Merry Christmas!

I really do love Christmas. I love the lights, songs, movies, attitudes, and stores. Yeah, really, I love going to the store during Christmas time – maybe not anywhere close to the 25th (I had to go buy groceries today – the 23rd). But I love watching people smile, and shop – I even like watching people frown while shopping because it makes me wonder what has popped their holiday bubble. Are they having trouble shopping for the seven year old nephew that they haven’t seen in three years? Did their spouse ask for something that they really cannot afford, but they really want to see the smile on their face Christmas morning so they buy it anyway and hope for the best? Or are they deliberating whether or not they want to propose to their significant other on Christmas, or wait until a chiller day?

I remember growing up and walking around our small town looking at all of the Christmas lights. It was one of the things I looked forward to. As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized people don’t decorate much anymore. I understand that prices have gone up, and it can be a pain to put them up, just to have to take them down a couple months later. But during – everyone has to admit how beautiful they are. I also understand that a lot of people stop decorating the outside once their children move out. But what does that say for the people who have no children that like to decorate outside – like me? But before you ask, no, I didn’t decorate outside. But my reason is simple. I bought a house this year, and with the house came two large pot bellied pigs, who will eat any and everything they can find. I refuse to decorate my yard to get upset when they are destroyed. So I just didn’t.

A lot of people… no… everyone is always telling me how they hate the music and cringe every time they hear it on the radio. I used to sing it at work, for the fun of it, during July. Christmas in July! It’s a thing – not at my job – but somewhere. I’m always told the same thing: I have to wait until AFTER Thanksgiving before I can start in on Christmas music. So every year, I wait. The day after Thanksgiving, you better believe I’m listening to Jingle Bells and Rudolf The Red Nosed Reindeer.

Movies – I don’t wait. I’m watching Christmas movies throughout the year. It’s my secret addiction, but DUDE! When Christmas time rolls around they quadruple the movies and I’m set for a month. I ALMOST purchased the Hallmark channel app. I didn’t, but almost. I may still do it – who knows, maybe their movies will stay on there after Christmas and into July &&& I can feed my addiction.

Attitudes change a lot during the holiday season. I don’t know if it’s because it’s the holiday season, or if it’s because it’s cooler outside. All I know is people seem happier. Except the Grinches, bah hum bug-er’s, and people who just can’t find reasons to smile. (You know the ones. You smile at them and they give you a look like you’re about to steal their wallet. You say good morning to them and they grind their teeth like you just told them to go to hell. Those people! Nothing you can do will make them smile, be jolly, or even happy – So I have given up. No cracker crumbs on my Gucci jacket just because you’re a miserable old coot. Wait. Does Gucci make jackets?)

Christmas is my season. My part of the year. My comfort zone. I’m the MVP and I’m not passing the award. However, even with that in mind, the most Christmassy people can be in a bah hum bug bubble and right now – that’s where I reside. It’s normally called a funk, but that word is gross, so I passed on it. I have been trying all month to get out of this mood, I just haven’t been able to. However, for the family and the boyfriend I will put on my cheery smile, cook dinner, and watch them open their gifts.

I supposed that is better than canceling Christmas all together, taking the gifts back to the store, and burning my Christmas tree to the ground.

On that note, I want to wish everyone a wonderful Christmas and a prosperous New Year. I may or may not write again before then so that needs to be said. Don’t forget to eat, rub, dance with, polish, hug, or scream to your good luck charm. (Black Eyed Peas Here) Enjoy your days and your families. Enjoy the laughter, and love. Enjoy life and I’ll be back.

Thanksgiving 2019: A Success!

This year seemed to be the same thing all around with most people “we didn’t have a lot of people and everything was pretty chill”. I am basically on that boat. We ended up having Thanksgiving a few days late (I had to work Thanksgiving) and I wanted to do a day everyone was off but that never seems to work out for me. So Tuesday, December 3rd it was.

Most years I find holidays annoying (yes, I seriously just said that). I have my reasons but if I put it here, someone reads it, now I have complications on my hands. Let’s just say that this year was enjoyable. Boyfriend & I started making dinner around ten in the morning – we put on the turkey, ham, && duck. Yes, I said duck; I wanted to try something new this year and I figured I’d give duck a shot. Basically, I gave it a shot && probably will never give it a shot again. Unless I go somewhere fancy and give it one cooked by professionals. Mine felt like tofu… it was weird.

