The People Vs. The Referee

 

Never have I felt the phrase "sticks and stones may break your bones but words could never hurt me" to be so untrue until tournament weekends like this. It seems like competition brings out worst in parents, and somehow, it's all my fault. 

Being a referee is something I quite enjoy, seeing the game from another perspective has always appealed to me. It isn't until these tournament weekends come along that it all just really gets to me. It's easy to yell at the ref as a parent, player, or coach, but it's a lot harder to be the ref and take it. Most of the time I can brush it off pretty easily, but there was something about today that let it all in. Maybe it was the sun burning through my sunscreen or the abnormal sarcastic comments from the coaches, or parents going out of their way to tell me that I'm a terrible referee and I make terrible calls, or maybe it was one coach passing on to another to be weary of the "shitty refs".

I feel like giving my shirt, badge, and whistle to the coaches and parents and telling them "here, you do it". I also feel like giving out my resume to get a little respect on the field and to assure them that a 17 year old girl, yes girl, does in fact know what she is doing, and did pass her referee test with a 93% and has indeed been reffing for six years and she is infact the head referee who has officiated up to the national level. The yelling, the badgering, and the condescension gets tiresome. 

Another point of frustrations comes from the weakness and the easiness to harass seen by spectating that comes with being a girl referee, as well as the lack of seriousness taken when I address parents and coaches. A boy referee of less skill and experience than I will get more respect 8 times out of ten for the mere fact that they are male. 

The worst part of the gig is the impact parents make when they specifically go out of their way to find you after a game and vent to you all of the ways "you suck" to accomplish what? The game is over, nothing can be changed, this is youth league, AND YOU WON. Take the win, and enjoy it. Don't roast the ref. I hope these parents think about what they are teaching their children. And I hope these parents realize that no one is perfect, even referees. 

It's a hard night when all is said and done and you can still hear the parents voices in your head. It's supposed to be about the game, not the referee. 

Chronicles of the Train

As I boarded the train this afternoon, a vehicle new to my travel, a wave of calmness washed over me as I settled into my seat for the next several hours. Perhaps because of my previous hours logged of travel I thought, or perhaps because of my traveling companion this time. 

The train was fairly empty and the giddiness set in, after all, we're on a train for the first time! The first few minutes were spent looking out the window as the world passed us by. It looked different, new somehow though it was the same places we passed that we've always seen. The first few hours were spent in comfortable silence- I finally got to reading Looking for Alaska (a book I'm enjoying tremendously and finding a hard time putting down to write this) and was traveling quite comfortably, and incredibly relaxed when the train chronicles began. 

We stopped at Santa Barbara and a flood of college students came in with laptops, college hoodies, and odd sparkly veils that look like they could be for a Halloween costume or a school project. Among the college students was a man (that looked to be homeless, but I am not to say as he did pay with a debit card for his ticket) carrying an out-of-tune guitar and a booming voice. We moved out of the station stop and perhaps half an hour in, my focus began to be pulled from my book as I noticed life bursting around me. 

A few rows in front of my a girl struggled through her algebra 1 problems and relentlessly asked the boy across the way from her questions about her math. The girl to the right of me fiddled with her sparkly veil and straightened out the stands that stretched to be no less than seven feet. The scruffy man with the guitar several rows behind me finally had it with the quiet and began talking, to whom? I think to anyone who would make conversation. 

As the train ride progressed the boy moved from his seat to the seat right next to the girl struggling with her math, who I had a sneaking suspicion wasn't actually struggling all that much *see mean girls for the proper way to go about this*. I began to tune out the girl to my right who had not stopped fiddling with her costume/project. And the loudest occurrence to be noted was the man who had now begun playing his out of tune guitar and singing easy rhymes like "I'm on a train, and I want to buy some cocaine" escalating to his version of Tina Turner's "Rolling" to the point of the train stewardess asking the man to politely quiet down for the rest of the people on the train to which he responded "but I don't like the quiet!" And finally got to talking about what I thought was the inevitable- government conspiracies.  

