Thursday, May 31, 2012

It's Time to Get Serious, Y'all

Today is the anniversary of the first death of someone I loved. Four years ago, she left this world, and left her friends and family grief-stricken and wishing for an explanation.

For those of you who don't know, I'll first tell you about her, then about what happened.

Taylor Hayes was one of those friends that you have in elementary school, but then when you don't have classes together you drift apart. Not because neither of you liked each other - if you saw each other in the hall, you smiled and waved - but because it's hard to hang out with someone you never see.

Freshman year of high school, she sat behind me in drama class. We became good friends again, and easily. She was a sweetheart, full of laughter and love and light. She had red hair and these great big, beautiful blue eyes, and she was short and tiny. I was only an inch or so taller than she was, but she still seemed so small. Nick, one of the boys in class, would pretend to throw her in the ceiling.

She wore the coolest clothes - bright colours mixed with black, neon EVERYTHING. Taylor had one Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends shirt with Blue on it, and the jeans that accompanied it with jeans the same shade of blue.

Every day, she ate a Snickers bar.

That semester ended, but we ended up having history class together.We didn't talk as much, because she sat farther away. But sometimes, after school, she'd be waiting for her mom to pick her up and see me walking home. She would always get the biggest smile and jump and wave and shout.

This made me so happy. Taylor and I may not have known each other very well - I didn't know the trials of her life, and she didn't know mine - but I loved her anyway. She cared about me, and tried to cheer me up when I was sad, and rooted for me when we tried out for the school play together. No one beyond my parents and my best friends ever did that for me. In middle school, I was what's known as a pariah. Freshman year, some of that still lingered. That someone as popular as she was would care about me, even the slightest bit, meant the world.

One night, while Krystal was over, she got a text. She asked me if I knew a girl named Taylor Hayes. I responded in the affirmative. Then Krystal said the impossible: There had been a car accident, an awful one, and they thought Taylor had been in it.

I prayed and prayed and prayed for hours. Taylor couldn't leave - she wanted to do theatre class next year, and she had her family.

It turned out that she had been in the accident. Her friend Stephanie had been driving. Taylor's boyfriend had been in the car as well. Stephanie and Taylor hadn't been wearing their seatbelts. He had.

Taylor literally flew out of the window, being as tiny as she was, and hit the pavement. Thankfully she died upon impact, and didn't have to suffer. Stephanie died as well. Taylor's boyfriend survived, and from what I hear, he blamed himself for their deaths. He could have told them to wear seatbelts, MADE them. But he didn't.

It wasn't his fault.

So yeah. Everyone at school the next day was numb - this was not the year for Western Branch. Earlier in the year, a football player had been killed. I don't remember much about that one, though. Anyway. Teachers were crying, students were crying, administrators were crying.

Not me.

For some reason, I can't cry at death. Or at least I haven't been able to yet. Part of me wants to, screams at me to just be normal for once in my goddamn life. But the rest of me sits in a state of serenity, knowing that those who have died are in Heaven now. Why should I be sad?

My mother says I can be sad for me, for those of us still here who don't get to be with that person anymore. But I can't. I mean, I'm sad, but not in a way that makes me cry, or feel grief. I just know that the person is gone, and there is nothing I can do about it.

I did write Taylor a poem. It wasn't very good, but it helped others in class.

Before she died, I hated Snickers, because I hate peanuts.

Now I love Snickers.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

An Update in the Life of Hattie

Okay. So y'all know about Warrior Dash and all the other stuffs I've posted about. This is just a general little update, because I'm way too lazy to write a REAL blogpost, especially when I have to write actual novels and such.

I have to get the oil changed in my car. Apparently the little sticker thing at the top fell, so I've gone like six months without getting it changed. Which is far too long, according to my parents. So I'm doing that at some point today.

Last night, I had a really excellent bout of writing after a scare. You see, my writing computer (not this one I'm on now; the one in my room has no Internet, so there's less chance of distraction) is old. Very, very old. Like, we've had it since I was three or so. I love it to death (named her Penelope), especially the keyboard. It's an old one, with great, clacking keys (even though it's supposedly a "QuietKey" model, haha) that make me feel productive.

