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message 1: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Friday 6-1-12, 12:36 AM

I've never had an official blog, so I'm a bit lacking in experience. I'll start with introducing myself, even though I have in other topics as well.

My name is Cheyenne, and I'm a writer. That's pretty much everything you need to know about my existence, although there are many other things that define me.

For this first posting, I think I'll talk about my home.

I live in California. If you've never been here, you're probably picturing sunny skies and beaches, hot girls with bikini tan lines. Everyone here is white, right? Everyone is tan, everyone is fit. And it's ALWAYS summer. Right? Wrong.

White people. If you think there's nothing but white people in California, you're incorrect. Especially if your mind suggests Sacramento. I am the only white person in many of my classes at school. There are so many blacks, asians, mexicans, indians, etc. that I'm almost frightened if I'm met with more than ten white people in one place. One might compare me to a grain of salt in a pepper shaker. If I'm thrust into an all white community, my first thought is "What the HELL is going on here???"

Oh sunny skies. Oh California where it's hot in winter. Wait, what? Let me enlighten you on the weather, there was a tornado warning on the night of open house my sophomore year. That's right. Hail, rain, wind. Screaming trees and leaves attacking your face. Fortunately when you're in choir with a sound system you can crank up the music and pretend you aren't thinking you're about to die.

I go to Florin High, home of the panthers. People who don't live in our community look at us and say, "Oh look, there's the thugs. Those ghetto kids from Florin. Watch your purse, they might steal something." People think we've got gang fights everyday, and they assume every kid's always either got a knife or a gun on them. (I normally have a knife on me, but that's beside the point. That's for if my mom's car breaks down and I have to walk home. Where I live, that's the REAL ghetto.) People look down on our school. They think, oh those Florin kids can't become anything. They're all stupid anyway. A lot of us are troubled, it's true. Many of us drink or do drugs, a lot of us have kids already. We're even called the Pregnant Panthers. And it's true. More often than not, there are at least two pregnant girls on campus. I even recently attended a friend's baby shower. She's due next month. But you can't judge us for those things. Life is hard, especially here. We're slapped together with so many stereotypes that a lot of us have trouble breaking free of them. People don't look at our theatre. They don't look at all the kids who are amazing actors. People don't look at our accomplishments. The seniors of 2012 earned thousands upon thousands of dollars in grants and scholarships. The valedictorian got a GPA of 4.7. Our show choir got 2nd place in Music in the Parks, where choirs from all over the country compete. People only see that a lot of Florin's teens do drugs. They don't see the story behind those teens. People only see that so many of us have kids. They don't see that even the teen parents show up to school everyday. People only see that we're ghetto. They don't see our compassion. They don't see that LGBT teens are tolerated and even accepted at Florin. They don't see that when the banner for Special Ed is carried across the gym during a rally, we scream louder than for any other program. They see that at senior grad night nearly thirty chairs are empty. They don't see that a mentally handicapped young man is the first one on the stage, recieving his diploma. People only see the fights on youtube. They don't see the friendship.

And now you have a good picture of my home, and of the misconceptions of my state and school. Don't get me wrong, Florin IS ghetto. We DO have drugs. We DO cuss a lot. We ARE parents. But we are brothers and sisters. We look out for each other. And we are probably one of the most diverse schools in the world.

This is our "theme song":

Maroon and gold will always be
A symbol of our pride
For in defeat, and victory
We hold our heads up high
Our spirit knows no boundary
Our loyalty is true
Our name we love 'til the end of time
Forever Florin High


message 2: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 04, 2012 02:19PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Friday 6-1-2012, 9:19 AM

My earliest memory is when I was three years old. I'm going to describe one memory, for each year of my life that I can remember.

3: I was sitting in the back seat of my mom's old cougar. We were taking my sister to school. It was her birthday, and the cupcakes were sitting next to my carseat. My sister turned around to glare at me and said, "You BETTER not touch those cupcakes." So when she turned back around I stuck my tongue out at the back of her head and swiped a finger full of icing off of one of the cupcakes. I can't remember if she noticed.

4: I was sick with the flu or something. Throwing up every few minutes, trying to keep my 101 dalmations nightgown clean. There was a short period when I didn't become ill, so I thought I was better. I asked my brother Andrew for a cookie. He kind of gave me a skeptical look, asked if I was sure I could keep it down. I told him yes of course, and he gave me a cookie. It didn't even take five minutes for it to come back up.

5: When I was five years old, I had an Uncle. His name was Mark. He seemed to me the most wonderful person that ever existed, but of course he was only a man. He had three kids, and two dogs I believe. I used to love going to his house and playing on the swingset in his backyard. Brooke, one of his daughters, even taught me how to swing right there in the backyard. Uncle Mark was always fair with punishments. I remember when I acted up he would take me outside and draw a circle with chalk on the sidewalk. Then he would tell me I was on time out and I had better not leave that circle until he said so. But I loved him still. One day, I forgot my backpack at home. My mother took me back to the house and we hurried inside to get it. But my mother didn't come out of her room after I'd grabbed my backpack. I thought I'd heard the telephone ring a few minutes earlier, so I went to her bedroom to check. To this day, I haven't forgotten what I saw. She was sitting on her bed, her pretty face falling into lines and crinkles. Her hands were in her hair and tears wet her cheeks. My backpack forgotten in the hallway, I rushed onto her lap to hug her and comfort her. I remember telling her (as I have many times since) "Mommy, it's okay. Are you all right? It's going to be okay." She looked at me with a fresh burst of tears. "No baby, Mommy's not all right. Your Uncle Mark was just killed." I did not go back to school that day.

6: When I was six years old, I had a lovely teacher named Mrs. Young. She was like a goddess, so sweet, so kind. She never raised her voice at us, and she never had to. When my mother had to work, she would drop me off at school with a rubber band and a hair brush, telling me to ask my teacher to fix my hair. So every morning I sat on Mrs. Young's lap at the beginning of class and she brushed my hair and put it up.

7: When I was seven years old I got to know my brother's girlfriend. (Yes, they are still together many years later. They are now married with two children.) It didn't take long for her to figure out that I absolutely loved horses. This was when she told me that she loved horses too, and she even had one. So that started the period of time when she picked me up every saturday and we went to the ranch. I can't remember exactly how long she instructed me, but I do know that those months or years were a very happy time.