As I sat on the train in that moment, my traveling companion laughing endlessly beside me, it finally clicked what traveling was all about- the people. And oh how I enjoy seeing these people live so differently than myself. 

I liked this.

I wrote this, and I liked it. 

:

Unphotgraphable

The picture I did not take was of us, as we laid on the beach, taking in what was left of the evening sun. The waves lapped lazily on the shore infront of us. I looked at our feet, covered in small rocks and sand, toes squirming in pace with our giddy hearts. You inaudibly gasped as I moved my foot closer to yours, and the sun finally gave way and the night made for our new beginning. 

A Person

Over the past few months, since school has started, this reappearing question of "what is value?" Has been knocking at my door. 

The first instance was in my AP English class- we created blog for this course- on the first day of school my teacher said "these blogs give your name value." 

What? 

A blog gives my name value? And of all things a blog of my English homework gives my name value? I didn't understand. Would I even consider this very blog to give my name value? 

You have to think about it for a minute. I had to think about this for months. What gives me value? Is it a blog? Is it an award? Is it a talent? The question so ambiguous, a conclusion seems nearly impossible. 

Today I think I figured it out. You can't give yourself value. You can only recognize the value others see in you. And I can't quite spell it out neatly, because I'm not all to sure how this all clicked for me, but it did. 

Today, my seat partner in AP Econ, smiled and said "Bye Imanie." As I got up from my seat and walked toward the door. 

Today I realized how easily a person can give you value. And, today I realized what value really is. 

Looking at a a Bowl of Jelly Beans (and picking out the good ones)

I've decided that that people are like jelly beans. They're similarly shaped  and they may look the same on the outside but when you pick out a yellow one because you think it's lemon it could easily turn out to be popcorn. So like people, we could all look pretty similar from the outside, but it's the inside that counts. And I know it's an incredibly hackneyed phrase but it's an important one in life to always be reminded of. Lemon tastes a lot different than popcorn and while some people may be into popcorn, some aren't. It's easy to think you are picking the right shade of green from the outside, but if you don't break it open and get a little taste of it, you could be saving a booger for last all the while you think it's green apple and miss out on appreciating other flavors like cinnamon, or fruit punch. 

That Virtual Feeling

More and more I find myself extremely dissatisfied with social media sites. I pass time scrolling through them, all the way thinking of other more productive things I could be doing. I crave that physical contact. I crave the laughter shared amongst friends, the adventures, the conversations, the physical I'm actually here with you not just texting you or seeing a picture of you on Instagram. The internet isn't close enough, and I crave that closeness. I think we all do. 

Letter to that Editor

As I read the American way magazine and these gratuitous letters to the editor in a plethora of ways speaking to the genius of this idea because of the social media destroying all long depthful thought in the younger generation, I've found inspiration in the form of frustration.

 I write this letter to the editor, not to win the 100,000 miles of travel (although who wouldn't want to win that) but to speak for my own generation and the stereotypes that have taken their toll. Letter writing may be scarce, but it is not a lost art. It is practiced, perhaps in secret now, because of the lack of confidence in the younger generation being able to hold thoughts of substance. The most frustration only comes from the same use of social media and technology by the older generation. We all aren't lost to the to art of writing, we only exercise different forms of it, like spontaneous bursts of passion in 140 characters or less. 

Change of Description

Having a blog is like having one of those friends where the only thing you have in common, is one thing like a class, or a sport. So naturally, when you talk to them, you talk about your only tether, that one thing. The conversation is always of the same topic and becomes so routine, so insignificant. You sometimes forget what you tell them because none of the words have any depth anyways. Having a blog is an outlet. It gives you the ability to get your thoughts out to people while giving them the ability to stop reading if they don't like what you're saying. If they don't like what they're reading they can stop, but if they love it, it gives the writer and the reader a common tie. A topic of conversation. Nope. Not feeling that. Let me start over. 