So yeah, this computer sits on a big container thing holding all my VHS movies. I type from my bed, which is centered in the middle of the room. Well, my mouse has a tendancy to fall off my bed. When this happened as I was grabbing a notebook that had some of my thoughts in it, some sort of wizardry happened, and the computer screen went dark. Not off - dark. The blinky green light was still on. I screeched (I'd started typing, my story was open when this happened, what if I lost EVERYTHING), and ran around checking wire connections and all that. Nothing.

Then the computer restarted. Which takes FOREVER. I mean, remember, this is a 16yo computer (possibly older, because my momma's work had been giving their old ones away and that's how we got it). There's a reason I don't log off or shut down. It takes too damn long to start everything back up!

I ended up losing the two new sentences I had typed. That wasn't too bad, I could live with that. I ended up with about ten more pages by the time I stopped last night. I'm pretty happy. But I have decided to never ever let my mouse fall ever again.

Other things in the life of Hattie: I went to Busch Gardens last night. For any who might not know, it's an amusement park with rollercoasters and stuff. My friend Carter works there, and they were having a thing where you could ride Verbolten (the new rollercoaster) and Mach Tower (a drop tower they got last year) for free, and get some munchies. He could bring one guest, and he picked me!

I'm friends with that guy again, the one I fooled around with and then he was stupid. He hates how stubborn I am, and I hate how he never says how he feels and instead just gives me the silent treatment like a middle school girl. But we're friends. We've been meaning to hang out again, so I can show him The Walking Dead and he can bring me banana popsicles. He also seems to think that we'd fool around, but I doubt we would. That would take a hell of a lot of banana popsicles.

Uhm, that's pretty much it. I'm trying to cut down on eating so much, because I want to be fit. There's another Warrior Dash in September, so I'm totally doing it.

Saturday, May 19, 2012



As you can already tell, I had a BLAST at Warrior Dash. It was easily the most fun exercise related thing I've ever done. EVER. And I'm going to tell y'all ALLLLLLLLLL about it. Probably with lots more online-yelling.

Okay. So. We left for North Carolina around 8:30 PM. One thing y'all should know about me: long car rides, especially ones at night, put me to sleep. Anything over thirty minutes is guarenteed to have me blinking in that sleepy way, and after an hour I have to really fight to stay awake. So true to form, I fell asleep pretty quickly. I woke up around 11, suddenly realizing that I'd forgotten my ID, which I would need for check in. Momma managed to email a scanned copy to my cousin. I then played Angry Birds on Joe's Kindle. When 12 rolled around, I fell back asleep until we got to the hotel.

At the hotel, I slept fairly well. I can fall asleep pretty much any time, anywhere. Around 6 AM I got up (having set my alarm for that) and showered. Reasons for the shower: I needed to shave, and wet hair braids better than poofy, expands-with-humidity hair.

We left the hotel around 7:10. On the way up to the race track, I listened to intense music (also known as my Exercise playlist) and looked out the window. At some point, I saw a road name: Knoxwood. I think that'd make a lovely town name for a story, dont' you?


About an hour later, we made it to the parking lot. I pretty much became a jumping ball of spaz. I used my cousin's Kindle to show the people my ID, and got all my race gear. For those who don't know, that includes: a chip monitor for your time, a warrior hat (looks like a viking helmet), a warrior t-shirt, and your number. I bounced around more as we went to the car to put away what we didn't need.

While we waited for our wave (11, but we left with the 10:30 one instead), we wandered around and stretched. At some point my cousins got energy drinks. Holly hated hers, and we split it (I hated it too. Nasty stuff, energy drinks). Probably not the best idea when I was already BOUNCING OFF THE PROVERBIAL WALLS.

THEN IT WAS RACE TIME! We got in the giant herd of people gathering at the start line, definitely near the back of the pack. When the race started, it took a good minute for us to even reach the starting line. My cousins and I dodged and weaved around slower runners. And get this, SOME PEOPLE WERE ALREADY WALKING. Like, what? The race just started. You canNOT be tired already.

