.

You know that thing you've been wanting to do? You know, that thing that you always plan on doing but something usually comes up and keeps you from being able to do that thing?

Well, no more excuses. No time like the present. Do it.

It's all about action. We can sit around here thinking about it, but it's not going to get us anywhere. You know, like the disgruntled music/movie snobs that use their displaced anger to make others feel unimportant and small because they don't have the talent/drive/mental capacity to do it themselves. Those people sit around and think. And brood. And as for quality of life?

Shot to shit by copious amounts of drinking/cocaine and prescription pill abuse.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right--Get up and do something. Or else you'll become a loser. In life.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 2:

2011-08-12T18:07:00.002-05:00

NO ESCAPE. (Or, 'I Remind Me of You')

I saw my mother this morning as I was getting ready for an interview. Not physically (She’s in Michigan, or Philadelphia, or something), but in everything I did. I was running around in my nylons and a blouse, putting on lipliner and drinking coffee. As I finished applying my lipstick in the mirror, there she was staring back at me. I did a double-take. Did I just encounter a Freaky Friday moment? I don’t remember eating Chinese food the last time my mom was in town. Oh wait, no, it’s me. I’m just TURNING INTO MY MOTHER.

Perhaps part of it was the fact that I actually had nylons on-- nylons are one of those items of clothing that are on the borderline of being both vintage and timeless; It’s like my friend and I joked: nothing makes a twenty-something feel dated like a pair of nylons (Unless she’s Amy Post’s protégée.)-- but there was no denying how much of her I saw in myself.

This wasn’t the first time I saw her, though. One time before, I saw her hand reach down to pet Gretchen--long thin fingers, veins pronounced under brown skin. I stared at my hand for a moment. So did Gretchen, but I think it was more out of impatience. My hand looked so foreign and so familiar at the same time.

You know, I can’t tell you how many times I or one of my girlfriends has said, “I will not become my mother/father when I grow up!” We spend so much time rebelling against everything our parents represent, that we don’t realize that their habits and words during our formative and teenage years stick with us. It’s an unplanned tradition of sorts, and reminds me of a fine (although offbeat) wine. It sits deep in our psyche, untouched, until it’s ready to come out in that perfect situation... be it a commonly used phrase, a mannerism or strange habit. Then, there you are, face to face with THEM, and there’s really nothing you can do about it.

Personally, I was relieved to see my mother. I spent most of my life being told I was a carbon copy of my father in looks, habits, talent, even facial contortions. To see my mother in the mirror makes me feel a little like I have finally ‘become a woman’. At 25, no less.

Every aspect of my getting ready reminded me of mornings--Sunday mornings, especially-- when I would watch my mother get ready for church. She would run around half-dressed, coffee in hand, the wonderful scent of White Diamonds perfume and deodorant flooding my nose as she whisked back and forth, fixing her hair, fixing my hair, putting on her jewelry, waking up my father....

I wonder if that’s what the kids see on Sunday mornings with her now. I wonder if the girls will see that in themselves later in life. Will it be as comforting for them as it is for me? Will I come out in them in some way? I know I’m just a big sister, but still... I can't help but hope I make that kind of impression on someone if I end up not having kids.

If nothing else, that is one hell of a way to haunt someone for the rest of their lives.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files:

2011-08-11T19:13:00.004-05:00

One is the Loneliest (and most Freeing) Number.

Independence. Everyone at some point crave independence--and why wouldn’t they? We spend (normally) 16-20 years of our lives depending on our guardians for food and shelter, at the very least. And then suddenly we’re doing it all--Working a job, paying bills, complaining or drooling over pesky/hot neighbors, creating a social life on a tiny budget, and eating food that isn’t our Mom’s.

For some, this moment doesn’t come at all. I know women who got married straight out of school and into a life of codependence. That’s great, but this post will not relate to you in any way. Go on--click on another tab. You’re not allowed to continue.

I don’t know about anyone else, but there aren’t any classes in high school or college that can ever really prepare you for Living on Your Own. It’s part of the Core Curriculum at the School of Hard Knocks, however, and you’d better ace it right away.

I didn’t get my first apartment by myself until last June, just before my 24th birthday. Before that, I lived with friends over a couple of Summers, then my parents, then a fiance, then back with the parents, then my best friend for a year. I was so excited to finally have a place of my own, I assumed that all of the mistakes I made in my past living situations would make this time so much easier. Who would’ve thought that there were more mistakes to be made?

First of all, location was at the top of my list for both the right and wrong reasons. Sure, my place is sinfully close to the El and CTA, there are two grocery stores, a coffee shop, a 24 hour drug store, and numerous cheap eats within two blocks of me. And to top it all off, it’s right by the water. But I chose it because it was also near my then-boyfriend (who i broke up with at the end of July), fit my budget (kinda) and the building accepted me readily. I didn’t look anywhere else; things had become strained living with my best friend, and I wanted out before we started hating each other. So I took it, optimistic that this would be a great decision.

I quickly learned that acceptance isn’t always a good thing, and convenience does not equal safety. About 5 months in, I noticed a pattern of interesting characters milling in and out of the building, and they sure as hell weren’t high on life. I rode the elevator with a woman asking me for money to get her something to eat. I watched a cockroach crawl from my open window into my apartment.

After doing a little research, I also learned that a woman was murdered in my apartment about 5 years ago--strangled to death. Hello, deadbolt lock. I now understand your presence. There’s a blog based out of Edgewater that gives the local news, be it crime, events, local businesses, and the like. I read recent stories of crimes happening a block away from me, or on my street, a mere 3 hours before I arrived home.

Did I mention that I am living on my own? I mean, my cat Gretchen is my darling little huntress in her own right, but that’s usually for predators smaller than a bottle of nail polish.

So what did I do? I had recently started seeing another guy, and found myself staying at his place half of the week. It made my commute to work longer, and I traveled twice as much, just to go home, feed Gretchen, pack clothes and go back to his place.

This is no way to live. It got to the point that when I did stay alone (and now I am single again so that is a lot more often), I was incredibly uncomfortable. I wasn’t happy with my apartment; it didn’t feel like mine, and while I got over the original fear for my safety while at home, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. When you get your own place, you want to make it a refuge that you return to after a long day (or night). You kick back in your undies on your cheap/free sofa/futon, do whatever makes you feel good, and fall asleep knowing that this is all yours. That’s living the dream in your early to mid twenties, isn’t it?

So I did what any broke kid stuck in an 18-month lease could do: I rearranged and reconfigured. Dear readers, this is something that I think people forget about when they find themselves stuck in a rut: To make a change on a smaller level. Here’s what I did:

~~I Mixed it up a Bit: I felt like the current set up in my studio made it seem smaller, so I arranged it to accentuate that I had a long, narrow apartment that really can’t be cut up into sections, and I keep my closet/bathroom doors open. Now the room flows easily.

~~I put more Things on the wall: A fan, posters I snagged from random events, concert tickets, hell--post its and scraps of paper of things I don’t want to forget. My niece sent me a painting of a lion, and as soon as I buy a frame, it’s going up on my wall too.

~~I Added a little Green: I got the cheapest and easiest plants to care for--a bamboo plant, and a Pothos plant (you know the ones; they’re just green mid-size leaves that grow in abundance on long green vines. Cut off a piece and put it in a wine/liquor bottle filled with water; they don’t even need dirt to keep growing.)

~~I Feed the Senses: I Burn a candle or incense as soon as I get home. I put on some music AS SOON AS I GET HOME. This quells the quiet of being alone.

~~I try to have People over: This makes me a little more conscious of my living space. I make sure I can accommodate my guests’ needs (be it as simple as a glass of water and a place to sit, and a comfortable room temp). Also, getting compliments on my place, like, ‘Oh wow, this is So You,’ make me feel like my personality is coming through, and that makes for a home worthy to chill in.

This makes my apartment more bearable. No need to go Martha Stewart on the place, just put some of yourself into it. But make sure you’re getting out, too. Go hang with friends doing what you love to do; just don’t forget about your own lair--because you can’t get used to it and love it without being there to make it yours.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

'Things I Caught on the Train' (PIlot)

2011-07-17T12:52:00.002-05:00

Dear Obnoxious Train Rider,
I am writing you to send my condolences to your poor friend whose boyfriend tried to sleep with her cousin. When I heard the horrible offense (along with the other 12 train passengers) I could not believe my ears. To think, after that huge party at your house where your buddy was able to supply a "fuckload of coke," and you got the bangin DJ "from L.A.", it would end in such disaster. Even worse, that cousin, who was "clearly asking for it," should have controlled herself and not followed him into the bathroom where he proceeded to finish off those last two lines.
Tell me, OTR, do you think your friend will really take him back? After hearing you so adamantly exclaim, "Leave his Druggie Ass alone and Find Someone Else" numerous times, I highly doubt she will ever consider "touching that MotherFucker Again."
I think I speak on behalf of train riders everywhere when I say that I truly hope this situation gets resolved quickly. I would hate to later hear about another mad loft party disaster.

Sincerely,
~Polite Observer~

"I Want to Get Away, I Wanna Fly Away..."

2011-07-02T11:01:00.004-05:00

"Yeah...yeah...yeah..."

Lenny Kravitz has been stuck in my head since about 3:00 yesterday. It seemed the perfect theme song on my last day of work.

LAST DAY OF WORK!!!!

Guys, I'm UNEMPLOYED. And could not be happier. This is usually the part where people freak out about making money, and what happens next, but... I'm just not worried.

Update: It's been confirmed. I am.

I'm a resourceful gal, and will be able to find/do something to keep me afloat.

This is the part of my life where I stop wasting my time trying to please anyone for a paycheck. This is the part where I stop compromising my values, and bring humanity back into my life, instead of dwindling myself down to a number. I mean, really, look at the way it's set up: Anything that identifies us involves numbers. Social Security Numbers, Account numbers, Case Numbers, Reference numbers, Credit Scores. My job got to the point where when I would receive a spreadsheet of credit card account holders to garnish, the names were completely omitted.

We may as well put a barcode on the back of everyone's necks. It saves plastic and paper, I'm sure.

I do not doubt that there is some beauty to the Universal aspect of the numeric system, and it is a great way to keep track of things, but let's not forget that Hearts beat, Blood flows, and Brains buzz beneath those numbers. If we lose that, we lose everything.

Hm, I didn't expect to go there... "What I was trying to get at" was how excited I am to be able to pursue my other projects wholeheartedly. What am I without my passions? I am working on musical collaborations, writing numerous stories at once, creating wearable items, and petting my kitty.

MY KITTY, GRETCHEN.
You've seen her before. Haven't you?

She's my little angel.

I need to modify my lifestyle to allow me more time to do the things that make me who I am. And not only am I trying to create, but I intend to go back to school and finish that Bachelor's I started 6 years ago. And I can tell you that working a 9-5, barely writing/creating and trying to fit in a class here and there is not going to help me succeed. I am going to find a job that is more fluid with my sensibilities. Or maybe I won't find a job. Or may be I'll just have a bunch of different jobs. Who knows?

All I know, is that my happiness comes first. End of Story.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Lesson Learned.

2011-06-29T23:48:00.004-05:00

Sorry about that last post guys. It was complete crap. Leftovers of an angry, dissatisfied writer.

Forgive me?

I went to 2nd Story tonight, and it had been a Very Long Time since I attended the last one. In fact, it has been a very long time since I participated, attended or viewed anything that catered solely to the written word. It was nice to be in that atmosphere again. It was nice to see my former Fiction Writing teacher on stage doing his thing, and off stage telling me to do the same.

I have this uncanny ability of extricating myself from any artistic community as soon as I begin to doubt my (talents). I get excited about being around like-minded people. Then I have a freak out moment where I wonder what the hell I was thinking, and I bow out, saving myself from any potential disgrace. It's a fear of rejection--so much so, that I can't even bring myself to let my boyfriend read more than a paragraph of something I've written. And not just any old thing like that crap I posted the other day, but something true, something that is inherently mine.

I began writing because I believed that I had a story (or two) to tell. I stopped writing because I began to doubt whether or not I was capable of making anyone care about those stories. But I was going about it all wrong. First and foremost, I have to care about those stories. Because if I can't deal with it day in and day out, going over it, through it, around it, what's the point? It's like the Rilke quote at the top of this blog. Sometimes I think I know the reason I want to write. Other times, I think it's just a glorified childhood game I was never able to let go of.

But then again, how many of us have stories of how our lifelong dreams began? Don't they begin with a childhood game? Isn't that when the roots begin to grow?

If writing were just a game to me, I wouldn't dwell on it as much. I wouldn't have twenty-plus notebooks of journal entries and story ideas. I sure as hell wouldn't be blogging.

"Confess to yourself you would have to die if you were Forbidden to write."

I'm afraid I would.

So let's start over.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

This could be the Start of something Serial.

2011-06-24T21:36:00.002-05:00

Here's something I wrote, that was prompted by this sweet little site. It's pretty awesome. People post ten words, and then you have to write a short using the ten words. I only got to about 5 when I began to divert my attention away from the challenge and onto something I might actually enjoy continuing. It's unfinished, but leaves you with a cliffhanger (audience: oooooh):

After a particularly sordid drunken film at a friend's house, I stumbled home in the rain to my own apartment for a great night's sleep--at least, I hoped. I had a knack for showing up on other people's doorsteps and lawns; usually other acquaintances, and occasionally exes. I double checked the address above the door: 1061. 'Okay, so far so good,' I thought. 'Now I just need to open the door.'

As I struggled to get my key into the hole, I felt a ragged, creepy breath on the back of my neck. I spun around to berate the mouth-breathing offender, but quickly realized it was only Ronnie, a very cute attendee of the party, and I vaguely recalled asking him to my place for 'coffee' afterwards.

I smiled my sloppy sexy smile--you know, the one where only half of your mouth rises, because you don't remember how to work the other side, and your lids are heavy because you see three of everything--and threw my arms around his neck, planting my lips on his. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the velocity of my passionate embrace, and we both crashed onto the sidewalk, which, thankfully, was only two steps down from my apartment door.

We both laughed, helping each other up, when I noticed blood on my hand. I looked down at the cement, seeing a small red spot.

"What is it? Did you hurt yourself?" Ronnie asked, his eyes slowly wandering to the ground, then back to my hand.

I stroked the back of his head, finding a wet, sticky mess near the nape.

"No, you did. Let's get inside and find some First-Aid," I said, turning back to the doorknob to work on my 'key-goes-in-the-hole' task.

'Success! This is my apartment after all!' I thought, as I opened the door to my modest Studio. I threw off my raincoat, tossing it on the couch, and zig-zagged my way to the bathroom.

"Feel free to help yourself to something to drink!" I called out, searching beneath the sink. Hopefully that little fall didn't ruin the night's coming festivities; especially since I couldn't really see any of the objects I was reaching for too clearly. First-Aid kits are usually in that plastic thingy, right? Or was it a tube?

A few moments later, I noticed his black Italian dress shoes out of the corner of my eye. I looked up into his crooked grin and green eyes.

"I was thinking maybe you could quench that thirst?"

I stood up, holding a tube of Gold Bond in my hand.

"Oh, well, let me help--" but before I could finish my witty sensual reply, he stumbled back a few steps, his eyes rolled upward, and he dropped to the floor, bumping the left side of his head on the toilet. Blood trickled into his hairline, and a small groan emitted from his lips.

Doesn't look like I'll be getting laid tonight.

(cue dramatic piano music and audience gasps)

Oh my! What will happen to our inebriated heroine and her concussed love-interest? Find out next time in:

I have no idea where this is going. Wanna find out with me?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

New Beginnings

2011-06-17T18:27:00.002-05:00

I'm one of those people, who, if unhappy with something, will immediately change it to my liking.

This is how I live my life. Sometimes, it's a good thing, and other times, well... have resulted in my current track record of having attended five different post-secondary schools:

1)University of Michigan

2)Macomb Community College

3)PennFoster (yeah. Shut up)

4)Columbia College

5)Cortiva Institute

6) ???? Still working on that.

I've done the same with hairstyles (I've been known to pick up scissors within 5 minutes of my gushing over a haircut I see online), apartment design, hobbies, and jobs.

Jobs, guys, jobs.

I currently work in a thankless job that makes me feel like I'm ruining lives. And I can't do it anymore. Won't do it anymore. I'd rather give an old man a sponge bath than do what I do.

But I'm on my way out, and interviewing and applying like mad for other jobs.

Of course, I already gave my notice. :)

See where I'm going with this? Thought so.

And guess who isn't worried one damn bit? When I'm determined, I am motherfucking determined.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Slutwalk Chicago 2011: A Reflection

2011-06-05T11:10:00.003-05:00

I had no idea what to expect. For the most part, anytime a form of activism is posted on Facebook, it's either virtual, or cancelled within a week of the pending date.

But this one wasn't, and I am SO GLAD I went.

I stepped out of the doors of the Clark and State El Station with two ladies and a sign, saying, "This is not a Walk of Shame". The air was thick with humidity, and the sun beamed down onto the heads of hundreds of people in front of us.

Wait-- hundreds? The three of us looked at each other as we watched the crowd wrap around the corner, and begin marching down the street. And they were still coming. Running to catch up, it was easy to get into the spirit of the march. The energy was all around; and it was dressed in nighties, fishnets, jeans, shorts, corsets, dresses, banana hammocks, stilettos and miniskirts. They came from everywhere, and traffic was at a standstill.

Hm... maybe we broke a thousand.

People looked on in horror, pride and humor. Vehicles from all around honked in support. We screamed anytime it felt right, and had a few rotating chants, like,

"No means No! Yes means Yes!"

"Gay, Straight, Black, White, all Unite for Women's Rights!"

and one of my favorites,

"What do we want?"

"Consensual Sex!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

That last one didn't catch on like many of us hoped. But it kept the spirits light.

We marched down Michigan Avenue, scaring tourists. There were cameras all over, taking pictures of the throng--actually, our sign was pretty popular (I can't take credit for it, unfortunately--another member of our awesome trio was the genius there).

