About me

What does it take to make you comfortable? Is it your favorite pair of sweats and baggy t-shirts? Or is it compliments? Perhaps, it’s the good ole’ sit-on-the-couch-gouging-your-face-in-potato-chips. Personally, it’s the latter with a good book. I just love the idea that I get to sit and do nothing but eat junk food and read. And nothing makes me more tired: Fat, full, and sassy, am I right or am I right?

I’ve got a big mouth and I can argue almost anything if I know what I’m talking about. The thing about that first sentence is that the world is very opinionated these days and anyone with half a brain can argue most things. So, to get to the point: I’ve read a good number of books and watched a great deal of movies in the last few years and I figured people would like a review of a book or movie before they buy them. I’m here to help you out with that. Of course, I’m very biased, especially when I talk about my own book (which, sadly isn’t published yet). And that would be the main reason why I am doing this. One day, my book will get published and I want people to know about it and be excited to read my “masterpiece.”

 

coffee-cup-books-home.jpg

 

It’s very easy to get caught up in someone’s blog and jump on the bandwagon of what they are saying, I get it. I want to make sure you get my point, but I don’t want to block the creativity going on in your own brain. That’s not cool.

I’ve got a lot of stories to share, both fiction and non-fiction. Trust me, they’ll be fun and entertaining, so you won’t waste your time reading a few of them. But in all seriousness, this is my refuge. This is where I go to write about my crazy day or to write about a weird song I heard on the radio. This is my practice, and you are my judges. I’m not afraid of criticism– I’m learning. Be polite and courteous but be honest. I enjoy sarcasm, so you may load up the comment section with it, along with your feedback.

 

Advertisements

my girl

 

Who’s shirt is this?         Oh,

               that’s right.

The girl    from the      gas station,

in the red bug

With yellow flowers.

 

Her silver hair was angelic

 

I

Remember                  the girl

Picking         the girl                      the girl

Her   the girl                  the girl

Off  the               girl

The        girl                      the

Cement                girl

 

I gulp another shot,

Praying to           forget the way              her lips felt against           mine

And how she smelt                     a summer’s breeze.

 

I

Remember                         the girl

Picking                the girl                               the girl

Her           the girl                           the girl

Off     the                                     girl

The                               girl                             the

Cement            girl         

And        I

            sniff                    another                              snuff

To forget     the road burns          along her arms       and           face.

I try to forget

The                    look in her                              eyes as she                             left:

          gleaming                            sparkling                            dunned.

 

2.

the                   red paint                   on my bike                mixes                  in with

                         the                             scarlet splatters                 she spilt       and          i            try

to

f           o          r         g         e        t

                                                                                                                                    my girl.

 

I Know a Girl

There is this girl in my English class. She sits at the far end of the room against the wall. She has long red hair and pale, pimply skin. She has a roller bookbag with a Neopet attached to it. She sits pin straight, her back curved with a little because she is so skinny. She raises her hand high in the air to comment on a poem that has nothing to do with the actual poem. She never takes notes and she always notifies us that she was raised with chickens in Florida. She wears the same thing everyday.

I thought this girl was strange. So strange that I never thought to talk to her or pay her any attention. I normally don’t associate myself with strange people but one day this girl came up to me before class as we waited for our teacher to arrive. She reminded me that she grew up in Florida and I remembered that there was a shooting at Majority Stoneman Douglas High School. I looked at her then and I realized she had clear blue eyes and a heart-shaped face. She’s quite lovely- for someone who has a roller bookbag in college.

I asked her if she knew anyone who was there and she replied that her sister’s friend went to that school and her dad was the lead surgeon who worked on the injured kids. She told me that she had been up all night- and that’s when I noticed the bags under her eyes, behind her squared glasses. She heard of the shooting but no one in her family had called to tell her they were okay; not until the next morning. She assured me that they were fine, that her dad was busy saving a teenager’s life. black-and-white-woman-girl-sitting.jpg

I had never thought about politics or trying to change the world in any small way that I could. That day I looked at the girl from across the room as she bounced on the balls of her feet and tapping her fingers against the wall. She checked her phone. She looked up and her pale face drained of what little blood was there. She hastily got up and left the room. I thought she really had to go to the bathroom or something, so I waited for her to come back. She didn’t.

Our teacher was talking about William Blake. Kids were writing notes and paying close attention. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even hear his words over the loud buzz of electric charged fear running around me. I waited fifteen minutes for the girl to get back before I got up to find her. I found her in the hallway, pacing back and forth, tears pouring out of her small face, as she pressed the phone to her ear and listened. I knew something was wrong- anyone could see that. I sat on the bench and looked at the old man judging both the girl and I for missing class.

I shot him a glare.

