Badger Badger Badger.

I'm soooooo excited the semester's almost over!

I can almost taste the sweet, sweet freedom.

Followed by the worst ass-raping of a summer I've yet seen. 
Yes, that analogy was rather cheeky and inappropriate. (Ha! Get it? Cheeky?!?!)



I guess by now I should be panicking that after paying today's rent, gas, and electric, I will have less than $20.00 left to pay for my phone bill, food, and credit card payments. 

But I won't panic.
You know why?

Because it's not worth losing my head over. 
Panicking is not pro-active, people!
 I guess I'm learning how to manage stress better. Appreciate the things that matter.
-- Or I just don't give a shit. (Money is pretty much a fictitious idea to me anyway; the Loch Ness Monster or even a Sasquatch seems more realistic in theory to me.)


Some things in life just aren't worth losing your head over. 
I've always had problems with money, so honestly, this should be a breezy walk in the park for me.


Obstacles can either make you or break you, and there will be many of them yet to come; that much is for sure.


For me, they seem to be never-ending. 

I guess that's just the hand I've been dealt. I'm sure there's some reason for it that I'm not seeing at this point in life. Maybe God is just a big dick, pointing and laughing at me and my suffering. 

Maybe there's no reason at all. Maybe I think my life has higher significance than it really does in the bigger picture.

I need a vacation. Wish me luck on my job search.

 

 

 

1. Education is a privilege, not a right.

2. An expensive one at that.

3. Like everything else, universities are a business. First priority is making that money.

4. Going to school will not necessarily make you smarter.
Just look at the prizewinners who get into the UofA for crying out loud.

5. Attending a public university in Arizona is an embarrassing blemish on your resume.

6. College is a great way to get trapped in the debt system. Debt that you'll be paying off for the next 20+ years of your life.
And you already spent roughly 20 years in school, from the time that you are 5 to adulthood.

Unless of course you come from a privileged family who pays for your tuition, board, and weekly hair appointments, and in that case, ignore this whole post as you don't know your ass from your elbow.
Trust me, you don't.

7. Study what you're most interested in out of sheer love and desire for knowledge, not because you think you'll get a high-paying job.
Cuz ya won't.
Unless you're one of those science-y people. In which case, I envy your superior intellect and career choices.

8. Getting a degree is not job training per se.
Getting a degree is a thankless task to test your perseverance and skills at dealing with your professors' countless pesky assignments and following through.

9. Surviving college does build character and improve your work ethic.

10. I absolutely believe that knowledge is power, and as such, everyone should have an education.
Even if it's just for that magical slip of paper.

The longer I'm in school, the harder it is to care.

Major Goals and To-Do's for this summer:

Yeah, not really feeling this whole blog thing right now. But it is 11:05pm on a Sunday. Gotta get down to business. My week could be summarized as lazy and underperforming, and in that same spirit, I'm going to make a super-lazy, lame post.

School sucked especially hard, although I can't remember now that I think back what I actually did that pissed me off so much.
Oh yeah, the Pima County Planning and Zoning meeting. That's what pissed me off.

The worst waste of my life ever.

No joke, it was that bad. In fact, I don't want to talk about it anymore.

AFTER the meeting, however, I acted out in rare form. Went to score a free meal at my place of work, and decided it would be a great time to have a giant mug of beer to reward myself for all the pain and suffering I had endured all morning. I made this decision at 11:10 in the morning on Wednesday, mind you. I had an hour to kill. After finishing the 32oz mug of Monkeyshine, realized I had actually TWO hours to kill. So then I had a bloody mary. And that was it.
Okay, fine, so I had a shot, too.

I was having a bad day.

After two hours and three drinks I was drunk. Not stumbling, squinty-eyed, or slurring drunk. Pretty giggly though. Went to my second class drunk. It was awesome, but not quite as fun as it was when I was 19. Which was the last time I pulled the getting-drunk-before-class stunt, for your information.
My professor asked me to stay after class, I thought at the time maybe he wanted to ask me if I had a drinking problem. Turns out instead that he just wanted to kiss my friggin ass. I've never really had a professor compliment my writing (that I put zero effort into) like this before. Very odd turn of events, especially when cracking a day-time buzz.

                Bring on the sunshine, flowers, candy sprinkles, and baby giggles!


