First Kiss: Restoring Faith in the “Hookup Generation”

I go to college. I constantly overhear people talking about who they slept with the night before and all that jazz. And I can’t stand it. I never understood why people treat something so precious as themselves as a library book back in the day, being stamped and taken out by countless people who put their hands all over it, getting coffee and chocolate stains on it. I understand everyone has free will, and I’m thankful that pleasure is an incentive for reproducing. But constantly hearing how people randomly kiss others without even knowing their names seems so meaningless. So when I found this video on Tumblr, I felt all warm, fuzzy, and proud inside.

The basic idea of this video is to pair people together (men with women, men with men, and women with women) and make them kiss each other for the first time. I was expecting people to just smooch and get it over with. Instead, to my surprise, each couple tried to strike up a conversation. I laughed along with them at how awkward the situation was, and how they tried to remember one another’s names. Yet, when they felt ready, each participant kissed the other with striking passion. If you saw them on the street, you would have thought they had been together for years. The kisses were long and beautiful, and not awkward at all to watch. After, everyone laughed, and almost every couple hugged or stayed in one another’s arms. It was moving to see people so affected by something considered so trivial in our society. People can kiss anyone. It’s easy and simple and may lead to someone staying the night. But does it mean anything? Will they talk the next day or become friends? These people kisses absolute strangers and took much care to be sure the people weren’t strangers afterward. I don’t know, it was just a pleasant surprise.

Personally, from experiencing kisses with passion and lackluster ones, I can assure you that there is a difference. After realizing that kisses aren’t things you should give away so easily, I made sure to never again kiss for the heck of kissing. And it seems like this is what the participants did. They made sure they weren’t just giving kisses away. They tried, even if for a few minutes, to develop a connection with the other person, something people today unfortunately neglect to do. And after, you could tell the couples were closer.

Maybe I’m just hoping for change and am looking too much into this. Maybe I’m just praying that people will think more deeply on what they do, even if it is something as “easy” as a kiss. Watch the video and see what you think.

Cheers, big ears!!



To Think, I Wanna Be Inked!

Okay, so as my title gives away, my newest obsession is tattoos. It’s becoming a good half hour of my daily routine, searching on Pinterest and Google for the most gorgeous, perfect tattoos. Finally, after a long time of searching and thinking that I’ve found “the one,” I can now guarantee (hopefully) that I have found my first tattoo. I actually created it myself, borrowing from other tattoos I have seen. After really really trying to find something that is truly me, I found a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Live in the sunshine, swim in the sea, and drink the wild air.” I can tell you that that first line is 100% yours truly. I always try to look for the bright side of things, cheer up anyone I can, and live in the sunshine (literally and not-so-literally). Dot the “i” in “sunshine” with a cute, simple sun, and TA-DA! My work is complete. So far, I’ve gotten mostly good feedback from my friends about my creation, which confirms how awesome my idea is.

So, Meow, why do you want tons of needles injecting ink into your skin? Well, when I was little, I thought anyone in their right mind would never get tattooed. It was simply not natural. And then puberty happened and all that wonderful stuff, and now here I am, 18 years old and a different (but the same) person. As I thought about tattoos and learned about art in college, I realized that the two aren’t much different at all. Instead of a canvas, wall, or lump of clay, the medium of showing artwork is the body, which I have come to believe is one of the most beautiful media of them all. I don’t believe in getting vulgar or meaningless tattoos, nor do I believe in getting the name of your ten-second soulmate tattooed on your lower back. The way I think about it is, I want a tattoo I will be proud to show now, proud to show off at the nursing home, and proud to show even when my family goes to see me one last time, all dolled up and pale in the neighborhood House of Black. I want tattoos that, like my eyes, allow a glimpse into my deepest of selves. I want reminders, things that keep me going.

It may seem strange for me to feel this way about somehow so stereotypically hardcore, because I’m the least hardcore person you’ll ever meet. I’m long, lanky, and constantly laughing. But this is what I really want. And if you were wondering, I am taking into consideration the pain. I know some people say not to, but how can you not? But then again, copying a bit of one’s soul and stitching it onto one’s body should hurt, should it not?

(And yet again, in the middle of my point, I have found a loss for words.)

Cheers, big ears!



