60.0

What am I scared of?
Only everything. I'm scared of rejection, I'm scared of pain, I'm scared of things going horribly wrong.
I'm scared of being lonely
of being inadequate
of getting caught.

I'm terrified of taking risks that involve any strong emotions.
Some people have the power to leave me petrified without even looking at me.

I'm scared of falling, of drowning, of dying.
I'm scared I'll loose my fingers one day and I"ll never get to play the guitar or Tetris again.

I'm scared I'll lose everyone on accident. Or rather, that they'll lose me on purpose.
I hate that.

So why am I reminding myself of everything I fear?

During a testing session, the proctor asked if any of us wanted a blank sheet of paper to write on before the test. She said that there's a useful de-stressing technique in which you write down everything you are anxious about on the paper, crumple it up, and throw it away. This makes your fears seem a bit more tangible, and the act of crumpling it up and throwing it away is symbolic to you doing the same thing but mentally.
Apparently some university did a study on the effect this technique had on students who had to take big standardized tests and the results were positive. Kids who performed the paper therapist ritual tended to score higher on their tests than those who didn't.
After hearing that, I raised my hand for a piece of paper. But all I did was write every single cuss word I knew (in English AND Spanish).
I wrote so furiously, trying to fill any white spaces with vulgarities and obscenities to try and remove them from my brain so that the calculus formulas and theorems that were buried beneath this pile of curse words would be more accessible.
After a minute or two, I stared at my masterpiece. I smushed it between my sweaty palms and made a point of slamming it into the waste bin before returning to my seat.
I felt so much better afterward. Like when you finally barf whatever was making your stomach feel like Hell the entire day.
Relief.

I still failed that test. Such a pity, too. It was kind of an important test.
But I felt good about it anyway.
At least I failed with dignity. I didn't cry and I didn't puke.

So that's why I decided to write down all of my fears today and give them permanent residence on the internet. Maybe then those horrible fears can get buried in other crap from my head and result in me being less scared. It may not result in me being any more successful at any of those things, but at least I won't puke and at least I won't cry.

I'll feel better.

59.0

Wind writing prompt:

Mrs. Martinez opened a web page that contained a wind map of the entire country. It just looks like the outline of the United States all in black and white swirly scratches across its surface. I’m guessing the white scratches are the wind currents.

She tells us to write anything that comes to mind about the wind.

                The wind is nice. As long as your hair is pulled all the way up and you’re not wearing a skirt. It’s so funny because in movies, the female lead usually has a glamorous scene in the wind. Her long, blonde hair is flowing oh-so-beautifully, and the hem of her skirt ruffles ever-so-slightly to give her presence an added sense of “ah”.

Too bad that never happens in real life.

                In real life, the wind is pretty horrible. It comes down on your head like a big brother’s hand and gives you various noogies tangling your 3 hour straightening job. If you’re wearing a skirt, it tries its hardest to give the world a glimpse of your striped briefs. The wind is such a perv. Oh, and sometimes, the wind is feeling extra bitchy and it’s gets cold. When it’s cold, the wind is constantly slapping at your cheeks giving them an all-natural rouge, but instead of looking like a blushing princess you look like Rocky Balboa after a wrestling match.

                I’m sorry, Mrs. Martinez. I fail to see anything enchanting about the wind.

58.0

This ditty won me $15 of iTunes money.
Thanks, ditty.

 What is your Ithaca?

                A home is somewhere you experience good and bad, and no matter how many times you run away you always end up coming back. I found home in the circular piece of Swedish dining room furniture we bought at IKEA about 4 years ago (the one and only time we ever went to IKEA).

That table has been host to most of the “eventful” things that take place my domestic life. It’s where I eat my meals most mornings and afternoons. It’s where I roll my eyes behind a mug of coffee at my dad’s awful jokes. It’s where I discuss ethics with my m other and where my grandpa drums his fingers to Nat King Cole’s crooning that comes from the kitchen radio. It’s also where my mother yells at my little brother for not doing his math homework. It’s a wrestling ring for my parents late at night. It offered support for my heavy head late at night when my parents wish me goodnight with viscous lectures.

                Sometimes I can’t even begin to express how much I detest that blasted slab of wood for hosting so many arguments and late-night reprimands. Maybe if we didn’t have a kitchen table, we would resort to eating on the floor like Asians. And maybe we’d adopt more Asian customs that involve peace, harmony, bamboo plants and tasteful interior design. And then maybe all of the harmonious vibes that emanate from our peace-bamboo grove would do away with my parents’ passive aggressive auras.

                But without it, what would we do? We’d have nowhere to station the extended family that comes for late night café con leche and my dad wouldn’t have anywhere to slam his fist at republican pundits during breakfast. Painted with butter and jellies in the morning, sprinkled with salsas and breadcrumbs by night. A staple part of the kitchen and the anchor of the house. We can’t help orbiting our lives around our table. Maybe it’s because Mexicans already orbit their lives around food that the table in the kitchen possesses such gravitational pull, making us like hungry little moons constantly dancing around it.

