30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 11 (Your Current Relationship)

Day 11: Your current relationship; if single, discuss that too

I am single. God, I am so single; and I am basking in all of its do-what-I-want-and-talk-to-whom-I-please glory. I can go out with many different people, drinking and dancing until after midnight, and I can come home, take off my makeup, and sleep diagonally in my giant bed until 2:00 the following afternoon. I can text and talk to whomever I please (or whomever I don't) and spend my money on nothing but new clothes for myself. I don't have to plan my weekends around anyone else and if someone flirts with me, I do not feel the least bit bad.

I am single, and I can make solo plans for myself months in advance (just like I did for Boston). When I eat out at a restaurant, I only ever have to worry about paying for myself. I don't shave my legs unless I really want to, and  I can wear the same ratty old clothes to bed for a week (not that this differs much from how I ever was in a relationship).

I am single, and if someone approaches me in a romantic way and I don't reciprocate at all, I don't feel bad for kindly telling them so. I don't need to use the patriarchy-appeasing excuse of "I have a boyfriend" to ward off the weirdos, because I can confidently say to them, "hey, I'm just doing my own thing right now, thanks." And strangely enough, that simple fact brings me much joy.

I am single, and I have learned so much more about myself during my singledom than I ever have while I have been one-half of a relationship. I have learned a lot about other people, too. All in all, being single has been a greater learning experience for me at this stage of my life, than anything else I've ever experienced. The way people (mis)treat a single woman, the confidence it takes to teach yourself to walk into a room and sit at a table by yourself, and the patience it requires to see others around you engrossed in their relationships, all come with time and experience in growing into being single. The single most defining, pivotal moment in singledom comes when you realize the significant difference between being lonely and being alone. You don't have to be single to be lonely. And you don't have to be lonely to be alone. I have seen some of the most lonely people, invested in marriage for decades, without even the smallest amount of love. I've seen people living their lives quite happily alone, with more friends and close confidants than the most social of relationship-prone butterflies.

I am single, and I am grateful. Grateful, for this time of great learning about myself, as well as others. Grateful, for this time of great learning about love; both the kind involving others, and the deeper kind involving only myself.

I am single, and there is not a doubt in my mind that my life is meant to be this way at this time for many reasons. I don't have regrets, and I don't pity myself or lament my being single. I have no "better half," because I am already one whole person. A fact many non-single people quickly forget.

I am single, and for the first time in my life, I have a crystal clear vision of what it really means to be happy, without the influence of anyone else.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 10 (A Fruit You Dislike and Why)

Day 10: A fruit you dislike and why

I don't really think there is a fruit I dislike. Although, I do remember the time when I discovered I am allergic to grapefruit. And I haven't eaten it since.

I was staying at my Dad's house one summer sometime around the beginning of high school and I remember going grocery shopping with him when I first arrived. We bought all kinds of food for us to eat over the next week and some supplies to have a fish fry after we spent some time on the lake over the next few days.

I have always been a juice-drinker in the morning and breakfast has always been my favorite meal of the day. However, Dad is allergic to oranges, and that includes and kind of real orange juice, other than Sunny D. It makes his throat swell shut if he drinks it. (Or so I'd been told, thankfully I have never actually witnessed it.) So bearing this in mind, I chose a gallon of fruit juice for us to drink in the mornings which had no oranges in it. I don't remember exactly what brand or what all the ingredients were, but I do remember it was made up largely of grapefruit juice.

The next morning, we woke up and Dad made his coffee, and I poured myself a glass of juice. I took a few drinks of it, and the next thing I knew, I had this strange tingly sensation in both of my lips, unlike anything I had ever felt before. I didn't really think anything of it though, and I continued to drink my juice as I woke up. I remember walking into the bathroom a short time after that, and when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, a sense of panic struck my heart. My lips were swollen and huge! I looked like I had a serious case of horse-mouth.

I ran out of the bathroom and found Dad and I didn't even have to say a word. I just looked at him. His face was screwed up like he was trying to stifle his laughter when he saw me, and he kind of chuckled when he asked me if I was okay. (Clearly I was not okay!) I remember him saying something along the lines of, "well I guess you're allergic to grapefruit." I asked him if he thought my throat was going to swell shut like his does with oranges. He said, "well, I hope not" and gave me a Benadryl. I drank some water and laid down in bed while I waited for the swelling to subside. I was still a little panicked and I think I even texted my Mom telling her about my new accidental discovery.

