Posted in Storytime

If Life Came with Instructions: Part I

I’ve often heard the joke, “you couldn’t handle me even if I came with instructions” when referring to relationships. But while I was waiting in line at the local coffee shop, I couldn’t help but think of the phrase as being used to describe other things. For example, when it starts to rain out of nowhere even though the weather app said it wouldn’t for the whole day, I can imagine the rain as a person sitting there laughing at the fact that if weather had instructions, it would probably still rain out of nowhere.

But then I thought about life in general. What kind of person would life be like? I began to imagine Life as a sassy grandma sitting on a front porch, leaning over close to your face as she points her gangling finger at you and bellows “YOU COULDN’T HANDLE ME EVEN IF I CAME WITH INSTRUCTIONS YA LITTLE PIECE OF SH…”, you get the point.

I may not be an expert at this whole “life” thing (is anybody really), but I thought I’d share a few steps to take to live a life even Life herself would be jealous of.

Step 1: Know that the rules that follow may or may not work, the world doesn’t like to give you a heads up when it flips itself upside down (essentially, “results may vary”)

Step 2: Happiness is never going to be and never will be a singular destination. You’ve got to learn to be happy along the way and enjoy every second of life you are given in this world.

Step 3: It’s okay to not be okay. Nobody’s perfect, so it’s completely fine to say that you’re not okay and take some time to heal yourself. Our humanity can be a gift or a curse, no matter the circumstance.

Step 4: Don’t eat the yellow snow.

Step 5: When driving, there’s a little device called a “blinker” and it should be utilized at all times. Trust me. It can save you from a dent…or two.

Step 6: Follow the “Golden Rule”. Treat others the way that you would want to be treated. So basically, don’t be an a**hole.

Step 7: Karma really is a b**ch.

Step 8: If you really think about it, we are all going to die one day. So, treat every day as if it’s your last, you never know when your time on earth will come to an end.

Step 9: Never judge a book by its cover (they could be the next bestseller 😊)

Step 10: If you’ve got a crush, tell them. It’s easier to mend a broken heart from rejection than a broken/exhausted heart from months or years of waiting for the “right moment”. This one is a hard one. I know because I’ve experience it more times than I can count. But from all the heartache that I’ve had, I’ve learned that it’s easier to bounce back from someone saying “no” than never knowing and continuing on for years waiting for a miracle that isn’t going to happen.

Step 11: Enjoy being single. (For example, I’m writing this in sweatpants and eating pizza that I had delivered to my door just for myself…why?…because I can, that’s why. I also get to enjoy a giant cozy bed all by myself and I can hog all the covers I want.)

Step 12: Remember this quote:

“Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.” – Rob Siltanen

*mic drop*

Step Infinity: Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual or rules. All you got is what others teach in life lessons. Listen to them. It’s better than learning the hard way. Trust me.


To be Continued…

Posted in Storytime

You are What You Eat: A Very Short and Humorous Tale

We were sitting around the kitchen table when my Uncle Leo walked in. He grumbled a few choice words as he shuffled across the floor trying to peel the Buick’s emergency break from the palm of his hand. With a swift jab of my elbow, Henry’s snickering stopped and he covered his cheeky grin with his fan of cards. When Uncle Leo made it to the sink, he slammed his new accessory to the counter with one loud thud. It startled me so much that my cards scattered around me like confetti and Henry let out a loud screech as he tumbled to the floor in a fit of cackles.

Uncle Leo, though, seemed less than amused with the situation. He sluggishly turned his head to the side, away from the afternoon sun, and his big brown eyes practically rolled back to his brain before fixing in on Henry rolling on the ground in laughter.

I, on the other hand, was more interested in evading the pugnacious Uncle Leo before things started to get out of hand. Henry just never knows when to quit, which reminded me of my father.

Before the situation had a chance to escalate, the sound of my Grandma’s truck revving up the driveway cut through the tension in the room and momentarily distracted both guys. I hopped out of my seat and lept over Henry like a gazelle to the screen door. I was out in the yard before my Gram could put the truck in park. She didn’t even have to ask to know that Henry was up to his callous tricks again.

She sighed, “What’d that boy do now?”

“Put super glue on the emergency break in Dad’s old Buick.”

“Good grief! He should know by now to avoid all those there relics.”

Gram snatched her purse from the passenger seat, near the dog, and flung open the car door. She slammed it shut and was about to charge ahead but was comically snapped back when her zipper got caught in the door. But with one swift pull, she yanked her jacket free. Resembling a bull just released from its pen, she stamped through the grass in her heels like a drunk goose. I knew Henry wasn’t going to last the whole eight seconds it took for her to throw her ecclesiastical morals out the window and swear upon the name of the good lord.

I followed her as she stiff-armed the screen door open in front of her and entered like she was a damn Queen.

“What the hell kind of shit are you pulling, Henry,” she barked, “You know better than to go on and mess with your Uncle Sal’s stuff like that you little brat!”

“Come on, it was just a…”

“Don’t you say another word,” Gram snapped as she pointed her wiry finger at Henry, “Don’t you dare tell me that this was a joke cause that ain’t no excuse in this house no more.”

Gram’s demeanor loosened as she dropped her hand back to her side and the red rage in her eyes calmed to their original caerulean color.

“Cause your Uncle Sal said those same words before he…before he blew himself up trying to scare the shit out of your Great Aunt Maria” Gram stammered.

The room became still as my father’s untimely demise was brought up. Uncle Leo, who hadn’t moved from the sink, only paused his fiddling with the break to turn and face Gram. I looked to the ground and crossed my arms. Henry finally picked himself off the floor, giggling like he was imagining my father as Wile E. Coyote getting blown up trying to catch to the Road Runner. But unlike the cartoon wolf now covered in soot, my father was now covered in six feet of dirt.

