your life.

this is your life. do what you love, and often. if you don't like something. change it. if you don't like your job, quit. if you don't have enough time, stop watching TV. if you're looking for the love of your life, stop. they will be waiting for you when you start doing the things you love. stop over analyzing. all emotions are beautiful. when you eat, appreciate every last bite. open your mind, arms, and heart to new things, and people. we are united in our differences. ask the next person you see what their passion is, and share your dreams with them. travel often, getting lost will help you find yourself. some opportunities only come once, seize them.

life is about the people you meet, and the things you create with them.

so go out and start creating.

life is short. live your dream. wear your passion.


I stumbled upon this passage earlier this morning and immediately fell in love.
I have been thinking about my life a lot lately and this really helped put my thoughts in order. At this moment in time I have no clue whatsoever where I will be in five years. Hell, I don't know where I will be next year. I have no relationship to speak of. I work two jobs and spend the majority of my free time sacrificing sleep for time with friends. I'm tired constantly, and I spend too much money on frivolous things.

But guess what? I love my life.
Just as it is. Right now.

We all have our bad days, we all wish we had someone to come home to, we all want to find the perfect career. But we also have to accept that may not all happen at once. Perhaps never; and I think there is beauty in that acceptance. I hope to have the "ideal life" when I get older. Husband I'm madly in love with, four fantastic kids to complete my family, great job that makes me happy daily, house on the hill. Sure, who doesn't? But, I'm nineteen years old. My companion is my cat, I spend four hundred dollars a year to drug companies to avoid those kids, I serve tables and transfer calls for a living, and live in a duplex. That is where I'm supposed to be right now. If I find the love of my life tomorrow or perhaps choose a school next week, that's fine. But tomorrow isn't today; and today, I am happy to be where I am. I think when people try to rush into this perfect scenario it almost always ends in settling. Settling for the spouse that's just..there. Having the kids you aren't prepared for. Spending the rest of your life in the career you hate because you felt like a loser if you didn't rush off to college and quickly pick a major that would make you the most money like everyone else. Living in the house that will never be home because you aren't truly happy.

Don't allow yourself to do that.

Live in the here and now, but at the same time be conscientious of the future. Learn to love your place in this world, it isn't set in stone. If you don't like where you find yourself, change it. Let negativity roll off your shoulders. Laugh at nothing. Smile at a stranger. Live every day by your standards.

Life may be short, yes. But in my opinion it's too damn long to be spent unhappy.

blue collar.

Up to this point in my life, I've never had a "type." I have dated across the spectrum more or less. From farm boys to Chicagoans, tiny basketball boys to huge footballers; name a category and I've been there. None in my past have stuck out to me as THE type of man I want to be with forever. Until recently, that is.
My father is currently living in a charming small town in Southern Illinois. Despite it's adorable factor, it contains mostly families that have lived there for decades and union workers "stationed" around the coal power plant being built. He lives in a small apartment above a resale shop directly behind the county jail. He wakes up before sunrise, works among hundreds of others, comes home, cooks for one, calls his wife, and goes to bed. In other words, his quality of life generally bites. As does many other "blue collar" workers' in this country. Rarely do you hear them complain.

Now you are probably wondering how this ties into my future husband, well, hold on.

I have asked my dad on many occasions why he lives this way. He could break his union ties and get a job closer to home, the pay would be significantly less but at least he'd be home. He responds each time, "I do it for my girls." He is so selfless. My dad is absolutely miserable, but he would never tell me so. Upon this realization, I realized my "type."
No, I'm not saying I want to marry my dad, barf. But men like him are the ones I need to be finding.

Go on Wall Street and ask any of the men in Armani suits if they would live in a shack by a jail to better their family's life. I'd bet a week's pay they'd call you crazy. If they even stopped to talk to you.

A blue collar man doesn't get things done. He does things.