The Benadryl must've done the trick, because the next thing I remember is waking up a few hours later, and my mouth looked normal again. I don't really have an opinion either way about grapefruit itself as a fruit, because I've never experienced it aside from that time. I don't even honestly know what it tastes like. But I have never been brave enough to pick one up and try it again, after what happened to me the first time. I'm sure if I did now, years later, I'd probably be fine, But I'll let you know how it goes some day when I'm feeling really brave.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 9 (Your Feelings on Ageism)

Day 9: Your feelings on ageism

The first thing that pops into my head when I think of ageism is probably pretty common: discrimination against old people. But, when I thought of it a little more before preparing to write this, I thought about how it might affect my own life.

Due to the fact that I am only 21 years old, ageism hasn't personally affected me much, at least not in the way that I imagine it might affect a person well over 70. However, if ageism is simply defined as being a form of discrimination against someone based on their age, then that would mean anyone is vulnerable, right? If that's the case, then I think I can speak about the times when I've been "too young" for something.

The most common way I've been affected is when people in my mother's generation or older talk about "the good ol' days" and "how it was back then" and in doing so, they almost always prefer "those days" to these days. Having a personal preference and opinion about something is fine, and it's totally within every person's rights to do so. But where it gets a little iffy is when it's applied directly to another person, in a way that presents them as being wrong for disagreeing. It's a little hard to explain. Let me give you some examples, instead:

• "When I was a kid, we didn't have cell phones. You actually had to talk to the people next to you."
• "We didn't have the Internet. If you wanted to know something, you had to go to the library and look it up. Do you even know how to use a card catalog?"
• "When we went on road trips, we didn't have Google Maps. We actually had to use a map to find our way."
• "We didn't have all this high-tech video game stuff when we were kids. We had an Atari and all we played was Pong. It was two sticks and a ball and it was a classic."
• "I never stayed inside all day on a computer as a child. I'd play outside all day with the neighbor kids and only come back when the street lights came on or Mom called out for dinner."

See, these are about the only examples I can think of in which ageism has even remotely affected my life. People tend to believe this way are missing an important point, though. It's not like any of us young'uns had any control over when we were born or what technology was available to us in our upbringing. You act like I had any choice in the matter. You're dang right I'm choosing to use Google over the card catalog because it's faster, more thorough, and easier to maneuver. And why wouldn't I? The technology is available to me and it is the direction in which the world will continue to move. So my electing to use outdated tools benefits myself and others in no way whatsoever. If you ask me, when people say things like this, it shows a tiny bit of bitterness and resentment toward the present day, because "they didn't have it back then".

Similarly, I've heard my fellow Millennials comment with some disdain on even younger generations about how "my parents didn't get me a cell phone until I was 13. Why does a six-year-old even need one?" The answer to that question aside, it doesn't matter. First of all, it's likely none of your business; and secondly, the difference in cell phone technology and widespread availability between the time when we were six and now are worlds apart. As the environment changes, so too, will the standards by which we live. The same is true for all things.

Basically, my feelings on ageism are this: It definitely exists. There's no denying it's a real thing. Although I have not yet experienced workplace discrimination on the basis of my age, I do not doubt that it happens to other people. As for the ageism I have witnessed in my life, I think it's best for everyone to practice not pushing their own preferences on those who are different from them, just as it is with anything else.

I can't help being born when I was, and I can't help being socialized to behave the way present day society has conditioned me to. I am sure the summer of '69 was a wonderful time. But I can in no way truly appreciate that, because all the events in the universe had not yet culminated to result in my birth. However, I happen to remember the summer of '09 vividly, and for me, it was wonderful. Different from your summer, certainly. But every bit as valid of an experience to me as yours is to you.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 8 (A Book You Love and One You Didn't)

Day 8: A book you love and one you didn't

It is actually very hard for me to think of a book I didn't like, because I generally like all the books I have read. That's why I read them. Plus, if I don't like a book I'm reading, I will just stop reading it. Right where I am.

I guess I could talk about a book that I read (an entire series, in fact) and continued reading even though I would realize later the many reasons why it was terrible. When I was in eighth grade (circa 2007-08) Stephenie Meyer had just published Twilight. It was quite the commercial success with girls my age, all doe-eyed and swooning over Edward Cullen. (This was before Robert Pattinson had been cast in the role, ruining the appeal of Cedric Diggory forever.) I remember borrowing the book from a friend; its paperback cover had been torn up and bent back by many of our classmates as it circulated through the hands of most of the pubescent, love-struck teenage girls in our grade.

I read through it ravenously, consumed in the life of Bella Swan and her grand misfortune of falling in love with a centuries-old vampire, pale and dreamy as they come. I was 13. I don't think much else could have been expected of me with a book so powerful in my young, impressionable hands. I read New Moon and Eclipse next, and finished them both just in time to force myself to wait patiently for the release of Breaking Dawn.

