Perfect Little Lines

Perfect Little Lines

Dedicated to a little sister who's been going through a lot lately. 

Perfect little lines,

As straight as can be,

Decorating her skin

For eternity.

Faded from years,

But their red is still clear.

Her eyes can still see

What her heart use to feel.

Covered by bracelets,

Those lines use to be,

Yet now they are displayed

For all to see.

The battle was fought,

The battle was won,

And her badge of courage

Shows that it’s done.

Marred Innocence and Other Poems

Lately, the dreaded illness of writer's block has prevented me from working on any of my ongoing chapter stories. In an attempt to cure myself, I've been working one some other, smaller projects. My energy has been turned from those larger works to practicing my skills on short stories and poetry. Thus far, I've written two short stories and three poems. Well, three poems that I will be sharing with you. I've written two others, but I am not at all pleased with them. That's how writing goes sometimes. You write, and write, and write, and some times you end up with the most glorious diamond...yet other times you end up with a piece of writing that you just know isn't going to go anywhere. 

What I have for you this fine night are the three poems I've written lately. I may eventually post the short stories as well. But, for the moment, just enjoy these little writings. They aren't the best I've ever written, but they're decent...in my opinion. 

Marred Innocence

Such a beautiful sight,

An empty page.

White, clean, perfect,

It’s all innocence.

Then along comes an artist,

Pen in hand.

With ink and paint,

They steal the innocent land.

Such a dreadful sight,

The marred page.

Lines, letters, curves,

Gone is its essence.  

Yet what remains,

Shows only truth.

With words and sketches,

The artist speaks to the youth.

Black

Tastes like freshly brewed coffee.

Smells like moist earth.

Sounds like vinyl records.

Feels like ground charcoal.

Looks like an endless starry sky.

Yellow

Tastes like Lemonade on a hot afternoon.

Smells like a field of blooming tulips.

Sounds like a choir of canaries.

Feels like the sun’s warm rays.

Looks like summer.

Reminiscing On the Good Ol' Times

Traditions. We all have them. Whether they're personal traditions or family traditions. Traditions that we celebrate together or alone. We all have those things that we love to do and do them ritually. My family has a lot of traditions, some of which are nothing more but memories. As my siblings and I grew up, as family members moved and aged, our traditions warped, shifted, changed into new forms. Some died, others are barley there, and still others remain strong.

Growing up, there was a tradition in my home that took place every Sunday or Monday night. Two sports. Two seasons. And parents that us kids would sit down and watch both with. With my mom, it was football. With my dad, it was NASCAR. Both of which, I wasn't insanely fond of.

As a child, I use to get bored watching football and NASCAR. I didn't understand the thrill of chasing after a ball or driving in circles, but I learned the sports. Learned how to yell out at the TV and how to cheer on my favorites. For not caring much, I did have favorites, and my caring for the two traditions grew more as I aged.

Now, at 22, I can honestly say that I like one more than the other. And I can honestly say that I have my favorite team and racer(s). I now enjoy watching the games and races. But its not because I care so much about who wins them. It's because of the memories I have attached to them.

I watch the Superbowl every year. I couldn't care less about catching any of the other games, but that one is a must for me. Likewise, I try to catch the Daytona 500. Those two events were two of the biggest nights in my house growing up. Friends and family use to be invited over for them, and for the races that followed and games that lead up to them. With those gatherings, came those memories.

Like all children, I never thought about how such events could effect my life. I never thought about the memories I would take away from them.

Now, I do.

Today was the Daytona 500, one of the biggest races in NASCAR. Race cars and drivers hadn't been anywhere in my mind until my dad called and said he was watching the race. The sound of his voice as he talked to me about the race brought the urge to watch it. I couldn't remember the last time I had caught an entire race. I'm normally busy or forget about them. But I had time today and it was the Daytona 500...I had to watch it.

Due to a rain delay I actually got to watch last year's Daytona race as well as this years. Two races, two years, same day...and I enjoyed every second of it. Annoyed my roommate a little too, because I channeled my father. By that I mean that all those times watching him and his friends talk to the TV during races, wore off on me...and I found myself doing the same thing. At the end, I actually said, "Man, I sound like my dad." That's a good thing though.

