We humans don't have our priorities set straight.
I don't mean to be offensive in any way. I'm also not just saying that to say it. The sentence above is a simple fact of life. The most selfless, humble person will have times when they have to choose between something and want to go with the choice that benefits them the most. Sometimes it's a question of whether to eat the french fries or go with the salad; other times it's a career choice.
Whatever it is, humankind has a tendency to go with whatever will make them happier in that particular moment. Hey, screw the salad! I'll run the calories off later...as long as it doesn't interfere with watching Keeping up With the Kardashians. So maybe I'll just not run it off tomorrow. But next time, I'm definitely choosing the salad...
You see where this is going. But thanks to enough people out there having both willpower and a fierce hatred of procrastination, our world is still able to move along despite all of these priority problems. The fact still is that when it comes to this stuff, about 99.99999999 percent of us still need work in the priority department.
Where this is all leading to is something I mentioned above. A career choice. For me. That I'll most likely be doing the rest of my life. Now, I might be a wee bit young to be thinking about all of this, but hey! You can never start too soon! Unless you're one of those crazy soccer Moms getting your kid into the sport at 4 1/2 in hopes they'll earn a scholarship or something.
Okay. So here's my problem. I love writing. You can msot likely tell because I have a short story and poetry section on here. For whatever reason, I can't stay away from the pen and paper for my life. I live writing. I breathe writing. Well, hopefully I don't breathe it. I would really hate to get those smelly ink fumes in my system. Yuck.
Of course, it's only natural for me to be a writer when I grow up. Not only would I get to sit at the computer all day and write stories, but I get paid to do that. There is nothing better to me. The work hours also seem to be a bit more lenient than the rest. Not to brag, but I can type pretty fast, so I'd probably have time to chill out before everything's due.
There's just a small problem. Ever since I've been a little kid, I've had a strong desire to help people. I bounced back from being US President, Mayor Of An At Risk City, Humanitarian, and even a version of Supergirl, without the really revealing costume. Finally, after realizing that politics have more to do about charisma and power than actually helping stuff, I looked into the medical field.
I was stumped. There were so many choices! Finally, I decided that I wanted to mainly work on the human brain. After proudly announcing that I was going to be a psychologist, I got laughs and even, "God, that's the worst job I could imagine!" Yeah....it didn't boil over well. So I thought for a good while longer about what I wanted to be medicalwise. Finally, I decided.
I wanted to be a schizophrenia geneticist.
Allow me to explain. Schizophrenia is a mental illness where the lines between reality and nonreality are blurred. This causes people to have it to have both visual and audio hallucinations. Some side effects are extreme paranoia and detatchment. It's pretty bad. Also, I have a family history of it, so it's a cause close to my heart.
The question I have about it is what exactly do people have in their genetic codes that gives them the potential for getting it? What turns the "switch" on, and what gives people the "switch" in the first place? As a schizophrenic geneticist, I would research that and try to figure out not only how to turn the "switch" off but to also be able to tell someone if they have the potential for acquiring this mental illness.
If I were to be successful in this research or contribute an important piece of material to this study, I'd be helping a lot of people. And that's all I want to do, is to help as many people as possible. Now, I might not EXACTLY go into genetics, but if I were to go into the medical field I would want to be reasearching and finding a cure for schizophrenia.
So now I will have to eventually choose what I want to pursue. Do I want to be a writer, which will give me happiness and a job I love, or a schizophrenic reseracher, which is a job that could give me satisfaction in the long term and will be an effort to help people? I'm honestly stuck and I don't know what to do. I know what the obvious answer should be, but I'm committing my whole life to this.
Again, we humans do not have our priorities set straight.
So what do you guys think? What should I do? Any feedback would be great. In the meanwhile, I think I'm going to go write a poem now. Or listen to Evanescence. I'll actually probably do both.
This is not going to be a particularly happy blog entry.
As you can tell from the title, I just lost Grandpa to wherever one's spirit goes on the other side. I knew that he was going soon. I mean, he had terminal prostate cancer. It was only a matter of months. I thought that I was prepared for what was going to happen.
How stupid of me.
It happened Tuesday morning at around 2:30 AM. He had just moved into the care home when he complained of chills to the hospice (the nursing home people) and then started freaking out because he couldn't breathe. The hospice came in to give him so medication and he didn't have a pulse. It all happened so suddenly.
