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At worst I feel bad, and then I don’t smile. And then I feel like slinking onto the floor and melting into a puddle of black goo. I don’t know why my goo will be black when I have no black anywhere on my body except my pupils, but it seems the way it should be when a person melts into goo. Like a freaking Miyazaki movie or something. You ain’t been blue no no no no no no no…. you ain’t been blue til you had that mood indigo. Indigo like the sweat on the backs of slaves who grew it. Indigo as the color of the drink in which you attempt to drown yourself. Indigo as in bluer than blue. The blues always makes sadness and loneliness at least sound romantic, and they are in a way, but they also suck, especially when you’re busy trying to hide them from everyone, because no one likes a downer. Especially not a puddle of goo on the floor. People want to mop that shit up, throw it down the drain, make it go away before someone steps on it. Can you imagine how horrible it would be to be a mess? Someone steps on you, which hurts, and then they go “ew” because they find you disgusting. And they don’t even know you, they just find you gross because now you’re all over their shoe, which isn’t even your fault, because THEY should’ve been watching where they were going, and now they’re leaving with a piece of you, tramping it all over the rest of the floor, wiping it off on a mat, stomping on it. And you can never have that piece back. You’ll just have to reform into a walking, talking, functional person without it. You’ve got to get all your little droplets together yourself- you can’t just wait for someone to help you up, people will step all over you and take footprints away and you’ll hardly have anything to work with if you just wait. Quit being lazy and


I had an idyllic childhood. I spent most of my days with my stay-at-home mother, playing with my brother when he came home from school, and walking the dog with him and my dad after family dinner. My large extended family would gather monthly for birthdays, and two weeks every summer, we would all go to my grandparents’ cabin in Tahoe.

My dad worked close to sixty hours a week, but I was still much closer to him than I was to anyone else. He sang me to sleep with old country songs, he carried me on his shoulders in front of the band after Cal games, and we went to church together on Sundays. He was my sunshine and my hero; I feared disappointing him more than anything.

Things change. My brother started fighting with my parents, I decided I was too old for lullabies, my relatives had less time for Tahoe in the summer. My dad started getting back pain and losing weight; in addition, he was laid off when as his company went bankrupt and had to take a lower-paying, less fun job.  I was in my awkward preteen years, which are never easy for anyone.

Things change more. My dad’s back pain turned out to be pancreatic cancer, which killed him four months after diagnosis.  My mom got a job which involved two months training in Maryland, during which time I lived with my grandparents. When she got home, she worked full-time and her schedule changed every two weeks. My brother was already in college, so I spent many long hours alone in my house; between this and problems both normal and abnormal for someone my age, I became depressed.

Although none of this was fun for me, there are upsides. I am much closer to my mother now than I was before, because now we can only rely on each other. If I hadn’t been depressed and gotten behind in my chemistry homework, I would never have learned that I love tutoring kids because I wouldn’t have spent so much time in my teacher’s room after school, and I doubt I would have wanted to come to Mexico to teach.

I also have increased perspective on life, which is usually good but sometimes detrimental. While I wasn’t heartbroken when my boyfriend broke up with me, I also have a hard time thinking of an F grade as a horrible thing: neither are on the scale of a malignant tumor.

Children also affect me more now. Whenever I go to the Farmacia in my neighborhood, I over-tip the kids bagging the groceries because they are usually younger than ten and they are working instead of playing outside. The last time I watched the musical Annie, I cried during the first five minutes because I started thinking about the plight of orphans, how they have no one to love them or care about their lives. Also though, I cannot help but smile when I see parents patiently answering their children’s questions, little kids playing catch in the street, or fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders so the kids can see parades.

While I believe that sadness is a part of life, I also want to do my part to lessen it. I want every kid to have as wonderful a childhood as mine.  I’m interested in so many careers- teacher, doctor, chemist, art historian, mathematician, politician- and I hope that college will help me decide which one I want to pursue; but whatever I choose, I want to make the world happier in my small way.

When I was small, I liked the idea of God, and I believed he existed, but only as an abstract idea. I went to church for the spectacle, the singing and my fellow Catholics; it wasn’t until one specific incident that he became personally important to me.

My mom and I took my dad to the emergency room when I was fifteen.  I brought homework along, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I prayed the rosary in entirety three times, which is when the doctor came back out to talk to my mom. My dad stayed at the hospital that night, but I went home with my mom believing that everything would be alright; I had prayed my rosaries and no one had told me otherwise.

