A Fierce Fire – How a 13 Year-Old’s Poem Ruined My Weekend

Last weekend, my family and I escaped to Williamsburg, Virginia, for a dreaded family reunion. (The five-hour long drive did not help.) After finally arriving after a shocking eight hours due to heavy traffic, I deeply inhaled on a Marlboro Light to ease my tension and anxiety from sitting in a car with my parents, listening to my step-father mutter four-letter words under his breath.

After unpacking and attempting to still settle my nerves, I was called to the lobby to venture out to the main historical strip for a quick dinner with my family in tow, including my step-grandfather who had yet to speak a single word to me (it wouldn’t be until the third day there until we spoke briefly). We arrived at the meek diner serving cold food when all I wanted to do was head back to my room to rest or interact with my nieces and nephew.

Let’s fast forward through the days spent viewing the historical sites to which my nine year-old niece deemed “boring.” Saturday evening was to be the real reunion dinner at a local spot near the hotel. For some background, my grandparents love the show Seinfeld and decided to have our own version of a “Festivus.” For said “Festivus,” each family was instructed to bring a family photo to be placed on a piece of cardboard to be displayed at the dinner. My grandparents also took some of their own photos from over the years to place up, as well. This is where I come to my true story.

As I glanced over the board and examined closely pictures from my childhood, teen years, and images of my grandmother as a young adult, I came across a poem I had written when I was 13 (I was big into poetry and writing in general in my teen years). After not remembering the poem, I quietly stood there to read it over and ended with a gasp and horrified look on my face. The poem reads:

A Fierce Fire

10:00AM, Saturday.
I could hear the screaming bacon,
As it started to sizzle.
Knock, Knock.
It was my mother.
Come down stairs, girls.
I quickly got tense
For I knew it was time
For the family meeting.
I knew
It was coming.
My tears poured down my face,
Like a warm waterfall.
I couldn’t stand the noise!
I tried to remember the good times,
But like a fierce fire,
The bad ones burned them away.
I try not to cry
When they tell me the truth,
But I know that whatever happens,
My life will change.

As you may have guessed, this poem was about my parent’s divorce when I was five. It was completely fabricated, as I don’t recall them telling us about the divorce, but I was a creative soul at the ripe age of 13.

As if in an instant, the memories started flooding my brain of what I actually remember from the divorce and how it did actually affect me. The poem served as a reminder of how tormented and depressed I was as a teen, and yet no one noticed these symptoms until years later. It was my cry for help that went unanswered. Clearly my grandmother didn’t have the time to sit and read the poem, as I would assume if she had, she wouldn’t have included it, but you never know with her.

Seconds after finishing the poem, the depression came back “like a fierce fire” and I suddenly realized that I would have to sit in this restaurant filled with people I barely knew that had probably read it in shock for another three hours. It essentially ruined my night. I know it may seem silly to let something as trivial as a 13 year-old’s poem of sadness get to me, but I couldn’t help what I was feeling inside.

It still sits with me, almost a week later, about how my parents chose to ignore my cries for help, and continued to do so for most of my life. It brought back horrible memories of panic attacks and serious bouts of depression that were deemed me simply being upset. How could no one tell?

Eventually I will forget how this poem made me feel and I will go on with my life, but the question will always remain, “why didn’t anyone ever think to do anything?”


Okay so…

So maybe “I’m back” wasn’t quite the best way to start off. I think “I’m Almost Back” probably would have went over a little better.

It’s only been 16 days, so like, whatever. Sorry guys. I’m the worst, I know. Sometimes it’s hard to find the time to write in your critically acclaimed blog. Just kidding, like every 20-30 year old has a blog and they find all the time in the world to write. My problem is a compilation of things from my brain being to fried after work, sheer laziness, and honestly, a lack of creativity in knowing what to write. BUT (a big one, unlink my own), I did say, somewhere back in the abyss of 2015, that I was going to write here about anything that came to mind, just to brush up on my skills. And here I am, acting like I have nothing to write about. Psshh. Impossible.

So much has happened since I last wrote here, so that’s exactly what I’m going to talk about. It may not be interesting or always as hilarious as my natural self, but it’s going to be something: something deeper maybe? I’m not sure. But hopefully, just maybe, it may improve my ability to form coherent sentences.

I can’t tell you when I’ll write my next post, but I’m hoping to aim for once a week. I know, I know, I’ve said all this before, and maybe I’m lying again. I won’t find out until I try. So cheers to me trying to get this thing going again.

*As always, constructive criticism is always welcomed. Note I said constructive. I’m not a genius people and I don’t respond well to anger, even though as a person, I may be one of the angriest people alive.



Side note: I really need to revamp the look of this thing because it is down-right boring and ugly as all hell. 

Going Under The Knife: Who Cares?