When I think of my dad, I think Pepsi, Sega Genesis (Some of you reading this probably have no idea what that is...look it up, kiddies), Star Trek and Star Wars. I think calloused, grease covered hands, and shirts smelling like tar and anti-freeze. I think summer days in the garage. Nights kicking Sith butt on the Xbox. I think of the man who had to watch The Return of the King before us children in order to make sure it wouldn't scare us, but didn't flip out when I purposely set out to draw a reaction from him with a fake nose ring (By the way, that earned me a reaction from my mother...where I was threatened with being sent to Georgia...I don't blame her though, and actually found her reaction to be amusing. Sorry mom, but it was kind of funny!)

My dad and I have butted heads so many times in the past, but he's one of the most important people in my life. My dad taught me how to ride a bike...an event that lead to me zooming down a slopped sidewalk and fearing that I'd run into something. He taught me how to throw a bunch of random food together in a way that's wonderfully delicious...he taught me how to fix the chain on a bike...how to check the oil in a car...how to deep clean a house (that was a weekly tradition that all of us children dreaded but my mom and dad taught us to do...I still do deep cleaning on Saturdays because of it). And my dad taught me to never give up.

I have so many wonderful memories of my dad. I'm so lucky to have him as my father.

I've been homesick for awhile now. I've been counting the days until Spring break when I can pack a bag and leave this lovely city I'm in for the corn fields of home. Funny how I use to hate those fields -how I use to see them as a barrier -and now sometimes all I want is to see them again. Watching the Daytona tonight was a little piece of home.

For a while during the race, I just sat there thinking. I thought back to this one race I watched back in high school. I think it was in 2008 or 2007. I'm not sure. But I remembered sitting on the green couch that was in the living room of the house that I spent most of my life in, in front of the window. I can see it as perfectly as if it happened yesterday. Light was streaming in from the large picture window behind the couch, the green drapes were pulled to the side in the way that my mom liked them. The light created a glare on the TV, but I liked the golden puddle it left on the floor so I dealt with the glare.

My parents weren't home that day. No one was. I don't remember where they were. But I remember sitting with my math book open, and reasoning to myself that the race was more important than my homework. I remember thinking, "Dad'll want to know who wins." It was the first race that I think I actually completely watched from beginning to end. It was the race that I chose my favorite driver...Jimmie Johnson. I'd tell you why he's my favorite, but I don't think you'd understand. Let's just say I'm a fan of stories and that entire race was a story of him.

That memory is precious to me. Johnson won that race, just so you know, and his niece was born just as he crossed the finish line. I talked to the TV then too, but I don't think I thought about how much like my dad I had sounded at the time. Tonight, though, I did.

While I talked to the TV through this year's Daytona, and cheered on my favorites, I felt like I was at home again. The only thing that could have made it better would have been if my parents and siblings and friends were there. I mean my friends that I use to watch the races with. I do have friends here, in this city, (just to clarify), but I kind of miss the ones I grew up watching the races with. The ones that I use to talk with about how hot Johnson and Gordon were and how we wished they weren't married so we'd have a chance. The friends who I use to talk about how cool it would be to get into Pit row with and meet the drivers with. Those friends that can't really even be called my friends anymore because we're more like family. Like sisters or cousins. We grew up together. Our dads use to tell us how to read the racing stats together.

Then there were our moms. Our moms, just like our dads, are amazing. They instilled in us what I like to call the Pioneer skills. Those skills that all homemakers at one time needed. They taught us to sew, to do crafts, to participate in Church events (that was taught by our dads too. Church was a family thing), and use to tell us stories of the women's retreats they went on. As a little girl, one of the things I looked forward to was reaching the age where I could go to women's retreat with my mom. Sadly, I've only been able to go to one...but it was as amazing as our mothers described.

Like my dad, my mom's taught me so much. She's taught we how mark up my Bible, how to read, how to write, how to sew, how to fix a vacuum, how to properly set a table, how to be a lady. You know how I mentioned all those things that made me think of my dad? Well, when I think of my mom I smell vanilla and  I hear Twila Paris, I see my mom singing along to A Warrior is a Child and driving me to quizzing, and teaching quizzing, and homeschooling me, and giving me my first journal, and reminding me to write in that journal, and going to my Track meets and my cheer leading events (with my dad,), and showing me how a record player worked, and dancing around the living room with my siblings and I to that record player, and telling my sister and I to stop spraying each other with the sink's sprayer. And as I remember sitting on my dad's lap as he read my favorite children's book series to me, Alice in Bibleland, I remember my mom kneeling by my bed and teaching me the Lord's prayer...and singing to me It Only Takes a Spark.

