Blog Archives

A Personal Post


This is my problem. It leads to me never believing that others can love me, because I’m simply not worthy of it.

It isn’t women that I don’t believe though, I mostly trust girls. But I can’t trust guys, (sorry if this sounds sexist but… it has been my overarching experience through my life).

I’ve never been good enough for my dad, never strong enough to chop wood or athletic enough to draw the attention of my Dad’s dad, (my grandad). I was never good enough for a lot of guys I liked or dated in the past. There was always something about me that needed to change for them to be pleased. Mostly my body. I was never enough for a lot of other people because they wanted me to be there constantly, and well, I have a life I need to live too.

I’ve never felt good enough to love someone else because of this. As if I wasn’t worth enough to give someone else adoration. But then at the same time I’m too worthless not too, because everyone else must be more deserving than I to receive love. I’ve felt so unworthy in the past that I just summed it up to being incapable of loving others. Incapable of commitment and loyalty because I’m not good enough anyways.

“A Bed Full of Safety”


Even though I have no reason to really think I’m not enough right now. I know I’m talented, intelligent, strong, and mature, I can’t shake the feeling of never being good enough. I can’t help but remember that I couldn’t love, and I couldn’t truly be loved by others, I can’t stop feeling helpless in the fact that I’m just starting to live, just learning how to be.

But being isn’t easy.


I know I shouldn’t believe that I am not enough, but it’s hard to not believe it when I’ve disappointed so many people.

I’m exhausted.

What makes a person interesting?

  1. arousing curiosity or interest; holding or catching the attention.
    “an interesting debate”
    2. A term used meaninglessly and copiously by those with nothing better to say.
    synonyms: absorbing, engrossing, fascinating, riveting, gripping, compelling,compulsive, captivating, engaging, enthralling;

    So, now that we know what it means, what does it really  mean?

    To me, an interesting person is someone who rarely bores me, even if what they are talking about is on the uses of tylenol. What my current dilemma entails is a girl whom with all circumstances and experiences should be the most interesting human on the planet, but she is one of those humans I have a difficult time speaking too without a group. Our one-on –one communication I would think would be amazing, since both of us have similar interests in langue arts, linguistics, history, and religion; it seems though, that she and I cannot hold a conversation with each other in an empty room for more than a half hour without external input.

    Secondly, I usually assume that people who are well educated, well traveled (even if thats just in the united states, Canada, and Mexico) should by default, according to their money spending track records, an interesting and well rounded human being. These people should be eye catching, have good stories(even if these stories are fairy tales, making it all the more interesting), be inspiring, and be ready for adventure.

    Unfortunately, I can’t figure out why this woman bores me to literal tears.  Ultimately, I’m too hopeful and tend to lend my friends one too many chances to surprise me with their intellect and make me laugh with good(or terribly bad) stories, or even better: make our own stories; but damned if they don’t because I am drained by these individuals. I give all my funny(or sad) stories to them, I share or invent adventures for them, I invite them to raving mad gatherings and try to inspire some spontaneity within them, but I’m slowly but surely giving up.

    ART. Art is another thing — when individuals can appear to appreciate all the artistic things of the world, from fashion to music and dance but are depraved of having creativity it brings me to my knees with disappointment. Sure, we need non labeled artists to be inspired by labeled artists, but all humans should have true creativity, they should be able to more than clone paintings and crafts.

    Contrary to some people’s belief, creativity isn’t all spontaneity and divine or other inspiration, it is cultured by loving adults who teach young children to let their brains be free, let their eyes wonder, hands move over material, and feet jump at every chance, or voice squeak when their soul sings through their body.

    Back on track, I can’t grasp the strangeness of humanity’s ways. I’m baffled that chemistry is what connects us but, but philosophy and politics is what separates us.

    I need to think about this more.