It really wasn't until the movies came out years later and I was a little older, that I realized many of the problems with the storyline. To keep it brief, I will make a list of the most obvious issues with Bella alone: codependency, a major identity crisis, and dangerously low self-esteem. I think it took the media doing critical thinking for me at a time when I was just following the trend of all my middle school classmates, to make me realize that perhaps there was something about the message conveyed by this story that was terribly problematic. But that doesn't mean that reading about the birth of Renesmee wasn't wonderfully bizarre and captivating at the time. (Until Jacob imprinted on her, then it got weird again and totally ruined Taylor Lautner for me, as well.)

As for a book I loved? I'm going to avoid being totally predictable and extra long-winded here, and not go with Harry Potter. Everybody knows I love Harry Potter, and I could go on and on and on about it forever. So instead, I will go with a classic of a little older age: To Kill A Mockingbird.

I remember reading that novel over spring break during sophomore year of high school. My classmates were all hacked off that our English teacher gave us any assigned reading homework over the break, but I was actually pretty excited about it. I was 16 and it wasn't like I had much else to do for a week. I'm a nerd, remember?

Anyway, I read the whole thing in just a few days. I can recall lying on the bed at my aunt's house, finishing up the last few chapters where Atticus goes to trial and presents his case that Bob Ewell was the one who actually raped his daughter, and that he was hiding beyond his own bigotry in accusing the innocent black man, Tom Robinson. I was totally engrossed in the literary genius that tied all the loose ends together. I can remember that I began reading aloud, like I always do when I get really sucked into a book, and the energy has nowhere else to go besides out of my mouth. My blood was boiling at the blatant racism of the characters and I got goosebumps from the empowering way Atticus didn't stand for any of it. I was enthralled by the valor and altruism of fictional characters, the same way I've been many times before.

When we returned to school on Monday, I was the only one who had finished the book over break. I was so in love with the work of Harper Lee that I didn't care one bit about being the only one in on the secret. In fact, I think I liked it more that nobody else knew how it ended. They had no idea what they were missing.

A person's favorite things say a lot about them. Especially those things like literature or music. I think it resonates with their experiences in life as well as the values they hold in regard to powerful cultural ideas. I once read an article online about how the Potter generation has been shown to be more understanding of differences, accepting of marginalized groups, and more likely to question authority rather than blindly accept it. I think that's totally true; and furthermore, it's representative of many other things to which I find myself drawn. Harry Potter and To Kill A Mockingbird are only two of the many powerful books that I love proudly and fiercely. They're some of my all-time favorites, and I like to think they're pretty good choices.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 7 (What Tattoos You Have and If They Have Meaning)

Day 7: What tattoos you have and if they have meaning

I don't have any tattoos. Although there have been at least a few occasions in my life when I have considered getting one. Ultimately though, I have always decided against it for some reason or another.

First, about three years ago, I wanted to get the quote "no day but today" from RENT tattooed somewhere around my ankle. I thought it was a good reminder of the fragility of life and more poetic than #YOLO. Plus, I love RENT and I just really thought a nice cursive ink anklet would be a constant reminder to myself that tomorrow is never promised. I decided against it because I was 18 and very afraid of the pain. I remember my mother poking me in the ankle several times in a row with her fingernail to simulate a fraction of the pain, and I chickened out.

Then, when I was in France, during my last week there when the sad realization began to wash over me that I would soon be leaving, I decided on a whim that I should get myself some ink to commemorate the experience. I considered a few different options, and I consulted Pinterest appropriately. I decided I wanted to get "libérer" because it seemed fitting for everything about that time of my life. "Libérer" is French for "to free" or "to liberate". Again, I wanted a simple, cursive script. But this time, I was conflicted about where exactly on my body it should be located. My ankle or my thigh bone were the two top contenders. I remember discussing the impromptu decision with my host parents beforehand, and my host dad jokingly rolled his eyes and said to me, "What, you want a tattoo that says, 'I was in France'?" He was right. I felt compelled to get a tattoo while I was there, because I was there. Then I saw the busy boutiques de tatouage late one night while walking the streets, and I decided I was too scared. I let my monkey mind talk me out of it because 1) it was a bit of a rash decision and 2) I didn't know the regulations for tattoo parlors in France. Plus, what if they didn't understand me if I said stop? (Which was a dumb excuse, because I could've just as easily said arrêtes.) I left the country ink-free.