Our day was so chill that I was basically finished with dinner by two o’clock && still had to wait for the Brother to show up. So, instead of fretting, and worrying, and freaking out, and flipping my girly wits! I took a nap in my chair as Boyfriend played on the xBox in the living room. I feel that’s what terrorizes people on holidays – the freaking out. I decided not to.

Naps are better.

By around six when the Brother showed up (this is the time he was supposed to arrive, he wasn’t late) dinner was ready and everyone could enjoy the labor of my cooking. We sat and ate, talked, and watched television. It was nice. Lots of laughter and food.

Now I just have to get ready for Christmas dinner in a few weeks – now to decide what I will cook for that day. Maybe something different? Christmas Spaghetti?

Hap..i..ness

She sat in her chair, surrounded by cats, as she watched Him play PubG on Xbox One, listening to sizzles come from the kitchen. It’s late, nearly ten o’clock at night, &&& she still hasn’t made dinner. Not on purpose, of course, she overslept and then had to go grocery shopping for dinners and Thanksgiving. It took longer than expected, but what did she expect? It is two days until Thanksgiving.

She didn’t plan for this && couldn’t find shoepeg corn.

Her mind ran rampant thinking about things – stressing && obsessing – not silently, either. Of course she isn’t quiet, she’s a female, with thoughts, things to do, buy && give to people. It’s okay that she worries, freaks out and falls apart because in the end she finds herself just in time to make the ultimate come back.

Holidays are still hard for her. A part of her believes that’s half her holiday blues. Yes! Even someone like her, who loves Christmas as much as she does, gets the holiday blues. This year seems worse than last and last year she buried a pet.

She dreams of happiness around this time but seems to find loneliness and despair. Not just her – but everyone: strangers, friends, co-workers, family. Her heart aches for people so much she finds herself stashed away.

She stashes herself away afraid of feeling empty musical notes or reading Christmas cards that are full of lies. You’re not happy – stop faking it – but who wants to read that?

Merry Christmas from The Grinches!
Our new year plan is to divorce because Mr. Grinch has been cheating with is 5’2″, 125 pounds, blonde co-worker who smells like fruit loops. Little Timmy pees himself when he’s nervous and Mya is seventeen, full of attitude, dresses like a hooker, && is about to flunk out of high school – oh! &&& they both want to live with their father, who coincidentally isn’t actually their dad, but they don’t know this. Their dad? Was a 47 year old drummer in a parody rock band. He’s dead now.

No one wants that to ring in the holidays. But that’s how everyone feels. Dark, hopeless &&& scared – but she’s here. (Imagine that she just tossed her arms in the air, smiled and is now Superhero standing in her underwear.)

Hope. That’s all anyone can hold out for. 2019 is almost over and everyone can look into the future.

2020 is fast approaching. She will clink her glass, smooch her boyfriend with dreams of fairy tales, new beginnings and finish the dream.

Dreams. She has decided it’s time to stop, put a food down, and do what she needs to do to accomplish her aspirations in life. Everyone gets one life and no one can live it for you. It’s something you have to face with the “I CAN” attitude mixed in with the “I WILL” mental state.

Does this scare her?

Of course, but at the same time she knows it needs to come off the back burner and be treated liked a loved one. Nothing good will happen if you don’t jump in head first, naked, into a lake of piranhas. Don’t fear the rocks of the unknown. You’re going to hit them, she has accepted this and is purchasing a bunch of Excedrin, bandages, and antibiotic ointment.

The journey will be long, tiresome, and lonely at times. Whether you’re looking into the serpent eyes of divorce, sickness, starting over, opening a business or buying a house – the end will be worth it when you can stand on your own two feet and tell the world you did it; that you made it out on the other side and you have the proof.

Dinner is about finished and she is famished. She will be back around the bend soon to talk about how her life is, and what she has been up to. But for tonight, she’ll leave you with a thought: How will you make 2020 the best year yet?

Happy Thanksgiving All!

Transformation.

This isn’t something I normally do – boast about a company or their product. But tonight as I pet a cat I wanted to tell y’all a story which happens to end with me boasting about a company.

Once upon a time in a small Oklahoma town, positioned on a small, dark quiet street lived a man and a woman. Both of them had a huge love for cats so much that when they purchased said house the old owners left two cats && they were fine with that.

Now they had four – a solid white cat, Milo, a black & white cat, Otis, a solid black cat, Mercury &&& a white mix with grey’s, Mia. This made the couple happy!