Gram quickly shook off the solemn mood and shot Henry an unforgiving look. Her sassy stature seemed to put Henry in his place as he half-heartedly apologized to Gram, and of course to Uncle Leo too. When she was satisfied, she put her purse down and walked back to the car to retrieve my Dad’s eager Dachshund, Pickle, from the truck.

As soon as the screen door slammed, my Uncle finally turned around proudly displaying his hand which was freed from the break. Henry reluctantly sighed and reached for the emergency break my Uncle Leo was holding out before him.

Before he left, Gram opened the screen door and let the dog scurry in past her legs. Henry gave Gram a somber look as he ignored Pickle who was jumping up on his legs as her tail wagged enthusiastically.

“Look Hun, I’m sorry I yelled” Gram apologized, “Here. Take one of these.”

Gram offered Henry a piece of chocolate fudge brownies she got at the store as a peace offering. Henry snatched it from the container and popped it into his mouth as he pushed the screen door out of his way.

“What a little shit” Uncle Leo mumbled as he rubbed his sore hand.

A genuine smile crept across Gram’s face as she placed the plate on the kitchen table. She knelt to the ground to give Pickle a belly rub and didn’t even flinch when angry yelps and coughs suddenly started pouring in from the yard,

“What the hell, this tastes like salty dirt! What in God’s green earth did you give me ya old hag!”

In tandem, My Uncle Leo and I looked to Gram.

“I find it funny how your father named this cute little hot dog Pickle after you fed him a whole jar of them when you were just three years, Rae” Gram said with a tinge of nostalgia, “When your daddy yelled at you that the dog was gonna turn into a pickle cause of it, you howled in a pool of tears and pickle juice ‘til your daddy scooped you up in his arms and told you it was a joke.”

“Uh, yeah I remember that a little…but what does that have to do with Henry’s hissy fit in the front yard” I asked.

Gram looked up to reveal a sly smirk on her face, “Your father had it right with his joke about Pickle, you are what you eat. And your Uncle Leo had it right with Henry being nothin’ but a little shit so…”

My Uncle Leo hoot and hollered as he bent forward in laughter. Gram and I began to chuckle too. Even Pickle howled to join in on the collective laughter. I mean, she was the one who helped make Henry’s special fudge brownie.

Posted in Storytime

The Corners: A Short Story

“Hello? Is anybody there?”


*Begins to walk down creepy hallway to certain death*


“What was that? Show yourself!”

*Music stops, dead silence as blonde bimbo starts to peer around corner*


Winston flinched in his chair. I shot him a sly grin only to be greeted with a soft green pillow to the face. I let out a soft giggle. His bottom lip protruded out as he crossed his arms like a child having a temper tantrum. He glared across the room at me with his dull green eyes, unamused with the situation.

“Oh, shut up ya hypocrite,” Winston said as he ran his hand through his fluffy blonde locks.

“Hey! I didn’t even flinch!”

“Yeah, because you were too busy lookin’ at me!”

Winston flung himself onto the loveseat, arming himself with another pillow and chucked it straight at me. I dodged it with ease sending it careening over couch straight into the painting on the wall. I held my breath as it teetered from side to side gently scraping the wall.

It eventually settled against the wall with a slight tilted to the right. I reached over and gently pushed the corner up until it was level with the straight-edge top of the couch. I dropped my hand with a thud onto the armrest and I turned to face Winston.

The playful mood in the room deflated like a cold balloon as Winston pushed himself up from the loveseat,

“I’ll be right back. Going for a quick cig.”

“Yeah, okay. Want me to pause it?”


He shoved his hands in his pockets, drew in his shoulders, and shuffled out of the room. I zoned out on the worn coffee table my feet were resting on until the slam of the backdoor echoed through the house, jerking me out of the trance.

I reached for the remote on the other end of the couch, punched the power bottom with my thumb, and launched it across the room. It slammed into the wall, leaving a dent in the outdated, brown paint. I curled my thin fingers into the pillow on my lap as if it would stop the hot tears that were beginning to spill onto my cheeks.

I stood to my feet, letting the pillow hit the floor, and turned to face it. The painting. His painting.

The acrylic on the canvas shimmered under the sun’s rays that were peeking through the blinds. Every bump, ridge, and edge were highlighted as if it the painting itself wanted to prove its authenticity through its imperfections.

The scene it portrayed was nothing out of the ordinary, however. It was of a busy street corner full of grey, uncharacterized citizens flooding though an intersection. Each head, void of any defining features associated with human faces, as if to emphasize their lack of importance to the viewer.

But right in the middle of this little grey and black street corner, was what appeared to be a young boy with his face looking toward the sky. Each wrinkle and crease of his face outlined by the reflection of the single sun ray that was pouring from a small whole in the overcast sky. He wore a baby blue hoodie with cream colored pants, accented by his bright red sneakers.

To the untrained eye, it looked as if the painter wanted to tell you that in the midst of all the grayness of the world, there is hope. But to me, I don’t see hope in that little boy’s brown eyes.

I leaned in close enough to feel my hot breath rebound off the painting back onto my lips. And there it was, a little glob of white paint representing a tear that was creeping out of the corner of the boy’s right eye. It wasn’t a tear of sadness, not even hope. No. It was the kind of tear that is shed out of sheer relief.

That’s what he wanted I guess. Relief.

Elias wasn’t born with a silver spoon in hand. He was like a boxer, cornered in a ring. No matter how hard he swung, or how many times he dodged. He was always beaten to a pulp.