We were dripping with sweat, losing our voices, and making a stand. And I had a little moment of reflection as my feet padded the pavement:

I'm doing this for my sister, who lost her life at the hands of an abusive man. I'm doing this for every other person who has experienced sexual assault, abuse in any way, been made to feel less than Zero, or that they don't matter. I'm doing this for myself, to remember that I never have to feel like my liberties are any less than a man's. Of course I'll scream til I lose my voice. I'll walk til my knees give out. I'll make sure someone fucking hears this, and listens, and understands.

It was a necessary reflection, a validation that I was indeed, alive, kicking, and standing up for something I believed in. And it felt really good. And I think 'she' would be proud.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Happy Memorial Day--uh, Evening!

2011-05-30T21:16:00.002-05:00

I missed yesterday, I know, I know, I'm sorry. I was in the burbs without the 'net.

But if you'd like to see the progress of my knitting adventures, Click here!

In other news, I've started writing a melodrama. In script form. I've never completed a single script (or anything else for that matter), but I am determined as hell to finish this one. I already have the entire plot figured out, in three acts. It's not really good, it would remind you a little bit of a soap opera and Basic Instinct, but I need to do something lighthearted, and not as deep as what I normally write. I think if I start with something small like this, it will spur me to finish the projects that really matter to me. I began the script yesterday, and my first goal is to have Act One's script done by Friday. Not a bad goal, considering I don't have much of a life, and it's not a novel.

So let's see how that goes!!

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Oh Paper, How I love theee.

2011-05-28T23:41:00.003-05:00

That's Me. If I were Anne Hathaway playing Jane Austen, at least.

I never start a story on my laptop.

Seriously, never. It's so... bulky, electronic, and... dry.

I had begun watching 'Becoming Jane' today, and some of my favorite scenes have absolutely nothing to do with that Hot Dude from Limerick. It's when Jane is alone. For example:

-The opening scene of the film; it's early morning, and Jane is writing alone at a desk in a nightgown and shawl. It's so quiet; just the sound of a faucet dripping, snoozing piglets, her family sleeping. She plucks some notes out on the piano for inspiration, thinking. Then she finds the words, writes them down, reads over it, and in a little fit of accomplishment, plays a happy tune on the piano, waking the entire household (including the Pigs) and startling the maid.

-She just overheard Hot Dude from Limerick consider her work juvenile (after falling asleep during her open letter to her newly engaged sister), and runs upstairs to tear apart the pages she wrote. She then pulls out a trunk from under the bed, and opens it, reading over other pieces of her work-- it's filled with single pages of her writing, ink, quills, and all other literary paraphernalia. I love this one. It makes me think of my approach to writing, and the disorganization that comes with it.

To be completely honest, most of my writing is scattered about on sheets of paper of various sizes, shoved between notebooks and textbooks on my bookshelves and in drawers. Even the notebooks I have that are devoted to writing are paper-clipped and dog-eared like I just have no place to put my things.

But I love it. I love picking up an old journal and going through it for inspiration. I find stories I had completely forgotten about. It's like finding an old friend. And we become reacquainted, but with new knowledge and experiences to draw from, the friendship evolves into something else. Something better, perhaps? Or maybe something that would never come to fruition. And I enjoy seeing my handwriting on the pages. I change it, consciously, from time to time, just to play with lettering. And I love the way it feels between my fingers--the new paper, the old paper, the high quality versus low quality, the thin and thick, the recycled--the crinkling sound a melody in my ears as I leaf through my imagination.

Oh, and the look of the new sheet of paper. It is so intimidating, yet so inviting. I want whatever I write to be magnificent, but I want there to be imperfections as well. I'll doodle on it just to break it in.

I don't transfer stories to computer until I'm sure it is something I would like to seriously pursue, or eventually post online somewhere. Only then do I open my laptop. Even if I have more ideas for the story, I still begin on paper before transferring to a word document.

It's so difficult to think freely when you have a word processor correcting your misspellings and underlining your grammatical errors. The bright light is disturbing, I have to keep my hands on Home Row. My thoughts flow so well from my left hand to the pen to the paper, and the sound is much more soothing than the click-clacking of keys (which I enjoy as well, but only when blogging--which happens to be the only time I don't use paper).

Which brings me to pens. Oh... pens.

I'll save that for another post.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

P.S. I just started knitting! Check out my other blog for the amazing adventure... there's pics!

Day 2!

2011-05-27T20:11:00.003-05:00

Movie Review:

Okay, show of hands: Who actually saw the movie D.E.B.S.? Better yet, who here has heard of the movie?

That’s what I thought.

D.E.B.S., a satirical romance comedy based around a group of trained, hot, post-high school super-spies, is one of those off-the-radar, pseudo-cult films. To be truly honest, unless you like gay romance plots, or Michael Clarke Duncan, you probably wouldn’t have run into it.

The story takes place in a secret school that trains young women to be kickass spies. It’s like Charlie’s Angels in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms (Yes, they go on missions in these outfits too. Don’t ask me where they hide the guns.). On a surveillance mission gone awry, the star pupil of the school runs into one of the most dangerous criminals of the time, and the two hit it off... sorta. The story takes off from there with a little bit of cat of mouse, a dose of self-realization, and a teeny bit of acceptance. All to a pretty cool soundtrack. Especially this song.

When you look at the big picture, the film is totally cheesy and unrealistic, and for the most part, this is intentional. The reason I enjoy this film so much is because it reminds me (and other women, I’m sure) of my youth, when I had my imaginary spy missions, and foes to defeat. The romance aspect is cute, as well: a girl finding something out about herself, and risking everything for happiness.

LGBT film fans, put the movie on the shelf with Better Than Chocolate, Saving Face, The Incredibly True Adventure of 2 Girls in Love. It’s good for the days you want some lighthearted fun with your lesbian romance; it doesn’t all have to be about overcoming will-crushing adversity.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Day/Blog Post #1

2011-05-26T18:19:00.003-05:00

All right, so I ran into an unexpected 'no internet access for a few days' snag there, but things are back to normal! So today is officially Day one of my 30 Day Writing Challenge. Here's the first post I wrote up, but couldn't get on here:

About two months ago, I had a major panic attack. Since then, I have been having trouble sleeping. While I have managed to get the other panicky symptoms under relative control, this one seems to be a lingering black cloud over my head. I find myself too tense to just lay down at bedtime and drift off to sleep. My mind constantly races over various worries, like:

-What was that rumbling sound? (I live right next to the train)

-Why is Gretchen meowing? Does she know something I don’t?

-My breathing seems louder...am I sick?

-My hip hurts sleeping on this couch. Do I have a bone disease?

-Why is that train so loud? (I live right next to the train)

-What if a plane hits my building?

-What if I don’t wake up?

-I just took a deep breath. Why?

-Is that a cancerous bump/mole/scratch/itch?

-Did I lock the door?

-Will this place burn down?

-Why am I thinking these things? Am I foreshadowing a huge disaster/cataclysm?

So, to offset that, I turn on the TV to cartoons and read webcomics until my eyes can no longer stay open. This is normally around 2 or 3 a.m., and then I have to get up around 6:15 for work. I feel like a zombie, I’m out of sorts all day, and the same thing happens when I get home. Rinse and repeat.

I read somewhere that the lights from computer screens trick your brain into staying awake so, ultimately, that doesn’t help me fall asleep. The television doesn’t really affect me, but I wonder if the depth of my sleep is influenced by the constant (although quite low) audio. I’ll have to look that up.

I mean, I love the idea of unwinding after work with a good show and a good comic (or six), but not to the point where I share a bed (read: couch) with my laptop. So I would like to try out a few different remedies for more successful sleep--and hopefully, sleep that begins Before Midnight.

Note: Keep in mind, there are nights where I get good sleep-- with my boyfriend. Normally, when I stay with him, I can fall asleep to some music, or nod off while we watch a show, and be fine. But we don’t live together; and “a good night’s sleep” is not good enough reason to convince my guy to consider cohabitation.

So my goal here is: Good sleep, by myself, without the aid of numerous electronic appliances running all night (My electricity is included in rent, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be aware of my energy consumption).

A few remedies I am considering:

~Chamomile Tea

~Meditation Before Bed

~Carby Dinner (Think pasta)

~Reading a book (one you hold in your hands, with pages)

~Listening to music (Better than the visual stimulation)

The hardest part of this whole thing will be actually getting myself to try these. The last thing I want to do is trigger some kind of discomfort by straying from my normal routine. Let's see what happens.

But tell me: What are your pre-bedtime habits? Are they good? Bad? Have any ideas to help me get better sleep?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

'Get off your lazy ass and put your pen to paper' Writing Challenge!

2011-05-19T16:23:00.003-05:00

Actually, I don't even have to get off my lazy ass to do this.

I'm starting something of a Writing Challenge to jump-start my inspiration--or rather, keep the momentum going. Recently, I began writing again (after about 3 months of nothing.), and I'm so excited about it, I'm afraid I'll lose steam.

Well, I intend to prevent that from happening. I bet writing is in the Top Ten list of 'Things Most People fail to Stick with'. Right with Exercise, Healthy eating and Underwater Basket-weaving.

I started this blog a while ago, and would really love to put it to readable, enjoyable use. I need to get back into the habit of writing every day, even if it's about nothing at all. So I'll start this challenge off small.

30 Day Challenge:

-Create a writing 'ritual' to do before each writing session.

-Write a portion of my story every day

-Update this blog every day.

This is very open-ended. No word minimums (yet), and the blog can be about whatever I want it to be. The ritual is just my own little thing. I want to create a safe place for my writing, be it through the revamping of my current desk space, a little meditation beforehand, boiling the bones of a pigeon...

Before I truly begin this, today I will create a tentative outline of the story I started (by the seat of my pants), to try and prevent any possible dead ends. But consider this blog as Day One of the Challenge.

Anyone wanna join in? You can do this one, or any challenge you come up with, but at least we can hold each other accountable.

So ready for this.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

BLOG REVAMP!

2011-05-19T00:23:00.003-05:00

Yay! Changes coming soon! Nothing big, but you might see more words up here... and stuff. And I have a Twitter account now! I have no idea why I got that!

Coming soon:

Cheesy fight scenes

Really good movies/books

Really bad artwork

He-Man/She-Ra Reflections.

Stay tuned, dear reader. Because I know there's only one of you out there.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Windy City Enlightenment Part...um...

2010-10-21T20:01:00.003-05:00

Uh...

Shit, guys.

Visualize with me a moment: A young woman, sitting in the center of a red room. All around her are miniature storms, thundering loudly, raining wildly, bumping into one another, but maintaining their strength. The wind is whipping her hair, destroying the objects in the red room. A lamp crashes to the floor. The bookshelf tilts to the right, against the television. Pieces of cushion are being ripped from the couch and futon, swirling in the mess of the mini storms.

Within these storms are aspirations, ideas, fears, roads less traveled--and they're fighting with one another, trying to win the woman over, this woman who is staying still, seated in the center of her red room, whipping hair, torn clothing and all. The world around her is falling apart, and she remains there, unmoved.

The question is... does she continue to stay still, and allow this destruction to continue while the storms brew, become stronger? She does love the chaos.

Or should she get up, and attempt to make something out of this torrential predicament? These storms are fighting with one another, but they all share something...

Her.

Perhaps she should use this knowledge and accept that each and every one of these storms is a part of her, take them in, and learn to work with them. It's one thing to watch a part of yourself go wild and take over, but it is quite another to control it, to dictate its direction, its strength, its affect on yourself and those around you.

It is time to take this mess, and bring it within. Only there can I learn to understand and manage its potential to be something beneficial, something beautiful.

Anyone who knows me, knows that my interests vary, and it makes it hard for me to make decisions when it comes to how I want to make money, how I want to be happy. In the past, I have seen it as a burden (as have others), continuing to feel frustration with my inability to be happy with any move I make. I cannot do that any longer, because the wide array of interests I have make me who I am, and without that, I could never be the well-rounded individual that I am now. What I can do, is attempt to apply a little more logic to my interests-- what is worth the traditional education? What can I learn on my own? What are other ways for me to learn than merely taking a class or reading a book? How can I experience other interests and aspirations of mine that would satisfy my need to learn about everything?

It's possible that I am just not going to have a Bachelor's, Master's or PhD. And let's face it; my need for those was strongly based on values placed upon me as a child--which I do not regret in the least, and I will be forever grateful to my parents for instilling in me the aspiration to be the best I can be.

I'm tired of people cringing at the thought of me NOT becoming some corporate professional whats-her-face. I'm a fucking ARTIST. A Musician, a Writer, Performer, you name it--if it's an art, I have either tried it, am about to try it, or am currently doing it. So when it comes to career paths, and how I make money, it will not be as conventional as some may hope. And I probably won't live above the Starving Artist line for a long time.

And if you're tired of me expressing another interest of mine, another aspiration, another way of thought, another path, well...

Deal.

This blog post is a message of self-acceptance.

This has been another installment of the Windy City Enlightenment Series.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Fourth (Fifth?) Time's a Charm!

2010-07-15T10:55:00.002-05:00

Moved in, Kitty-fied, Working, Singing, Burlesque-ing, Writing.

And now it's time to go back to school.

Again.

I mean it this time. Don't laugh. Don't roll your eyes. I've got it figured out.

So while I work on my next Burlesque show and pending Number One Hit Single on the Pop/R&B/Trip Hop/Disco(?) charts, I have to continue my dream of becoming a Sexy Librarian. Yes, it is still a goal of mine, so now, I am hunting for local schools (Northeastern, UIC, maybe?) to obtain my major in English, and my minor in... Art History? It's the one sticking out at me. And then it's on to Grad school! For a Master's in Library Science!

Goddess, I am such a nerd. Envy me.

In other news... the webcomic is still going. I'd like to at least have a web host figured out by the end of a August, and as for panels... keep you posted.

I'm writing a new story, in the realm of uh... Drawing room comedy, I suppose? Look up the definition. I don't understand why I didn't go this route before. Although, I feel like my dreamer eyes will soon pop out of my head and I'll want to make it into a short film, or something. But right now, just words.

I'm racing against the clock writing this post (I have 4 minutes and 25 secs to go. No. 16.), so let's keep it brief for now.

Hey, have you checked out my songs yet? You know, the ones on Facebook? And Soundclick? And MySpace?

Until next time (which will be sooner than 4 months from now),

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

When in doubt, Get Distracted!

2010-03-28T19:44:00.002-05:00

By everything else possible.

This is what writers do best. We get distracted, and procrastinate until backed into a corner. We'd rather clean the spaces in the bathroom tiles than come up with a new story idea, or continue with one that's already there.

Or maybe it's just me.

I'm trying to get settled into this whole 'full time job', '1.5 hour commute each way', 'why do I have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn', 'dammit, it's time to go to bed' lifestyle. Managing my time is about as easy as chewing tinfoil (try it; it's not fun. Nor is it easy.), and I just don't feel like micromanaging myself.

But if I ever want to write again, it's something I'll have to do.

On the upside, I've been finding more balance within myself when it comes to 'inner peace,' and that connection between mind and body. I've also been expanding the social circle at an increasing speed and it has helped me to learn some things about myself, this city, how I see other people. And who knows? Maybe that's more important for me before I can get back into my old grooves.

Or maybe I'm carving out some new grooves to follow... in which case, patience is key.

All I know, is that my quality of sleep has been terrible. Either I stop breathing as I fall asleep, or I anxiously wake myself up, neither of which are good. So my health (physical and mental) has been taking precedence lately. Perhaps writing can be part of the healing process...perhaps music, or painting, or dancing. Or singing? I don't know.

Or maybe I need therapy.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

"Them be thinkin words..."

2010-02-06T17:00:00.000-06:00

I found this unpublished post among my blog entries, and it made me want to start a series of posts discussing my ideas on artistic abilities and mental stability.

(I began this in June of 2008)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was reading a Shia Lebouf article. And he was making the point that the really good actors are screwed up; they're in pain. I let that thought marinate, noticing how incredibly true it is for any artist.

In no other profession but that of the artist do the dark passages of life come through so clearly through their work. Art is about observance, interpretation and growth. We cannot observe the good without the bad in order to properly appreciate and interpret. Everything we create is an interpretation of what we observe, feel, think, sense. Growth is not possible without desires, pain, mistakes, disappointments. After all, what point is life without growth? We would all be stuck in this constant state of infancy assuming everything is fine (many are already in this state). And all of the great lessons, the great questions, the great theories would never have come to fruition if none of us desired to grow.

If you really think about it, growth itself is a pain. It is a hunger, a natural desire deep within each of us that makes us strive to know (become, think, act, have, give) more. And it is never fulfilled because we never have enough time. Maybe that's why people die. A philosopher once said (and it's a common theory now) that if we were to live forever there would be no motivation. But I digress. I was discussing the artist.

The really great artists were/are what I call 'lopsided' (a term coined by my mother). Their pieces are moving, intricate, poignant, meaningful and a plethora of other adjectives that describe greatness. They are able to show indescribable feelings so clearly to the point of being understood by the ordinary person who has never studied art a day in their life. However, such genius would come with a price. Such an overdeveloped right hemisphere overpowers the left, leaving the artist socially disparate, and subpar when it comes to critical thinking and problem solving. I think this is why so many great artists die young. They may be able to express themselves through their work, but they can't solve their issues, or they try to cope, and it doesn't last long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was the end of that entry. I have a ton of thoughts bubbling in my head about this, and it will all come out on here, little by little.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

All right, LOOK. (Warning: Mini-Rant. That's ALL it is.)

2010-02-06T12:25:00.003-06:00

Something I wrote as a Facebook status:

"Absence makes the claws grow longer, the fangs sharper, the sarcasm venomous. Tread lightly."

Cute, right? I thought so. But why did I say that? I'm sure a few of you have your own interpretations, and some don't even know what the word "venomous" means, and that's okay.

Let me just say this:

I am a person that's all about the various forms of communication available to us today. We are NOT in the 1800's when all we could do was send a messenger out with a piece of paper and hope they got there before the milk spoiled. We have telephones, mobile phones, computers, and we STILL have letters that get to people a helluva lot sooner than a fortnight. And if you don't like to talk on your phone, you can Text. On the same phone that is in your hand. You can shoot emails, short messages on networking sites to get to a person. More than ever, our ability to get a message or converse with someone is absolutely possible.

