the stars do not determine your fate

i don’t believe in astrology. i don’t think that planetary alignments and and constellation patterns can coincide with birthdays and completely determine who someone is. i don’t think we can read daily horoscopes that predict certain outcomes in our lives. and don’t get me started on all of that sun, moon, rising, retrograde mess; understanding that is beyond my comprehension and i willingly admit that. that’s a no from me, kids.

but i still love reading “the signs as…” posts. i still love zodiac moodboards and analyses and saying “AQUARIUS AF” when i read a description that i think is pretty accurate to my personality. even though these specific descriptions of astrological signs are general traits that nearly everyone exhibits at one point or another and recognize that, i still find myself becoming invested in “what backpack are you based on your sign.”

i don’t know what it is about astrology posts that fascinates me. maybe it’s the psychoanalytical part. maybe it’s finding validation in the way i perceive myself. maybe it’s solidifying the knowledge i’ve gathered about my friends with completely unfounded evidence to prove my assumptions.

everyone loves being right, and no one likes to believe that they are wrong. so when we read this astrology posts that peg what type of person we are while falling in love or our best traits, we want them to align with our own ideas on who we are. and when these posts fit our ideals, we rally in this reassurance that we know ourselves and have a sense of self. we find pride in being agreed with about ourselves.

but when these posts don’t fit with our assumptions about ourselves, how do we react? some of us may scoff it off, say “pssh, that’s not right” and defer the responsibility of being wrong from ourselves. we can’t be wrong because we know ourselves best, right?

then there are those of us who see these mismatched assumptions and begin to question everything they’ve ever thought about themselves. are they really as introverted as they think they are, even when this post says they’re a more extroverted sign?

as superficial and meaningless as we may tell ourselves these posts are, they can still manage to leave us questioning everything we thought we knew about ourselves. astrology is a very efficient way to shatter your sense of self, especially if it wasn’t as unwavering as you thought it was.

so let me say this: the stars do not determine your fate. mercury in retrograde means nothing, air signs mean nothing. the only thing that matters is you, which means you don’t need to be worrying about what kind of partner you are based on your sign. nothing else can determine who you are except for you alone. no suns or moons or stars can tell you what your life is, only you.

A Non-Heartfelt Letter

Dear you,

I feel like trash.  And it’s partially thanks to you.  I thought that if you cared for someone, you stuck around and waited for – helped – them to get better.  I thought that if you were wanting to be a friend, you chose what was best for them – not what was most convenient for you.  But apparently, I was wrong.  Unfortunately, caring for someone means that you “put up” with how negatively they talk and think of themselves until you just give up.  According to you, a friend isn’t someone who tells you when they feel bad.  According to you, a friend is not, nor will it ever be, someone who’s honest when you ask how they’re doing because it would hurt your feelings too much.  According to you, I will never be anyone’s friend in this lifetime because I can never live down to those standards.  You hurt me, and I am utterly enraged at your for it.  Because all I ever tried to do was be honest with you.  You say that I sound as though I am constantly asking for pity – although it is never an intention – but I never deliberately put my feelings and what is easiest for me over those of the people I care about – actually care about – or what is best for them.

Besides, your whole supposed “reason” for just up and leaving like you did was because you “hated seeing” the way you say I talk about myself.  But if that were true, would you have even said all that you did say to me?  Would you really have just walked out the door because it got “too hard” for you?  Is that really how you treat the people you say you care about?  If so, then I thank you.  I thank you for getting me out of there.  You twisted my words and said that I told you things I have not thought in years, and I’m beginning to think that all you wanted was an excuse to get rid of me.  You said I was not “bothering” you, yet you were constantly saying saying that you were going to stop talking to me – just out of nowhere.  No warnings, no reasons, just “I won’t talk to you anymore.”  I said to you multiple times how I word things horribly when it comes to personal matters.  And you held it against me.  You said I never listened to things you said, but it was always you that asked about me, and I never wanted to talk about anything personal.  You say you don’t care about my problems, but before we stopped talking, you were constantly asking about them – even after I had clearly stated that I did not want to talk about it.  When we first met, you pushed me for a good five to ten minutes to talk about what was bothering me, and I said – over and over again – that I did not want to bother a stranger with my personal problems.  And you still pushed.  So I caved.  And you let me, gave me a bit of advice, even.  If you did not care about my issues and all, why did you ask me about them, repeatedly?