It was honestly a matter fo 72 hours. 3 days ago, he was well enough to shop at Costco and use the cart as a walker. That day, he was so sick that he couldn't support his own weight. He spiraled downhill so fast that there was nothing to catch him but death.
I can't really explain how I feel right now. When I first heard, I started crying and then a few minutes late the tears turned to hysterical sobbing and screaming. Then, I calmed down. It was like an ice pack was thrown into my insides. I still feel that way. Numb and unresponsive to the event. I can't emotionally process what's going on right now, I guess.
How can one person be there one day and gone the next? How can I have so many years ahead of me and he only had a matter of weeks? How can that happen? How does the clock for someone just...stop? I can't imagine him gone. It's just not possible that the Grandfather who loved his cats, went fishing, and loved Costco could be gone to the sky.
I don't want him to be up there, though. I want him to be down here with the family. That's where he belongs. With us. Life is so so precious. I know that it's supposed to end. It always ends. The clock of life never stops for anyone. It just feels so unfair, though.
We humans are so selfsih. Here I am, moaning about wanting Grandpa to be with me, when really I should be happy that he's in a better place. I should be happy that he's young and free and painless, and all I want is for him to come back. How awful of me.
The funeral is next Friday. I'm a little terrified of funerals. I think of black and mourning and sobbing and frankly I want to keep that stuff out of my mind. I don't want to see the coffin that Grandpa will be in. I have never imagined him in a coffin. I don't want a thought that hasn't even treaded my nightmares to become horrifying reality.
I will have the opportunity to recite something at the funeral. At first I thought, "No way! Why the heck would i want to do that? I don't want to be affiliated with that dreaded funeral. Period." And then I got to thinking. This would be the chance for me to say all of the things that I didn't get a chance to say.
So I decided to write a poem.
It's titled, "Grandfather, Grandfather". I can't really explain how I got to writing it. It just came out so...naturally. I am going to present this poem to the funeral, and hopefully it will briefly sum up everything that I feel. Here's the poem:
You're swimming in a starry sea
No longer are you aged and ill
Your steps are filled iwth youthful glee
A place in our hearts you'll always fill
Watchng from up above
It is I, your grieving granddaughter
Please know that you're always loved
You're know to Rocky and I as Grandpa
A title you will alway skeep
You taught me to fight with a firmly set jaw
It is in my hopes I'll see you again in my sleep
Watching from up above
It is I, your grieving granddaughter
Please know that you're always loved
Oh, Grandpa, why did you have to go?
It hurts so much now that you're gone
Grandpa, know that I miss you so
But it's your undying love that keeps me marching on
Watching from up above
It is , your grieving Granddaughter
Please know that you're always loved.
And there it is. The poem I am going to read at the funeral. I'll update you on how that goes....oh, God, why did this have to happen? It's the worst thing, this whole grief business. But I have to keep marching on. That's the one thing left to do is to keep marching on.
UPDATE: The funeral was sad. I cried. I couldn't read my poem. Apparently the funeral home is really booked and I would have backed the whole system up...
It's a conspiracy, I swear.
I don't know what exactly I have done in my rather short lifetime to create this rocky relationship between technology and I, but something had clearly happened along the road to cause us to but heads. Well, okay.
Maybe I have a slight idea.
I didn't mean to drop that camera in the creek! And maybe blow drying it afterwards wasn't the smartest idea, but how was I supposed to know that the insides were going to melt? And I only lost it on that microwave because it wasn't working the way it should of. To be fair, I didn't know how to use the thing and it later turned out that the "piece of crap" I ended up throwing across the room was subject to user error. But still.
I don't deserve to be at war with technology.
For example. The server went down a few days ago, which wasn't much of a problem because my computer was the only one that didn't screw up. However, when I had to print out a very important piece of work, a la stupida computidora decided to call it a day and stop working for me.
And then when I tried to toast two pieces of bread so I could have a deliciously crunchy sandwich, the toaster decided to leave one piece untouched and to subject the other one to cremation. I mean, it could have at least had the decency to keep innocent pieces of bread out of it. Come on now.
And then when I want to email some photos to my friend, my very idiotic PC thought it'd be a smart trick to screw me up. After 15 desperate attempts, I finally got the photos sent. Of course, with my luck, they were upside down.