Theses are the memories that last. The memories that are important.

If you can't tell, I've been missing home a lot lately. I can't wait to get back to good ol' Nebraska. Even if it's only for a week. I think what I'm missing more, though is the past. I mean, yesterday I caught myself staring out my dorm window at an empty soccer field...but I wasn't seeing the soccer field. I was seeing a worn wooden eagle's nest, a chain link fence with morning glories growing up it, and an old burn barrel sitting by the garden gate that my dad had made for my mom's garden.

Maybe it's not home. Maybe it's not the past. Maybe what I'm really missing is familiarity. Someplace, sometime, that knew me as well as I knew it. Or maybe it's all three. I don't know. I just know, that this Daytona was needed for me. I needed the memories it brought up. The tears that sprang to my eyes when I thought of them. I needed that happiness, because -honestly -lately I haven't been very happy. I'm at a point in my life where I don't know where I should go from where I'm at. It's not a point of depression or sorrow...it's just a point where I'm trying to juggle all the stuff life throws at me so that I can make it past this step (schooling) and onto the next (graduation).

I don't know where to go from here in this post. Honestly, I didn't plan on making this post as personal as it's turned out. I try to keep the personal stuff in the pages of my journals. I suppose it happens though, and a personal one every once in a while isn't a bad thing. I guess, if any of you were trying to figure out if I was a human or not, now you have you're answer. I'm most definitely human, and I most definitely have memories. And I absolutely, positively, wouldn't trade those memories for the world.

There's a book I like, City of Lost Souls by Cassandra Clare, where some of the characters are forced to trade in a memory in which they were truly happy in, in order to save the world. If confronted with that decision, I don't think I could make it as quickly as the characters did. There's not a single memory that I can imagine giving up. Both good and bad. Theses memories are what keep me going when I get into ruts. They're what remind me that there are people out there that care for me and want to see me succeed. I couldn't part with a single one of them.

If any of you who are reading this, are the people in the memories that I mentioned today, I want to say thank you. Thank you for caring. Thank you for giving me such wonderful memories. Thank you for everything. Because, when the darkness threatens to consume me, it's memories like that which save me...which bring smiles to my face. So, thank you. And I love you. Each one of you.

Late Night Ramble

It's eleven at night where I'm at, and I don't really have much to talk about, but I told myself that I would try to update more regularly. So, I apologize in advance if I ramble or this post makes little to no sense.. 

Have you ever had a day that felt like it took ages to end? That's been today for me. It's a Wednesday, and it absolutely felt like a Wednesday. I told myself last night that I would be productive today, that I would get everything on my immediate to-do-list done. I started by going to bed early and making myself get out of bad long before I really needed to. 

I have to admit, I did get everything on my to-do list done, but that was the problem. I had a whole bunch of stuff to do, some of which I had been putting off for awhile, and it got done in a fraction of the time it should have. Both my roommate and I experienced this. 

Time was going by so slowly that, by noon, we had almost everything done. So, we took an hour and went out for lunch and Starbucks. Then I wasted an hour waiting for work and ended up having to waste time at work because I finished everything on my list there before my clock-out time (it didn't help that one of the things I had to do couldn't be done until the very end of my shift...so I had to literally waste and hour and a half between finishing everything else and that thing). 

Then, after work and classes, and lunch, and all that good stuff...I realized that I had nothing else to do. So my roommate and I cleaned our dorm room. And I'm talking about deep cleaned. The only thing we didn't do is vacuum and that's because I have to get a new belt for the faulty contraption. 

So, yeah, that's how my day's been; super productive, but still insanely long. Now it's a bit past eleven and I've completely ran out of things to do. Any normal person would think, "Bed, sleep sounds nice," but I swear I'm nocturnal. By the time it hits ten at night I'm wide awake. Can't sleep. Sometimes I have to write until I'm mentally exhausted in order to sleep, because -no shocker here, most likely -my brain won't shut off at night. It seems to think the dark hours are the perfect time to think about every little thing. Which is kind of why I'm writing to you now instead of laying in bed, staring up at the boring ceiling of my dorm room. This post may have no real point to it, but it keeps me occupied. 

