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An Incredibly Long Time

Nearly two and a half years. What have I accomplished?

I finished school and obtained a Bachelor’s in Business Management, only to find that businesses will not hire you if you’ve been a homemaker for the last 8 years.

It turns out that “chasing tiny humans” does not qualify one to stand behind a register or make overpriced coffee-related beverages.

Bummer. I wonder if Navient will understand. Maybe I can delay the payments on my soul?

We’ve moved to a whole new city and state.

Hello KCMO! The Merchant Family has arrived! We bring polite kids and timeliness as an offering to accept us as your own.

Joking aside, the move happened seamlessly aside from the fact that I now have to awkwardly attempt at making new mom friends.

I miss my bitches. :Le sigh:

The coffee cup is literally too legit.


I’ve written about 20k more words to the story titled “Adelaide’s Verse.” Rejection from jobs and full-ride scholarships can have that affect on a person. What’s my end goal? To finish writing a manuscript without wanting to throw it in the trash afterwards. While visiting family here in KC, a cousin mentioned his love for the first manuscript I ever worked on, the aforementioned garbage.

What a shocker.

So, now I am writing nearly every day. This is often accompanied by trying to make new online friends because making them in real life is nearly impossible when you have social anxiety and children. Who knew?



the precipice of change

I have been noticeably absent from this page for nearly a month, at a real loss for words of importance.

What had seemed important, what had felt was needed, has not felt the same in this new year. Last year was a hard one for me, and my family, as we had this internal struggle and collective unease about the direction of our lives. My husband was torn with being with us, and needing the presence of his family located on the other side of the country. I felt lost in my own head, aching at the absence of people who had distracted me from myself and weak to my naturally inclined sadness. I think that our children felt the weight of our distress.

This year is something different altogether, as cliche as that may sound. #NewYearNewMe is not uncommon on social media, though we all know that most people lack depth behind that proclamation. Because, really, how many people stuck with it once January ended?

I digress, though.

There are times in my life when my unsettled spirit stirs, when it feels something big coming on, some storm of excitement on the horizon. Things are going to change dramatically for us in the coming months, and the changes themselves are not what has me feeling anxious.

There is a certain euphoria that I get from unpredictability, from the unknown, for all things different.

Blame it on my gypsy soul. I’ve said it countless times, and yet, the statement fails to capture what exactly I mean. I live for those wild moments, those times when things do not go according to plan, even they send me into chaos. I daydream of grand changes in our lives, things that take us to a new path of life. So, when things feel too stale, I make a change. I get a haircut. I get a tattoo, something arty. I take up a new goal or project, knowing that I’ll most likely become too restless and just let it fall apart in the end.

But this time, this time there is a big change in our lives coming. I am unsettled in a new way, like I am getting ready for everything that is going to be different this year. I’ve felt the oncoming change deep down, and I wholeheartedly trust that intuition.

I chopped off most of my hair, a good 9 or 10 inches, and dyed it purple. I felt like I had to do something radical, and a secret part of me reveled in the mixed reactions that I received from strangers and those that I am more acquainted with. Don’t like it? I don’t really care; this is what I need for me.

Half of my house is packed up, although there is no concrete destination for where those items will be re-homed. The entire family feels pulled to Florida, to a new and fresh start, and we only become more anxious as the matters of rationality hinder our progress. Of course, we try to stay reasonable, we devise back up  plans in the case that circumstances do not fall in our favor. But it almost feels like we are already gone, our hearts and souls are just not here anymore, despite how much that hurts the people that we care about here.

There is still the possibility that the cards will not play out the way that we want. My sister tells me, however, that our will to move on will only help the universe give us what we desire. I don’t know if I can fully believe that, but I do know that our intuition, our gut feelings, are telling us that we are meant to head East.

And I have to hold on to that feeling because the thought of being rooted in a place so draining, so depressing, makes my heart ache unbearably.

The perfection of imperfection.

A little more than a month ago, I was at a party for a group of moms from a playgroup. I forget the context exactly, but I was talking about my daughter’s stubbornness about cleaning.

“Her room is constantly a mess. The only way that I can get her to clean is to put on Disney radio,” I told the few moms gathered around me. “I absolutely love her, but she is a slob.” The shock that hit their faces surprised me.

“How old is she, four? She can’t be a slob!” One of the moms was particularly offended by what I was saying. Surely, I must be exaggerating. Surely, my daughter is a complete princess that has magical fairies to clean up after her. [Insert sarcasm].

