Untitled Short Story: Part 2

Chapter 2: How it Began..

"Is it seriously still raining?" I asked aloud. Marley the cat rolled his head in my direction, and opened one green eye. I stared at him for a moment, expecting a response. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when I didn't get one. 
The clock showed 9:15 am, which meant if I didn't leave now, I would officially be late to the Crappy Cup. And I was still in my pajamas. This day had not started out on the right foot. 
"Dammit, Darla. You knew I needed to work this morning, where the hell are you?"
My roommate and best friend, Darla, had decided that she needed to leave at the crack of dawn to run errands, which included not only the use of my car, but it was also her turn to do laundry, which meant that I was left with slim pickings in the clothing department. 
Refusing to wait any longer, and having to risk dealing with a lecture from Handsy, I stomped off to my room in search of something that resembled a suitable outfit. 
Five minutes later, I emerged in my worst nightmare. Black yoga pants, and one of D's Disney princess t-shirts. Not only was it a crime against the universe to wear yoga pants to anything but yoga, but to be an adult in a child's extra large, pink and purple sparkly Cinderella shirt was just torture. Maybe I should just call in sick. I mean, I WAS starting to feel nausceous all of a sudden. But I needed the money. My bank account was in the single digits, and my Subaru was in desperate need of new tires. 
"D, you are so going to pay for this." I mumbled to myself as I grabbed my jacket, tote bag, purse and umbrella and ran out the door. 
The Happy Cup was only a few miles from our apartment, and not a bad walk on a nice day, but it was pouring down rain, and I was miserably out of shape. I considered taking D's Vespa, but figured my outfit was already pushing the limits of my sanity, and being seen on a hot pink scooter with matching helmet was just more than I could take. Therapy just wasn't in my budget at the moment. 
So I sucked it up, and took off at a brisk pace. I was already late, but figured the sooner I arrived and explained the situation, the better Andy might take it. As much as I hated it, I needed this job, and let's be  honest, I wasn't exactly irreplaceable.
About halfway to work, soaked to the bone, and contemplating all the ways Darla was going to pay, something caught my attention. There was a park I hadn't noticed before. Just a small one, no playground equipment, more of a garden. I slowed my pace and found myself suddenly mesmerized by the incredible beauty of it. Massive trees that had to be nearly ancient surrounded a small clearing. In the center of that clearing was an ornate wooden gazebo. Without even realizing it, I made my way towards it to get a closer look. The detail work was beyond impressive, and it looked very old. How had I never noticed this before? I passed it twice a day. It must be new. But nothing here looked new. As a matter of fact, it looked older than anything I had ever seen. The designs in the wood on the gazebo reminded me of Celtic knot work, or something from The Lord of the Rings. Stunning, and obviously hand carved. I ran my hand across the pattern, and could have sworn I felt something akin to electricity run up my arm. I pulled my hand back, and looked around for an explanation. But there was nothing. No lights, nothing that even required power. And it felt warm to the touch. Even though there was no sun to speak of, and it had been raining for two days. 
I was snapped out of my zombie like daydream by the vibrating and ringing of my phone in my pocket. Natasha Bedingfield's Pocketful of Sunshine made me groan, since it was the ringtone I had set for when work called me. "Shit." was all I could say. Hitting answer, I tried my best to sound apologetic "Hi Andy, I swear I'm on my way. Darla took my car this morning, so I had to walk, and I'm almost there." I spit out, hoping he'd take pity on me and be sympathetic. 
"Not to worry, Brookster, Andy called in sick this morning, so I'm covering his shift. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. It's dead in here, so don't stress." I had never been so relieved to hear Jackson's voice. "Oh thank God! Have I told you how much I love you, Jacks?" 
Jackson's deep chuckle filled my ears, "Yeah, yeah... so you say. But I have yet to see any proof of that." 
"You will, I swear. I will totally be on bathroom duty for the rest of this week." I promised. "I'll take it. Now get your ass here, so I can fill you in on the latest Handsy gossip." Jackson said before hanging up. 
Laughing, I put my phone back in my pocket. Turning to go, I swore I caught movement from inside the gazebo out of the corner of my eye. Spinning around, expecting to see someone there, I was surprised to find it empty, and I was still alone inside the park. Shaking my head, I left the clearing, and headed back towards work. I couldn't help but notice that it felt noticeably cooler once I got past the tree line, and I was overwhelmed with what I could only describe as a feeling of homesickness. "I am losing my damn mind." I said, and took off at a jog for the Happy Cup. 
Twenty minutes later, I finally made it to work. Taking off my jacket, and reaching for an apron, I caught Jackson's open mouth stare. "Do not say a word. I know I look ridiculous, but Darla took all the laundry this morning, and it was either this or my Halloween costume from last year." 
"I might have gone with the costume." Jackson responded, tossing me a rag. 
"I'll keep that in mind for next time." 
I started wiping down the counters, while Jackson filled me in on the latest and greatest Handsy Andy stories. But I was barely listening. I couldn't get my mind off of the park, and that beautiful gazebo. "Hey Jacks, when did they put in that park on the corner of Clover Street?"
Jackson turned to me with a strange look "What park? There's no park on Clover." 
"I guess it's not so much a park, as a garden, but it has these huge trees, and a gorgeous wooden gazebo in the center. On the corner of Clover and Stone. I never noticed it before, so I figured it must be new."
"Brooke, there is no park, no garden, and certainly no gazebo on Clover Street. I jog up and down Clover every evening, and there is nothing but an empty lot at that intersection." 
At this point, Jackson was looking at me like I'd lost my mind, and I was starting to wonder if I had. 
"You must be getting confused, and thinking of the park on Grable." he offered. 
"Yeah, that must be it." But I knew I wasn't confused. And Grable Avenue was on the other side of town... 

