Not Taken Far Enough

In the movie Taken, a retired Secret Service agent played by Liam Neeson encounters and handily overcomes inordinate obstacles to rescue his seventeen-year-old daughter kidnapped by Albanian human traffickers while on vacation in Paris. The lurid portrayal of the prostitution ring run by the Albanians and the vengeful torture exacted by Neeson's character are graphically illustrative. Quite frankly, I hated it.

But the regard of disgust and indignation in which I hold the film does not stem solely from its vividness. Rather, it is its raw reality that has me riled up. It was so real. If someone is sufficiently psychotic to invent these types of story lines and situations as mere entertainment, one would think there have to be many more individuals visionary enough to flesh out such schemes in real life. Isn't that usually the debate about violent video games anytime an adolescent killer shocks society with a school shooting? Semi-digression.

I know this situation began as reality first rather than originating as a blockbuster plot. Human trafficking is a very prescient issue forefronting today's worldwide injustices along with global poverty and inequality, etc. etc. So what makes me really angry is that the people who are so aware of these harsh realities consciously choose to invest millions of dollars and hours of their time to make fictional, dramatized accounts for the exclusive purpose of entertaining the American public.

America has come to prioritize and justify, and even glorify, paying already wealthy actors to take part in Hollywood corporations' money-bilking exploits instead of heeding the devastating knowledge and investing those plentiful resources and efforts to find solutions to combat the injustice.

Some argue that in many ways, advocacy is significantly more advantageous than one solitary ring bust or the rescue of a few fortunate victims however high-profile it results to be. I do not necesarily disagree with this claim (but a life saved is a life saved), but do denounce the majority of what Hollywood produces as advocacy. Even documentaries these days are dubious. Taken definitely does not qualify as an effort of information rather I see it is a facade for pure exploitation--Hollywood using this particular issue as a form of "shock and awe" entertainment. It was an intense action flick not meant to charm or romance or humor audiences but rather jolt them just enough to satiate their appetites but suspiciously not so much as to shake them into taking action, because let's face it, that just isn't comfortable and discomfort doesn't sell.

The movie didn't sell anyway (well, relatively. Its box office revenue was still $144,924,285--for a crappy movie!). It received terrible reviews and many viewers (of the few who saw the film) were dissatisfied. But of course, the dissatisfaction stemmed largely because the acting was deemed sub par and the ending anticlimactic, not because its very premises are morally wrong. I'd like to hope that most viewers' instincts cried dirty but chances are, most audiences left with a manifold lasting impression of the lacking resolution and the daughter's appallingly selfish behavior.

Women being brutally kidnapped, drugged, sold, and shamefully displayed for prostitution. Sure, it screams against moral code and common sense and hopefully is disturbing, but I'm betting after the requisite two hours, most went back to their comfortable lives, untouched by those harsh realities. True advocacy is educating people and providing them with information that most importantly, stirs them into productive action. This movie does nothing of the sort. Granted, that likely was not ever the intent of the producers.

But why not?

Mojito.

The apartment was trashed. Per usual. Disease-infused blue cushions were strewn about the ironically named living room, seeing as it was hardly ever livable. The dining table with its hideous vinyl yellow-orange tablecloth was filthy with sticky beers stains and other remains from the previous night's questionable activities. Shirtless white trash American boys milled about carelessly trailing ashes from their hand-rolled cigs of hash. Mulleted French disc jockeys came and went. Shrieking German could be heard from a room off the hallway. I casually took a few swigs of vodka alternated with sips of Fanta Limon, and then we were off.

The grafittied alleys echoed as the group tromped toward el estacio de sants, empty sound ricocheting off cobblestone and sheet metal. The metro station was no less eery. Dark. Deserted. Dank. Desperate.

The next few hours followed like a drunken stupor as our ragtag group wandered from city limit to city limit, club to club. Rejected at one for R's proletariat Converses. Bounced out of the other for being all around declasse. Scorned of entry at the next due to the dazed Dutchman, unfortunately ours, loping wildly about in a wasted frenzy. Our haggard bundle of grumbling frustrations finally stumbled on a building pulsing with a hypnotizing techno salsa beat. Giant black pillars of bouncers allowed us entrance with payment.

Thick smoke tinged by black light clouded the air, if you could even call it that. Rounds and rounds of salt, tequila, and lime cycled until everything was a hazy, heady mess. Sickened by the grinding chaos that presumed dance and the hard evidence being recorded in excess (I hope those photos burn in hell), I fought my way to the edge of the room. The fruits of my retreat: a stained cushion much like the ones we called furniture back at the flat. Dubious but I took it. I watched the group pair off. Two by two they backed into a corner up against the wall, sauntered to the bar for another round, descended on the leggy blonde Swedes.