He doesn't need to call someone about your leaky faucet, because he can fix it and has the tools to do so. When he says "I'll do it later," he actually will in fact, do it later. He doesn't need to drive a Mercedes and wear expensive clothes, he has nothing to prove. He doesn't pass judgment. Treat him right, and you'll be considered a friend. Simple as that. Happiness is enough, he doesn't find himself constantly thinking "there has to be something/one better." He loves what/who he has. The hard work doesn't stop when the time clock does. He isn't inconvenienced by others needs.

I need one of those.

family...?

If you would have asked me a few years ago, I would have told you that my family was my most prized "possession." If I were to answer the same question today, I would have to admit I am indifferent on the whole idea. I am not a hateful, terrible person. I'd like to think I am one of the most positive, happy people I know of. But honestly, family means less and less every day. Before you know it, family will be taken as lightly in society as say, marriage.
My family used to be great, we were as close to each other as most people are to their best friends. From ridiculously entertaining games on holidays to just sitting around laughing like every word spoken was the funniest we had ever heard. I could go on in detail about just how amazing we were, but it doesn't matter at this point and I'll save the finger energy. Our family now...not so great.
One of my aunts merely acknowledges me in public, the other makes awkward small talk. It's sad, but I have always had an above average skill for letting things roll off my back, so I live. In a nutshell, my mom doesn't make the best life choices, I believe even she would admit that. Her sisters care too much what people think, I'm sure even they would admit that. Many of her bad choices were effecting the family. Some members more than others. Her sisters naturally got fed up with this plus the bad press I'm guessing, and distanced themselves. I'm not sure what happened between then and now but, they if I had to guess I'd say they don't even claim her as their sister. My point of this post isn't to air my family's dirty laundry, but to explain that I don't understand how families mean nothing anymore.
It makes me sad that I'm no longer sad about not having a "family."It causes no more sweat off my back than a pet goldfish dying; it was there..now it isn't. Oh well, flush it. On the other hand, I don't believe sisters/brothers are considered family. They are considered soul mates. What confuses me most about this whole situation is how three sisters can live together for 40+ years then decide "eh, this isn't working for me." The nieces have only been around for a little more or less than a decade, so I suppose they are easier to live apart from.
My sister is my best friend as many of you know, I no longer see her every single day seeing as we both work daily and live in separate houses. But, she is still the person I'm closest to in this world. I can say without hesitation that it will stay this way throughout our entire lives.

No matter what.

Wedding vows usually contain something along the lines of: "In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse." I believe family should have this vow embedded in them from birth. But sadly, like most others who take this vow, it means nothing.

I don't care if Alix went on a murdering spree, became a notorious bank robber, or started smuggling cocaine; she is my sister. I would never let anything change that, or our relationship. You can't uninstall built in best friends.

break ups are the pits.

Saying break ups are hard would be an extreme understatement. Saying they are the end of the world would be an extreme exaggeration. But guess what? They happen. There are a select few people in this world who will never experience the sting of a broken heart and the odds are..you aren't one of those people. Now put on your big kid pants and deal with that fact. Let it sink in that someone you love will completely destroy you. If you let them that is.

The stereotypical girl in emotional agony can be seen in front of a television watching Love Actually and stuffing her pie hole with Ben and Jerry's. That's fine, we've all been there. A freshly ended relationship can completely devastate your will to leave the house, or even change out of pajamas for that matter. Believe me, I get it. The stereotypical guy is out at the bars slobbering all over floosies with daddy issues, perhaps drinking until they "can't feel feelings." Sometimes these roles are reversed, it depends I suppose. I understand lying across your bed listening to that Dashboard Confessional and Secondhand Serenade type of music we all know so well until you can't cry any longer may seem like the right thing to do but guess what sweetheart? That only makes matters worse. I'm not downplaying the pain of love ending, and i'm also not describing the kind of break up that is temporary. I use the term for the kind of end that you know to be permanent.