Let me begin with an apology. 
To whom, I'm not sure, as I doubt people scan my posts and think, "I should totally read this fun little blog that somehow makes me want to go on a week-long grain alcohol binge and slit my wrists!" My small handful of comments prove there are some sorry bastards who do read this clap-trap. (What were you thinking?)


Sorry guys, I've been in a bit of a rut lately. I've had some not-so-fun things to mull over the last few months, and my depressingly morbid thoughts tend to find their way here. Whatever, it's my blog, so fuck off and quit judging me.


I have been shedding an old skin of mine, so to speak. A flaky, decaying old self that I want to peel off in disgust and discard forever. In practice, this proves to be much harder than it sounds. 


                                 It's probably easier for this little guy.


Quarter life crises are a real bitch. My twenties are more than half over now, as the little freshmen shitheads (sophomores, juniors, seniors) who I still have to share classes with, seem to get younger by the day. Their taught little bottoms and shapely, nicely-tanned thighs just make me sick, as I realize I won't be in my "prime" forever: (I recently espied an ever-so-slight fine line under my eye, and nearly had a break down.) I know now that I've pissed away so many of my years being of young and pretty by mercilessly criticizing my looks. Doubting myself. Underachieving, far below my capabilities. Being too afraid to give myself a chance to be better. I honestly believe that people embrace negativity and self loathing. They (= me) cling to it, because it is familiar. 
Dare I say comforting.   


And that, boys and girls, is sad. 


BUT, better late in getting my shit together than never, I always say. 










*** Totally unrelated, but this one is a winner. Please read, and enjoy. You're welcome.

At My Wedding - w4w - 26 (NW Tucson)

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Date: 2010-03-27, 9:25AM MST

Reply To This Post

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Were you the tall blonde woman sitting at the back of the church at my wedding. I couldn't take my eyes off of you and you seemed to have an interest in me. I was so tired up with my new husband and family at the reception I didn't have time to seek you out and see what your intentions were, but I want you to know that I am very interested. The wedding was more for "show and tell". Sorry I haven't contacted you sooner, but we didn't have internet on our honeymoon. But hopefully you and I can get together for a meanful relationship. 

Why do I share this humiliating, depressing, and all-too-personal shit with you all?
Well, I'm not running for chairman of the "My Life Was More Fucked Up Than Yours" Pity Party or anything like that. Even if I did, I wouldn't win the seat anyway. To say that others go through far worse would be an understatement.
In all honesty, I have no fucking right to complain or even feel sorry for myself. Everyone and their family is insane in their own special sort of way, and from what I've seen, few rarely live the stuff of fairy tales or MTV's "My Super Sweet Sixteen".  (<--accidental rhyming here, but i'm going with it).
Perhaps that's why I do share, because I know no one's life is ever really normal.

Part of attempting to be a sane(r) individual is knowing where you have been, and where you are now.
I feel this is important for me to recognize my own progress and sense of accomplishment in my life, although I have never been to therapy (save a couple months of alcohol counseling courtesy of the state of Arizona).
The years after 17, I was insanely self-destructive, violent, a reckless drunk, hating myself, picking fights, and overall a giant asshole, to name JUST a few.  It's no small miracle that I'm even alive today with all the stupid shit I used to do on the daily. Oh. Wow. Oh, memories...

I pride myself in everything that has happened to me, by my bad luck, bad people, or my bad choices. Although these things are awful and have undeniably changed me and molded me as an individual for better and worse, I am not these things. I refuse to let these things decide for me who I am or who I want to be. I am responsible for my own life and my own actions and I refuse to cower behind my dysfunctional past any longer.
Surviving and living past these things can be empowering when you use them to your advantage. I am proud to have already lived a life of so many hurdles and devastating, life changing events at 25. I am proud that I overcame them alone.
When I toss aside my self-doubts and old downward paths of thinking, I know I can do anything.
On days like these, I feel like a fucking warrior.

I didn't have my first kiss until I was 17. He was 24 at the time, and smelled of a strange combination of cigarettes with a hint of gasoline. He was hideously ugly, but I was very forgiving about looks at that time. He unexpectedly kissed me in the fountain courtyard in front of the mall one day.
Finally! Someone who thought I was pretty, funny, who liked talking to me. Someone actually liked shy, pathetic, awkward, me. I had waited years for this to happen. I fantasized and played out the scenario in my head like a short film entitled, "My Idealistic First Kiss", a thousand times every day. Reality never quite lives up to romanticized expectations, I learned. I withdrew my lips from his slobbery pucker, my stomach twisting in disgust, my face reddened with shyness.
Why doesn't this feel right?