8: Many things happened in my 8th year of life, but for now I will tell you two things. The first thing was that I bought a Raider's hat at a gas station. Yes, the team is horrible, yes they are widely hated. But they were my uncle's favorite team and so to this day they remain mine. Now for the longer story. When I first went into kindergarten, it was discovered that I had a hole in my eardrum. I was taken to my doctor, and he told my mother that I would need surgery to repair it. He thought that I was much too young however to have a surgery at five. So they delayed it three years, which brings me to my 8th year. I did NOT want to have surgery. I was absolutely terrified. They put me in a room where my vitals were checked, my clothing was removed and replaced with a flimsy hospital gown. Then they wheeled me out on my hospital bed into an elevator. Folks stared at me as I went by, but I stared at them too with my wide, frightened eyes. Then I was taken up to the operating floor where they put me in another room. There was a man there, with huge meaty hands. He kept messing up on my IV, and by the fifth try I was crying and my mother screamed at them to just knock me out and then put the IV in. So I was taken to yet another room, where a gas mask was put over my face and I got to pick the "flavor" which was really just them smearing scented chapstick on the inside of the mask. My mother was not in this room. When I woke up, I had wires all over me. I was in a hospital room in a bed, and there was no one to be seen. I had a thick bandage over my head, covering my ear which was sore. I began to cry as I tugged at the thing on my head, trying to get it off. Then a male nurse came into view. He gave me a look of disgust and said, "What are you crying for?! Do you want a popsicle?" Five minutes later I was suckling on a red one, trying to calm my tears, when my mother came into the room. I believe I was out of school for a week or two, and when I went back I had to wear this ridiculous cup thing on my ear that strapped across my forehead. I hated it with a passion.

9: When I was nine years old, I went back to the doctor to check on my ear. They had shaved part of my hair off the side of my head to use skin from above my ear. (Thank God the hair grew back. Now it hides a thick scar just above my left ear, where they took skin.) I had gone in shortly after the surgery, and this was a followup appointment. Guess what? The hole came back. And I now had hearing loss, very slight. But it was there. Another surgery was scheduled. They repaired the hole once more, using skin from above my ear again and shaving part of my hair. A few months later, the hole was back again. So they tried another surgery. This time they used fat tissue from my bellybutton. (I now have scars there as well.) A few months later again, the hole came back. And now, with a hole in my eardrum accompanied by the scar tissue of three failed surgeries, my hearing loss had worsened. To this day I go in every six months for a hearing test. And at every hearing test I am informed that my hearing loss has worsened. In ten years perhaps, the function of my left ear will be completely gone. I don't know. But I do know that even though those doctors were trying to help me, they made my life harder. Hearing loss is not fun. School is difficult. And I have (like many deaf or hearing impaired kids) a resistant parent. What this means, is that my parent is resistant to getting me a hearing aid. It is not seen as needed. Many kids have the same problem with their parents.

10: When I was ten years old I met a boy named Tristin. His grandma lived next door, and often times a summer day found us deep in the fields of my farm, catching ladybugs and sinking our booted feet through swamps of mud. One day he asked me to be his girlfriend. Actually, his dog asked me to be Tristin's girlfriend. Finding this very cute, I said yes. And so I got my very first boyfriend. Nothing between us changed. We still played in the fields, or rode our bikes down to my Uncle Glen's and Aunt Dorus's ranch to feed the donkeys or chase the cat. Where we ended up, well that's a story for the next year of my life.

11: They wanted to move. My parents I mean. I cried and begged until my shirt was wet with tears and snot, but they wouldn't listen. My father wanted to be closer to my sister Katy. We moved the same year. I still remember loading boxes into the back of the trunk, staring into the next yard where Tristin's blotchy eyes mirrored my own. His little sister gave me a kiss on the cheek as a farewell, and he did not say a word. He just watched as I disappeared down the road, and I watched him. I went to Ione Elementary for the last week of fifth grade. My Aunt Nina was very ill. The day I went to school with tears staining my cheeks was the day she passed on. The summer was better though, and not as sad. I made a few friends who lived near me. There was a boy named Daniel. You can guess where that was going. It was the same summer I met a very good friend, Diane. So my days those summer months were spent with Daniel, and Diane. They were spent riding bikes, and fishing at the pond, and even having my first kiss. But how long could my happiness last, really?

12: My 12th year. We lived in the same place we'd moved to. I was at the junior high now, in sixth grade. There's no other way to put this without going into a long story, which I have already done. When I was twelve years old my dad tried to commit suicide. Thank God we called 911 in time. Ambulences came, he was rushed to the hospital, and he got his stomach pumped. (I wrote a story based on the occurance. It was published in "From the Grove". If you're interested in reading it, you can buy it on amazon. I believe it's four or five bucks) He never told me why he tried, and I never asked. But I never looked at him the same again. My dad, who taught me to fish and let me sit on his lap even though he had a lame leg and back. The same man who brushed my hair as a child even though his hands were stiff and calloused, and it was difficult for him to even open a can of beer. Now when I looked at him, I did not see something immortal. I did not see something that could never be taken from me. Now I knew that I could lose him any day, any time. This should have prepared me for my 13th year, right? Wrong.

13: I turned thirteen while I was in seventh grade. My sister had a panic attack toward the end of the school year. Clawing her arms, shaking. The whole bit. She almost went into cardiac arrest. Now before I tell you the reason for this attack, you need to understand something about my sister. And you need to understand something about my dad. My dad drank a lot. But he never yelled at us, he never hit us. He never touched me or my sister once except to pull us down into his chair to smother us with a hug or to mess up our pony tales with a ruffle. The most he's ever done to me is grab my pony tale and pull on it jokingly. Now as for my sister. She is never happy. So when my mother met her at the hospital, my sister told her it was HIM. It was my dad. MY DAD was stressing her out. She couldn't handle it. So, when I came home from school the next day, my dad was gone. Just like that. I finished off school, and then we moved away. So, for the second time in my life I stared out the window while a boy slowly grew smaller and smaller. But this time it wasn't Tristin, it was Daniel. And this time I wasn't just losing a silly boy. This time I was losing my dad as well.