One day as the girl sat at work the guy sent her a text message with a picture of a cat. A sad, skinny cat she had never seen before. He continued, “it looks like we have a new cat. It doesn’t seem to want to leave and has been eating our cat food.” If the cat is hungry and homeless, I want it to eat and be loved! The cat, now named Reginald (I thought it was a boy but now I can’t find a name better even though I know she is a girl,) hasn’t left and is still here.

Basically they wanted to take care of Reginald – help it get meat on it’s bones, and be healthy, whether she stayed or left afterwards. They have been buying their cats Nutrish by Rachael Ray for years – ever since they first adopted cats. The guy wanted a food that wasn’t made out of crap, and things a person cannot pronounce, and the girl wanted to feed them something they’d enjoy as much as humans enjoy their food. She has been a huge fan of Rachael Ray since she can remember && she brought that up to the guy saying she really loves her dog, and made food that would give them nutrients that they need versus what big companies think they can live off of.

They agreed and began buying that. So when Reginald showed up they began giving her Nutrish. (The other cats LOVE it and refuse to eat anything but.) So why not try? Reginald, just like the other cats, showed great interest in the food and began eating. After a few months, she decided to come into the house still getting healthier every day.

Today, as I was loving on her I got this idea about how I would talk about it. I see a lot of people bash this brand of cat/dog food, but I see just as many talk high about it. For me && my cats! It’s LITERALLY the only food they will eat. (I tried once to feed them something different when I was unable to find Nutrish in my stores. They didn’t eat until we were able to locate it in another town.)

I wanted to share Reginald with the world. I wanted everyone to see the difference between day one when she showed up and today when I was petting her.

Before she was skin && bones, her color was dull and she moped around. Today! Her color is gorgeous, her fur is soft, and she is a little chubby. She is playful, and loves to run around with the other cats. Before she was skittish, even with other cats or people. She didn’t want to be around anyone and would only show up for food. Now! She lays in our bed, and plays with toys. She really loves the laser light we bought. Before she acted like she had no idea how to show love to humans and now! She loves getting loves and kitty kisses.

Nutrish by Rachael Ray basically saved that cats life. (Minus us, of course, for taking her in.) So this is me boasting about a cat/dog food screaming to the world that it’s a great brand! All of our cats have healthy coats, and are extremely soft. &&& I would like to mention ONE MORE TIME! My cats won’t eat anything else. (That’s not a exaggeration.)

Sleepless Nights & Cranberry Wishes…

I’m trying to get back into writing daily, even if it’s just in blog form. Not that writing daily in a blog makes a person less of a writer. That goes back to the last topic. A lot of people make a lot of money blogging (that’d be a wish come true for yours truly). Seriously, how awesome would it be to work from home && do nothing but blog. *wiggles eyebrows* Anyone hiring?

As wonderful as I could write this whole thing about my wish to be a work-from-home-blogger, today’s mind rumble isn’t that. It’s a simple question I have been asking on and off for years: how old is too old?

I am told and hear people say a lot, “you’re too old for that!” Or even just a simple, “I’m too told for that.” I catch myself often saying that, to be honest. Whether it’s about going out Friday && Saturday nights drinking until you can’t stand up or if it’s a conversation about someone who hasn’t changed since they were seventeen and I just figure I’m too old to deal with their crap.

In five days *shivers*, I will be thirty-two years old and it makes me think a lot. Not about life stuff, although, they do sometimes cross my path. But I get told I’m too old for certain things and I wonder if I am.

I still watch cartoons, SpongeBob being my favorite. I still color with crayons and I still play hopscotch. I still like wondering the streets to find Christmas lights and I play board games. All of which I have been told that I am too old for. Why?

What age do you wake up and think to yourself okay, I’m too old for things I enjoyed as a child, I must stop doing them? Is there such an age? I’ve asked people older than me, the ones who seem a little extra boring – they all have different answers. I guess, basically – I’m trying to figure out what age people are when they feel like an adult. Some say once they had their first child or their third. Some say when they moved out of their parents house and some say when they turned twenty-five.

I’m about to be thirty-two, remember? I don’t feel… I don’t feel like I should at my age. I feel the same as I did when I was sixteen versus twenty-seven versus today. I don’t feel like an adult. Sometimes, I still want to call someone older and ask for advice and see what they think.

Maybe the reason I feel like I do is because I didn’t move out of my parents house and I didn’t really “grow” up. My mother passed away when I was fifteen (she was forty) and my dad was gone when I was twenty-four (he was sixty-four). Then I chose to live with my brother and his family for a while until I finally just decided I needed to move out. By twenty-four, with no parents, shouldn’t I feel like I should be on my own?

