Giddy

There’s that feeling when you’re just so utterly happy and nothing can ruin it.

But because you can’t share that happiness with that certain person at that certain time, you keep all the happiness inside and it makes you all bubbly and your tummy rumbles (or maybe you’re just hungry) and you fall to the ground and kick your feet in the air and stare at the bed frame with those big sad-kitty eyes and think so hard in order to push the happiness into your subconscious dream state.

Then you wake up eight hours later remembering your brilliantly happy dream that wasn’t real but feels real and all you can do is tell your dentist and your Chinese tutor and your mom (especially your mom) and your sister and everyone you talk to.

You say, “Oh my goodness, I had the most perfect dream” and then you tell them but they don’t ever quite understand how very perfect it was.

But you know and you’re happy and the happiness overflows into everything you do and you get lots of work done on this happy energy and you cheer up the days of others every time you sneeze your happy juice on them and you smile happy germs to everyone and make other people happy. But they only have a portion of your happy.

That's okay. It’s a miracle that you’re so happy because you didn't even take your pill today.

Truth

I grew up in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Living the Gospel was as expected of me as going to school. My parents played the “you know what is right” card so many times that not even the angels keeping my record could take count. Having a testimony, as such a personal thing, was expected, but my parents could not evaluate exactly how they did raising me. They just hope and pray each day that my siblings and I will make the right choices. Still, as a senior in college, there are few things I can honestly say that I know, without any doubt. I believe it all. I believe that the principles laid out in the scriptures will lead to a long, healthy, happy life. I believe that Christ suffered for our sins. I believe that when I die, Christ will greet me and eventually judge my deeds. Among the few things I know is my faith in the eternal family. I know for a fact that I can be with my family for eternity and that very fact gives me the power to move forward on the challenging, yet correct, path back to my Heavenly Father. I know the priesthood truly God’s power on earth. Of the numerous blessings I’ve received, each one has been fully or partially fulfilled. Worthy priesthood holders can work miracles by proxy of Heavenly Father. Most importantly, I know God exists. He governs His children on earth. He knows me; He knows my weaknesses; He knows my strengths; He loves me enough to answer even the simplest prayers. On the knowledge that God lives stands each and every other principle and commandment. With this knowledge, I have the necessary foundation on which to build my testimony. As long as I know that God is real, I have started on a lifelong effort to assemble the pieces of my testimony.

It's Just Something.

The Consequence

gold

fish are

crunchy and

salty. known as

tasty snacks that

smile back until you

bite their heads off

but sometimes

the juices

from

watermelon

leak onto my treats

they

get soggy

i throw them at

mommy. they

stick for

a

moment

before falling

she

gets mad

calls for daddy

unfastens

his

belt asks

me how it felt.

i wont ever

see

sun again

never will see

their son

again

son: the tasty

snack

cant smile

              bac
                   k    

Book review? Really, this isn't the place.

Yes, it is the place. Cause I said so. A review of a great book:


The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien is a war story. Classified as postmodern fiction, O’Brien recounts the experiences his fictional character Tim O’Brien has during the Vietnam war. As the story begins, O’Brien lists the things that the soldiers in Vietnam carried. While the lists included guns, rations, letters, and other mementos, the heaviest artifacts these soldiers carried were memories, fear, and responsibility. The intangible burdens had a tangible weight. Each experience these soldiers had added to their loads and as they went through the battles, the emotional loads were the heaviest. Dropping a backpack would not relieve them of the burden of death, pain, and suffering. Throughout the novel, O’Brien tells stories to relieve himself of the emotional burdens. He compares dropping a backpack to storytelling. The important part, though, is that the message is properly portrayed. The facts of the story may be more or less true, but the feelings involved need to be properly represented.

Tim O’Brien based his stories on the experiences he had while serving in the Vietnam war. The way he relates the stories may differ from the way he experienced them, but the feeling is the same. He differentiates between these two recollections by calling them “story-truth” and “happening-truth.” The fictional version of himself relates, “Right here, now, as I invent myself…I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth” (O’Brien 179-180). Distinguishing between these two types of truth and, therefore, telling his version of the truth, allows O’Brien to release the emotional burden he has carried for nearly twenty years. The general idea is that truth is subjective. There is not one perfect way to recount an experience. So whether or not O’Brien tells us exactly what happened to him, he does tell us exactly how he felt and that alone is the purpose of storytelling.

Read it.

Dear John...ahem...Chris

Hey Chris*,

Sorry I guess it’s Elder Opeeda. But you only have a month and a half left. Why bother calling you Elder? How are you?