I'm not sure the point of this post other than to release some thoughts I have swirling around. I want to say that I know the feeling of pure and utter devastation, when even hearing someone's name can reduce you to tears, thinking of how things were fills your body up to your ears with a boiling feeling. I know. But I also know that life goes on; trust me. Every day you think of that person less and less and eventually the hurting stops. But you're the only one that can make that happen. Listening to depressing music, sitting home alone, eating until you can't any more doesn't do anything productive. On the other hand, going out every night and getting so drunk you can't remember your name and going home with strangers doesn't help either. Because you know what? You're going to sober up in the morning. Your life will be the exact same as it was before. You just have to live. Live your life for yourself, because if you can't do that then you will never find the one person who will never give you that horrible boiling feeling.

Basically, pull up your boot straps and get back on the horse. You will still think of him/her every day. A certain song will come on that makes you skip a breath. You will still hate seeing them move on. Regardless of these things, which are completely normal, you will get over it. You will think of this person and there will be no change in your emotion, they will just become..another person. But until that happens, don't make the situation worse. Dramatics are more interesting, sure, but making a mountain out of a molehill is nothing but detrimental to your health. Everything happens for a reason, and looking back you will realize this to be true.

Be thankful for the times you had with that person.

Take the positives and learn from them.

Forget the negatives, there is no point in dwelling.

When you least expect it, you will wake up..and be okay.

I promise.

This will never happen to me.

My grandparents have been married for over fifty years. Most people's grandparents, or even parents, have been or will have been married for longer than this when their lives are over. This will never happen for me. This will never happen for most of my generation.

People always believe there is a better option, someone better out there, than the person they're with. Everyone is too busy searching for their perfect match that they miss them when they're standing in front of them screaming "Hello! I'm right here!" Not to mention when someone does finally settle down and thinks they have found someone worth sharing their life with, there are too many ways to cheat these days. You can literally be in bed with your significant other and cheating on your cellphone or social networking site. Combine that with the lack of morality my generation was raised with and Boom! Recipe for heartbreak and loneliness.

I want to be courted. I want a romance like our grandparents had, and still have. Call me old fashioned, fine. I don't want to keep my options open. I want one person. One person to show all I have to give. To share my everything with. To go to sleep with every night and wake up to every morning. I want to share coffee. I want to make meals together. I want to have picnics. I want to enjoy my life because they are in it. I don't want someone to think twice about their feelings for me, or wonder if i'm "as good as it gets." I want them to look at me like there's no one else. Because that is how I will be looking at them.

Despite the "Sex and the City" type culture; life isn't meant to be spent alone into your forties, just sleeping with whatever tickles your fancy and having cocktails with a new man every night.

Life is meant to be spent with someone else. One someone else. Someone to merge your life with until you're so far deep into each other's lives it simply becomes "our life." Life isn't about sneaking around behind your lover's back. It isn't about texting, facebooking, tweeting, emailing, nothing. Life is not meant for lies, deceit, betrayal, or pain. It's meant for happiness, companionship, and if we're lucky enough...love.

But no one seems to understand that these days.

I would like to know if i'm stuck in a fantasy that will never come true...or if maybe someday I will find someone who breaks the mold of my generation. I'm very young, and I realize that, but i'm going to have to find him soon if I want to surpass fifty years.

"Life Itself is the Most Wonderful Fairytale."

-Hans Christian Andersen.

I used to have this quote on the wall of my room. To be honest I didn't really believe it, I simply liked the wall decal.

I was attempting to sleep last night when the aforementioned statement popped into my head and I started thinking, maybe I do believe it. I always looked at my wall in disbelief as I envisioned princesses, fairy god mothers, handsome princes, and a perfect life.

"Come on Hans, real life is a tube full of bologna." I would think on my way out the door.

But really, now that I think of it, life truly is a fairytale. Maybe it just takes some time to be written.

We have to remember every story has hardships, even villians. If you stopped reading "Thumbelina" as she was being kidnapped by the toad; you would never know she finds her tiny prince. It's hard sometimes to read life all the way through, i'll admit there are more days than not when I want to just skim pages to the end.