It wasn’t until the next day that my mother told me my daddy, the person I loved most in the world, had terminal cancer and three to six months to live. I couldn’t stop all the tears in front of her, but I saved the true extent of my emotions for God. When my mother was at the hospital, I started yelling at God: ranting about how he didn’t answer my prayers, that it wasn’t fair because I was only fifteen and needed my daddy, that (of all stupid things) Beyoncé was older, richer, and more blessed in general than me, that she didn’t need her dad nearly as much as I needed mine.

Then a thought dropped into my head: we die because we are so selfish as to believe one life is worth more than another. I only wanted to exchange my dad’s life for Beyoncé’s because my dad was important to me. It was intensely selfish to think my loved ones were worth more than anyone else’.

Sure, there wasn’t a voice, and an angel didn’t come unto me. Nevertheless, I believe that God answered me, because I think that thought was his and not mine.

Since then, there have been times when I didn’t feel I could talk to anyone else, or I talked to others and they couldn’t help me. So I talk to God, and I feel that he listens. I certainly have doubts about whether or not I’m imagining the whole thing, but I like to think that it doesn’t really matter. Whether he really exists or he’s just a comforting construct of my mind, I believe I’m better off because I believe in him.

I can’t represent for shit. I got it backwards- I got an Oakland face with an LA booty. I’m sure you know what that means, and if you don’t, well, have fun with your imagination. It occurs to me that I spend a great deal of time thinking about my beauty or lack thereof and contemplating on the place of beauty in general. Most of these posts refer to it somewhere. Is it because I’m shallow? I don’t think so, but why else do I always come back to it? I suppose it is my central insecurity, and also the one thing I am least able to fix. Sometimes I think things would’ve turned out better if I were hotter, but then, that’s the problem isn’t it. I can’t really make myself much hotter. I am this hot. The irony is how much colder I really am than everyone else- I run at 96 degrees, beezy. I can’t pull off layering because I get too hot and want to pull it off. Besides, we know you skinny chicks are just trying to hide what you look like under all those damn clothes. Yeah, I’m doing it too. Maybe we shouldn’t be doing it. Maybe we should walk free under the sun, soaking up it’s rays and exciting the pricks on all the guys we meet. But hell, I can’t afford the sunscreen for that lifestyle. I mean, really, sunburned nipples? No thanks. The fairy dream of the sun as the life-giving force of the planet is great right up until it burns you. Or melts the wax in your wings. But that’s life, isn’t it? You can’t fall too much in love with any idea, anything, any person. Too much devotion to anything burns. Perhaps one day I’ll learn to live dispassionately; it would hurt a lot less. But oh, the sun feels so delicious on my skin, warming it and caressing it as I lay out and think of how nice it feels. And no matter how many times I’ve gotten burned, I still go out and smile when it hits my face. Maybe one day I’ll get tired of it- but somehow I don’t think so. I think getting tired of the sunshine would be like getting tired of the city or ice cream or people- you have a few bad experiences, but it’s worth it anyway. Maybe that’s life? Maybe I won’t know until it’s over. Oh I’m so trusting. I might be a cynical bastard, but let’s be real, I’m a bloody optimist by nature. If I feel like you appreciate me, you can ask for nearly anything. You might not get it, but I’m never insulted if you don’t try to insult me. Oh I love you. I just love people so much… too much maybe. Like the sunshine. Lucky I have my clothes to protect me, huh?

She was sitting on a bench overlooking the whitest shore on a siddewalk, looking at the bluest sky meeting the shining water and calmly licking away at her soft-serve chocolate ice cream cone while her face showed perfect contemplative tranquility. She had on a nice straight black shift dress and big Italian-style sunglasses, and her legs, crossed one over the other at the knee, ended in feet shod in chunky black heels. For some reason, she had a big tan coat on, even though the day was fabulous to just strut around in her little black dress.

She licked the ice cream to the level of the cone, got up, and started walking down the cobbled street.The beautiful 19th century apartment buildings loomed over her with an old-world charm, somehow both musty and cheerful at the same time. It was that kind of day- even the dead artifacts of the staid city were revived and lovely in their antiquity, showered in the most flattering light of the unhindered sun.