I talk to your sister sometimes. Kartna says you hardly ever write her. That would explain why you hardly ever wrote me back. Anyone would think you forgot about me. How? How could you possibly forget? We had something really special. You promised you’d write and that you’d still love me in two years. Well two years has come and gone, darling. And only one letter? After two months I got the letter and I started to get discouraged. People told me I was crazy for waiting. They say, “Rachael, he needs to focus, let him focus. That’s all. He still loves you he just is busy with the Lord.” “He’s trying to do what he’s supposed to do.” “Missionaries aren’t supposed to have girlfriends anyways.” But listen to this… someone actually said this. “You can do better.” They said that! They seriously said “You can do better.” But I know. I know they were lying. Trying to make me feel better. First off, how could that make anyone feel better? Basically telling me that I wasted three years and eight months of my life on someone that I had to settle for. I wasn’t settling! Plus, no one could do better than you. Really, truly. You are the better that people talk about. You’re the best I could ever get. But that perhaps is the reason I’m writing today.

Chris, before you left I swore you’d be the only one for me ever. And I swore we’d get married one day, no matter how long I had to wait. We’d be together forever. Now that I write it in past tense, it makes a lot more sense. We would be together if… we could be married if… As soon as you left I felt the gap in my life. It throbbed and that attachment I had to you needed to be filled. Two years without you and without anyone to fill the void? That’s just not how it works. Quitting cold turkey is not my style. I needed something or someone else to wean me off of you. With that being said, do you remember your one friend from high school? Simon Daves? He got back just a month or so before you left. Well, he was there at your farewell and while you were talking to all your family and eating that adobo and lumpia (really good, by the way), he was so nice and listened when I told him how I felt. He gave me his number and told me to call if I needed to talk. But I didn’t call. My heart was set on you. Two months after you left I got your letter. That first letter wasn’t until May! I was heartbroken that you only wrote half a page. I sent you at least one letter every week. You wrote half a page. You replied to my ten pages with half a page. I was furious. I had to tell someone. Simon would listen. I knew he would. It was late, maybe eleven. But I called him anyways. And he listened while I cried to him. I told him how much I missed you and how I loved you so much. I never wanted to be with anyone else ever. And I sobbed. I told him that I was lonely and my family all left for the weekend. My mom wasn’t there to hold me like she normally did. It wasn’t meant to be an invitation. I swear. I was just talking and he was listening. Then I heard a soft knock on the door. It was funny; I heard it both through the phone and down the stairs. He came so I could have a shoulder to cry on. By this time it was well past midnight. But no one was home to tell him to leave. I sat on the couch with this stranger. He let me lay in his arms, and he played with my hair. The best thing he did, though, was distract me. He made me laugh. He let me forget why he came in the first place. One in the morning, two, three o’clock. Finally the conversation died down. The time in between replies steadily grew longer. The next thing I remember was waking up alone on the couch. I thought maybe I dreamt the whole thing. But that headache was unmistakably from crying and staying up far too late. Then I heard the toilet flush. The rest was like a movie, a very slow movie. I swear it. Our first date and all the dates to follow. Meeting his parents. The delayed kiss. Hearing him confess his love.

You have to understand, Chris. I loved you. I loved you so much. You were all I ever needed but that empty space needed filling. Please don’t hate me, Chris. You know that I loved you. But he was there. He was ready for me and I for him. I waited for as long as I could. But I couldn’t keep him waiting. He was so patient with me. We dated for a year and seven months. I waited for so long but you never sent another letter. I couldn’t wait any longer. Neither could he.

You have to understand, Chris. I loved you, but now I love him. He’s not better, just different. Different because he’s my husband now.

Two years ago, I couldn’t have dreams of anyone more dear to me than you. Two years can do a lot to a person, huh? Well, there it is. I’m married.

I hope all is well with you.

Love, Rachael

PS- I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you. It didn’t seem right to distract you from your work. See you at your homecoming.

*Disclaimer- none of this is real. Names have been changed to protect identities.

Slow down.

This is the beautifulest butterfly in the world. I adore it.

I'm No Poet

Slip ‘n Slides and Blanket Forts

Poems
By
Amateurs
Are not poems at all.
They don’t
f--
l;
o:
w.
They lack verse.
They scuttle and toddle
Like a half-witted horse.

Poems
By amateurs
Have no set form.
They stop
At creation,
Defy regulation,
Challenge expectation.

Poems by
Amateurs
Fail to make sense.
A fat bird covers the
Ocean. And dreams.
Birds.
Oceans.
Dreams.
They follow every cliché.

Poems by amateurs
Really suck.

My friendly is making this for me. :)

Three, Two, One. Blast Off.

It was a Wednesday morning at 7:30 am when I arrived at the Valley Hospital, still sharing a seat with my mother. It may or may not have been bright outside; it’s highly improbable that, even if I could remember, I could have felt through all the layers of skin and muscle encasing me. It would not be until twelve hours and forty-three minutes later that I would have actually felt what kind of miserably hot, Las Vegas summer my parents suffered to bring me there. But by 8:13 pm, Laura Cope weighed nine pounds less. After half a day in the hospital, she and my dad were thrilled, tired, and relieved. Silly, at such a pivotal point in my existence, I was completely unaware how that moment was quite literally the beginning of the rest of my life.