Lost Cause.

Boys are such a lost cause. Like really. Either he's sweet and you have to teach him how to be the slightest bit spontaneous, or he's a crude animal and you have to smack his hand away every five seconds before giving up completely and storming off. And wouldn't you think they get better as they age? Aren't they supposed to mature? Think again. The selection process is hard and tiring and never gets any better. If you're one of the few who've found a good one, congratulations. In the most non-catty or jealous way I am really happy for you. But for everyone else, just because the battle is hard to fight it doesn't mean disable your armor or surrender completely. Eventually all jerks will get burned, and smacked with whatever suckish vibes they've thrown out there. Keep calm, and remain fabulous. The boys will leave the rusty playground to come inquire about the world's finer things at some point. And when they do, life will be exciting and flawless again. Never change.

A NoBerry Morning.

Sunny days! I woke up refusing to feel or act tired on that Monday morning. The sun rose in the sky, filling my room with enough natural light to add the finishing touches on my makeup and eye-catching accessories to my outfit. I look great, feel great and I'm out the door. On time for once, I decided to swing by Bojangles on the way to school. I park the car, grabbed my bags, my BoBerry biscuit in-hand and headed to my class. I'd heard my jam driving into the parking lot, so on my way to class I was doing this strut/bounce thing. Obviously I was too giddy for my own good because I stumbled, tossing my BoBerry high into the foggy morning sky. My mouth gaped while I watched the iced beauty fall to the concrete in shear misery. Forget having a good day. Forget that BoBerry. Forget school. I'm done.

When the Game Goes South.

     I love being there for my players. Those are my girls, my teammates, my friends. I love them all so much and I thrive on our relationship. I want so badly to see them all succeed. Today was a tough game, we took a team to four sets, and lost in a crowd-gasping heartbreaker. The twist to what sounds like just another loss was having a personal relationship with our opponent. She was a friend to a few of our girls, and an acquaintance to some others. The entire team wanted to beat her, I know we did. But for reasons unmentioned we just could not get it done. Even at two points before the final whistle I could tell the team had given up. Nothing was in our favor, from the fat, blind, old, bias referees *breathe* to our own energy on our side of the net. When the game was finally over, we were crushed. Some of the stronger members on our team were knocked down by emotion. Frustration and sadness filled to the brim of their eyes, and for some it overflowed onto their face. Deep, quick breaths- that's how I kept from crying (that and trying to make jokes with the parents), but I couldn't just ignore the others. I formed my encouraging words in my head then approached them as needed. Seeing them cry made me tear up, I fought so hard to keep it down. I needed them to be okay, I wanted to confirm in them that they had played a great game and no one could take that away from them. Some I high fived, some I caressed, some I embraced and some I simply spoke to; they all needed something different but whatever that was I had to give it to them. Being one of two seniors and the oldest on the team, it is my job, as a leader to be their rock and friend. I love those girls, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for them. You can't win them all. Sucks, doesn't it?

Stupid Femininity.

Why Lord?! Why?!  I would like to ask The Lord one day why in the world He felt that there was value in placing an annoying, red suicide prompt inside the female body. Monthly, or if I'm lucky once every three, this tragedy condemns me. It disables me mentally and definitely physically. For Miley's sake I cannot walk! The initial gut-wrenching feeling that throws me onto the nearest surface in a ball, curled up with my stomach and face cringing makes me mad. I don't see the point! The fact that I can't simply button my pants or even where a skirt (for fear of too much freedom) is just frustrating. Curse men. The way they complain about life sickens me, especially when there is absolutely no evidence of a monthly death in their biological histories. Blessed animals is what they are.