Yeah. I never felt like that. I had no problems living with my brother I just figured I shouldn’t be. (Although, I do have a friend now who is in her 40’s and still living with her brother so it made me feel a little better.) Logically, no matter how much I thought living with my brother forever sounded, I knew neither him or I could have the lives we want. Because, seriously, if I had met a guy while living with my brother, did I really see that lasting? (I did try to date while living with The Brother and no, it didn’t end well – most thought he was frightening. He isn’t.)

I also wonder, do I feel like I do because I don’t have children. I hear that one a lot. “I didn’t feel like an adult until I had children.” I have nieces and nephews which gave me the thrill of children without actually having them and having the ability to send them home full of sugar and giggle when the mom && dad calls complaining because they won’t sleep. (Yes! I’m THAT aunt. *winks*) Me, personally, never thought of my life needing children. Even as a child, when most girls are thinking about the future, I never pictured children. I don’t think I need them to feel fulfilled – maybe to feel like an adult, but not fulfillment.

I do the adult things. I have a full-time job. I am buying a house. I pay bills. I buy groceries. I cook every night. I clean the house. I have animals. But at the end of the day when I’m just sitting around the house, or playing games, or talking to people – I don’t feel like I should be turning thirty-two in five days.

So my question: How old were you when you started feeling like an adult &&& did you give up your childish ways?

&&& I was like, “whatever bitches”…

Angel reruns, a banana popsicle and making tator tot casserole for dinner made my brain rumble. Actually, no, what made my brain a rumble would be me reading Gabriel’s Inferno again – for like the, 1,000th time. (So many times a friend asked if my book was still together: which it is, by the way.)

What makes a writer a writer?

I have been asking this question to myself a lot lately. Not because I doubt what and who I feel – but because – am I allowed to call myself a writer? Are you only considered a writer if you have published a book? If so, are actors who write autobiography’s writers? Are chefs who have twenty cook BOOKS, writers? But can you consider a person who is always thinking about writing, but doesn’t write daily; who stares at blank word documents and sighs because they words won’t flow out of her fingertips? Someone who can read book after book and get so many ideas for a novel, but cannot seem to get passed the first sentence to make anything happen? How about the girl who has actually written a novel, but can’t seem to finish editing out the crap parts without dousing it in gasoline and lighting it on fire?

Am I considered a writer or am I a wanna-be writer who dreams of it, but won’t let herself have it because she can’t center her brain enough to do it? But in the same sense, how can I consider myself a writer but not the girl next to me who writes poetry in her basement wearing all black with candles lit and Nightwish playing in the background? What makes me a writer and not her? Are we both considered writers?

I feel like a fraud at times. I’m probably just overthinking things – like usual – but how can I be something if I won’t allow myself to be it? I feel like a fraud because I only think about doing something. I did it, once, but now I’m stuck and afraid. I’m afraid because what if my story that I wrote is as bad as I feel? I mean, it cannot be too good if I can’t bring myself to read it to edit it – can I? &&& I don’t want to ask someone else to edit it, right now, because I know how bad it is.

I bought a indie writers book – she self-published &&& one of the authors I enjoy reading was promoting it. So I bought it, why not? It was only 1$. As I was sitting at work reading it on my Kindle all I saw were errors. Spelling errors. Sentence errors. Run ons, and paragraphs that made no sense. I even read through a part that sounded like the character in the book was a pedophile. I eventually stopped reading it because it went on && on &&& on &&&& on about absolutely nothing. At one point I couldn’t figure out what was happening. That’s what I fear. &&& I know for a fact that a part of my story is exactly that. It’s rambles. It’s nothing. It’s pure crap.

When I started writing Frost, I read how long people think romance novels should be and I went with that. So instead of going for content I wrote for numbers. Page numbers. Word numbers. I was trying to reach 100,000 words without realizing just how much garble I had. So now, when I edit it, I’m trying to take out the garble and leave the story. The content. The thing that will bring readers back. But when I sit to edit the garble I get sad because of how much there really is.