I sat alone and tried to picture the world, the life I left behind. Sunshine yellow air, sandy beaches, a surfer boy. Buried in a throbbing crowd of inebriation six thousand miles away, I clung to the fading image of crashing waves and perfect sunsets. Suffocated by resurfaced memories and abandoned by the distracted group, I stumbled outside, choking on the crisp night air.

Four thirty am. No cell phone. No money. No working metro. No bus station nearby. No clue where in the city I had ended up. No idea how to get home.

I stood on that dim street corner attempting to make the most use of the light slivers from a solitary street lamp ten feet away. A shiver slid up my spine as a breeze rustled my silky shirt and lonesome stragglers stumbled lustily by, thinking everything of my unfortunately coincidental happenstance. A car sped by honking and catcalling as I hesitated on the sidewalk. Finally, a taxi slowed enough to notice my frantic wave. Carrer Bonaventura Polles porfa. He had no idea where the hell that was. After five long minutes of searching on a wrinkled map with no sign of recognition, I sighed resignedly. Just take me to the train station. I was anxious for the night to end.

The familiar hub loomed outside, and I hastily handed the driver the few crumpled bills and probably too many coins I had pulled earlier from a rando ATM a few blocks of wandering from the club. Still two miles to go before home. I lurked past abandoned construction sites, brushed past the grafitti faces and tin shed doors once more. This time the only echoes were that of my footsteps. I wound my keys around my finger, my eyes cautiously darting around, ready to strike if attacked. Made a right, made a right, took a left. Fumbled with a stubborn lock, wrestled a metal gate. Exhaustion crept up a slippery flight of stairs, and then finally, relief at long last crumpled onto the mold-encased bed.

Ode to Oregon

We were driving along the coast, heading back to campus after our first date (well, pseudo-date since neither of us would admit it was one until much later), and I specifically recall the conversation in which we shared our dreams for the future. I wanted to book it to Latin America as soon as possible and work with street children. B was looking to go into investment banking and live in Oregon. I remember thinking, We have a problem...

I could never live in Oregon. Ew.


Dear Oregon,

My deepest apologies. I rescind those hastily made judgments of long ago. This is me eating my words.

Time and life, they change things. This past weekend, pretty much all that ran through my head was, "I would love to live here." Perhaps it was the lush shades of deep green everywhere that surrounded me in a perpetual canopy of serene tranquility. Or the rocky caves that bring you right under a sparkling waterfall. Or the rain and moody climate that become almost romantic when you spend most of your waking days in a scorching inland city of brown and dust. Or maybe it is the fresh nigiri the size of my cell phone that melts divinely on my tongue just long enough to savor yet leave me craving more. Or the warmth of strangers who smile and send jolly greetings simply because I passed them on the street. Or the enigma of a chic city downtown that somehow manages to remain relaxed and unhurried. Or Powell's palace of a bookstore and its delightful 8oz. cappuccinos. Or a basketball team and free chalupas every time they win at the Rose Garden.

I confess your eighty-seven feet of snow this past winter and I are still working out our differences. Winding up an icy road while holding our breaths for fear that the slightest exhalation will send us veering into on-coming traffic is not quite how I picture an ideal death, but I suppose snowball fights, frozen skate parks, and snuggles under a warm blanket when the weather outside is frightful are otherwise worth it.

And I will concede, you make some really delicious doughnuts and to be honest, that's about all the convincing I need. Until we meet again.

Warmest Regards,
Lo

Quente.

It is 8:06pm, and I'm wearing thin plaid pajama boxers and zero sleeves. My window is wide open, the fan is set on the highest, most violent setting, and yet here am I, generously glazed in a salty film, soaking through all the layers I have not. The photographs that normally march in ordered lines on my wall curl and peel haphazardly off their blighted blue background. The really unlucky ones lie in a defeated, mangled heap. My plastic green cup of water fresh from the fridge has instantly boiled to lukewarm. The box of chocolate treats I quietly snuck upstairs has morphed into one huge rectangular pool of liquid brown. My bangs and baby hairs cling frantically to my damp forehead. My cheek tickles as a rogue drop escapes, winding a rivulet. My red-framed glasses slide down the slippery bridge of my freckled nose every too many seconds. Pushing them back into position is an effort more futile than shoveling snow in a blizzard. Snow. Ah, lovely, lovely snow...