14: My fourteenth year of life. This was the year I finished off middle school. I had a best friend. Her name was Ashley. We met in Ione, where I moved to during fifth grade and left after seventh. She moved back to the Elk Grove area shortly before I did. So, even though we didn't go to the same school, we talked more and more. She was wild and crazy, and she brought out that side in me. She used to be much smaller than me, but by the time we were fourteen she was taller. Her body matured much faster than mine, and while I had to wear skin tight jeans and a shirt for my small chest and slim hips to be the least noticeable, her curves were striking even in sweats and a T-shirt. No matter how we changed, we remained best friends. That was the year, my freshman year of high school, that she moved out of state.

**Continued on next post**


message 3: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 04, 2012 08:02PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Monday 6-4-2012, 2:31 PM

The continuation of my last post had to be delayed because I went out of town for a few days. It was a refreshing stay, but anyways here's the rest of it:

**Continued from last post**

15: There's a lot I could tell you about my fifteenth year of life. I could tell you about Binh, whom I was dating off and on since 8th grade, but I won't. I'll save that story for the next year. There was one more remarkable thing. So, when I started my freshman year of high school I was obsessed with researching scholarships. I was still fourteen when I found a poetry contest that had a scholarship prize. I wrote a poem and revised it many times. Then I had several teachers revise it, and then Mrs. Escobar, VP of Florin High. When I was confident with my work, I sent the poem in. I do believe it was after I turned 15 that I found out my poem was selected to be published. I received a copy and flipped through the pages with shaking fingers. I couldn't find it. I didn't see my poem anywhere. It was close to the last page, and it was a "Best of Issue" nominee. One of five. An online vote took place to select the "Best of Issue" winner. This was where the scholarship came in. Well, it took many months for me to be notified, but eventually I found out. I won. My poem was named "Best of Issue" and I got the scholarship.

16: There are two things I want to tell you about. One is good, the other not so good. So I will tell you the not-so-good one first, and finish off with the good one. When I was young, my dad's best friend stayed with us off and on. Sometimes for a week straight. He was always around. He used to get down in the dirt with me and play with my plastic animals. When the doctors told me I couldn't swim under water anymore because of my ear, I would sit by the edge of the deep end of the pool for hours and toss rocks and things into the water. Dennis (my dad's best friend) would dive in and retrieve everything I threw down. I liked to watch him swim under the water. It was the closest I could get to doing it myself. Two months after I turned 16, I was working on my book. I had just broken the three hundredth page. I was so excited, and then I looked up and saw my mom standing at my shoulder. The look on her face made me scoot back from the computer. It took her a minute to form the words. I could see her mouth working around, trying to find the right sounds for the thoughts in her head. And then she mumbled, "Dennis committed suicide two hours ago." And she watched my face for a few minutes. She walked away when it remained blank. The only sound that came out of my mouth for two days were the muffled gasps that accompanied my tears while I lay in my bed in the dark of night. His funeral was horrible. I hated every minute of some adult I hadn't seen in a few years saying, "Oh my, look how you've grown." or "Oh look at you, you're so beautiful." or "Wow! Look how pretty you are." So I found my dad who wandered off to mingle. It'd been a while since I'd seen him last. He was shuffling toward me on his cane and his face was red and wet. That was when I lost it. His shirt was wet with my tears, but he didn't seem to mind.

**Continued on next post**


message 4: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
**Continued from last post**

It might be odd to jump from something sad to something happy, but maybe because I don't want you to think my life sucks, or maybe because I don't want to finish on a sad note, or maybe just because I don't want you to think I'm broken, that's exactly what I'm going to do. So now I'll tell you about Binh. We met when I was thirteen, and started dating when I was fourteen. He's fairly short, but taller than me by a few inches. He has black hair, dark eyes, and he's probably the dorkiest person you'll meet in your life. But he was the treasure in middle school it seemed. He had a pack of girls drooling after him. Don't ask how I got his attention, because I've no idea. He's so devoted to me it almost hurts. No matter how much crap I put him through, he sticks around. He doesn't care about my mood swings. He doesn't care that one minute I'm smiling, then I'm yelling, and then crying. He doesn't even care when I'm sunburnt with makeup running down my face and curled underneath an old blanket. He'll still kiss me and tell me I'm beautiful. When people tell you there's no prince charming for you, there's no "good guy" out there for you to find, don't listen to them. Because somehow against all odds I've found one. I think we've broken up three times, but he always seems to be waiting for me with open arms, never caring that I tell him I love him and then run away because I'm scared, never caring that I'll snuggle up to him as soon as I'll curl up by myself because I'm distraught and don't want to be touched. He remains by my side. We've been together over two years off and on, six months solid. You don't have to tell me how lucky I am to have someone so good when I'm so not. Because I know.


message 5: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 04, 2012 10:57PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Monday 6-4-2012, 8:06 PM

I don't know why I disliked her so much. Maybe it was that she tried to put restrictions on me. Maybe it was that she thought she was right but she was really wrong. Maybe it's because she's so old with no kids. Maybe it's because her hair is so bright red it's obviously dyed or that she told my friend she couldn't buy a cookie to help support his field trip because cookie's are bad for you and then she sent someone to my first period to buy a cookie for her. Or maybe it's that she almost failed me and told me she knew I was the smartest one in the class. Maybe it's because she always told me she knew I could do better. Maybe it's because she asked me everyday why I didn't do the written portions of the labs. Maybe it's because I used to spend five hours making a cover for the lab and she didn't even give me full credit. Or maybe it's because she tried to imply that science is my best subject just because of my CST scores. English is my best subject. That's why I got a perfect score on the English portion of the CAHSEE. Maybe I disliked her because she told me I did my projects wrong. Maybe it was because she said there was too much on my calender in my record book instead of not enough. Maybe it's because she tried to tell me that on average my mom paid me ten dollars an hour because she bought clothes for me, paid the house bills, and paid my cell phone bill. She got mad at me when I told her my mom didn't buy my clothes, didn't pay the house bills, and didn't pay my cell phone bills. Then I told her that my mom raising me because she's the one who brought me into the world wasn't paying me. It was her responsibility. I could imagine her red hair poofing up as she stared at me around her computer screen. Then she told me to go back to the other class. Maybe I dislike her because I was the first one to expose the brain of my frog and she didn't give me extra credit like she said she would. Maybe it's because she always asks if I'm going into the science field when she KNOWS I'm a writer. Maybe it's because when I asked to stay with another teacher for the period she said yes instead of having the balls to stand up to me and tell me no. Maybe it's because she acted like I would actually show up to her class on the day of food fair when she knew I was the chairman for Challenge Day Club. Or maybe it's just because she repeats herself a lot and I'm the only one who answers her questions. Maybe that's why. Or maybe it's just because she gets mad when she's wrong and threatens people. In fact she's a lot like me.