I’m nothing to you now, aren’t I? You just wanted to play games with someone’s feelings – someone you already knew was vulnerable before you had even sunk your claws into them.  Didn’t you?  Someone who, when you met them, you were completely aware of their situation, so you knew you would get what you wanted out of them.  Are you proud of yourself?  Did you accomplish what you had been reaching for?  I sure hope not because you do not deserve the satisfaction.


the “narcissist.”

Grandparents’ Day

Over the years, out of all the people in my life, my grandmother has been one of the most influential . She has been here since I was born, taking care of my brother and me when no one else was there. She’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met- she’s not afraid to tell you when she thinks your’re wrong or when you are about to do something stupid.

One of my fondest memories with her was when we decided to go out to eat one afternoon. She couldn’t decide on where to eat so I chose for her, taking her to Cracker Barrel. We arrived and sat down just like any set of normal people- placing our orders and all that good stuff. We chatted and laughed at the antiques hanging all over the walls, her remembering when most of them were invented! About halfway through our meal she nudged me under the table and flicked her head to the table to my right. Sitting there was a young man and what looked to be his grandfather. The younger one looked about my age and was moderately attractive, the older one was handsome for his age and had his eyes directly placed on my grandmother. The young man swatted at his grandfather when he caught us both glancing back at the two. Throughout the rest of the meal there was plenty of ‘accidental’ eye contact between my grandmother and the older gentleman, not to mention myself and the young man. We stayed there much longer than we actually needed to, taking our time to get the last drop out of our glasses, only standing to leave when I told Maw that I had homework to do.  As we went to leave, Maw heading to the counter to pay and myself browsing through the store, our new friends also started to get up. The older gentleman walked straight up to my grandmother and started to try and pay for our meals but her being the stubborn woman she is, declined his advances. The boy who seemed about my age wasn’t as forward- he browsed near me but didn’t make a move until I was moving to follow Maw out of the restaurant. And that’s the story about how my grandmother and I both walked out of Cracker Barrel with with the numbers of our new friends.

Moral of my post is that I think having a day just for our grandparents is the least we can do for them. They do so much for us and give without restraint. And although I couldn’t see her on Grandparents’ Day because of school, I wanted to tell one of the many stories I have with her and about how much I appreciate her and everything she does for me.

What I Notice

The things I’ve noticed in my life. sometimes when I breathe while sleeping my noes whistles, and wakes me up at night.  When I zone out I’m not really daydreaming rather listening to the air conditioning unit, I do this often. When I get dressed in the morning I don’t process anything that I do into I actually leave the room. I forget thing faster than I probably remember them. My head twitches to the side when I feel proud of myself. I pop my neck in every one of my classes. The floorboard of the literary room has a lot of scuffs marks on the floor. The ceiling is also floorboard but just painted white. I really like it at this school despite the fact that I thought I would be miserable. I stutter whenever Sam walks toward me. My stuttering problem, in general, is getting worse but also at the same time more maintainable.The Ceiling lights of JI look like UFO’s or upside down pyramids with circle bases. I like my friends here much more than I like the ones back home. I haven’t had a brain freeze in like a year. writing has become a natural coping mechanism for me. The floor of my Spanish classroom is a giant square with black tiles outlining outer cashmere tiles that remind me of sand against volcanic dust. My computer keyboard has ants living in them and when I type they crawl out. Everyone has someone, even if they themselves believe they are alone there will always be another human being that has their back whether they know it or not. I like the steady strum of typing that always fills the literary room when we blog. I have begun to bite my nails less. When it’s time for me to go home a feeling of dread sets over my body which is quickly replaced by comfort when I’m actually at my house. The world is starting to become a more accepting place. My poetry is starting to get better in my eyes. I’m getting used to speaking in front of others despite my outer fear. I cant control my facial expression. I’m allergic to citrus. Every single person has morals but its just a matter of applying them thatch the real problem. When I ramble and just type out random things a story usually comes after. I never know how to end a story or a blog.