To be continued... 
(Stay tuned for Part 3 of the story.)

Untitled Short Story: Part 1

Prologue

"Wake up! Wake up!" My roommate Darla's higher than usual voice interrupts my dream of lying naked on the beach with Paul Walker.
"For the love of all that's holy, Brooklynne, WAKE YOUR ASS UP!"
Darla's words were punctuated by her jumping on top of me and shaking the crap out of my sleep mushed brain.
"Darla, seriously, what is your issue? And this better not be another pigeon based emergency either. I already told you, you are on your own with the bird CPR. It's just nasty."
"This is bigger than that, Brooke. This is like The. Biggest. Thing. Ever! Now get your ass up already!"
(At least I think that was what she said. I'd need to confer with a dog to be sure, being that it was in a pitch only they could hear.)
"Sweetie, I'd love to get up, but there's one small problem. You have to get off me first."
"Oh. Yeah, sorry. Just hurry, please."
After Darla gracefully removed herself from my bed, I not so gracefully grunted, groaned and eventually removed myself as well.
"What is going on? I haven't seen you this excited since you discovered the Pink Floyd/Wizard of Oz correlation." I asked while attempting to rearrange my night shirt for maximum coverage. I wasn't big, but I wasn't exactly dainty either. My mother liked to refer to it as "shapely", but I preferred "healthy". That's not to say that I didn't have a love/hate relationship with Taco Bell, because I did. I loved it, my thighs hated me for it.
As I dug around the floor for a remotely clean pair of shorts to throw on (Note to self: do laundry or buy new undies. TODAY.) Darla kept popping in and out of the room like a chihuahua on crack.
"Darla, you are making me dizzy. Please just tell me what is going on."
Grabbing my hand and nearly dragging me into the living room, she said "I'll do you one better. I'll show you. Look." and pointed to the TV.
Please let it be porn, I thought. But it wasn't. Not even close.
What I saw on the TV that morning changed the course of my life forever. I know, I know, how trite. But it's true. You know how people can remember even the most mundane details of what they were wearing, eating or doing during a life changing event? It was like that.
I was wearing my ex boyfriend's Detroit Lions t-shirt and a pair of black running shorts. (And by running shorts, I mean I've worn them while making a mad dash to the kitchen for snacks before the commercial break ended.) I was eating one of Darla's homemade bran muffins, that she must have snuck into my hand somehow (She's like the bran muffin ninja. Good thing I was wearing my running shorts, in case I needed to hit the bathroom in a jiffy.) and I was sitting on our blue corduroy sofa, staring at the television with eyes the size of plates and my chin in my lap. Also known as my 'I'm looking at a half naked Vin Diesel pic' face.
And no offense to Mr. Diesel, but this was even bigger than that. (or so I'm willing to assume...)
But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Before I tell you what Darla and I were looking at that fateful morning, let me start by telling you exactly how I arrived at that moment in my life.
Don't worry, I will tell you what we saw. Eventually....