After a couple minutes, the giant throng of people turned into a steady line. There was a backup at the first obstacle, which sucks, because that takes away from your time. Joe and I amused ourselves by making dinosaur noises at the obstacle, and pretending to fly, and a bunch of other nonsense.

What WAS the first obstacle you ask? I'll tell you. It was boards that went up, and you had to walk up them, then go across another board, then another, then go down the last one. Easy peasy. I ran it. On the other side we had to go through the throng of people again. Eventually we made it through, only to be held up YET AGAIN at the next obstacle.

Now, I can't really remember the order for the obstacles except the last four. So I'll just tell you all the other ones in no particular order.

A rope bridge thingy that you walked across. Once again, easy peasy. Then there were these rubber tires to hope around like in military movies, which led to two cars you had to climb over, which led to more tires. Less easy, because at that point I was dead tired and just wanted to walk and never run again ever. There were trenches to run up and down. Uhm. A giant hurdle to climb up and through. A wall thing to scale with rock climbing holds, that had a firemans pole to slide down the other side. Another wall that you had to scale with just a rope and some foot holds.

Around 2 miles, I started lagging. I was tired, and the obstacles seemed really far apart, and there were so. Many. Hills. We weren't running on a track per se - we were on a recently-made trail that had been churned to mud in many places by the other runners. Often we were running through the woods, dodging stray branches and prickly vines. That was fun (I love running through trails in the woods), but exhausting. But no worries. By the time we got to 2.5 miles, I got my second wind and was jetting through the course like the badass I am.

So, the last obstacles. First of the last (how clever am I?!) was a giant water pit. This was greatly appreciated, as we were all super hot (and I don't just mean in the sense that we're all better-looking than average individuals). The sign said that the water was waist deep. Yeah, for a 7-foot man. I totally couldn't touch the bottom. We had to swim (and with like five billion other people in this small little thing, that wasn't easy) to these gray floaters and climb over them, then into the water, then over some more, then back into the water. This was super easy for me, I'm a fish. Once I was out of the water, though... my clothes were so heavy I could barely run. Correction: my shirt was so heavy I could barely run. Seriously, that thing was pulling down so hard I was worried it would fall off!

Out of the water, I was covered in bracken. Like, swamp monster worthy covered. I pulled most of that off, then headed for the slide thing that was next. After that, it was through some really gnarly mud to the last three obstacles.

The next obstacle was a giant rope thing. You climbed to the top, then crawled across these ropes, which had holes among them. My knees are all kinds of torn up from that.

Then there were the fire hurdles. These were long lines of coal, which were on fire. You had to jump over them. I leaped across mine like a gazelle, earning quite a few rounds of applause.

Last, but certainly not least, was the mud pit. Which happened to have barbed wire over it. You had to go into the mud and army crawl. This mud was thick as all get-out, and deepish, and there were weird pebbles at the bottom. I got mud all in my ear because I'm not coordinated at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't the best. When I got out, I had mud EVERYWHERE.

Mud covered my face, but I could see. At least until Joe dumped water over my head. That made mud run into my eyes, so Holly had to lead me to the wash station. Which was men on trucks filled with water, spraying us down with giant hoses. One of the vans had a pipe that sprayed water out so you didn't have to wait for one of the men to notice you. I navigated to the front, and basically pole danced without the pole so that I could get my entire body somewhat cleaned off (the pipe was low to the ground, spraying at about waist level). One guy yelled, "USE THAT ASS!" I shouted back, "HELL YEAH. THAT'S WHAT IT'S HERE FOR!" Everyone laughed and it was fun.

With the race over, I was tired but energized. We got some food, and I danced a lot. Mud literally caked me - I could've taken off my tanktop and sports bra and still have a layer of mud so thick you couldn't see my boobs. It was beautiful. My hair had transformed into a helmet, and it took over ten minutes for me to get it clean tonight when I got home.

That's pretty much it. I'll post some race pictures when they go up on the website.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Sex: What is the DEAL?

Let's talk about sex.

