The pen touches paper.

Too much consumed. I have to let it out. Pull it out. Spill it out, onto paper. Words and letters jumbled together. Streams of verse pouring from my pen. I live in my head? No, I live on paper. Streaming, flowing, growing. Everyday, all day, typing it out in my head. This life is my novel and I'm writing it well. A best seller etched on everyone's faces. My eyes tell the story my mouth never will. Listen closely and they'll tell you the tale. ~9Time via 2008

I wish this was still true. I feel lost in world devoid of creativity. It seems like years since I spent the day by myself writing out verse for no one to hear. I think it's time to quit reality for a while...

Stressed Times at Parkland Dr.

Stress is often a huge part of my life. I try to come off as I don’t care about the happenings around me, that I’m impartial. And for the most part, I have the majority of the people around me fooled. But the truth of the matter, and something I rarely let be known, is that I’m almost always freaking out on the inside. Money, relationships, family, the fact that I ate a Snickers bar for lunch… All of these things travel through my head at random moments leaving me with the anxiety of a kitten in a room full of ravenous wolves. Recently I’ve been spending everyday looking for places to live. I love my roommates, but it’s time for me to move on. Unfortunately, it’s not the right time for my wallet. So I’ve spent innumerable hours searching for 1 bedrooms only to be let down. Now I’m back to searching for 2 bedrooms. Maybe 3 bedrooms are in my future as well, but I hope not. So what does this mean for your fateful heroine?

I’M STRESSED THE FUCK OUT!!!!!!!!!!! I need my own place. I need money to get my own place. I need someone to actually be renting a one bedroom, which apparently they don’t build anymore… And I need to stop eating Snickers bars for lunch.

So I’m taking a break. I’m fighting the urge to look at houses for a couple of days. I need to forget about it for a little while before I freak out and run my car into a pole while out running the streets for a place to live. I’ll talk to my roommates and tell them that I can live with one of them, but not both. I’ll explain that together they are just too messy, and I’m too anal about forward facing soup cans to deal with it. I’ll tell them I love them both, but my OCD can only stand so much. Then I’ll go back to looking for a place to live.

Cinco de What?

To all of you out there posting about Cinco de Mayo I ask you this; why? Are you Mexican? Did your family fight in the Battle of Puebla? Do you even know the history of the date beyond the fact that your dad always drank a lot on this day? Probably not... You're most likely just like me. I'm American. My ancestors were too busy fighting on the wrong side of the Civil War to worry about France invading Mexico. And up until my 7th grade Spanish class I thought Cinco de Mayo was a celebration of Mexico's independence. Although to be fair, up until then I also thought Cinco de Mayo was some exotic phrase, not just "the 5th of May." But I digress.

Today is just an excuse Americans have used for far to long to get drunk and look like asses wearing sombreros.

(case in point!)

Will I have a beer today? Most likely. Will I eat Mexican food? I do that on the daily. Will I look like an ass? Unfortunately, I also do this on the daily. So I guess what I'm saying is this; to all of you out there writing about Cinco de Mayo that only know it as a day of getting drunk and eating copious amounts of refried beans, I'm one of you! See you at the bar...

I love boobies

...even blue footed ones.