When I first began this blog, I sought out to make it a collection of the thoughts I tended to not share. I think. I could have made this blog because I thought it would be fun as well. Okay, I don't really remember why I made this blog, but somewhere along the way something changed and this isn't what it started out to be. This blog has opened me up to sharing my writing. And through that, I've learned a lot about myself. That isn't right either. 

Basically I just wanted to say I changed the description to symbolize the blog changing me. I just wanted to say it in a more articulate way. 

The Great Hiatus

In my travels over the summer I've come to notice quite a few things I deem note worthy. In no specific order (because I'm on a plane currently and can't seem to focus my thoughts) the first would be the ladies I've had the pleasure of coming across as flight attendants. Some overly joyful at 2am reminding everyone that they are beautiful, some just giving a genuine warm smile when you say thank you, and some just being quirky human beings enjoying their job. All a little different in the way they go about their job, the way the interact with people, and the way they hold eye contact, but all.. well, old. I've yet to see a woman not so experienced in life, as a stewardess. The observation beckons me to think about the kind of pay this job gives, the hours available, the working environment, and then I come to think "what kind of person does one have to be to be a stewardess?" I ponder on how all these lovely women (two men I've seen) came to their profession. I wonder if it is in fact a dying profession, and if so- why? 

The second note worthy thought I've come across is the power of conversation with strangers. On my plane from Miami to New York, I sat next to a gentlemen sporting an Italian suit (he told me), carrying a leather briefcase, and wearing shoes that looked like pajama slippers. His appearance was quite the testament to his personality. Clean cut, profession, and then just off the wall. We talked about polo- the horse kind, politics, airport people, the lady that passed us that looked a little high, whether or not people should be allowed to drink on planes, the fact that he was a little drunk, and the wonders of Spain. The experience as a whole summed up was memorable, interesting, and refreshing. 

All in all, the great hiatus of summer is over and I'm ready to work hard this year. 

Poetry-ish Writing

I do not pride myself in my ability (or lack of) to compose poetry. I actually often wonder what defines a piece of writing to be categorized as poetry. But in any case, I passed a cemetery on my drive back from LA today and it prompted me into putting this together. It felt like a poem and I thought it half decent to share. 

When I die I want to be cremated. 

I do not want to spend eternity trapped in one place. 

And I do not want a plaque for everyone to collectively grieve at. 

I want them to go where my memory thrives. 

To the place they first met me. 

To the place we shared a first. 

To the place where I seem like I'm alive. 

Even if it's not special, even if it's just a place to everyone else. 

Because there is where I will be felt, long after I am gone. 

There is where I will be heard when I no longer am with you. 

There is where I will keep being there for you, when you need me. 

I would stay as long as anyone wanted. I would have the time I so fear I lack right now. 

When I die I want to be free, and split myself up into pieces. 

So that I can be with everyone who feels I am not with them now. 

I want to make them feel as if all my time is dedicated to them, if they do not feel that way now. 

When I die I want to be remembered clearly and individually, not in or as a blur. 

Extremely Sisterly Thoughts

When we were younger my sister would like to sleep in my bed a lot. I always found it strange that she sought comfort in me rather than my parents especially in the middle of the night, but I never questioned it. I always endured having to share the bed. Being the sporadic ball of energy she's always been, it was hard for her to fall asleep and me being the grumpy older sister wanted her to just go to sleep immediately. Without knowing it, I created a sort of "warm glass of milk" for her in which all I did was talk her to sleep and distract from the monsters under the bed. Sometimes I would get frustrated having to do so much talking and comforting, and sometimes I would wake up from a nightmare myself wanting to run to my parents room, but I stayed because I thought good big sisters stay with their little sisters even when they're afraid. 

It's been a while since she's snuck into my bed in the middle of the night, or I've talked her to sleep. But sometimes I wonder if she remembers the endless talking, or if she wakes up in the middle of the night wanting to run to my room like I sometimes wake up wanting to run to my parents room. 

I finally accepted that my little sister is now taller than me. It seems like she grew over night. It took me a while to come to terms with her being taller now because it felt like it meant I was the smallest in the family now. But reminiscing about the monsters under the bed, I know I'll always be the big sister. 