After my many failed attempts at technology, I have decided to throw a wildcard into the game. As far as I know, though I may be on the bad side of PC's, I still may have a chance with MacBooks. That's right. I'm going from Dell to Apple as soon as possible.
Of course, knowing my procrastinating, multitasking, broke self, that will probably take a matter of months or even years. Oh we'll. A girl can dream, right? For now, though, I must still face the unfortunate reality of my war with technology.
And it doesn't look like its gonna end any time soon.
First of all, Happy Halloween. I hope that anyone who is loyal/committed enough to follow this blog is also going to get loads of candy, compliments on their outfits, and things that would not fall in the "trick" of trick or treat. As for all of the others...no comment.
I was just joking. I hope that everyone has a happy halloween.
Anyway...I must say that I was having a total fight with myself about what to make this post about. The nostalgic side of me wanted to go over all of the amusing Halloween moments I had as a kid, and the I-want-to-get-views-for-this-site side of me wanted to wrtie a ghost story about One Direction or something that would make people flock to this place like bees to honey.
Finally, with both of my sides tired out, my third side, which is the hey-look-I-actually-have-common-sense side that I don't use too often came to light. It told me, "Why not talk about Halloween this year? I mean, it can't be half bad. Not to mention that it's both current and true, unlike any stories about the past or the Ghosts of One Direction."
I should honestly use that third side a lot more. So that is exactly what I'm going to do for you all. This post is going to be all about the happenings of today, which would usually be pretty boring had today not fallen on All Hallows Eve.
*Cue Spooky Music*
Moving on. A few weeks before, I decided that even if some might think I might be getting a bit old for this costume/candy thing, I was still going to follow through on it. Heck, I'll do anything for free candy, even if it means lying to the people at the door that I'm a six year old with a growth disorder. After coming to this conclusion, I started surfing the internet for costumes.
A while earlier, one of my friends had joked to me about being a piano for Halloween. "I mean...no offense, but you're obsessed with it." It's true. I think if I gush about Bach or Toccata in D Minor one more time, I may be at risk of getting my head lopped off. Though she was totally kidding, I began to wonder. What if there is such thing as a piano costume out there?
After many tedious hours of searching on bogus sites and running into virus filled pop ups, I finally struck gold. The minute I saw the words "piano dress", "in stock", and "one size fits all", I hit the buy button before there was a second thought. I switched the computer off, exhausted but proud of my accomplishment, and decided to call it a day.
Boy, did I get a surprise when it came in the mail.
The first thing I noticed when I pulled the dress out was that it was a heck of a lot smaller than I thought it would be. Now, I'm not fat or anything, but that thing was skimpy. To complete the look, a cheap headband with a foam music note was attatched to it. Taking a deep breath, I crossed my fingers and tried on the ensemble.
Oh lord. The dress was form fitting, low cut, and had an open back corset. I closed my eyes as I imagined Beethoven shaking his head at me. The worst part, though, was the headband. It looked like I had a music note literally growing out of my head. Great. Not only did I look like a stripper, I was about to committ social suicide. I fingered the keyboard trim nervously as I tried to figure out what to do.
But I was not going to give up without a fight. I threw on a black shirt and leggings under it and re-tried the dress on. There. Now I looked somewhat modest. In my excitement that this might actually work, I shook the headband around. Of course, the music note fell off. Oops. I stared at it for a minute, but then realized that without that weird music note, my costume just looked...better. Something that I would actually wear.
I completed it with hot pink lipstick and was off.
My piano outfit was pretty well recieved. Though I may be getting old for this stuff, the compliments still came flying in.
"Wow, how original!"
"That's great! Totally you!"
Of course, there were always critics.
"Yeah, like I would ever wear something that skimpy out."
"Haha, you look like you just got belched out of a music factory!"
And just plain idiots.
"Oh! I know what you're supposed to be! Frank Sinatra! No...no...who was that composer who wrote the Moonlight song? Was it...Be...Be...Beatrice! That Beatrice lady!" I walked away from that conversation, to say the least.
And to think that I was worried about losing Halloween to age. Nope, I'm still going as strong as ever. And I'm not planning on stopping anytime soon.
Ignorance is bliss.
That little phrase right there is one of the cornerstones in the foundation of society. To be able to say, "Well, I didn't know..." Is something so American that it could be put right next to my happy meal and I wouldn't be surprised.