Chapter 1: Brooklynne


"Excuse me, Miss. But I asked for no milk in this and judging by the color there is clearly milk in here. I realize this job must be oh so difficult, but if you could find the time in your busy schedule to remake this properly, I would greatly appreciate it."
Looking up from cleaning the poppy seeds out of the door track (try and contain your excitement) I made eye contact with the woman standing in front of the counter.
"Actually ma'am, you ordered a Caramel Macchiato, which is made with cream and milk, and I did not add the milk, but the coloring is the result of the cream. My job is quite easy, as long as the customers know what they are ordering, and I would gladly make you a new drink. At your expense of course. So what can I get ya?" I suppose adding the smug grin wasn't exactly necessary, but for the life of me I couldn't help myself.
After turning 8 shades of red (at least 6 of which matched her perfectly manicured nails) she picked up her beverage and stormed out. But not without muttering the perfunctory "I'll never come here again."
If only that were true. She came here at least 4 times a week and pulled the attitude each and every time. God, I loved my job.
After a quick check that the remaining customers, excuse me guests, (For the life of me, I will never understand that term. The word guest implies I invited you, and I clearly did not invite these caffeine slurping idiots into my life.) were all happy and not in need of anything, I went back to my poppy seed removal.
After restocking the muffins, bagels and assorted danishes and wiping down the counters for the millionth time in the last hour, I snuck a glance at the clock. "Is it seriously only 11:35?"
"And what time were you hoping it might be, sweet thing?"
Inner groan. I guess I asked that question aloud. Silly me.
"Oh, hi boss. Didn't hear you come in. How are you today?"
"Well I'd be better if my star employee didn't wear a constant frown and check the clock religiously." He replied.
Star employee. Insert fart noise here. My boss Andy (AKA Handsy Andy) was always spewing lines like this. He was the epitome of a coffee house douche bag and the owners of The Happy Cup thought he was the greatest thing since, well... coffee was invented. Those of us who worked for him thought differently. Underneath all the fake Burberry scarves  and knock off Gucci loafers, he was nothing more than a perverted jerk, who took any and all opportunities to brush up against his female employees. Rumor had it, he had brushed up against one of the males on the staff and didn't walk right for a week, but as far as I knew, that was just a rumor. A part of me (ok, all of me) hoped it was more than rumor, but since Andy was as tight lipped as he was tight assed, one would never know.
"Sorry, Andy. It's just been a rough morning. The main fridge went out again and I had to shift everything around, then the toaster quit toasting on one side, and we ran out of whipped cream. On top of that, the delightful Mrs. Arthur was just in, spreading her own brand of sunshine. So forgive me if I'm not grinning like an idiot and singing show tunes."
"No need to get testy, sweet thing. Papa Andy is here now and all will be right with the world. Do you need a hug, Brooke? I've been told I give great hugs." This was said with a wink, which only cranked the creep factor past 'horror movie' level right on to 'alone with the weird uncle' status.
"You know what, boss, I'll take your word on the hug thing. But now that you're here, do you mind if I take a quick break? I need to make a phone call."
"Just make it fast and if you hear the bell, you better be out here faster than bees on honey, got it?"
"Got it. Be right back."
Taking off my apron, and digging my phone out of my giant handbag, I dialed my roommate and best friend, Darla.
After way too many rings and a close call (no pun intended) with her voicemail, (Darla likes to listen to her ringtones.) She finally answered.
"Heya Brookie. You snuck outta here this morning pretty early, huh? How goes life at the Crappy Cup?"
I chuckled to myself at our little nickname for my place of employment before responding.
"Hey D. Yeah, I had to open this morning for Jackson. Apparently date number 3 went well with his new mystery woman, because he called last night and practically begged me to switch shifts with him. Being the sucker that I am, I said yes of course. Handsy just got here, so I gotta make this quick, but what are you doing later tonight?"
"Well I was planning on finishing knitting Marley's sweater but I suppose that could be put off if you've got something more exciting in mind." Marley was Darla's special needs cat (named for Bob Marley) who she loved torturing by making him little kitty outfits. Since he was mostly paralyzed and mute, and couldn't put up much of a fight, who knew if he hated it or loved it. My money said he hoped she made him a little kitty noose next, but Darla insisted the clothes made him happy. Far be it for me to argue. I couldn't keep a goldfish alive, so what the hell did I know?
"I'm not sure how exciting it is." I pointed out. "But since it's still in the 80's outside, I'm sure the sweater can wait. Besides, you're my bestest friend in the whole wide world, and I wouldn't trust anyone else with this very important mission."
Darla snorted, "Translation: Everyone else had plans and you don't want to do whatever this is alone. Spill it, Brooke."
Laughing, I said "Damn, D, you know me so well. Here's the deal, pet shop Paul asked me out again and I told him I already had dinner plans with a friend. He counter struck by saying he had an out of town friend staying with him for the weekend and they were planning on getting a bite to eat too, so why not eat together. Since it was 8:30 in the morning, and I hadn't had caffeine yet, my brain failed me and I couldn't come up with an excuse not to. Long story short, we are meeting them at The Den at 7. Oh and I love you."
"The Den? Oh they have the best steaks! Lucky for you, I haven't had my daily dose of face yet, so I'm in. I'll see you when you get home. Bring me a blueberry scone, will ya?" Darla was the definition of a hippie. She dressed in used and handmade clothes, drove a Vespa, complete with an "I hug trees." sticker, was a practicing Wiccan, rescued all living things and smoked a LOT of weed. But she refused to be a vegetarian. Her logic was that the meat industry wasn't changing its ways and those poor (and delicious) animals shouldn't die in vane. But she limited her animal (AKA face) intake to once a day when possible.
"Blueberry scone it is. I should be outta here by 3 at the latest, so I'll see ya then. Thanks, D. I owe you big."
"Yes you do, but I'll add it to the list. Good luck with Handsy Andy. Peace out."
Yes, she actually ends her phone calls that way. I wasn't lying about the hippie thing. But she's the most stable person I know and we had been living together for the last 3 years and I could always count on her. She was the sister I always wanted and the best friend a gal could ask for.
Sneaking another peek at the clock, which now read 11:45, (Gee I really knew how to kill time, huh?) I inhaled my lunch, hit the restroom, updated my Facebook status and got back to work.
The next few hours went by relatively quickly and pain free, thanks to Jackson coming in and filling me in on his date the night before. Turns out, he didn't get lucky, he got food poisoning instead. Poor guy. (Wait poor girl, eww.) But before I knew it, my shift was over and I was headed home. After a stop to fill up my ancient Subaru's gas tank, and grab some razors (Hey, better safe than hairy, right?) I was home. Ahhh home.
"Darla! I've got your scone and I bought razors. Where you at?"
Bouncing into the room, wearing what could only be described as a "very colorful" dress, Darla asked "Why razors?"
"Because we've been out for almost a week and even a hippie chick like you cannot pull off the European look, sugar." Cracking a smile and a beer, I tossed her the pack of razors. "Now get your ass in the shower, woman. We've got a date tonight." Ok, so maybe an evening with pet shop Paul and his weekend friend wasn't exactly something to write home about, but it was the most excitement either of us had seen in quite some time, so I was putting on my positive face.
"A date? Since when is Paul date material? And you never said anything about this being a date? I don't know anything about this friend of his. He could be a puppy killer for all we know!" Darla screeched.
Taking a drink of my beer and smiling to myself at Darla's ranting, I said "I'm certain he's not a puppy killer. He's friends with Paul, who owns a pet store and loves animals. And it's not really a date, it's just friends eating together."
"But you said date." Darla countered
"Slip of the tongue. Won't happen again, promise. Now will you please just go get ready?" I begged.
"Fine, but I'm wearing my granny panties, so if he thinks he's getting lucky, he's got another think coming." This was said with a flip of her crazy mane of red curls and a hand on her hip as she sauntered out of the kitchen.
Laughing, I told her "Duly noted. Maybe he'll be gay and you won't have to worry about a thing."
Ditching my bag in my room and peeling off my Happy Cup t-shirt, I wandered around the apartment sipping my beer. It wasn't the nicest place around, but it was homey. Darla was quite the crafter as it turned out and managed to make most of our Salvation Army finds look like items from a home magazine. The walls were all painted bright, vibrant colors (D said they inspired creativity.) and the furniture was a hodge podge of different styles but somehow it blended together quite well. Lots of healthy plants (of which I'm sure a few weren't legal in this state) filled the window sills  and corners, adding natural charm and character to the space. Marley slept on a lime green padded bench under the biggest window (Ok, the only window) in the place, soaking up the sunshine and enjoying his afternoon nap. Looking out the window, I took in the view below. We were on the fourth floor, so we had a decent view of the park across the street and into a few of the neighboring buildings windows. Not that we ever spied on anyone. Especially not the hottie on the third floor (Apt 310) who loved to do his workout half naked every morning at approximately 9 a.m. Nope, not us, we never peeped.
Wandering over to the sofa and flopping down, I sighed. This was my life, huh? I was 25,  worked at a coffee shop, drove a car that was older than me, shared a decent apartment with my best friend (ok, that part wasn't so bad) and had no man to speak of in my life. Eat your heart out Kim Kardashian. I looked across the room to the cabinet in the corner that contained my cameras and assorted equipment. They were all collecting dust instead of making my dreams come true. I suppose I couldn't exactly blame the inanimate objects themselves, could I?
Ever since Alec and I broke up, I felt like all my creative juices (and certain other generally damp areas) had all but dried up. When we had been together, it seemed like anything was possible. All my ideas were award winning and the world just seemed brighter. That was until I caught him underneath his co-worker, being ridden like a mechanical bull. Since that day (had it really been almost 2 years?) I haven't even picked up my camera or had a creative thought. Well unless you count all the creative ways I made Alec regret pissing off the wrong girl. Those were brilliant. But nothing since. Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a filmmaker. In which case, I should really look for a new line of work. Being a 65 year old barista wasn't my long term goal. Not that I had many long term goals, but that definitely wasn't one of them.
Snapping myself out of my pity party, I decided I should find something halfway decent to wear out to dinner. Not that I wanted to impress Paul, but he was a nice guy, and the least I could do was put on a clean outfit. And maybe a little make-up, I was looking a bit green around the edges today.
After a quick shower and an even quicker shave (let's be honest, the guy owns a pet store, he's used to fuzzy things) I threw on a blue and yellow flowy skirt, courtesy of D, and a matching tank top. Combed out my hair, took a little extra time with my make-up, grabbed my bag and some sandals and was out the door.