message 6: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 05, 2012 04:36PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Monday 6-4-2012, 11:00 PM

You wake up in the morning and get dressed. Then you spend ten minutes calling your mom from the kitchen because you didn't hear her say she was brushing her teeth. When she comes to the kitchen you're mad. You ask her why she didn't answer you and she says she did. Now you feel bad because you were annoyed when it was your fault. You didn't hear her. Then she drives you to school and she keeps shaking your arm because she was talking and you didn't respond. You spend the rest of the car ride with your head turned all the way around, listening hard to the story she's telling you. Then you get to school, get out of the car, and put on your backpack. Now she's rolling down the window. "I said I love you." You mumble an apology, you didn't hear. Then you tell her you love her and you go eat breakfast with your best friend. Shr rambles on loudly. You can hear every word. And then you go to choir, where you can't hear the other girls singing your part besides the one that's singing the wrong notes so loudly you can't remember the right ones. And then your best friend is there, singing the notes you couldn't find into your good ear. Now your choir teacher is asking why you didn't respond when he called roll; he marked you absent. You tell him you didn't hear him. Next period you're cursing your history teacher for putting your partner on your left side. They mumble so that you see their lips moving but you can't hear a sound unless you turn your head, and then they look at you like you've gone crazy. Third period you miss what your teacher said the homework was, and you can't get anyone's attention to ask them. Then the class is dismissed and the flow of students pushes you outside before you can ask the teacher. At lunch your friend runs up to you. "Why didn't you answer when I called you? I was over by the pine tree." You apologize; you didn't hear them. Then you go to english and you do the worksheet all wrong because you didn't hear the directions correctly. And now you're going to science where you can finally get a break because you're dissecting frogs. But then you don't hear your partner say to watch out with the scalpel because that wasn't part of the intestine, but too late. You've castrated your bull frog. Then your partner pops a bubble on the underside of the frog's tongue by accident and you can't hear your other partner say, "Gross." but you can see his lips move and the look on his face. So you start laughing and then your fiery haired teacher tells you to stop being disruptive. Then you go to P.E. where finally there's minimal talking and maximum doing. You're the first girl in on the run and then you're fumbling for your inhaler, not hearing your friend ask if you're okay. When you get to driver's ed you tally up the video points all wrong. You didn't hear the teacher say to do it a different way. Your only thought as you trudge to the car is that at least it wasn't a graded assignment. Then you get in the car and turn your head all the way around so you can catch the story your mom is already spilling out. Your head starts aching so you turn it back and mumble "Mhm" every few moments even though you can barely detect the soft rumble of your mom's voice. A typical school day for someone with hearing loss. Like me.


message 7: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments I am so glad you started a blog Cheyenne! As a minor you may want to erase some personal identifiable information about yourself. I have finished everything yet but really like what I have read so far. I can see why you have such a passion for writing!


message 8: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments Memory 13 is very painful. I know when a person hears someone described as drunk....They get ideas in their head just as people get ideas in their head of positive stereotypes of California. You had good memories of your dad and he sounded like a fun person who joked around. Your sister had different feelings and that can happen to people in the same house. It's so sad to think of your dad being gone after that.


message 9: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Yes, 13 was an extremely painful age for me. I don't have many good memories from that age.

I still hold a grudge against my sister for it, especially because a year after moving away she decided she didn't like it here either and moved to Idaho to live with our birth father. With that came the realization that she's just never happy, and then I was able to think of her more as a human being and not a monster. Thirteen was bad, but not the worst. I won't post the worst.


message 10: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
And I don't think there's enough personal information here for someone to find me or something. Unless they were really creepy, but then remember the part where I said I've usually got a knife on me? And it might be weird, but I sleep with a dagger under my pillow. I feel safer.


message 11: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Heheh. Just reread it. I get what you mean now. My town and school names are here. But still, I'm more worried about the creepers here than the ones online.


message 12: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments I hope your sister isn't always chasing happiness and never finding it. You have a lot of perspective for someone so young. And I hope there is a lot of happy in there too in your memories past and present. I'm sorry about the worst whatever it was. I understand it being to personal to post. I do not exchange personal messages with minors online so I can't offer a listening ear in private. However, I am a believer that we don't have to know everything even about our closest friends unless they want to share.


message 13: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
There's enough happy to keep me sane I suppose.

And I think she might be happy now. She's living with us again, and she's had a boyfriend for about a year. (I believe.) She's got a job, she's going to college, her boyfriend has been looking at apartments. She's found her happiness.


message 14: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Most of my younger memories were good. Besides when my uncle died, when my aunt got sick, and when my oldest brother was in and out of jail. (Still is I think. Haven't talked to him since I was nine or ten, the last time he got locked up.)

I think I'll write about the biggest contributor to my good memories.


message 15: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments That is a lot to sort through to have such hard ones. Our earliest years lay such a foundation so I am glad you had such good memories then. Those were good years for me too. I'm glad your sister is doing well. I look forward to reading about who the biggest contributor is to your good memories.


message 16: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 05, 2012 04:41PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Tuesday 6-5-2012, 12:21 PM

Victory Avenue. That was the place of my childhood. We were only there for five years, but it's the longest I've spent anywhere.

We had a farm. A really big pool too, though I didn't use it much when the doctors told me I couldn't swim under water.