Now, I don't know a whole lot about this topic. As a virgin, I can't really speak to whether or not it's a good time (although I'm 99% certain that after the first excrutiating time when your hymen breaks that it's a hoot and a half). People seem to like it, that's for sure. I enjoy some of the other things involved in sex that aren't the actual act.

But there are some things that confuse me. Maybe some of my more worldly readers can help me out.

Why are penises so unattractive? Like, seriously. They're not worth looking at. In fact, they're slightly disturbing. I mean, let's put aside my intense hatred of sperm for a minute and talk about the actual apparatus. The ones I've seen sorta look like weird mushrooms.

Why on EARTH do men think that I want to put my mouth on their dicks? They pee AND ejaculate from there. At least women have separate holes for that. Here we cannot put aside my hatred of semen, because that's 60% of the reason I'm not interested in giving head. Semen is nasty, people. It has a tail and it swims and  it can live inside you for HOURS upon HOURS. I don't want that swimming about inside MY larnyx, thanks.

On the same note, when a guy says, "So what, you'll receive but won't give?" I get a little miffed. I don't ASK them to do anything like that for me. Personally, I wouldn't put my mouth near a vagina if you paid me. Women pee, bleed, and cum all in the same general area. Uh-uh, no thank you. If a guy wants to do that, that's HIS business, not mine. Just because HE'S willing to find out if the girl is clean down there doesn't mean I have to be willing to find out if HE is.

Why do guys want girls to shave all the hair off from down there? I'm sorry, doing that makes me feel like I'm 9 sexually, and I don't see how a guy can justify wanting to do naughty things to a girl who looks like she's 9 down under. It's just creepy. Besides, keeping it shaved seems like a hell of a lot of work, and I already have enough things to shave, thanks. I mean, I usually keep things trim, as it IS bathing suit season now, but apparently that's not enough. Well boo-hoo for them, because there's no way in Hades that I'm looking like a pre-pubescent girl for a guy.

That one is pretty much my biggest issue. My first (and thus far ONLY boyfriend) didn't have a problem with me keeping things natural. But lately a couple of the guys I've talked to (including the one I fooled around with) have been saying that shaving is preferred. They shave theirs, so I should shave mine.

Which is like the oral thing. Just because YOU make a decision doesn't mean I have to. Maybe I'm just naive; maybe they're right, and shaving down under entirely is the socially acceptable thing to do. What's the verdict, readers?

Now, I've been called crazy for not having sex. That doesn't really bother me. It's my decision. I don't have a problem with other people who have sex all the time; that's their decision. But why do those people have to think I'm a freak or weird? I'm sorry that I don't want to get preggers. And don't say that birth control and condoms work; I'm proof they don't always. I have too many things to get done in life before I have kids, and I don't want to end up pregnant before I'm ready. Why is that so difficult for others to understand?

Specifically, I want to wait until I'm married before I have sex. It's not a moral thing. I could care less about the morals of it. If those were what held me back, I'd have had sex a year ago with Jackson, that boyfriend I mentioned. I just don't want to end up like my mother, pregnant, alone, and wondering where the man she thought she loved had gone. That's not to say that I think every guy I'd have sex with would do that. In fact, of the ones asking for it now, I'm about 90% sure they would stick around if I DID end up preggers. It's just... I can't risk it. Besides, if I got pregnant, I couldn't become a wildlife biologist. I'd have to either become a full-time writer or find some other job.

As much as I'd love to write all day every day, I'd rather be out in the rainforest studying jaguars.

So. What are y'all thinking, either about the questions and issues I brought up, or about something I haven't mentioned?

Monday, May 7, 2012


This isn't about the singer dude, or the dog breed. That'd make too much sense.

You see, I play ultimate frisbee with some Baptists on some Sundays. It's a lot of fun, but for the last year or so, I hadn't been joining in. Life was way too busy for me, plus the friend that I went to it with left, so I didn't really know anyone who played anymore. I mean, I knew them in that "there's that guy who's good", but nothing beyond that.

This past Sunday, I rejoined. My body today thinks that this was a mistake, but it's slowly getting over itself.

Well, I walked up to the field (which is right next to a cemetary. More than once I have gone head-over-heels across a tombstone) and immediately the older guy who runs the show spotted me. He stared for a second, then shouted, "Pitbull? That you?"