So please, Fucking Use It.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Sometimes, Versatility can be a Hindrance.

2010-01-12T02:39:00.003-06:00

Before you claw at my face in your post-modernist knee-jerk reaction and accuse me of not being an advocate of progressive thought, hear me out.

Have you ever thought, perhaps, just for a teeny second, that things would be easier if you didn't have so many choices? I mean, think about it. We can easily spend 10 minutes in the toothpaste aisle deciding between a gel or a paste, one with whitener with extra fluoride, or one that whitens and tastes like baking soda, one that is green, or white, spearmint, wintermint, and some random berry flavor, and either a plastic tube, or a pump. All for a two minute job in the morning and evening.

Or what about body wash? Toothbrushes? (Soft, medium, hard bristles? Ergonomic grip for those with carpal tunnel?) Razors? Canned vegetables? *sigh* Don't get me started.

But I'm not talking about the usually daunting task of grocery shopping for the overly cerebral (like me), I'm actually only referring to my own abilities. Here's what I mean:

I started out going to UofM auditioning for Musical Theatre. When that didn't pan out, I thought about Journalism. I left the school, and considered becoming a Paralegal, and a Private Investigator. I joined bands to become a Rock Star. I began reading up on Technology and considered a career in IT. I began teaching myself a programming language and messed around with computers. I considered the CIA for 3 years in high school. I decided on becoming a writer about 2 years ago, all the while looking up Interior Design and Event Planning. I thought about Culinary School as well, and am strongly considering getting a Masters in Library Science.

And now, here I am, reconsidering again. For... (drumroll please)... Advertising. You know, copywriting, mostly, but being the brainchild behind the successful implementation of a brand or cause in general. (It didn't come out of nowhere, Advertising has always been a possibility with me, I just didn't think I could cut it)

Now, I know everyone goes through these phases of looking at the possibilities, but aren't those desires supposed to fade away when you hone in on something that you know works for you? I mean, even just a little bit?

I was reading up on brain dominance, and remembered the quiz I took on FB that said that I had a balanced brain (Now, it is by no means a reliable source to cite, but, well, this is a blog. So biased writing calls for unreliable sources.). Now this sounds great, right? It means, I have the ability to solve problems using both hemispheres of my brain making me that much more creative during the process. However, it can make me quite indecisive, especially in the realm of choosing a career, because I am good at so many things...or at least, have a strong interest in so many things. It makes total sense!

So my problem is this: I really really want to be an author/singer/musician/private investigator/librarian/computer genius/scientist/dancer/copywriter. And anthropologist. And none of these wants have lessened, or died down for another to shine in any way. And for me to feel truly happy, I want/need all or most of these things to be happening in my life, because I have a constant feeling of missing out on something if they aren't.

How the hell do I combine those into my SuperCareer? That's what I need. A SuperCareer. Does anybody else have this problem? Is anyone else as crazy as I am? I know you are. Show yourself.

*shakes head*

Like I said, a Hindrance.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Either the wine and coffee helped me grow cajones...

2010-01-02T21:53:00.003-06:00

Or I just genuinely have more confidence in my writing.

Whatever the reason, I applied to a CopyWriting gig today. I had to supply a couple of samples as well as do a write-up in the style they are hiring for, which just so happens to be a little up my alley. So maybe they'll see that and love me and hire me. Full-time with benefits? I'll take it.

Aside from that, I've been writing a little bit every day so far, and this is a huge deal for me. Usually I go on binges, and then stop for a month or more. No more Literary Bulimia. Time to treat my creative ink-well with respect. That being said, here's one of my Flash Fiction pieces I submitted to be considered:

"Panties"

As we ran from the cops, it occurred to me that I had left my panties in the back seat of my girlfriend’s ’92 Taurus. The wind and our running kept lifting up my skirt, revealing freshly shaved parts, chilled to the core. I struggled, purse falling from my shoulder, to hold my skirt down with my right hand, while she dragged me with my left. We quickly turned left into an alley, ducking behind a garbage can next to a dumpster. It smelled of old cabbage and dog shit. The two cops chasing after us careened around the corner, stopping. They looked around in the dark with their oversized flashlights, not moving from their spots.

“You saw them come down here, right?” The chubby one asked the other chubby one. I couldn’t tell the difference between them; they were both stereotypical white male policemen that had grown comfortable in their not-so-dangerous line of work and probably couldn’t even pursue a one-legged crack addict for longer than three blocks.

“Yeah. Maybe they’re hiding in the dumpster,” Chubby Cop Number Two said, stepping forward. I gasped, and she clasped a hand over my mouth. Number One stopped Number Two. He seemed to be the leader.

“Is it really worth it? They were just foolin around in the back seat anyway,” he replied, then turned around, walking away. Number Two looked down the alley for a second, then followed him back.

We stayed quiet for a few more minutes, then stood up. Following my girlfriend to the street, she checked the street signs, then the road.

“Let’s get a drink. I think you deserve one,” she said, giving my butt a firm smack. As we walked down the sidewalk, I continued to hold my skirt down.

“You think that’s a good idea?” I asked, seriously wishing I had remembered to grab my panties.

“Sure it is. You’ve still got it, right?” I nodded, holding my purse tighter to me.

We stopped at a bar that had a rainbow flag flying high above its neon lit sign, “The Druid Pub”. Walking in, the place was filled with smoke, chatter and same-sex canoodling. We took a seat at the counter, and she ordered two Stellas. The bartender, a jock-type with pink hair and a lip piercing nodded, disappeared, and reappeared with our drinks. She passed him a 20, smiling, while I took a sip.

“Hey, Carrie, I really appreciate you doing this for me,” she said, putting a hand on my thigh. I could feel her inch farther up and I smirked, leaning in.

“What, running from the cops or put--” I was suddenly interrupted by a large Italian man in drag yelling,

“Hey bitches! Did ya miss me?” The bar erupted into applause and cheers, while Gloria Estefan’s song “Conga” began playing over the speakers. The drag queen started dancing (mostly three-step turning) around the room lip-synching the words while men and women held out cash for him to collect as the song played. We watched him and three others do the same thing with different songs, and then she tapped me, saying it was time to go.

We caught a cab ride headed to our destination, and on the ride there, she began kissing me and stroking my legs.

“Baby, you have been turning me on all night, knowing you’re not wearing any panties,” she breathed into my ear. I felt a hand graze past my spot, sending a chill up my spine. I kissed her back eagerly, slipping my hand into her pants. The cab ride slammed to a halt.

“We’re here.” the driver struggled to say it nicely as she passed him his fare with an extra five dollars and we slid out of the back seat. As we walked up to the dingy apartment building decorated with glass bits and cigarette butts, she paused, holding my elbow.

“Why don’t you just give it to me here?”

“Right here?” I asked, feeling my muscles clench. She looked around mockingly.

“There’s nobody here. Come on,” I sighed, handing her my purse. Slowly, I squatted, pulling the piece of rubber I left hanging out of my womanhood. Thanks to our minor session in the car, it was much easier to remove than the last time. I handed over the condom filled with two ounces of marijuana. If only my mother knew.

“You might want to wipe that off a little,” I said.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Dark Chocolate makes my tongue melt. In the good Way.

2009-12-28T19:45:00.003-06:00

Like a good, robust red wine. Mmm...

While the roommate is in the bathroom making out with her new TWA (teeny weeny afro), I thought I might do a little bit o' writing over here.

So I'm submitting 3 pieces to the Story Week Reader, all precise prose pieces under 750 words. I wrote drafts of all of them last night, and the deadline is New Year's Eve. I know, I know. But give me a break! I needed to recharge my literary Mojo. Now I'm raring to go, belly full of stories I've finished reading, and a cup overflowing with ideas for my rewrites and new "babies."

Speaking of which, I just finished "The Bell Jar." WHY DID I NOT READ THIS BEFORE? I really liked it. It's right up my alley--confused college aged girl not knowing what to do with her life and/or coping with grief and the pressure to be perfect, goes to nuthouse and gets better. Probably why I love "Girl, Interrupted" so much. (*note to self: Read that one too.)

A PenPusher thought:

Writers are always told to write what they know, right? Well, I want to know just about everything. I want to become a Private Investigator not just because I think it's cool to, well, investigate things, but also because I want to be able to use it one day in my writing. The same goes for sky diving, bungee jumping, stripping, having sex with a fat man, breaking an arm or leg or wrist, being committed, going on a road trip, being arrested, getting into a fight, eating a worm, drinking absinthe...you get what I'm saying.

Some of the things I do (including right now, Goddess help me) aren't the smartest, but it's something else I can write about. For that reason, I believe my language will be well-rounded, evoking through the pages a life well lived, a life worth living. I never was a fan of the stereotype of the writer that holes him/herself up day after day, trying to write some great novel but coming to nothing but numerous dead ends because they have nothing to write about.

The imagination, I believe, is fueled by life. If you've experienced nothing, what could possibly come out of that skull of yours? It starts somewhere; it starts with you, fellow writer/visionary of some other form, having an experience, be it good, bad, ugly, beautiful, terrifying or hilarious. I've had all of these. And I get to write about them. Top that.* Please?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

P.S: I'll be posting some of the things I've written in class as well as the Flash Fiction I'm submitting in the next few days. Lemme make it pretty fo ya first.

*WARNING: Pusher. of. Pens. does not condone the heavy use of drugs or other harmful substances (when ingested in large amounts), nor does she agree with stunts/acts that could Fucking Kill You. Pusher. Of. Pens. does not like real death. Just the pretty, melancholy, poetic symbolic kind of death that she writes about often.*

So now that I'm (seriously) willing to call myself a writer...

2009-12-18T12:43:00.002-06:00

I will post my Final Assignment from my Fiction 1 class. But first, some updates:

I'm done with the semester as of 12:36 pm today.

I go back to MI on the 20th, and have to leave ON the 25th to catch a 6:30 (pm) bus back here. Thanks, Club Monaco, for ruining my Holiday. Mom and Dad are pissed, too.

I have more than 30 days to get back to my normal level of (in)sanity, during which time I plan on reading 3 (or 4) books, writing/rewriting (and finishing) some stories, making awesome music, making money, and sleeping. And maybe even eating.

I can't FUCKING wait.

I'm so excited, I don't even want to make this sound pithy and shit. The normally scheduled writing genius will resume tomorrow.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Stream of thoughts

2009-10-15T23:31:00.004-05:00

I've got an idea for something I'd like to publish...

A collection of thoughts/memories/wishes, published into a book. Memoirs? Partially. Fiction? Mostly. Creative Nonfiction might be pushing it...

But I think this is what I want to do. As for when and how, well... just let me get it out on paper first.

I'm not sure if I feel like a Fiction Writing major yet. What is that? What does that mean? All I have to show for it so far are a bunch of assignments that are about 4-5 (or more) pages long on some random idea flying out of my head. Nothing finished. Nothing revised, peer reviewed. Nobody is telling me about my weaknesses, my strengths. People just remember things in the semi circle. Not that I expect these people to tell me what to do...we're all in the same position.

But I DO feel like a writer. I always have. THIS is what a writer looks like, THIS is what a writer does. I'm sitting here in a green face mask that keeps me from smiling all the way, surrounded by books, notebooks, journals, post-its (it's an obsession) and a pen. And I write in them simultaneously. Is that not a writer? I stay up until 4 or 5am, reading, writing, and learning about famous (and not so famous) authors, or random info that could help with my story-telling. Is that not a writer? I zone out in the middle of the street because I've realized what to do with one of my characters... I practically pull my hair out when I can't get down a single cohesive thought. Is that not a writer?

I linger on the simplest of words, the most complex words. I play with visualizations in my head, and attempt to turn it into something you can see right with me. I spit out all of my thoughts, but eat most of them. I eat everyone else's as well. I make no sense, but usually I do. My logic will never be your logic, and your creativity will fly past my head at times, but see, we've all got something to express.

And when I get to a point where I stop making sense (even to myself), I pick up a book and read. I read until all of it makes sense again, and I'm ready to give it another try.

This is one of those blogs where you just close the browser window and nod. And then you move on with your life.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

She's finally yawning...

2009-08-18T06:16:00.002-05:00

This is the second week in which my sleep pattern has been drastically shifted.

Nothing worries me, I have no big assignment to finish (yet), so I assume it's by the lack of daily tasks with time deadlines. All I know is my mind keeps running on high with thoughts, faster than it ever has before. I actually function better by the time darkness falls.

This will be about the 9th or 10th consecutive day in which sleep does not behold me until daylight peeks through the slits between the blinds...between 5:30 and 7. Almost as if I'm not allowed to sleep before then. When I see the light, I automatically become tired. It seems I've switched to a Nocturnal cycle (if only temporarily), or I'm slowly becoming a vampire (if only in my wildest dreams).

Do you know what it's like to be stuck in yesterday, today and tomorrow at the same time? Well, I do, now. It IS, in fact, possible.

So my day usually starts around 1:30 pm. And while I know I should feel like a lazy bum, I seem to sleep so damn well! I wake up in the best moods. Oh, if my days could stay like this when school starts...

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Windy City Enlightenment Part 3

2009-08-09T16:41:00.002-05:00

Here I am, older, wiser, a tad more furnished...

I have my things thanks to the Loving Parentals who drove all of my stuff up here (they just wanted an excuse to leave Michigan), bought me a bed for my birthday, then proceeded to test it out the night before they had to leave...

Once they left it was time to get the ball rolling.

Lesson Two:

a)-It's a new city, It's a new apartment, I have a new outlook on life...and with that, a new color scheme. Gone away are the typical blues and oranges and spritely stripes and polka dots. In with the darker, the deeper, the sensual...black, deep reds and burgundies, and hints of gold. Try something new, different. Think about who you are, and what reflects your style, your personal views, your soul...

b)-Dammit, kids, make a list of what you need to buy to get your place started. Don't forget the food. And then check off EVERYTHING on that list. And seriously, don't forget the food. I spent almost $400 at Satan's Playhouse (**Wal-Mart) to get me started, and never bought groceries. That was a hungry night, my friends, as I played with my comforters and built/organized my desks and shelves.

**Side note: Do not be alarmed if you ask an employee a question and they seem to back away in horror. It's only because in truth, they were captured and forced to work there against their own will.**

c)-Try not to be offended when a compliment goes horribly wrong. For example: I am very enthusiastic about building things/putting things together. And so, with said enthusiasm, I put together two desks, two chairs, two lamps and two bookshelves within 18 hours (with a little assistance from Darling Roomie). In awe of my innate ability to follow directions and screw things into holes, Darling Roomie exclaims,

"Dude! You're like a man...with boobs! It's amazing!"

(insert giant anime head with sweatdrop here) -_-'

I must say, having initially felt incredibly empowered by my lack of necessity for a "man's hand", I was immediately knocked down to the size of a mouse by being likened to the sex I thought I had no need for.

In this instance, I could have gone off on a feminist rampage about how women can never get away from men--if they don't need one, they must BE one, and so on--but I knew that she was just surprised at my skill with a screwdriver and hammer.

d)-When you're done setting up, don't sit around the apartment looking at your shit...GO OUT! It's a big place, kiddos, and not everything is "right around the corner". Experience life (remember that?).

So far I've been to the Museum of Contemporary Art, 4 nightclubs, a Farmers Market, a ton of restaurants, a handful of coffee shops, 1 music venue, Lollapalooza, Water Tower, and I'm discovering new places everyday. And they don't ALL cost money (Actually, Lolla was free for me by way of MIRACLE, I'm thinking). Look for cheap nights on the town. Get all the local weekly papers, grab all the flyers that tickle your fancy, and get some culture!

Now's the time to take control of your life. I suggest you do it.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Journey to the Center of ME

2009-08-07T02:15:00.001-05:00

I lay on the ground, face down, feeling the cold Earth against my sunken cheek. The flesh was beginning to fall from my bones, no longer necessary in my own forthcoming death.

Taking a deep breath, I try to capture something besides the scent of dirt--no, I must go farther down...about six feet.

A faint hint of what I once was, of what I was going to become.

She's down there, dormant, motionless. Paralyzed.

The smell makes me dizzy with memories; memories of when I wasn't so afraid to express. Memories of when every idea in my head fell out onto paper so that I would never forget.

A tear falls from my eye...regret for the lost thoughts, the lost memories, the lost "Me".

Slowly, I take a finger and begin to burrow a small hole in the ground. A short hiss of air emits from the hole as if under pressure, and I breathe it in, hoping.

It was the scent of life.

I know that smell anywhere. She was still alive. I imagined her eyes wide open, patiently awaiting my return. I sat up, and began to dig with both hands, frantic. I wasn't sure how much time I had left, but I'd be damned if I spent another moment slowly deteriorating in this shell. I needed her, I needed her to fill me out, to give me color, to make me feel...whole.

As I dig deeper and deeper, it comes back to me--the ideas, the stories, the daydreams, the hopes. I am so close, so close. And even though the ground seems even harder to move, I Will keep Going. There's dirt in my hair, my nails, my mouth, between my toes. I'm beginning to feel sluggish, tired from the effort. But NOTHING will stop me. NOBODY will stop me.

Just a little bit farther. I can feel her getting closer to my hands. Just a little bit deeper, and she can breathe again...

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Windy City Enlightenment...Part Two

2009-07-23T10:59:00.002-05:00

I had money when I got into town, I swear...

Where the hell did it go? *Looks around, checks wallet*

*sigh* It's my birthday and I'm broke, with no furniture.

But damn, this city is pretty...

It's amazing the things you tell yourself you're capable of when you realize that things won't turn out the way you had planned it perfectly in your head.

Here is Lesson One in my Windy City Enlightenment series:

~If you move to a city with no job and a "delayed" monetary cushion, act as if you have no money. And when you receive said cushion, keep acting that way. Chicago is expensive. And it eats up your money by attracting you with delicious pizzas and sandwiches and 7-day bus passes (that get lost) and bar-hopping to see Shane from 'The Real World'.