Then, just a few weeks ago, I briefly considered getting a tattoo on my shoulder blade of something my mother wrote to me in a note. I was reading said note, and at the end she signed it, "Follow your dreams Sweetpea. Love you muches, Mom". It was very late, I was very sleepy, and I thought, "it is very important for me to get this phrase in my mother's exact handwriting tattooed on my body." (One of my good friends has a tattoo of her mother's handwriting on her shoulder blade, so you see, I wasn't being very original here.) Then I flashed forward about 50 years and thought about my 70-year-old skin sagging and my mother being long gone, and me still having this whimsical little ink stain between my liver spots, as a tangible reminder of my mother's love. I thought, that's absurd. Harry Potter was alive because of his mother's love, just as I am. And he didn't have a tattoo.

So, I guess, my reasoning for not getting a tattoo has always been two-fold: first, I have a shamefully low pain threshold; and second, I can't think of anything so important and central to my life's story that I want to pay someone money to give me an open wound which will one day fade. Although, I'm not dismissing the notion entirely. If, someday, I can think of something so perfect that I want to keep it on my body as a physical reminder forever, then I feel totally free to make that decision. But until then, I think I'll just get my meaningful phrases framed and hang them up in my home.

I don't feel any regret about these experiences, though; and if anything, I think they have taught me more about myself and my relationship with commitment. I remember a family member once telling me, "if you're not 100%, don't do it." She was referring to shopping for clothes in Target, but I think the advice is just as applicable here.

And by the way, it doesn't escape my attention that it was words I wanted to get tattooed on my body each and every time; almost as if they're the only thing I view as meaningful enough to leave a physically lasting impression on me, in addition to everything else they already do.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 6 (Someone Who Fascinates You and Why)

Day 6: Someone who fascinates you and why

I think this question is probably intended to address one single person, but I have a tendency to be creepy if I'm not careful, so I am choosing instead to take a more general approach: serial killers.

I watch way too much television about them. Dexter and Criminal Minds come to mind immediately. I am one of those people who Netflix binge watches entire series without showering for two days. I think it's more than fair to say that my fascination with serial killers comes as a byproduct of my television consumption.

Serial killers, as a general demographic, are fascinating. They have been psychopaths, sociopaths, pathological liars, paranoid schizophrenics, or simply suffering from extreme mommy issues. They can have any combination of these (fairly common) disorders, and many more. Both nature and nurture often play a role in their development into a serial killer. According to Dexter, his urge to kill was something inherent and uncontrollable; a monster from deep within that could never be satiated.

BTK, our very own homegrown sexual sadist from right here in Wichita, is often referenced on Criminal Minds when the team is dealing with a new deviant who has a similar personality or killing style. Literally speaking, numerous books have been written and several movies have been produced surrounding Dennis Rader. So I guess I'm not the only one who is fascinated by serial killers.

There are many different avenues to serial-killerhood that guide each individual serial killer to a fate as unique as they are. It is very intriguing to me, to examine the events in a person's life that led them to make the decisions they have; as well as the additional underlying psychological development that ultimately tipped them over the edge.

There's something enthralling about learning more about a person and some of the most defining moments of their life, in order to better understand who they are and how they tick; and in that sense, they're really not all that different from the rest of us. I guess that's why they fascinate me.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 5 (A Place You Would Live, But Have Never Visited)

Day 5: A place you would live, but have never visited

Before August of this year, this would've been Boston, no questions asked. I want to live there so badly. But since I flew out for a visit to scope out my dream city a few months ago, I can no longer attribute this title to it. I'd also live in Paris, given the chance. (Actually most likely a Parisian suburb.) But again, I only know this because I have been there. So... It's got to be London.

Not a doubt about it. I remember in sixth or seventh grade, falling strangely in love with London and all things British pop culture. I know my undying love for Daniel Radcliffe had a lot to do with it. I've never been to London, though I was about € 200 short of going, about a year ago. And though I can't tell the future, there are a few things on my bucket list which I will make darn sure will happen. Going to London is one of them.

British boys. Accents. Style. Funny slang. Driving on the opposite side of the road. Adding a superfluous "u" in words like "colour" and "favourite". Pubs. The Tube. Telephone booths. Big Ben. Parliament. The Scotland Yard. History. Yep, I'm sold.

I'd walk around just giggling to myself with joy and elation at being in such an historical place surrounded by such beautiful people and culture... The way that I remember feeling in France and Boston, alike. I remember the way I chuckled to myself when a native spoke to me with an accent, both French and Bostonian, and then thought to myself, "wait, I'm the one with the accent here." I especially recall that independent feeling of, "wow, look what I've accomplished all by myself... look where I've gotten myself... this place is a dream come true..." I remember how I reveled in the feeling of pure ecstasy and inexplicable inner peace that accompanies actually wanting to be where you are, rather than feeling like the universe just dumped you into some place when you were born, so that's where you've remained.