I'm slowly realizing my life is just a story; one in which I am the protagonist but mostly, the author. I'm the one who decides whether or not the princess gets defeated by evil. Maybe I don't need a fairy godmother or prince to save me. But then again if I do ever find myself the damsel in distress, I think I finally have the right characters in my life to swoop in and rescue me.

Don't stop reading at the first conflict, there's always a happy ending.

brown eyed girl

The glint of sunlight on steel flashed in my eyes as I watched my life fall apart. Trapped by the police officer’s strong arms, I continued to thrash forward as if I could get away. The screams of horror echoing from my breast blended across the sky with those of agony coming from the wreckage in front of me. Crash, metal on metal. That was it. Everything I had ever loved burned in front of my glossy brown eyes.
“Standing in the sunlight laughing, hiding behind a rainbow's wall, slipping and sliding all along the water fall, with you. My brown eyed girl, you’re my brown eyed girl.”
The memory of my father’s voice broke through the wreckage, singing our song. My mother laughing and telling him, “Maybe you should leave the singing to Van Morrison darling.” I never cared how tone deaf he was, how awful his dancing was. When my song rang through his vocal cords there was no better sound in the entire world. My body went limp as the reminiscence faded.
With my elbow to his gut, the officer collapsed, letting me free. The sprint to the 1984 Ford was the longest trip I had ever traveled. Glass shards penetrated my knees and elbows as I scrambled desperately to reach my parents. I heard nothing. Heat from the burning semi engulfed my body, and if I hadn’t been so numb, it might have hurt.
“Ma’am? Ma’am? Please get away from the car, the gas tank could explode anytime now. You NEED to get away from the cars!” I ignored the police man’s voice.
“Sha la la la...laa la l…” I heard my father’s faint voice singing and hot tears burned my face instantaneously.
“Elliott? Damnit, I lost her.” The cop gave up.
Grabbing the bloody blackened hand in front of me; my breath quickened, my heart rate sped, and my heart ached. There was no life in the passenger’s seat. Her beautiful face stared at me, empty, as if waiting for something. I knew what the crystal blue eyes waited for, my father. The hand I held. The last bit of my world was being held together by two tender palms. I no longer knew where my mother was, yet deep in my soul I knew I could reach her. Praying with all of my being I pleaded,
“Please don’t take him with you, wait for him. I need him. You can have him for eternity, mom please, leave him with me.”
I felt a firm squeeze on my hand that sent goose bumps up my spine. I looked into my father’s eyes and they smiled at me through the tears.
“She wants you to know she loves you little darling,” my grip tightened on his hand “she loves you more than anything, but I have to go with her. It is not in our hands.”
Nodding once, I kissed the strong hands I’d always known. I wanted to scream, tell him no, he couldn’t go. Before I could reconsider my understanding, his cracked voice came through his weak mouth;
“Hey where did we go, days when the rains came down in the hollow, playin' a new game, laughing and a running hey, hey skipping and a jumping in the misty morning fog with our hearts a thumpin' and you, my brown eyed girl…”
“No dad, no, finish the song. Please, you have to finish.” My own voice sounded frail in my throat.
And as I looked into his eyes, the exact eyes I saw in my mirror every morning, the light went out. I knew at that point, I had to finish my song on my own.
An intense whoosh blew my long hair into my face, this heat far hotter than that in which I’d been sitting. I didn’t care. I wanted to sit there and burn to ashes with my parents and our upside down car. But the hellacious police officer would not let that happen. My hand was ripped from my father’s, yet I no longer cared. I closed my eyes. My father’s eyes.
I had always wished for my mother’s beautiful baby blues, sat for hours in front of a mirror blinking over and over again, hoping that one time when I opened them I would see her ice blue masterpieces in my own reflection. If I had blue eyes, I would be beautiful like her. A tall lean goddess with the modesty of a saint, gone. When I opened them again I saw my mother’s beauty in my own reflection, only this time, with brown eyes.
“You’re my, brown eyed girl.”