I swear I have a chapter where one of the characters is making dinner. I wrote paragraph after paragraph him making dinner and their thoughts and their crap. It LITERALLY has no place in the story. No one cares that the character likes spaghetti or that they know how to make it. I could have simply wrote “before she arrived he busied himself in the kitchen, making the only dish he really knows: spaghetti.” But no, I wrote how he put the water in the pot and salted the water, and how he boiled the noodles to perfection and made the sauce and poured the wine and she watched. The other character just watched him do it without them ever saying a single word to each other. Instead I could have wrote “he pulled out her chair and poured a glass of wine, living in a small town he doesn’t know much about fine wines, but the lady at the store recommended this one. She took a drink and smiled, showing her affection for the wine choice. She has never been a fan, but knowing that he picked and offered it, today – she loves wine.” I went on to say how he made the plates, put down the spoon and fork, sat in front of her, and then went on to talk about how they ate it. HOW THEY ATE IT! When I could have said “he was no chef, but when it came to spaghetti, he felt it. He gently sat a plate down in front of her. ‘Do you want some cheese?’ Her nerves collided with her brain, but nodded and smiled. He smiled, thinking it was cute every time she blushed, and grated some parmesan on top. Not a lot, but enough to top it right off. She looked around the table at the spread and felt like a queen. It had been a long time since she was offered so much and was allowed to sit at the table and enjoy it with someone. He is going to spoil her, was the only thing she was thinking.”

But here I am. My story isn’t written like that. Maybe I should stop complaining. Complaining doesn’t get me anywhere or do anyone any good. It doesn’t get the story edited or completed. It doesn’t help me in publishing it or allowing someone to read it. What I NEED to do is just get back to it – open the story back up and finish it.

But how do I get passed my irritation I have with the story to actually finish it? I still love the idea, the concept, but a part of me doesn’t like the characters. That’s the problem – I think – I don’t like the characters I built &&& that’s something a writer must do. When I read interviews or listen to authors talk – the one thing they all say, “I love the characters and I loved watched them grow and build into something great!” I have changed and rearranged and renamed and rebuilt my characters so many times – that I am just fed up with them and all they are about. I keep thinking about things I have to have in my story and I keep screwing it all up. I don’t NEED a gay character. I don’t NEED a suicide attempt. I don’t NEED guys being animals. I don’t NEED girls being damsels. I don’t need half of what is in it, but I Have it, because a part of me thought it had to have everything in one. If I put everything into one story then I will have nothing left for my other twenty novels I want people to read.

&&&& who said I had to have 300 pages? If I don’t make it to 300 pages, that’s fine – that just means it’s a shorter book. But of course, I wanted words and length so I wrote and wrote until I had such and such amount of crap and garble that now I have to… you know.

&&& now I’m sorry for the rambling but I think I’m just mad at myself. In 2012, when I began this story, I really believed all of this. Now, the 2019 me is trying to fix the crap that 2012 me wrote. It’s aggravating…

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time there lived a boy who had way too high of hopes for his deranged girlfriend.  This boy, who most people refer to as Potato Foot, was a handsome fella, and played a lot of video games.  His girlfriend liked to sit behind him and watch as he played Players Unknown Battleground like a crazed maniac.  His girlfriend like to attempt to know what she was talking about, but usually he had to correct her because she is a bit of a ditz. 

The Boy was superhuman and could pick up a house and toss it feet, if not miles.  The Boy has never tossed a house, but the Girlfriend is pretty sure he could if he wanted to.  She has noticed that when the Boy puts his mind to something, he usually achieves it.

The Girlfriend, however, cannot seem to even write a sentence anymore.  In the past, she could write && write &&& write, but now, when she opens her laptop, all she finds that she does is stare at a blank Word document.  Sometimes she thinks that her ability to write, has gone down the toilet.  Just flushed, swirled down and now is in the sewer with all the rest of the crap.

The boy, being his loving boy self, tries to tell the Girlfriend that her writing isn’t crap.  But she cannot believe him since he has never read anything she has written.  But in his defense, The Girlfriend doesn’t usually share her writing – with him, or the neighbor, or the best friend, or even the cats… especially the cats – those mean little I’m going to judge you animals.

The Girlfriend had so many dreams && sometimes she feels like they were washed into a gutter and now the rats are chewing them.  This made her sad – not because her dreams are trash and unrealistic, but because – rats.

The Boy laughs sometimes at how silly the Girlfriend is and thinks and talks and walks and chews and…. Okay, maybe not – it’s not the point.  He just seems so perfect, being able to shoot fish in a barrel, but her – nothing.  She cannot even fail properly. 

