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.