A lot of people insist that to be ingnorant is to be the same as without knowledge, and to be without knowledge is a sin in itself. And then there are those who are perfectly happy to kick back and let other people learn things for them while they keep themselves as naive to the world around them as possible. Of course, admist all of this, there's a slight problem.
Where do I come in?
I love knowledge, yet there are times that being without it is the best thing in the world for me. For example, once upon a time, when I was a lowly 6th grader, I put my backpack in what I considered the spare locker. After a brief talking to from the teacher, it was clear that I had no idea that I was forcing some poor kid to create his own locker type space in the hall, and I was let off the hook.
What can I say?
Then there are times when all of my friends are fawning over Harry Styles or Justin Bieber or Twilight or whatever and I can't help but say, "Sorry...what? I have no idea what you're talking about?" Automatically, the group will either go completely silent or burst out laughing. Either reaction leaves me red and sputtering and getting to the computer as soon as possible to figure out whether Bedward is a new mattress company or a cute nickname for a really unnatractive couple.
Believe me, it's happened before.
So that leaves me with a very, very, very important question. What do you do when you want to remain ignorant but at the same time know as much as possible? What if you want to be able to grow up but still have a childlike innocence? What do you do?
According to sources, I have to get over myself.
I need to act like a man (Which makes no sense, because I'm a female) and face the world head on. Gone with the ignorance! I should be able to take the blame for everything I do and be proud of it! So let's start today!
There's just a slight problem with that.
All of those people who have opened their eyes, and I eman really opened their eyes to the world have seemed to become of the opinion that it's a pretty crappy place. I don't want to do that. I don't want to lose all of the beauty of the world. I don't want there to be the bluest sky above me and all I see is grey. So now that leaves me with one question.
How do I get the best of both worlds?
Remember when you were a kid and you always had that parent that wanted you to do well in sports? No matter how lousy you were at soccer or what a klutz you were playing basketball, they kept cheering you on and pushing you to you rvery limits. For some, that's a blessing. For others, it's a curse. Luckily, in my situation, the sports relationship for my brother and father happened to be a blessing.
Except, of course, when they would practice in the backyard.
Every year, when my brother would join the baseball team, Dad would always try to coach him. He decided that the best way to go about doing this was to pitch balls to the excited little brother and continue this exercise until his son was hitting them all. Though it would generally go pretty OK, there were times that it was simply laughable.
This hitting practice was the start to a horrific chain of events.
First of all, there was mud everywhere, due to the freak thunderstorm we had at 7:00 in the morning. Before they even got to their practice spot, their legs were covered in brown glop. They plowed on through the exercise though, until my brother whacked the ball into a set of gnarly bushes.
After about half an hour, both father and son returned from their journey not only empty handed, but bearing evidence of their visit as well. They sort of reminded me of those people you see on America's Funniest Home Videos that fall into those huge mud puddles. No joke.
Dad, clearly exhausted from his muddy trek, decided to call it a day and ordered my brother to pick up all of the baseballs. Being the innovator he was, Lil Bro decided that the best way to go about doing this was to put the muddy balls into his helmet. After dumping the balls out and seeing the mess he'd created in the helmet, he dumped it in the pool in order to clean it out.
I know. What a smart idea.
Now, along with the situation of two muddy guys at the ends of their ropes, there was a sopping helmet added into the mix. "Okay, son, let's go dry the helmet off." Dad said wearily. They made a beeline into the house, tracking mud everywhere. Finally, they reached the master bathroom, where Dad dutifully attempted to dry the thing with a hair dryer.
To keep things simple, let's just say it didn't work.
At this point, Dad was so aggravated that he gave up on the whole idea and decided to dry it over the fireplace in the evening, and leave it in the sink to soak, giving Mom a nasty suprise when she went to put her makeup on. After Lil Bro trekked enough mud in the house to create an ecosystem, he finally realized what he was doing and left his shoes in the middle of the hallway in hopes that someone would claim it.
As Dad stared at the mess that he and his son had created, he decided to pull the vacuum out and clean it all up so that Mom wouldn't be too mad. The minute he plugged in into the circuit right outside of the master bedroom, though, the circuit blew, cutting off electricity to half of the house.
This was getting more interesting by the minute.