Exactly 2 hours, 27 minutes and 12 seconds later, Darla and I were making our way home. I won't say it was the longest 2 hours, 27 minutes and 12 seconds of our lives, but it wasn't exactly the "Time flies when you're having fun." situation either.
"You owe me major for this crapfest of a night, Brooke."
"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. But in all fairness, at least Paul's friend was nice." I replied.
"Nice?" Darla spat. "Did you say nice? 'Cause I think I heard you say nice. And yes, SHE was delightful, but contrary to popular belief, I am not a lesbian!" shouted Darla as she slammed her way into the apartment and flung her giant purse onto the sofa.
"D, I'm sorry, I really am. I honestly didn't know. But if it makes you feel any better, Paul may as well be a woman. All he talked about all night were puppies, kittens and his mother. Ugh! At least Kelsie was charming and funny."
In lieu of a response, Darla gave me an over the shoulder death look that I took to mean she wasn't quite ready to forgive me yet.
"And I shaved my legs for cripes sake!" She shouted from her bedroom.
Cringing, I picked up all the spilled contents of her purse and hung it up on the chair. D really hated to shave her legs. She's been known to go weeks in between trimmings (much to my utter disgust) and considers it a special occasion when she does. Tonight's "date" did not in fact, meet her special occasion requirements. Oh well... I tried.
Taking out two spoons and a pint of cookie dough ice cream, I made my way into her bedroom.
"D? I know I messed up, but I hope you still love me." I whispered, as I crept into the room ice cream first.
"That better not be fat free." she quipped.
Laughing, I flopped down on her mess of a bed and handed her a spoon. "It's full of fat and calories, I promise." I winked.