It is often that I come into contact with women who may cross the line into overly praising of their children. The new mom who constantly posts picture of her newborn who she absolutely adores and could do no wrong. The woman who told me at the store about how her three year old is her best friend. The mom who conveniently finds a way to talk about her child’s many accomplishments every single time we have a conversation. The young mom who counts her frustrations as blessings. When did we come to the age where we are expected to be the end-all for our children, where our entire lives and beings are dedicated to them?

Now, please don’t mistake what I am trying to get across. I see nothing wrong with being proud of your children, of being absolutely in love with them. I completely adore mine, but that doesn’t mean that I will pretend that all is perfect in the world of parenting. And I cannot understand the women that do. The women who paint this picture of the absolute perfection– I have to wonder if it is all a facade. Why is it no longer okay to complain about our children? Why is it no longer okay to be realistic about the fact that, sometimes, parenting sucks?

Despite my sentiments, I often struggle with my abilities as a parent. I stress endlessly about the steps I take and how those steps will affect my children in the long run. I went without sleep for days when I worried that homeschooling my son for a year prior to first grade had a negative effect on him. I worry that my preoccupation with my own schooling is hurting the fact that my five year old daughter is not already at the first grade level, because that is the expectation these days. I pay the extra money for the organic juices because kids shouldn’t have too much chemicals and sugar. I try to limit video games and tablet time because too much will ruin them. In all of this stressing, I forget that this all comes from the newest societal pressures to be the most outstanding and perfect parent.

I think that we forget that our parents weren’t perfect. That they only tried their best. My mom was far from it. She yelled when she had to, and sometimes when she didn’t have to. She spanked us when it was necessary. She worked too much, because that is exactly what had to be done. I watched too much TV as a kid. I spent a lot of time outside, unsupervised. I ate things that I shouldn’t, and my meals weren’t always perfectly balanced. But you know what? I am okay. I have turned out to be a semi-functioning adult with minimal issues.

And I am far from being the perfect parent. I cuss a lot. I let them watch entirely too much television. I do not try to be their best friend. I yell often. The phrase ‘in a minute’ can mean anywhere from 5 minutes to 2 hours for me. I don’t play with them as much as I probably should. I let life get in the way far too often.

But I know that I must be doing some things right. How do I know this? I watched this morning as my seven year old waited the few extra minutes so that he could open the door to the school building and hold it for the group of kids running to class to be on time. His kind gesture, that small gesture, told me absolutely everything that I needed to know.

And it was a glorious moment as a parent.

The Rational Choice.

It was there at the tip of my tongue– the admission that I have always thought but never really said aloud. Every cell in my body wanted to admit this thing, this fact about me that I am afraid he would frown upon.

We were lying in our bed, as we so often do, just talking quietly in the dark while we curled together. These are some of my favorite times with my husband. With my head tucked safely into my favorite little spot on his shoulder, I wanted to tell my husband my one true aspiration and dream for my life.

I don’t want to work a single day in my life. I want to sit around, drinking coffee and writing. 

Writing– it is the one thing that I obsess over, even though I am a writer with a serious case of ADD. Honestly, he already knows this about me. He knows how I have dreams of publishing one of those New York Time’s Best Sellers. But I have not really said aloud how that is all I want to do. I don’t even care if it brings any money. I just want to write without the obligation of anything else.

I never really admit it because it is a self-centered idea. Writers are notoriously selfish and isolated from the rest of the world. We hide in little corners, immersed and obsessed with our characters, dialogue, and tragedies. It is the single-most selfish thing that I could wish to do with my life, which is really our life, and I desperately want it.

Writing is not a rational career choice, however. Few have the chance to make it big, and it is not always a matter of talent but instead marketability. English majors are so often left with mountains of debt and not a pair of pennies to rub together. This is why I changed my major to business, why I have decided to go for one of those goals that is more like settling than chasing after my dreams. Owning a book store and cafe is somehow more sensible in my mind than pursuing a writing career. Even then, I may run myself into the ground because I’ll spend too much time with my nose in a book.

I did admit to my husband that earning my business degree is more like a second-class goal for me. I have to do something with myself, so why not? He told me the most beautiful thing, though. “You don’t really have to do anything if you don’t want to. I make enough on my own, you don’t even have to work.” He even told me that reading this blog feels like reading the work of a professional on a news site. My heart really soared at this, and I wondered why I am trying to settle.