Growing up seems to be becoming more real each and every day. And all of a sudden I'm realizing everyone else is growing up too.

Endless Dice

You know those dice with 15 different sides to them? They are for those dungeon and dragons games I think. Or that die that comes with the game Scattergories with letters on it. When you pick up the die and turn it around in your hand you see some of the same letters over and over and just when you think you know all the sides to the dice, you roll it one more time and it lands on a side you could swear didn't exist a second ago. People are like those dice too, except they have a lot more sides. Just when you think you've seen all around them they turn one way and blow you away. For better or for worse, it never ceases to amaze me of the things people are capable of. The capacity to love, hate, and to feel and make others feel everything in between is just astonishing. I saw my math teacher land on a new side today when in the middle of his lecture, he saw a special education student collecting recyclable bottles, proceeded to get out of his chair and invite the kid in his classroom to help him. I think what truly made things click was the genuine happiness I saw exuding out of my math teacher as he helped the student. 

Just a small note as I sit in math. (And if you don't know, this is very much not the man I see in class daily.) If I knew a good quote about rolling the dice, I would end this post with it. 

Being Colors?

I was recently asked by a friend "If you could be a color, what color would you be?" I thought it to be a peculiar question and quite a nice twist on the generic "what's your favorite color?" Get-to-know-you questions.

 I thought for a bit and replied that I would be blue, because then I could either fly in the sky, swim in sea, be with people when they are feeling down, or just be, in all my blue glory. 

But the question stuck; it even echoed a little. If I could be any color what would I be? I continued to think of how interesting I found the question. 

I could be yellow and shine sunlight down on people and warm all the cold blooded creatures of the earth, or the uneasy light that makes drivers question whether to stop or go. 

I could be brown and the friendly and fun mud we all played in as kids, or I could be the sweet taste of chocolate tingling on someone's tongue. 

I could be the green, dewy grass on a Saturday morning perfect for a soccer game, or the green crayon used to color anything from dinosaurs to trees. 

I could be red and the blood rushing to someone's cheeks as they blush from a compliment, or an enthralling rose blossoming on a bush. 

I could be orange and the sweet juice on a hot summer day, or a shirt that stands out a little too much in a crowd. 

Or I could be purple and the brightest flower in a field, or simply frozen grapes after school. 

The possibilities seemed endless and the more I thought about the colors I could be the more I thought about what I could be in general. And again, the possibilities were endless. With my junior year (awfully) quickly coming to a close and my senior year right around the corner with college and the rest of my life just down the block, figuring out what I want to do was only stressing me out and bringing me down everytime I thought about it, but thinking about what I could be felt oddly clear. I could be anything from an engineer to a nail polish namer and something about that was really comforting. 

Short Nights

Sometimes the nights are too long, I wake up with hours of darkness to go but I'm ready to start the day. There's nothing particularly on my mind, and I'm not abnormally excited for the coming day I just slept a few hours and I guess that's enough. 

I'm up and ready to begin. What I'm up so eagerly to start, I don't know. I'm not all too sure of what I do know in cases like these. It's still so early (or late, however you perfer to see it) that I'm moderately tired enough to not really be able to sort through my own thoughts, do some heavy thinking, or really write anything of substance. I try to get up and just get moving. It's better to start the day a little too early than it is to sulk around in bed awake for a few hours. 

Writing out my thoughts helps me the most. Writing or saying any thoughts makes them seem tangible and easier to wrap my head around and work with. Though this is all just a string of whatever is coming to mind as I sit in bed at 4am, it starts to wake me up mentally. I think this state of mind between being asleep and awake is my least favorite mindset. My head is awake, up and racing- so I know there's no sleeping anymore, but my head isn't awake thinking on anything specific. It's up but not awake. Racing, but about what? 

Did you know that this average teenager's mind (I think teenager), isn't really awake until 9am? Those 7am classes are really a struggle. Looking at this bright screen is the pitch black has tired out my eyes. Maybe I can still salvage a few hours of sleep. 