The young woman’s body went numb and lifeless in my hands. I had expected her to fight, to pull away or sock me a good one like she had done in our earlier meeting. But she didn’t. I coddled her against the explosion I heard coming. Like every wreck, I instead wanted to coddle the poor thing from what was to come. Hours of questions, figuring out where she could continue her life, and the grief no person should have to deal with. Ten years on this force, I’ve seen my fair share of accidents. But never have I seen a child run to watch her parents die. Cops aren’t heartless, and death doesn’t get easier to watch, but victims all blend together after a night’s sleep. Something in my spirit told me this situation was different. I learned her name was Elliott Belles, and she had only been waiting for her parents outside the library for a few minutes. Ironic, Belles was my middle name and I had never understood why my birth parents would do such a thing to a boy.
After the initial blast, I scooped the girl up from our crouching position and ran to a safe distance. I tried to put her down but her grip around me did not loosen. Strange, just a few minutes before she was running from the safety of my grasp, straight into an automobile accident set to blow at any minute. I held her against my rigid bulletproof vest until her crying stopped.
She insisted on sitting in the front of my squad car on the way back to the station. I did not bother her with talking, but rather turned on the radio to an easy listening station and drove.
After questioning her as a witness to the accident, which I find a ridiculous practice, I offered a ride to a relative’s house.

“I don’t have any relatives.”
“None at all? Do you have somewhere to go?”

Every question that followed only sparked anger and tears, so I talked to the captain and brought the girl home with me. There wasn’t much speaking, but over breakfast the next morning I explained to her all of the options. Being seventeen she could live on her own if that is what she wanted, if needed however, foster care could be provided.
“Will you help me with something?” Her shaking voice piped in, clearly not listening to anything I had been saying. I told her I could help her with anything she needed.
“My parents left me this letter, it was with their will. The other cops had to read it to see if I had any relatives I did not know about. I can’t bear to read it; do you think you could read it to me?”
I would have rather done anything than said no to the pleading brown eyes that looked into my own. Something about her eyes seemed comfortable and familiar, almost like home.
“Of course,
Our Darling brown eyed girl,
We hope with all of our hearts you are reading this long after we are writing it, yet we know life can be unexpected. We love you very much; you are the absolute center of our universe. Know forever, that we will wait for you.
However, until your journey on Earth is through, we need you to know you are not alone. At the bottom of this letter is a name, your brother. Every day the two of us pray for him, and with little success have we found information on his whereabouts. If you so desire, find him, and deliver the message that we never meant to lose him. After he was lost, we searched high and low for our first born, but the school claimed to have no records of him, or the other boys on the trip. The details are not important, any how we do not have many. What we hope from this letter is for you to continue the search we have so far failed. If you shall find him, bring him the joy we know you have brought us.
Forever yours,
Mother, and Father.

Carson Belles"

Confusion hit my body like a tidal wave as I heard the name uttered in awe by the police officer. I looked into his crystal icy blue eyes, and then let my gaze drop to the shining star pinned on his uniform. “Carson Belles Smith, Toronto Police.” My dark brown eyes reflected back at me behind the name.

Famous for Steakburgers.

Lately I have been attempting to change myself. Not completely, but in small ways.

I want to be a more beautiful person.

To me there is a large difference between pretty and beautiful. Anyone can change their appearance, I'm changing my soul. Not to say there is anything wrong with my inside, but everyone has personality flaws and plenty of room for improvement. I aim to eliminate as many as I can. The catch is, I'm molding myself to my own standards of beautiful. Many changes people won't notice and I am happy with that.

I am writing this post in Steak 'n Shake. Table forty-one, party of one, seat number one. If you have not yet caught on, I am dining alone. I've decided eating alone is something all beautiful people should do, and often. Keep in mind my definition of beautiful. Solo dining is not glamorous or mysterious. Unlike an indie movie or a late night teen drama, no ruggedly handsome dark eyed stranger has come my way. Stefani, my waitress seems to hover however. Almost in pity for the young girl, party of one...seat one. Usually a person of her position would bother me, but her greetings and "are you still doing okays?" seem genuine so with her every visit to the table I smile warmly and nod.