~That being said, don't treat the job search as if you have your pick of the litter. This is a big city, and there are tons of people who think they're perfect for the job you're applying for. So apply everywhere, apply often. And if you think you're "too good" for a job, chances are, you're not. So apply anyway. It'll probably get you out of a quick jam.

Thus ends this episode of "Windy City Enlightenment". Tune in next time when we discuss...something else that hopefully has absolutely nothing to do with money.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

I Call this 'Hell Week'

2009-07-21T15:58:00.003-05:00

It starts on the 21st and ends on the 26th, or 27th. Depends on the year.

I woke up this morning in panic, haunted by a dream that seems all too familiar and prophetic. It is soon followed by frantic texts to certain people, making sure they're okay. If I call, I'll cry. Hell, if I text, I cry.

I remembered it's her birthday. She would have been 31 today. I think back to our phone conversation that night...that year: Laughing, talking about her ability to hold tequila, driving around..

It's also my parents' anniversary today. But I can't bring myself to press the call button.

The next day is the 23rd. My birthday. I'll be 23. Should I make a wish? No, I'll be too lost in my thoughts of our last phone call that night...that year: She wishes me happy birthday, we talk of my coming back home. She agrees to pick me up that weekend herself.

Maybe this year Chicago will distract me out of my birthday funk.

Then it's the 25th. I recall having trouble sleeping that night...that year. It carries on into the early morning of the 26th. I felt odd...I wanted to call her. I had a dream with my dad and I in the living room. We were sad...he hugged me, and I knew someone had died. I thought it was him.

The 26th. The worst of them all. The ill-fated call that morning 4 years ago, rousing me out of my sleep with a jump. My heartbeat racing, tears coming to my eyes before I could even answer the phone.

"Tyrie's dead! He killed her!" I hear the broken voice of the strongest man I ever knew on the other line...sobbing.

"What?" was all I could muster.

I said it over and over and over again, in disbelief. I screamed at the top of my lungs, literally watching the world crumble around me. I was hysterical. I knew I was going to die. And part of me did.

Not my sister, not Tyrie. Not my best friend. Not the only one I told everything to. Not the one who promised we would grow old together. Not that one. It was impossible. Our connection was too strong. But I already knew it. I knew it the night before. I knew it a month before. I knew I wouldn't get to have her for that long. I knew from the beginning.

Like I said, 'Hell Week'.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Windy City Enlightenment...Part One

2009-07-02T16:31:00.001-05:00

The lease has been signed, the keys in my hand, utilities on (almost), and I'm still here. Tying up loose ends, making some extra cash, saying my goodbyes.

The roomie (Bri) is already there setting up her stuff, keeping busy breaking in the appliances and plumbing, I'm sure.

My last day in this beautifully decrepit increasingly suicidal state: July 17.

So everyone has a chance to say bye, cuz, you know, I'm not gonna be as accessible. (If that changes up your routine, I do not apologize)

New chapter, new people, new lessons. This is what I hope to find in Chicago.

Wish me luck? It's a long time coming, and I sure could use a little...

Windy City Enlightenment.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Maybe it's hormones...

2009-05-17T19:49:00.002-05:00

I'm contemplating reopening the dungeon door that keeps the more melancholy side of me safely hidden and subdued. It has awakened and is softly tapping on the cold steel, knowing only I would hear it.

The rhythmic rapping seduces me...I am unfamiliar to it at first, but begin to remember as the sound crescendoes, increasing in pace...

Wanting to ignore it, I plug my ears, but to no avail. Because it is inside of me. The tapping becomes deafening, resonating in my chest, my loins, my feet. I am hypnotized as a I walk to the dungeon door, slowly turning the deadbolt...

It is inside of me, all around me, it is me. I AM melancholy. Melancholy is me. We embrace, we kiss, we make love, we become one.

It/she allow(s) me to embrace the ugly, the decadent, the lousy, the uncomfortable, the bad, the seemingly evil...allowing me balance. Melancholy allows me to see beauty in everything.

It/she allows me to indulge in my darker thoughts without fear of what others may think of me, and without fear of losing myself; because my thoughts are just as much a part of me as my actions.

And for many, our unspoken thoughts are much more important/honest than our expected actions influenced by society.

The old ones are fading.

Fresh scars will/please me

Day and Night at your command

My/own/power lies in your hand

around my throat

until I understand/what it means

To live.

~Pusher.Of.Pens~

I get it now.

2009-04-29T13:42:00.003-05:00

I feel I have to over-indulge in the human experience.

And when I've had my fill, and cannot take anymore, my mouth waters and I regurgitate descriptives, locations, character bios. I keep purging until I taste the gastro-intestinal acid of the last word.

And the cycle starts all over again. But I'm not sure I'm very fond of this. Perhaps my process is going too slow...should I speed up the binge?

Or rather, it's about taking time to savor every human experience, allowing it to roll around in my mouth, slowly breaking down into something that I can swallow, but leave on the taste buds of my mind to be savored yet again at a later time.

Isn't that what we're supposed to do?

It's hard. Hard to savor. Life is going at break-neck speed. Naturally? No. It's forced.

And so is my Sci-Fi novel. Trying too hard to make it sound like something I'm not quite feeling. Maybe the language, maybe too much Science Fiction for me to write about. Maybe I'm overanalyzing it. Either way, it doesn't feel write--right.

Fight back for the natural urge.

What comes natural? The Call. I flow in and around the story, adding in pieces of me like a puzzle as I go. And they all fit. I almost seduce myself in a way...wanting to believe the words, wishing for it...

I savor The Call. I vomit my Sci-Fi. Which is better for me?

But I digress.

Almost have a new tattoo figured out... Going along the side of my body from left hip to maybe just under the breast. Or over? Dark, gothic roses. Only black, maybe a deep purple...mauve... I need thorns. This is how I'm feeling. Not depressing, beautiful and imperfect. Delicate and piercing.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

You REALLY wanna know how geeky I am?

2009-04-21T14:28:00.002-05:00

WARNING: This post will involve links about Space Travel and my thoughts on Technological Advances/Prophecies. If you don't give a shit, or it scares you, go back to your Facebook-ing, please.

Here:

Stephen Hawking is totally gonna go to space one day.

Aaand if you haven't heard about this yet, shame on you:

Space Tourism?

Or this:

Let's go on vacay in orbit, honey.

Tell me that shit's not exciting. Honestly, I completely agree with Hawking's belief that in order for the human race to survive, a good chunk of us need to expand and inhabit other planets before this one's destroyed by the dumb-fucks that think they run it.

I don't know about you, but if I had the money (which I eventually will), I would be first in line to get the hell outta here and explore/set up on some other planet. I know I'm a sci-fi geek, but I'm also serious. I'm all about going into the unknown. I know it wouldn't be as cool as Serenity or Buck Rogers, but, hell. Someone's gotta do something.

This is going in a good direction. Space Exploration is so competitive that the price will go down quickly. It has already gone down from a couple million for Suborbital Space Flight to just over 100 grand. How much longer until there's a commercial liner that takes a whole grade of High School students at a reasonable price?

There's a lot of things I plan on doing in my lifetime, and with all of the new leaps taken in technology, my lifespan could easily double before I hit 45. And then imagine the new door of possibilities that would open when you have a longer time to experience it. As a self-proclaimed technophile, the Singularity is something I hope will be reached in my lifetime.

I'm not trying to get all prophetic on ya, but Science Fiction is becoming non-fiction. And it's freakin sweet.

Obviously, I have begun writing my Sci-Fi Novel again. Sweet, sweet relief.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

I'm still here, I swear.

2009-04-07T16:23:00.002-05:00

I had to take a break from this, for fear of poisoning my blog with a bunch of ridiculous emotions. Things are better now. Well enough to keep them to myself. So here's an update!!!

1) I got into Columbia!

2)Been seriously considering getting back on track with my Sci-Fi Story. Funny how talking about it with people makes me want to write it even more. But first, I need to brush up on my Sci-Fi lingo.

3)Living back at home REALLY makes you thankful for the uninterrupted quiet moments.

4)Loving Beau is now Hopefully Really Good Friend After Some Time Has Passed.

5)There are things on here I DEFINITELY want to say, but it's a process. So I'll stick with my stories.

6)I'm going to look back into some of my older writings, and may post them on here. Feeling a little nostalgic, and I want to put more of myself out there.

7) Going to Cali next month for some much needed relaxation (read: partying until my heart explodes and liver falls out)

That's it for now. Just wanted you to know I haven't completely disappeared.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Chapter Three

2009-03-19T00:52:00.002-05:00

CHAPTER THREE

Lorenzo sat alone at the desk of his study, flipping through a small photo album. It mostly contained old black and white photos of his parents, his sister, Varina, and himself. Towards the end of the album, there were more and more pictures of him, and his former fiancé, Meredith.

With each turn of a page, Lorenzo’s eyes furrowed more, and his chest tightened. By the time he got to the last page, he scowled, ripped it up, and threw the book across the room. He stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. As he paced back and forth in the hallway, memories of the start of his cursed eternity flooded back to him.

New England

April 7, 1866

“You know, Lorenzo, if you keep treating your fiancé with so much respect and admiration, we men may get the wrong idea,” Lorenzo’s friend Edward said jokingly. It was a party in celebration of Edward’s acceptance into Medical School, and everyone was happily drinking. Lorenzo had his arm around Meredith’s waist, and had just finished boasting to Edward and other colleagues about how great of a poet and writer she was.

“God forbid a man accepts a woman with a talent other than matchmaking or tea-brewing,” Meredith replied. The group laughed.

Lorenzo made a point of having friends that were open-minded intellectuals, bent on not conforming to society standards. They believed in equality between the sexes, and unlimited knowledge gain, always asking questions. Meredith was a very creative woman, who spent plenty of her time writing, painting, and even drawing up some of her own fashions which she dared to wear in public. Partnered with Lorenzo’s hard lawyer logic, the pair seemed like a match-made in Hell, but the two complemented each other very well, sharing the same ideas and sense of humor.

The night went on as the couple and their friends drank, talked about Edward’s plans, Lorenzo’s latest success in the courtroom, and politics. Around 2am, Meredith stifled a small yawn, signaling that it was time to leave. The two grabbed their things, congratulated and thanked Edward, and began to walk.

“Let’s just keep walking, love. It’s so nice outside, and we’re only a little ways’ away.” Lorenzo said, taking Meredith’s hand. She giggled, and stumbled.

“It may be a good idea. I’m a bit tipsy.”

As they walked along the empty street, they heard a rustling sound in a nearby alley. They stopped, trying to hear the sound again, but it was silent. As they started walking again, the rustling began again. Beginning to feel uneasy, Lorenzo held Meredith closer.

“Let’s cross the street,” he said, leading her to the other side.

“What’s wrong? What was that noise?” she whispered.

“I’m not sure, let’s just hurry ba-” but he was interrupted by a dark figure standing in front of him. He couldn’t see its face, but he could see its teeth, and they shone brightly in the darkness. Suddenly, he heard Meredith scream. Looking to his left, another dark figure was holding her by the waist with his teeth deeply sunk into her chest. Lorenzo leapt on the back of the figure, wrapping his arms around its head when he felt a startling pain in the side of his neck. He could feel the blood leaving his body as his arms fell from the monster. The last thing he saw before he went unconscious was his wife’s limp body being carried away.

When Lorenzo came to, he was on the floor of what looked like a basement. There was a table with many different sized vials filled with various colored substances. He tried to get to his feet, but still felt too weak.

What is this feeling…like all of the energy has been sucked out of me?

Remembering what had just happened; Lorenzo reached for his neck, and felt two puncture holes. But there was no blood. He also noticed that his coat was missing. Lorenzo slowly rose to his feet with the aid of a nearby chair, sitting on it. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a small silver locket. Opening it up, he looked at the picture of Meredith.

“Meredith…what have they done to you?” he whispered aloud, tears welling up in his eyes. His fist tightly clenched around the locket, he wiped the tears away. He could feel his body get hot, all the way up to his ears. Lorenzo stood up.

“Hello?!” he bellowed. Silence.

“Show yourself, if you dare!” he began to look around the dimly lit basement.

“Where is my fiancé? You will pay!” Suddenly, a door opened on an upper level, and a woman stepped out into the light. She was in a man’s violet-colored suit, with straight black hair, alabaster skin, and crimson red lips. The corners of her mouth turned up, barely discernible.

“There’s no need to scream and yell. It’s rather rude.” She said calmly.

“Where is Meredith?! Where is my fiancé?”

“Don’t get too excited; you’ll merely waste the little energy you have.” She replied, walking down the steps to face him. Once face-to-face, he realized that she was quite statuesque, just 4 inches shy of his 6’3 figure. He also noticed that her eyes were a bright, unnatural green.

“Why am I here? And where is Meredith?” he asked again, holding onto the chair for leverage.

“My, you’re like a parrot, aren’t you? Is that all you know how to say? Be polite. Introduce yourself. My name is Carmella. And you are…?” the woman asked, grabbing a hold of his shirt collar. Lorenzo quickly swatted her hand away.

“Relax, I merely want to take a look at the bite marks on your neck.” She pulled his shirt collar down, looking at the scar. As she licked her lips, Lorenzo asked,

“Are you doctor?” Carmella raised an eyebrow, looking up at him.

“No, I just like to see my own work up close.” She replied, beginning to laugh. Lorenzo pulled away, shaking his head.

“You did this to me?!” He stepped back, wiping his clammy hands on his vest.

“I want out of here…”

“—Where will you go?” she interrupted. “You are no longer normal. You are part of the undead. A completely different species.”

“But—my wife—“

“Your wife was weak. She would not have been able to take it. Besides, I don’t work well with the competition,”

Lorenzo’s face went pale.

“You—you killed my” he choked on the words in disbelief. “You killed my wife?”

Carmella stared at Lorenzo as if he were dumb. “Well—yes. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I’m only required to kill one, and I made my choice.”

Lorenzo felt the room spinning around him.

“You kill—for sport?” his lids felt heavy. He could feel her watching him.

“It’s not really a sport…it’s a necessity…for our kind…but you must be overwhelmed.” Carmella took his hand, leading him up the steps. He was dragging behind, with very little energy keeping him conscious.

“Where are you taking...,” Lorenzo dropped to the floor as they exited the dungeon. He could feel himself losing consciousness. The room became blurry, and began to spin. As he looked up at Carmella, she smiled, winking at him. He fell to the floor and everything went black.

This time, when Lorenzo woke up, he was in a large baroque period canopy bed. The frame and posts were gold, the sheets violet, and the veil was a sheer crimson. Wiping his face in confusion, he felt wetness near his mouth. Lorenzo held out his hand, and yelped at the sight of blood. He quickly looked to his right, and there was a young naked woman lying dead face-up with her eyes still open. Blood was soaking through the sheets, and there were various bite marks on her body. Lorenzo jumped out of bed, falling onto the floor.

He frantically looked for his clothes, trying as quickly as possible to get out of the bedroom. Searching everywhere but finding nothing, he finally opened up one of the great oak armoires and grabbed a robe. He ran to the door, but it was locked from the inside. He slammed his shoulder against it a couple times, but to no avail. He scanned the room. No windows. He banged on the door repeatedly.

“Hello?! Can anyone hear me?!” he yelled. He continued to bang.

“Help me! I’m locked in here! Help me!” his hands began to hurt, so he stopped. Trying to calm himself down, he began to pace back and forth.

“Think logically, Lorenzo. What was the last thing you remembered?” he asked himself aloud.

He remembered meeting that woman…Carmella. She took him upstairs, and then he lost consciousness. Then he woke up here, next to the dead woman.

“No, Lorenzo. You were awake at some point in between.” He sat on the edge of the bed, deep in thought. They were broken, however by the sound of the door slowly unlocking. When it opened there was a young woman dressed in bland servant clothes, with wavy blonde hair, holding neatly folded clothes that appeared to be his. Her face was of the same paleness as Carmella’s, only her eyes were brown, and had a comforting openness to them. Lorenzo stood up, instinctively standing in front of the dead woman’s body.

The young woman took a step forward, holding out his clothes.

“Once you are dressed, the Mistress would like to see you in her study,” she said, her head remaining lowered.

“And where might that be?” Lorenzo asked frustrated.

“It is to the left at the end of the hall. But I am to escort you.” She replied. Lorenzo grabbed his clothes from her. The woman looked up, but not at him, at the dead woman lying on the bed behind him. Her eyes squinted, and she sniffed.

“She is not dead, you know,” she whispered. Lorenzo turned to her.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“If you do not finish her, she will come back as one of us. The Mistress does not like unplanned turns, especially women. You must finish her.” She answered quickly, in a hushed tone, as if Carmella could hear them.

“I will do no such thing,” he answered, beginning to put his clothes on.

“But you must!” She hissed.

“No, and that is final. Let her come back. I want nothing to do with ‘finishing her’”

The woman’s eyes grew wide, but suddenly, her face twisted into a smile.

“May I?” she asked, biting her lip.

“I—what?”

“It will only take a second, I promise. You will be fully dressed by the time I’m done.” She began to inch toward the bed, slowly. Lorenzo grabbed her arm pulling her away.

“I will not be witness to your bloodlust. Take me to Carmella now.” He said, buttoning his vest. The woman scowled, but did as she was told.

She led him down a hallway with paintings of what may have been her family, or perhaps just art. They were all dark, painted with deep burgundies blues and greens. Any lightness in the paintings was merely the skin color or the whites of the subjects’ eyes. As Lorenzo looked at the paintings he began to feel slightly depressed, slowly beginning to see what he had become and the kind of life he had in store.

When they arrived to a door at the end of the hallway, the woman knocked three times, and then stepped aside.

“This is where we part. Good luck, sir.” She whispered and quickly walked down the hall. So quickly, in fact, it seemed as if she were floating. Lorenzo’s eyes followed her, wondering if she was going back to “finish” that woman, when he heard the door open. Turning back, he met Carmella’s penetrating gaze.

“Good evening, Mr. Rinaud,” she said, opening the door wider to let him in. He stepped inside, immediately awestruck by the vast amount of books in her study. Her desk was covered in papers, some with an unidentified script. In the center, he noticed a thick black book with a strange symbol on the front. Carmella followed his eyes to the book.