As a kid, I remember using a hose to wash my hair out by the chicken coop, stirring up a muddy gross mess that I got yelled at for later. I learned to drive our tractor when I was eight, and I often mowed our field down alone in the mornings. I remember the first time I got the nerve to pluck a pomegranate from the tree. They looked weird. Red, dangerous. But my dad had told me it was a fruit, so who was I to question it? I took a huge bite and immediately spit it out. Then I marched out from the orchard, past the pool, and to the porch with the offending thing in my hand. My lips were ready to toss the nastiest things I could think of at my dad, starting with why in the world had he called this disgusting thing a fruit?! He was on the porch sitting in a chair, swatting at a fly buzzing overhead. Then every word I was about to say froze and fell from my lips. Because he looked at my face, looked at the pomegranate with a chunk taken out of it, and started laughing. He laughed for so long I was about to walk away and go hide in the barn for the night, when he held out his hand. He took the pomegranate, tore off a chunk of gross yellow flesh, and revealed a glistening bounty of red covered seeds. Then he took one out and handed it to me. Moral of that story, eat the stuff on the seeds, but NEVER bite into a pomegranate.

When I was seven we went to the Sheldon Feed store. That was where my brother Andrew bought six chickens. One for me, one for him, one for our sister Lisa, one for our sister Heather, one for our dad, and one for my mom. I thought mine was the cutest one, and I told them so. They all laughed at me. When we brought them home we put them in a baby's play pen in the shed. It was filled with bedding (thin woodchip like things) and it had a little feeder and a thing for water. We changed the bedding every few days, and fed them whenever the food ran out. I visited the chickens every day. Mine had a little dot on the top of her head, and a horseshoe shape below it. So I named her Dottie. One day I took her out of the little pen and wrapped her up in my sweater. Then I sat on the porch with her in a chair, and she snuggled into my neck. We both fell asleep; I only know because my mother has the pictures to prove it. Even when Dottie was older, and her dots disappeared, I could still tell her apart from the other chickens. I was the only one of us that spent every day with the chickens. Dottie was so friendly by the time she was grown that she probably wouldn't run away from you until after you chopped her head off. Whenever I went in the chicken coop to collect eggs she trotted after me like a dog and wouldn't stop following me until I picked her up and stroked her wings for a few minutes.

We had grapevines on the side of the barn opposite the plum tree. My siblings and I used to crawl underneath the vines in search of the tiny sour ones, and see who could keep a straight face the longest. We also had what I called an amber tree. (I still don't know the proper name.) I used to search the trunk every day for the sap that hardened on the bark and I would knock it off and keep it.

There was a goat at the farm next to ours. I used to ride my bike out to the edge of our property where the fence was and he would be there waiting. I spent long hours in the field with him, picking bits of leaves and grass to feed him. He was probably one of the best friend's I've had in my life. Always loyal, patient. He didn't seem to mind when I forgot to come out for a day, or even a week. He would chase my bike from the other side of the fence for as long as I would ride. I named him Buddy.

This was our farm. The one we sold for over half a million dollars when we moved to Ione. If I ever get rich, the first thing I'll do with my money is buy my farm back.


message 17: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Barbara, as you'll read above it was not a "who" but a "what" that was the biggest contributor to my good memories.


message 18: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments A wonderful what indeed! You do have a way with words. If my bio picture shows up here like it should, it is actually the picture of my grandparent's farm where my dad was raised and we went as children until they moved to town. There is nothing like farm living! I didn't do the chores though. Just wandering. Thanks so much for sharing!


message 19: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 05, 2012 04:11PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Yeah. I never really thought of it as a farm when I was a child though. Chickens, grapes, peaches, plums, pomegranates, strawberries, cherries. It was just my house. When one of my friends found out about all the fruits on my property and that we had chickens she said, "OH! You guys are farmers." And I told her, "No....We just have fruit and chickens." Now looking back I realize it WAS a farm.

And yes your picture shows up. The house is white correct? Mine was pale pink with white trim. Farm living is the best. Fresh fruit and eggs (on mine at least) whenever you wanted them. (Except of course when the fruits were out of season.)


message 20: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
By the way Barbara, did you read past memory thirteen? Memory fifteen and memory sixteen #2 were both happy.


message 21: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments I need to make sure. Going now.


message 22: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments I just read the happy times. I also read about the tragedy. You are so young to have been through so many incredible lows. But you seem to know that you need to cling to the good. Your young man sounds like a keeper.


message 23: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments Congratulations on the poetry scholarship!


message 24: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
He's definitely a keeper. In fact I wouldn't put it past him to be reading this right now, but just not joining the group and commenting. He knows at least ten times more people than I do, yet he's almost shyer than I am.


message 25: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
And thank you. My mother tells everyone she knows constantly about it. "Oh guess what Cheyenne did now?" She's slightly bipolar I think.


message 26: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments My mom is my biggest fan. It's great to have your mom in your corner! Hey, Cheyenne's boyfriend I respect your right to read without commenting. But feel free to give your 2 cents if you like at any time.


message 27: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Hahahahaha. I'm trying to drag him into another group, it isn't working. I'm hoping to get him out here sometime this summer. Then I can make him get on, LOL.


message 28: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
And my mom is kind of my biggest fan. But I think I've got a knack for frustrating her that no one else can quite manage. It's the same knack that caused me and my biology teacher to be at each other's throats first semester of my sophomore year. I ranted a bit about that particular teacher somewhere above.


message 29: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 06, 2012 12:19PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Wednesday 6-6-2012, 9:29 AM

What you are about to read is fiction. It is the dream I had last night. I need to write it down SOMEWHERE, so it may as well be here. It's converted into the format of a story. Enjoy.

The City Dwellers

They came into our camp some time after midnight. I don't know how they got past the guards. It seems impossible that they can sneak into our camp, but we can't sneak into the city.

They're leading us (me and a few other rebels who have caused the Mayor a particular amount of trouble) back to the city. They don't know we've come with a plan. They'll never get us in the gates. I can see them looming ahead now. Just inside the city there's a tall stage where six nooses hang. I know one of them has my name on it. There's a small holding area on our side of the fence, and a locked gate that leads straight to the stage. It seems they didn't want to take any chances in between the gates and the stage, so they made a separate entrance.