A man turns round the corner of the next street, and he looks like a Hellenic god. Not Apollo, golden and shining, but one of the darkly handsome, perhaps mysterious gods, Dionysus or Hermes. She had loved him long ago, thought she had gotten over him, only to see his heartbreakingly gorgeous visage pouring into the street like the milk and honey of the promised land. He did not smile- not really. He turned her body towards himself with one hand, and placed the other on her cheek, lifting her face ever so gently to look into her eyes with the beautiful seaform blue of his own.  His gaze was soft and wonderful, and she remembered exactly what she had wanted for so many long nights after he had left her, remembered how he had made her feel like she was so lucky to be touched by this incredible angel.

His hand swallowed hers as he led her upstairs to a flat. The twilight of afternoon’s border with evening tickled through the window, making his white sheets even more enticing than they were already. He let her down into them, and so tenderly touched her, feeling his way into a perfect fit. It was better than she had ever imagined it would be, and she had imagined perfection- but her idea of perfection was not as great as his idea of excellence. Exhausted from the ever so private display of affection, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The low murmur of voices in serious conversation awoke her slowly and lethargically from a wonderful sleep, soon to be ruined. She saw him, in the next room, with a woman without match in grace- a blonde like herself, but with twice the presence and three times the beauty. She knew instinctively that this was the lady of his house: the goddess to match the god.

A young lad, the very picture of his father, tugged at his mother’s forearm, asking her if she knew where his roller skates were- he wanted to know. The piano played in the background, and as she got up to get her clothes, she looked around the corner and saw the sandy-haired miniature of the dark god. She remembered telling him, when they still dated, that his children had to take piano lessons, that she would teach them herself if that was necessary. Clearly it was not, because the boyh was already doing octaves at the tender age of seven. She smiled at the fact that he had taken her advice.

Looking out the window at the fading shadows of sunset, she remembered where she was and put on her dress. As she went out the door, she glanced in the lady’s eyes, and was surprised to find no jealousy lurking in them. As she descended the spiral staircase at the back of the flat, she realized why: she had been played as a whore.

To whom it may concern:

I am very aware that you will receive and read many letters of appeal from very deserving students, and that most appeals are turned down. I feel, however, that I did not show everything that I have to offer nor every circumstance that might have disadvantaged me in my high school career.

I did vaguely reference the death of my father in one of my essays. Although that loss was incredibly emotionally difficult for me, in many ways, he was not the only comfort I lost. At the same time, he was my sole financial support. Before his cancer, my mother had stayed at home rather than working for most of my life. Suddenly, she had to start working full time at the same time that she and I dealt with my father’s death. As well as working full-time, she had to go to Maryland for two months’ training during March and April of my sophomore year, during which time I stayed with my grandparents. Although I love my grandparents, I really was not mature enough to live with them. My parents raised me in a similar fashion to the way they raised their children, but in a way just different enough that their expectations of what I should be doing and what I was used to doing were significantly different. I was very unhappy the entire time I lived with them.

I returned home to my mother with horrible third quarter grades. I managed to make up the fourth quarter grades well enough to get at least B’s in all my classes. I was still taking classes that were easy enough that I could do that. I felt that I had to raise my grades because my father would have been disappointed if I did not. I felt that it would shame his memory if I ended up with C’s.

The summer of 2007 was the true beginning of my downward spiral. It started out all right; I volunteered at the Alameda Free Library and saw my friends and had fun. Then I went to La Honda Music Camp, and had fun with a boy I met there. When camp ended, however, he told me he “didn’t do long-distance relationships.” He lived a half-hour away from me. It was a huge blow to my self-esteem to know that someone I genuinely liked and highly respected thought I wasn’t worth a half-hour drive every couple of weekends to maintain a relationship. In this defeatist state of mind, I faced the most personally shattering event in my high school career, whose effects I have never fully discussed with anyone until now.

I normally consider myself a very tolerant person, tolerant even of people I believe to be intolerant. Before this event, however, I always enjoyed trying to persuade people with different opinions than me through debate if they ventured opinions with which I disagreed. I was fairly good at arguing, usually successful at winning the arguments with which I involved myself, and I found using my logic and intellect exciting. I even enjoyed throwing out statements of which I was not entirely certain as if they were fact, just to win the argument, to see if the person was so foolish as to accept what I told them. To be quite honest, I was rather egocentric.

My best friend had always been bright, inquisitive, and fascinated with new ideas. We would talk about the meaning of life, possible ways to fix the problems of the world, ethics, politics, everything. She was never afraid to take on a new opinion and argue with me about it, all in the spirit of the fun of challenging our own orthodoxy. We suited each other because she was always looking for the ideal, innovative way to do things and I was always grounded in pragmatism and tradition. Although we often still disagreed after our discussions, we could see the other point of view and feel that the other was justified in her opinion.