“It is a book of Vampiric Law. A little too thick if I may say, but rules were made to be broken,” she said, chuckling to herself. She walked over to the desk, opening a drawer. She took something out, placing it in his hand.

“This belongs to you,” Lorenzo opened his hand, revealing the locket. Instinctively, he put his hand to his pocket not even realizing that it had gone missing.

“I didn’t want anything to happen to it while you were…well…” Carmella trailed off with a sly smile.

“How are you feeling Mr. Rinaud? Well-rested?” she asked, sitting down at her desk. Lorenzo’s jaw clenched, knowing her angle.

“That woman…” he began, not wanting to go any further.

“You killed her. You drank her blood.” Carmella replied.

“I did not. I could not.” He said, backing up to the door.

“You seduced her promising her a great time, and then you bit her.” She said, standing up, her eyes glowing with excitement.

“No. Impossible.” he said, holding up his hands, continuing to back up.

“Numerous times. All over her body. I know, I watched.”

“I’m no killer!” Lorenzo yelled, his back hitting the door.

“Yes you are!” Carmella yelled back, suddenly inches from his face. Her grimace softened, and she began to stroke his cheek.

“Face it, Lorenzo. This is who you are now. You kill to survive. And you do it well. Better than me,” she stepped away from him. Lorenzo staggered to a chair sitting next to the desk, allowing himself to slink down.

“Vampire…” he muttered. He had to accept. There was no way out. Kill or starve. He rubbed his temples, allowing the defeat to set in. Eternity as a monster.

Carmella walked to one of her bookshelves. After a quick browse, she grabbed a book handing it to him.

“What is this?” Lorenzo asked, inspecting the blank cover.

“That is everything you need to know about your new life.”

Lorenzo snorted. “New life? How does one live a life in darkness?” Carmella turned to him, her brows furrowed.

“Mr. Rinaud, what you speak of is a construct of time…day and night. Vampires and humans are merely on opposite circadian cycles. Just because we cannot go out in daylight, we must end our existence? I pegged you for someone more intelligent.” Carmella went over to her desk again, this time, pulling out a bottle of bourbon and two snifters. After pouring two glasses, she handed one to Lorenzo.

“Let’s make a toast…to your new life.”

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Chapter Two.

2009-03-18T23:05:00.003-05:00

CHAPTER TWO

Lucia awoke to the rain slowly pelting the window next to the desk in her bedroom. She opened her eyes and saw the sun set peeking through the curtains next to her desk, the light slowly dimming to darkness. She quickly sat up.

“I’m home?” she asked aloud. Taking a quick look around, she hopped out of the bed. Her clothes from the night before were nowhere to be found, and she was in a completely different outfit.

How did I get here? What happened to Lorenzo?

As last night’s events rushed back to her, she went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, breathing a sigh of relief. Her reflection was still there. That’s probably just a superstition anyway, she thought to herself. She checked her neck for bites, and saw none. Puzzled, she went back to her bedroom and sat on the bed.

“Okay,” she muttered. “If I don’t remember how I got here, maybe my friends don’t even realize I’m back.” She picked up her cell phone on the nightstand, and speed-dialed her friend Mai.

“What’s up?” Mai’s voice answered, sounding distracted. She could hear the television in the background.

“Hey, uh, what happened last night?” Lucia knew she would sound weird if she told her what actually happened.

“Last night? Um, I worked til 2, ate some pizza, went to bed. You?”

“Ah—didn’t we go…dancing…?” A chill went up Lucia’s spine.

“Uh, yeah, about a week ago. Why?”

“Didn’t I leave?”

“Yes, asshole, you did. I stopped by your place the next day, and you looked like death had washed over you. But when I called that night, you didn’t pick up. What the hell is—are you okay?”

“Let me talk to you later,” Lucia said, feeling the blood drain from her face. She closed her cell phone, and began to shake her head. Why couldn’t she remember the past week?

She decided to use a meditation technique her grandmother had taught her. She sat on the floor with her legs crossed, and took 3 deep breaths.

Think, Lucia, think. What did you do? What did you do?

She could only get short flashes of the past days— first she saw Lorenzo, then she remembered closing the door on her friend Mai. Lucia continued to concentrate.

Where was I?

Then she saw herself in the shower, washing her body and mouth. She looked down and saw blood running down the drain. Lucia gasped, opening her eyes.

Where had the blood come from? Lucia began rummaging through her laundry, hoping to find clues. Her eyes grew wide with terror as she pulled each item of clothing out of the basket. They were all covered in blood, and it was definitely not her own.

Lucia’s heart was pounding. With every passing moment things were becoming more confusing and frightening. Countless questions ran through her mind. She began to pace through the apartment searching everywhere for an answer. As she looked, she destroyed all in her path, knocking over lamps, ransacking her refrigerator, splaying the books from her shelf onto the living room floor. It didn’t make any sense. Then suddenly, she stopped, in the middle of the disarray. There was a tingling behind her ears.

“Lorenzo,” she said. The lights in the house, flickered, and then there was a knock on the door. Lucia furrowed her brow in the direction of the door, and asked,

“Who is it?”

“Lorenzo would like to see you,” a familiar voice answered. Lucia opened the door, and Varina was standing there, her hands on her hips.

“Why?” Lucia asked. Varina chuckled and grabbed her hand, dragging her out into the hallway.

“You already know why,” She replied.

They drove the same path as the night when Lucia was first taken to Lorenzo; only this time, she was wide awake, and full of energy. She looked out between the trees, watching the coyotes slither through the woods. She saw the fireflies flicker in front of the car. The moon, although no longer full, still shone bright, helping to light the way. The drive was so serene and comforting that Lucia allowed a small smile to escape from her lips.

Soon enough, they had arrived at Lorenzo’s home, and this time, he was waiting at the door. Varina opened Lucia’s door, and she slowly stepped out. She really wasn’t too sure what to expect; things hadn’t been very typical lately. As her feet hit the cold gravel, she realized that she had left her apartment without shoes. How did she not notice that until now? Lucia looked up at Lorenzo who seemed to be hiding within the shadows of the doorway, and saw him smile. She walked up the steps, and he took her hand, kissing the palm.

“Welcome back, my dear.” He said, leading her into the house.

The door closed behind them. Lucia’s fingers began to tingle again, and her eyesight began to fuzz.

“Lorenzo, I-“

“You have questions,” he interrupted. “And I’ll answer them in time, but first, you need food.” Lucia allowed Lorenzo to lead her down a dimly lit hallway next to the staircase. He opened up another door where there was a dining area set up for two. Lorenzo pulled the seat out for her, but Lucia shook her head, taking a step back.

“No. I want answers. I want them…now.” Lucia could feel herself begin to lean to the right. She held onto the table for leverage.

“You need to eat, Lucia. Sit down,” he replied, taking a step toward her. She pushed him, causing herself to stumble.

“No! I want you to tell me, what—what—happened…” Lucia’s vision began to blur, and she dropped to her knees.

“What’s going on?” she muttered.

“You need food, Lucia. If you eat, I will tell you everything.” Lorenzo replied, helping her up, and sitting her in the chair. He poured two glasses of red wine, handing one to Lucia. She drank it, gulping the entire glass within seconds. Licking her lips afterward, he asked her,

“Would you like more?” she nodded, and then suddenly embarrassed by her actions, she asked,

“It’s delicious. What kind of red wine is it?” Lorenzo simply smiled and began pouring her another glass, saying,

“It’s a special blend from my own…vineyard.” Lucia raised an eyebrow and sipped the wine. She noticed that her vision had returned to normal, and her energy was coming back as well.

“Would you like to know what has happened to you now?” Lorenzo asked, watching as Lucia brought the glass to her lips taking a sip. He noticed the residue of the wine on her upper lip as she licked it off. She nodded her head, slowly, feeling eerily at ease. Lorenzo stood up, holding out his hand.

“I’d like to show you something,”

Lucia hesitated, staring at his long, pale fingers. After finishing her glass, she took his hand, standing up. He led her through a door off to the right of the dining room that led into a family room. There was a fire burning, and candles were lit on the walls highlighting scenic paintings from underneath. The two sat on an elongated sofa where he handed her a thin black book.

“What’s this?” Lucia asked.

“It is a book to help you understand where I come from; where my family comes from.” As she flipped through the pages, there were photographs of numerous men and women with captions underneath. She read over one of a man with short blonde hair, dressed in a suit that looked to be of the style of the early 1900’s. It read:

Name: Philip Corrigan. B: April 15, 1876 A: November 20, 1911.

As Lucia read through others, she noticed that there was a birth date, but no death date…just a date after the letter ‘A’.

“What does the ‘A’ stand for?”

“That is what I am going to tell you about. The A is for ‘Awakening’. They have no death dates. Well, most have none.” Lucia closed the book.

“Tell me about this Awakening. Is that what’s happening to me?

“The Awakening is the process one goes through as they turn completely into a vampire. They come to realize their abilities, such as heightened psychic ability, speed, strength, as well as their inability to age past the day they were bitten. Usually during the first week, their hunger is the strongest, causing them to kill blindly. Most vampire murders you hear of occur in this manner.” Lucia felt her stomach drop as she recalled the blood on her clothes.

“You mean, I—“

“Yes, but you did it in the privacy of my home. I brought you here to feed on ones I found for you. You have quite the appetite,” he replied, chuckling to himself. Lucia stared at Lorenzo in shock. How could he find murder so amusing?

“The reason you don’t fully remember feeding is because your human body goes into shock with all of the new sensations. As a way of keeping sanity, it compartmentalizes the reality of what you are doing.”

Lorenzo scooted closer to Lucia, lowering his voice.

“If the average person were to wake up one evening with an insatiable lust for flesh, and then act on that for a week, they might go crazy. From a diet of fruits, vegetables, and perhaps cooked animal meat, to nothing but the blood of others could cause a person to lose grip on reality, and themselves.”

“But I really don’t feel that different,” she muttered, running her fingers along the thin book.

“Not now, no, but when you are hungry, all of your senses are heightened. Your sense of smell, sight and sound all increase hundred-fold. Even when not hungry, these senses are still heightened. You can move much faster than the average human. Some even have psychic and empathic abilities.”

“That explains why I knew you called for me today,” she replied.

“Perhaps, or perhaps that is something much deeper.”

“But aside from those things, nothing shows, right now, that I am a vampire.”

“Really? Let’s try an experiment.” Lorenzo took Lucia’s hand placing it on her chest. They sat for a second, then she looked at Lorenzo questioningly.

“What do you feel, love?” she frowned.

“What? Nothing. My hand on my chest.” Lorenzo smiled, tilting his head a little to the right.

“What’s missing, Lucia?” Suddenly it dawned on her. How could she miss such an important thing?

“There’s no—no heartbeat!” she gasped. In a wave of disbelief, she quickly pressed her head against Lorenzo’s chest as well. She was startled by the firmness. It was almost like stone, but strangely comforting. She lingered for a moment longer, marinating on the news she just received. She lifted her head, afraid of knowing the answer to her next question.

“So this means that I'm dead,” she announced, hollow. Her stomach dropped, and she thought she would be sick. Lucia had no intention of being dead this soon. What would happen with her friends and family?

“If you really must, you could see them,” Lorenzo muttered, as if reading her mind. “I'm not sure that they would accept you, however. You are no longer human.” Lucia looked at him in disbelief.

“What do you mean I am no longer human? I look human, don't I? And why would they not accept me? I am still family. I am the same person.”

Lorenzo shook his head, chuckling.

“What is so funny?” she scowled. He held up his hand.

“I apologize. But your naiveté is refreshing. It shows how long I have been alone.”

“I see. Well, I am glad that my apparent non-death amuses you so much.” Lucia stood up, walking to the credenza near the entrance of the room. She ran her fingers along the miniature ivory statue of an elephant with its trunk lifted. Lorenzo placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly. Lucia quickly turned around, wondering how he was able to walk to her so fast.

“My dear,” he whispered, trailing his cold index along her jawline. Lucia's eyes slowly closed at the touch. “I do not find your death amusing. Nor do I find it sad. What you must realize is that it is not I who drew you to me, it was your will. Part of your awakening will be that realization.” She opened her eyes, looking into Lorenzo's. They were the darkest of browns, and carried all of his time on this Earth. She could tell that his words were truth, unless it was just another spell of his. She hoped she was wrong about that.

“Lorenzo...” she began, still staring into his eyes. He raised his eyebrows, letting a small smile escape from his lips. She looked away, taking a step back.

“This is all going so fast. I don't—I don't even know what I'm supposed to do next. I don't even know who I am. What do I say to everyone? What will they think happened to me? My grandmother--” She turned away from him, then turned back. She had to stay calm. She took a few deep breaths. Face reality Lucia, what's going on here? She was a vampire. Oddly enough, it used to be one of her biggest wishes. Now that she had it, she wasn't sure what to think of it. Was it as glamorous as portrayed in novels and movies? Highly doubtful, Lucia knew that she needed to learn how to live like one, and Lorenzo was the only one around to help her with that. And maybe, maybe she would get to see her family one day. But not yet. Still staring at the ground, she said,

“Just...tell me what to do next.”

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Chapter One. Enjoy.

2009-02-21T10:04:00.001-06:00

CHAPTER ONE

Lucia walked the streets, shading her hazel eyes from the headlights of the passing cars. She was deep in thought, trying to figure out what was going on with her. She had just woken up from an evening nap, and it was 10pm, hoping to be fully rested so that she and her 2 best friends could go to a club tonight. However, her nap was not very comforting.

In her dream, she was asleep in a huge 4-poster bed by herself. The room was barely lit, short of a tall slim red candle sitting on either nightstand near the headboard. In the distance, she could hear a piano being played, but it was almost indiscernible. Every chestnut tendril was splayed perfectly around her soft face. Suddenly, a woman crawled up onto the bed from the foot, hissing as she moved. Lucia awoke, seeing the woman, but was not startled by her. The woman kissed her on the lips, slowly, sensuously, licking. She then moved to her ear, licking, nibbling. Then abruptly, the woman sat up, backing away from her. Lucia attempted to reach out, but couldn’t move, as if she were paralyzed. She looked down, and noticed that her body was wrapped in snakes.

A man dressed in black appeared in the room with dark, striking features. He had jet black hair, a wide mouth, and a strong nose and jaw line. His eyes were cold, soulless.

“It is time,” he said, floating to her side. He waved his hand, causing her body to levitate up to him. The snakes fell away, but she was still paralyzed. He smoothed her hair away, softly kissing her neck. He then kissed her collarbone, smelling her. He ripped the front of her gown open with the mere sharpness of one of his fingernails revealing her small round breasts. Cupping one into his hand, he lowered his head and bit down. Lucia woke with a start when this happened and was now walking about, trying to make sense of things.

“Wow, that dream sounds HOT,” her friend Mai said when Lucia retold the story later on at the club.

“Yeah. You should write it down,” Paul replied, sipping on his Rum and Coke.

“The thing I don’t understand is that it was so REAL. And I woke up with a terrible pain in my left breast,” Lucia shook her head, finishing off her Long Island.

“Let’s dance,” she said, trying to forget the whole ordeal. She grabbed their hands and pulled them on the blacklight adorned dance floor.

An hour later, Lucia and Mai were still dancing, but Lucia was feeling strange. She stopped. It felt like someone was watching her…intently. She looked around, but it was hard to tell with so many people. She knew she was being watched, though. It was almost as if she could feel their eyes boring into the back of her neck. She cautiously touched back there, and told Mai that she would be right back. She walked toward the bathroom, fighting her way through the bustling crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a woman. The woman from her dream, she realized. Lucia looked away, and then quickly looked back. She was still there, and was now staring at her.

“Come with me,” She heard the woman say, but didn’t see her lips move. Lucia nodded, following her out of a back exit into the chilly night air without question. In the far recesses of her mind, she knew there was something odd about her obedience, but the thought quickly dissipated. The back exit led to an alley that smelled alarmingly like decaying bodies and rat feces. She covered her face, slightly gagging at the smell. She continued to follow the woman down the alley to a black town car with tinted windows that was waiting at the opening to the street. The woman opened the door, motioning for Lucia to get in. She got into the backseat and the woman sat in front. She looked back, smiling slightly.

“It’s a long drive,” she stated. Lucia nodded, and then quickly fell asleep.

When she awoke, the car was still on the road; a long, dark, dirt road. Lucia had no idea where she was, or even how long she had been asleep. As she looked outside, all she could see were trees, and the moon. That moon, in its flawless, unwavering, full beauty. There was a circle around it. It made Lucia think of when she was a child.

As a child, Lucia was often in the kitchen with her grandmother. Her grandmother was always cooking, it seemed, and never for the family. On one particular night, though, her grandmother was making an especially unsavory smelling stew for a young newly married neighbor down the street. Lucia decided to stand on the back porch to get away from the smell when she noticed the moon. It was full, and had a circle around it. She went in, excitedly telling her grandmother all about it, but once her grandmother went to take a look, the excitement was gone. She pulled Lucia back into the house, closing the door. She began rummaging through her drawers and cabinets until she pulled out a braided leather necklace with a pink stone on the end.

“This is rose quartz, bella,” she said, placing the necklace around Lucia’s neck.

“It will protect you from harm. Don’t look at that moon, sweetheart.” Then she went back to cooking the stew, muttering incoherently. 5 hours later, the police had called saying that her mother had tried to kill her father by stabbing him.

Lucia turned away from the moon, back into the car. The girl turned back to her.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said. Lucia nodded.

“Uh…where are we?” she asked

“It’ll be about a half hour,” the girl answered as if Lucia never spoke. Lucia placed her hand on her neck, playing with the rose quartz between her fingers.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally pulled up to a huge Victorian-style house set right in the middle of about 200 acres of land. Only one light was on, and it was upstairs. Lucia felt a chill go up her spine. She opened the car door, and stepped out into the unexpectedly stale, cold air. Looking up at the mansion, she began to actually wonder what she was doing here. Why did she go with the girl? How could she just leave her friends behind without a word? They must be worried about her now.