I meet the eyes of the other five rebels with me. We have worked together many times to make the city dwellers' life hell. We know those nooses are long overdue. But still, we won't give up without a fight. The city soldiers load us up onto the walkway that leads to the entrance, and then they close us in. The drop to the ground is twenty feet. I've survived worse. Only ten soldiers stay below to guard us while the others enter the city from the gates. They'll unlock the small entrance to my right from the inside. If our plan works, we escape before we even make it inside. If it doesn't, well....

I look through the chain link fence and see a huge stand of benches filled with city dwellers. They've come to see the execution of some rebels. Wonderful. I even see my mother and sister in the stands. They were happy with their life in the city. I wasn't. That's why I joined the rebels. One look at them and I'm ready. I won't let them see me die. I nudge the boy next to me, and we all shift on our feet. Our hands are bound at the wrists, but we can manage.

As one we whip the guns from the folds of our clothes and start shooting. The guns are filled with acid, not bullets. Our goal today isn't to kill, only to impair the soldiers so we can escape. Their screams fill the air when the steaming streams of acid meets them. From the stands I'm sure it only looks as if we're firing water guns at the soldiers. The more confusion the better. The second every soldier is on the ground screaming for the pain to end, we leap over the side of the holding pen and roll when we hit the ground. Then we're off, sprinting back to our camp on the other side of the city. We sprint for an hour straight and collapse as soon as we reach the boundaries of our camp. Fellow rebels rush to us.

"What happened?" the leader asks. She's short, with big hips and pale, spiky hair.

I take a moment to pant on the ground before I pull myself to a sitting position. My fellow escapees follow my lead. "They were going to hang us," I gasp, because I'm still out of breath. "We used the acid guns. I think Tory sprained her ankle when we jumped out of the pen though." I say, pointing at Tory's ankle which is starting to swell. She grimaces and prods it.

"Get a medic over here!" the leader shouts. Everyone just calls her Vander. I think that's her last name. No one knows her first.

A white suited man rushes from a tent and picks Tory up. Then she's disappeared inside the tent and there are only five of us sitting on the ground. We exchange looks. We have just escaped death. Vander seems to know it too. She tells us to get off the ground, and then plants her hands on her hips. "You are the closest anyone's been to the inside of the city who's made it back out alive. You all know our efforts are slackening. The other rebels," she jabs her finger at the jumble of tents a hundred yards from here, "are losing hope. Every man or woman we send in there," she gestures to the city, "comes back out in a wooden box. You tell me, how do we give them hope?" The way she looks at us tells me there's a right answer, and if we don't figure it out we're in trouble.

I swallow, but it's no use. My throat's as dry as the dirt I'm sitting on. "Someone has to get back out alive."

"You are correct Katie. Someone must get back out alive."

Suddenly I leap to my feet, because I've got an idea. "Do you remember my friend? The one who joined the city again?"

Vander curls her lip. "You would call her a friend?"

I look down. "No . . . but I heard the Mayor talking to her when we were listening in. He wanted to reward her for her choice. He told her she could pick one other person, and he would give them a tour of the tunnels."

A boy next to me, Gary, grunts as he gets to his feet. "Hardly any of the city dwellers get to go down there. That's the one way we might be able to get into the city, but we don't know anything about them."

I nod. "I know. So, what if I give myself over to the city dwellers? Say I want to join them? Margaret knows me." Margaret is the girl who used to be my friend before she betrayed us to the city. "If she thinks I'm on their side again, she'll pick me for sure. We need to learn about the tunnels." I meet Vander's gaze with my pleading eyes.

"It's too dangerous." Vander growls.

"You said it yourself. I've been closer than anyone who's come back alive. Let me do this." I knot my hands in my shirt and clench my jaw.

Vander lets out a sharp sigh. "First you have to prove you can get inside the city and back out. Then I will let you go on this insane mission." I'm already rushing back to the tents so I can pack, but Vander snatches my elbow. "Do not do anything crazy. You are to get in, and get out. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes Ma'am." Then she releases me, and I run back to my tent. By the time I get there I'm out of breath again. I'll wait until morning to head back in. I need one night of recovery before I face almost certain death. Just one night.

*********************

My name is Katie, and yesterday I was captured along with a select few other rebels who've caused the Mayor a lot of trouble. We were going to be hanged. Before they got us into the city though, we escaped. Because no one who's gone in has made it back out alive. Yesterday I thought I was going to die. Today I know I'm going to die. Because today I'm going back in.

I'm hiding in a clump of trees, watching the gates. So far the only thing I've seen go in and come back out are supply trucks. Since I'm on this mission by myself, I don't have to ask anyone else for their opinion. I just slink low to the ground all the way to the road. My sandy armor camouflages me in the tall yellow grass. Another truck is peeking up above the hill. I jump into the back when it passes. If I'm lucky the driver was looking forward and didn't see me. I slip into a crate full of potatoes just as the back door is opened by the soldiers at the gate. A moment later the gate closes. The soldiers are satisfied no rebels are hiding among the cargo. They're too stupid to suspect a rebel would be hiding in the cargo.

The engine rumbles back to life, but not before I hear the words that send my heart into a frenzy. This cargo is a direct delivery to the Mayor. I've got to get out of here. If I can hide somewhere long enough for the truck to come back out I can sneak on again to leave. Mission accomplished. I can only hope it will be that easy.

I push the lid up from the crate I'm in and crawl to the doors. I'm sure if I stand up I'll fall. The outside world is silent. I hope that means there's no one around. I don't give myself a chance to think about what will happen if there are soldiers before I swing the doors open and roll out of the cargo truck.

I'm on a deserted street. I hope since it's barely light outside the city dwellers are still in bed. But when I slip into a public bathroom I discover I'm not so lucky. There are two girls at the sinks washing their hands. When they turn around I recognize them. We used to go to school together when we were children. Before the country was thrown into a civil war. Before I decided to become a rebel and they decided not to. None of that matters though. It doesn't even matter that we used to eat lunch together or that we helped each other with our homework. All that matters is that they're both opening their mouths to scream. And I can't let that happen.

I go from the threshold to the sinks in less than a second. A knife from my belt is already in my hand sinking into neck flesh. The two girls fall to the ground before they can make a sound. What I've done is bad, horrible even, but at the moment I don't care. It was them or me. And I'm not looking to dampen the spirits of the rebels even further by dying just because I didn't have the guts to kill.

