Elvis Presley

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On the struggle with technology.

Published March 5, 2016 by mandileighbean

I absolutely loathe my dependence on technology.

I know this may seem like quite the hypocritical statement as I am using my computer and the internet and social media to update my narcissistic, self-indulgent blog, but hear me out. I want to be a writer, so in this digital age of selfies and tweets and whatnot, I’m going to have to adapt and get on board or die (metaphorically speaking, of course). If people take to Google and social media for book recommendations, I have to be on Google and social media. It’s a concession I can live with to help build my writing career. It’s almost unavoidable.

So let me rephrase my earlier statement: I absolutely loathe my dependence on technology in my personal life.

My phone is nearly always in my hand. If I’m not texting (but hardly anyone ever messages me because I physically interact with those who matter most, which is certainly a good thing) or checking e-mail (does anything important ever really come via email?), then I’m using Safari to check Facebook (I deleted the app to make a statement, but I found a way to be on the social media site constantly anyway). I’m scrolling and scrolling and scrolling on Instagram and Twitter, looking for likes, re-tweets, mentions, whatever. When there’s nothing satisfying there, I play Bubble Mania, Candy Crush or Tetris. I’m always looking down, disengaged and only pretending to listen to the authentic life happening all around me because I’m obsessed with this piece of technology and all the artificiality that goes along with it.

It’s my greatest weakness, and what I dislike about myself the most.

In my opinion (so please only take it for whatever it may be worth), social media only reinforces the crippling need for outside validation that seems to plague the human race. I recently traveled to Philadelphia to see David Cook in concert with my sister, and I took pictures. That in itself would be harmless if the intention had been true, if I had honestly taken pictures to create memories. However, creating and saving and storing memories was only part of my motivation. I wanted to take those pictures so I could upload them to Instagram and Facebook so I could count the likes and comments so I could feel cool and hip and modern, so I could feel like I belonged at the metaphorical watering hole of this super progressive, hyper intellectual, digital age. How stupid. How vain. Why do I need everyone to know where I am and what I am doing at all times? Why do I think everyone wants to know where I am and what I am doing at all times? If I put everything out there all the time, there’s no mystery left. I’m essentially robbing people the opportunity of getting to know me because I’ve created this false persona using technology and social media which could easily satisfy anyone even remotely curious. I’ve created an alternate version of myself for the masses and have rendered myself lonelier than ever. What kind of masochistic nonsense is that?

A wonderful colleague recently told me she’d read a few of my blog entries. She complimented me on my writing (yay!), but said I broke her heart (oh no!). She told me I was too hard on myself, and I know this to be true. Self-deprecation is usually the only humor I can handle, and I am constantly screaming at myself for all of the awkward, dumb, harmful, and lazy behaviors I engage in on a daily basis. Reaching for my phone and idling instead of reaching for a book to expand my mind fulfills all of those categories. It’s awkward to sit in a room – any room at anytime, anywhere – full of wonderfully interesting humans and ignore all of them to go on a phone. It’s dumb to not expand one’s mind and perception through reading, writing or conversation and instead retreat to multicolored candies that need crushing. It’s harmful because it perpetuates the idea that self-love is indulgent and ugly, and that worth is truly determined by society and the media and this new social media. We are all forced to become our own PR people and it’s weird and gross, and I dislike it more and more the more I think about it. It’s lazy because all I need is my thumb and a pair of glazed-over eyes.

Now, I’m not saying I’ll go completely off the grid by any means. Family and friends and loved ones can be scattered from one end of the globe to the other, so it is important to stay connected. I love that my aunt in Pennsylvania likes the memes I share about weight loss, and I love that she likes the sexy pictures of Elvis I find and post from time to time. I love that my cousins in Alabama can be brought up to speed with my life by a few pictures here and there, and vice versa. My coworker is going to the Big Apple today to see “The Crucible” on Broadway, and I’m looking forward to pictures and her review. My cousin is currently overseas serving his country, so we need the social media to keep in touch, to share messages of love and support. These are harmless human connections that are beautiful and wonderful.