First, I’m going to say, you’re all beautiful just the way you are! Unfortunately, it can sometimes be hard to see that about ourselves.

In light of recent “rumors” that Kylie Jenner got breast implants, I figured now would be a better time then ever to ask the question: Why do you care?

Kylie shut down rumors on her snapchat account, revealing thick tape to hold her breasts up and ready, so screw you haters. Earlier in the year she underwent the…needle…and got lip injections and the reality tv-watchers went wild. Granted, she did lie about it at first, but her reasonings were valid: she was insecure about her lips and what people would say. Thus my question, again: why do people care?

So what if she got lip injections or if she had gotten breast implants? Iggy Azalea recently confirmed rumors about her breast augmentation with a proud statement about wanting to fix something that made her insecure. What’s wrong with changing things to make you happy? Why do others feel the need to shove their harsh opinions on everyone else?

People exercise to be happy, but it’s also a way to achieve or maintain a certain weight/figure/etc., so how is it any different? People go on diets, get bands placed around their stomachs and they aren’t shut down because of it (not always).

I think everyone woman and man has every right to go under the knife, or what be it, in order to help them love themselves a little more. We all have to live with how we look day to day and if you’re not happy about something, then go ahead and change it.

12 Reasons I ‘Literally Can’t Even’ And I Love It

**Elite Daily published my very first post! Check out the full article here**

In the past few years, the following words and phrases have become increasingly common (and overused) in every conversation between 15- to 30-year-old women:

“I’m dying.”
“The worst.”
“I hate it.”
I can’t even.”
“I can’t.”

So much so that everyone now must talk about how annoying and “ditzy” these people are. Even “SNL” got in on the fun and created a hilarious skit with host Dakota Johnson about coworkers who, “just can’t deal.”

Guess what? I’m one of those 15- to 30-year-old women and IDGAF how annoying I may sound.

I, “I literally can’t,” on an hourly basis because life is hard and people are stupid. Before you go and dismiss this perfect line, here are some reasons why it always works in every situation:

1. I’m trying to listen.

We all have those friends who won’t take a second to breathe while telling a story (myself included), making it extremely difficult to get a word in or voice your own extremely important opinion about something.

Saying, “I can’t,” takes less than a second. So, when my friend is going on and on, leaving no room for me to interrupt and speak my mind, I can always slip in a good “I can’t.” To which said friend could respond, “I KNOW,” and continue rambling.

2. I’m not listening.

The above also works when I ultimately get lost in whatever my friend is going on about. This way, at least it seems like I’m listening.

3. I’m lazy.

At some point in the last 10 years, everyone decided to shorten every word possible. Then we started condensing phrases.

“I can’t” became an even more abbreviated way to express, “I can’t even.”

We are apathetic people, and heaven forbid we use a complete phrase when we can barely take the time to utter an entire word (e.g. obvi, caj, totes, fav and any other term coined by your bitchiest friend).

So I’m lazy; deal with it.

4. It can mean so many things.

Regardless of what the full phrase once was, these two short words now have infinite definitions that can work in a multitude of situations.

I could be referencing a hideous outfit, an outlandish action, something mind-blowing, the weather or just sheer confusion. There are endless possibilities.

5. I’m incapable of having emotions.

Cue Barenaked Ladies, “I’m the kind of [girl] who laughs at a funeral.” My lack of emotion leads to a lack of caring, which ultimately leads to me not knowing what to say in certain situations.

6. My vocabulary is that of a 14-year-old.

To this day, I have no idea how I got into college. I’d say about 75 percent of the time, I literally have no idea what else to say.

7. It ends a conversation.

Talking makes me tired since I tend to never shut up. I don’t have the patience to come to a full conclusion at the end of every story. I wish it were an acceptable way to end all college papers.

8. It also can end a relationship.

This goes hand-in-hand with the fact that I have zero emotions and, therefore, don’t know how to break up with people.

The conversation typically results in me referring to the relationship as “this” while waving my hand between both of us, shaking my head and saying, “I just can’t.” Note that this rarely works…

9. I don’t want to talk to you.

Apparently, some people refuse to acknowledge the combination of oversized sunglasses and headphones as the universal sign for “f*ck off,” and need to be physically told that you “can’t even” handle speaking right now.

10. Life is hard.

It accurately indicates my true lack of understanding of the world around me.

11. You’re annoying me.

I’m a cynical bitch. If you and/or your conversation is annoying AF, I will find a way to let you know how much I do not care.

12. I literally can’t.

AKA: I don’t want to.

Well, well, well

I’m here now. So, a few friends have told me that I should try to find a career in writing (although I think I write like a toddler…), so instead of peacing from this place, I’m going to try and use it as a place to just write shit…? I don’t know. Don’t ask. Or do. Just know that I’m most likely way more confused than you. I don’t even know what life is right now, all I know is that I need a job.