I have trypophobia. It's the aversion to small holes or irregular patterns. I've always hated when people ask 'oh, did you look it up or something?' No, I didn't look it up on the internet and see images that gave me an extreme aversion. I'm pretty good about keeping calm when I do see stuff that sets me off. I mean the school ceiling is covered in small holes. But it's the worst when people are weird about it. Asking about the ceiling, and sponges, and all sorts of random stuff. I guess people find it hard to believe, but I have a few stories I'd like to share here. :)
This one time I was washing the dishes. I use this kind of cloth sponge, without any holes in it. But we do have a normal one to clean out the sink, which isn't something I normally have to do. But I looked over and saw this sponge. There was some sort of food stuck in it, which sometimes makes it even worse.
To think you didn’t take the shot And held your breath instead to doubt the choice that you just made, then doubt that choice again. And to believe it couldn’t be and every pass deny and push away the basketball for someone else to try. To not face up to challenges that tower over you and believe you know the outcome when In fact that isn’t true. To stand there with a shot in mind and then be scared to shoot to pass the ball the other way And let them take the loot. To doubt and shy away from this and think your skill is luck will always leave you wondering what if I took the shot?
I am grateful to be in the majority of Americans (white, female, middle class, etc.) but I cannot sympathize with those who are of color, or who are being discriminated against because I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE. I rely on stories, and I do sympathize and empathize with that person, but it's hard to do when most everyone at your school is white, when you live in one of the whitest states, when your family is white. I am part Ghanian, but it's only 1/32 of my DNA, and I've never been discriminated against or had anyone close to me be discriminated against. I am passionate about civil rights, and I have written about it, but I don't have experience. And I'm the type of person who needs to experience things to sympathize and empathize. The only thing I really could experience would be gender discrimination, but I would sass that person until they leave me alone.
Its January 2, 2020. I never thought I would live to see this day. Not in a ¨I'm gonna die young kinda way¨, but actually conceiving that 2020 is a real year has been a difficult task. It feels like I'm on a precipice, depending on which way I lean my life could change forever. But maybe it will be just another year, one more year of my life, it doesn't sound like much but time moves slowly at the start. It's not like it's anything impressive, lasting till the next decade, but it just astounds me at how fast my life can move sometimes. I coulda sworn it was 2014 like last year.
Bear with me on this one, because I'm on a roll and this is happening whether someone's paying attention or not. This Sunday, my preferred morning radio show (Breakfast with the Beatles for anyone who's interested) included an interview with a veteran rock and roll journalist named Jeff Slate. It was an interesting enough conversation, as they moved between Beatle stories of the past and what we can expect from the surviving members in the future. However, near the end of the interview the host asked Slate what role he believed the Beatles and music in general played in the world today. His answer surprised me- and not neccesarily in a good way.
I hide in my baggy clothes so you can't see all the scares that we're left behind. So you can't say my body isn't the way it should be. So I can have friends that won't like me for my makeup and Instagram followers. This is me the girl who runs as fast as the Boys but still cracks a joke with them. I'm the one no one gossips about. The one who sits at a lunch table with 2 other people.
no one is perfect and all of us hide. From something even if it's are own shadow. Why do we though why don't we just say 'I don't care I'm perfect the way I am.' That's not what we think in are heads even if we think we do. We don't.
Have you ever met an elf? The pointed eared, joyful, always eating candy elf? You haven't, well I've got to say they are quite amazing! Always wanting to play in the snow making snowmen and snow women. All of them have different jobs! The toy makers, reindeer caretakers, The elves on the shelves, and the one that every year rides on Santa's sleigh. Every job is essential and helps Santa make it through! If not for the elves... the presents wouldn't get made fast enough and who would care for the reindeer! Who would play in the snow on their breaks. What if elves weren't a thing! The children wouldn't have anything under the tree. Good thing the elves DO help Santa. Tomorrow you will have something under your tree even if it means big presents, little presents, or coal.
Why DO you like writing? Someone might ask. You can barley read, and your a horrible speller. Maybe. I'd answer. But I have to much to say. to many thoughts i'd like to pluck from the clouds To many sarcastic comments to stuff down peoples throats. But your such a slow reader Someone might exclaim. only out loud. I'd answer. And haven't you heard of audio books? Your should get glasses One sighs in pitty. But I don't need glasses to express my thoughts on paper. I'm completly capable of thinking up stories, rants, poems, and pieces Without perfect eye brain coordination. Writting is not rocket science. But your such a slow writter- why don't you just draw? They'd say gently. Writing is never inconvenient. I'd say with an eye role. I write to express my self. I write to educate others.