But it’s all about moderation, right? It’s all about keeping our minds right and prioritizing.

The best part about the David Cook concert was not the blurry pictures I posted on Instagram a few hours later. It was spending time with my sister. It was shouting out the word “bipartisan” when David was struggling to find it, him thanking me for doing so, and my sister rolling her eyes because I’m “such an English teacher.” What a beautiful moment to feel validated about my passion and career. I did all of that without my phone. When my former phone was destroyed last month and I was without a phone for a few days, I survived. The world did not end. I was okay.

I did lose thousands of pictures, though. That was my own fault because I never backed them up using my computer. I assumed those treasured images would always be on that phone, because I tricked myself into believing technology is infallible and perfect and the answer to every question I ever had. That is simply not true, and I just feel that if I remind myself of that, I’ll regain faith in nature and people and all that surrounds me.

I fell in love with a great friend, but he didn’t feel the same way, and the friendship has since changed and is beginning to fade. Some of the pictures I lost were of the absolute greatest day we ever spent together. This makes me sad for many valid reasons. However, I was inspired to write this post (but really, it’s become a rant, hasn’t it? My bad) because in mourning the loss of the digital images that I never printed (what a metaphor for the relationship, huh? I’ll save that for my next novel), I realized that I felt I needed the pictures because I didn’t trust myself, didn’t trust my own memories and feelings. Those pictures became a kind of talisman that helped me pretend the friendship wasn’t fading, that I was right about everything, so look, look everyone! Look how we’re smiling with our arms around each other! I’m not crazy! There was something there, and I can prove it!

Why should I have to? I don’t have to, and that’s my point. I want to reduce my dependence on technology and social media in my personal life because I need to love myself and my life in reality. I don’t need the approval of others, and I don’t need to know everything about everyone because then what will our conversations be made of? What will I discover in intimate moments?

When I’m at the dentist’s office, or waiting for friends at a bar, I’ll pull out my journal or a book, but never my phone. That’s a new resolution. That’s a promise to myself.

I’ll post to promote my writing and my writing career, but not to start some drama or for attention or to start a pity party. That’s a new resolution. That’s a promise to myself.

And now, I’ll post those pictures of me and my sister and David Cook, since I invited you in.

Enjoy the weekend. xoxo

 

 

On invites to pity parties.

Published January 19, 2015 by mandileighbean

I know that the above song is by Sam Smith, but I feel the need to share my belief that Lana Del Rey is my power animal.

I have a sore on the inside of my left cheek, right near the corner of my lips.  The sensitive area keeps getting pierced by my braces and pinched by the rubber bands.  Whenever I have a sore in my mouth, I am always reminded of one of my favorite lines from the novel FIGHT CLUB.  The narrator compares the character Marla Singer to a small but irritating cut on the roof of one’s mouth that would go away if only he could stop tonguing it.  I love that analogy; it’s so original.  That’s the kind of woman I aspire to be.

I want to drive west and race the sun, perpetuate daylight and keep the night at bay, to meet the far coast victorious.

I’m on chapter nine of the first draft of my new novel, MOODY BLUE.  I should finish before the school year ends.  I would love to have some advanced readers to offer some constructive criticism.  Anyone interested?  Feel free to comment.

I just finished teaching PRIDE & PREJUDICE.  I’ve decided that I’m going to learn to play the piano.  But then again, maybe it’d be easier to stop being so easily and heavily influenced by historical romances.

WRITING PROMPT #20: “‘Weird little things remind me of her.  I don’t even know why.  Cabbage, for instance.'”

Danielle dropped her gaze and flicked the cap of the lid on her Styrofoam cup filled with coffee open and shut, open and shut.  She was fishing, seeming preoccupied with troubling thoughts and consumed with an overall air of sadness because she wanted Ellen to ask what was wrong.  Danielle wanted Ellen to engage her in a discussion about everything that was bothering her in her mediocre life because, in Danielle’s mind, accepting an invitation to a pity party was better than accepting one, no matter how contrived said invitation may be.  Ellen understood this about her best friend, and accepted this about her best friend.  She took a hearty bite of her blueberry muffin for sustenance and strength, and then she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Danielle shrugged, half-halfheartedly battling against her friend’s inquisition.  She still didn’t look up, but refrained from flicking the lid.  She said, “Weird little things remind me of her.  I don’t even know why.  Cabbage, for instance.”