Dad was in a really bad mood at this point, and who could blame him? He was covered in mud, the baseball helmet he had gotten for his son was now ruined, he brought half of the outdoors in while stomping around the house trying to fix everything, and in an attempt to please his wife he blew the circuit and sent part of the house in darkness.
He decided that working out seemed like a good idea.
After cleaning up, he trudged up the stairs into the gym to clock some time on the stairstepper. after climbing up and down all of those stairs all over the house trying to get everything back to normal, he was pretty worn out. And who can blame him? He grabbed the remote and hit the power button, ready to spend some time watching sports while trying to recover from the afternoon.
It didn't work.
He tried again.
And again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.
Still no luck.
In the middle of all of this, Dad realized that when he blew the circuit, he blew the circuit that was connecting the TV as well, rendering it unwatchable. This solved the mystery of why whenever the housekeepers vaccumed, the electronics would mysteriously take a nap. In another time, Dad probably would have been pretty happy to figure this one out. But right now? He was in no mood for this kind of stuff.
Finally, he gave up. Defeated, he headed back down the stairs and lay on the couch. After a few minutes of just laying there, he looked up to see Mom standing in the middle of the mud bath the house had become. "I can explain..." he began, rubbing his eyes.
Let's make things clear when I say that I don't dance. Seriously. I don't care whether it's hip-hop, ballet, or disco. I don't do that kind of stuff. It's a fact of life. Sort of like how if you don't breathe air, you die. It's not something I argue with. I just accept is just like we all accept breathing air. There are never exceptions to the rule that I had put in place about dancing.
Before I even arrived at the party, I knew that it was going to be another long night of staring off into space while everyone else had a great time. Perhaps I would be able to scrounge up some Hershey's Kisses to munch on, but it wasn't very likely. With a sad sigh, I entered the room in anticipation of becoming the world's next wallflower.
About 15 minutes into the party, I pulled out my phone in hysterical desperation. I was alone and slightly freaked out. I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. I decided to choose my good friend Stephanie. She was an expert at this kind of stuff. I slunk into the corner and rapidly began to text.
Me: Big party. Bright lights. Must begin operation wallflower.
Stephanie: Haha I can't even. You are so funny.
Just as I was about to text a reply, the DJ screamed, "Everybody, I wanna see all of you go to da dance floor! You gotta get on here, yo! This gon' be a rockin' party!" Before I knew what was happening, I was caught in a sea of people, dragging me over to the dance floor. Suddenly, I was squashed in the middle of around 100 bodies, all of them rocking to Whistle by Flo Rida.
"Agh! Get me out of--what the--wait...wait, this is a pretty cool song...what the--am I--how the--I'm...I'm...Dancing! Oh my god! I'm dancing!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. And so I was. I was rocking out and getting down to songs that I usually can't stand. By the time I was able to stagger off the dance floor, I had been dancing and headbanging for an hour straight.
I proceeded to text Stephanie.
Me: Operation wallflower failed. Overrided by operation party-like-a-crazy-person. Must be something in the popcorn.
Stephanie: I'm glad you're having a fun time!
After about 5 hours of getting down, eating mini cupcakes, and doing everything that a girl like me wouldn't do, I decided to call it a night. The minute I got home, I flopped down. "Well," I said. "I guess we learn something new about ourselves everyday, don't we?"
Sometimes my wisdom knocks me off my feet.
I was a dreamy little kid. During the day, you could find me spaced out and staring at the wall instead of doing my work. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, I would wander off into a daydream. It was at night, though, that really sparked my imagination. I'd stare out my window and watch the stars and occasional blink of an airplane, and trace the shadows the lawn lights made on the trees with my hand.
I can close my eyes now and still see what I used to see as a kid. I can practically imagine being 8 years old in my pink-striped nightgown, watching what I saw everyday turn into something completely different in the night. I would stay up until the wee hours just watching, watching, watching.
One of my clearest memories is when I was in a phase that I was terrified of being alone at night. And by that I don't mean alone in my room. I mean alone in the sense that no one in the world was awake except for me. It was a pretty terrifying idea for a little bugger like me. If I tilted my head at just the right angle, at the farthest left corner of the window, I could see lights.