There has always been something illusive to me about the idea of wandering around somewhere until you feel at home; not physically, but emotionally. I love that feeling, and like any travel junkie jonesing for another high, I would pack my bags in a heartbeat just to feel it again. I think I would feel that way in London.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 4 (10 Interesting Facts About Yourself)

Day 4: Ten interesting facts about yourself

I don't really know what is to be considered "interesting," as it is a relative term. But I'll do my best.

1. My birthday is on Valentine's Day. But barely. My mom pushed me out just in time at 11:38 PM.
2. I was the youngest child for 15 1/2 years. Then my bratty little brother came along. I love him now. I didn't so much at the time.
3. Je parle français. I took my first French class in seventh grade and studied abroad in France in 2014. I had never realistically considered studying abroad until about six months before it happened.
4. I love Harry Potter. To an obsessive degree. More than Snape loved Lily.
5. I won first place in the city spelling bee in eighth grade. My winning word was "mayonnaise". I got a blue ribbon and everything.
6. I'm a feminist. I've been aware of it since the day I bought Full Frontal Feminism at Barnes & Noble in 2012. But I was one without knowing it for much longer.
7. I don't want to have kids. Seriously. They're messy, expensive, and dependent. I have a little brother and three nephews. My mother and my older sister have done all the child-bearing and child-rearing for me. Now I just get to teach them cool stuff and buy them loud toys.
8. I won a scholarship to go to college my senior year of high school. I'm a first-generation college student (and soon-to-be graduate). I still would've gone, regardless. But the money has certainly helped.
9. My parents divorced when I was 11. That is a large part of the reason why I am very hesitant to get married.
10. I want to travel the world so badly. It's gonna happen some day sooner than I think.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 3 (Your First Love & First Kiss)

Day 3: Your first love and first kiss; if separate, discuss both

They are separate, so I will discuss both, without naming any names.

What do I remember about my first kiss? Well, it was a terrible experience. Due in large part to the fact that I didn't really like the person it was with, and I had no real desire to kiss him anyway. I was fourteen and I certainly had no idea what feminism was or what active consent meant, and all I knew was that this was something I was supposed to do at some point in my life, and now seemed like as good a time as any. We were both simply playing out the roles we were socialized to believe were fit for us.

I remember his mom was waiting for him in the car and he walked me to my front door and I only had about three seconds to think to myself, "oh crap, this is it," and then it was over. I do, however, remember I was wearing a very strongly-flavored peppermint lip gloss from Bath and Body Works. You know, that really sticky, goopy, gel kind of lip gloss that your hair gets stuck in on a windy day, like a spider crawling across a glue trap? Yeah, it was a nightmare.

Looking back at it now, I laugh at how stupid the whole thing was. It was so anti-climactic. He never asked me if I wanted to kiss him, or if I thought it would be a good idea for him to kiss me. Nope. He just went for it. That actually kind of pisses me off now. But all in all, there was no real harm done to me. I'm pretty sure that "relationship" only lasted about two months' worth of ninth grade anyway; and if I'm being honest, I wasn't genuinely invested in it in the first place. I had my heart set on another boy, and as it would turn out, I would kiss him shortly after the peppermint lip gloss incident, anyway. And I did really want to kiss him.



My first love. That's a tough one. Hmmm. It began at a time in my life as it does for many others: high school. Funny how high school is responsible for some of the worst memories a person has, but it also gets to take credit for many of the experiences that mold a person into who they are. This is no different.

My first love was beautiful, emotional, clumsy, well-intentioned, painful, and tragically messy all at the same time. I rode the roller coaster up to the top of the highest drop with him, and we screamed in exhilarated unison in anger, confusion, hurt, and anticipation all the way down. When the ride was over, we departed the roller coaster and left the amusement park in separate ways, both heading in a better direction than where we were when we arrived.

It was the first relationship into which I invested so much of myself. That being the case, I invested too much and I learned just what over-investing yourself can do to you, the other person, and the relationship itself. Neither of us were perfect. But we both had the purest of intentions never to hurt the other, and that's what provided me with solace in the end. I can't speak for him, but I knew him pretty well at the time it all went down in flames, and I would wager a guess that he was comforted in a similar way by that notion.