My best friend went to a religious summit camp in Ohio that summer. When she came back, she had been born-again Christian. I consider myself a dedicated, liberal Catholic. I believe the Credo, I believe that the basic message of the Bible is the same way we should live our lives, but I do not believe that the Bible is the literal word of God and I therefore believe that some things in the Bible can be discounted. She was also Catholic before this camp- not as solid in her faith as I was in mine, but she had been elected president of the Gay-Straight Alliance at our school, she had been fascinated with biology, and so many other things. I just never saw it coming. It is true that she had been going through very hard times- her grandmother and one of her elementary school friends both died in a single month. I had never expected for her to turn to literal translation of the Bible for comfort, however. I had never expected her to try to start converting my friends and me to her new religion. She told many of my friends that it was “wrong” to be gay, that they should try being straight. She told many that they would go to Hell if they did not convert. I tried very, very hard to convince her to stop arguing with them, to stop trying to argue with me. I used all my powers of argument, logic, persuasion, empathy, everything I had, and nothing worked. She was convinced that she had found all the answers; our discussions were not really about philosophy anymore, they were not free exchanges of ideas. They became her efforts to try to convert me to her point of view. I suppose I was equally guilty of trying to convince her to abandon her new beliefs, but I just could not take it anymore. I told her that I did not want to talk to her until she stopped trying to convert me to her religion. And although losing her friendship was also very difficult for me, what I really lost was the sense that I was invincible. Before, I had thought that the person holding the correct opinion could use logic and facts to win over any reasonable, intelligent person to that opinion. Later, my friend came around to my opinion, but not through any logic of mine- it shattered my belief in logic, in people, and in the fruitfulness or trying to help the latter using the former.

In this state of mind, I entered junior year. I was not worth the time of a boy I liked, and I could not even convince my own best friend to stop terrorizing gays. How could I possibly be worth anything? My mother loved me, but she was my mother. Mothers are obligated to love their children. I felt like I had no one to talk to- my friends were very nice people, but their life experiences were normal teenage problems. I felt I had aged way beyond them because of my trials and tribulations. I could not talk to my mother because I did not want her to worry about me. I failed to do homework in several of my classes- I did not see the point of doing homework when I was such a completely ineffective person. I would often go to the Fruitvale bridge, which I had often run to as a child when I was angry at my parents, and think about jumping off. I would lean over the side and look at the water, and then be too sympathetic to the idea of my mother’s grief to go through with it. I was hostile to teachers, I was hostile to most people in general. I decided in November of 2007 to get evaluated for depression.

They put me on a low dosage of Prozac and they also set me up with both individual and group therapy. The Prozac helped me not think about suicide and also helped me be functional, but at the same time, I kind of felt like the pills were duping me into being happier. I went to the individual therapy, but I never told my psychologist nearly as much as I have written even in this letter. She had told my mother that it was normal for people to go through an “anniversary reaction” to a death, a sudden onset of dysthymia or major depression after the anniversery of a death. I had no desire to disabuse her of this notion. She was not the kind of person I felt I could talk to about my problems- she seemed like she would be shocked if I told her about things I thought about doing. I think that is probably an unreasonable assessment of her abilities, but I felt that telling her about my actual thoughts would worry her, and she seemed nice. I just did not think she deserved to be worried about someone like me. So I did not tell her most of what I was thinking.

I went to the group therapy sessions, where I met many depressed teens who I liked and who liked me. I loved helping them- I have always loved helping people. Although some dropped out of school and many were failing several of their classes, I do not believe that they were really doing any worse dealing with their depression than I was doing with mine. Most of them were from Oakland- more economically disadvantaged than me, more street-hardened as well. I had only had one friend murdered- many of these kids had seen several of their friends die as a result of gang violence. They were all very nice though. When I “graduated” from the twelve-week course, they all seemed like they would genuinely miss me.

When the group therapy ended, I stopped going to my individual therapy sessions. I was somewhat ashamed that I was wasting my mother’s money on copayments for appointments where I was not even honest enough with my psychologist to possibly be benefitting from the sessions. I continued going to school, taking my antidepressants, and pretending to the outside world that I was a normal teenager. I acted out less in front of adults. In English, we started reading The Catcher in the Rye, and Mr. Martin wanted us to write about the symbolism of a boy’s flatulence; he thought it would be a fun assignment for most of us. I wrote a long, angry letter about how insane and fake it was to be writing about death and farts in one essay. I really did not want to turn in that letter instead of the essay, but my mother found it on accident and told me I should turn it in.  I did not mean it to be so, but the style was very much like that of the book. I had over-likened myself to Holden Caulfield, the main character. He wrote me a long response back, and from then on I did all the rest of the assignments for his class.