To be continued... 
(Part 2 coming soon)

What I Believe

If you know me at all, you most likely already know that I am not a religious person. 
I don't consider myself an Atheist necessarily, but I suppose I fit that definition better than probably anything else. 
I've never found comfort in religion, or the idea of God. I'm fascinated by it, and have studied many religions over the years, but it never struck a chord with me the way it seems to for so many. Much like with fairy tales and mythology, the stories are entertaining, and most carry some kind of a lesson in morality, which I can appreciate, but I've never taken them for anything more than that. 
If you've ever read classic fairy tales, such as Grimm's, you know that the original purpose was to frighten children in an attempt to control bad behavior. I view the Bible much the same way. Granted, it was written at a much earlier point in history, so the lessons derived from it are appropriate to that time and place. Now, that doesn't mean that there aren't still valuable lessons in the Bible. David and Goliath for example, teaches us that we can overcome our fears and our demons, and we can conquer even the biggest enemy with wisdom and determination. At least that's how I interpret the story. But the notion of believing these stories as fact.... well that baffles me. I don't want to poke fun, or upset anyone, but to me, believing that all of the stories in the Bible are real is just as silly as believing that vampires and werewolves are real. I think over time, in our fear to please God, we've taken the Bible and its lessons much too far, and much too literally. But that's a subject that I could carry on for a long, long time about.... 
In my experience, when you tell someone that you don't believe in God, you are most often met with shock and confusion. But how? How can you not believe? And it's quite simple really. I just don't. Do I believe that there are a plethora of things out in the universe that we simply do not understand? Yes. Do I believe that one of those things is a giant man in the clouds that watches us and controls us like pieces of a twisted game? No, I do not. Could there be a higher power out there? Sure. There could also be aliens. To be honest, I'm really hoping for the latter.
But I think the biggest misconception people have about the non religious is that we are somehow morally inept. That without some book or holy person guiding us, we must be utterly lost. Nothing could be further from the truth. I know many, many Atheists and secular people, and I can honestly tell you that they are some of the kindest, most giving, loving, positive, selfless, and wonderful people I have ever known. And they are this way because they choose to be. Not out of guilt, or for some golden ticket into the afterlife. Now that's not to say that if you ARE religious, you cannot be that way. Of course you can, and many are. But God and religion are not a requirement to be a good person. This is something I want to make VERY clear. A lack of belief in a God does not equate a lack in morals. I do not need to be told that it's bad to kill people, or to steal. I'm fully aware of that. And while my moral compass may not always point due north... I am not a bad or evil person. I'm human, I make mistakes. That's all part of living a genuine life. The idea that someone should never make bad decisions or "sin" is not an idea that I agree with. I think any life truly lived will be filled with mistakes and bad decisions. That's how we learn to make better choices. I don't think we should be made to feel guilty for that. 
So if I don't believe in God, what DO I believe in? 
I believe in myself. I believe that I am capable of making the right choices, and being a good person without being told how, by a book or anyone else. I believe in kindness, and the Golden Rule. I believe in love and respect for your fellow man, regardless of sex, race, religion, etc. I believe in honesty, and being true to yourself. I believe in compassion and understanding. I believe that sometimes the world is an ugly place, and there is no rhyme or reason for it, it just is. I believe that we are given a short time on this planet, and that we have to make the most of that time. 
I want to be clear on something... I am not saying that my way is right and yours is wrong. I am not saying that if you believe in God or practice a religion that you are a bad person. I am only telling you what I believe. And part of what I believe is that we are all entitled to our opinions. If your faith gives you comfort, hope, and peace of mind, then I am happy for you. I am not against religion. It just isn't for me. Plain and simple. I also don't like mushrooms or the color beige, but if you do, I don't hold that against you either....

(I suppose this sums it up. Lol)

My Crazy Thoughts....