A church, I decided. It must be a church that's open all night long, full of people and priests and prayers. I'm not alone, I realized. No matter how late at night it is, that church is still big and bright, so I must not be alone. I later learned at 11 years old that it wasn't a church, but the city lights sparkling from a distance. I would still occasionally stare out the window fondly, though, remembering and savoring the innocence of the little kid I once was.
I now look out a different window to see the night now. As age has struck me, everything looks...different. It's the worst feeling, for everything to be different. And even though I'm living in a completely different place, in a different city, in a different state, everything didn't look quite the way it used to. The stars didn't shine as bright, and the shadows didn't seem quite right.
What a terrible feeling.
It all changed last night. I was sitting up in my bed when I realized that I was thirsty. Not thinking clearly, I decided to use the bathroom down the hall and fill my glass fromt he sink there. As I went into the connecting room that led to it, I hazily looked out the window, and almost fell over.
Suddenly, I was my 8 year old self again, staring at the same sky I saw so many years ago. The shadows, the stars, the sky, everythign that I had been missing fromt he night was suddenly back. I lay down on the couch and just stared at the sky that I had forgotten how to see, and cried.
I know, I know.
I'm a total sap.
But the point I'm trying to make is that my childhood isn't completely gone. It never was, and never will be. I had just forgotten what it was like to look, to really look at the night sky. And for just half an hour, I was able to look at it the way I once did once more. When I finally got back to bed, I fell asleep almost instantly. What I had lost now was found.
I am currently working on a project that will either turn out to be a wild success or a major failure. Usually, when I try these project things, they end up being shoved into the darkest corner of my book case and forgotten for a milennia before I go through my stuff and find the half-thought-out-idea. It saddens me every time when I go through the numerous diaries, photography journals, and blogs that have been rejected due to my short attention span.
But this one will be different.
At this point, you're probably on the edge of your seat, just dying to know what my brilliant mind has come up with this time. Alright, you're probably not that excited. Maybe you're not excited at all, but that's okay. I'll just be excited for you. Because my new project is...
Letters To Everyone.
At this point, you're probably scratchign your head thinking, "What the heck is wrong with this person? What is this "Letters to Everyone" thing anyway? I've never heard of it. And frankly, I don't even care." Allow me the honors of explaining my (amazing) idea to you.
It all starts at the Paper Source.
In case you don't know what it is, it's a store that sells a bunch of writing stuff (like notebooks) fun reads, and cheap little things that will be forgoteen in a 2-week period. Basically, it's the closest thing to heaven that I can find. Anyway, I was going through the notebooks trying to find one that would work for my friend's birthday present (That story is for another time) when I found the notebook of my dreams.
There was the quote "We are the music makers of the world, and the dreamers of dreams" Plastered on the front cover next to an elephant holding a trumpet. Inside the notebook random pages would have inspiring quotes having to do with the artistic muse, dreams, and other things that made my poetic heart practically shriek with glee.
Before I knew what I was doing, the notebook was on the check-out counter and I was clutching it in my arms, along with a few other items, such as my friend's birthday present. The minute I got home, I flopped down on my bed and stared at the notebook. I had no idea what do do with it. My mind started churning with ideas, but each of them were rejected.
What about a diary?
Umm, no. You know that the longest those things have lasted is 24 hours. Do you want that to go the same way? I think not.
Hey, maybe this could be my new sketchbook!
If you wanted a sketchbook, you would have gotten a sketchbook, not a notebook. There is a difference, you know. Next!
All of this mental debating went on for about an hour, until I stumbled upon the perfect idea. What if I wrote letters to everyone I knew, full of confessions and memories and advice having to do with those people? The letters would never be sent, of course, but in the end, I would have my life's memories in the form of a letter. I must say, I was very proud of myself.
So I picked up the pencil and began.
Right now, the project looks like a success. Wish me luck as I desperately try to keep this going, because I think that I'll regret it if I don't (not to mention that the notebook deserves nothing other to be filled with words to the very last page).
UPDATE: Okay, so...the project went really really well for awhile, and then I lost the notebook. Well, more like I completely forgot about it and when I finally remembered, it was gone. Which really sucks. Oh, well. I told you that I wasn't good at these things.
In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been doing much blogging lately. That's because I'm extremely busy. So the blog part of this will probably be a bit dormant for awhile, but I'll add on to the poems a lot. Check in frequently to see if new stuff is posted!