Best Movie Moment

To me, the best movie ever is A.I. This movie is about a trial robot boy who is an experiment within his family. When he runs away, he finds that being a robot is not easy. Many people were against robots and hunted and destroyed them publicly. He seems to slimly avoid capture and destruction while on his journey home with his best friend, a wise, old, teddy bear with his own personality.

This movie is less of a tear-jerker, and more of a hurricane of emotions occurring in your mind and spilling out your eyes. This said, there are so many moving moments in this movie.

My absolute favorite moment is when there is a gathering of humans and robots–however, the robots aren’t there by choice. The humans are angry at the robots and the people creating them. So, they gather as many stray robots as they can cram into their large metal cages. The arena’s seats were flooding, while the arena itself had multiple robots being killed in excruciating and terrible ways. One robot, for example had acid poured over her. Another was tied to a board and beat with a large wooden hammer. The worst shown in the movie was probably the aggressive disassembly of a ‘male’ robot. The humans didn’t care that the robots were built with a sense of emotion. These robots had already been neglected for being “out-dated”, but the rioters gave no mercy.

This movie shows all the sides of humans, however; this scene just goes to show how heartless and impulsive and angry the human can be.


Bill was making soup.  He made a broth with tomato paste and water.  It was in a giant pot.  He slowly chopped carrots into bite size cubes.  He shelled English peas until he had a sizable bowl full of the small, green spheres.  He took an onion, cut it in half, and diced one half of it.  He was about to put Saran wrap on the cut end on the unused half but decided that there was no real point in doing so and set it back on the counter.  He then diced a potato.  He then cooked ground beef in a pan with a little bit of garlic salt; it didn’t need to be too seasoned because it was working with so many other flavors in the soup.  After adding all of the vegetables and allowing them to cook inside of the bubbling broth, he added the ground beef.  He then put a lid on the pot and put it on low.  It simmered for a while before Bill came back to it.  He lifted the lid and an incredible aroma came out.  He grabbed his wooden spoon, tasted a bit of the broth, and added some salt and cayenne pepper until he’d achieved the flavor he wanted.  After doing so, he got a bowl from out of the cupboard and scooped some soup into it.  He sat down at his table with his soup and a spoon.  He then removed something from his pocket, a vial.  From that vial, he poured a clear liquid into his soup.  He stirred it in with his spoon.  It disappeared from sight after very little stirring.  He inhaled, and there was no difference to the soup’s lovely fragrance.  He took a bite, and it was as good as he expected.  By the eighth bite, his face was in the soup still and likely to have been cold if it had not been for the hot soup.  A fly watched from the onion not paying too much attention.

Looking Up

All MSA juniors were assigned a senior mentor over the summer for guidance, a new friend, and comfort. My senior, Amory, is here for all of the above. She is truly amazing.

Amory has been one of the few people I can run to since the day I met her. My mother took an instant liking to her, and that’s when I knew she would be good for me. What makes her even better is that I can relate to her on any and all levels of life. We can actually talk and vent to each other like long time friends. I don’t think i’ve ever been so comfortable with someone so quickly. She let me know from the beginning that I could always come to her about any and everything, and she meant exactly that.

Last night after I became upset, Mory had a long talk with me, enlightened me on the troubles she faced her junior year at MSA, and her life problems in general. I truly appreciate her for opening up to me, venting, and the bonding time.

I feel as if everyone should have that kind of bond with their senior, that’s what we’re here for. A support system is what everyone here should have.


Angel (graceless)

I really just wanted to post my monologue on angels because I enjoyed creating this piece. It is in the POV of a demon. (I’m also thinking of using this piece for the September’s coffee house theme, Glow.)

They fall from heaven hungry. Their voices recall bleeding to death without wound and starch- white lilies placed in windowsills. Be afraid, for they are everywhere unseen, a cathedral of mirrored walls with no reflections. Unholy mouths will drawl their names in offering and silence will resound as an answer. Do not be fooled; there is threat within the tranquility. You think of soft pink cheeks and ivory and yearning light- all I can see is the red spit and unused bibles below hotel beds. Heaven’s holiness hits like damp cotton sheets hung from laundry lines, but can catch your lungs full of ichor all the same. You’ve never tasted the carnage they create; it stills burns on my tongue like confession, like prayer. Listen well when I say there are horns beneath their halos and supernovas writhing within their stars. You wonder if the warm glow of their god-like skin is the sun, not realizing it’s the rising of flames. Paradoxical promises lie in the wings. Be careful not to ruffle their feathers, otherwise you could end up in ash.