I met him a few weeks later at a sleazy downtown motel he was staying in for the weekend to visit me. I told my parents I was going to the mall, and that I would be back later that evening.
"Be safe," my Dad warned gruffly, as I was leaving for the afternoon. A hint of tears glimmered from the corners of his eyes. I wouldn't be his little girl for much longer.

At the motel room, my secret boyfriend moved quickly. I soon realized I was naked. I tried to hide my shame, arms crossed over my chest, head bowed low as I watched my big toe trace circles in the dirty green carpet. He smirked at my embarrassment and told me he loved me, drawing me closer into his loathsome embrace. His arms felt like slimy leeches slithering across my bare white shoulders, and I shuddered at the thought of them.

I can't do this. It doesn't feel right. This isn't right, why am I here?

I tore myself away from him again. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I don't love this man.
He doesn't love me either.
I'm repulsed at the sight of him, his smell, his laugh.

I turn away from him. I stoop to pick up my childish flowered, cotton underwear, my hands still shielding my body from his stare.
Why won't he stop? How am I on the bed now? Why can't I move?

My mind floats high above the two bodies below me, watching as the man takes me for my first time. And I wait for it to be over.

I know this doesn't count as a real blog post, but I had to share it anyway because it made me cry.

What might have been... - m4w - 29

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Date: 2010-03-15, 9:37PM MST

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I have to make a post about this because I've worked a variety of different service type jobs since I became old enough to work. Beginning with making pizza at bowling alleys and serving ice cream, to bartending and cocktailing at bars and night clubs -- I've done it all. I give kudos to people who survive in this kind of industry and can keep their wits about them and not go insane with rage. Dealing with people is incredibly taxing on your patience, to say the least. Here are some of the more memorable moments of my ten years in the service industry:

• At 18, I cooked in a bowling alley snack bar. A blonde, middle-aged woman angrily complained to me one day that her club sandwich had a long hair in it and she demanded a refund. I thought this strange because she ate nearly her entire sandwich, and only returned to me the chewed-over crusts.  I retrieved the culprit hair from her food basket, and pointed out that my hair is short and black. The hair was blonde, and appeared the same length as hers. I denied her the requested refund. She was asked to leave an hour later because her ten-year-old son was rummaging through the bowling center trashcans for pizza crusts.
• At 22 -- I had been bartending for three years. A nondescript middle aged man whom I had never seen before sat at the bar and ordered a 7&7. He took a long, thoughtful slurp from his glass and asked me how much much money he would need to take me to a hotel that night. I told the man that he was clearly in the wrong establishment for that kind of business transaction and to kindly get the fuck out. 
• My first night of cocktail waitressing at a "real" bar, I was 19. A party of five ordered a pitcher of beer from the bartender. A drowsy-looking young woman from the group took a single drink from her beer mug, and promptly passed out. A female friend of hers shook her awake and then led her to the ladies' room. After the women spent nearly twenty minutes in the bathroom, the group suddenly split with a quickness. I began clearing their table and then noticed sets of pink and brown footprints on the tile floor from the bathroom hallway to the front door where the group had exited moments before. Upon further inspection of the premises, I realized the footprints were vomit and feces. In the ladies' room, there were puddles of pink vomit and shit splattered all over the floor and in the first stall. In the toilet there was ALSO pink vomit and MORE fecal matter, as well as below and around the toilet. Through logical deduction, I hypothesized that the drunk woman started to take a dump, then realized she had to vomit. She must have turned around in the stall, bare-assed, to puke into the toilet, while shitting on the ground below her. This process would've been repeated again, as she must have remembered she was shitting on the ground, mid-vomit, and turned around again, puking on the floor and while shitting in the toilet. 
• Last weekend: A man who appeared in his forties decided to give his 13-year-old son pointers in picking up women by insisting that his son flirt with me and get my phone number. I knew this because he was giving his son instructions on how to do so while paying me for their meal. The poor kid was pretty embarrassed. Note: Do not ever, EVER hit on waitresses and bartenders, guys. It's not flattering, nor is that kind of inappropriate attention welcome when you're just trying to get through another day at work. Whatever clever, charming thing to say that you think will make her laugh, she has heard a thousand times before, and probably from someone far better looking than you. 
• At 22, I was managing a different bar, working alone on a Sunday afternoon.  A couple of regulars who were playing a game of pool began shouting and arguing with each other. I immediately left my post from behind the bar to mediate in the situation. The smaller of the two men suddenly became very irate and snapped a pool cue in half. He then tried to stab the other man with the jagged, broken end of the cue and a fight broke out. About 10 other male regulars jumped in to separate the fight, and I ran to call 911. While on the phone with the operator, I told the aggressor of the fight (Mark) that I was on the phone with the police, so he'd better get the hell out now. This pissed him off even more, and he lunged at me, swinging his fists in the air. The nearby men in the bar piled on top of him and wrestled him to the ground. It turns out the guy was pretty high on crack.
• At about 19, I was bartending on a busy Friday night at another bar when an obviously pregnant young woman entered the bar and asked me to make her a stiff vodka and cranberry. I explained to her that I couldn't make her a drink because I had a moral issue with serving alcohol to someone who was with child. The young woman seemed rather surprised. She then denied even being pregnant, despite her swollen pregnant belly (she looked like she was at least at 8 months into her pregnancy). She then said she was going to go elsewhere, where she could find "good service." Before leaving with her male escort, she asked if she could borrow a coat hanger. 