My eyes traveled back to the girl and she sniffled and breathed heavily. I thought something horrible had happened- a friend of hers had been shot- but as I listened to the one-sided conversation, I realized she was asking for reassurance. Reassurance that everything was okay with her family. My heart broke.

She got off the phone a little over twenty minutes later. I had averted my eyes to the ground so she didn’t think I was staring, even though I was. I felt like I needed to wrap my body around hers and shield her from the world. I felt scared for her, and sorry. She sat next to me and wiped her face clean. After a while she said that she got a text from her sister saying that her school was under lockdown because her teacher heard a gun shot. Her sister’s school was near Douglas HS Kids from each school had grew up together. Her sister said “I love you.” and nothing else after that. The girl turned to me and I looked at her.

“Well?” I asked. I had never spoken more than ten words to this girl and I was already mothering her, helping her, feeling for her.

“The teacher mistook construction workers for a gun shot.” She whispered it to me, like she was afraid it wasn’t the truth. She wiped another fast runaway tear from her face.

“They’re okay?”

She replied with a swift nod. I glanced at the old man across the hallway, who was unashamedly staring at the girl. I swallowed back bile.

“And you?” I asked her. She gave a small smile at my two-worded conversation.

She thanked me for staying with her. I sat back against the wall and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, maybe a bit of anger too.

“In times like this, we need to stick together, no matter who you are.” She laughed and said this world was going to “shit”. I silently agreed.

At this point, there was only ten minutes left of class. We went back into the classroom, gaining a few glares from annoyed students who are on they’re high horse, not knowing that I had just saved a girl… just by being in her presence.

It was that day when I realized that there needs to be a change in this country. One that protects kids from being killed in schools. One that protects kids who are scared, like the girl. One that keeps people alive. That was the day that I decided to take a stand. And I do support the second amendment- I believe in our founding fathers. What I don’t support is handing out guns to our educators. I don’t support the loosely constructed gun laws that allow the wrong people to have a piece of metal that can kill 17 kids. I support the people who are defenseless- emotionally and physically. People like those kids from Sandy Hook. People like the girl. And even people like me- who are just trying their best to help, but aren’t really sure how.

The girl continues to sit on the far side of the room, pin straight, with her roller bookbag. Everyday we say hello and smile at each other. We support each others comments, even if they’re somewhat wrong. Because we hadn’t just become friends that day, we became something more like guardians angels. That day changed everything for me. For her.

That girl is Ava.

 

Missing Persons

So it is very clear that I haven’t posted in a while. I recently got loaded with school work and somehow ended up with double shifts at work EVERYDAY. Which is cool. Money is great. But. Like…my life, please? Even my roommate feels like I’ve gone missing.

I’m a hostess at this really great restaurant and my nights have been filled with 150 persons on the books plus walk-ins. Now, I’m an easy going gal. If you change your mind about a table, that’s fine. I’ll find you another one. If you’re late for your reservation, awesome. I’ll push it back. But, if the ENTIRE restaurant is packed and you walk in with 20 people without a reservation…SOMEONE’S going missing! (Just to keep my theme going)

Now, I work hard to make sure everyone is happy with where they end up in our amazing restaurant. I get it, you prefer a booth to a table. Me, too. But please, for the love of all hostess’, do NOT pitch a fit for not having enough tables for a walk-in party of 20. Especially when we have a really big bar space. Drink up, fellas. I have things to do and dealing with your whiney voices isn’t one of them. I sat 267 people tonight at work…and that doesn’t even include my first shift from earlier.

I had a couple of really great customers. A group of four walked in and asked for a table for eight. I sat them outside in the lounge area and (they were obviously drunk already) one of the guys trips and falls flat on his face. His friends bust up laughing and one of them says to me, “Did you push him down?” While I was right next to him. The guy, still laughing, doubles over in hysteria. Meanwhile, a short two steps away, is a bachelorette party who chimed in on the insanity (We had 6 bachelorette parties this weekend). Needless to say, I did have some fun working.

Really. I did.

Now that the weekend is almost over, I can go to work (again) in the morning, deal with potentially missing persons (ha), and do homework. Be nice to the hostess. They choose if you get the tiny round table or the nice booth. Oh, and please tip your servers well, they work hard too 🙂

Tend

via Daily Prompt: Tend

Back at it again, are we? You just felt the urge to come to my site and read my blog. I applaud you. Did you tend to do that the past few days? That’s probably because I’m awesome and you adore my sarcasm. But here we go…

Remarkably, this daily post about one word has me scratching my head. What does the word ‘tend’ really mean? Well, like any good English major, I looked it up in the good ole’ OED. And without a doubt it gave me several definitions. A few along the lines of “regularly or frequently” and  “possess or display a particular characteristic.” Yet, as I scrolled down to find the definition of it as used as a verb, I’m reminded that ‘tend’ could also mean to take care of.