It's hot.

Chris Tomlin was on to something.

Loneliness is a strange thing. On Friday nights and all day Saturdays, I despise it with a passion as I lie listlessly on my bed having exhausted every activity that could possibly make the legs of time reluctantly put one foot in front of the other. I become desperately repulsed with claustrophobia of too much space and too much of my own glaring solitary presence. But then when I find myself in the overwhelming, puzzling midst of a crowd, every nerve and instinct in my body retracts, consciously choosing, frantically clinging, to loneliness. In my extreme introversion, I revert to an isolation that is to a point flat out rude. I bluntly reject advances, notices, the very things I so recklessly crave when I am trapped at home and all the world out carousing and caressing their company.

What gives. It's been a rough and tumble of a month, and God has been teaching me a paradoxical number on self-sufficiency and dependency, humbling my infatuation with attention. Well, sort of. I simultaneously lust after it and am repulsed by it, tangled in a weary web of discontent. It is an empty feeling. But dramatics aside, I am conscious that this is God drawing me, the reluctant, prideful child, to Him because He knows what I really need. To rest in His presence when I am on my own, to bask in His unconditional love when I'm drowning in the hoi polloi, and above all, to realize that Jesus is who I need and He is more than enough.

More than enough.

When everything falls away, He is still standing there, waiting, ready to overwhelm me with all my heart cries out for. It is a stark reminder of the finite limits of humanity. Everyone will fail or fall short at some point, as I myself have surely proven to the world. But Jesus--He is perfection, He is the wholeness of extroversion, the satisfaction of introversion, and He is constant. His love is steady and it does not flicker in the face of disgust or desire or moral quagmire. He is truly everything my heart needs, and more than ever, I am learning that He is more than enough.

Coffee headaches, earthquakes, friendship breaks.

It's peculiar how some things in life can be simultaneously all of a sudden and a long time coming.

I'm tired today. I want my face buried deep in a familiar shoulder, my hand secure in another, a graze across the temple, and quiet reassuring murmurs that somehow everything will be alright.

I write...

entirely too much of my mind on paper. But I find there are very few activities in life that bring me closer to living mine abundantly than doing just that.

The Real Banana Republic

On the morning of June 29, the president of Honduras, Manuel Zelaya, was abruptly rousted out of bed by soldiers who had rushed the presidential palace, and was put on a plane headed to Costa Rica. This effectively put into motion what the world immediately deemed a military coup and unanimously condemned as a threat to democracy. But while the world and institutions like the Organization of American States seem rather eager to jump to conclusions about the illegality of the deposition of Zelaya, let's back up and take a look at the tensions that led to such an ultimatum.

Previously, Zelaya had attempted to push a referendum seeking to amend the Constitution's limit of a single four-year presidential term. A revision would most pointedly allow Zelaya to extend his own presidential stay for an additional four more years. Given Honduras' past history of military coups and dictatorships, the Constitutional clause providing for the single term is understandably stringent. Furthermore, Zelaya has stirred signficant concern over the years for his dangerously chummy relationship with Venezuela's Hugo Chavez, who himself has campaigned to transform Venezuelan society along severely socialist lines and in 2007 publicly sought to change Venezuela's Constitution to allow for his lifetime presidential reelection. Chavez has been in power since 1998.

Additionally, Zelaya has done a rather sub-par job as the Honduran Chief of State, and quite frankly, sub-par is a diplomatic term for mind-bogglingly inadequate. His campaign platform included promises to crack down on gang violence, which has instead surged under his mismanagement. He has implemented measures like doubling the minimum wage; his means of demonstrating care for the poor, though in reality, such economic "aid" effectively increased unemployment to unaffordable rates in one of Latin America's poorest countries. His general lack of education, culture, and common sense have inspired consistent conduct considered embarrassing on international grounds and most critically, on the home front. I think it is safe to say that the majority of Hondurans who understand the implications of Zelaya's ignorance and lacking abilities oppose him and rightfully so.

Returning back to Zelaya's bid for revision, the Honduran Supreme Court rejected the referendum on the grounds of unconstitutionality, and Congress consequently followed suit shortly thereafter. Clearly unhappy with the results and further indignant at the army's refusal to help organize a vote, Zelaya fired armed forces commander General Romeo Vasquez. The Supreme Court quickly reinstated the General after determining the firing to be illegal. The tensions continued to escalate until the army physically removed Zelaya from office, an act which was actually ordered by the Supreme Court. After Congress formally removed Zelaya from the presidency, it named congressional leader Roberto Micheletti as the replacement for the deposed president.