I couldn't believe it. They remembered me! They'd dubbed me "Pitbull" because of my aggressive nature, and because once I grab onto someone I'm not going to let go until the frisbee is out of his hands. In real ultimate frisbee, this is against the rules. Here, the only rule is to not maim anyone too seriously.

When Jacob, the man's son and my biggest adversary on the field, drove up, his dad yelled gleefully, "Jacob! Pitbull's here! Make sure you're wearing your cup!"

Jacob promptly groaned and grinned at the same time. People often have that reaction around me when it comes to sports.


I've always been a tomboy. I'm loud, I'm aggressive, and I can kick some ass. I can throw a football better than a lot of boys, I can tackle, I can spit pretty damn far, and when I go to hit, it's a punch, not a slap. Throughout the years, I've been called Pitbull, Rottie, Wolf, Lion, anything that sounded fierce and masculine.

In recent years, I've become a touch more feminine. I wear dresses and skirts now, I put on makeup, and I paint my nails. Does this mean I'm any less aggressive? Not in the slightest. There's a reason my self-defense teacher said that I'm one of the only ones he's not worried about.

The only thing that bothers me about being so... contradictory, I suppose you could call it, is that people don't seem to think of me as a girl. Despite having a rather nice rack (I come from a long line of well-endowed women, and at the rate I'm going, I'm going to fit right in) and a vagina, people still assume that I'm incapable of girly emotions.

When I wear a dress, people act like it's a big deal. You know what? Sometimes I just want to wear a dress. They're fun to twirl in. Yes, I like to twirl.

When I put on makeup, people act like I've broken some covenant. I can wear makeup if I want. It brings out my better features and hides the breakouts I get at certain times of the month. In other words, it's useful stuff.

When I admit that I *gasp* have feelings, people get freaked out. Like what, tomboys can't like boys or want to cry or feel like screaming in rage? Au contraire.

Now, this isn't to say that EVERYONE treats me like some sexless creature that is neither a man nor a woman. Plenty of men want to have sex with me, and some even like me. Plenty of girls understand where I'm coming from. But those men are never the ones I like, and those girls still seem intimidated by me.

Of course, that could be because I have a proclivity to attack first, ask questions later.

Friday, May 4, 2012


I can't be the only one who always forgets that it's a new month.

But that's not the point of this post.

The point of this post is that I think I might be part mermaid.

Now, before you start harping on about how being "part" mermaid makes no sense because mermaids are already part human and part fish, hear me out.

All my life, water has been my best friend and favourite environment. By the time I was two, I could swim even in the deep end of the pool. By the time I was four, my swimming instructor told my mother that I could get full-ride scholarships to any college of my choice at the least, and go to the Olympics at the most, if I trained and such from then on.

Of course, because I was four and contrary, I turned up my nose at that and took up ballet. That lasted about a month or two. Then I did gymnasatics. That I really liked, but it was dangerous and I wasn't all that good, so my momma took me out. Besides, the only part of swimming I loved was swimming underwater. Doing the structured half-in half-out nonsense professionals do held no attraction to me.


I love water. I love swimming and splashing and wading and everything you can possibly do within the water. When I go to the beach, over 90% of my time is spent in the water, only coming out if I go numb or I need more sunscreen.

In the water, I am graceful and strong. Out of the water, I'm strong... but as far from graceful as a baby giraffe.

Thus the reason I believe I'm part mermaid.

If I were full mermaid, I'd gain a tail when I hit water. As that isn't the case... I can only assume that I'm more human than mermaid, and get the sad end of the stick without tail or gills. The only thing that remains proof of my magical heritage is my natural ability to cavort in H2O.

One thing, though.

I hate water on my face.

Like, if the rest of me isn't wet, I do not want water on my face. If my head is above water, I do not want any trickles or drips or drops or anything. Even in the shower, I avoid getting any of the spray on my face until it's time to wash it, and right after that I dry it as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Yeah, I'm aware this was a pointless post. But you know what? I don't care. I went to the beach today, and it was wonderful. So you can just deal with it!