“Bullshit,” Ellen immediately countered, a small smile upon her lips.

Danielle looked scandalized and somewhat offended.  “What?”

“I call bullshit,” Ellen patiently repeated.  “There’s no way cabbage reminds you of her.  Frankie doesn’t even like cabbage.  You’re lying because you want to talk about her, but don’t want to admit it because you’re afraid of being label obsessed.”

“Of course I’m not obsessed.  Frankie’s my sister, Ellen.”

“I know,” Ellen agreed, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t be obsessed with her.  You haven’t been able to speak with her for months.  You have all this unresolved anger, unanswered questions and unavoidable guilt for how everything happened and how everything went down.  You need to talk about it, but she’s not here, so anyone else will do.”  Ellen reached out and tenderly squeezed her friend’s hand.  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.  If you want to talk about Frankie, let’s talk about Frankie.”

Danielle colored, blushing with embarrassment from being so easily read.  “But aren’t you bored with it?  Talking about it gets me nowhere.  At least, it hasn’t helped so far.”

“You’re not here to entertain me.  Besides, it doesn’t bore me because it matters to you, and that’s all that matters.”

Gratefully, Danielle smiled and rehashed the story about Frankie, her younger sister who was currently in rehab for a number of reasons.  She listed all of her sister’s offenses, blindly defended her parents’ actions but openly criticized her own.  She was worried, feeling guilty, missing her sister, and all of that was emotionally messy and certainly draining, but it was also all normal.  Ellen patiently listened, marveling at how human beings could be so preoccupied with the perception of others that they would deny themselves what they need.

On wanting to get better.

Published April 5, 2014 by mandileighbean

I’m working on my second novel – painstakingly, frustratingly slowly, but surely all the same – and am particularly proud of the following snippet, so much so that I wanted to share it with the internet:

He studied her for a moment. “Did you ever think about getting medication?” Her mouth twitched and he spoke quickly in hopes of completing some damage control. “It’s not a mental health thing. I just assume you get exhausted from the constant highs and lows. Don’t you want a break from that?”
Melanie dropped her eyes to the floor and shifted them slightly to the side. She was honestly considering what Adam was saying. He had a valid point after all, didn’t he? Wasn’t she complaining that she was always tired and so defeated? She knew that was true, but when she looked at Adam, she shook her head. “I don’t want medication, even if I do need it. I’ve always valued my perhaps extreme level of emotion. It means I’m passionate, you know? It’s evidence I’m really alive, and not just breathing and going through the motions.”
Adam looked stoic and serious, and then he inexplicably grinned. “Huh,” he began. “I never thought of it like that. When you said that, it makes being bat shit fucking crazy kind of beautiful.”

I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you let me know what you honestly think of it.

xoxo

On taking sneaky peeks.

Published January 25, 2014 by mandileighbean

As a thank you for all the support and all the time spent reading this blog, I’d like to offer up a small sample from the project I am currently working on, entitled MOODY BLUE. It’s about a young man whose fiancée’s life is cut short, and how that impacts him and his other relationships. The tragedy also forces him to confront brutal and ugly truths he’d been hiding and running from.

Enjoy, and as always, PLEASE let me know what you think.