Repost Review: 4 Lies the Church Taught Me About Sex – Lilly Dunn


1. I heard this too at a Christian Conference from a couple who did seminars together, and they said “don’t cuddle, because one thing leads to another.” Yeah, one thing does lead to another, but as Lilly says, “clothes dont magically remove themselves” you make a conscious decision whether to move forward or to stop. And that red light program is set by you. I find that if I know my boundaries, I can control myself just fine, and if I want to slip, I slip, not because some “devil” tricked me into that hand holding or anything, but because I chose too.

2. Waiting until marriage to have sex for me is more of an emotional and physical precaution, I figure, God has these rules and covenants for a reason, maybe saving sex for marriage is a precaution to keep his people from being sick (physically with STDS and emotionally from sleeping around). He also says that the human body is a temple, which he dwells in and we should do everything with the intent of worshiping God (meaning even having sex should be a worshipping ceremony). That sounds weird, but in a way, it makes sense. During sex, you are adoring your partner, sacrificing yourself to them – exposing every personal part of you and your insecurities and they are doing that in return to you. To me this sounds like prayer, an exposure, a conversation, a physical endurance, an emotional act. It’s a lot of complicated things happening all at once.

3. Oh goodness did this one upset me. “Girls dont care about sex” dear lord do we care about sex. ALL  A 10 YEAR OLD GIRL TALKS ABOUT IS MARRIAGE. Girls obsess about who their future husband will be like, having babies, naming babies, what their wedding dress will look like. What are these things related to? Sex. OH NO WAY. Girls think about sex, and are just as easily distracted visually as boys are. We are just taught to not show it or talk about it. I agree with Lilly how demeaning to boys it is to say they “stumble” easier. What is stumbling??? Yeah, that’s my  question. If a boy gets an awkward boner because someone bumped them in the groin or they see a bra strap and just happen to know what that is holding up, it’s a sin? A sin to have a sexual drive? A sin to want to procreate the way God commanded us to in Genesis? I’m confused. Contradictions are just… blown out of proportion!

4.Love \ne sex. Sex is an expression of love, but love is hard, and it takes time, and you can’t just all the sudden be in love and everything is butterflies, rainbows, unicorns, and candy. No. Love takes work just like sex takes work. Kissing takes practice, hugging takes practice, holding hands takes practice! People don’t all the sudden just know what their doing, instincts can only help you so much. Being intimate takes practice because it has choreography, and sometimes it takes some repetition to get to the improvisation solos where things get interesting. Love \ne sex because sex \ne love.


I don’t think humans were designed to write happy music. I only write sad music, and every time I go to write a happy song, it doesn’t make any sense. Maybe because happiness doesn’t make any sense to me. I am happy now though, and I don’t want to listen to happy music. I am happy now for logical reasons. I conquered a fear. A fear I’ve had for years.

I smiled at him. The one guy who I thought I would never be able to even say hi to ever again. I talked with him, and laughed, and he laughed, and we smiled, and then I walked away. Happy. And the bad scary memories faded to a better less ominous tint into a warmer cloudy sepia.

I don’t want to write a happy song about this. Because it will actually be a sad song, confused under a peppy beat and major chords.

I only use major chords to prove points, sad points. Because sad points can only be stressed by happy notes. Happy notes send inviting tones.

I think we write happy music because we need something to dance too. Dancing is a happy generator for me. I dance when I need to be happy, or I dance when I am. I’ve danced for a while now, and I welcome the sweat and the noise from my tap shoes. I doubt my family does but it’s ok. They can deal, because I am happy.

I like dancing in silence, because I follow my own beat. At Least when it comes to tap dancing.

When I am ballet dancing, I usually need music, because the movements are interpretive and need an emotion behind them. Tap dancing in silence is different. The noise you create is the noise you need. You are creating the vibe. The tone. The beat.

I think my hair is falling out. Or maybe I am pulling it out. I can’t tell. But it does come out either way and it’s probably from the stress. I remember this happening to my cousin, Av, her hair was falling out last year. Especially at her dad’s death anniversary. I think my hair fell out a little too.

It’s coming up soon. May 14th. Not a happy day. But I think we will go away from home to cry this time. I’d like that.