That's when I notice a set of stairs to my right. They must lead up to a set of apartments or something. I wouldn't know. This building wasn't here when I was a city dweller. The one thing I do know is that there's laughter drifting down from above. If the owners of that laughter come down the stairs they'll see the bodies and alert the soldiers that a rebel has gotten into the city. That cannot happen.

I slip up the stairs, pressing myself against the wall. When I reach the second floor I see many sets of weaving stairs and balconies. There are doors on each balcony to what must be apartments. There are so many people up here, there's no way I could get all of them. And now they've all seen me. A group of men rushes toward me, just regular city dwellers trying to subdue a rebel.

I take off at a dead run, sprinting all the way up the staircase. They're almost on me. I grab the railing of a staircase above me and haul myself up a second before they reach me. Then I do the same thing several more times until I'm high above them. I climb up into the rafters and press into a corner. They can't see me here. Then I look down and to my left. A man is standing below me, staring up at my face.

"No," I whisper. It's the last teacher who instructed me before I joined the rebels and stopped going to school. I was his favorite student. He won't alert the other men of my position. "You aren't on their side?"

He looks away from me. "I am." And then he disappears into a doorway. The people who live here are sure to alert the soldiers any second. It's time for me to leave. I leap down from the rafters, locate a window, and dive out of it. Not my smartest decision. I grunt as I hit the ground at a roll. Then I'm on my feet. A cargo truck has just passed me. The driver didn't notice my stunt. Perhaps it's the same one I came in on, perhaps it isn't. But I don't care. Escape is escape. I sprint after the truck and climb into the back. I've just gotten comfortable when the sirens start wailing. The forces of the city have been notified of my presence. When the truck stops I'm ready to dive out of it. The soldiers at the gate will check every crate for sure now.

The doors swing open and I leap over the heads of two soldiers. The gates aren't open yet. There's no way out but to climb. Maybe it's because of the adrenaline pulsing through my body, or maybe it's because I care too much about the rebels to let them down now, I don't know. But whatever the reason, I jump on the chain link fence and start my ascent. Bullets are whizzing past my ears. I almost fall to the ground when one nails me in the shoulder, but I'm halfway to the top now. I manage to grit my teeth and hold on. By the time I reach the top, one hundred feet tall mind you, I've got a bullet in my shoulder and a bullet in my hip. Both must have missed vital organs because I'm still alive.

**Continued on next post**


message 30: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 27, 2012 07:38AM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
**Continued from last post**

I throw my leg over the top of the fence, ignoring the barbed wire that tugs on my armor, and let myself drop ten feet before I latch on again. I'll have to make it down fast, because the soldiers are opening the gates. If I don't hurry they'll catch me. I release my grip and fall another ten feet before I grab the fence. I do this until my feet hit the ground.

The soldiers have gotten the gates open now, and they're rushing toward me. I ignore the searing pain in my shoulder and hip and pump my legs. I can hear the sounds of pursuit behind me. I'm used to running though. I've spent the past five years of my life running. The soldiers following me have never known such desperation. That's why I make it in sight of the rebel's camp on the other side of the city before the soldiers tackle me to the ground. It's too late though, the rebels have seen me. The effect is immediate. The faces that used to grimace endlessly are filled with wonder.

My name is Katie. I'm the first rebel to have made it out of the city alive. But somehow with the soldier on top of me pressing a gun to my head, I'm pretty sure this is my last breath.


message 31: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Wednesday 6-6-2012. 5:30 PM

Why do I always have the most brain-racking dreams? I think about them for days on end. I even wrote a book over four hundred pages based on a single one of my dreams...


message 32: by Pirl (new)

Pirl (pirlismyname) How do you have the patience to write such long blog posts?!
I haven't read them... don't have the patience for that either... but I'm not officially following, so.


message 33: by Pirl (new)

Pirl (pirlismyname) Cheyenne wrote: "Wednesday 6-6-2012. 5:30 PM

Why do I always have the most brain-racking dreams? I think about them for days on end. I even wrote a book over four hundred pages based on a single one of my dreams..."


Twilight?


message 34: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
LOL, no. It was set in medieval times. I actually just finished editing it like a week ago.

I don't have a lot of patience when it comes to going somewhere, or waiting for something, but I have an unlimited supply (almost) on an average day for writing and kids. I guess I've got patience for those two things because I love both of them. I enjoy writing, and have since I was very young, so I can write for a long period of time and not become bored.


message 35: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
If I recall correctly, some of your earliest blog posts could be considered long. :)


message 36: by Pirl (new)

Pirl (pirlismyname) One. And not like this.


message 37: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Thursday 6-7-2012, 1:42 PM

During my sophomore year of high school, my world history teacher asked us to write about a time that changed our lives. It took me a moment to think of one, but I was happy with the assignment. So I wrote about this:

When I was in kindergarten and first grade I went to a daycare after school everyday. One day at daycare, I believe I was six or seven, I decided I wanted to draw a picture. So I drew a picture of something that had a huge impact on me. I drew a picture of the day Uncle Mark died. I was crying silently while I colored. When it was finished, there was a car of twisted metal and smoke. One of the doors was broken off and lying on the ground. There was a tree nearby where bits of glass hung from the branches. From the perspective of the picture, you could see inside the car to where my uncle had been sitting in the car. There was a leg stuck in the seatbelt. And on the hill just behind the car, the dark figure of the drunk taxi driver disappeared in the colors of the dying sun. For some reason, I remembered being told that my uncle's leg was jammed in the seatbelt, though that memory is probably false.

That was the first of the dark things that came from my hands, though in later years the darkness showed itself in pictures of bloodied, stitched, and chained hearts, and later still in poems.