Hey, friends! Sorry for the lack of posts lately. I’ve been juggling school, relaxation, spending quality time with my kitty, and doing some soul searching. Like many other people have done, are doing, and will do, I am trying to find my place on this, as a good friend once put it, “small blue pebble” we call home. Okay, so I basically know who I am already. I know my name, my address, my phone number. I know my hair color and eye color. I know I’m the girl who remembers a lot more than others do, often making conversations pretty awkward. I know I’m not the best at conveying my thoughts to others. I know that lately I’ve been smashing my head into an awful wall called Writer’s Block. I know what I believe in and what I don’t believe in. I know that, more than anything, I want to be an elementary school teacher, a writer, and, one day, a wife to a very lucky man (I have no shame in saying that :D). But my problem is, despite all these ideas and plans, I still feel that the definition of myself is rather short.

I’m at that age when all I want is to get out of my parents’ house. I’ve gotten to that point where I finally understand that I can conceive my own notions and beliefs and that’s okay. (It’s difficult, but it’s okay.) With that freedom, I have actually grown in my values, instead of becoming a partying, drinking, irresponsible college student. I’ve learned to appreciate and relate much more to music. I’ve learned the importance of the balance between financial security and fulfilling my dreams. I’m determined to exercise more and eat healthier. Overall, I feel like I’ve become much more responsible and fun-loving at the same time.

Where is all this going, you may ask? You’ve got me. I’m not quite sure. You see, for a little less than a year ago, I rediscovered tattoos and first discovered their beauty. Unfortunately, this intense desire of mine to serve as a canvas is known to prevent my getting a job. I want to clarify that I don’t want any offensive or racy tattoos. I simply want reminders to stay positive, commemorate loved ones, express my love for writing, and so on. I just don’t understand why appropriate tattoos aren’t often allowed in the classroom. How could quote marks on my wrist prevent me from getting a job when, if mentioned, I could actually incorporate the importance of grammar to life and myself personally into a lesson? So why must I choose?

I guess where I’m going with all this is just the current dilemma I am having my categorizing myself into our society. I’m the type of person who will dress as a jock one day, a businesswoman another, a preppy girl another, and a nerd still another day. And lately I’ve been feeling that I need to choose one. I need one style, one persona. If I’m a teacher, I must conduct my whole life starting now as I would prefer parents of my future students saw it. Am I maybe taking this whole thing out of control? Maybe. But why must I choose one type of clothing to wear, one set of language to use, one genre to write. Why must I use a pen name if I decide to write both children’s books and adult novels?

The society we have constructed for ourselves is super complicated, and I really don’t understand why. Why do texts that say “k” and “k.” mean two completely different things because one has a period and one doesn’t? Honestly, I feel like we’re all making ourselves sick with this nonsense. I understand that a society needs structure, but why must we always sweat the small stuff? Why must we pay attention to what someone wears and sneer when they wear the same outfit again? How do you know what’s going on in her (or his) life? How do we know if she might have done the laundry last night? Why are we noticing clothing instead of the complicated math formula on the board necessary to pass this course? Why do people have to get upset over such trivial matters?

And with my lack for any further words, I will end my post here. To all my big-eared followers, cheers, big ears! (To my small-eared friends, embrace not being Dumbo.)

It’s February. You had to know this was coming.

