To start my own blog.
Okay, not exactly “Simple” but… I wanted my own platform. I didn’t like having this deadline – well, it wasn’t even the deadline. It was more that you’re writing for a platform where they basically just want listicles all day err’day and when they don’t want that, they typically suggest more click-bait topics. I don’t like click-bait. I like real. I like things that can make you laugh or cry or sound amusing, not just for views or shares. I did have my time though and I had some pretty well-off pieces as well with a bunch of views.
I don’t write for the views though, I write because that’s what’s in my heart and soul. Because I NEED to.
Anyway, everyone has always said “You should start a blog” whenever I told them I liked to write so here I am, here’s my blog people!!! GET READING 🙂 !!
Tell me why I let him
And I’ll tell you why I love
You take a sip from the devil’s cup,
but it wasn’t a gulp.
Playing soccer, one could once say, was my passion. At one point in high school I was on three different teams. After the passion it felt like a long-term relationship. Playing soccer was a comfort, safety, stability and proved to be there for the long haul. I mean, I spent fifteen years of my short life playing. Long story short, I’ve gone (over)a year without it.
Sure, I can yoga my little heart out- but does that really compare to the rush of defending your net from a tie? The thrill of scoring a winning goal or playing right along side your best friends? And no, playing a pick up game every once in a while doesn’t count- or maybe it does count, but it isn’t enough for me.
As much as I can say I hated suicides, conditioning, a losing streak, I think what’s worse is how much I miss it. The perks of playing far better than not. But work gets in the way, school gets in the way and next thing you know, you haven’t played in I-dunno-how-long!
Call me what you want
But my anger will remain
The rasp in my voice and voluptuous lips I’ll flaunt
When I speak I won’t refrain
He feeds on me through the night
I can’t help but let it
As if he’s a sort of parasite
This is information I omit
He’ll yell, scream, curse with strife
Not at me, just at friends
It’s hard to believe I long to be his wife.
They think I’ll wed and meet my life ends,
What they think doesn’t matter to me.
It’s all about him and I, can’t you see?
Having something to go home to
Is all I ever wanted
My anger doesn’t know what to do
I can’t help but feel haunted
He said I didn’t understand his brain
I said I didn’t understand his anger
He doesn’t understand mine, yet I refrain.
With Easter coming up, I figure to share a Bible quote that really resonates with me:
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never put it out
I share a bedroom with my 72 year old grandma with dementia. She’s been living with us full time for about a year. She sleeps in the other bed in my room.
She’s a very happy-go-lucky, loopy dementia’d grandma. We call her Poppit (which is a term of endearment for children in England). She has a British accent that all my friends love as it makes her sound innocent even though my Poppit does get up to some scheming.
She remembers some things, but not others. She’ll remember I have a boyfriend, or if I was supposed to be going on a trip somewhere, but she won’t remember speaking on the phone to a relative that day or even if she ate lunch. She will tell you she’s not hungry for ages but if you mention chocolate, suddenly she’s starving. She’s dramatic in her reactions – ” I’m ABSOLUTELY exhausted!” – meanwhile she’s watched Judge Judy all day. “I’m ABSOLUTELY starving!” – meanwhile we’ve tried to give her pasta, chicken, pizza, etc but she’s not in the mood for any of that. Like my mom always said, if someone’s “STARVING” they’ll eat whatever’s in front of them. And so no, this isn’t just the dementia. It’s her personality to be picky. She doesn’t remember why she’s so tired or hungry, she just is.
She’s a huge fan of Judge Judy, Ed Sheeran and American Idol. She reacts with the audience quite well, sometimes believing these people are talking to her and she’ll speak back to the television. During the day she’ll watch the old-school original “Bewitched.” She goes to a prayer group on Monday nights with her church.
She is quite a character, my poppit. But a lovable one at that.
Not me, but Earth
Did He see you up there?
Did He greet you up there?
He said he wouldn’t leave
So how did I end up alone?
By leave, I thought he meant me.
Not this Earth.
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