🙂

DID6

Melissa was disturbed by the lack of human interaction. Hell, Adam only talked to her when it became absolutely necessary, and those occasions were becoming rarer and rarer. She worried that the viewing and funeral would be too much, debacles, spectacles, horrible memories Adam would never be able to recover from. When the day of the viewing dawned, uncomfortably warm and overcast, she rose silently and began to make coffee in the kitchen. As she scooped dark grinds from one receptacle to another, she noticed her hands were trembling. She dropped the stupid, little, plastic scooper and brought her hands together, determined to make them stop. After all, why should she tremble? It was not her fiancée being mourned and then buried. It was not her life being upended. Why should she shake? She gave herself a moment to stuff down her sorrow at Lily’s passing, which seemed nonsensical and illogical. Could it be that all this grief was for her brother? That didn’t seem quite right, either. Was she marveling at the inevitability of her own mortality? She supposed that could be true, but truth be told, Melissa was not one for deep thoughts. When it came to life and death and all that, it was what it was and that was that. Melissa mentally repeated that mantra and bent to retrieve the scooper. For the time being, she was back to normal and set about to keep things as normal as possible for Adam, especially on the day of Lily’s viewing.
Melissa gave Adam another twenty minutes of sleep, of blissful unconsciousness, as she enjoyed the solitude of and the absence of emotional turmoil in the empty kitchen. She generously filled her mug with fresh, steaming coffee and slowly sipped from it. The moment was peaceful, but neither it nor the caffeine would be enough to carry her through the day. She anticipated needing something much stronger, and that need became especially poignant as she rose from the table to rouse Adam, the undisputed but unexpected second victim of Lily’s selfish and heinous act.
Melissa’s slippers scuffed down the hallway. She always hesitated now outside Adam’s bedroom door to steel herself against the horrible possibility that she would find Adam dead, driven to suicide from grief over Lily’s suicide. Suddenly, Melissa hated Lily, was glad Lily was gone, and wished that Lily had never existed at all. The cruelty and savage nature of her own thoughts surprised and bothered Melissa, as did the nagging and reluctant admission that it was not the first time such brutal thoughts about Lily had crossed her mind. She shook her head to clear it. She chided herself for being superstitious and silly. She knocked on Adam’s bedroom door.
“Come in,” he said. The response was certain and immediate. Melissa was sure Adam had been expecting just such a wakeup call, and that expectation explained his preparation, explained the immediacy of the response. As Melissa opened the door, Adam was revealed to her, sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the door. His feet rested upon the floor and his elbows pointedly dug into his thighs from the weight and effort of cradling his poor head, cradled by lined, shaky hands. It was a pitiful sight to behold, what with Adam’s red-rimmed eyes and their vacant glare that cleverly pointed in the appropriate direction, but did nothing more than emptily roam over the area. Adam looked, but he did not see. Melissa saw that he looked like hell, and was now fairly certain that Adam had been prepared for her intrusion not because it was expected, but because simply, Adam had not slept. By the looks of him, it was hard to tell when the last time he slept was, but it certainly had not been within the last day or two.

DID5

On begging for help.

Published June 19, 2013 by mandileighbean

For a long time now, I have been trying to start a second novel.  I thought I was on my way with a story about an aging musician and his younger lover and their romantically tragic and addictively dramatic lives, but there seemed to be a real lack of interest from a few of my regular and trusted readers.  It has been driving me crazy.

DID2I added a poll to my author Facebook page and in accordance with my fears, few were interested in the romantic tale.  According to the results, more were intrigued by a brief description of a plot involving a young man and the mysterious death of his fiancée.  You have to give the people what they want, right?  Thus, I have started writing my second novel, which has a working title of Moody Blue.

I am going to post the beginning of what I have here, in hopes it will be read and feedback will be left.

As always, enjoy and please let me know what you think.  I’ll beg if I have to.

