While in Orlando I decided to give something else a try…. getting rid of my use of plastic straws. I carried a metal straw every day instead which I got for $20 from obeehive. It’s a better alternative than using plastic.
It was easy. I never needed a straw and instead had this metal one to replace it. The amount of straws I actually didn’t use was quite a few so it made me a lot more aware!! I encourage everyone to buy their own reusable straw and do this as well.
Every little bit of effort counts in making this world a better place, so doing your part even if it means using a reusable straw is still a great feat. Many will pose the question, “straws aren’t even that big of a deal” “I’m only 1 person”; well if restaurants and places have to buy less straws to begin with then that is doing something to their market. Maybe it’ll become just as affordable to buy eco-friendly straws!
Anyway, rant over. Get yourself a reusable straw, they’re easy to use, convenient and most come with a case and a little straw cleaner as well!
There’s so many reasons why I am for and against sharing poetry. I like the idea of sharing it due to the fact that like… I want people to read my stuff. I want them to relate. I want them to connect with me, or I just want their reaction of “wow”. Obviously some poetry is too cliche, some is too non relatable, but either way, I like the idea of poetry can connect people on a deeper level.
I just hate sharing poetry because it can feel like giving away a piece of me. Someone might hate it, judge me so harshly, meanwhile it felt like I was pouring my soul out while I wrote it. This is just the qualms of being a writer, I guess.
One of my favorite things about sharing poetry though is when people write to me telling me how they couldn’t put that thought, or that feeling into words, but that it describes them perfectly. Such a rewarding feeling.
A lot of people aren’t as in tune to their feelings either. It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I’ll just keep posting my poetry and hope you all love it. Kloveubye.
Let me break it down for you since this is one of the best programs out there for young woman and if you reside in the NYC metro area should be definitely something to consider.
The basic requirements is 14-24 year olds of all different shapes and sizes. It’s a dream of a gig: you audition to be a model- you don’t need any experience, you don’t have to be 5’10. You don’t have to have a particular style or any of the above- simply just need one thing: and that’s to be yourself. On top of all the photo shoots and the runway experience at the end, it’s free.
Shortstack works as a bit of a two-fold process. There’s the whole “modeling”, “photo shoots”, and learning how to actually pose. But first, this is what sets them apart. They have self-esteem workshops, team building exercises, helping not only your self growth but instead of it being made into a skewed competition, everyone is cheering for one another. You learn to love them as if they’re your own sister and you become a family. They have lovely directors and the creators who made it all possible to begin with are so admirable.
My own experience happened like this: I heard of it by people who were in Queens when I was around 16. No way in hell would I have had the nerve to model back then. I was a total tomboy. Why would I be into fashion? Next, my ex boyfriend and I broke up a month before auditions. Okay, maybe I do have some spare time. I convinced one of my BFFs to apply with me (she’s all into the hair/makeup biz) and we did it. Auditioned. I had stage fright and the idea of people staring at me could’ve made me vomit but I got over it.
I legitimately loved every person in my year. The runway show was a total thrill. I met older girls who gave me life and we’re apart of the “veterans” so I had a couple of amazing ladies to aspire to radiate that confidence and sexiness. I had my first experience of being on a radio show to talk!
Shortstack changed me as a person and transformed my outlook on life: I could do anything.
I will forever be grateful to my impulse in “just doing it”, the inspiring people I came to love and the support they gave me emotionally and mentally. And hell yeah I did my first runway show!
I love the idea of journaling although I don’t do it that often. Here’s my journaling life (remember, I’m 23 years old)
From about 8-15/16 years old I journaled my whole life. I’d sometimes just write parts of my day, what I’m doing that week, how things went. It was just practice for writing. I enjoyed it a lot but when you get older, you don’t have time for it anymore. I don’t even know how I had time then since I was on a bunch of sports teams.
Last September I had the brilliant idea: lEtS mAkE A BuLleT jOuRnAL
Well, that worked out for maybe a month. I bought my washi tape, stencils, colored pencils, sooo many stickers. It was the cutest thing ever. If I find it then I could totally post pictures because I had a daily, weekly, monthly. I had a page for savings, for mood. I was so into it. Then I just couldn’t keep up with it and bought a regular planner and that’s what I’ve been using since (MY PLANNER IS MY LIFE)
My planner is my life in the sense that if it’s not written in my planner, it’s not happening. I’m not talking about chores or errands (although some I still write, to make sure it gets done if it’s desperate), but some things are a M*U*S*T. Schoolwork, what days I’m working at my job, trips, meetings, blog posts, word count, novel writing. This all goes into the planner. The most important stuff in my life.