This morning, I watched the film 'Silver Linings Playbook'. I really enjoyed it. It was a very thought provoking movie to say the least. And it was very relatable. At least for me. 
The movie addresses not just the issues facing the two main characters, but the fact that everyone is dealing with their own demons. No matter how "normal" and sane one may seem on the outside, we have no idea what they are dealing with internally. 
Whether you're just quirky and eccentric, or your problems are more deep rooted, we all struggle with something. Life hands us each a different set of circumstances, and we are forced to deal with them the best we can.
Since losing our son, I have felt like I am in a constant battle for my sanity. From dark thoughts and depression, to emotional roller coasters that I would give anything to get off of. Sometimes the pain and anger get the better of me, and I react in ways I normally wouldn't. Grief takes its toll on every aspect of your being. You become a passenger in your own life. No longer fully in control of your reactions and emotions.
That fucking sucks. I have always prided myself on my ability to control my feelings. Since Zach's accident, that control is fickle at best, and that makes me feel crazy. 
People often want to suggest medications or therapy. And while I do believe that those things can be beneficial for some, they are not options for me. 
The reality is, that life is going to beat you down. Sometimes, you will be forced to carry burdens far beyond what you thought you were capable of carrying. How you deal with those burdens will be what define your life. 
The challenges, the struggles, the hardships.... those are what make or break you. 
I'm not an optimist. I don't always see the silver linings. I have never viewed the world through rose colored glasses. Pouring glitter over a pile of shit doesn't make it any less of a pile of shit. Yes, it may be prettier, but it still stinks. I'm a realist. I see the world for what it is, and I do the best I can with the hand that I'm dealt. 
I don't know the meaning of normal anymore. Hell, I'm not sure I ever did. And you know what? That's ok. There's no such thing as normal. We are all crazy. We're just different kinds of crazy.

Stop. Just Stop.

I can't take it anymore. I have had it up to here (I'm waving my hand WAY above my head.) and I absolutely MUST say something....
STOP SHARING SHIT ONLINE IF YOU HAVEN'T DONE THE PROPER RESEARCH! 
No seriously.... stop it. You are only making yourself look stupid, and propagating fear mongering. 
Anything, and I mean ANYTHING can be found online if you look hard enough. That means that if I felt like it, I could find an argument for smoking cigarettes to CURE cancer. That doesn't make it valid or true. 
In this day and age, we are far too quick to hit the "share" button. We rarely take the time to figure out if what we are sharing is of any value whatsoever, let alone if it is even true. And don't even get me started on the people who clearly do not understand satire. Nothing you read in The Onion is true, people. 
We have to stop. We are creating a world filled with ignorance and fear, and it isn't helping anyone. All this does is encourage trolls and drama starters to write articles intended to spread discontent and stir the shit pot in order to garner attention. 
I recently saw a photo show up MULTIPLE times in my Facebook newsfeed about Halloween landing on Friday the 13th for the first time in 666 years or some shit. Now... I don't want to make anyone feel bad or stupid, but COME ON, PEOPLE.... Stop for a second and think it through. When is Halloween? It is the same day every single year. It is on October 31st. That means it could never, ever, EVER land on a Friday the 13th. We know this, yet many, many people shared that photo. Why? Because we are sharing without thinking, that's why. We see some colorful quote or catchy titled article and we feel compelled to share it. But should we? While some things are certainly worth sharing, many others are not. We need to start doing a better job of filtering these things.
Now, I'm not a big proponent of sharing religious, political, or push button topics, but if that is your thing, for the love of everything holy, please make sure you have done the proper research before you share it. You may hate Obama, but that doesn't mean that photo of him stabbing unicorns is real. You get that, right?
And if you want to be the person who shares things like that, at the very least, you should be sure that what you are sharing is genuine and not just some false propaganda created to cause trouble. 
So.... from now on, let's all do our due diligence, and start weeding out things of value from general nonsense. Not only will this free up our newsfeeds for more worthwhile things, it will make the world a much happier place, and you won't find yourself sitting at your desk screaming at your computer screen and calling your friends and loved ones colorful names.
Thank you. This has been a public service announcement.

     This. SO much YES! 