His father left his mother was he wasn’t even out of the womb. His mother died before he spoke his first words. And he lived in so many foster homes, he lost track after number 28.

He got in trouble during high school on the daily for defacing locker doors with his doodles and popping pills like a Pez dispenser. He didn’t quit until Winston knocked some sense into him during their long night shifts at the local McDonalds. He was hired three times, fired twice, and quit once. There’s still a dent on the corner of the glowing yellow “M” from one of the many rocks he threw as revenge towards “the manager from hell”.

I forced him to take an art class with me on the weekends during my freshman year at college. I told him that if he wanted to draw for the rest of his life, he needed to do more than doodle on bathroom walls. He loved it.

He started painting in his spare time, sketching out designs on the back of unwanted receipts during his uneventful shifts at Play it Again Sports. After he finished his first full painting, he hung it on the wall behind the couch at his and Winston’s place. He argued with Winston on whether or not it needed more than one nail to stabilize it. They decided on one after learning it was the last one left in the box.

He died on a Tuesday. 14 days before his 24th birthday. He was wearing his favorite baby blue sweater. He was buried in the corner lot of Mountain View Cemetery. His name isn’t on the stone. It was faceless, like the emotionless people in his painting.

I heard the backdoor creak open as Winston’s feet softly padded on the kitchen tile. The door clicked shut just as he reached the entryway to the living room.

I took my eyes away from the painting on the wall and peered over my shoulder to where he was leaning against the doorframe.

“Sorry.” Winston said.

“It’s okay.”

Winston pushed himself off the doorway and took several big strides to embrace me into a warm hug. I buried my face into his cotton shirt and lost control of the tears.

“Do you think he even cared? Cared about what it would do to us?” I sobbed.

“Yes. I know he did, but depression isn’t something that can be fixed with a good talk and a hug, Nadia.”

“I know. I just wish we could have done something more…” I trailed off and let the wave of grief flow over my whole body.

After what seemed like hours, I had finally calmed down and Winston released me from his arms.

He glanced back to the painting, then to me, then back to the painting. Without losing eye contact, he walked past me, climbed onto the couch, picked up the painting, flipped it upside-down, and placed it back on the wall.

He shuffled off the couch and took a few steps back to get a good look at it.

“Uh, why did you flip it upside down? It looks weird now” I said.

“No, I think it looks better. See,” he pointed to the little boy, “now instead of looking up to heaven er whatever, he’s looking back down to us.”

I paused and examined the painting closer. Winston was right, he looked almost superhuman branching off from the street corner looking down to the clouds.

And in just a moment, that single tear’s meaning changed entirely. It changed him into a little boy who looks to the ones he left behind on Earth. He became the boy who cared, but harbored a disease that told him otherwise. It snuck into every corner of his life and whittled him down until there was nothing left.

But a corner is not just a place where the path ends, when there is nowhere to turn. It’s a place where two things collide and somehow make the perfect match.

Like the corner of your first smile, your first timeout in the corner when you learned markers are for paper and not for walls, the corner of the fence that doubled as your soccer “net”, the corner of the paper where the sun always went when you colored, the corner of the page you bent to remember where you left off, the corner of your graduation hat that  bent after it hit the ceiling when you threw it up into the air…

The corner is where two things meet. And to have a corner, means to have a connection between the pieces of your life that seem to be more like a deck of cards thrown at you that scattered all over the floor.

I gave a meek smirk to Winston. He grinned and put his arm around my shoulder as we quietly stood, looking at the little boy on the corner.



National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:


Posted in Storytime

True Story, Bro: A Humorous Autobiography Part I



Ah, the theatre. A wonderful place full of magic, music, and several awful backstage personnel. Except for Kayla and I, of course.

For some unknown reason, my friend Kayla and I decided that it would be a bright idea to join the Theatre Club at school. But not as actresses, but as backstage workers. I had always had an interest in equipment that was used to run such productions and it was my dream to work with this fun technology (this was back in a time when there was no such thing as “Smart-phones” yet).

However, the first day we went, Kayla and I were split up. She went to the costume department (per her request) and I was assigned to the lighting department (per my request because of my biggest dream ever).

As soon as I got near the “birdhouse” in the back of the theatre that housed the light boards, a thin, wiry boy with more metal in his mouth than a box full of screws glided into my path. He had fair red hair, a thick layer of freckles, and a permanent sour expression plastered on his face. (Let’s refer to him as…Pinchy Face.)

He was less than pleased when I explained that I was to join their group. Scoffing and sighing every time I tried to tell him I was ready to learn everything about the equipment.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally convinced Pinchy Face to let me get near the light board. He kept on glancing over his shoulder as if I was going to suddenly reach my hand over and fuck up the whole board with one foul swoop.

Minion Two (I like making nicknames…I’m sorry…but not really) was organizing chords on the theater floor below as Minion One was discussing lighting options with Pinchy Face in the booth. After completing their conversation, Pinchy Face turned around and stuck out his hand. I stared at it like it had green scales all over it, quizzically looking up to his face and wondering what he wanted.

“Your glasses.”

“Like hell I’m gonna give you my glasses. Why do you need them?”

He signed like this was his millionth time telling me.

“You can’t wear your glasses on the catwalk.”


“Just give me your damn glasses, kid”

I’m a Junior, you’re a Freshman. Call me “kid” one more time and we’ll see what your face looks like punched inward ya beanstalk…

He impatiently flicked his fingers at me like he was motioning a dog. I rolled my eyes and pulled off my thin-framed glasses and handed them to him. I had to play by his rules if I ever wanted to touch, let alone learn about, the equipment.