As long as I can remember, my life and the reason for it has been an utter mystery to me. From an early age, I knew that my life was never going to be easy and that much of it involves a degree of suffering. I was right. There weren't many happy moments for me growing up. 

Although I'm typically a bitcher and a whiner, I feel blessed for all the wonderful, irreplaceable things and people in my life. It is a fault of my own that I don't express my appreciation more, so here's a somewhat exhaustive list of some of the things, big and small, that I am so very fortunate to have, in no particular order. 

• My job. It's shit for money, but I enjoy it there. With the unemployment going on now, we should all be grateful to have jobs. My mindless part time job makes going to school possible for me. Well that, and all my student loans.
• My kitten, Rasputia. She's violent and destroys everything, but I love that little fluff so dearly.
• Financial Aid, especially grants. 
• My Brita Water Filtration Pitcher
• "Me Talk Pretty Someday" by David Sedaris -- one of my favorite books of all time. It's insanely funny and clever, and I love his "voice" as a writer.
• Melatonin
• Good coffee (like Kona, French Roast, etc.) and flavored creamers.
• Google Maps on my phone. I'll never be lost again.
• My parents, for their love and undying dedication to me and my siblings. And for all the cruel, abusive, and dysfunctional things they did when I was young that has made me all the wiser, yet crazier at the same time.
• Mineral makeup foundation, the loose powder variety. Wonderful stuff.
• adultswim.com <=== free cartoons, watch them. Especially The Venture Brothers, Metalocalypse, Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Also see www.southparkstudios.com, as I happen to think that South Park is the best, and possibly the smartest show ever made. 
• The Craigslist Lonely Ads, particularly the missed connections. Hours of quality entertainment.
• My lawyer
• I may be most grateful for my boyfriend. He is my best friend, my love, and my hero. I would be dead right now if he didn't come along.
• Of course, my siblings, who doesn't love their siblings??
• My knife

I don't usually think that book reviews and summaries make for very interesting writing, but I'm going for it anyway. A professor of one of my journalism classes recommended Making a Literary Life to me after I expressed my interest in exploring creative writing. A little background on me: I've had aspirations of being a writer/novelist for as long as I can remember. My Dad and I are voracious readers. I grew up reading all the classic novels and many famous works of literature passed down to me by my parents. I fell in love with Louisa May Alcott's "Little Women" when I was 9. I read that book dozens of times, staying up all night just to squeeze in a few more chapters.  After discovering this book, I knew for sure that I wanted to be a writer. I have always had a fear, however, that pursuing a career as a writer would be a completely impractical venture, and one that would inevitably lead to poverty and failure. My parents beat me over the head with their not-so-subtle reminders of, "You'll never succeed in life and get by as a writer." "How do you plan on supporting yourself like that? You better hope that you marry a doctor!" Or "You'd have better luck trying to make it as a starving artist."

So with that in mind, I chose journalism as my major, thinking it would be a more lucrative route to writing professionally. Yeah, I was really wrong about that. Silly, silly me. That and I absolutely despise journalism.