Boobie Love: A Tribute to Breasts

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. All month long you'll see people going pink, reminders to get your mammograms, funny 'Save the Ta-Tas' tees, and more. I love it all. Why? Well, for starters it brings attention to a great cause, but also because I love boobs.
I. LOVE. BOOBS.
Breasts are magical. They can do so many amazing things. From feeding babies, to capturing the attention of the world. (Right, Jennifer Lawrence & Kate Upton?)
I personally think that we should celebrate the wonder and majesty of jugs all year long, but I'll settle for a month, I suppose.
But here's the thing... As women, we don't always appreciate our breasts. From an early age, we are taught to hide them, to keep them covered for fear we will be judged and shamed. Wearing a revealing top means you must be begging for attention. Breasts become synonymous with sex, and we are often convinced that bigger is better, so some women buy bigger ones, but then they are judged for that as well. We compare our bodies to nearly unattainable images, and feel ashamed that we don't match up. We spend hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars on bras, clothing, and even surgeries to help enhance or perfect what we have. We struggle with accepting the chest that we've been given, and many of us never learn to appreciate them.
I'd like to change that. I want women to love their breasts. I want us to be proud of them, no matter what form they come in. Big, small, perky, saggy, smooth or wrinkled. I want us to stop hiding them and stop being ashamed of them. I want us to stop waiting for lovers or the media to validate our bodies. I don't want young girls to think they need to hate or change what they have. We need to own our bodies, and especially our breasts. And we need to love them, and care for them. And not just in October, but all the time.
We all know that the survival rate for breast cancer increases dramatically the earlier the cancer is detected. Yet we still have women embarrassed to do self exams and have mammograms. This needs to stop. Starting today, I want every woman to find at least one reason to love their boobies. No matter how silly you think that is, I want you to do it. I want you to look at your naked breasts, touch them, get to know them, and I want you to love them. Because if you love them, you'll treat them with the respect and care that they deserve. And that could save your life.
I decided that it was time to talk more openly and honestly about our racks. So I put out a request to several of my friends, and asked them to send me photos of their breasts, and to tell me one thing that they loved about them.
No, this isn't porn. This is real women being honest. And while some were eager to share, and clearly had immense love for their bodies, others were more hesitant, and struggled to find something they loved about them. I quickly learned that merely discussing our breasts made some women uncomfortable. That makes me sad. We don't shy away from talking about our hair, or our thighs, but you say boobs, and faces turn red with embarrassment. This needs to stop. These are our bodies! The skin we live in everyday. If we are incapable of having a dialogue about simply having breasts, how can we expect to be informed and ready to deal with something like breast cancer? Enough is enough! Women have boobs! They aren't dirty, they aren't inappropriate, and they aren't shameful. And to help me prove that point, here are some amazing women I know, sharing their boobies, and telling you why they love them. These women vary in ages and backgrounds. They are not celebrities or super models, and these are their own photos. Not taken by professional photographers and photoshopped to perfection. Just real women, with real bodies. They are here to help encourage women everywhere to love themselves. Even when it's hard.

This is Nicole. She is 34 years old. She loves her breasts because
 "They are just fun to play with. The rest of the time they just get in the way." 



This is Amanda. She's 28 years old, and she says
 "I love my boobs because they are me! Big and
bouncy! LOL! I fed all my babies with them."

This is 28 year old Megan, who says "I love that they supply milk for my son."

This is Kathleen. She's 35 years old and says
"I never knew how much I liked mine until I faced the decision of keeping them or removing them. I'm proud to show my lumpectomy scar (6 weeks post op) to remind women to check their breasts, and alter their lifestyle now to minimize your risk."



This is Laura, age 35. She says
"My boobs fed my kids. Plus, they are these fabulous orbs that make me into a 1940s pinup, no matter what item of clothing I wear!"



This is Shannon. Age 34, who tells me
"What's not to love about boobs? They mess with my golf swing, running requires strapping them in, they've leaked breast milk in front of my grandpa, but darn if I don't still like them!"

This is Toni, she's 35 and says "I like that I don't have to wear a bra all the time because they are so small."

This is 35 year old Jodi, who wrote me a hilarious and honest poem about why she loves her boobies.
"My boobies have seen an awful lot. Babies, reduction surgery, and a husband so hot. They may not be perfect or ten, but they sure get attention from pervy old men."

Becky, age 36. "My boobs are a little preoccupied these days, but I'm loving it. I see a LOT of boobs in my line of work (labor and delivery nurse) and it's so amazing every time I see a newborn go to breast for the first time. I'm so happy to have experienced it. In saying that, I love my boobs for fattening up my lil' chunk, I love how they can make the right outfit look that much better, and my husband, Chuck, says they're great for motorboating! LOL! Yay for boobies!"

This is Lindsay, age 31. She said "I love them because they're about the only thing that stayed the same on my body since I was a teenager. And for me, they're just right."

Kayla, age 25. "I love my boobs because they have allowed me to provide life and nourishment to my children. Breastfeeding has given me so many precious moments to bond with and cherish my babies. What's not to love?"

Morgan, 20 years old. "I was never really a fan of my breasts, but recently, they have really grown on me (no pun intended). They may not be that big or super perky, but they suit me well. I don't have to wear a bra if I don't want to, which is my favorite part about having a small chest! Everyone should feel confident with the boobies they have!"

Jessica, age 25. "A few years ago I purchased implants because I wanted to feel more like a woman. I wanted to have boobs even when I wasn't wearing a push up bra, and for a couple years I had just that and I loved them. Now after breast feeding my son, they have grown naturally to twice the size I ever planned on them being and I don't care as much for their appearance. I was unhappy with my boobs for a while, and I didn't enjoy them as much as I previously had. While writing this out though I have come to realize I love my boobs for a much more personal, beautiful reason. 
I love them because they were my sons primary food source for the first year of his life, they have comforted him many times when he was in pain or upset. My breasts have even healed my family at times. Breast milk has wonderful healing properties, and it has soothed many burns for my family in the last couple years. To me, all of the things my breasts have done are pretty amazing. My boobs, my natural breasts, are more valuable to me than any price you could put on implants or surgery to make them look a certain way, I love them for things that just looking at a photo, you would never know they have done."