Getting over it hurt a lot, and it took some time and self-reflection, but all the best things do. The thing a lot of people fail to realize about the grandiose ideals of a first kiss and a first love is that the word "first" automatically implies there will be another. At a young age, going into relationships with no experience and very little foresight, a person has no way of knowing that. But after getting a few bumps and bruises from love, you start to realize that "first" is no guarantee of "last," and more importantly, you learn how to be okay with that. It takes time, forgiveness, and an incredible amount of growth, but being honest with yourself about the totality of your experiences -- good and bad -- is what catapults you to where you're meant to be in the future. In the right place, at the right time, so when the next person comes along... you're ready.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 2 (Your Earliest Memory)

Day 2: Your earliest memory

I'm not sure which one of these memories happened before the other, but I know they were both pretty early in my life. The first one I think of is at my fourth birthday party, in our new house in the country. I remember it because I wore a giant, poofy dress and my grandma gave me my first Walkman and cassette tape. It was called "21 Really Cool Songs For Kids" and I listened to it through those black fuzzy headphones for days and and days. It was 1998. I don't really remember anything else about it.

The second memory I can clearly remember is one where I am sitting on the creaky, hardwood floor in my grandma's living room, playing a block puzzle with her, trying to make out an image of Winnie the Pooh and Piglet. I think I must've been older here, because I remember talking to her about Roosevelt, and said to me, "Your Pop went to Roosevelt. Did you know that?" And somehow it was more comforting to me as a young child to know that my grandpa had gone to the elementary school where I'd soon be going, because I was too young to realize that a) he went there fifty years earlier and b) elementary school isn't scary.

I am not surprised in the least that both of these two early memories involve my Nana Pat. She died when I was 11, but the pages of those first 11 years of my life are scribbled overwhelmingly with her name.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 1 (Five Problems With Social Media)

Day 1: Five problems with social media

1. I'm too connected. It's way too easy for me to creep on people. Both the people who I like and the people I don't. I can all too easily get sucked into the black hole of Facebook creeping my teacher's daughter's college roommate's brother at 3:00 in the morning before I even realize I'm doing it. I know too much about all the people who I never cared to know about in the first place.

2. Nobody is telling the whole truth. Instagram, anyone? How many filters does that thing have? Is there a zit on my forehead? You'll never know. Is their relationship as happy as their 17,000 selfies would imply? Probably not. My point is, sure, the things we share on social media are reflections of the truth of our lives. We're not completely making things up. But they're rarely the honest truth about our lives with the gritty details. We all choose to share things that make us look good, rather than publicizing the D- we just got on our midterm.

3. It's the only way I know it's someone's birthday. Or that they have a new job, or boyfriend, or baby. By the same token that I am overwhelmed with details of everyone's lives, I also wouldn't know much of the gossip or updates about others' lives if it weren't for social media. Every relationship status update, engagement and pregnancy announcement, graduation party invitation, and wedding photo album upload keeps me in the loop. I am afraid to imagine how little I would actually know about the people in my life if we weren't connected on ten different social media platforms.

4. It kills my phone battery. And it happens fast. Right now, it's 10:53 a.m. and it already has only 58% left. My charger is in my bookbag and I have taken to carrying it with me everywhere as a habit, because I know it will be dead by 3:00 today. And no surprise! I've already been on Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Timehop, and Messenger today. Take a look around: everyone's neck is bent downward at a 45 degree angle as they flick their thumbs upward, scrolling through the day's latest updates. Ever been to an airport boarding area? People are huddled around electrical outlets like they're on life support. Everyone's batteries are constantly dying -- both figuratively and literally.

5. It makes us all too dependent on the approval of others. Likes, shares, views, favorites, retweets... Where does it end? How far into our subconscious do we allow all this approval to seep before we unwittingly become dependent upon it? That's a question I don't even want to think about.

My Mother

Few things in this world do any of us need more than our mother. Few people know us so well or can comfort us the same.

There was a long time during my youth when the person I wanted to see least was my mother. I said awful things about her and to her. I slammed the door to my bedroom at least a dozen times. I back talked her and she slapped my face only a fraction of what she should have.

A child so unruly grew into an adult with an appreciation so deep. My mother made sacrifices for all of us: my father, my sister, my brother, and me. She went without many things that she desired so we could have what we wanted instead. There were undoubtedly tough times when we did go without, and I will always remember them well. But I will never forget that she always did her best.

My mother's life has not always been easy, and as an extension, neither has mine. That's not to say she is a victim or that she is a helpless pawn in the game of life. It's to say, instead, that she has a fighting spirit; one which I know I inherited from her. I've seen her in moments of strength and weakness, laughing with joy and with tears of pain rolling down her cheeks. I have heard her make declarations in indignant anger and I have heard her say nothing as she is faced with disappointment. Many times I have witnessed these types of interactions without her even knowing I was watching.

I have learned things from her which I may not realize for another ten years. Just the same, I have taught her things that she never expected to learn. We have learned from each other, both from the ways we are different and the ways in which we are entirely too much alike. I often hear her words in my own voice. Everyday, I see her face in my own reflection. She is with me forever, wherever I go, whether I like it or not.