The flurry of media attention has garnered Zelaya the irony of broad-scoping international support thanks to the premises of 'democracy,' including Honduras' revoked membership by the OAS and unanimous condemnation by the UN. Curiously, the United States has shown a very measured reaction, offering words against the 'coup' but stopping short of any particularly strong actions. The U.S. has notably not withdrawn its ambassador unlike the EU and countries belonging to ALBA.

On July 5, Zelaya attempted unsuccessfully to return to Honduras, all the while, stirring dramatic demonstrations throughout the capital and hypocritically quoting the unconstitutionality of his exile. His efforts were foiled as the army blocked off the runway in Tegucigalpa. The new government (really, the same government aside from the difference of Micheletti as president as the Supreme Court and Congress have remained unaltered; this is also where arguments against labeling the movement a coup may stem), in its isolation, has stood firm, vowing to arrest Zelaya for the illegality of his actions.

The situation to date is at a standstill with the opposing parties of the conflict respectively resolute in their convictions. Costa Rica president and Nobel Peace Prize winner Ricardo Arias has been named the mediator for peace talks. The first round of discussion failed as the deadlocked camps refused to budge. Micheletti holds to his promise that should Zelaya return, he will be arrested and punished for his actions. Zelaya, meanwhile, says he will accept nothing less than his complete reinstatement. In this second round of talks, signs of movement are emerging, slight as they may be. Arias is urging both sides to agree to a seven-point compromise that includes reinstating Zelaya as president and general amnesty for political offenses. Per New York Times, "although Mr. Aria's plan would restore Mr. Zelaya, it would also sharply curtail his powers and focus much of the country's political energy on an early presidential election [originally set for November]."

Pragmatically speaking, there is no easy solution to the complicated situation. Rarely does a simple coverall exist. As much I am loathe to think of Zelaya back in Honduras as acting president, his reinstatement seems the most realistic course of action at this point. With the unequivocal support of the international world behind Zelaya, Honduras is spiraling into continual isolation. Isolation can have deadly effects.

Regardless of the quibbles between the de facto government and Zelaya, and all other qualifying politics, ultimately, it is the poor who suffer. The Obama administration alone has cut $16.5 million in military aid since the coup and is threatening to cut $180 million more in development aid. In a country where 70% of the population lives in poverty, the people of Honduras need all the aid they can get. To qualify for aid, a degree of stability is required. The necessity of a stable, internationally-recognized and supported government is essential for the survival of this small country. It looks to be that Zelaya coming back, if anything very temporarily, is the best solution for the time being. From there, we look forward to see what the upcoming presidential elections produce and what the new president bodes for Honduras' future.

My hopes are that qualifying political prowess will be honed, priorities realigned, and greater awareness of the intricacies of government will be spread throughout Honduras. May the political elite be cognizant of those who suffer as a result of their actions and may the general public be equally educated on the palpable difficulties of addressing multi-faceted conflict complications. Politics and real life leave no welcome place for naivete. The current situation wreaking havoc in Honduras is just another stark reminder of such reality.

What's the big [i]deal?

Journaling is a big deal.

I admit, I stooped and settled for an imitation Moleskine for my last journal, but the differences were subtle enough to overlook (temporarily anyway, because I immediately reverted back to the real thing the minute I filled up the faux wannabe). I have a specific pack of pens that roll smoothly across the lines and those are the only instruments that can be used for journaling (and are not to be used for any other purpose). My best handwriting is indubitable, and I afford myself very little forgiveness for typos and grammatical no no's, so scratch out's are avoided as much as possible (the ugliness mars the page, duh). When I write, I must be seated comfortably, isolated from louder-than-a-coffeeshop-hum distractions, and obviously I have to feel just so--ready to battle all and any thoughts jumbling about in my head with the sword of articulation.

I find my obsessive compulsive journaling approaches to be unfortunately analogous to my prayer life. Too many times, I have this [subconscious] misconception that I have to be in a state free of sin and generous in Christian rhetoric, be entrenched in some sort of holy environment, and in the right mood. So I wait for prayer until that moment finds me.

And wait and wait and wa...of course that never happens! The fulfillment of those parameters is rare at best and entirely imaginary at normal. When do or will I ever have it all together? Considering I passed out and had to be taken to the ER in an ambulance because I forgot to breathe, I am going to go with NEVER.