Don’t get me wrong, owning a book store and cafe is still in the sights for me. It is realistic, and I have some amazing business ideas that really shouldn’t go to waste. But the problem is that I know that it will get to a point where it will lose it shine and luster. I will lose interest in it. I will get tired of sacrificing for it. There will come a point where I want a new business project and the shop will get pushed to the dark corners of my priorities.

Admitting that I just want to write and do nothing else means several things. Firstly, it means that it is entirely possible that there will never come a day when I can contribute to the household’s income. Sure, there are some writers that make it small, that publish independently and make a moderate amount of e-book sales. But the ones who really make a living from writing are the ones who have movies made from their works, and that is a total long shot. Secondly, it means that I have put us in debt with student loans for no reason. I will have earned two degrees and I will do nothing with them. He will be responsible for the debt that I have incurred.

How is that a fair choice for him? How could I leave him to work while I get to sit at home writing? I think that I have never seriously admitted to wanting to write full time because I’m afraid of being seen as lazy. It seems like such an indolent career, if it could even be called a career, because there is no real labor in the work. When all he does is labor-oriented, when he works so hard, how would it be right for me to do something that is such the opposite?

I think that my real question here is how do we choose passion over rationality?

How do we choose to do that which we love most when the world says that it is not the sensible thing to do?

When we crave to color outside the lines, how do we force ourselves to keep it neat?

perpetuating hatred

i suppose this place is as good as any to rant.

i abso-fuckin-lutely hate the phrase “privileged white girl”.

at some point (without my knowledge and permission, mind you), it became socially acceptable to label a person as a “privileged white girl” with the same malice and hatred used for any other derogatory remark. any time i give my opinion in a forum, those words are sloshed at me like a poisonous stew.

when will people realize that hate begets hate?

granted, the phrase does not have the history of atrocity that other derogatory terms do. i know this, i am not trying to belittle the pain behind those words. but i don’t think that means people should be able to freely marginalize me and others for something that we have no power over.

i think that the thing i hate most about it is that i have never experienced what it is like to be privileged. i am white, but i also grew up poor in a single parent household among a culture that is primarily Hispanic. i was teased relentlessly, referred to as poor white trash. at one point, i even embraced that phrase, feeling more power in accepting it than having it thrown at me.

i have overcome heartache, abuse, personal demons, and mental illness. i may be in debt up to my eyeballs for it, but i am educated and still furthering that venture. i cuss like a sailor, but i have the mind that shines of brilliance. i am artsy and loving and funny, loyal and passionate about all things beautiful in life.

so, for all of this, i refuse to let “privileged white girl” have any control over me.

so, random guy who was trolling on a random site i commented on today, fuck you and your “privileged white girl” accusations.


a single dream

this Tolkien quote probably means more to me than most, not because i am an avid and overly-enthused fan, but simply because my dreams tend to have such a powerful effect on my life. i am one of those people that will randomly discuss my dreams with strangers when they were just asking how i am on this fine afternoon. i talk about my nightly dreams nearly every day, and i think this is how my husband first discovered just how crazy i am.

it’s not the fact that i have dreams that drives me to this topic of conversation. it is the way that i am dragged into unrecognizable worlds, and how the atmosphere of those dreams often plagues me for days afterward. it is that these dreams create a craving for writing that is so intense, i really have no idea what to do with myself.

normal people

maybe the outlandish dreams that i have are totally normal. it is completely possible that my suspicion of abnormality it just an exaggeration of my mind.

this being said, don’t  be surprised when this blog becomes a play by play of the weird worlds i enter each night.

slightly strange

a cluttered mind’s reprieve

someone that used to play a pivotal role in my life suggested that i start this. you know who you are. it was an idea that i have considered before, but like most things, brushed off merely for the fact that i am my own worst enemy. however brilliant i am, i lack the confidence to follow through on the things that flow through my head.

(declaring my own brilliance is not an act of arrogance, but rather, an admission of how similar i am to my father. i am, in essence, an apple fallen not far from the tree. i may not be as tortured as him, but that spectrum makes no difference when you are clawing against and fighting those personal demons.)

i digress. this is my attempt to find some way, any way, to put my thoughts down because facebook is too socially repressive, and i think that my husband is tired of being an unpaid therapist.


i am a writer