Now this brought up some conflicting feelings and reminded me of a delightful time when I took care of my roommate when she was sick. As all my friends and family know, I have around 500 “mom bones” in me. Ever since I was a kid, I would make my brother lunch when we were home for school. I can almost hear his young pre-adult-like voice in my head asking, “Cassidy, can you make me some lunch? I’m really hungry.” Of course, being the little angel I was, I said yes. Appropriately, this brings back to me tending to my older brother. And yes, I did say older brother.

Now, back to my original story with my roommate. We just recently took a road trip home to my house so she could see where I grew up and my pups, whom I love with all my being. Anyways, she got very sick on the trip with some kind of cold. And of course, mother instinct kicked in and next thing she knew was I was making her delicious food, taking her temperature, propping her up on pillows, making sure she’s getting her medicine and vitamins and plenty of sleep. I was not about to let her go back to college with the flu (I have this thing where I must fix something if needed, and apparently sick and hungry people are a part of that). Of course she felt better within the next afternoon and I felt like God, healing sick kids left and right (not literally, I was just tending to a loved one). That is what makes me feel good. I feel a tremendous size of gratification from taking care of someone (is it really so horrible if I wish someone else would get sick so I can tend to them?)

HOWEVER, remember when I said I wouldn’t let her go back to school with the flu? Well, she didn’t, but I sure as hell did.

You forget that while you’re busy tending to someone you care about, you’ll get sick too, and probably worse than the carrier of virus’. Thank you, Martin. You truly are an inspiration and a good reminder to wear masks and to sleep in a different room than you when you’re sick. Ultimately, she didn’t miss any school. I, however, missed an entire week. I guess you could say that I tend to forget about my own well-being if one of my own is sick. I really must use Freud’s pleasure and sublimation theory to fix that.

Now that I am better and back at it, I always tend to do things in order. I eat in order, I write in order, and I study in order. I know what you’re thinking, “Everyone does that!” Hate to burst your perfectly round bubble, but no they don’t. There are some sloppy eaters out there. And I don’t know if you have seen a writer write, but sometimes they will write their conclusion first…

*shivers*

To have a tendency is to have haunting realizations about yourself and even those around you. I’ve recently noticed that our fish, Opossum (yes, thank you Martin for that), tends to wrap himself around the filter if he is cold. Coincidentally, a fish has tendencies just like humans. To wrap up this one-sided conversation, the word of today is ‘tend,’ and it was fun to write about- what are your thoughts about the word of the day?

Writing and Criticism

Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve been writing a trilogy for a few years now. I’m a new writer, so it took some time to figure out format, plot, structure, etc. I’ve recently just sent my work to an editor and I’m very nervous to see what he says about my baby. I’ve put a lot of hard work and personal feelings in it. Rejection is real and it really sucks. The thing about writing and sending your work to “professionals,” is the competition: It’s an endless list. I mean, the thing is monstrous and intimidating. So I thought to myself, “Why would I put myself through this hell?” But my good friend came in clutch, as always, and reminded me about my passion. Passion is something that makes you go crazy with excitement. It makes you want to work for 10 hours a day because you believe it will rock your world and everyone’s around you. This is the feeling of shouting out, “This is it! This is what it means to be alive, and I’m feelin’ it! THIS IS GOLD!” I swear I would shout something along those lines while writing these books. Thank you, Brad. That is worth fighting for.

When I write, it’s like I’m hypnotized by my own words on the page. I’m drawn in close and I can’t find a way out- as if I wanted that. My eagerness towards writing is almost embarrassing. I know a lot of writers who are terrified of getting out there and showing people what they got. But I’m not. I know people can be cruel, but I love constructive criticism. Workshops in class are my favorite days, because I know my peers are going to be honest on what needs work from my papers or poems. So, if you’re a writer and are terror-stricken of displaying your work, don’t be. There’s always going to be some cold-blooded leeches out to get you, but you deserve the feedback that will help you better yourself. And you’ll get as much, if not way more, than the ruthless imbecile commenting on every post you make. Shine, and make a story worthy of you.

My books are fiction and full of fantasy with a mix of romance thrown in. I’m usually not one for romance, but I realized that adding it in made my book a million times more alluring to read- even for myself. It is definitely in the angel and demon genre that is enormous these days. I like to think my book is more distinctive from all the other books but it may be the exact same thing–which is really heartbreaking to think about, and that’s when you start chanting, “Please be different, please be different, please be different.” But again, criticism is the gold you’re looking for.

If you have any tips, encouraging thoughts, or feedback in general, feel free to comment below for other readers and writers!