When my mother came to pick me up from daycare that day, I showed her the picture. I was too young to realize my mother would most likely be horrified at the gruesome thing I'd conjured. She took one look at the picture, and she burst into tears. It was the first thing created by me that had brought an emotional reaction from someone. It was the start of something consuming. Of course I was not satisfied in a demented way that I had made my mother cry, but it gave me a feeling of wonder to think that something I created could make another person feel something. I believe with the utmost certainty, that this was the moment fate branded me as a writer.


message 38: by Barbara (new)

Barbara (bkbsmiles) | 461 comments I probably won't read everything until next week as the ol' neck is acting up. I am sorry you lost your uncle at such a tender age to a horrible accident. It is interesting how expressing yourself in a drawing made you want to connect emotionally to people in writing. However, I understand that they are both arts. I wouldn't want to live in a world with people shut off from emotion.


message 39: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Well yes, art is a lot of things. It's music, drawing, writing, and so much more. I've actually kept the drawing hobby. There are pictures in my writing binder right alongside the poems and short stories.


message 40: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Pirl{I'm pretty $ure my חame is way tסס lסng} wrote: "One. And not like this."

Yeah, I did look at one of your longer ones and it wasn't quite as long as some of mine here. Long story short, I have the patience because I don't start driving until Sunday, and I won't have the paper I need for my summer homework until next week, so I currently have no life. Sad but true. Haha


message 41: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Wednesday 6-7-2012, 10:12 PM

Summer of 2011. That was our summer. That was the summer I dragged him to every family BBQ there was, and trust me there were a lot. That was the summer he laughed at my purple stained hands and face while I picked blackberries, and the summer we threatened each other's clothes with flour covered hands. He spent many days at my house watching movies or just sitting quietly on the couch with our fingers twined together. I don't swim much now, but that summer we swam a few times. He's so considerate he even asked before getting in the pool, "Chey, can I take my shirt off?"

I remember one night my mother cooked asian food in an attempt to be comforting. And then she offered him chopsticks, which he declined, picking up his fork. My mother always cooked rice with whatever we were having for dinner. So alongside his hotdogs, or whatever else we ate, he also had a big helping of rice. If you've never seen something like this, it's hilarious.

Our days together were happy. They were laughter, smeared makeup, tickling fingers, lifting arms, drooping eyelids, warm blankets, screaming children, and sun. Our days were filled with the sun.

This summer I can only cross my fingers that he'll be able to visit. Otherwise we won't be seeing each other again until we graduate. I'm a junior now, but still graduation seems so far away when I'm waiting and counting the days.


message 42: by Pirl (new)

Pirl (pirlismyname) Aw. I hope it works out.


message 43: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Thanks, Pirl.


message 44: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (last edited Jun 08, 2012 07:13PM) (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Thursday 6-8-2012, 8:23 AM

When I was young, I didn't think he was a bad person. Maybe it was because I was naive, or maybe it was just because I wasn't judging him. I didn't realize that he did drugs, and I didn't even realize half the times he came to our house he was hiding from the cops. He was just my big brother, plain and simple.

When I think of him, I don't think of the guy whose son lived with us for years because he was too screwed up to take care of him. I don't think about the guy who's been to prison more times than I've stayed home from school. I don't even think of the guy who came screaming up our walk, yelling for his son when he found out we were thinking about adopting him. I don't think about how he scared my sister so badly that she hid both me and our nephew under the bed in our parents' room and locked the door. Because I know my brother was messed up. But I don't know how he GOT messed up, and it isn't fair for me to judge him from only the bad and not the good.

So, when I think of my brother I think of the guy who had pomegranate seed spitting contests with me. I think of the guy who cannon balled into the pool right next to me, laughing maniacally. I think of the guy who hosed down a race track in the field for the tractor and the go-cart. The guy who sprayed my nephews and nieces as they sped by. I think of the guy who spent three hours on the living room floor teaching me to make paper jets. We made somewhere close to eighty. So, even though everyone else probably thinks he's one of the worst people on the planet, I know that the drugs aren't all there is to him. He's pretty messed up. But my big brother has a good heart, and that's what counts for me.


message 45: by Pirl (new)

Pirl (pirlismyname) I just can't imagine that sort of life! It must have been tough.


message 46: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
With my brother?


message 47: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
He wasn't around as often as I would've liked, because for a good part of my life he was in and out of jail or prison. But the few times he was around I can look back on and remember fondly.


message 48: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Saturday 6-9-2012, 6:36 AM

I'm really starting to hate resistant parents.


message 49: by Cheyenne, HoH & Proud (new)

Cheyenne | 665 comments Mod
Saturday 6-9-2012, 6:38 AM

I don't know why everyone thinks their sixteenth birthday it such a big deal. It seems slightly ridiculous to me, that someone will have their father rent a club and a DJ and have a dance party. It seems like it's overkill. Being sixteen isn't better than any other age. Actually, in some ways it's worse. People will start to get nosier. You'll be way less likely to catch a heartbeat alone with your boyfriend at home for fear that you'll sleep with him. (Trust me, I know.) Suddenly you realize if you want to move out when you're eighteen you need to start driving, get a job, and get a car. None of those things are easy. And driving is the easiest part. That's the only part I've got down. Getting a job is a pain. Most people won't hire you because you're a teenager.

Turning sixteen is like a huge slap in the face. "Hey, remember those preteen hormones you had? Well you're about to experience the real deal. Have fun!" It's suddenly waking up and thinking, holy **** I'm graduating in two years. I'm turning 18 in less than two. I really need to get my crap together. Turning sixteen is the realization that you need to SERIOUSLY think about whether or not you want to go to college. When you turn sixteen it's like you aren't allowed to have a quiet moment with an affectionate parent. The most you get for a good amount of time is "civil". Other than that, they're busy finding something they can yell at you for. Even if it's that the dog (which is an OUTSIDE dog) is all muddy. Turning sixteen is stress. So much stress you want to go insane. When you turn sixteen, no matter what you're doing you feel like a bum. Unless it has to do with getting a job. Reading a book? Books expand your vocabulary. "Man, I feel like a bum." Sitting on your bed revising a poem? "Man I should be looking for a job. I feel like a bum." Who knows, maybe sixteen is different for other teenagers. But for me it's an annoying limbo. I'm in the in-between. Not young enough to justify just wanting to keep to yourself, not old enough to put your two cents in and actually have your thoughts considered. You aren't an adult. You aren't a kid. Clean your room. Get a job. Maybe sixteen was, or will be different for you. But so far for me, sixteen is nothing but a new form of stress.


message 50: by Pirl (new)

Pirl (pirlismyname) Well, I hope you can let go of the stress. And yes, your brother. I just can't imagine a relative like that. I hear stories od great uncles. No one I've met.


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