I doubt if there is a thing in this world of which my mother is more proud than her children. Besides her grandchildren, perhaps. Her pride is fierce and constant, and no matter how hard I try, I know I could never lose her love. She created me, after all, and then she set me free out into the world. As the days go by and I grow older, I realize that in a number of ways, I am her in miniature, and sometimes it's not always so bad. Ten years ago, I would've cringed at the thought, but adulthood brings with it a certain appreciation for all that your parents have done.

I have seen what it takes to be a mother and I have decided that it is likely not for me. It requires a patient kind of selflessness that I do not possess. It demands momentous sacrifice again and again. It means allowing your heart to beat outside of your chest, and consequently, it means worry in your heart and wrinkles on your forehead. It means being there for your child, even as they turn their back to you and spread their wings in the opposite direction. It means being available for every late night call that may ever come, about school, relationships, or careers. It means dropping your toddler off at daycare and praying you don't get another call about their misbehavior. It means, that for better or worse, you are at least a little bit responsible for who this tiny, malleable person becomes in the future, and that outcome hinges on every single moment, both big and small. It means being both the good cop and the bad cop, and having your teenager's attitude toward you change accordingly. It means refraining from smacking the mouthy little brat's mouth when they disrespect you in the mean-spirited way that only kids can. It means that you have to keep this extremely dependent human being alive to adulthood, and not get yourself killed in the process.

It means doing all of this, day in and day out, with no sick leave and no paid vacation time, for a minimum of eighteen years but usually much longer, in the hopes that someday, just maybe, they will realize all of this and be grateful to you for all you have done to make them possible -- both figuratively and literally.

My mother is many things to me. She is my support system, my champion, and my rock. She is my number one fan and my biggest critic. She asks too many questions and she too often tells me what to do. She is, on occasion, my best friend; but more often, she drives me crazy. She is three text messages and seven missed calls within an hour. She is a love note packed away inside my suitcase the night before I leave. She is the voice inside my head when I really don't want to make a decision. She is my backbone, my strong-willed stubbornness, and my determination. She is my pants and my bra both immediately taken off upon coming home after work. She is the sinkful of dirty dishes and the laundry hamper piled high. She is the salty sweet combination of every small motherly habit and every curse word I've ever heard. She is the reason I know what it means to love someone with all of my heart, but not to like them one little bit.

She may not be much to anyone else. But she is my mother, and without her I would not exist. She is the very reason I am breathing, and as such, she is the air within my lungs. She is my mother, and she is very much the reason I know love, and all of the beautiful things which derive from it.

College Friendships & International Exposure

I think back to August of 2012 when I made that first drive to Wichita all by myself, with my belongings all packed up and ready to move to college with me. I was only relocating an hour north, but at 18 years old, I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. I can remember feeling excited to finally live on my own and be able to go anywhere and do anything, at any time of the day or night without having to answer to my mother. I remember thinking what a huge, vast place Wichita was and how I was probably never going to learn how to get around or remember where anything was located. I also remember feeling like my heart had been ripped straight out of my chest when I drove out of my mom's driveway after kissing my three-year-old baby brother good-bye. I remember feeling so guilty because I just knew he was going to forget all about me and things were never going to be the same again (he didn't, and they were).

I was so sad and scared for many reasons which I was leaving behind, but it quickly occurred to me that I was also scared for a few reasons looking forward. I didn't have a job secured yet and I was unsure of just how long the money I'd made at my summer job would sustain my new college lifestyle. I was moving to a place with a higher crime rate and I couldn't help but imagine being mugged in the bad neighborhoods of the city I would now call home. But perhaps most daunting of all, now that I look back at that moment in my life, is a fear which is far less tangible and  much more realistic: I did not know a single person in Wichita. I was the only one from my graduating class to be going to WSU as a freshman, and while I was very excited about getting away from the people I'd long ago outgrown, it also momentarily paralyzed me with panic.

I had no one. The realization really hit me that first night when I went to bed in my dark new dorm room, all by myself, without my Mommy, my baby brother, my best friend, or my boyfriend. I only had myself. My roommate hadn't arrived yet and there was no guarantee I'd like her when she did (I didn't). I was just going to have to make friends in my classes and cross my fingers that I'd eventually find some people who would understand me.

It took some time at first, but eventually I did find my own little tribe of various misfits and weirdos.

Freshman year was rough, and I really only still speak to one person who I knew at that time. I like to think of that first year as the awkward freshman year that a lot of people experience, where you try your hand at a lot of different things just to find out what you like and see what sticks. My roommate and I didn't have much in common and we lived in an unhealthy silence for the entire year. This greatly shaped my outlook on making new friends. My suitemate and I, however, banded together for a while, but towards the end of the year that began to disintegrate as our paths went in separate directions. I'd made a few other friends through work (I actually ended up getting a job before August was even over, and I stayed there for a year) and various other activities. At the end of the year, though, I left Wichita to go home for the summer still feeling pretty alone.