I had also started going to Mr. Joo’s room after school most days. I was allegedly making up homework for his class, but what I ended up doing most days was helping other students with their homework. I liked tutoring them because it made me feel useful. It also helped me avoid going home to my empty house, where no one could distract me from my own self-loathing. At home, my distractions were limitless, but they made me feel worse about myself for indulging them when I should have been doing something else. At least in Mr. Joo’s room, someone benefitted from my being there, even from my existance. It did help my self-esteem some to feel wanted, to bring my grades up from the depths where they had sunken, and to hear people happy about my efforts.

I did fairly well that summer. I got off the antidepressants. I did all the assignments for my AP Art History class; I had not done all the assignments for any class with homework since fourth grade. I went to La Honda again that summer, and found that people there liked me despite the fact that they gained nothing from knowing me. I went to school again more optimistic.

I started my senior year well- I did well my first month. Then UC Santa Cruz decided that my brother could not attend school for a quarter due to his sub-par academic standing. This in itself did not affect me very much, but it made my mother extremely worried about me. He also got bad grades in high school, not because he did not understand the material, but because he did not do the work- nearly identical to me. My mother began to worry about my habits, to wonder if maybe I should not go to college next year. I am not entirely certain about this, but I also detected an implication that maybe I should not go to a college with demanding curriculum, like Cal, because of my lax study habits. I felt, in fact I still feel, that she did not believe in me.

I know that sounds strange because she has always thought that I am very smart, analytical, and good at nearly everything I do, and she has always loved me very much. She does not have my father’s confidence in me, however. Perhaps my depression made it impossible for her to have his brand of confidence. When my father was alive and I got bad quarter grades, he would get very angry at me because he thought of it as uncharacteristic behavior. He thought that there must be something very wrong for me to not be getting the grades I could, and he would yell at me about it. I might have argued with him about the grades, but because he had the confidence that I would fix the grades once he pointed out to me that they were unacceptable for someone as capable as me, I accepted his assumption that I was capable of fixing them. The idea that maybe I was not cut out for hard work, that maybe I was incapable of hard work never occurred to me until after he died. It was not just that I lost his love and wisdom, I lost the confidence that he inspired me to have in myself. I made up the grades because I knew that he would be disappointed if I did not, and I could not think of anything worse.

Since he died, I have lost that motivation to finish papers, to make up grades. It is not just that he is dead so he cannot be disappointed if I do not make up the grades. I remember a time where I would realize how much I had procrastinated on my homework, and desperately rush to finish it before school the next day because I felt that getting a bad grade was such a horrible thing. Now that my father is dead, I realize that I might get a bad grade on something, and I think, “Oh well. It’s not a malignant tumor.” I suppose that for my age I have an over-developed sense of perspective. No one will die if I get bad grades. No one will die if I do not go to Cal. So I really did not try very hard to raise my grades to apply to college, thinking I could be okay with going to one of my safety schools. I have always wanted to go to Cal, ever since I was little, riding to Cal football games on my dad’s shoulders, behind the band. I remember him being so proud when I had memorized all the verses to the songs the band plays. My family culture is very Cal-oriented, and while some people want to break with their family traditions, I have always been very fond of all things Cal. Because of my grades however, I resigned myself to the idea that it was a long shot to get into Cal, and I thought it would be fantastic if I did get in, but not the end of the world if I did not.

Well, it is not the end of the world. I have been rejected from Cal and no one has died, I have not cried over it, I am not overly traumatized because I did not in fact expect to get in. Nevertheless, I am not satisfied. I toured the colleges I did get in to last week, and I liked the professors, I liked the campuses, and the students seemed all right, but in the back of my mind lingered a question I thought it would be rude to ask: “Is it easy to transfer credits I gain at this school to Cal?” I realized that I would rather work very hard and go to Cal and be disappointed with my experience there than love going somewhere else and always wonder if I would have liked going to Cal even more. I wish I had realized this sooner. I wish I had understood this and understood that I needed to go to Cal to be satisfied with my college experience, because I would have worked very hard during high school to get in. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

As I said, I understand that my chances of getting with this appeal are very slim. Instead of going to college next year, if this does not work, I will join Americorps and spend my year helping people in whatever way I can. I will apply again to Cal in the fall. Although I do not particularly want to go to any other school, I will also apply to other UCs because I know that it is much easier to transfer within the UC system if I work very hard and get A’s in all my courses at that school. If I do not get into Cal next year, I will go to one of these UC’s and try to transfer again the next year. If I end up graduating from the UC before getting accepted for transfer to Cal, I will have known that I did all I could from this point forward to get into Cal; I will know that there was nothing more I could do, since I cannot change the past.