Anyway, about the book I read...
I was very pleased in reading Carolyn See's book, Making A Literary Life, as it offers a beacon of hope to self-doubting, aspiring writers such as myself. It's a very pragmatic, almost step-by-step guide to help writers with the goal in mind to get your novel (short story, memoirs) published.
Carolyn See begins with the process of becoming a writer and accepting yourself as one. She recommends that you "write with what you know"; to find your material from your own life. Fashion your characters from the real life people you know. Find your voice. Write 1,000 words each day, five days a week. Surround yourself with people that support you as a writer. Use positive affirmations.

Carolyn See also instructs on how to be more professional and how to try to engage in a sort of "courtship" with the writing world to help get your writing in it. She stresses the importance of networking, with everyone. Save every address, phone number, and email address. She also recommends that writers ALWAYS leave thank-you notes -- to other writers whose works you appreciate, to publishers after they reject your writing -- but to never beg or grovel.

In the second portion of the book, See covers various literary devices that writers must use in writing fiction -- character, plot, point of view, time, space, scene, place, and rewriting.

The last portion of the book instructs on how to save and plan to travel to New York City to get your novel published. See even gets into how to get grants (which you will need, choke, gag), what expenses you can deduct in your taxes, and how to throw a publishing party, to name a few.

Living a Literary Life doesn't try to give its readers false hope or romanticize being a professional writer. See notes that you will be rejected, probably countless times, but there are ways to be successful.
It may be a long shot for me, but you never know...

This may make me a tad bit shallow, but to me, the way a man dresses is crucial. I would never consider going out with someone who wore rhinestone-studded t-shirts, girl pants, and flip flops. Or the guys who wear sweats and flannel pajama pants everywhere, despite the place and occasion.
I'm appalled with the way children dress these days, particularly in the guys' department.
(When I say "children", I'm referring to the age bracket of about 12 to early 20's-ish. )

                             No more stupid hats, please.

It's all very strange to me because when I was growing up, boys wore baggy pants, rather than the gender-neutral "skinny" jean that freaking everyone wears now, including the skater kids. It's distressing. I just can't take a man in skin-tight pants seriously. It looks ridiculous.
                You know he didn't find those in the men's section.

Personally, I prefer men in slacks, collared shirts, dress shirts, etc. I really, really love a man in a nice suit and tie-- probably because it's such a rarity in the uber-casual, shorts-and-t-shirts Tucson.

Bad hygiene seems to be pretty trendy now, and I'm blaming it all on the hipsters. Some jackass along the line decided it was cool to stop showering, shaving, combing their hair, and wearing deodorant. What's worse is, women love these greasy, man-purse-carrying douche bags. At least the equally greasy, disheveled hipster girls do, anyway. What the hell is wrong with children these days?
                                                            
And all these scarves now, everywhere, even in the summertime? Now don't get me wrong, I love a good scarf. I have quite a few that I wear quite often... in the winter. When it's cold outside. Oh and, sorry again, straight guys, you just look silly in a scarf.
Don't even get me started on the vests.
Finally, everyone, please, put some shoes on. Torn, cracked heels and soles covered in that thick grime from flip-flopping around in the dusty streets of Tucson are just gross to look at. The thundering of your thousands of flip flops, clip-clopping all over campus at mid-day is simply maddening. Thank god for my iPod.

• Had my first, really fantastic Valentine's Day. Never thought I'd say that, considering most men are too afraid to indulge me in the schmaltzy, romantical stuff that is VD. You know, flowers, cards, what-have-you. Why is it so strange to men that I love flowers? For the love of god, did ya'll somehow overlook the fact that I have a huge fucking flower tattooed on my shoulder? Idiots. Anywho, my boyfriend DID get me flowers and slaved over an enormous, home-cooked dinner that was waiting for me when I got off work. It was so insanely adorable. He got pretty upset when his veggie medley/rice towers collapsed under the weight of the oozing hollandaise sauce. What a lucky girl I am.
•  Speaking of tattoos, I got my shoulder touched up last weekend and I'm very pleased with the results. 

Nothing brings people together quite like alcohol does. It's magical stuff, really. I've never seen people so willing to unite and put aside their differences unless raising a glass together.