The girl grabbed her wrist.

“Come on, Dorothy. He’s waiting,” she said, pulling her to the house.

“Who?” Lucia asked, completely puzzled. The girl just chuckled, and led her up to the front door.

Maybe Lucia’s eyes were deceiving her, but it seemed like the front door opened on its own without the girl touching it. She shook her head. Nice one, she thought to herself. First crazy dreams, now hallucinations?

They walked inside, and Lucia gasped. It was beautiful. Everything had a Gothic, Mediterranean look to it. There were rich reds and blacks, deep violet, and only hints of gold. The wraparound steps had large marble lions on either side of the base. The foyer was only dimly lit with candles on the walls.

“Oh my God…” Lucia whispered.

“Yes?” a voice answered from behind her. She jumped, and spun around. There he was…the man from her dream. She could feel her fingertips start to tingle, and her stomach flipped.

“Your house is…” she began.

“Gaudy, I know.” He finished for her.

“Beautiful. I love it,” she replied. The man smiled.

“Oh? Well let me give you a tour then.” He grabbed her hand and led her upstairs.

“My name is Lorenzo, and that is my sister Varina who brought you here.”

“I’m—“

“Lucia. Of course, you know I knew that. Do you know why you are here?”

Lucia shook her head.

“Because I called you here,” he replied. They had walked into his upstairs study, and he stopped her in front of him. He brushed the side of her face lightly, trailing down her neck,

“Such beautiful olive skin…” he whispered, licking his upper lip.

“What do you--” Lucia began.

“You see, I have been watching you since birth. You have always had a way of traveling in the shadows, and you have such dark thoughts...I am quite fond of you.” Lorenzo handed her a glass of wine.

“You can read my thoughts?” she asked, fearing what he saw.

“Only through dreams. But we all know that dreams are merely thoughts amplified.” He sat across from her on the couch, crossing his legs. The dim light in the study enhanced the glare in his eerily blue eyes and pale lips. His fingers seemed longer than she remembered.

“But what about the dream I had of you earlier?”

“That was me. I needed to find a way for you to be more susceptible to my calling you.”

“So this really is more like a spell you’ve cast on me,” she answered, shuffling uncomfortably in her seat. She suddenly began to feel even more vulnerable than she began.

“No, it’s only a way to open you up to me. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your own interest.” He smiled slightly.

“So what are you trying to say? You bring me here, tell me you’ve been watching me, that you like me, so what? We date or something?” Lorenzo laughed.

“I’m afraid I was thinking a little more long term, Lucia,” he replied. Lucia sat her glass down.

“What, um…what?”

“I’m looking for a bride, for lack of a better term…someone to spend my eternity with.”

“Oh,” Lucia nodded. She sat still for a moment, and then quickly stood up, running for the door. Lorenzo blocked her way.

“Look, Lorenzo, I’m gonna have to think about this,” Lucia pleaded, reaching for the door handle.

“What is there to think about? An eternity of luxury, sex, anything you could ever want.”

She stepped back.

“But what about me? What about my dreams? Hopes? Plans?”

“All trivial. I can get you everything. The only thing you have to pay is daylight.” Lorenzo answered.

“But what about my friends?”

“You can get new ones.”

“My family?”

“We will be your family.”

“Children?”

“Why so many questions?” He hissed, his fangs beginning to show. He grabbed Lucia by the shoulders, lightly tapped her on the forehead, and her body went limp. Her vision fogged, and she could feel herself being lifted up. Lorenzo was taking her somewhere, but she was too dazed to fight back, or see where he was going. He lay Lucia down on a bed, and she attempted to speak, but only half of her words came out.

“Where…you…why…”’

“I was trying very hard not to manipulate you, but you give me no choice,’ he said plainly, smoothing her hair.

“Lorenzo…” Lucia murmured, reaching out to him.

“Yes…?” he said, sniffing along her neck. He held the rose quartz between his fingers.

“Please, be gentle…” she said, tracing a finger over his lip. He dropped the stone to the floor, and cut open her shirt with his fingernail. He traced along her ear, leaned down, and whispered,

“Nothing, my dear, is gentle about death.”

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Something of an update...

2009-02-18T10:14:00.002-06:00

1) I'm contemplating putting up chapter one of my vampire story...maybe sometime this weekend.

2) And, another chapter of the first short story could possibly be posted up here next week.

3) And, once I've thought out and written the short story that I will be submitting to the feminist magazine, I'll most likely post that as well.

That's 3 different stories. Let's see how I stick to my plan.

Having bought my train tickets to Chicago for March 13-16 already (open house and visiting a friend...or two), I'm pretty nervous about whether or not I'll be accepted. I really large part of me thinks that I will definitely be accepted; I'm just too awesome to not be. But there's a really really really small part of me that's just a little unsure. I hate that part. It gnaws at the back of my brain, trying to break down my confidence. Where the hell did it come from? How do I get rid of it?

One thing's for sure. I want to find out before I leave. I'll be calling them again on Friday to make sure that they received my transcripts from Michigan. If not, I'm faxing over another request for them to mail it to me and Chicago, and I'll even mail my copy to them. It's so frustrating being so damn close to a decision!

And another thing that I have decided: If they don't accept me, I'm going to Chicago anyway. I'll take up Community College to build up my GPA and I'll apply again. And hey, I'll get to transfer more credits, too.

So regardless of what happens, Chicago's the move.

*sigh* I'll get into Columbia College. I'm sure I will. Well, sort of. No, no, no. I will. I will.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

So apparently, Obama and MIchelle like to 'fist' together.

2009-02-13T02:38:00.003-06:00

Look it up on YouTube.

I've been messing around with my iWork and iLife programs lately, and I'm starting to get the hang of them. I've begun to mess around with my photos, enhancing and creating slideshows and whatnot, I updated/printed my personal contact/business cards, finished my parents' carryout menus, and my next feat will be to design the website for the Restaurant. I love my sporadic bouts of nerdy goodness.

I just took a really awesome evaluation of my geekiness tendencies that let me know of the obvious stated above. (And yes, the 'r' is purposely not included in the hyperlink...because I forgot it)

In other news, a currently forming feminist zine is looking for submissions, so I am currently working on a short piece of fiction as well as a review or two to submit by the end of March. Yay! A project to keep me focused!

May I also include that I hate taxes? I did my Federal, but I hate State. It's a bunch of fucking bullshit, all the information needed. And it is SO not cut and dry. Unless you work for the IRS. Excuse the colorful language, but I know all of my fellow taxpayers are probably saying the same thing as they fill out the forms.

Crazy sidebar (as if there aren't enough in this post already):

I had a dream that I had a kitten in my dorm in Chicago, and in order to hide it from the RA, I put it in the closet by coaxing it in with a glass of honey. Really weird. I was afraid it would scratch on the door, so i figured I could keep it busy with honey.

Upon waking up, I realized this was terribly cruel.

Also upon waking up, I realized I did not, in fact, have a cat, nor was I living in Chicago in a dorm.

Why is it that all of my kitty dreams are vivid enough for me to think I still have them when I wake up? It sucks.

I want a kitty with great sharpshooting skills to keep the crazy naked men away.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Hit the Ground Running...Like your life depends on it.

2009-02-09T13:04:00.003-06:00

ABC News: Going Green to Make Green

Reading this article gave me a little bit of a good feeling inside. I’m honestly really proud to be part of a generation that is a little more concerned about the well being of the planet rather than making big bucks.

Good thing making money will end up as the reward for being so selfless. -_-

But, reading this article also made me think of “The Day the Earth Stood Still”. I just watched it last week. And although I don’t really think aliens are going to come to Earth and tell us we’re killing it and then go saving a bunch of species except for us, (they probably wouldn’t tell us anyway) a good point was brought up:

“But it's only on the brink that people find the will to change. Only at the precipice do we evolve.”

And honestly, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I mean, really. There’s preventative medicine--and everyone’s all for that--but what about preventative environmentalism? I know I’m not perfect…I could afford to go way green, I’m sure. But at least I’m thinking about it. I know so many people who don’t give this planet a second’s thought. They take advantage of the fact that it was here when they were born, so it’ll be here when they die—but what about the future of everyone else? Besides, we’re on the verge of doubling our life span (that will be another blog, coming soon), so you might just be here to rush and save it.

Wake up, people. Start thinking smarter. We have so many options. And we keep finding more. I really don't think I'm alone in this.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Paint is the Debil!

2009-02-08T19:05:00.002-06:00

ABC News: Artist of Famed Obama Poster Arrested in Boston

Ooh, the big bad graffiti artist was arrested for coloring on a building. Quite the sensational story.

But really, this one SHOULD be told. It’s another instance of the PD wasting time and money on something as trivial as paint.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am completely biased with this act. Because if someone where showing bigotry or sexism or anything else I found offensive through their graffiti art, I would be mad. Especially if it was on my building. However, on the other end, it’s just paint. Wash it off and move on. Yes, I do want you to pay for the damages, and yes, I do want you to say ‘sorry’. Even though I know you’re not.

However, jail and bail? Come on, people. Come on, po-pos. Are you going to detain a little girl who has a crayon and wants to make a pretty flower on the wall? Or worse, the parents? How about a mentally challenged adult? Hey, you never know.

I know, I know, it’s not the same thing because they aren’t ‘mentally sound’ to know the difference between the rights and wrongs of building decoration.

At the end of the day, I would much rather be spending my tax dollars hearing about you finding a missing child, or arresting a domestic abuser. That’s just my opinion. What do you guys think?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

I love my Hello Kitty notepad.

2009-02-07T19:00:00.002-06:00

Now just imagine me scribbling away on that thing at a Writer's Conference.

You bet your sweet tush I did.

But honestly, I'm really excited about the Conference. I was a little late...it started at 10, I showed up at 1, but I made it just in time to see Sylvia Hubbard speak on Internet Marketing for Writers. I got a bunch of awesome notes, bought her book (for 5 bucks!) and left feeling refreshed about the fact that although I have nothing ready to publish, I can still maintain a web presence until the day I do!

Plus, the concept of E-books and publishing myself makes me salivate.

So in honor of my newfound confidence in my lackluster writing consistency/abilities, I have changed my layout a little bit, and will be posting semi-regularly on here (I already have two blogs ready to go). I am also off to hunt down other bloggers to befriend so that I won't be so lonely.

*Runs off, MacBook in hand, cape billowing behind her in the wind*

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Ice Mountain is way better than your crappy ol' Dasani.

2009-02-02T15:48:00.003-06:00

I'm currently on a Virginia Woolf/Designer labels kick. I'm feeding my intellectually creative side, as well as the fashionably conscious writer side.

I'm reading "A room of one's own," Woolf's Six Chapter on Women and Fiction. It's taking time for me to read it because I'm letting it all sink in, and I want to take notes on the things she says. I love the style of it; it's as if she is writing every thought as she has it, along with the daily interruptions. Her sense of humor is very dry (which I absolutely love) and slightly under the radar. I only hope to write so well. I can't wait to read everything else she's written. (note to self: Make a date with the library this week).

I am also obsessed with looking up different designers, past styles, the evolution of fashion in general. I will be going to school soon to major in writing articles about this stuff, so what the hell is up? I'm beginning to develop preferences for certain designers, which is also helping me to better define my own style. I know that I am completely eclectic with what I like, but it hasn't reflected in my wardrobe (save a few pieces bought on impulse--I swear that's the best way to know what you really like!). I'm playing it too safe, afraid of being too dressed up, often feeling extremely under dressed in the end. I want to break out of my comfort zone, and step into something new. I tell myself that I am open-minded...so why not with fashion? That's probably the safest way to test out my limits, I think.

God, I feel so BORING sometimes. I need to start making these changes I speak of.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Here's a short story...crying out to be a book, or something.

2009-01-28T11:27:00.002-06:00

Still waiting to hear back from the writing gig... and I 'm in a strange mood to watch some Audrey Hepburn. Actually, I want to watch every movie from the Golden Era of Hollywood. I miss the classiness of the 50's. Well, I can't miss it...I was never there. So I miss the depictions of classiness in the 50's in older films. But not the racism. Boo to racism. ANYWAY...

Here's the damn thing.

Chloe sorted through the stack of mail on her desk and stopped at a blue envelope embossed with gold lettering. It was from the Bachman Art Gallery downtown. As she opened the envelope, June strode up to her desk. Inside were two tickets to an opening Friday night for Carl Pulda, an up and coming photographer and painter.

“Um—“ she began.

“I was luckily able to grab some tickets at the last minute so that you don’t have to wave that horrid ‘press card’ around. To be honest, I’d rather you not let anyone know who you are.”

“So am I reviewing the show, or interviewing the artist?”

“Both. But don’t make it seem like an interview. I just want a couple of good nuggets…” June smirked, shaking her head. She briskly walked away, peeking over various shoulders on her way back to the office.

“Carl Pulda,” she recited slowly. The name sounded familiar, but nothing came to her. She quickly pulled up Google and typed his name in the box. Nadine strolled around the corner, sitting her jealousy-enducing slim body on the edge of Chloe’s desk.

“Very good idea to look him up. It will save you a lot of embarrassment.”

“What do you mean?” Chloe asked, scrolling through the results. She clicked on an article that talked about his artistic genius, and how if the rest of the world were to look at the human anatomy as he did, the world would be in a much freer state of existence.

“Save yourself the pretty words. Just go to images.”

Chloe clicked on ‘Images’ and recoiled in shock. All of his artwork were photographs or paintings of

“Penises?” she said aloud. Nearby workers looked at her in confusion.

“Penises. Of all kinds. Black, white, asian, young,, old, really old—“

“Okay,” Chloe stopped her, holding a hand up. “I’m pickin up what you’re layin down, babe.”

“Yeah, and he’s layin down a lot of pipe,”

“On canvas.” Chloe clicked on a couple more photographs and paintings.

“But wait, you said, ‘young?’ How young are we talking?”

“Any age. The man does not discriminate.”

“Isn’t that illegal…? Or considered indecent?”

“Honey, it’s art. And completely consensual from the parents and kids. What else do you need?”

Chloe looked at the tickets again.

“It’s on Friday. You wanna come?” She asked, waving a ticket in front of her. Nadine took the ticket placing it down on the desk.

“Mm…love to, but mere images of penises just don’t turn me on like they used to. Besides, I have a date at the premier for The Barber of Seville.” she replied, raising her eyebrows.

“But you hate the opera. He must be hot.”

“Absolutely. His name is Gregory, and he’s a broker. My broker, in fact.”

“Mixing business with pleasure? Not a good idea…” Chloe warned. “What’s his last name?”

“Oh, no, you are NOT “Google-ing” this man to freak me out before I go on a date with him. Besides, I already know his romantic history. He’s been tied to Kate Winslet, and some model named Giovanna Bledel.”

“Really?” Chloe began typing rapidly.

“No! Chloe, I swear, I will not let you ruin this for me!” Nadine threw her body over the keyboard. Chloe laughed.

“If you already know about him, what’s the harm in satisfying my own personal curiosity? Besides, nobody can ruin your date but you. Or him, if he turns out to be some mentally unstable possessive guy that wants to lock you in his bedroom for three weeks like his father used to do to him. Or worse, he loves anal.”

Nadine stood up and stormed off to her desk, fists clenched. Chloe loved to get under Nadine’s skin. The teasing really was for the best. She just wanted Nadine to understand that there had to be some boundaries…it wasn’t the 60’s anymore. Free love is a myth in this modern world of immediacy and instant boredom. The famous words, ‘Love is all you need’ were replaced by, ‘what’s in it for me?’ But Chloe was also aware that Nadine was merely playing a game, like the rest of them, mostly to test if her newfound weight loss really played such a factor in her attractiveness. She was coming to find that it did, and wanted to revel in it. None of her “relationships” (if you could call it that) meant a thing. There was nothing deeper in her constant trysts than the depth of her own womanhood. Chloe knew the day would come when the sex just wouldn’t be enough.

Chloe met up with Josephine on the corner of Maple and Third Ave. As they walked down the street toward Bachman Art Gallery, Chloe nervously began to crack her knuckles.

“Honey, its okay, it’s just a penis,” Josephine reassured her.

“That’s not why I’m nervous. It’s my first job, and June says she doesn’t want anyone to know that I’m from the magazine. How am I going to get close enough?”

“Flirt! You’re an attractive woman. And if he turns out to be gay, impress him with your knowledge of him. I’m sure it’s his favorite subject,” Josephine checked her lipstick in her compact mirror.

After handing their tickets to the Doorman, they stepped into the gallery; it was dimly lit with hues of orange and a very light pastel green. In the background there was light classical music being played. The walls of the gallery were randomly holding Pulda’s paintings, while the prints were hung from the ceilings in darkroom fashion, creating makeshift aisle ways in the expansive space. The paintings were surprisingly colorful; it didn’t seem as if one piece had any less than four colors blended in it. The photographs were mostly black and white, but enhanced with chiaroscuro. However, the color photographs were the ones that stood out—Chloe actually managed to flinch slightly upon seeing one—making the male anatomy actually seem more graphic than all of the other pieces.

They walked around viewing all of the artwork, and it wasn’t too long before they were greeted with a cocktail waiter that offered the women champagne or Gin martinis. Chloe began to look around for Carl Pulda, but she did not have to look too far. A young woman toward the back of the gallery began speaking into the microphone,

“Good evening fellow art lovers. My name is Clara Bachman. As owner of the Bachman Art Gallery, let me first thank you all for coming out tonight. You all are here to witness the beginning of a revolution in the art world. I must say, I was so flattered to have Carl Pulda, extraordinary photographer and truly gifted painter offer to show his collection in my gallery. This is a man coming from quite humble beginnings…” as the woman continued to speak, Chloe overheard a woman nearby whisper to her colleague,

“Sure, if you call a home in the Upper East Side and boarding school in London ‘humble beginnings’. The brat was born with a silver spoon in his dick-loving mouth.”

“…so without further ado, please join me in welcoming the man of the hour, Carl Pulda!” the entire audience clapped as the artist stepped up the platform to the microphone. He seemed to be only about 5’5” and was very slim, with strong, sexy Latin features, despite having very fair skin. He smiled shyly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Pulda—what country is that name from?” Chloe whispered to Josephine, who was finishing off her champagne.