I hope that although this letter certainly does not change the past, it at least puts it in context. Thank you for considering it and for reconsidering me, whatever you decide.

Yours very truly,

Sally Brownson.

I cannot say that this is the single issue that most concerns me because I have so many societal concerns, but I think the disparity in quality of education for poor and rich children is a massive problem in the land of opportunity. I have known many people in my home town who send their children to private school because the school is “better.” They determine the quality of the school by looking at test scores, which often reflect the income of the students’ families more than the quality of the education. Poor children in this country grow up with many less resources than I had as a child: I had a stay-at-home mother with a degree from UC Berkeley, hundreds of books, college-educated grandparents who lived within blocks of my house, and money for extracurricular activities. Thousands of children in this country have none of these advantages and there are very limited means to alleviate the disparity. I learned to read when I was three; by the time other kids got to school for the first time, when they were six, I had already been reading for three years. Children are cruel- when they see that one of their peers reads very well, that child is “smart”; another, who is struggling to catch up with their peers, is labeled “dumb.” Children naturally decide that they do not want to read because they feel that they are not good at it, when, in reality, they probably just need more practice. We do not invest enough resources in catching these children up, spending enough time with them to get them to be functionally literate by the time they leave elementary school, and I see the results every day in my English class- kids who cannot take advantage of the class because they can barely read the material. By the time they get to high school, it is nearly always too late to truly serve these kids. A teenager who truly wants to improve their reading skills can do it with proper motivation- but so many have already convinced themselves that they will have to do without good reading skills that they do not even think of trying to improve themselves. I want to join City Year to do something about this problem. I want to help kids who normally get left behind under our system. I can help with most subjects- math, chemistry, literature, history, music- but I really want to help instill a desire to learn in kids. I do not want kids to feel “dumb” because they have limited resources. I do not want to hear people say “I hate Shakespeare” because they do not have the skills to read his works. I want to help kids prepare to be informed, educated citizens with the learning skills to go to college, better their incomes and pass their knowledge on to their children. Because I believe that this is a problem that can be solved. I believe that with time and effort, every child really can have the same advantages as I had. I want to join City Year because I want to help make it happen.

Stolen from Claire…

1) Answer the questions below.
2) Take each answer and type it into Photobucket
3) Take any picture from the first page of results and post. (Click on the picture and copy the HTML code.)
4) You can’t copy the persons answers who posted this before you!

1. The age you will be on your next birthday.


2. A place you’d like to travel?


3. Your favorite place?

4. Your favorite object?

Red pumps

5. Your favorite food?


6. Your favorite animal?

7. Your favorite color?

blue sea

8. The town in which you were born?

EAst Oakland

9. The town in which you live?

Alameda Central, Mexico

The name of a past pet?


11. The name of a past love?

Amshel Nathan James Moses Lulu Joel Lewis Julia David Karl Diva Kai Saya Solomon Haji Riku

12. Your nickname/screen name?


13. Your middle name?

Kathleen's Lighthouse

14. A bad habit of yours?

nail biting

15. Your first job?


Yeah, I was sick today. I found out on the site I just added to my blogroll that when you feel like you’re going to throw up, you’re nauseated, not nauseous. Nauseous is when you make other people want to throw up, which is truly disgusting. I also discovered that there IS a difference between mucous and mucus. Go look on the site. Find out every grammatical thingy you ever wanted to find out.

Anyway, being sick kinda sucked, but it gave me a chance to read The Other Boleyn Girl again. I wish I had what she had. It’s by Philippa Gregory. Go check it out from the library Monday morning so you can go to the café and harass me. Yeah, I’ll post more later.

hi. I think for my first post, I’ll define Sallacity:

1. the state of having Sally-like lusts

2. the state of being obscene in a Sally-like manner

3. the state of having extreme amounts of semi-contained libido.