Why do we come to this website just WISHING that someone will notice us? Why do we hope we get a comment that lifts are hopes? Let me tell you something, we go to the popular users and forget the little starters. Why are we so mean to each other without realizing it. We are judging a book by its title. You want to know what ya I may get no likes and no one may come here to my side of the writers project but there are many of you like me, who sit there and wait for a like on a post and it never came so you liked your own work so you felt better about yourself.
I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to fall asleep in your arms. I'd like to try it sometime, because you keep talking about the future, and I keep imagining a Christmas where I wake up next to you. And I'm screwed because you turn me into the sun and I want to spend the rest of my life laughing and you keep calling me and last night you asked me what it would be like to live together and I had to pretend I hadn't spent all day imagining it. Tonight it felt like we were in love and I want so bad to be the person who makes your face light up and I'm not sure I am and its killing me because sometimes you turn my heart into the sun and you make me fall down hills and into oceans laughing so hard and I fell asleep to your heartbeat muffled by the 32 miles between us and I was supposed to be in love for 6 months but I spent the whole time imagining myself with you just so I could breathe and now you're the only thing that feels real.
The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
When i started writing again, it was for an english assignment, a poem of the week, a get-yourself-inspired type of deal, but it’s safe to say i never was because when you are writing under the constrictions of something that is calculable, something that can be turned into a number in a gradebook, you are not truly writing.
The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
When i started writing again, i wrote with proper punctuation and read over my work thousands of times, praying that it would meet the approval of those who i didn’t really care about. When i started writing again, i didn’t write, i sang the songs of other people, and i pictured myself, inevitably, in front of a crowd going wild.
The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
I think that law should not be repealed, and everybody should get a chance at a better life no matter where they came from or what their background is. And that's my problem with Trump- he's in charge of a country but only seems to care about the rich, well-off people.
You insert your earbuds into your ears after a rough day and “Truce” by twenty one pilots starts playing. The soft instrumentals and delicate vocals hit you like a splash of warm water. You’re consumed by a sense of love and wantedness that makes you feel like you can survive and keep going.
You feel needed and important, and you are reminded that a new day will come and you will get to try again. You’re reminded that it gets better and that life doesn’t always suck like this. You finally feel accepted and valid and nothing is wrong anymore.
The reason you felt beaten and broken seems so small that it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not sad because you know it’s going to get better. All of your problems just wash away like a wave smoothing over the sandy beach.
You reset yourself. And you feel better. And now you can go to bed feeling loved and wanted, knowing that tomorrow is going to be better.
The sun hid. And I, a petulant child, chased after him, in hopes I could bask in his warmth and be stripped of my sin. I ran and ran, but my legs gave up. I wish that I could have been fast enough, and the clouds always engulf him in time. Leaving me stranded in this bleak state of mind
Without the sun, the sky grew dark. So she gathered grey clouds to bury her busted broken heart But her pain seeped through, I felt it on my head. I cursed the sun for the way he had misled her and left her feeling empty. But he kept hiding, the sun had no empathy.
The sky cried. It began as a silent weep but moved to a scream that woke me from my sleep. Thunder that could be heard for miles, but all I could do was listen to her upended smiles. I tried to soak up her sadness, and carry away her tears, But I could never have enough tee-shirt I fear.
So yet again I'm stuck washing the dishes while the other two are fighting over who has the most candy... and trailing after them all day long picking up the chaos they leave in their wake and stuffing it back into something other people had to deal with... and cleaning up the table while those two call me "mom" and then laugh when they see I'm not "mom" and still laugh even when they see I'm not sharing in their amusement... and there they are fighting over who is the "contributing to climate change while I take out the compost... and the recycling. So yet again I'm wearing headphones while I do my homework because if I don't I'll have to listen to screaming children... and doing the laundry while the other kids jump into the piles I had just neatly folded while playing "cowboys"... and helping mom carry all the groceries while the other children whine about how hungry they are. Being the forgotten, ever helping, selfless oldest child is hard...