Basically my life revolves around an agenda. Who can relate?
“Mom?” I’d whisper in the darkness
I knew she could sense me
She protected me like a harness.
“Please” I’d beg and cry
My mother was strong, that was fact
I knew we wouldn’t die
But it was often hard to tell, with daddy on the attack.
“No” I felt like screaming, whimpering
through my tears
Slamming myself into my cage, her body
I wanted to be burn but daddy
I knew he wouldn’t have me;
I could tell from the very start.
He would constantly tell my mother
“Lets go and rip this one apart.”
She would scream “no” and he would tell her “yes”
And my mother’s face would be in the windshield,
breaking the glass.
He wanted me dead and
Now I’m alive instead
and I knew
One day he’d beat her, til she’s dead
Now mom has no more pulse and
is in the ground
with bugs around.
And I can’t help but think of me to be the same.
Writing a blog is tough! Hard work. Especially if you’re writing #365 like me 🙂 heh! No complaints here though.
It’s tough to pick a niche so why not write about everything like me? Hehehee. This is more of a lifestyle blog: Travel, school, writings, yoga. Of course, I am a writer so I share some poems and short stories that I have written from years ago until I eventually catch up to now. It’ll be more recent works but until then I want to share the poetry I used to write (I never write poems anymore).
I read more than I write (college heh) so let’s give you a list of my currently reading:
1. The Great Alone (being made a movie!!)
2. You (Current Netflix series)
The reads that are coming soon:
2. Game of Thrones
And the reads I finished just recently:
1. Cocktails for Three
2. Passing by Nella Larsen
All of these books are so completely different from one another but still completely interesting and grips you from the beginning.
I’ll make a list of MUST READS for the summer soon. Books, books, books. My favorite!
To have something to go home to
That’s all I ever wanted
My siblings stayed while I flew
A stalker can make you feel haunted
I guess you can say my flaws were flaunted
He couldn’t find me
In my dreams I was taunted.
Darkness is not as dark as my dad’s eyes
When he left no one thought he’d close the door.
He didn’t just close but slammed it with lies,
It’s fine; none of us could take it any more
Loneliness is not a defense, he always said
Life isn’t easy, not like your mother
And yes, he knows, Jameson will have em’ dead
So come on now boy, pour me another
He can’t help himself my mom always says
Is that an excuse for his lifeless soul?
You reap what you sew when your life’s a mess
He will rot in the ground and burn like coal
So as said, that door is slammed shut and won’t
he made his own coffin.
Don’t get me wrong here now, writing creatively for me is a passion. It is my livelihood, it enhances all my senses and provides a thrill I constantly seek. If I could be an author and write books as my lifestyle, gladly would choose that. (Special Surprise coming your way!)
But I’ve often had a difficult time liking creative writing classes, despite my overwhelming interest in it.
I took a creative writing class in high school. Loved it. Love, love, love. My teacher had just come back from teaching English in South Korea and was totally worldly and engaging so the stories that she told I found myself in another world. Her exercises and prompts were also fun and got me to think outside of the box. During high school summer break, I decided upon myself that I’d go to a writing camp for a week, which I was also totally obsessed with. Then came college.
I did not enjoy my first creative writing class. I found it tedious. We’d get short story prompts about novels that we were reading – basically it felt as if I were writing some type of fan fiction. My purpose of taking the class was to discuss, workshop, practice getting better at cultivating my art form. I wanted a class that focuses more on MY writing, as in the writing and stories I already have going, than a class on learning different styles of writing. Perhaps it’s just me not finding the right class, but I think it was more than that.
For the most part, I’ve found a lot of creative writing professors to be pompous and arrogant in their styles. They think their writing is superb (which, like most writers, don’t we all think our own works suck??? Not these professors!) It’s just disturbing.
And no, I am NOT claiming that I’m an amazing writer at all. My whole purpose of having a blog is just to flex my writing muscles! But that doesn’t mean to say that they are perfect writers themselves.
Maybe one day I’ll find the writing class I’ve been looking for.
There is a pain in your eyes
I see it when you smile.
And when you laugh and cry
I see it when you talk about tomorrow.
Because truly you know the
days are numbered.