This is 22 year old Mackenzie. She told me "I love them because before, when I had way too big of boobs, I felt judged. Like I always had to hide them. Everyone always told me I was inappropriate, no matter if I put on a t-shirt or a turtleneck. Now, they're easier to maintain, and way better to run with!"



Molly, age 25. "One of the most radical things a woman can do is love their body. To prioritize health over appearance. My boobs are an outward, physical representation that I am a woman. They set me apart in a male dominated work space. They can be a source of pleasure. They can make me feel powerful and sexy. They are an asset, and never a limitation."





Jennifer, age 23. "I love my boobs because they are always perky, and keep me in a great mood. They are also healthy, so they are quite the fighters. With having epilepsy, it's nice to know they don't effect it like everything else does. If ever needed, they would leave my side for the sake of my health. I love my boobs, and so should you! It's Breast Cancer Awareness month, please don't ignore your boobs, they need you!"



Monica, age 43.  "I love my boobs for all that they have accomplished. They were a source of nourishment to my baby boys, provided comfort to them when they needed and a snuggle, and even at the ripe old age of 43 these boobs can still rock a bustier."



Kristin, age 23, says
 "They're mine! Only I have to live with them. They fed my children when they were small, and my hubby likes them!"





This is Pam, age 35. She says "I appreciate them because they are beautiful, inside and out. They make my clothes look better, they compliment my bootie, my husband enjoys them, and I hope to take care of our kids one day with them."



Margaret, age 39, says "I love my boobs because they still look good without a double barreled slingshot."



Kathy, age 48, told me "To be honest, I didn't always like my breasts. They were huge, which made me self conscious. I also worried that if there ever was a lump, I would never feel it. So in 2000, I had a breast reduction done. It was the best thing I could have ever done. I now love my breasts! They define me as a woman, obviously, but they are so much more than that. They have been nutrition for my child, and even toys for my hubby, lol."



Mary, age 47, knows the importance of routine care, after her doctor found a possible mass during a routine mammogram. A needle biopsy found no cause for concern, luckily, but she encourages all women to get them checked. She tells me "I love my breasts because they are uniquely mine! Nobody has any just like mine, and they are 100% homegrown!"



 Lorri, age 45. "Boy do I love my boobs.... why? There's a lot to love. Growing up, I hated them. BIG AND IN THE WAY! Now that they have fed my babies, and given them a soft place to snuggle, I love them more. Now that I'm a grandma, I love them even more. Having all sons, I have expressed to them that a woman's bosom is not just for play, but for purpose as well, to help the woman in their lives to appreciate every aspect of her breasts."

Tracey, age 49. "I used to hate my breasts, as at 11 years old, I was the only girl at school wearing a training bra and getting teased. Then, as a teenager, I tried to minimize them by hunching over, thus my posture became very poor. Over the years, I guess I started to become more relaxed and comfortable, but still not totally relaxed. Now, as I think about it, they are a part of who I am. I nursed my son with them, and they are part of the feminine side of me. I guess we take them for granted, until something like breast cancer comes along to make us see how much they are a part of us. So relax, be proud, and take care of your breasts, ladies! P.S- I still hate bra shopping!"

Beth, age 55, told me "I'm mainly an at home mom now, and an at home granny of 4 grandangels. I don't like wearing bras.... but then, I REALLY don't like wearing clothes. I've been blessed with enough muscle tone that the girls haven't seen my belly button yet. Why I love my boobs... They make my clothes look right, they fed both my children after they were born, and having their food/meal ready NOW without carrying extra supplies was REALLY nice. Now, the reason I mainly like my boobs, is that after 34 years of marriage, my husband still likes my girls!"



And finally, ME. Age 35. Like many of the ladies here, I didn't always love my boobs. It took me until my late 20s to really appreciate them. But now, I love them. They are so much a part of me, and not just physically. They have taken on a personality of their own. My girls have been the butt of jokes, a conversation topic, and a source of humor. I love how full and perky they are, and how feminine they make me feel. I love that even after 17 years, my hubs still can't keep his hands off them. And while I'll never know what it's like to feed a child from my breasts, I have experienced the joy of a sleeping baby on my chest, and how perfectly they fit there. I love that I can comfort and soothe the babies in my life in some special way.

So there you go. Twenty six pairs of gorgeous, wonderful, amazing boobies, and a multitude of reasons to love them! It's time for the shame and hatred to stop. We can no longer allow others to determine for us what is beautiful and acceptable. There are no perfect bodies, and that includes breasts. We can all find flaws, that's the easy part. The challenge is finding reasons to celebrate what we have. But I implore you to do it. Because loving your body is the first step in caring for it, and treating it better.

*I'd like to send a big, sincere THANK YOU, to all the amazing women who took part in this post. For sharing your stories, and your bodies, and for trusting me with them. You are all my heroes, and my bosom buddies. (Yup, I went there.)

**Disclaimer: While this post focuses on women loving their breasts, I would also like to point out that men too should love their bodies, and also get their breasts checked. Breast cancer is not a female exclusive disease, and it can also affect men of all ages. So let's love those MOOBS too, fellas! ;)