Happiness and sadness are both temporary though, because nothing lasts forever. Not even the feelings we have. Love isn’t eternal unless you make it eternal.

Flowers die, chocolates go bad, and relationships become stale. It doesn’t get any better than this.

Happiness for me is simple. Don’t let me be forgotten in the moments when I didn’t forget you.

I never make promises, but I promise that I won’t forget you.

Welcome to my Suburban life

Maybe you didn’t know, but I am a dancer, not a pole dancer or a strip club dancer, a real hip-hop/ballet/tap/jazz/contemporary, dancer. I dance because its an  emotional devotion. I use it as emotional stress relief and a work out. I get to be joyous while I dance, or I get to show my deepest, darkest, inner most, secretest pain ever. The stuff no one talks about, the stuff that is indescribable with words, and only with movements can people truly see how I feel. This past week was “peek week” at the dance studio. The classes instead of being closed doors, are open to parental and friend viewing. Usually this is a great time to show how hard I work to my parents to stay healthy, strong and capable to perform. My mother who dance for her whole youth loves to watch me and my class mates dance, she understands each movements strain and power, she sees each muscle flex and tighten then spring to jump or coil to turn. I love that she knows this. On the depressing side of this phenomenon, my father, who couldn’t be more blind, only sees the mistakes, the miss comings, or the constraints that I have. I might be a dancer, but I have always been naturally inflexible, although I am much better than I was 3 years ago, I am still not jumping into the air with my feet to my ears. Obviously, because I am physically impaired, this means I am not good enough for him. I am just not pretty, perfect, barbie like enough to be a  good leaping, bounding dancer for him.

At the beginning of the week, Monday, I gave him a schedule of performances, days, dates, times, places, and details of my life until January. This was to prepare him to know what time to be where and how to be ready. I new it was just my pathetic way of crying to attention from him but I didn’t care. He took  the hint (after many arguments). Wednesday was the first class of the week. I have Ballet Contemporary, and Hip hop after. Ballet started at 6. We warmed up or arms, legs, torso, back, neck, hands, feet, knees, ancles, toes, shoulders, and waist. We strengthened our thighs, calves, and abs. Then we danced across the floor. Back and forth, back and forth, spinning, traveling, jumping, twirling. Then we did our actual combination of a song, that at the end of the year, we will perform on stage. It was great. My dad wasn’t there. Finally it was 5 minutes till the end of class, and my dad walks in, I totally mess up my shene, and cant even rande-son and porta-bras.  He sits down, and my teacher tells us we are going to do leaps. This is my least perfected dance movement. As you already know, I cant do a split, not like I don’t try or anything, I just havent had the capability to do one yet. I can try to do a leap but it doesn’t look the way it should. So, I leap and I can see my dad head shaking, and he puts his head in his hands, then after I try for the third time he tries to correct me by yelling some type of mangled french words he stole for my teacher. We ignore him.. and class ends.
After that, I went to hiphop and I could tell he hated it, because he just sat there with a disaproving look, and I am actually a really good hip-hop dancer. I learn fast, and can do all the moves properly without falling on my butt. Dance finished and I was angry. I went home disapointed with myself and my dad.
Thursday, is the class I am the best at, Tap dancing. I can do a tap off with anyone. I am super good. We jumped for 2 minutes, thats our warm up, jumping without touching our heals down at different speeds. Then we did out excercizes across the floor, draw back, Cincinati, Buffalo, filaps, shuffles, pull backs.. etc. Then we did time steps and then hop shuffle jump toe turns, which are my favorite. We did our combination to As long as You love me by JB (yeah yeah tease me all you want, its a good song…to tap too.) and then we were done. My dad praised my a lot about this stuff, which is nice he noticed finally how hard I work. 

I have a choral performance Monday, its every year, twice a year, once for Christmas, once for spring. He wont be coming, but I don’t care, because it gives me more leeway bring a friend.

Welcome to my bitter sweet suburban life. I am just content I don’t live in a poor aids infested place like Sudan or Libia, better pray for them… It’s horrible to be a woman there.