The Girlfriend tries to accomplish new things but in the end trashes it to the floor in a small pile of crinkled paper.  It’s not that she doesn’t want to achieve greatness, she just doesn’t think she is worthy of it.  What makes her better than the next person who wants wonderful things to happen?  Her dream is to be a writer of books.  She wants to be that person that has a book that touches a soul – even if it is just one.

The Boy is always telling her she can do anything if she puts her mind to it.  But the Girlfriend knows you’re supposed to use personal experience and likes and loves and feelings and relationships to build stories off – but what happens when the writer hasn’t done anything to build from?  What if the things the writer has been through, they are tired of writing about?

Once in a world she could write and write and write and write about feelings, and experiences and death, but now with her Rainbow and Butterfly mind she wants to write love and happiness and finding a way to smile.  She wants to make someone feel as if they’re floating in thin air from just the words she chooses.

But words – what if her words aren’t perfect and her paragraphs are dirty, and her sentences are thirsty?  How can a writer have issues with wording and grammar and still write a book that pleases all the senses?

She will ask people, a lot, about ways to write more and their answer is always the same – to write more you need to read more.  What happens if you’re in a reading slump and every time you pick up a book you begin yawning and fall asleep?  Not because the book is boring but because you just don’t feel like it.  Kind of like when people tell you to drink more water, but the more water you drink the more boring the taste is.  Then you wonder how people can drink the water because it doesn’t actually have a taste and when they give you some line like it’s refreshing, and you think ‘so is Dr. Pepper if you drink enough of it’.

The Boy, however, doesn’t seem to have these kinds of problems – at least the Girlfriend doesn’t notice this.  He laughs things off and carries on his merry way.  He grabs controllers and plays video games forgetting troubles for a few.  The Girlfriend used to use writing for that – just jump in headfirst and live through characters a life worth living.  But does that mean her life isn’t worth living?

She is happy and enjoys life.  How many people can say they have fallen in love twice in a lifetime with the same person and finds themselves falling more and more every day?  She can.  How many people can say that by thirty she would realize that she has lived longer without parents than she did with them?  She can.  But how many people can say that by nineteen they had figured out exactly what they wanted to do with their life and just needed to put it into action?  She can.

Putting it to action is her problem.  She has a memory card with thousands of writings – beginnings – no middle and no end.  She finds herself sometimes going back and opening her old writings and trying to finish them, but she can’t.  There is no ending.  Her writing seems to go on forever, but the forever isn’t a good thing, because it turns into crap.  Then when she finally does write a full story, whether it is short, middle or long, she shreds it to pieces before she can stop herself and ends up with the dog ate my homework writing that makes no sense at all.

The Boy tries to help her the best way he can by supporting and telling her to start writing and saying how their future could be great – if she would only write more.  Finish what she has started and do something great!  Greatness, she wonders, was it ever in her future to begin with?  People her age seem to have already gotten what they want out of life, family, career, but she sits on her throne staring off into the distance of an unwritten world of greys and whites covering a rainbow that was once thousands of colors.

Where did her colors go?  Where can she find the colors to pull them back into her life so the rainbows, and unicorns, and cotton candy comes back into her eyes?

But even in the bleakness of rainbow-less worlds of soggy sandwiches and stale potato chips, she can still find a small hole in the fence and write something.  Maybe nothing touching or excellent but something – small and ordinary.  She finds her wording sometimes to be dramatic and wholesome and perky.  But parts, in the same writing, would be swollen and contemporarily empty. 

She blinks back the thoughts of quitting and moves on down the wet pavement to the stop sign and stares emotionless for a while before she turns back around and goes home.  Home, a place of solitude and happiness.  Home, a place where she can put her feet up and know that no one is judging her, except for maybe her cats.  Home, a place she can close doors off to people and things and other worldly beings and pretend she isn’t home.  They can knock and ring the doorbell and peak into the windows but all they’ll see is empty space.  Home, a place where dreams and aspirations live in the air where they’ll be plucked and hidden in a box deep into the abyss of what is known to her as a closet.  The closet holds secrets that sometimes need to be spread around, so people know what they are up to.  Cleaning out the closet is a real thing and maybe she needs to open hers wide open so the world can swallow her whole. 

She doesn’t know where life will take her if she is barefooted all the time, but she does know wherever it leads, the Boy will follow on the back of a fedora wearing horse with a cape yelling “GO GIRLFRIEND!”  She knows out of the whole world that he will be her cheerleader, the one person that she can count on, and know that when it rains, it’ll pour – but he’ll be holding the umbrella getting soaked because his ball cap that he wears backwards doesn’t block the rain.