Sunday, April 27, 2008

100 Years.

A century.
100 years.
10 decades.
1,200 months.
5,200 weeks.
36,253 days.
52,594,876 minutes.
All in all, a very very long time.
This is also the amount of time my great great grandmother was alive.

This morning, right around noon our time, she passed on. Sometime Friday her body started to shut down, first with her kidneys, and slowly progressing. By Friday evening she was comatose, never to wake again. Her blood pressure and heart rate slowly fell until it stopped all together this morning.
The last memories I have of this wonderful woman are two weekends ago, sitting at the table in my aunt and uncles house. She no longer had any memory, but she was up and about, eating and drinking on her own. The only medicine Lottie Morris needed in her age was something to keep her blood pressure normal. She was one lucky woman, for more reasons than that.
Her family stuck by her up until she was gone. Perpetually surrounded by people who loved her, a smile always played on her lips. Some of them she knew, some of them she didn't. It didn't matter. She knew they were family, and that they all loved her as much as she loved them.
I was never around enough to remember her when she still had her mind, though I've heard wonderful stories. Mostly about the kitchen. Any of the memories I do posses are all of her, standing in the kitchen, smiling down at me.
I've also heard of her faith. She taught Sunday School and attended church until she could no longer get up and prepare herself. Mami Jack, as I know her, loved God with all her heart, and served Him just as much as she could. She raised many children, all of them in church always, and still living off the faith of their mother.
As we grieve the loss of the sweetest woman any of us have ever met, there is some comfort to be found.. She is now Home, the only place she ever really wanted to be.

Thursday, April 24, 2008


When I was younger, I always wanted to be a teenager so bad. I would watch these shows on TV and think “Man. I am SO ready for this.” I would see the kids on the shows and wish beyond wish that could be me, living life carefree and loving it. To be a teenager.
To a kid being a teenager is a time for relationships, boyfriends or girlfriends, a time for break ups and make ups. It’s a time to be a kid at heart, and goof off and yell at your parents when they are stupid. It’s a time to play pranks on your annoying little brother, and laugh when he gets angry.
Being a teenager means lazy summers filled with boys, and hopping from pool to pool. Sleeping over at friend’s houses and staying up until 4 o’clock prank calling hot guys and giggling about everything that happened the day before.
Being a teenager means school, and hating chemistry and gym class. It means hating some teachers with a passion, and loving others to death. It means homework and finals, and study sessions with the girls to cram in last minute information, but really sitting and gossiping about what she was wearing, or what he looked like in that shirt.
Being a teenager means having that bubble. The bubble that protects you from the world, and only allows in the nice things, the things everyone likes to think about. It only lets the fun things penetrate its barrier, swimming and friends and youth group and laughing. It keeps the hunger and dehydration and global warming and wars out and away, until a time when we are able to process them.
At least, that’s what it means for most people. For me, it means surgery and sickness and anger and depression. It means bursting the bubble and coming into the real world. It means being that girl. The one all the guys look at as a best friend, but not a possible prospect. The girl everyone comes to with their problems, but no one wants to listen to, as her problems are just far to depressing. That girl that could, and very well may, snap any time now, because her little brother is sick, and no one wants to be around when that happens. The one everyone looks at with pity, and fake understanding in their eyes. The one no one wants to be.

Anyone else noticed that I've been thikning deeply lately?

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Used car, anyone?

Finding the right guy is like shopping for a used car. Not like I have personally, but I have been with people who have.

You pull up in the dealership, and they show you the first car on the lot, that somewhat matches what you want. A test drive proves it's not the one you want. The wheel shakes, or the breaks don't work, or you can't get a good radio station. So you move on to the next one.
As you continue this ritual, you eventually glimpse a car, and immediately want that one more then any other car on the lot. So you point it out, and the dealer smiles. As you approach it, bask in its glory of used-dom, you fall in love even more. You reach for the handle, and when you open the door one of two things happen. Either you sit down and it's perfect in every way, not a fault that really matters to be seen. Or, you sit down and it's nothing you thought. The windshield wipers squeak, there is a stain on the carpet, the door only closes all the way sometimes and the radio only works on Wednesdays.
When the former happens, you buy the car on the spot and never have another worry. But when the latter happens, your heart breaks in two, and you crawl out slowly. Riding home afterwards, you tell yourself you're never going to buy another car. But inside, you know you'll be back next weekend.

Friday, April 11, 2008


So, I was thinking. (before i go on, i know this is my second post within the hour. but i'm having a smart moment. ;])

And while I was thinking, I realized something. Everything we have, everything around, is based on belief. We believe our system of currency will hold up, and it has. We believe when someone says it's raining that it is. We believe what we think is true.
But nothing we can know, for sure, 100% of the time. I know that I like bananas. But I might eat a banana tomorrow and be completely disgusted. How can I be absolutely sure I like bananas? I believe that when I take a bite, it will taste good.
A woman gets pregnant. Doctor says a baby girl is coming. How can the woman be sure? How does she know what is inside of her? She could be having a goat for all she knows. But she believes she is having a little girl.
It's all based on that simple belief in the unknown.

Am I the only one that makes sense to? I get it, do you all?
Let me know. :]

Monday, April 7, 2008


Trying to get a guy to notice you is like trying to nail jello to a tree. It just can't be done. No matter how much you think the tree wants the jello, needs the jello, should hold the jello and love it, the tree doesn't agree, or takes no notice. So, after begging, pleading, dressing the jello up in really nice clothes, jumping around, screaming and crying, you resort to nailing it to the tree, and the tree STILL wont accept the flipping jello.

And guys are the EXACT same way. The only way to get their attention, other then grabbing their face and screaming "I LOVE YOU", is to wear skirts revealing your underwear and shirts revealing other things. Which is absolutely ridiculous. There should be no need for that sort of thing. Girls should be able to dress modestly and cover themselves and still be found attractive. But do they? No. All guys want to do is look for hot girls and stare at their butts. Or their boobs, if they have nice ones. So girls give them what they want. We dress like hookers so these guys, that we are convinced we need, will notice us and give us the attention that we are also convinced we need.

When will they grow up?

...When will we grow up?

I love high school.