Anywho, this day's been long and I hope tomorrow goes by quicker. I just want the weekend. Got something fun planned. Going to go shopping with a couple friends, and to get some iHop. Really looking forward to that. I need it too. All three of us need it. Some girl time. Sometime to push aside the worries of school, work, love, and life. Sometime to just be us and buy ourselves something (because we're awesome and we deserve it). That's what I keep reminding myself is ahead of me. That's what's getting me through this week. 

Before I go, let me leave you with my favorite quite of the day. My College Algebra professor said this today in class. "That's why you go to college, kids. To learn that zero doesn't equal thirty-six." On a side note, it is slightly humorous that he called us kids, because he's only like two/three/four years older than me.

Jingbang

Jingbang (n.) \ˈjiŋ¦baŋ\:\

 A slang word meaning a company of a crowd.

 Such as in, "The whole Jingbang is here." 

Jingbang is a word that my English major friends and I have recently discovered. Our professor informed us of its existence and we've taken to calling ourselves the English Jingbang (or The Jingbang). It has easily found its way into our vocabulary. Of all the words we are exposed to daily, none have found a place in our everyday talk as easily as jingbang has. At least, none have found their ways so easily in all of our vocabularies. 

Why is this? 

How is it that such a silly word could be adopted so quickly by us while words like esoteric and abderian are known but not used, not adopted?  (In case you don't know, esoteric means, "something that is understood -or known by -a small number of people." Abderian means, "foolish or prone to incessant laughter.") 

Perhaps it is because the word jingbang is so silly that we became fond of it so quickly. It sounds hippy, cool...it's obvious that it's slang. It's a fun word to say. A unique word. A word that -somehow -relates to our personalities. Somehow the word is both fun and scholarly. It's not the most attractive word, but it's a beautiful one.

If you're not in love with the English language, or language in general, (Or if you don't have some sort of wonder and respect for it) you may think me crazy. But, I find Jingbang to be a beautiful word and it's words like it that constantly leave me in awe. Leave me wondering about the mystery of how such words were created. 

I love words; from all languages. So, when I find a new one I tend to look into it. It's definition and origin are the first things I want to know about new words. Naturally, when I heard of Jingbang, I did some research. Sadly, I found no known origin. By the way it sounds, I can only guess at what its origin is.

Such a simple word with a veiled past. I welcome it into my vocabulary.

Weeding out the Pessimism

"Without hard work, nothing grows but weeds." 

~Gordon B. Hinkley 

Last week didn't leave me in an optimistic mindset to tackle this week with. It seemed like I kept messing up all last week. And the bad part was that I knew how to do everything I was messing up on. I just, for some reason, couldn't get anything done right. It was a bad week. That's for sure. But it wasn't the end of the world.

When I woke up this morning, I had to force myself out of bed. No surprise there. It's a Monday and I had been up late the night before (partially because of homework; partially because of an annoying main character that refuses to let me figure out the critical point in her life and has a habit of only talking to me when I'm trying to sleep).  Needless to say, I threw on the first clothes my hands landed on in my dresser this morning, and dragged myself to work. I made it through work, although languidly. I felt like a zombie, sitting at the cash register and watching as my fellow students munched on their eggs and hashbrowns. I couldn't have been more relieved when nine o'clock rolled around and I was able to clock out.

A few hours later, I was trying to waist some time before having to go back into work for my second shift of the day. I wasn't feeling all that well about myself. I was so sure I would find some way to screw up my last shift of the day. My self-confidence was low. My expectations were low. My over all mood was low. Then I looked in the mirror...

...and I noticed that the outfit I had randomly chosen that morning was actually pretty decent...

...and I noticed that my curly red locks were actually tame...

..and I noticed that I felt a bit better.

That's when I decided. 

"Okay," I said to myself. "Time for a little confidence boost."

With a couple tweaks to my out fit and hair, and an hour of jamming out to three of my favorite bands, I was suddenly ready to face work again. In fact, I was excited for it. My energy had shot through the roof as Toby Mac's Steal My Show, played through my mind. Still, I wasn't completely optimistic. I'm ever hardly completely in a good mood. I know that sounds sad, but I can't help but see the bad that accompanies the good. It's like a curse. I see it all the time. No mater what I do, I always have to look at the pros and cons. I always have to examine both side.

When I got to work though...man, nothing could have prepared me for what happened today. It's like Someone, somewhere, knew exactly what I needed that shift to be. I walked into my boss's office, meaning to ask what I needed to do that day, and was greeted by him and my other boss laughing. The grins they wore were so wide that they Put the Cheshire Cat's to shame. 