“Not his, that’s for sure,” she replied. Chloe slowly nodded in agreement, deciding to write it off as a married name. Perhaps his mother remarried when he was a child, which would explain it. That, or he changed it to hide his heritage. But who does that anymore?

“Uh, thanks.” He cleared his throat, letting out a little bit of a whimper. “Uh, thank you all, for uh, for coming. I, uh…” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I hate speaking in front of microphones, so just come talk to me after, okay? So, uh…enjoy the rest of your night.” He quickly stepped away from the mic, and everyone clapped again as if he had just given the Gettysburg Address, crowding around him instantaneously.

Chloe checked her watch. 7:45. She had 2 more hours to talk to him.

“Come on,” Josephine said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s eavesdrop on fancy art conversations.”

As they slowly ambled around, feigning interest in the paintings, a short round man surrounded by a very postmodern looking thick framed spectacled entourage stopped by one of the photographs of an 8 year old boy’s penis. It showed him from the waist down, and was one done in color.

The round man gasped loudly, startling everyone around him.

“My God! Can you believe this?! It’s absolutely beautiful! I MUST have it!”

“But, this isn’t for sale individually, Matthew,” one of the nerdy ones said.

“Nonsense!” He bellowed. “Money talks! I am the highest paid Art Critic in the Midwest! Let me see this Carl Pulda now!” He spun around, immediately marching toward the back where Carl was being held hostage. His entourage quickly followed behind, muttering to each other how he was so ‘commanding!’ and how ‘rich’ he must be to demand something that wasn’t for sale. Chloe and Josephine rolled their eyes at each other, completely aware of the type that tried too hard to be ‘a big deal’. Moving on to a painting of a rather ‘blessed’ subject, they walked in on a conversation between two gay men.

“That’s mine,” the redhead with the lime green t-shirt said. His counterpart, an older black man with a Gomez Adams mustache, quickly snapped his head toward him.

“Honey, that’s mine. Someone’s a little too confident. Yours is that tiny little thing all the way in the corner back there,” he replied, pointing to the back left corner of the gallery.

“Yeah, well, he saved the best for last. After all, he doesn’t just sleep with any model.”

“You did NOT sleep with him!” he whispered sharply, crossing his arms.

“Jealous?” the redhead asked, smiling.

“Hella,” The two men walked away to look at more, while Josephine and Chloe stayed around.

“You know, his stuff isn’t half bad,” Josephine said, looking around.

“Well, his use of chiaroscuro amazes me, especially in the black and whites of the older men. It actually makes them appear to be younger.”

Josephine stared at Chloe with a raised eyebrow.

“What? I like art, too, you know,” she replied, taking a long sip of her Martini and walking away. It was almost nine, and she still hadn’t gotten to Carl yet. It was time to go in. She quickly downed the rest of the Martini, knowing she would need it for good luck.

“Whoa there, lady. You’re not trying to sleep with him, just talk to him,” Josephine said, taking the glass.

Chloe walked up to the crowd wondering how she would get through. She saw Carl in the center, grudgingly taking a photo with a young man from the Alternative Weekly free magazine. The short fat man, Matthew, was standing on his other side, obviously trying to convince him to sell the photograph of the child’s penis. Carl attempted to listen, but others yelling his name kept averting his attention. Chloe could tell he was suffering, and did the only thing she could think of. She quickly grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray on the nearby podium, and pushed her way to the front. Readying herself, she yelled,

“Mr Pulda!” his eyes looked in her direction and she winked. Strategically, like a professional klutz, she threw the champagne in his general direction, spilling it on his jacket.

“Oh my God!” she said in mock horror, dropping the glass and rushing to his side.

The crowd gasped, while she used the downtime to grab his arm, pulling him away toward the bathroom.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry, Mr. Pulda. Please let me help you clean that up,” she escorted him into the bathroom, and asked a nearby waiter for soda water and a towel. Carl took off his jacket, grabbing paper towel to blot his shirt.

“Excuse the drastic measures,” she said, once the door closed.

“It’s alright—I was being eaten alive out there,” he replied. The waiter came back with a glass of soda water and a towel. Chloe thanked him and then pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her clutch, handing it to him and whispering into his ear. He quickly nodded, leaving.

Chloe began cleaning up his jacket, leaning against the wall. After a few minutes, Carl broke the silence.

“So, uh, what was that for? I mean, I’m thankful, but you probably want something, I assume.”

“Please don’t get mad, but I did want to have a chance to talk to you, Mr. Pulda.”

“Carl,” he washed his hands, smiling at her.

“Carl. Your artwork, I have to admit, completely startled me when I first saw it.”

“It’s…an acquired taste, yes.”

“So what made you choose photographs as one of the mediums?” She grabbed a dry paper towel to dry the jacket off.

“Well to be honest, I like to push the envelope—“

“Mr. Pulda! We know you’re in here! That little ‘Out of Order’ sign doesn’t fool us!” a lady yelled outside the door, rapping incessantly. Carl looked at Chloe with a raised eyebrow.

“Darn. Foiled again,” Chloe said, snapping her fingers. She handed the jacket back to him.

“Look, if you’re not busy tomorrow, can I meet you for lunch? We can continue this conversation, and you can get your article finished,” he fixed his tie and collar in the mirror. Chloe’s mouth hung open. Was it that obvious?

“Oh—I---okay.” She fumbled in her purse, pulling out a business card and handing it to him. He looked it over and held out his hand.

“She has a name! Nice to meet you Chloe Grier,” she sheepishly took his hand.

“You too Carl Pulda. Until tomorrow,”

He opened the door for her, letting her face the unscrupulous crowd first. They stared at her questioningly, but darted their attention back to Carl when he stepped out. Josephine was chatting with one of the waiters by the bar that seemed to be trying to give her his number. She pushed his hand back, but he tried to hand it to her again. When Chloe walked up, she immediately grabbed her waist.

“Here she is. Joseph, meet Chloe.” Chloe smiled, knowing she stepped into something, while Joseph eyed her up and down.

“You don’t look like a dyke,” he said, crossing his arms.

“We walk amongst you, you know,” Chloe replied in a low voice. She then pulled Josephine away, walking toward the door.

“So did you get what you needed?” she asked.

“No, but I got him alone long enough for me to give him my number. We’re having lunch tomorrow.”

“Chloe! What did I tell you?”

“Relax, it’s for the article. He knows I’m press.”

“Mm-hmm,” Josephine wasn’t convinced. But Chloe had to admit; she wasn’t too sure herself. Either way, she would be able to get her first Arts and Entertainment article finished with the possibility of an artist exclusive.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

2009-01-26T11:22:00.003-06:00

Hello!!

I applied for this job writing articles online. You get paid $17 per article, and even more if it's actually used. I had to fill out this app with my experience, hobbies, and had to fill out a form dealing with my knowledge on certain subjects. After submitting all of that, they gave me 48 hrs to write a 600-1,000 word article on pretty much anything, and I submitted that about 5 minutes ago. I'll post my draft on here:

You want to try your hand at livening up your wardrobe without breaking the bank, so decide to see what this “thrift store” craze is all about. Walking into the expansive one room building, you are immediately overwhelmed. There are racks upon racks of clothing, signs everywhere, the back wall is full of every toy given away in the tri-county area, and something smells a little funny. You immediately want to leave; asking yourself why you would ever think you could buy used clothes.

This is a common reaction to anyone who has never stepped foot inside of a thrift store, resale or secondhand shop. When I first began to go to thrift stores, I did the same thing. Luckily, I had a friend with me who taught me the basics of thrift store shopping, and now this information will be passed on to you.

Before you even go to the thrift store, there are a few things you need to know in order to prepare:

1)Have a basic idea of what you’re shopping for. This is similar to going to the grocery store when you’re hungry. You are bound to buy many unnecessary food items. In a thrift store, if you don’t know what you want, many items seem fantastic to you because of the price, and before you know it, you have 12 ‘thrift gems’ in your cart, and you spend 40 dollars when you only wanted to spend 20. Do not let this happen. If you walk in knowing that you want to get a sweater to match your knew pencil skirt, you are more likely to stick to your guns. Although those army green shorts are absolutely adorable, and they’re only three bucks….

2)Consider the trendiness of the item. You must remember that thrift stores are a place for people to get rid of old clothes without throwing them away. Which means that these will not be (for the most part) items straight off the runway or out of Betsey Johnson’s Spring ’09 collection. If you go to a thrift store looking for low slung drainpipe jeans, it’s going to be tough. Perhaps the high waist of the earlier decades will be more common. But there is a high chance that you can find flares, pencil skirts, gypsy skirts, bohemian blouses, minidresses, and any other trend that has been around for at least a full year. However, the lack of extreme trendiness gives you a chance to experiment with styles of the past…you will most definitely run into a housedress from the 50’s, or the crazy patterned blazers from the 80’s. Imagine the combinations!

3)Consider the location of the thrift store. This can tie in with the trendiness of an item. Thrift stores in more downtown or affluent areas will definitely have more brand name and higher quality clothes like Calvin Klein, DKNY or Ralph Lauren. If you go to one in the suburb, or the outskirts of town, the clothes there will be more commonly from mall stores like the Gap, Old Navy, department stores like JC Penney or Sears, or big box stores like Kmart or WalMart.

4)Check different stores for sales. Yes, even thrift stores have sales. A very common one is on Fridays, when many offer five items for five dollars. Do your research, check the phone books, and call around to see what different stores offer.

Now that you have mapped out what you want to buy and where you want to go, there are a couple things you should know as you are sifting through the aisles.

1)Items to avoid: It should be common sense that you never EVER wear previously worn underwear. That includes bras. Aside from the horrible thoughts about who could have worn it before, remember that bras lose their shape after time anyway. Also avoid anything with stains unless you know for a fact that you can get it out. Be sure to keep an eye out for rips; if they’re on the seam, it’s an easy fix. If not, don’t buy it. Remember to look at the wear of an item as well. A cute blue t-shirt that has lost its elasticity isn’t so cute anymore when you try it on and look like a box from the waist up. A yellow sweater that is starting to pill ever so slightly isn’t worth it if you don’t know how to care for it.

2)Things to consider when you find a piece: Check the tags for care. Unless you live like a queen and get everything dry cleaned, try not to pick up too many items like this. Of all the items I have bought from the thrift store, I have only one item that is dry clean only; a pink corset. Can you guess how often I wear it?

Most thrift stores do have fitting rooms, so please try the clothes on if you aren’t completely sure about the fit. Nothing feels worse than buying an item, then putting it on to get ready for the big night and realizing that you are swimming in it, or worse, about to pop out.

3)Wash before you wear: I cannot stress this enough. Even if you did try it on at the store, wash these items before you wear them. It is always best to play it safe. Besides, your new clothes will most likely smell a little funny.

You found some gems, you’ve washed them, and you’re ready to go show them off! Have fun! And remember that no two thrift stores are the same. Try them all! Who knows what you’ll find?

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

I miss pictures.

2009-01-24T19:00:00.002-06:00

As I stalk people's photos on Facebook, I often ask myself I don't take more pictures considering my obvious fascination with them.

Eh, whatever.

I have finally sent in my application to Columbia College Chicago. I checked it over 8 million times, corrected any spelling errors on my essay or the recommendation letter, I double and triple checked the correct address to send everything, sealed it up, and mailed it out. Well, the app was online, so I just cybered that right over with my non-refundable-hopefully-worth-every-penny-because-I-have-to-get-in application fee.

And now the waiting game.

So while that's occurring, I will freak out considerably, call obsessively, and try to occupy my time with other ways that I can make money. Any ideas? (read: I will not strip...yet).

That's it for now...I can't even think.

Mirror images kinda confuse me.

2009-01-12T13:59:00.006-06:00

Okay, this is pre-hobo-bag purse number uno. I decided to try my hand at making something first before I started devoting my time to a project that would be potentially horrific looking once done.

So I grabbed a random t-shirt that I was already cutting swatches out of and made a mini purse, with no help, no tutorial, nothing. Here's the finished project:

(Yay for MacBook Mirror Imaging! A small flaw I never thought of before.)

It's definitely rough. I used my sewing machine for the first time on this. I know it sounds dumb, but I had no idea what a reverse stitch was until I looked at the user guide yesterday.

Oh, and I also happened to forget to hem the top before I closed up the purse...so I used HeatnBond! That awesome iron on hem tape that I use for all of my slacks. J'adore.

BUT...I put on the straps before I hemmed it, (I feel like I was in a hurry to finish it, or something) so the inside is uh... lopsided?

AND...the straps are leftover material and aren't even the same width.

So you see, many flaws. This is the purse one would make if they were just kicked out of their house with the clothes on their back and a sewing kit, and an extra t-shirt from the thrift store.

I mean, really, I just blame all of my imperfections on the sewing machine. I got it from Meijer for 27 dollars:

Anything called a "Mighty Mender" (you would be able to read that if the laws of physics...or...visualityness weren't so strict) couldn't possibly be too great, right?

I will probably add some kind of lining to it, to hide my terrible cutting skills. Also, I've decided that I am going to make it my Nintendo DS Carrier. I already have a hard case, but just think about the irony of a Japanese gaming system in a Chinese-made/inspired purse. I'm such a jokester.

*I think for next time, I will spend the two or 3 bucks, get a pattern for a hobo purse, find some decent fabric around the home, use measuring tape, cut more carefully, and take my time. A lesson (or 5) learned.*

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

P.S. My deadline for writing a rough draft of one of my articles is tonight by 9. And in true procrastifantastic fashion, I haven't started it yet. Score one for me.

My Scarf is Way Cool.

2009-01-10T23:31:00.002-06:00

After spending a night/day with Rhapsody in Purple, I am overwhelmingly inspired to completely immerse myself in any and everything creative.

This thing that is supposed to be my outlet, my life force, my sanity... has not been getting very much respect lately. I feel like I've been purging my system of the old ways, the old mentality, the laziness. There was a lack of confidence, a lack of structure.

No wonder I got sick. It was a "terrible-attitude-toward-myself" detox, as well as withdrawal from not having enough creativity flow.

So now that I'm (almost) all better, I have plans underway:

1) I have three articles outlined. All I need to do is a tiny bit of research, and then I get out some rough drafts. I have Monday off. I will give myself until 9 pm to complete the first draft of one of the articles. Gotta start off slow.

2)I am going to begin making a purse. A simple hobo bag made out of one of my or Loving Beau's old shirts/pajamas/skirts/parachute pants. All I'll need is some sort of strap. Of course, I could always make that cloth, too, but I want something a little stronger.

3)I plan on practicing my bass at least 3 times a week...I broke it out, started playing it again, and it felt good. That was Monday.

4)I have another short story I still need to finish. I'm going to put it on my desktop to remind me to finish it.

These are my plans. I have goals to reach, and people to knock the socks off with my awesomely creative prowess.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

That whole "Believe in Yourself" thing works.

2009-01-03T19:06:00.002-06:00

Okay, I quit the job at the Law Office.

I start working at the restaurant tomorrow morning. My schedule is as follows:

Sunday: 9-4

Tues-Fri: 1:30-7.

Gives me plenty of time to do the things I want, and make a little cash while I'm there.

But I'm kind of excited already because

I FINISHED A SHORT STORY.

*I mean, like, 10 pages long, short story. But either way it's Finished. Well, I need to Edit it about 600 times, but it's still a first draft. Finished. Don't kill my joy.*

It's been 2 years since I finished something. So I would like to party about it...but I'm sick. So I'm just going to work on another one.

I've been having a lazy holiday break/in between jobs. But I got to get a few things done. I made my first dress, and it's horrible, because it doesn't fit. But I finished that, too! It's pretty awesome, really.

I will now have so much time outside of work to do awesome things, like, finish what I started, and get going on things I was too afraid to do, and growing some balls...

I'm definitely pumped.

!Pusher. Of. Pens.!

Seeking Balance: Part One

2008-12-17T19:14:00.001-06:00

Life in the Apartment has been starting to get to me in little ways:

1) The walls are terrible for decorating or placing nails in for artwork/shelving.

2) The walls are thin; I can smell my 70-year-old neighbor’s cigarettes through the wall, as well as anyone who smoke outside by my front door.

3) The ceilings are also thin, because I can hear our neighbors upstairs walking, running, moving, uh…rhythmically in their bedroom…

It’s little things like this that make me ask myself why I signed another 12 month lease. But I know why. Because we finally have our own place to live, and who wants to move a queen sized very expensive eight-drawer bed frame made completely of wood that we’d have to take apart to get out of the bedroom and put back together in the NEW bedroom? Answer: Nobody that we didn’t have to pay.

Personally, it is my first time living on my own AND paying my own bills (obviously split with Loving Beau), so there is a small bit of excitement having that freedom. And there is a small bit of anxiousness knowing that I can do much better than this. Although friends say I have a great deal on the apartment (lower price, includes water, washer and dryer in-unit), it’s the little things (see beginning of post) that make a place livable that get to me.

So when a discussion came up about where we are living, and my happiness in this place, Loving Beau pointed out (which I already knew),

“You don’t seem very happy about where you live. You need more interaction with people. I don’t think that you would fare well in the country,”

‘Eh? The Country?’ you ask out loud. You look over the blog again, seeing if you missed a part.

Well, you didn’t. Because I didn’t mention it. Because I didn’t know how to put that in here. Until now.

Loving Beau is working toward a plan to buy property, build a house from the foundation up, and make it completely self-sufficient, and ultimately, SMART.

I think that this is a great venture, and I am behind him every step of the way. But it didn’t hit me full throttle until he brought up his point that I may actually have to live there.

This is me at my most aloof. The two never matched up. He would ask me,

‘How do you feel about that?’ and my answer would always be,

‘I think it’s a great idea, honey.’ And then he would ask,

‘Do you think you could live like that?’ and I would reply,

‘I can definitely try.’