When I sat down beneath the red neon signs at the small table meant for two I felt strange. After all I had never done this before. But as I watch the crowd I begin to feel like a part of the harsh and cliche red, black, and white scenery.

I wonder what the guests of the Comfort Suites next door are doing and what brings them to town. I wonder if the tall bald manager will ask me to kindly end my loitering, I have now been here for and hour and a half writing feverishly in a notebook and reading. Somewhere in the back of my mind an urgent yet ignored thought sounds off, finite class. The family beside me seems to be having a very intensely serious conversation that reaches my ears in broken bits. "Regardless, we have to deal with this situation, I'm serious."

The blue eyed man named Robert is the one whose "memories of it are still just pissing him off." I start to feel the conversation is far too personal for a lone stranger to eavesdrop on and change my activity to watching the dark birds contrast against the gray sky.

Stefani's shift is over, a less friendly worker takes her place. Robert is still hostile. A light-bearded man with a single bag enters the Comfort Suites. I feel my dining experience come to a close and gather my things. I am informed at the counter my milkshake will be full price because "you waited too long to check out, Happy Hour ended half an hour ago..." point taken from the grill boy in the paper hat. I waited too long.

I think I will eat alone more often.

Alix Michelle. SC.

"Love is the answer at least for most of the questions in my heart, like why are we here? And where do we go?And how come it's so hard? It's not always easy and sometimes life can be deceiving I'll tell you one thing, it's always better when we're together"

"Better Together"

Jack Johnson

I am most definitely not a photographer. My family has plenty of those and their talent far exceeds my own. They take pictures for a profession, beauty, and memories. I may not have the first two, but I love the last. The pictures I take are random and sometimes very silly. But out of all the things I could choose to take photographs of, my favorite is my sister Alix Michelle. Not only is she a constant form of entertainment for me, but a constant form of inspiration. Not many people can say their sister is their best friend and know deep down in their soul that it is true in every sense...I can. Sometimes she is moody, or even downright hateful. Often times I am furious for no reason, then euphoric the next. The recognition of one another's flaws brings about a silent understanding. We take the other person's faults in as they happen then allow them to be erased almost in the same instant.

Between the both of us we have dealt with a lot of hardships throughout our lives. With every new one of hers comes a new opening in my heart to take the pain, and store it inside myself until she is ready to face it again. People who love her other than myself may request that her packages of hurt be lifted from her and put onto them, but they do not know my heart and hers have had a storage contract since the very first time she consciously cried.

The reason I bring up my sister and pictures is that I recently discovered Alix is my favorite thing to capture. In every picture taken of myself (though I will always pick apart every flaw that can be found) I look generic. I flash the same smile I have given for years that I know will be positively viewed. I have practiced putting up a front to hide what lies beneath the "cheerleader smile" enough times to perfect it. Ali however, is vulnerable in her smiling. She does not know how stunningly beautiful she truly is. Every picture shows humility. I envy that. She begs me to edit the pictures in a way that hides her absolute raw self and changes her into the same generic person I achieve without the editing. I do it, but what she does not know is the extent to which I edit her photos. Maybe airbrushing a blemish, whitening a smile, or changing the color filter is as far as I will go. But these minor changes give her the confidence in her pictures I wish she would always carry with her. But then again, do I want her to lose the naivety, vulnerability, and pureness that she carries only for her modesty to be replaced by the vain, fake qualities so many people have? I do not know. The truth is, I would love her all the same either way.

"Sister, I hear you laugh, My heart fills full up. Keep me please. Sister, when you cry I feel your tears running down my face. Sister, sister, keep me. I hope you always know it’s true I would never make it through you could make the sun go dark just by walking away playing like we used to play like it would never go away I feel you beating in my chest, I’d be dead without."

"Sister"

Dave Matthews