                When I go off to live on my own, I won’t miss my bed. I won’t miss the maroon book shelf in my room that’s not big enough and I won’t miss the plaid couches in the living room. I’ll miss my mom’s pozole and my dad’s bad jokes. I’ll miss stories and debates over breakfast, lunch, dinner. I’ll miss my kitchen table. I’ll miss my Ithaca.

57.0

I'm meant to be writing something different. I'm meant to be writing a personal narrative. We all know how much I love getting to work early on my soon-to-be-best-selling autobiography, right?
Right.

Personal narratives are glorified journal entries. Double-spaced recreations of first kisses, periods and dates in Times New Roman font meant to reassure the rest of the world that they are indeed human and things couldn't possibly be worse for them than they are for you.
I hate personal narratives.
Anyone who writes a personal narrative automatically comes off as pretentious even though I know they probably aren't. I think, "What's so God damned great about your life that you have to share it with the world? Oh pardon, you're not even gracious enough to share like a normal person. No, your experiences are so much more valuable than the rest of ours. Valued at $35 at the Barnes and Noble to be specific."
Yeah...

What the Hell am I supposed to write about?

56.0

Dear etch-a-sketch,
Dear shadow of the internet,
Dear cyber closet,
Dear digital corner...
Whichever you prefer to be called,
I miss you. But I have nothing for you.

I feel like a negligent parent. Or better yet, a mother who has to give up her child for adoption. Because, how is she supposed to care for a baby when she can barely care for herself?
I barely get through the day. I'll read a few sentences of Emerson, get restless, leave on a walk to nowhere, come home, and somehow the sun is still in middle of the sky, laughing at my sorry excuse for a pass time and my horribly sun-splotched shoulders.
There are far too many times when I want to be silent for days and then the following week I won't shut up. I crave the company of others, but it always leaves me unsatisfied... like fine dining. It's lovely, but I can't seem to be able to appropriately appreciate it. It's this dissatisfaction that leads me to my last resort: my brain. But lately, it's been about as intriguing as a group of senile octogenarians playing canasta. 


I'm sure it's during times like these that people turn to religion. I can't imagine why. The last thing I would seek comfort in is an intimidating-looking book with passages that hold more ambiguity than fortune cookies. Actually, when expressed in that fashion it sounds rather refreshing...


You've no idea the amount of effort that was required to type these few inarticulate and nonsensical lines. Forgive me?

55.0

I feel like my head is made out of paper.
I'm flimsy,
easily manipulated,
and apathetic for the most part.

I could care less
if someone were to fold me
into a plane
destined for nose dives,
or a boat
to be melted in the bathroom sink.

If I were left crippled
and crumpled
inside a waste bin,
I'd probably be thinking of
avocado sandwiches
and freshly brewed tea.

If I were left at the bottom
of the porcelain pond,
I'd probably think of
the reprehensible amount of money
that I owe to my public library.

If someone were to take
a pencil or a pen
to my face and scribble
an address,
a love note,
profanity
or dogma
It'd all be the same to me.

I'd dutifully display
whatever markings
come my way.
Reluctance and reverence
are tinted the same.

54.0

A few days ago I had the scare of my life.
I attended the midnight showing of an all too popular superhero movie and managed to arrive home (without waking my parents) at around 4 in the morning, wake up 2 hours later to go to school and be conscious throughout my classes.

Let me quickly explain something about my sleep patterns.

There comes a time during every instance that I've tried to function on GMT when I feel my eyelids are being weighed down by lead lashes and my head begins to subconsciously bob to the beat of imaginary reggae music. It is the moment when I walk in and out of dreams on accident and mutter something nonsensical. Now, after that moment, one of two things happens. Either I surrender my consciousness for 9 hours OR I muscle through it and the turbulent waves of falling into sleep disappear. When the latter occurs, there is no hope for Mr. Sandman. None whatsoever. I spend the rest of the day with as fresh of a face as I can muster and fall asleep at a more regular hour the following night.
That did not happen a few days ago.

I decided to take a nap at about 5 o'clock PM. It was still light outside and I was still in my school uniform. I figured my nap would only last about 40 minutes. I woke up and everything was dark. The wind slapped against my blinds and ruffled the magazine clippings on my walls. It seemed the house was only inhabited by the refrigerator and me. I lit up my phone to see a lovely 03:25 blinking in the corner. I slept into the next day.

WHAT. THE. HELL?
How could my body betray me so?? I just slept through a day and now I was stuck on GMT again.
It's times like these when I wish I had foreign friends I could speak with to fill the vacant hours. Or a car and a place to go. But seeing as I had only myself I went on a 3 o'clock jog. I'd say it was fantastic but it wasn't. It was just cold.