"That song's still playing," the boss I had gone to talk to said. 

"I know! How long do you think it'll take them to notice?" my other boss said. 

Those two got into their head that instead of an act of kindness they'd do an act of evilness for the day. I'm glad they did though, for it provided quite an amusing scene. They had set the kitchen stereo system to play the same annoying pop-ish song over and over again. It had been on repeat all day, from what they told me, and it led to some friendly joking. 

Then, awhile later, I was in the back of the cafeteria (That's where I work) gathering a bunch of plates and cups for a catering event that's coming up. On the list of supplies I needed to gather for the event, was 100 of these tiny, clear plastic things. I have no idea what they're called. I couldn't pronounce the name of them that was on my list and had to ask where they were. I think, for the sake of this post I'll call them the bowl-cups...because they were sort of like the love child of a cup and a bowl. 

Anyway, I digress. The bowl-cups that I needed were on the top shelf of a rather high shelving unit. And I'm a fairly short girl. There was no way I could reach them. For a moment I considered climbing the shelf to get them, but I didn't really want to fall...or drop the box on my head. So, I turned to my boss -who was still back there from showing me where the weird things were located -and asked him if he knew where a ladder was:

"There's a ladder over there. But there's also a step-stool...somewhere."

"I'll just go find the step-stool (I'm afraid of ladders, okay? I'm weird like that.)."

"Or you could just climb and get them."

"But I don't want to drop the box on my head."

"But I want to see you drop the box on your head."

That sounds like a mean remark, but it was honestly spoken in good humor and he and I laughed about it for a bit. 

The point is, the entire time I spent at work this afternoon was nothing but great. I didn't screw up once, I felt confident the whole time, and it got me to thinking. That happens a lot. 

I'll be having a horrible day or be feeling down, then I'll go to work and -after some time there -everything's better. I asked myself, why that was. The answer's so obvious though. To me, it was, anyways...

...Whenever I'm stressed out, I have the urge to clean..

...Whenever I'm feeling down, I have the urge to clean...

...Whenever someone really ticks me off, I have the urge to clean...

...Cleaning...working...is coping for me. 

When I work, I don't worry. My brain blocks out all other problems, locking them away in a closet and declaring them dead. And, I throw all my emotions from those problems into cleaning and organizing. And, in the end, I'm left feeling content. After a good cleaning or work session, I feel pride. I can look around and see that I accomplished something. And that's a great feeling. Especially after a week where everything went wrong. 

I have three main outlets in life. Three main ways that allow me to step away from the world and think; that allow me to weed my mind until only roses and morning glories are left. Those three ways are:

1. Walks 

2. Cleaning/working

3. Writing 

All three of those are normally accompanied by music of some sort. Take this moment, for instance. It's eleven at night. I should be sleeping because I have another work shift in the morning, but my mind is busy. So I'm writing. I'm blogging and listening to music. And I can almost guarantee you that when I'm done here, my mind will feel like a weight has been lifted from it and I'll be able to sleep. I already feel more relaxed than when I started writing this post.  

This post may not be turning out the way I thought it would. It may not be deep and profound, but -you know -that's okay. What maters is that it's written. 

I opened this post with a saying by Gordon B. Hinkley that says, "Without hard work, nothing grows but weeds." That statement was true for me today. It's been true in the past and I'm sure it'll be true in the future. When you work hard, you get good results. I got optimism out of it. I got confidence and laughter. Those weeds that Hinkley's talking about...don't let them overgrow the lawn of your life. Don't let them strangle the optimism out of you. I guess, what I'm saying, is find an outlet. We all need outlets. We all need ways to cope. Ways to escape and think. I've found some that work for me and every time I use them I'm left to marvel at all the good they do for me. 

I don't know who you are. I don't know your stories or what plagues your life. But I do know the help a good outlet can be. Notice I said GOOD. Find a positive outlet to let out your stress and, every time you rise above the darker emotions, rejoice. 

Removing the Mask

Someone, somewhere, once said that it's the little things in life that mater the most. That when we're down for the count, and the whole world's been raining on our parade, it's the little things that have the power to put a smile on our face. I wish I could tell you who that person was, but I can't. I don't know, and I'm not going to pretend to. Whoever that Aristotle was that first spoke those words is unknown to me, but I do know that he -or she -was a wise person. 