It was a bit fuzzy after that, literally. I helped him carry some giant, boxed light bulbs up a flight of creaky wire stairs to the catwalk. Along it was strung several lights, aimed towards the stage. As I walked, carrying the bulk of the packaged lights, the catwalk swayed ever so slightly with every movement. When we reached the middle of it, he placed the boxes on the catwalk, I proceeded to do the same.

“Did I tell you to put them down” he asked.


“Pick them up before we trip on them.”

I began to scoop them back into my arms angrily all while huffing, puffing, and flipping him off when his back was turned to me. By the time I had gathered them up into my arms, he had already changed two of the giant lights with ease. We moved down the catwalk a bit before Minion Two (or was it Three) yelled up to us,

“Dude, [insert random tech babble here], we need your help!”

“Okay, I’m coming!”

He turned to me and spoke like he was the damn president of the United States, “I have to go, it’s urgent. Say here and don’t move.”

He pivoted on his feet and began sprinting down the catwalk. The catwalk began to shake violently.

“Hey! HEY! DUDE! Don’t go so fa…”

I was interrupted by little alarms going off in my head as my balance began to waiver. Then that little Shit decided to dismount the catwalk like a damn monkey. His giant leap cascaded a devastating quake right to my little feet and I felt them begin to levitate off the catwalk.

In a panic, my arms instinctively reached for anything to grab onto, forgetting the precious cargo that was in their care. When I landed on my back, my hands gripping the lower guard rail, I watched helplessly as gravity carried the fragile boxes to the ground below.

With every sickening sound of glass smashing against the ground, my fate as a stage technician slowly began to disintegrate.

The good:

No one was injured by the expensive boxes that fell from the sky (except for my pride).

The bad:

I wasn’t allowed to touch any of the equipment again.

So naturally, they assigned me to the woodworking shop with giant band saws and nail guns. Perfect.

At least my dear friend Kayla was with me this time. Even though we didn’t know shit about how to build anything but the occasional piece of Ikea furniture, we were still determined to prove the boys wrong.

The woodworking shop backstage was anything but a lumberjack’s dream. It was dirty, grimy, and full of the smell of burning wood. The walls and floors were painted an unappealing grey with touches of paint splatter outlined on the floor. There were giant grey shelves, which took up most of the room, full of lumber with one band saw. Nails, hammers, screws, and candy wrappers littered the ground and counter space like little elves had a party and trashed the place while drunk on sugar.

This was also at a time when no one wore goggles or earplugs when running the machines because the department apparently couldn’t afford to keep the drama students safe (but the football team did get new jerseys. So much more important…)

But what made it even worse was the other group of boys that were building a simple table. Kayla and I, on the other hand, were given the blueprints for a window with no actual windows, (‘cause apparently the football team needed a new locker room…which is apparently more useful than the arts… just sayin’).

We thought it would be a simple build. It’s literally a box with a few little pieces crisscrossing the inside to make it resemble a window. Nothing to hard, right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong.

Kayla and I struggled for what seemed like hours that day, trying to figure out what the hell we were doing wrong. We would measure the wood to the exact length needed. Mark it with a pencil. Bring it to the saw (I let Kayla do that part, I preferred to keep my limbs intact), and place it on top of the full-size layout where it should go. Then we would rifle through the large industrial shelves full of wood, find another piece, and repeat.

It wasn’t rocket science.

But every damn time we cut a piece of wood, went to get another, cut it, and placed them together, they wouldn’t fit the outline. It was a phenomenon that Kayla and I couldn’t comprehend. What the hell were we doing wrong?

Kayla and I were getting a bit riled up. I mean, we weren’t stupid. The wood couldn’t have suddenly shrunk when we were gone. We weren’t cutting it wrong.

And then it happened.

As Kayla and I were picking out another piece of wood from the shelves way in the back. I managed to catch a glimpse of the other group that was building the table. I peered through gaps in the wood piled on the shelves all the way to where our project lay on the floor.

I watched Dumbo One (Yay! Nicknames!) reach down and pick up a piece of our wood.

Strange. I thought, Oh! He’s going to help us out…



Dumbo Two laughed as Dumbo One placed the piece of wood that we had been working on for hours back on the layout.

Little light bulbs starting going off in my head like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Kayla, after realizing I wasn’t responding to her request to help her carry the wood back, turned to face me. She froze,

“Natalie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

I shot off like a jackrabbit and swerved between the shelves, my eyes locked on the target.

“NATALIE, WAIT!” Kayla yelled.

But I drowned her pleading voice out. “Crazy Natalie” had come out to play.


“What do you mean?” said Dumbo One, coolly.

“Don’t play coy with me you asshole! Why are you cutting up our wood when we’re away?” I said.

“Geez, don’t get so worked up.” Dumbo Two said as he headed for the exit.

“Are you serious? You’re making us look like fools!” I said, on the verge of tears in pure rage. My whole body began to shake like a leaf as it rushed with adrenaline.

“Well, you shouldn’t be working back here anyway. You guys obviously don’t know what you’re doing.” Said Dumbo One.

Kayla had emerged from the shelving unit in a tizzy, frantic to defuse the situation, “Seriously guys? Just stop doing that and leave us alone. Natalie, dear, calm down. It’s okay, they’re just being stupid boys.”

“What are you gonna do about it? She’s the stupid one here. She cost the department thousands of dollars breaking those bulbs. Isn’t that right, ya clutz.” Dumbo Two said.

“I’m going to get the director, this is unacceptable.” Kayla said as she bee lined for the door.

“Yeah, go run to daddy and be the tattle tale you are, “Dumbo One said, “Geez, what a bitch. Can’t even take a joke.”

At this point, I honestly blacked out in a full on rage. According to school lore, I proceeded to pick up a piece of thin wood and hurled it like a javelin. I hit Dumbo Two, who crumpled to the floor. Dumbo One tried to make an escape for it, but I launched myself at him like a cheetah and slammed him against the wall. (Side Note: I was 4’11”, he was 6’1”).

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I think it was enough for him to know that if he ever called my friend that name again, I’d break every bone in his body, let them heal, then break them all again out of spite.

By the time the director came with Kayla in tow, I was back to little quiet Natalie. Shyly rocking back and forth on my heals as the Dumbos hid behind their table. (Let’s just say I had a bit of a temper when I was younger…okay so a really big temper similar to a supernova on steroids.)

In the end, they never got in trouble.

The director didn’t believe Kayla and me.

They continued for harass us.

So we quit.

Not because we couldn’t handle it, but we were sick and tired of being treated like ditzy girls who knew nothing. Because we were so much more than that, and we didn’t need their approval to convince us that.

So, to Pinchy Face and his Minions along with the Dumbos, I don’t have time (nor the space) to write out word-for-word the life lesson that you should have learned by the end of this story.

Because I’m too busy working with the EQUIPMENT at the television station I help run and building COFFEE TABLES to be bothered to remind you that woman can do just as good a job as any man. Sometimes even better.

True story, Bro.



(P.S. Shout out to the awesome folks at TV10. Thanks for believing in me! Also thank you to the “teachers” who taught me all I know about the equipment in the studio…you guys are da best)

Posted in Storytime

The Things We Aren’t Supposed to Talk About: Act II

He pushed the pencil to the end of the desk, making a clear path in the grit that covered it. I need to clean this s*** he thought.

He returned to the pad of paper sitting in front of him:

She was like a soft summer rain. Beautiful in every way. Her laugh could brighten my day. We would sit by the fire, swapping stories like we did as kids, her arms tangled in mine.

Tahir could hear those familiar footsteps trotting down the hall at full speed. He quickly whipped open the drawer by his right knee and threw the pad of paper into it, slamming it shut just before the footsteps reached the door.

“Tahir! What’s up, man?” Derek said as he peeked around the corner of the office door. He pushed his wiry frame against the doorway, leaning in like a curious dog, tail wagging and everything.

“Uh, not much. Just trying to write my short story for this week’s column.”

“Oh, come on. You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I really don’t know what you mean, Derek.”

“The cutie at the front desk with the brown eyes, what you wrote about last night on your blog.”

Tahir stared, confused.

Derek tried again, “Short black hair, orange spring dress, beautifully tanned skin…”

“Ah, yeah, that one. Um, it was a story Derek. We never really talked at all.” Tahir said.

Tahir remembered her as he walked into the office this morning. She was a beauty, and he was in love. She had short black hair that hung straight, framing her caramel colored skin. Her eyes were like uneaten chocolate candies sitting on white porcelain plates, fringed with long dark eyelashes that curled to meet her thin brows. Her lips. Her lips is what took his breath away. They were a plush, soft baby pink that when it crept into a smile, they looked supernatural in beauty. The peach silk dress she wore flowed over her body like water, highlighting every curve with vigor.

She was beautiful in every way.

Derek interrupted Tahir’s thoughts, “What? So she’s up for grabs? Dude, I call dibs now.”

“Derek, you can’t!”

“Unless you want me to tell her you like her.”

Tahir sighed, “Don’t just…I got a lot of work to do, Derek. Send in Julia, I need to speak with her.”

Derek huffed, “Fine. But if she says no to you, she’s all mine.”

“Deal” Tahir muttered.

Geez, he’s annoying. It’s not a competition…but if he asks her first, I’m gonna punch his smug little smile right off of his boney face.

“Tahir, you asked for me?” Julia stood in the doorway, gripping a stuffed manila envelope.

She wasn’t anything that beheld much beauty. Her skin was pale, making her gawky in appearance. She had dull hair the shade of a fat-free chocolate and dark beady eyes hidden beneath large purple frames. Her cheeks had a rosy glow, but would be considered too pudgy by any fashion magazine. Her sweater was a bright pink that covered her overused, grey muscle shirt. Her muffin top was highlighted by the flowing khaki’s she wore almost every day, but she was so used to sucking it in, no one could barely notice anymore.

“Ah, Julia, yes. I wanted to ask you how your trip to Ireland was.”

“Oh” Julia hesitated to answer, surprised Tahir remembered, “It was good! I had a lot of fun. It was really beautiful there with the green and rolling hills. I would recommend it the next time you feel like traveling.”

“Awesome, sounds like you had a great time. We’re glad to have you back.”

“Thanks, I’m glad to be back.”

A moment of silence followed, Julia fiddled with the corner of the envelope she was holding while Tahir stared at his empty screen.

“Tahir…I…um…was wondering. Did you…um…want to go…” Before Julia could finish her sentence, Derek flew into the doorway like a hawk and shrieked,

“Dude! Do you know that gorgeous, blonde receptionist you like?

“What about it?” Tahir asked.

“I asked her on a date, and she said yes. Boo yah!” Derek said as he sprinted down the hall towards his office.

“WHAT THE F*** DEREK! Geez, what a prick. I even told him that I really liked that girl. She was the prettiest I had ever seen.” Tahir looked to his window. “I’m never going to find another girl that that.”

“Yeah. Sure. I guess there’s not enough pretty girls to go around.” Julia said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tahir said, surprised at the lack of emotion in Julia’s usually peppy voice.

“Nothing,” Julia took two hard steps forward and tossed the envelope she was holding in her hands. It landed heavily on his desk with a thud, sending dust flying up into the air. Before he could get out another word, Julia was gone.

Tahir immediately stood up and lurched for the door. He grabbed the frame of the doorway and used it to gain momentum towards her office. He counted three doors before forcefully turning the knob on the fourth and pushing it open.

Julia sat at her desk, she didn’t even look up when he came in.

“Julia. What’s wrong?”

“Go away, Tahir.”

“Julia, listen. I didn’t mean to say that you’re not, you know, pretty. I mean…”

“Seriously. You think I’m shallow enough to be upset that you don’t think I’m pretty?”


“Tahir, I like you.” Julia’s eyes looked straight into his soul as those words spilled from her thin lips.

“I’ve always liked you, Tahir. You’re smart, creative, and kind. I help you with drafts, grammar, spelling, and copying. I go out of my way to help you because I know that you would do the same for me. I like the way the one piece of hair always sticks up on the top of your head, no matter how much hair gel you put in it. I like the way you use your words to describe beautiful people and the love you hope to find. I like the way your awkwardly laugh whenever you’re with people you’re not too familiar with and so much more,” Julia sighed,

“But your view of love is as clear as dust.”

Tahir was stunned. His jaw nearly hit the floor.

“Julia…why didn’t you tell me?”

She paused her typing and moved her hands to her lap, spinning slightly in her chair to reveal her eyes glossy with tears.

“Because. I will never look like them or be like them, Tahir, the girls you always seem to write about. I hate thunderstorms, I can’t stand the bugs outside. I wear clothes for comfort. I’m not skinny. My hair doesn’t effortlessly flow down my back. I don’t wear glasses for fun, I wear them to see things. Dresses make me uncomfortable, and I would rather sleep 30 more minutes than put on a full face of make-up.” She paused and looked down at her hands in her lap.

“Plus, we aren’t supposed to talk about this kind of thing. If we like someone we have to keep it hidden like buried treasure. Because no one wants to take the chance. No one wants to get hurt. Please, just go away, Tahir. I’m already embarrassed enough as it is.”

“Julia, I’m…”

“Just, go.”

Tahir slowly backed up to the hallway and could barely feel his legs propelling him forward on his way back to his office. When Tahir got back to his desk. He sat there in some sort of trance. Here he was, thinking he was unlovable only to be loved by the last person he would expect it from.

He picked up the pencil on the edge of his desk and pulled his notepad out of his drawer. He looked at what he wrote earlier. Within seconds he ripped it from the bind, crumpled it up, and pushed the dust filling his desk to the side with it.

Then, he began to write:

Title: The things we never say to each other

“I like you” she said, her glistening brown eyes looking up at me…

Posted in Storytime

The Things We Aren’t Supposed to Talk About: Act I

I think it’s the sound the bottle makes when the pills rattle down the orange, plastic siding that gets me. It’s like a little bell that rings out across the room, announcing to those around of its presence. No, they’re not the drugs that you hear about in the news or see in action-packed movies and hippie dramas that focus solely on the crappy side of life.

No, they were the ones we aren’t supposed to talk about.

I sit on the edge of my bed, burying my toes into the fluffy carpet while my I squeezed a worn towel around my soaking wet hair. The smell of melons and coconuts wafted around my freshly cleaned body which was sporting smiley face PJ shorts and an oversized Brewers shirt.

After a good while of squeezing, I released the towel from my damp hair and tossed it across the room. It landed next to the laundry basket, on top of some books. I stared at it for a few seconds, deciding whether it was worth it to get up and fix, before shrugging it off and curling underneath the warm covers to protect my hair from the cold breeze coming from the open window.

I blindly reach for the bedside lamp switch before my forearm touched something and pushed off the table to the floor. It clattered as it hit the carpet with that unmistakable chime.

I groaned, picked my head up from my pillow, and rested my chin on my elbow while looking down to that orange blob on the floor.

I let out a frustrated puff of air before reaching down and scooping it into my hand. I pulled it close to my face and held it there. I fiddled with the white sticker plastered across it, bending the corner, then straightening it, and then bending it again.

With the repetitive movement, I zoned out, consumed in the thought of what exactly lead me to holding this bottle in my hand.

Maybe it was because of the long walks at night to the bridge and wondering if the water was as cold as everyone says it was. Maybe it was because of the naps I would claim to take, only to end up weeping while hugging a bottle of painkillers for comfort. Maybe it was because of the academy award winning performance I would put on every day, smiling and laughing as if I had never felt the sting of sadness before.

But I knew the truth. The truth that I couldn’t accept. That depression isn’t something that just goes away like a cold. It’s an illness, one that people have a hard time accepting as an illness that needs medication to be cured. Some think a good therapy session and friends is sufficient enough to rid you of this “first-world problem”.

But would you ever tell a cancer patient to “be happier, it’ll cure you” or a person suffering from MS to “walk it off, it’s not that bad” or an elderly patient taking their last breaths “keep breathing, it’s not that hard”. No. Because they are suffering from something that they can’t control. So why do people think it’s okay to say that to people suffering from depression, anxiety, bulimia, anorexia, etc. that it “isn’t something that requires medical attention” to just “work it out”, or “toughen up”.

But sometimes even if they believe that it is a true illness, pills shouldn’t be an option. No, that’s what weak people do. The strong people put a smile on their face and perceiver.

But when you take the box cutter from the office and hide in the bathroom, ready to end it all, it’s no longer something you can control on your own. It’s no longer something you can smile through. That’s not normal.

So here I am, laying in my bed holding my Sertraline, Zoloft, Prozac, whatever you want to call it, in a little, plastic orange bottle. Holding the thing we aren’t supposed to talk about. We aren’t supposed to admit we have because it makes you sound weak and privileged. But I knew for a fact, that if this little pill hadn’t come into my life, I wouldn’t have been here to celebrate my 21st birthday, hug my family, hang out with my friends, graduate college, travel the world, and meet the love of my life.

It saved my life. It has saved many lives. But, we aren’t supposed to talk about it.

I push the lip of the lid down and twist the white cap off while tilting the bottle toward my open palm. The pills trickle down the side, tolling like mini bells, until one lands on my hand. I close up the bottle, place it next to the lamp, and grab the water bottle beside it. In one motion, I toss the pill into my mouth and took a sip from the water bottle, with my lips immediately beginning to pucker at the surprising tangy twist the water held.

I gagged and spat, opening up the lid to reveal the over-powered lemonade I forgot I had made that afternoon before going on a hike with my friends. I rolled my eyes, scoffed at my own stupidity, and even cracked a smile at how funny I must have looked. I snickered for a bit before placing the water bottle back on the table and clicking off the lamp.

I snuggled back into my warm bed and listened to the sounds of a lively Saturday night on campus as they drifted in with the breeze. And in the distance, beneath all the laughter and shouting, beneath the sounds of cars and crickets, I could hear the very faint sound of little chiming bells that lulled me into a deep sleep.

Posted in Storytime

Have You Ever Tried to Fly? : A Short Story

Astronauts ready? Begin countdown. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4…

I remember it so clearly now:

The sun was creeping along the tattered deck. When it reached the tip of my gangly fingers I hopped down the stairs and laid flat on the warm crabgrass by the edge of the farmhouse. I watched the clouds inch by across the blue sky and geese flying in formation overhead, honking as if they were mocking me. There they were, flying high in the sky while my little body lay adjacent to the ground. Stuck.

“What’d ya doing Mei?”

“Nothing, Gran, just looking at the sky”

“At what? Ain’t nothin’ up there but air and birds.”

“I know” I said. I rolled over to my stomach and locked onto her old, faded brown eyes, “I was just thinking that it would be nice to fly like the birds.”

Gran plopped onto her rocker on the deck, “Who says ya can’t?”


“Yah don’t know unless ya try. So, have you ever even tried to fly?”

“Gran, I can’t fly! I’m a person and I don’t have wings!”

“Superman ain’t got no wings from the looks of it and he flies ‘round like a gnat everywhere and stuff…”

“But he’s Superman.”

“And you is a little girl, Captain Obvious”

I rolled my eyes and flopped my back against the ground. I could hear Gran mumbled choice words behind me as she creaked her rocker back and forth in rhythm. Her crackled voice pierced the silence of the late afternoon,

“Instead of just lying there ‘n doing nothing, why don’t you go on and get the mail for me.”


I let out a huge sigh, lifted myself up off the ground, and started down the long drive. Her mailbox was so far away that it took someone at least 40 minutes just to walk there and back. However, I enjoyed running to make it go by faster and release some pent up energy I stored like a winter squirrel, as Gran would say.

With the farmhouse out of sight, I began with a slow jog. Then it picked up to a slow run. When I was fully running down the gravel drive, I suddenly remembered what Gran said about flying. I guess she was right that I never really tried to fly at all. But that was about to change.

I picked up to full speed ahead and ran as fast as I could down the gravel driveway. My feet pounded the ground with each step and my hair flipped around in the wind. I kept running until I could barely feel my feet anymore and I launched my little body into the air with all my strength.

As soon as my feet left the ground, a sense of excitement rose in my gut and for a moment, I was flying. Soaring above the gravel road like a drunk goose. My arms were flailing in the air and my shout of excitement sounded like honk, but it was quickly deflated as the ground smacked a sense of reality back into me.

For a good minute, I let the fact that I just attempted to fly like a bird and failed, unsurprisingly, sink in for a minute. I eventually rose from the ground and assessed the damage. Bleeding, dirty, and shredded clothing. She’s gonna kill me.

It was near sundown by the time I finally limped my way back to the house, with one letter tucked under my arm. However, she didn’t say a word as I came in looking like I was tossed into a blender. She simply put her hand on my shoulder and led me to the hallway cupboard to retrieve her mini first-aid kit.

I was sitting atop the kitchen counter and Gran was on her knees tending to my wounds. As she slowly peeled the backing off each plastic bandage and placed then on my cuts, a smile began to cautiously make its way to the corner of her lips.



“Yeah right! Why you smiling like that?”

“‘Cause, I thought for sure you were gonna fly.” She let out a short snort before she burst into a fit of giggles.

“I did, though!”

“Ya did?”

“It didn’t last that long, but I did!”

She calmed down and wiped the back of her hand against her glistening forehead. She leaned back on her heels and let out a deep sigh.

“I’m glad you did, honey. It’s tough fightin’ gravity like that”


“Gravity. The thing that’s keeping those scrawny legs of yours planted to the ground.”

I had almost completely forgotten about gravity. All of those physics lectures in class started to flood into my memory. Mr. Montgomery mumbling as he fussed around with the Bill Nye VHS. The classic theme song pouring out of the television and my classmates lips. It was there I had remembered I learned about Space. Where people float rather than sink to the ground.

Gran interrupted my thoughts as she clipped the first aid kit shut. I hopped off the counter, looking more like a patched quilt than a person, and made my way back to the porch. I sat down on the stairs which Gran settled into her creaky rocker. She flipped through a few pages of a book and eventually settled on a starting point.