DID DID1

MOODY BLUE

by

Mandi Bean

Chapter One

Human beings respond to traumatic events in different ways. Some people will remove the entire episode from their memories and completely block it from their minds. It is like they passed out and completely lost conscious for the event – like at the moment of impact, when the glass shattered from the outside in and the metal frame of the car and crumpled and crunched impossibly loud, their eyes slipped shut and they missed everything.  When they next opened their eyes, there were bandages, gauze, and scars and a hazy kind of recollection that would be terrifying and incredibly detrimental were it to clarify.  Thus, every day is a struggle varying in difficulty to keep the terror, the heartache, and the pain at bay. The goal is to simply exist, to continue from day to day as if nothing ever happened. These poor souls operate under the near constant pressure of the past, of the truth, of reality crashing down upon them like a tsunami, and shattering the walls they have built around themselves. Others remember the traumatic event in remarkable detail, able to recall the sights, sounds, smells and sensations at a moment’s notice. Their eyes were open wide and observant, somehow impeccably braced for the crash.  As if time slowed to a crawl, these individuals looked all around and noticed a slight stain on the front of their passengers’ shirts – probably ketchup or dripping grease from a tasty hamburger – and the way said shirts folded upon themselves at the passengers’ thighs when seated.  When the police arrive on scene, these are the individuals who provide the makes, models, colors and license plates of the other vehicles, which slammed into their own cars.  These individuals have accepted what happened and freely live with it, and do so fairly quickly, almost immediately.  Rather than treating the past as some stranger, these people welcome it as an old friend, inviting it to walk beside them daily and help to define the rest of their lives. These people are strong in spirit, undoubtedly, and wake every day fully aware of whom they were, who they are and wonder at who they might be. Still others hold onto one single detail of a traumatic event, and let that one detail define the whole event. They focus in on something minute to keep from going mad, to keep from going numb, and to keep from drowning in their sorrow. Because one thing, one little thing, is easily broken down, analyzed and compartmentalized accordingly. This is the person who cannot determine from which direction the other car came from, or where he was going and why.  He can only stare at his bloodied, trembling hands and mouth soundlessly, doing his best to form unintelligible syllables which were intended to form words but fall short of the mark.  The focus becomes the stained appendages because to try and live with the whole trauma, with all its many aspects and nasty surprises would be suicide for this man, and for people like him. Focusing in and away from the big picture would make waking in the morning and taking that next inhale much easier for these kinds of victims and these kinds of witnesses.

Adam Peterson belonged to this latter group.

The only thing he honestly remembered about finding his fiancée dead in their bedroom was all the blood. As far as Adam could remember, and let accuracy be damned, the room was filled with orange, burning light – whether from the setting sun or the sun’s rays reflecting over the various pools of blood he could not be sure.  But amid the odd light, he could see Lily in the room, in the blood.   Lily was surrounded by it, transformed into a lonely island of flesh. Adam practically had to swim through it to get to his beloved, trudging through crimson puddles with the coppery smell of it filling his nostrils and forcing his stomach to rise to his throat. He was worried about vomiting, but the worry was not strong enough to keep the howls of pain within his throat, because they traveled with too much power from deep within his chest, beside his soul, adjacent to his very reason for being. It did not seem possible.  Indeed, it was only a few hours ago that Adam had risen, gone to work, and then returned home with every intention of proposing to Lily.  How had everything gone so horribly, tragically wrong so fast?

Adam could never, and believed he would never, be sure as to why he awoke when he did that fateful morning.  Maybe it was the absence of the anticipated obnoxious buzzing of the alarm clock that roused him, even though it also explained why he slept as late as he did.  His eyes inexplicably shot wide, preternaturally realizing something was askew and that his biological alarm clock was slow.   His hand reached out to pull the alarm clock close, desperate to read the time in blaring digits colored a neon green, and praying that it would be earlier rather than later, that there would be time, indeed.  This day, Adam’s luck was in (or so he had thought); he had only slept thirty minutes later than usual.  If he just sped through his shower and skipped breakfast, he’d be golden.  He set the alarm clock back on the bedside table, short and squat and made of some wood composite, gently, much gentler than when he had grabbed it because there was time; there was no need for anger or anxiety.  It would be okay.  He threw the covers and hurried into the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, whipping the door shut behind him.  In just a few moments, Lily could hear the water traveling through the pipes to beat against the linoleum that made up the bottom of the shower.  She had been awake.  She had noticed that Adam’s alarm clock had failed to sound, had been the cause of the tardiness.  Gracefully, she had leaned over her beloved’s sleeping form to turn off the alarm.  She had done so around 3:22AM, when she had awoken and been unable to go back to sleep.  What was keeping Lily up was difficult to discern and understand, but she had stayed up for the two hours, staring up at the ceiling and breathing evenly.  She could hear Adam breathing peacefully beside her, and he seemed comfortable and untroubled, so she had done her best to match her rhythm to his.