I'm as human as the next person. I have a heart, a soul, and a mind. I smile and cry. I get excited and depressed. I'm confident and self-conscious. I have to make hard choices and live with the consequences. That's just the way life is for us humans. We go through things. we experience things. And, we react to them. Often times, we pretend to be people we're not, so that others don't know how broken we truly are.

We like to think that we're supposed to have it all together. We like to think that we're supposed to have it all figured out.  But, part of the human experience is figuring it out. It's experiencing and learning. It's choosing. And sometimes we need help. Though most of us don't like asking for aid; we see doing so as a weakness. Yet, sometimes all you need to solve life's puzzles is a friendly ear. 

I'm one of those people that consider asking for help to be a last resort. I don't ask for it unless absolutely necessary. I figure it's my life and I'll be the one to handle what happens in it. But, you know what, I don't know everything. I'm not perfect. I make mistakes. I get caught in society's snares. Sometimes it even feels like all I do is make mistakes.

We can't let mistakes hold us back though. And we can't hide behind masks. Those oh so beautifully decorated masks that we make for ourselves in order to keep our true selves safe from the judgmental eyes of the world. The world is judgmental, that's something I believe every human can agree on. We may bicker over religion and rites, but we can't deny that humankind likes to judge each other. And, knowing this, we fear being found out. We fear allowing ourselves to open up to the world. So we carve our masks and hide behind them. 

In the late 1800's a poet named, Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote a poem titled We Wear the Mask. Said poem captures the human need to wear a mask perfectly. Granted, Dunbar wrote it -according to critics and professors -about slavery, but I believe it speaks for all mankind. After all, we're all slaves in a sense. All slaves to the need to show ourselves to society as she deems fit. All slaves to the fear of being ourselves (At one time or another we all had to chose weather we'd conform or stand out). 

The first time I read Dunbar's We Wear the Mask was my sophomore year of college. I had found it intriguing then and actually spoke about it in class (to the great shock of my professor). After the recent events that have taken place in my life, it has crept it's way back into my mind. I've been reciting it to myself for awhile now, and I feel the need to share it with you: 

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, -
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, 
And mouth with myiad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while 
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath out feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask! 

There are very few people that I completely remove my mask for. Most people I come in contact with only know bits and pieces of me. Only one of my friends knows every little thing about me. After making a particular hard decision, I called this friend to talk. I removed my mask and told her everything that was troubling me, and there's been a lot lately. 

Like the true friend she is, my friend listened to me and offered advice. A couple nights later I sent her a text, asking her why I felt the way I  did concerning the situations I had told her about. Her response was simple, but it was the best one she could have gave. She told me, and I quote, "Because you're human." 

She wasn't the only one that's given me advice lately. I've been told a few things that will stay with me forever. But what she said got me thinking and I realized that somewhere over the last year (not even a year, the last six months) I had decided to replace the mask on my face that I had removed. I had decided to play it cool and be a people pleaser. And I wasn't happy with that. I wasn't content playing a role that wasn't mine to play. And when I read her words, I thought....

She's right. I am human. And this is my human experience, and I'm going to experience it the way I want to. The way that I feel is right. Thanks to her, and some others, I was able to make a difficult choice and feel content with it. 

As soon as my Christmas break is over, I'll be retieing (Yeah, I don't how to spell that word) on the Never Take It Off bracelet I bought. Not because I need to retie on the vow that I made when I first put the bracelet on, but because it'll serve as a reminder. Every time I feel down, feel like I can do something, feel like life's against me, and every time I start questioning myself and the choices I've made, I'll be able to look down at my right wrist, see that dragonfly bead, and remember my vow. 

You may be wondering what my vow is, but I can't tell you. That's sort of the whole point of the bracelet/vow. It's a personal vow. Know one needs to know what it is except for me (though I've given you enough clues as to what it is). With that vow, though, and some help from my friend, I'm going to make 2014 a great year. I'm going to say no to the mask and allow the little things in life to lift me up when I'm down. I'm done pretending. I was done along time ago, but this is me reclaiming myself. This is me standing up, taking my vow, and facing the world head on. 

Here's to a great 2014, everyone. Let's make it the best. Together. No more masks. No more pretending. Let's rise up and celebrate. Let's be the outcasts. We are empowered.

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NOTE: Never Take It Off is an online shop that's about making personal vows and keeping them. To read more about it, check out their site http://nevertakeitoff.bigcartel.com/