Hi Xanga friends. 2010 is turning out to be a lot crappier of a year than I had originally thought. I know there's still 11 months of it left so I am going to try to sift through the manure and rise above it. Even if it's going to take 5 bottles of Chanel No 5 to get me smelling the way I did before.

For a year, I have been positive. Laughing it off when interviews went bad, fake smiling brightly when I was told it was an "unpaid" position, and enthusiastically taking the same retail positions I had as a high school-er. I complained, yes. I bitched, yes. But in the end, it was all followed by a hearty "haha" and a "with hard work, everything will pay off." I believed it would happen for me. I always felt like the bad interviews were something to learn from and, of course, they made for great stories. The unpaid internships were great learning experiences, and working in retail only made me realize that I was not alone in these shitty shitty times.

Every time anyone called to ask about how the job hunt was going, I swallowed the lump in my throat and exclaimed "Good! Still working at it." But inside I wanted to scream. I still want to scream.

Then recently, I lost my best friend. He didn't die or anything, but I lost him just the same. He was my family in New York, my home away from home. And without him, I feel like I've lost an appendage. And I'm learning to live my life all over again without an arm, a leg, sight, or speech. I've never cut anyone out of my life before and certainly never thought it'd be met with so little resistance. I wanted to say goodbye. To have our last phone conversation be bittersweet not just bitter. I wanted to see if there was anything left to salvage. But you told me that there wasn't. That maybe I should just cut you out. I called you to say thank you.

I wanted to say thank you for the past year and a half. I wanted to say thank you for the meals, the hugs, the talks, and the laughs. I wanted to say that when I said "I will always be here for you," I meant it. There are no conditions, no limitations, I am always here for you. I wanted to sing you one last song, to let the sweet melodies soothe you to sleep. I wanted to end things with sweet reminiscences, not another fight. I wanted to end things in a way that honored the relationship I remembered. I just wanted to be filled with good feelings and good thoughts, but the resentment ran deep and it was too late. The last year and a half meant a lot to me, but you reacted like that year and a half of memories had never existed, as if I was just another girl you could forget about. Maybe it was all just a dream. Either way, those dreams made me happy and remind me of a happier me.    

I am moving.... AGAIN. Blogspot made it such a bitch to post pictures and to change layouts... so

www.fawnykay.tumblr.com

Follow me there.. :)

Love,

me

Two years ago, I was sad and really lonely (what's new, right?). My boyfriend had just dumped me and within a week had found some shiny new skeletor girl to screw. For days, I wore old '80s sweatpants courtesy of my father, I swore off anything and everything to do with personal hygiene, and lived off the stale Captain Crunch I found under my desk just so that I wouldn't have to go outside to buy groceries.

My friends did all they could to cheer me up. Funny anecdotes about poop didn't do it, having people awkwardly listening to me on the phone while I whimpered and sobbed didn't do it, and drinking a shit-ton of Smirnoff REALLY didn't do it.

So in a desperate attempt for companionship and understanding, I called my dad. He stayed on the phone with me for hours, relaying stories about his college life and his suffering from quote/unquote depression. He had just moved to New York and was naturally homesick. His foreignness freaked the other students out and the English he learned in Thailand couldn't sustain him here. So he went to talk to the school therapist and had his head shrunk.

The therapist ingeniously tells him that his "problem" is loneliness. Doctor Douche Bag then hands him a small tape recorder and tells him to "talk into it everyday as if it were [his]  friend." My dad was bemused, but who was he to question a "doctor" of that caliber. So he went home and spoke into it everyday. He complained about teachers, his frustration with girls, and talked about how much he missed his mother's home cooking. Despite feeling really ridiculous, my dad was hopeful that with these tapes, El Douche could find a way to cure him of his sickness. After a month of the talking-to-yourself-like-a-crazy-person exercise, my dad goes into the therapist's office with the tapes one hand and the recorder in his other. Not long after my dad sat down did the school shrink ask him to take the tapes and crush them with his feet. My dad shifted his eyes, unsure of what he just heard and in his best English asked, "you want me to destroy these tapes?" "Precisely," the therapist answered.

Infuriated by the thought that he had wasted his time with some harebrained exercise, he threw the tapes and the tape recorder at his moronic therapist. Which, even though my dad left it out, was probably followed by a brief call to security about some psycho student rampaging about campus. In any manner, he left the office and since that incident, made more friends than he ever believed. He realized that only he could control his own happiness. That if something was making him upset, he had to find a way to fix it, or a way to embrace it. He said that everyone, EVERYONE, deserves to be happy and you should ever let small people or bad circumstances take away your right to that happiness. 

I have to take my dad's advice to heart (and Leona Lewis' too) and learn to smile cause I deserve to. There are always going to be those people in life who want to tear you down. Or unideal circumstances that deteriorate your self-worth. The best way to approach these obstacles is just to be positive and live happily. And despite their attempts at ruining your person, those vindictive, cruel people are not bad people. They are just weak-minded and cowardly and the best we could do for society is to not be like them.

Over and out.

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"Now I've traveled across the ocean.. with the same shoes, just longer hair."
Honesty sometimes bites you in the ass. Love doesn't always solve everything.

One day, I was browsing through a national geographic book titled "Love". The book chronicled portraits of love from all around the world: family love, friendship, and of course, romantic love. Page 13, a crying mom and her newborn. Page 42, two friends playing guitars on the beach. Page 53, sisters holding each other in a family portrait. As I flipped through the pages of smiling faces and warm embraces, I  came across a picture that struck a cord with me. It was a black and white photograph of a man and a woman holding each other in bed. The photograph was hauntingly beautiful and I felt mesmerized by the subjects' total engrossment in one another.

Then, my eyes moved toward the caption. The man in the picture had captioned it himself and in scribbled cursive, it read "this photograph is proof that she once loved me.. that we were once happy." 

It's amazing how a photograph not only captures a moment, but a fleeting emotion that is attached to that moment. Maybe we take photographs not to remember who was there, how we looked, or what was happening, but rather how we felt....