DID3

On being in love with every actor.

Published February 19, 2013 by mandileighbean

stupidcupid

“I never let what happened stay in the past.”

I was better than I usually am on Valentine’s Day this year – I remained cheery and optimistic until the next day.  I woke up, logged onto Facebook, and was immediately inundated with nauseatingly adorable gifts and status updates.  Without the students to exaggerate the negativity and thereby make it unattractive and absurd, a bitter taste filled my mouth and I instantly felt blue.  I am sure the Radiohead song playing softly in the background did not help.

On top of that, I did not lose a single pound for the second week in a row.  I only have myself to blame because I have not been counting my calories like I should.  I can try and blame it on my menstrual cycle or stress (teacher evaluation workshops, the backdrop for the play falling over), but the truth is that I have been weak.  I am disappointed in myself.  I am ashamed.

Saturday morning, I watched a good-sized portion of the movie “Mannequin” while eating breakfast.  When I was younger (and only slightly more impressionable than I am now), I was absolutely obsessed with the movie.  Reasons for my obsession seem obvious – such as Andrew McCarthy at his most vulnerable, quirkiest, and most appealing – but upon deeper reflection, it is so much more than that.  There is something dangerously intoxicating about what one creates loving its creator in a singular, unique, and romantic kind of way; like creative types can cure their own loneliness and save themselves.  That aspect of the “fairy tale” is reassuring but at the same time, it is worrisome because does it not suggest that those same quirky, odd, different, creative people cannot find romance organically?  Unless there is some kind of divine intervention or fantastical happenings, are weirdoes never to find love?  Maybe that’s why the first blog I created to promote my writing was titled “Letters to Eliot” and was comprised of nothing more than pathetic and embarrassing love letters to a fictional character of my own creation.  Is that really so different from falling in love with a mannequin?  At least the mannequin was tangible and at least it came to life and at least it loved its creator back and at least they lived happily ever after.

mannequinmccarthy

Regardless of the deeper meta-fictional meanings of “Mannequin,” (or if they even exist) I am once again infatuated with Andrew McCarthy.  I keep playing the scene where we met over and over again – the way I made him turn to me and smile, the way I made him laugh, his inexhaustible charm, and the strength of his embrace when he hooked me around my waist and pulled my close.  It was like it was scripted, which is why I am so disappointed in its lack of an ending.  That same Saturday night, Hallmark Channel aired a new romantic comedy which was unbearably corny, but it starred Andrew McCarthy as a brooding cowboy and naturally, I was enthralled.

I also watched a 45-minute documentary about Elvis Presley called, “Elvis: Summer of ’56.”  It was all about this girl named June Juanico and her relationship with Elvis.  It was surreal to hear her describe how he pulled her aside after a show and kissed the back of her neck, of how he called and wrote, and how she felt comfortable enough with Elvis to adjust his belt.  It is incredible to think anyone could have genuine, intimate moments with the King of Rock and Roll.  June understood that sentiment; she called it quits after Elvis was rumored to be involved with Natalie Wood (and who could blame her?  There’s no competing with Natalie Wood!)  And believe it or not, it seems that even Elvis understood the sentiment because when speaking of the insane amount of screaming, crying girls, he said, “They don’t love me, they love the idea of me.”   I am going to include that in my second novel or die trying.

elviskissing

Sunday was a great day.  It was Dad’s 52nd birthday, so I am especially glad that it was beautiful and bright, albeit windy and cold.  We all went to Mass together.  Mikey faked (I think) a stomach ache and did not join us for the Olive Garden.  I had many glasses of wine, too much pasta, and I laughed heartily.  Most importantly, Dad enjoyed himself.  On the way home, he tried to freeze Sam and I out by rolling all the windows down and locking them in place because Sam and I had been good-naturedly tormenting Mom (flicking her ears and whatnot).  I tried to distract Dad by giving him a Wet Willy in his right ear so Sam could sneakily slide her arm between the left side of Dad’s seat and the door and unlock the windows.  My efforts failed, but Sam managed to reach the controls for Dad’s seat, so she moved him up and forward, shoving the steering wheel into his chest and the tops of his thighs.  He looked silly and absurd and wildly uncomfortable.  We all laughed until we couldn’t see straight.