Welcome to February. It’s been four days and I still can’t believe it’s February 2014 already. With February comes awful weather, the full return to college, and a day coming up that many refuse to observe or possibly even over-celebrate. Yes, in ten days, it will be Valentine’s Day. For some my age, it means spending the day (and a good heap of money) with the one you call your love. For others, it means the arrival of hilarious fandom valentines. Still, for others, it means the recognition that there is no one in their life at the moment with whom they are romantically involved. Some people are alright with this. Others, devastated. Some people feel extremely lonely on this day because they lost their love in some way. This day stirs up a lot of emotions for me personally. I pretty much go through all of these experiences and more on one day. When I was younger, say, in elementary school, no one had valentines. No one dated, although later on in life I learned that many other schools had students that did. I hardly even understood kissing and gender differences, never mind love or attractiveness. Anyway, I never belonged. I never had friends for long periods of time. I tried to hard to belong, but I was different. I actually started believing I had some sort of physical disability or difference that everyone was told not to mention to me. I felt unattractive and ugly. Which actually didn’t make much sense because no one was openly interested in one another– except every boy toward one girl. It must be in some ancient law book of elementary schools that there can only be one attractive girl. But still, I felt disgusting. I graduated and attended an all-girl school, which made me more comfortably with my femininity (because I had always pretty much been a bro, even today) but still not so much with the whole love-relationship thing. I felt alone and angry. Every girl (or at least it seemed that way) had a boyfriend or valentine or something, anything. But not me. And I was sick of it. So I decided to become a chaser (further proof that I’m in fact a bro). I chased guys, openly expressed my attraction toward them, and still got rejected. I tried to be everything guys wanted. I learned what to say and how to say it to make them drool. I learned how to move, how to walk, how to stand. I still was getting nowhere. I honestly flirted with every guy I knew. (If any of them are ever reading this, I’m sorry. Please understand.) I asked my friends to hook me up with guys, and still nothing. Finally, I decided I had been looking too hard. I asked out (or mutually asked out?) a friend from elementary school. I was in no way attracted to him, but BOY. So we went out. I dragged my now best friend with me to our first date, for it was a secret (I’m so sorry for that, by the way. No matter how much I apologize, I still feel awful). I didn’t understand anything. We didn’t exchange a word…only a shitton of saliva. I was satisfied with myself. I had a guy. The first time he called me, I was on the bus going home from school. All his friends were listening to our conversation, and one of his friends got on the line. He asked me how I liked it at my school…but the school he mentioned wasn’t the school I went to. My “boyfriend” didn’t even know what school I went to. We knew nothing about one another. A month crawled by, filled with not many words, except for his asking “what’s wrong with you?” repeatedly. I was coerced into doing and listening to things I had not wanted to get involved with. Long story short, every Valentine’s Day I recall all of this. I play back the film of two-going-on-three years ago and thank my lucky stars. No, I’m not thankful that I was pretty much abused. But I’m thankful for what happened afterwards. After the breakup, I continued being a fool, until one day the sense was verbally knocked into me. I found a guy, but was flirting with another. I chose the guy I believed was better for me, and told the other that he wasn’t capable of taking care of me. The angry, surprised words that resulted, I will never remember, but I will always remember that they changed my entire life for the better. The “incapable” guy became the only one on my mind. The guy I chose had a girlfriend the whole time he was talking to me. I was so unbelievably broken, mentally, emotionally, and physically. I was confused and lost and hurt and had no self-esteem whatsoever. I finally decided to attempt to make things right with the guy I had hurt. A few days later, ten days after Valentine’s Day, to be specific, we met. (You see, we had always communicated through social networks and texting because he was a friend of a friend.) That February 24th, two years ago, changed everything. Terrified, I walked down the block to our meeting place. I remember him standing there, looking for me, with his Beats and a leather jacket on. We awkwardly hugged and went for lunch. He opened doors and pulled out chairs for me. Honestly, in my head, I was thinking, “a broken slut like me doesn’t deserve any of this,” Given what I had done at the young age of 15, given what had been done to me on every level, I knew I didn’t deserve this treatment. But the boy continued. He nervously talked about how he would have worn his Star Wars tee shirt but it was in the wash, and how he bought his leather jacket, and all these other wonderfully simple but charming things. I just stared. I stared and ate my pizza. I laughed occasionally, too nervous and shocked to speak. I hardly spoke. Given the chilliness of a February afternoon, this boy, this boy I had just met, this boy who I claimed could never take care of and protect me, took my hands into his and blew on them to warm them up. And this single act was the most kind I had ever experienced with a boy. I admit, I fell in love. But, you may ask, where does this lead up to? Well, my fine feathered friends, that boy is still around. And yes, he’s taking care of me just fine. More than fine, even. I can’t picture any day without his smiling face and varied laughs and calloused, caring hands and bear-like hairiness. That boy is now a man. And I, a woman. And together, in twenty days, we will be celebrating two years since that day that boy and girl walked together into a pizza shop as individuals and left as partners. I still think about the hurt, and sometimes it even comes back to me in ways I hate to even think about. But why focus on the hurt when there is so much love? Self-love. It took almost three years to love myself again, and I can’t thank my wonderful boyfriend enough for dealing with every terrible instance in the book. But now I can say that I love myself. So, my friends, celebrate Valentine’s Day. Sure, give some chocolate and roses to the one you love, if there is such a person in your life. Give them hugs and kisses as well, for those are the gifts one can never forget. But also be your own Valentine. And not just on February 14. Love yourself every second of every day. Embrace your differences. Do what makes you happy. Don’t spend your whole life searching to belong, because then you would have done nothing. Spend your time on this planet wisely. Don’t shorten it in any way. Realize that you are here, breathing, reading, for a reason. Make a change. Do something for someone else. Simple things make others’ days. You wouldn’t be able to count how many times a simple smile on a bad morning has made my day turn around. I tell you my story to help you. Never settle on anyone. Spend your life with someone you genuinely enjoy being with. With tired fingers and nothing left to say, I leave you for now. Happy Spring Semester, February, and Valentine’s Day!