But that’s where it stopped. I’ve finally realized that if we go through with all of this, saving up money to buy this land, to build this house (and this would take no less than 5 years, mind you, and I’m being optimistic) and to eventually live on it…we would be living there. We’re not building a time-share. Not a weekend home. An actual home. A 365.4,24/7 home.

Trust me, I’ve looked at all of the positives…the clean air, the privacy, the ability to grow and harvest our own food, the space, the quiet, all of these things. And they sure do sound pretty.

But…what about the people? The noises? The voices, the cars, the music, the culture, the energy? My God, what about the energy emanating from the constant people? What about the culture pouring out of every street corner? What about the random gatherings of tons of friends (or unknowns) to play or enjoy music? Or to see art? Or to eat and drink?

I’m already missing that energy, and I need it back. How could I possibly live in the country?

So at those words, all 22 years of my life flashed before my eyes in wave after wave of memories of growing up downtown. Being able to go anytime of the day or week and find something to do. Knowing half of the owners by name, and they knowing mine. I would get lost for hours browsing books in the local bookshop and couldn’t help but play with every guitar in the music store. I’d feel obligated to stop and get my Coney and Chili Cheese Fries. I was hypnotized by the (normally) lucid melodies of the acoustic guitarists and singers and pianists in the corner coffee shop (that grounded its own coffee beans in the back). I would giggle at all of the crazy tops and skirts from the 60’s and 70’s at the Vintage Shop, but secretly wish I had the guts to pull off the outfits. And I would wander in the Mystical/pipe shop looking at nothing simply because I liked the smell, and the owner’s cat. Being lulled to sleep by the sounds of the train, people leaving the bar down the street, cats outside. Being woken up by the jets at the nearby base doing training exercises.

How could I give that up? I have already done that long enough. It hurts that I now have to drive to get those feelings back…and having recently obtained a car, I haven’t quite had the chance to do that. All of those memories were the start of my inspiration to write. It was then that I learned to take a notepad and paper with me everywhere I went because nobody knows when inspiration will strike. This is where my inspiration began.

So what’s a girl to do?

~Pusher. Of. Pens~

Loving Beau saved over our Dark Alliance with his own. :(

2008-12-01T16:43:00.004-06:00

There are some things I have been thinking about lately, and I need to blog about them as a way to hold myself accountable.

I DO want to take my writing seriously. I would like to make money off of it, and eventually make a living off of what I love to do the most. Now, I know I keep saying it, but I need to make a plan as to how I intend to get to my goal. I want to create more time for me to write, get myself into the habit of blogging and writing something everyday, network my talent and skill, and then make big mah-nay writing articles and publishing my novels/short stories. Here's a list of the things I want to accomplish by the new year:

1)Quit my current job at the office, and work shorter, more flexible days at my parent's restaurant for about the same pay.

2)Write thought out articles on this blog--in between my random musings.

3)Create another blog, my niche blog, that will become a showcase of my writing ability on a specific subject.

4)Change my business cards and email signatures to include the URL of my niche blog.

That's really not too much to ask with a month deadline. Especially since my first task is already halfway done. I'll be spending a ton of time on various freelance websites to help me build my portfolio and for motivation. And while I'm at it, I will also look through other blogs to begin networking.

These are my current short term plans. No backups required. Wish me luck!

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

If you like Vampire Anime, Go watch "Karin" on MegaVideo.com

2008-11-22T19:11:00.003-06:00

So, just a quick update.

Dark Alliance 2 is the Shit.

I should totally be writing right now.

But I'm watching Karin.

And I applied for two writing gigs on Craigslist today. One pays per article, the other is a literary magazine still in the development stage. So I hope at the very least that I get an email back from them! :)

I've been thinking about it, and I need to at least get some experience under my belt writing on a regular basis. If anything, it will give me more discipline to finish my own work. Goodness knows I can shoot out 500 words in one sitting, easy.

Something else I think I will start doing are creative writing prompts. I'll find one, and then write at least 500 words on it. It could be fiction or nonfiction, whatever cards are dealt.

I still have a bit of a desire to be a journalist; but I've only really pursued it in high school. College was just a bust, journalistically speaking. Maybe I'll also look up some fashion/style/art blogs as well, since those would be my subjects of interest.

*I have black fingernails. It looks so good on me*

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

And if you complain once more...You meet an ahhhmy of meeeee...

2008-11-14T18:35:00.001-06:00

I'm typing this from my iPod touch :)

Today was spent updating this baby. I can now download apps like this nifty one I'm using right now that allows me to post blogs from here. The keyboard takes a little getting used to, but blogging this way will help me to speed up the process.

This weekend is definitely going to be a gaming weekend. Loving Beau and I are spending all of tomorrow in our jammies and playing Dark Alliance. I'm ridiculously excited to do absolutely nothing.

I also downloaded my first podcasts today. This whole time I thought I had to buy any podcast I wanted to get. But I found a couple of really decent ones for free! One is on grammar and another is by TED. I'm always really excited when I find ways to use my tech gadgets. I have every intention of integrating them into my life. Without going overboard, of course, because I do love simplicity and naturalness.

It's all about balance, you know?

Alright, I'm spent. The main purpose of this post was to practice on this keyboard

*checks clock*

Not bad, only took six hours...

~Pusher. Of. Pens~

I refuse to turn up the heat despite my chattering teeth.

2008-11-07T20:15:00.002-06:00

I must have hit my head somewhere...

I suddenly believe that I am this super awesome interior designer/ jewelry maker that can make anything she puts her mind to.

I have these crazy plans of making our curtains and using painted tree branches as curtain rods.

I learned how to make the Kusudama flower to put into our vases for colorful decoration.

I'm working on a couple of chokers for a couple of friends...

And other crazy little stuffed animals and all that terribly artsy n craftsy stuff.

Also, now that I am no longer singing in a band, I am teaching myself acoustic guitar (again). Only, this time, I intend to follow through. I have so many songs in my head that need to get out. And I need to be the one to get them out.

Still working on my Vampire Novel...jumping ahead, tying up older chapters...banging my skull on the wall because I can't type any faster (yet). Even though I average over 50 wpm. And that's with MINIMAL mistakes, thank you very much. :-D

Tonight...headed out to the Hayloft to see a couple of fellow bands play. Perhaps I'll be networking... need some friends when I make my first album, right?

God, I'm so right-brained, I'm what my mom calls "lopsided". Pretty soon I'm gonna lose my communication skills with the outside world. I've gotta be careful about this.

~Pusher. Of. Pens. ~

Ugh. I hate freakin spiders.

2008-10-28T00:13:00.003-05:00

Here's a tip: If you're highly sensitive to pills with caffeine in them, don't take them at 8:00 at night.

It is now 1:14, and I can't sleep. My eyes won't stay closed, I keep waking myself out of sleep. When I lay in bed, my mind is racing and I can't focus on relaxing enough. It's that damn MetaboLife. Just like TrimSpa, if I take it before dinner, I can't go to bed.

That is, if I eat dinner at my normal time--7 or 8:00.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if one of the side effects of taking these is that you may have trouble sleeping at night due to the amount of caffeine.

To be completely honest, I am totally wired right now, and I have no idea how long it's going to last. SO I guess I'll just surf the web until my head hits the keyboard.

Holy Mother of Buddha. I just killed that fucker. Big Black one. *shudders*

~Pusher. Of. Pens~

My Blogging Consistency Amazes Me.

2008-10-21T20:52:00.002-05:00

Veganism....Down the drain.

Writing....Staring Down the Toilet.

Cleanliness...."A" Plus!

I'm distracting myself with keeping things organized around the house, and sticking with a cleaning schedule. Making our place look like a home and all that good "perfect domestic partner" hoopla.

We just bought a tv, and...I don't know what to do with it. I keep staring at it, hoping it will tell me to 'play a videogame' or 'watch a cheesy chick flick' or 'pop in some porn' or something, but nothing.

I'm finally beginning to realize that inanimate objects don't talk back, nor do they give you ideas. This observation also explains why my random profanities shouted at Office Machinery doesn't seem to work too well, and why when I'm working on my novel(s), it never finishes my chapters for me.

The beau is working late nights, leaving me to my imagination. The good girl in me would be writing right now, but the bad girl in me wants to surf the web for all types of debauchery.

But I'm off to a good start...I have a notebook open to a fresh page sitting on the coffee table next to me. There's a pen ready and everything.

And hey, I'm blogging in here, aren't I?

The beau and I started a website, and I'm supposed to be posting something by the end of the week about Health and Wellness and stuff. Still in the brainstorming phase, but I haven't written anything credible since my senior year of high school, so I'm a little rusty on the journalistic aspect of writing. I'm sure everything I learned will come rushing back to me soon enough...

*But I'm not holding my breath*

So I happened across the walkway to my neighbor's apartment to use her phone, and I was admiring her Modernized Candelabra wall decor.

She says, "Really? You can have it."

I replied, "Uh--what? Oh, I was just saying--"

I really didn't think I was salivating over it (well, maybe a little bit), but how do you say no to free wall goodies?

So at her insistence ('I want to put up more photographs, anyway') I nabbed it. I intend to clean it up and place it on the wall to complement our 'soon-to-be-assembled' brand new 6 piece dining table set.

Now that we've decided we're going to stay here another year, we're slowly making our apartment a little cozier. The topping on the cake is going to be when we get a KITTY. Because Pusher of Pens LOVES KITTIES. And Pusher of Pens will be very ANGRY if loving beau decides against getting a KITTY. Loving Beau has been warned. ;-*

And now to go surf the web mindlessly and feed (or worse, develop) my ADD.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

There's this annoying gnat that keeps flying about my head.

2008-08-26T20:14:00.005-05:00

Originally written at 12:55 pm:

Shhh…I’m at work.

Just had a lovely lunch of cut fruit; watermelon, pineapple, honeydew and green grapes. See, this part is easy for the times I don’t cook, there’s always fresh cut fruit at the building’s cafeteria.

What’s also awesome is that they have the ingredients of their bagels, so I’m good to go. Wait. Is yeast dairy? *Checks online* Hell no, totally vegan. I knew that.

Really. I did.

Leftover cold Chinese for dinner (REALLY GOOD), and now I'm just passing the time playing the Sims and looking up Japanese Street Fashion. Man, I really love the style. Actually, all street fashion is just incredibly inspiring. I don't see that here. It's quite sad. Everyone looks the same.

So I attempted to make pot stickers Saturday night. The filling was delicious, but I know that I made the wrappers just a little too thick. I used whole wheat flour. And then I burned the bottoms of most of them, so the fiance ate about 1.5 of them and said, "It's good, but...It's burnt." So I have leftover dough and filling, so I'll just try it again, and maybe it'll work out this time around.

Lately, I have seriously had a taste for vegan burritos. Black and pinto beans...brown rice, salsa, guacamole, lettuce, tomato, corn... *salivates*

I've also been craving mashed potatoes.

Oh, side note: As to how I've been feeling lately since I've omitted the animal products. I honestly feel like I could be going through a very mild withdrawal. It was expected that I would have irrational cravings for fried chicken and medium-rare steak, but when I think about where it comes from, well...yeah. But I've also had less energy, I'm slightly irritable. I was researching some more, and they are also common symptoms when you take those things out of your diet, but then everything goes back to normal and you feel even better. It hasn't even been a week yet, so I know that's what it is.

Another thought: Something I realized about some vegans...for those who do not completely understand the diet, they end up stuffing their faces with pasta and egg-free bread products all day, and don't look like the vegans most people are associated with seeing. And that's what happens when you consume wheat gluten. It bloats the body. And too many carbs without burning them off is a problem as well. So I want to do this right. I don't mind having the occasional piece of bread, but I want our diet to consist mainly of fruits,veggies,beans,legumes, blah blah blah.

I really need to drink more water. I'm finally up to a bottle a day. That's just pathetic. I also need to start working out. But these things come in waves. One step at a time.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

!!Tip of the Day: Smile when you first wake up in the morning, and as soon as you go to bed at night. A genuine one.

If I could be any vegetable, I'd be a Parsnip. Heck Yeah.

2008-08-23T12:07:00.004-05:00

Actually written at 10:50am::

Bonjour!

So I disappeared for 4 months, because...I really didn't have anything to talk about. But here's a little something worth documenting...

I'm going vegan.

“Oooooo....what's that?” Omnivore onlookers ask.

Vegan: (n) A person who does not eat or use animal products.

I know, it's just so rare that anyone ever talks about their experience going vegan. I mean, do a Google search for it. Nothing comes up. I'm going to be the first.*

I wish I could say that it's going to be hard, but I really don't think it will. I have my lovely fiancé going vegan with me, and, well...we never really ate much meat. But the cheese...that might be a slight bump, you know? And the clothes...well, the more I educate myself, the better I can discern whether what I'm wearing or using is cruelty free or not. Besides, this is a great excuse to buy a lot of new stuff.

But that is NOT my (main) motivation. I feel bad for animals and stuff...I'd be an active activist if I weren't busy wasting time on worthless things. I personally don't think people need meat to survive. At all. As in, EVERYTHING you need is in fruits and veggies, and...grains, and...beans...and... other foods without a face.

If anyone against my thoughts is reading this...do something for me. Look up the acai berry and tell me what you find out about it. What's in it? Then tell me I can't live like this.

Actually, that doesn't really prove it, but look it up anyway. Because it's an amazing berry. The Brazilians are lucky.

Moving on...

I'm still an aspiring writer. I am working on two different novels. One is vampire-esque. Which means, it's about vampires. The other one is Sci-Fi Cyberpunk. Actually, that's the name of it right now because I refuse to title an unfinished work.

Which means I have nothing titled.

Kind of sad considering I've been writing since I was in the Fourth grade.

I am also contemplating just publishing the book myself. I'll have to do more research, but I don't want to consider myself an environmentalist and kill trees. Everything is read on the computer these days anyway. If anything, I would want my stuff printed on 100% recycled paper, but I would eventually want to go paperless, selling it all in PDF format, or something.

Alright, this was just an update to get myself back in the swing of things. Besides, I'm sitting in $tarbucks with my new MacBook** and this adorable baby has a scream like Aphrodite, or some other cool Goddess. And I have a pedicure @ 11:30. Beauty calls...actually, it was calling everyday but I kept screening because I had “better” things to do, like, nap, or... find wine.

Someone just passed by me, and they smelled. Like...well, like @$$. And a convalescent hospital.

I'm outta here.

~Pusher of Pens~

!!Tip of the day: Do yourself a favor and put a filter on your faucet, unless you buy Spring Water. Pharmaceuticals aren't my idea of fortification or enrichment, ya know?

Notes:

*This is sarcasm. It occurs a lot in my musings.*

**I got a new MacBook! And Ipod Touch and Printer! The Ipod and Printer were free. I got the rebate back in 7 days. No lie. I'm in love.**

Where does dust come from? Is it bug poo?

2008-04-07T06:23:00.003-05:00

I never really understood the idea of Spring Cleaning before. What was it about the first hint of warm weather that made people feel or believe that they should spend some serious time cleaning? I'd much rather go outside for a walk, or drive around with the windows down and the music loud. That is, until this past weekend.

My Sig.O and I had gotten a little lazy with our weekly cleanings, only touching the surface to make it seem shiny. We finally couldn't lie to ourselves any longer; something seriously had to be done. So on Friday, we began what I called,

"Super Mega Ultra Cleaning Extravaganza Peace Love 2008 Yeah!" (hold up the peace sign; huge smile)

*Sigh.* Too much anime.

It started out slow. Believe me, it started out REALLY slow. Friday night, we spent what seemed like forever rearranging our respective bookshelves. There was no real physical movement of the shelves themselves, it seriously took us about 3 hours to place BOOKS ON SHELVES.

Then Saturday we had a little bit of momentum. We took our ridiculously huge mattress off of our ridiculously huge bedframe, and cleaned it all, head to toe. Then we oiled it. We vacuumed all the surprise crawly critters, every dust bunny, every corner,ledge, you name it, we did it. And shortly into this, I realized that I kind of enjoyed it. There's something about cleaning that just makes you feel...

Safe.

We of course got distracted by *gasp!* the sun and went for a walk. Then we came back and lounged for 3 hours until the sun went down. Just didn't seem right to work when it was pretty outside.

We finished the big stuff yesterday, getting rid of a table and a chair, adding a shelf, rearranging, and I must say, I was very proud of the work accomplished this weekend. Our place looks much more inviting, much more relaxing, much more efficient. We can breathe a little easier (physically and mentally) now that our apartment is almost spotless.

I still don't understand what came over me; perhaps it was the idea of a new season, a lighter, brighter season that called for getting rid of anything in the house that could possibly bring down your mood. Everything is open, energy flows freely, I even feel like I could actually write here now!

It was a great way to kick off a new season.

!!Tip of the Day!! Fruit in the morning by itself is the best breakfast energy boost one could have. Try it out.

~Yep. Pusher of Pens~

What have I just done?

2008-04-05T16:51:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure how this happened, but I was suddenly curious about blogs, blogging, bloggers, blog sites; the 5 W's and the H. I had already read a few of them myself to pass the time when I should definitely be working on my current novel/short story/anthology/miniseries/screenplay(?), and I have a personal blog on my MySpace page that I update only when big things happen.

So I figured, why not create one? Write your musings, thoughts, opinions, and other synonyms. It's a great way to excuse myself from continuing any writing projects I have right now.

*I am a firm believer that the internet was created to distract well-meaning creative brains like myself from finishing (or starting, for that matter) the work I planned on doing.*

But if I look at it positively, I guess I initially started this whole thing because I needed to get myself into the habit of writing everyday. Even if it has nothing to do with my novels, I need to be in Scribe mode, and perhaps it would open up my internal Muse box, and trick it into giving me an idea.

*There's that saying, "Never let your well run dry," and that was exactly what I let happen. Bad girl-who-thinks-she's-a-writer. Bad.*

So here. Hi. Read if you want. Some of it might be boring. Some of it might be interesting. Maybe even funny. And perhaps, who knows? I might even form a niche through this trial-and-error-i-can't-believe-I-started-a-freaking-blog phase.

!!Tip of the Day!!: Drink green tea. The antioxidants and the metabolism boost will do ya good.

~Yep. Pusher of Pens.~