I never had as many friends as I did when I was 21. I was going out at least four nights a week with pretty diverse cast of characters and having just a splendid time.  Frequenting dives and Fourth Avenue was such a novelty at that age and there was no better amusement. I was also a pretty slick bartender in that time, if I do say so myself, and I made a lot of money doing it. God how I miss that money.
Alcoholics have a real soft spot for bartenders. Knowing how to mix a stiff drink will win you instant popularity points with virtually everyone, I learned.
 And then, drinking got old for me. Really old. I realized my love affair with alcohol was over spring break of 2008. I was out with the usual suspects at one of our old favorite drinking holes, with the intent to get drunk and act a fool, per usual. With my first taste of beer that night, I had a single moment's clarity. I realized I had no desire to drink anymore, much less get wasted. I hate being drunk. I hate the dull, mindless people at bars, who for whatever reason all look like the same person to me. I hate alcohol. I hate the bad music scene at bars (thanks again, hipsters for ruining everything). I hate hangovers. I hate drunk people. I hate the wasted time.
 So, I promptly went home and contentedly stayed in for the rest of break.

  Since then, I even tried forcing myself to enjoy drinking again, but to no avail. While my closest friends were experiencing a similar phenomenon as my own, the rest and larger part of my circle didn't stop. They still go out several nights a week, getting wasted, doing the same old shenanigans they've always done. People like their routines. It's comforting for them.

My taste for drinking has left me, and I don't miss it. It's funny how many people will stop calling once you tell them you you're not a big drinker anymore.

It's been nearly six months since my best friend moved away to China. She left only a matter of weeks after graduating from UA to take up a job as an English teacher in a small town near Beijing. She loves it there, and I'm so happy for her that she escaped dream crushin' Tucson.

People who don't know me very well find it hard believe that I have the ability to cry, much less that I cry on the regular.
But I do, and I cried when she left. I sobbed, like a 10 year old girl.

There aren't many people that I hold dear. Truth be told, I really don't like most people. At all.
I have an overall hatred for humanity that runs deeper than even my hatred of flip flops, public displays of affection, bedazzled t-shirts, slow bus drivers, or the Insane Clown Posse.

Gina's departure hearkened the inevitable.

One by one, my closest friends graduate, get married, raise children, move away, and move on. It gets lonely when you're still doing the same things (namely school), only having no one to share with or vent to.
(This is not entirely true, as my wonderful boyfriend still goes to college, we even have the same major and he is a great comfort to me among other things. The point still stands however and your significant other can't replace your friends.)

Gina, Morgan, and I were the tripod from hell together. We drank excessively, and at that time in our lives there was really no reason not to. We'd beat the shit out of each other, piss in alleys, and were just plain rowdy and very unsavory. But it was insanely fun and we had many a ridiculous, hilarious adventure. Many of which I cannot post on the internet due to its graphic nature, sorry guys.

Gina helped me wade through the muck of some of the worst times in my life. She always kept me in check if I was generally fucking up and had excellent advice to give for any problem.
When I was smart, I took her advice.

With her gone, her voice of reason is no longer there to guide me and be the support I thought I needed. There's only me now.

Greetings readers, classmates, and the like!
I hope this first, albeit delayed post of mine finds all of you well on this fine Sunday.
I would like to tell you all that I enjoyed an eventful weekend, complete with drunken whiskey brawls and dancing with naked ladies in body paint and glitter, but that would be a lie.

That was my friend Tim's weekend.

I, instead, toiled over countless essays, take-home class exercises, and seemingly trivial paperwork.
At times I think much of my higher education (at the wonderful institution of learning known as the University of Arizona) amounts to just that -- paperwork.  As I approach the final stretch of my college education, I am consumed with unshakeable apathy, and simply feeling disheartened about the whole thing. The future doesn't seem as bright as it did when I started college once upon a time.
I am 25 now, a full time student, and work the weekends at a minimum wage job. I take the bus everyday, as I don't own a car or have a driver's license (that's another story for another time).
A bit bitter perhaps? Sure, why not.
The lesson learned here, boys and girls, is that life is unexpected, so don't get too attached to your life's blueprint. The order of the universe really doesn't give a shit about your plans, so don't be disappointed when things don't work out the way you thought they would.

But, there is great freedom to be found that is far more rewarding when you simply learn to let go and accept your limitations in shaping the future.
This is sort of my meditation for the day.

For those of you who are as enamored as I am with Zen buddhist teachings, I highly suggest reading some of  Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh's books. He writes very simply, but his teachings and meditation techniques are nothing short of wonderful.

How will I ever have the time to become a kung fu master with all this pesky schoolwork in the way?
School really is ruining my life.