Upon arriving home, we descended upon the furniture in the living room.  Dad lounged across the love seat, Mom claimed the chair and I was solo, sitting upon the sofa, until Sam came and lay down, stretching her legs over me.  We were all comfortable, we were all watching “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” and we were all together.  It was a beautiful day.

paulnewman

elizabethtaylor

Paul Newman’s blue eyes and Elizabeth Taylor’s violet eyes were just as glorious as the sky I observed while walking and jogging that night.  The wind made me feel young and restless and wild, like it kicked up all the old, dry negativity within me and swirled it so that when it settled once again, it was something more like optimism and vitality.  The quickened pace of the blood in my veins and of the air in my lungs, with the moon nearly directly over my head so that I had to awkwardly crane my neck to see it, with the tiny, twinkling stars, and with the darkening, layered shades of blue of the evening sky, made me feel incredibly grateful to be alive.  That night, I fell in love with life, and with love, and with possibility.

I want to fall in love this summer.

I have been highly critical of the band Fall Out Boy in the past, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t have some fantastic lines.

“I thought I loved you, but it’s just how you looked in the light.”

“I could write it better than you’ve ever felt it.”

Sixth way to blast my blubber: write a list of reasons why I want to lose weight:

–          I want to be as beautiful on the outside as I am on the inside.

–          I want to be appealing to beautiful men.

–          I want to be noticed by beautiful men when I go out.

–          I want to feel sexy.

–          I want to look sexy.

–          I want to be healthy.

–          I want to have more energy.

–          I want to live longer.

–          I want to finally lose the weight and prove myself wrong.

–          I want to better myself and improve.

–          I want how I envision myself to be reality.

–          I don’t want to feel ugly around my beautiful friends.

–          I want to feel better about myself and feel confident.

–          I want to be the full package; funny, smart and pretty.

–          I want to change my life.

On counting stars and cents.

Published January 9, 2013 by mandileighbean

elvisbirthday

Obviously, I could not let the King’s birthday pass without some recognition, so this one’s for Elvis Presley, the greatest romantic hero ever born.

stars

I have been going for a walk every morning at 4:00AM as part of one of many New Year’s resolutions.  Honestly, I might as well as go for a walk at 2:00AM as there is no sign of the sun or the promise of morning visible so early tis time of year.  But seeing the moon hanging so low it seemed as if it could be picked right out of the sky if I only had a ladder and access to a roof, and looking up to see the myriad of stars strewn across the sky like diamonds against velvet (as if the sky’s only purpose for being present was to accentuate the stars) are great ways to begin a new day, let alone a new year.  Though the residential street I traverse upon for 2.46 miles is quite dark, the soft glows of incessant televisions and the harsher streams of outdoor lighting lessen the possible treachery of the road, and set my mind reeling.  What kind of person falls asleep with the television on, and what kind of friend does not mind?  What kind of family has a bevy of halogen lamps scattered about their home’s perimeter, activated by motion?  What could they possibly be trying to detect or spot?  And who the hell goes for walks at four o’clock in the morning, gazing into unguarded bedroom windows to see what she can see?  The cold weather does not bother me, nor does my breath exiting my nose and mouth in tiny puffs of vapor.  The stillness and silence and darkness do not bother me either.  I worry that sometimes I am most comfortable alone, standing singularly along the edge of life as a mere observer.  I am terrified that I may be content with only watching.  I also worry that realization makes me really, really creepy.

My first royalty check came in the mail recently: a whopping $72.18. But hey – everyone has to start somewhere, no?
royalty

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