Chocolate Milk

This is the third time I've tried starting this post about chocolate milk. We're just going to go with it this time. (I told you, getting started is always the hardest part)

So I have this friend, and this friend drinks chocolate milk religiously every night. I don't exactly know the deeper meaning as to why, but for now it's just because it's taste good and everyone has to feed their addiction. Anyway, when you start to hang around people a lot, you eventually pick up some of their habits. Needless to say, lately I've been craving chocolate milk. 

As I laid on my desk illegibly doing my history homework, I came to the end of my attention span (of 5 minutes) and decided to get up and go to the kitchen to do a couple things. When I got there I forgot what I went to the kitchen for (I still can't remember) but suddenly decided to make myself some chocolate milk. I spooned the chocolate power into my mug, just two small spoonfuls and looked into my mug wondering if this would be enough. Immediately my mind went back, as if the soon to be chocolate milk was a time machine. I remembered how as I kid it never seemed like enough chocolate powder to quench your chocolate thirst when the milk was poured, and how you always wanted to put three scoops in when your mom only put two.

 I didn't feel the urge to put another spoonful in my mug. 

When we mature and grow, do we gain control? Or do we simply follow the rules more? 

I thought about this for a minute. Of course there is no rule as to how much chocolate powder you can put into your glass, but it had always been just two spoonfuls for me. Did I just grow accustomed to the taste of only two spoonfuls that's I didn't crave another? Do I now follow without feeling? Or is this simply chocolate milk and I'm over thinking? I'm not sure, but there's something lost in the transition from a child to a young adult, that'd I'd like to put my finger on. Maybe it's something gained. In any case, tonight, chocolate milk seemed like the bridge. 

I put another spoonful in and mixed the milk. 

Life Lessons with Lawrence: #1

"Is it good or bad to just run into a fire for someone in a fire?" 

-Both, it's good because you can save someone, but bad I guess because you could get hurt.  

"But what if the fire burns you too? Why do you run into the fire?"

-After he said this my mouth parted slightly as if I were going to say something in reply, but my eyes could only stare as he distractedly focused his attention back to the ruler he was using to make a bridge- completely unaware of the lesson he had just taught me. He was talking about firemen of course, when he asked me if it was good or bad to just run into a fire, but I let the lesson sink into me on a philosophical level. 

Why do we run into fire for others when the chances of getting hurt ourselves is so clearly high? Maybe this isn't the right question. It's good we run into fire for others despite the possibility of getting hurt, it shows the intense compassion humans hold. Maybe, a better question is what happens when we run into a fire to save someone?

There a few scenarios that come to mind. The first being the most optimistic: we save that someone. The second less so: we save that someone while burning ourselves. And finally, the third and least optimistic of the three: we don't save that someone and we get burned. All are possible and probable scenarios given your situation. 

I think it's part of the human condition to help those in need, but when we put our own life in danger and do not succeed, who helps you then? 

If you didn't know, Lawrence is a mentally handicapped student I've had the pleasure to get to know this year in 6th period art. His lessons are simple and timeless. I hope have the opportunity of hearing more. 

First Chapters

I got a book a few days ago that I've been looking forward to reading. Though I had much excitement towards the book I kept putting off starting it. It's tough to buckle down and get started. Tonight I decided I would no longer put it off. I've barely even read the first page and a half when I had to stop. A thought just came to me:

 First chapters. They're pretty important right? It seems like hold great importance. But what if they suck?

 I keep going back to the first chapter of my novel and rereading and rewriting. Nothing seems right, nothing seems good enough to be the first chapter. This whole idea has me really caught up-caught up like those vines in Harry Potter in which you keep struggling and the vines pull you in tighter and tangle you more. The only way to get out of them is to completely relax, or with sunlight. So maybe I just need to relax, because first chapters only seem important and my first chapter only seems unfillfilling to me.  I do ponder though, what could be my sunlight to this? 