God has been refreshing me with freedom in the throne of grace as of late. I am relearning that prayer is not always this dignified benediction that stringently follows the ACTS-determined order and my presence is not expected in the form of perfection. Rather, prayer is a rambling conversation to the heavens when business is slow at the coffee cart, a sentence of resignation to God the second I feel bitterness and paranoia seeping into my bloodstream, the surrender of heartbreak weighing on my shoulders over a particularly emotional case at the law firm, a song of praise for His wisdom, a giddy outburst of thanks for a delicious meal, a humbled sigh over a reassuring kiss on the temple.

I don't want to blaspheme against the holiness of going before God. It is a big deal. A bigger deal than Moleskines or juicy pens or little ol' me will ever be. But in the biggest deal in history, Jesus came so that prayer could be a big deal...but not a big deal.

It is a slow process of transformation for my stubborn inclinations, but I think that if I can overcome even my tendencies to instinctively order crayons and markers in ROY G BIV color order and eat all my chips smallest to biggest and never allow my pillows to be even slightly uncased, I can catch on to prayer as just dialogue, simple and true, with an ever graceful God.

On a breakfast burrito-induced fiasco

I'm a graduating senior in my spring quarter, and I got kicked out of class for the first time in my entire life today.

I was sitting quietly at my desk, taking meticulous notes, when 15 minutes into class, I got one of my infamous stomachaches. Never a good sign. I tried to ignore it but before I could scribble another word, it morphed into one of those explosive threats. I realized I had far too long a day ahead of me to risk anything, therefore I HAD get to the nearest bathroom NOW. I got up, attempting to be as discreet as possible, only to have my professor call me out.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"Um, I'm sorry, Professor, but I really need to use the restroom."

"Well, I don't appreciate interruptions. You can take your bag with you and expect not to return to my class today. For future reference, I expect you to use the restroom on your own time."

[Mind you, this is the same professor who made me sit front and center on the first day of the quarter because I arrived at exactly 9:30AM and he had already started. Sigh.]

I grabbed my bag and left with the entire class staring at me. At that point, all I could focus on was making it to the bathroom. I dashed in with the nastiest stomachache ever only to discover too late that my stall had no toilet paper.

At least there were toilet seat covers.

The February Curse

I think for Lent, I'd like to give up crying. And also resentment, bitterness, paranoia, and cynicism. If only that were like fasting meat or chocolate; difficult but not entirely unreasonable. Really though, I wouldn't mind seeing the watery eyes and sobfests go, because chances are they were brought on by the stirring of Lo the Angry Monster of the Deep to life. (My sincerest apologies to all who have fallen victim to the wrath of this incorrigible creature.)

Unfortunately, there seems to be a mutual agreement of hatred between February and me. Every year when this time rolls around, everything settled suddenly jumps up and scrambles around like a desperate game of musical chairs, except rarely is there anything pleasantly entertaining or melodic about this chaos.

I generally don't support declarations of strong emotions because that usually turns blogs into self-deprecating pity parties of writers fishing for sympathy and attention. I do not wish to fall into the aforementioned category, but...I am having a rather turbulent month. There I said it. I wish I could attribute things to PMS, meaning all will come to pass in due time (read: give it about a week), but that period (no pun intended) has come and gone and I'm still feeling as psychotic as ever.

Thanks to a situation that continues to eat at the core of my being, I am a bomb set off by every little thing--emails, sleepovers, platonic arm caresses, the entire race of girls. Then I get caught up hating myself for the ugliness it creates inside. The weakness of the flesh overtakes now and again. Visions of friends' deaths and suicides of long ago haunt me. My aunt is having brain surgery for a recurrent tumor in a week. And in the day-to-day, I can hardly get a moment's rest between four classes, two jobs, and a looming, imminent graduation.

February is the James month. Not simply because this is when memories of both James', my friend who died of congenital heart failure and the acquaintance from freshman Bible Study who committed suicide, plague me like a swarm of pesky gnats as the sixth anniversary of the former passes. But also because James 1:2-4 necessarily becomes my go-to. "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, when you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

God, I've learned that I can't learn grace and love on my own. I've tried and am failing miserably. I need You to break the chains of a curse that this year means stubbornness of heart, holding onto resentment, and defaulting to paranoia.

I guess this is where curse becomes blessing, when it pulls me back to the Cross.

And it kicks so hard, it breaks your bones.
Cuts so deep, it hits your soul.
Tears your skin and makes your blood flow.
It's better that you know that love is hard.