Cheers, big ears!

My Mischievous Mess I Call My Cat

My cat, the inspiration for the title of this blog, is an utter mess– just like her adoptive mother, myself. My parents and I went in to the shelter to find a young adult cat in need of a home to not only get a cat for Christmas, but to in return give a home and lots of love and snuggles. What happened inside is something else. My parents fell in love with a young cat, which was everything we were looking for. But I couldn’t stop looking at the cat above her, the one rubbing all over the door of her cage, strutting her stuff and begging to be considered. Immediately upon opening her cage, my Jackie purred loudly and wanted to snuggle. It took  some convincing, but we decided to bring home a slightly older kitty.

Slightly older. When we brought her to the vet not too long ago, we found out some news. First of all, our little two-year-old was actually a three or four-year-old. In addition, our baby who had wandered the streets before her residence at the shelter had gotten worms. And not just any worms. Annoying roundworms that can be given to humans. A week later, we find out that my cat has a very strong case of bartonella, or cat scratch disease. It is what it sounds like. A bite or scratch from our cat could get us sick as well. So there’s the “mess” part of my title. My little Wacky Jackie at the moment is a Sicky Vicky. Hopefully, with some love and medicine, she’ll be better soon. We’re actually not sure if her bartonella will ever go away; sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t.

As for the “mischievous” part, my cat’s an escape artist. We have to wash everything she comes in contact with every week because of her sicknesses, so we have kept her confined to my room. And at first she was fine with that. But now, like Ariel, she wants to be part of your world and see what’s beyond her room (I just live in her room, I’ve faced the truth). She uses her paws to open my door so often we had to install little hooks to keep my door closed. And she still finds ways to get the door half open, and just looks back at me, like “watch it and weep.” But she’s pretty obedient and comes back. We haven’t had any escape incidents yet. Yet is the most important word.

But I love my cat. I’ve wanted one for eighteen years, and as soon as my best friend got one, I decided now was the time. I love having company, because I’m an only child and my college schedule leaves me home alone for a while. I love having something that depends on me to take care of it. I love having something that looks forward to seeing me and snuggling with me. Having a cat is one of the best feelings in the world. I highly recommend it. I also highly recommend adopting. Shelters don’t have enough money to test for diseases such as bartonella, but if you can afford to sacrifice that flat screen TV you wanted and use the money instead for simple treatment, I guarantee you the payback will be immensely greater than being able to see Jennifer Lawrence’s pores up close and personal. So please save a life near you. You have no idea how much you’ll mean to your future best friend. It’s a truly moving life experience that you will never forget.

Screen Shot 2014-01-28 at 5.24.07 PM


Proof I have no life and poor Photoshop skills. And that my kitty truly wants to be part of that world.

On that note, cheers, big ears!

On Writing and Inspiration

So I have this idea. I have this idea for a series of children’a picture books. It’s not too bad, if I say so myself. But the problem I’m having is getting the process going. This is something I really want, reader. It’s something I’ve wanted all 18 years of my existence. I know, I know. 18 years old? I should be busy writing about steamy vampires and werewolves, or maybe about cliques in high school. But no. I want to write for the little ones, the ones I want to teach someday. But I have some problems. First, I cannot draw. But that’s probably one of the easiest to solve. Second is how to go about writing. I’m the type of writer that just writes. I grew up in a house of planners, and I can’t stand it. I can’t pick out tomorrow’s outfit; how do I know how I’ll feel tomorrow? In the same way, I let the words flow through me as a priest to the Word. But this unplanned inspiration leads to slowly accomplished goals and a lack of research. Personally, I believe the “virgin” mind is the most creative and least susceptible to copying the ideas of another. So basically, I’m in a sticky situation. I need to figure out a happy medium between following my ideologies and the “proper” writing process. Thanks for listening. Hopefully one day in the near future you’ll see my cute books on the shelves.

Cheers, big ears!!