The more I think about it the more I come to the conclusion that first chapters aren't crucial nor detrimental. They just matter in the sense of how the most common routines matter- they just set ground level for the rest of the day that can't be predicted. In all of my reading, I can only recall one book to which I actually remember the first chapter to, probably because it said "The clock struck thirteen." Which is a rather uncommon way to begin a book. 

 I appreciate first chapters more now than ever. Getting started is hard. I think people see that though, so they keep reading after the first chapter. 

When Daily Becomes Weekly

The thing about writers isn't the wonderful image created in our minds, everyone had that image. It's that we so desperately want to translate the picture into words so that other people are able to see what we see in our heads. You could picture a tree in your head, an average tree, and spend years describing it's every detail so that someone else could imagine this tree too, but your work would never be complete, you're too much of a perfectionist for that. You'll never be quite convinced that the other person is seeing what your seeing. It's too easy to obsess over an image in your mind. Whether it be one you want to share or one you want to see yourself as. Every time you imagine it, it's a little different than the last- making it impossible to ever be able to relate the one image to anyone else unless they are in you head at that exact moment. Which unfortunately, isn't possible at the moment. I struggle to put the organized chaos in my head into coherent writing and I never quite feel statisfied when I finish.

 Lately, I've been using this as an excuse to why I haven't gotten anything posted for a while. When did the daily become the weekly? I knew the hardest part of this blog would be keeping an even pace, but I'm happy to be able to say I still want to keep this blog going. 

The Teenage Years

My Spanish teacher was talking about the "teen years" today in class. We read an article in our textbooks that was about children beginning at ages eight to ten, working to fill their families needs. My teacher told us about how the "teenage years" are really, just fictional. They don't exist. In wealthy countries, like America, kids have some made up time between being a child and an adult, to transition at their own pace. He began to end his lecture with "as a high school teacher, and seeing all the different types of teenagers..." he doesn't know how to treat you guys. Does he treat us like kids? Or does he treat us an adult? "It's up to you, you guys have to choose." He concluded. 

But is it up to us? Do we really get the choice, or are we constantly told what to choose? Coming back from winter break this year, the first couple of days back in school I felt like I was being incredulously treated as a child, especially when compared to during winter break when I felt an extreme sense of independence. Naturally, as the days passed in school, I assimilated my feelings of independence back into the robotic following of rules in school. But, all it took was one three day weekend of being young and dumb to feel that independence again. Turning the train back to the original tracks of this thought, the teenage years suck. You don't belong to a cookie cutter group, people tell you what to do like your a child, yet hold you to adult expectations. Life isn't supposed to be about winning or losing, but if it was, you would lose. There's no winning when you're in the teenager years. All you can really do is act however you deem for for yourself, and say your "still a kid" or "nearly an adult" whenever it benefits your argument to get some leverage in the world. 

English Actually Taught Me Something Today

Ouch. I know, that's a bit harsh, and a hyperbole but it does hold truth.

In English we are often assigned homework that will go unchecked because we are AP students and Juniors so the teacher shouldn't have to check. As the laziest AP student and writer I know, I don't typically do the homework in entirety, or at all. (Sorry) However, tomorrow things are actually due, so I'm doing them! This is definitely a double edged sword. I know I'm not putting in the effort as a student, but I also feel my teacher isn't putting in effort either. 

We are learning about modernism and postmodernism characteristics (or at least we were last week when this was assigned) and upon typing out those characterists I came across this under both modernism and postmodernism characteristics: "Less confidence the work of art is unique, coupled with a sense that culture endlessly duplicates and copies itself" and "Loss of confidence in the Renaissance notion that a great work of art is immortal and ensures immortality for its author" 

 I mean immediately after I read that I just thought: "holy crap, writers are extremely selfish" and after turning over those words in my head for a while I kept thinking "wow being selfish makes me feel good". 

I still can't even put this concept into my head and give you some intellectual explanation of how I feel about it. It's just there, a fact. I like the concepts Selfishness is good sometimes. I'd even go as far as to say healthy at times. Immortality and duplications. Have you heard of the saying that you die two times? Once when you heart stops beating and again when your name is said for the last time. What if your name was never said for the last time? Death is only our middle. After that, well, that depends on you. (I'm definitely not making any allusions to heaven or hell).

Everytime I go see a movie that's main line is a romantic plot I get so frustrated. I am so utterly tired of such similiar plots. I want new, different, fresh! But where does that come from? Our minds are only capable of what we think they are capable of. But we do only know what we know and don't know. That made sense to me. Did you get that? Anywho, everything's a duplicate of something else and I'm still trying to figure out how to break that. 

Jumps and Leaps

I've been thinking lately and have come to a conclusion: there is a large difference between jumping and leaping. Jumping has a much harder connotation on it than leaping. "Don't just jump to conclusions." Whereas leaping has such a graceful feel to it. "It was a leap of faith." In life you have to jump and leap a lot to overcome obstacles and keep moving forward, but should you leap more than you jump, or jump more than you leap? Although leap sounds graceful, it also sounds timid. Why touch anything with only half your heart? Jump into it and immerse yourself in it, see what happens. On the other hand jumping is quite a commitment, you land with to feet. When you leap, you only have one foot forward and the other safely behind you so that you can't fall. Could it be dangerous to jump? When faced with a decision of applying myself to something, or applying myself to a relationship, I wonder do I jump or do I leap? And I also ponder, what have I already jumped or leaped into?

On second thought

I realize that in my last post I left you with "Sincerely, Imanie". The last thing I want is for this to be received as a diary beginning every with "Dear Diary". That feels so impersonal. This is much more casual, as it should, using "you" so off handedly as if we were old friends. I don't even know who "you" are. I feel like I'm talking to everyone, no one, and myself at the same time. It actually renders me feeling rather alone. Alone in the sense or an owner talking to their beloved pet, pouring their soul and thought into ear of the animal and the pet calmly and silently listening as if they were just continuously letting the information soak into their skin. I don't really talk to my actual pets like that. But I'm sure some people do. Although I am sincere about all the words I bleed, I do not wish to make this a diary.  It's an account of daily thoughts of anything. 

Sleep Deprivation Daze

As the night came to a close at the sushi restaurant where I work as a hostess, I pulled out a notepad from the desk and began writing my awfully dazed thoughts.  I had been just staring with empty eyes at  empty tables when I began to question my decision making skills. Why did I think staying up all night with my friends watching all the Star Wars movies was a good idea? I was so tried. The type of tired where you just want to lay on the floor for a few hours without thinking or even sleeping. I listened to the loud and chaotic clashing sounds of the restaurant, and kept thinking how can I feel like calm and clear in my head? I felt like I was in that scene of a movie where the main character is hungover or high and the camera moves slowly capturing everything and the sound of the world is dulled. Can you get hungover from not sleepin? I can't use word hungover in a sentence that doesn't involve/imply drinking. 

My contacts sting from being in my eyes for over 24 hours, but other than that I sort of liked how this daze felt. Being so tired (but not sleep tired) kept me eye wide awake. Everything was so clear in my head and it felt like someone turned down the world volume. I either felt like I was so aware of everything going on around me or like I was walking around like a zombie. A zombie who could dear people and bus tables effortlessly. 

I had never felt this way before. Usually when I get this little sleep I have to endure school, teachers and peers, and hate life the next day walking around miserably, and also like a zombie. 

I looked at the time and I only had half an hour left to work and my mind switched gears to what I was going to order for dinner. The perks of being the owners daughter. I'll never get used to it. Sushi is such a clean played food, I like it. None of the food touches that isn't supposed to because you have neat little plates with small walls dividing the plate. 

26 minutes and counting. 

Why don't I write in a notebook anymore? It's exceedingly satisfying. I type everything on my phone now, quite lazy. I'll have to start carrying a notebook and pen with me more often. I feel like my head is exploding with ideas right now. I love this feeling. 

Sincerely,

Imanie