As we sat there in silence, my eyes never leaving the disappearing horizon, I thought long and hard about my little stunt earlier. When the sun became nothing but an orange glow on the horizon, I turned to Gran,

“Gran, I’m gonna try to fly farther tomorrow.”




Another moment of silence passed.

“And even further the next day. I’m not gonna stop” I said.

“Good. Ya know where to find the first-aid kit.”


Right here in my pocket…Thanks Gran.

…3, 2, 1, Lift Off.

Posted in Numbers

The Stages of Getting Addicted to an App

If you’ve ever owned a smartphone, these stages of becoming addicted to an app might sound a bit too familiar. If at any time while you’re reading this you find yourself relating to one at the present moment, please proceed to stage 8 for the sake of your wallet, time, and sanity.


1. Sounds interesting, I’ll download it. You’ve been browsing through the app store for 10 minutes now, wondering when your pizza that’s in the oven will be done yet. You stumble across a fun looking game with cute cartoons and a high user rating. You look up to the oven clock. It reads: “9:00”. You think, might as well. You download the app to make the time pass.

2. I like playing this game, every once in a while. During every break at work, as you browse through your phone, you may open it a few times and play it a bit. You will leave and come back to it periodically, trying not to ruin the app’s fun-meter by playing it too often.

3. This game is my life. Every second you can spare is put into this game. You have become invested in how the game ends up and the competitiveness in you begins to gradually rise. You have to get to the next level. You have to beat this game. You can’t waste time eating anymore, the game is too important.

4. I’m considering the in-app purchases. To make this game go faster and to get those cool upgrades, you will consider buying the in-app purchases. You will try to convince yourself that this purchase is worth it because “it’s only a few dollars”, but your inner conscious wins you over and you avoid purchasing anything.

5. I’m gonna get the in-app purchase. You ignore your inner conscious and purchase a cool upgrade.

6. No sleep, just play. Now that you have put real money into this game, you cannot lose this game or give up on it. You must put all your time and energy into it. There is no more time for you to sleep because you spend every waking hour playing this game.

7. I’m bored now, I’ve practically beat the game. You’ve finally played this game for a solid month without stopping. You have beat the game. Now you are bored with it and begin to forget that it is still on your phone because there is no sense opening up the game that you have already beat.

8. Delete it. It’s now been five weeks since you last opened the app, you have finally decided that it’s time to delete it off of your phone to save space. You have a final moment of sentimentality before removing it forever…only to download the second version.

Posted in Storytime

Why Spiderman?

In lieu of the new Spiderman movie coming out soon, I decided to give a little story explaining why Spiderman is my favorite superhero.

You’ve all probably heard me say that for at least 5 straight Halloweens, I dressed up as Spiderman. Yes, this little dorky girl dressed up as Spiderman and I loved every second of it. What kid doesn’t want to be a superhero?

But when I was a kid, Spiderman was more to me than just a superhero. He was someone that helped me learn to love myself a little more every day and it all started the first Halloween I dressed up as Spiderman.

I remember that the weather was freezing with a forecast of snow (typical Minnesota for ya) and my mother wasn’t about to let my sister and I outside without a coat. So, that night I dressed as “The Abominable Spiderman” and ran around fully costumed yet covered by a purple winter jacket. The only part of the costume truly visible was the mask that I was wearing.

My sister and I ran from house to house with a collection of neighborhood kids gathering candy like crazy. However, there was this one particular house I ran up to that was handing out little princess key chains and Hot Wheels cars (Ah, the good ole days). My sister got there first (dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz) and received a keychain. The others followed and received their respective items. But when my turn came along, the lady reached into her black, plastic caldron and placed a bright blue car into my pumpkin bucket, “Here you go, dude. I love the costume!”

I was only able to be taken aback for a few seconds for my sister yelled at me to hurry up. I quickly bounced down the steps and ran across the lawn to the next house where she was waiting. I thought, did that really just happen?

When I got home that night. I held that little car in my fingers, running the tires along the palm of my hand and first thought, I can’t believe she thought I was a boy. Then a large grin crept across my face, that’s the first time I didn’t have to ask for the “boy toy”. I thought about all the trips to McDonalds and my mom having to ask for one girl toy and one boy toy, even though she was standing there with two little girls. Honestly, if I wasn’t so hyped up on sugar in that moment, I would have cried.

To some, it may have just been a simple misidentification because of the mask. But isn’t that what Spiderman is known for? Being a dorky little boy whose always made fun of but then puts on the Spiderman costume and he becomes something else entirely, a super hero.

So every time during my youth that I put on that costume, I become someone else. My own superhero. A superhero with the power to hide their identity so people didn’t judge me by the way that I looked or for the gender that I identified as.

Especially when I was younger, people would always feel the need to tell me their harsh opinions on what I needed to change to “fit in” better. For example:

  • “You should wear your hair down, it makes you look more feminine and professional.”
  • “You should get contacts. That way you can see better and won’t have to wear your glasses.”
  • “You need to start wearing clothes that flatter you instead of those baggy ones.”
  • “You need to start wearing make-up to help with your acne.”

And so on…

But all of that went away for one single night wearing one single Spiderman costume.

So, now that I’m older and starting to use the “#adulting” phrase more often, I still think back to why my answer is “Spiderman” when asked who my favorite superhero is. And no matter how cheesy it sounds, Spiderman will always be my favorite superhero because he taught me that even though the world may treat you like an outsider, you have so much more potential then you realize.

To sum it up, just because the world thinks you’re nothing but a weirdo, it doesn’t mean you’re not still a superhero.

Who’s your favorite superhero? Why? Let me know in the comments below.