Artichoke Heart

So what makes a hero? When you narrow it down, a hero is just someone who helps when they can. So why are there so few of them? I guess that's why "hero" has its own name...because it is so rare when someone helps just because they can instead of if they feel like it or not. I did what any friend would do to help my best friend this past weekend and was called a hero after. I thought it was normal and expected to want to help someone close to you, but I guess in a non-superhero world, it's not. Doing something so simple for someone else should be a daily expectance. Whatever it may be, lift a hand for someone; none the less, those close to you. Try being a hero yourself, instead of waiting for one.

It's the Gift Receipt That Counts

Someone once told me, "It's the gift receipt that counts," jokingly. I laughed at the thought of how rude and sarcastic as well as true that was. For the gifts we embarrassingly hate to admit that we hate, we usually think, "oh, it's the thought that counts..." If they want it to really count, they'd leave the receipt just incase their assumptions aren't as expected. In a way, this phrase means more to me than just a return policy on paper. If we have a friend and loose a friend, what do we do? We look back on how we were friends, what we did, how it ended, and what we can learn from it to get a new one. So what really counted in the friendship was the receipt; to look over and use to exchange for something or someone new.

Tripple C

"Hypothetically speaking..." Doesn't that bug you? To me, it's like peeling dead skin from chapped lips or wearing tennis shoes with no socks and walking home 5 miles finding a new blister every day. That phrase is just wrong. You're abusing the interpretation of confusion; replacing what's right to what's wrong, yet blending it with a clear coating. Say what you want when you want and how you want to say it. Freedom of speech people! Clear coating confusion at least shouldn't be used in every day conversations. Save it for a rainy day, when nothing seems to be acceptable anyway. Let criticism run it's course through fate and not by lack of respect for words. Be creative with your sentence structure, and starting off with "hypothetically speaking," is NOT the way to go. I mean, what if I started this post with, "hypothetically speaking?" I would crawl in a ditch, slit my throat with a samurai sword, feed my bones to the sewage rats and homeless wonderers, and die...

hypothetically speaking, of course.

Run Better Run

Does curiosity really kill the cat? In my humble opinion, I believe paranoia kills all cats. From tabby's, to calico's, to siamese, and to sphinx cats, paranoia keeps them from thinking, "maybe the mouse crawled to another hole in the wall..." Instead, their paranoid instincts crave the opportunity to catch the mouse at the hole they want to believe it's in. Paranoia seems to be more exciting than logical does. Although, when logical meets paranoia, reality occurs. And when reality takes part, fear takes over. Today, I was a sphinx cat. In light tan apparel, wind breezing past my skin, my great big sphinx "eyes" seemed to catch the attention of a follower. He was a tabby cat, with a dark car and striped skin of tattoos. He lurked with his tale pointing in every direction I was, but yet I remembered chronologically: curiosity, paranoia, reality, fear. I watched him crawl behind, but he was no match for what came next. I turned into the mouse and I snuck into another hole in the wall. 

For the Love of...Squash?

I hate when things linger. The smell of a freshly roasted turkey smothering each fabricated absorbent in the house, the taste of each sweet ingredient gathered in one simple, yet flowering dish, and the memory attached to when where why and with whom you ate a particular meal with, that stood out as something more than just food. I've recently and unintentionally adopted a love really hate relationship with my grandma's homemade butternut squash casserole. Its warm and squishy, yet crispy topping latches onto my prime taste buds and my collective tummy fat for support. For butternut squash casserole's sake, I love tummy fat... that's not the issue! The lingering memory of valentine's day with my grandma's recipe for a presence of how a man felt for me, ties together in the really hate part of my adopted relationship. That beautiful and pleasantly fattening memory of my casserole love is tackled by 500 Ib football men geared in steel with every new bite I take. Oh and yes, the relationship, not with the casserole, with the man who showed his love for me (along with about 10 other women, little did I know) did not end well. Now, my casserole addiction, adventure, and alliance has ended with war. Not so adopted love anymore.