The following year was really the turning point in my college career. You always hear stories where people say "we met in college" or they talk about how they went to college with their best friends/bridesmaids/groomsmen. This is the really profound part of my journey where I first encountered those kinds of characters in my life's story. I moved into a different residence hall, partially by choice, and partially because the university's administration kicked returning students out of where I'd previously lived. It doesn't really matter now how my path led me there, because I ended up exactly where I was meant to be. I was at Brennan.

I cannot count on both my hands all of the countries represented in Brennan. There are a lot. Within the first week of living there, I had made new friends from all over the world; from places I'd never known anyone from before; and certainly from places I could not identify on a map. Brennan was a hodge-podge of so many different ethnicities and nationalities, due in part to its close location to the International Education office, and also because it had the cheapest housing rates available. Throwing so many international students and domestic students together in two buildings certainly had its quirks.

Although we came from many different cultures individually, the combined culture of Brennan was one rich in brutal honesty, immense sexual innuendo, racist jokes, and mild sexism. We all spent entirely too much time together, frequently invaded one another's personal space, knew terrible truths about each other, and at some point everyone had been pissed off at someone else. Despite all of our various differences, what kept us together were the things we had in common. We were one giant, usually loving, always misbehaving, slightly dysfunctional, multi-colored family.

I have this big world map on my wall right above my bed this year, where I put little adhesive tags with the names of my loved ones on it. I am a visual learner and seeing my friends spread out geographically like that really puts it into context for me. There are some tabs on the map which represent people who I did not meet through Brennan, and I cherish those international friendships just as dearly. I know by my age, plenty of people have accomplished much more. But I'm quite proud of being twenty-one-and-a-half years old and having friends from six out of seven continents. (Does anyone really live in Antarctica anyway?)

The Brennan residence hall has since been shut down by the administration, and we dispersed in different directions. We all feel collectively pretty sad and even a little bitter about it, but I remember what a friend told me last year: "Brennan's not a building. It's a community." A group of us moved together into another residence hall after it closed, and we still hang out regularly. It's not quite the same as it was before, but just like anything else in life, it has evolved as time has gone on. A few of the members of my Brennan family have since returned back to their home countries, and while I always hate it when the international students leave, Facebook does help keep us close. And I doubt if they know this, but I assume that I have a place to stay in any of their home countries if ever I should need it.

I look at this map on my wall, and I think back to my freshman year in Wichita. I spent that first lonely night in my empty dorm room, just a few doors down in the very hall where I sleep now. I didn't know a single person when I moved to (what I thought was) a big city three years ago. Wichita seemed cold and lonely and truly terrifying to even the most headstrong of eighteen-year-old girls.

Apart from my time spent cultivating international relationships at Brennan, I did travel abroad for the first time in college, which inspired me to take a solo trip to check out an even bigger city later. When I look at my map of friends and see how far away the places I've been are located from the tag that says "Mom & Zane", I realize that the one hour drive from home to Wichita in 2012 was not so far, afterall.

I have grown an incredible amount in such a short span of time during my college years. I know I'm responsible for most of it myself, but I don't pretend that at least part of that growth has been due to them; those little adhesive tags littered all over my map, which represent living, breathing people, with whom I've lived, slept, ate, argued, and known on a very real level. Without even one of those people in my life, I would not be the very person I am today. Nobody can do everything in this world on their own, least of all grow.

Three years ago when I made that interminable drive to Wichita with all my belongings, the thought never once crossed my mind that I was driving toward such meaningful friendships and such varied cultural exposure. I felt so alone in a city of 380,000. I knew no one. Now, a short time later, I feel so at home all over the world; and it all changed within the same city limits.

Now I feel I'm outgrowing Wichita, just as I felt when I outgrew Ark City. I made a big girl leap into a bigger city 50 miles away, even though I was scared. It took some time and adjustment, but I now know I survived. Having that knowledge and experience under my belt, I am now much more fearless to do it again, on a larger scale.

It's strange to think that so much has changed in such a short amount of time. But meeting so many people from so many places (along with my own traveling experience) has taught me that I can indeed go anywhere and do anything, because I now know I can make a home and find friends anywhere at all in this world, no matter how scared and alone I might feel when I first arrive. I've just got to look around to find my own little tribe of misfits and weirdos, wherever I may be. They look different and they come from different places, but no matter where I may go, they're there: friendships waiting to be made.

"Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open." - Albus Dumbledore