[Things to work on: titling]

We had a house dinner last night, and much of the conversation centered around the fast approaching departure of my beloved third roommate J. Listening to her detail the murky uncertainty most newly minted graduates face, the arduous process of job hunting in an economically unfacilitating year, and the implications of moving back home, I was terrorized by the realization that that will be me in just few months.

Oh dear.

These days when I do chance upon rare moments of free brain space, my thoughts are generally occupied with endeavors to figure out the future. 'What in the world am I going to do with my life?' begs the million dollar question. I know this much: I don't know much.

I've managed to narrow down my list of interests I realistically envision myself pursuing, as well as my list of projected cities I think would prove stimulating and most importantly, survivable. It has essentially come down to an epic battle between law school vs. journalism school. Pros and cons lists galore ensue. The margins of my notebooks, journal, and scattered 3x5 cards are littered with scribbles of random revelations, advantages and disadvantages, and probabilities of plausibility.

I won't lie. I like the idea of law school. I like the practicality of law school. I like the prestige of law school. But I don't know if I can really hack law school. Whenever I entertain the thought of three years of academic rigor of nightmarish proportions, I wonder if I possess the intellectual and disciplinary capabilities required of the hell that law school purports. I don't think I'm smart enough and I am far too skilled at procrastinating, so aspirations of law school could just be mistaken projections of what I wish I was good at. Not to mention, the inevitable incurring of outrageous loan debt is intimidating enough in its own right.

So then there's journalism. My brief stint as an editor and columnist with the Jaguar Times in high school was fun enough, and the blog I kept about my year abroad raked in some decent reviews. Besides, I journal like a fiend and most of the time, I actually think in blog entries. (Don't judge me.) But I sputter when I'm forced to write against my will and especially things about which I don't care the slightest. Nonetheless, I think I could enjoy and sniff out a niche somewhere in the world of print media.

The problem is, I am essentially starting at ground zero with both law and journalism-related ventures. Looking back at the last four years, my curriculum, internships, and directed passions garner me little experience and credibility with regards to either of my considerations. I am desperately trying not to dwell on wishing I could do college all over again, this time with the single-minded notion of what one thing I was going to pursue and then doggedly centering everything around that vision.

My coping mechanisms are limited to making extravagant and entirely unrealistic globe trekking plans on a regular basis and hinging my hopes on a miracle that I will end up like Dancing Matt. Or vegging on the couch, losing myself in episodes of Scrubs, pretending as if I am already entrenched in mid-life. Or simply not coping and just straight up FREAKING OUT, which really, is just as terrible a solution as consuming an entire 99c box of peppermint Joe Joe's in one sitting. (Or so I think. I have not resorted to this...yet.)

J seemed pretty content last night. Maybe inside she's scared to death too, but I love that she held her head up maturely. She exuded dignity rather than grudging resignation. Her thoughts and emotions were raw and real, but watching her take the pill of incertitude with a heaping does of faith and a glass half full of optimism convicted volumes to me. I guess I could try that too.

But I'm keeping that box of Joe Joe's handy. Just in case.

"Who ARE you?!"

she asked me. "You are nothing like the L I met two years ago."


I feel like a train wreck these days. I would just like to sleep for a very long time and wake up to find life simple again.

"Do you have a pencil I can borrow?"

asked the guy sitting behind me in my linguistics class today. Being the ever obliging kindhearted soul that I am, I promptly reached into my bag, grabbed a pen, and...handed him a tampon.

You Make It Real For Me

I laughed and thought she was nuts when we were listening to a boyband pop hit from the 90s and J said, "This used to be my favorite song. I would sing it to Jesus all the time." Now I just find James Morrison frighteningly spot on when I do the same.


There's so much craziness surrounding me
There's so much going on, it gets hard to breathe
When all my faith has gone, You bring it back to me
You make it real for me

When I'm not sure of my priorities
When I've lost sight of where I'm meant to be
Like holy water washing over me
You make it real for me

And I'm running to You
For You are the only one who's seen me
That's why I've been missing You lately
Cause You make it real for me

When my head is strong and my heart is weak
I'm full of arrogance and uncertainty
When I can't find the words, You teach me heart to speak
You make it real for me

When everybody's talking in words I don't understand
You've got to be the only one who knows just who I am
You're shining in the distance, I hope I can make it through
Cause the only place that I want to be is right back home with You

I guess there's so much more I have to learn
But if You're here with me, I know which way to turn
You always give me somewhere, somewhere I can run
You make it real for me