This piece was really fun for me to make becaue I love writing about things I do not understand, one of them being the existential matter of angelic forces. I truly think that if angels are real, this is how they would be shown, or should be. So many people hear about things they do not understand and do even challenge the fact that not everyone knows what they are talking about most of the time. I mean, angels might just be mythical creatures nonexistent in the real world, but this does not mean all angels have to follow the suit of conformity. Dark, forboding, chaotic; this is what I think of when I hear angel. I believe heaven and hell are a lot closer than we at first realize, demons and angels one and the same. That’s kind of what I wanted to represent in this- unforgiving order heightened by uncontrollable power, overwhelming and soft as well.  Angels are heavenly, but sometimes I think we only see heaven as good and pure when in reality we do not know. I liked taking this monologue from the POV of a demon because the sides are sort of flipped, roles changed.



The Best Thing I’ve Ever Read in my Life

This is the only piece of work I have ever read that I will never forget. I based my hopes, my dreams, and my beliefs around it. The first time I read it, I was in fifth grade. I was angry. I was angry, and I could not tell you or anyone else why, for I did not know. Happiness alluded me; I alluded it. I was angry, and I wanted everyone else to feel my rage with me. There was something wrong with life. It was an underdeveloped idea, something barely forming but not yet identified.
My teacher read the poem out loud to the class, and my facial expressions softened, almost sore from the scowl I always adorned. It resonated deep within me, an echo that I can still hear.

I immediately found myself drawn to the moth, and I ignorantly didn’t consider the cockroach as anything more than pitiful. When we took a poll to see who identified with the cockroach or moth, I was shocked. Almost twenty children chose to be the cockroach, while less than ten chose the moth. I was never so baffled in my entire life, nor do I think I ever will be again.

When I read this poem, it was almost as if my entire life changed. It didn’t happen in a minute or even the day after, but after a week of mulling it over until it was naked without mystery, I gained my first real idea. I gained something that was my own, something that people didn’t agree with me on. Most importantly, I didn’t believe it by someone else’s command. I finally had a voice.

After reading this poem, I did not change immediately. I did not even change for three years afterwards, but rather cried myself to sleep wishing to be a moth. Then, the next morning, I would put on my cockroach costume, for it was easier.

In ninth grade, I remembered it again. It was a random echo from deep, and I read it again. In that moment, I flipped as if a coin, deciding to finally shape my life around it. I changed everything I did, everything I loved, and everything I believed. People change, and this poem changed me.


About twelve years ago, my Aunt Jill introduced Tanner, my cousin and her only son at the time, and I to the wizarding world of Harry Potter. Being only four verging on five, the idea of wizards and witches was one I happily accepted. My cousin being younger then myself didn’t quite grasp the concept. And as per usual, we claimed house Gryffindor as our own.

However, as time progressed Tanner came to understand the movies and he truly claimed the stereotypical house of Gryffindor. I however, after seeing the third movie, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of  Azkaban, I knew Gryffindor was not the house for me.

Now this might sound quite silly, the idea that one could possibly claim a mythical house from a mythical school of wizardry in which there is a man who seeks to destroy all the good mythical people. But you must know that for the nerdy people, this is normal.

But back to what I was saying, I relinquished all claims to the house of Gryffindor and laid claim to House Slytherin.

So when my family went to Universal Studios in Orlando, the Wizarding World of Harry Potter was our first stop. I, of course, collected as much Slytherin Merchandise as  our budget allowed.

Then my friend informed me of the Pottermore test that is supposed to categorize you into a house based on your answers. I immediately created account and took the test.

My results thankfully came out as Slytherin.

“Or perhaps in Slytherin,
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means,
To achieve their ends.”

The Sorting HatHarry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone