Able Hands

December 31, 2009

Time consumes the soul, and sheds the unwanted light of the inevitable. Death is on its way, knocking at the cavity that is the body, trespassing, as the body refuses to answer. Time and Death are entities that control, even though we try to fight back with every last drop of blood for at least one bit of control; yet nothing… we cannot win. Time and Death outweigh our bodies as they lay against the threshold of the universe.

Certain things cannot change and will not change, regardless of how much one does. I have grown into my self, learned to abstain from certain things and learned to want to embrace certain things. I have become my own person, different from even a person with a seemingly similar countenance. However, as I have grown and changed and matured, it is always a welcoming sigh of relief when I literally visit the past, to places that will always remain the same.

I recently had to have a dentist appointment (even though I have been avoiding them for the last three years, and I now know never to avoid them again for then imminent doom looms in the near future of my teeth). As soon as I rang the doorbell, the ring rang through my being, memories surging, of pain and comfort and trust and hate all at once. I trembled. The buzz granted me access to the little room, where a different assistant at the desk helped me sign in. Although I immediately saw a face other than the old lady I expected, the younger assistant was still welcoming and warm and I felt a semi-relief.

I sat down in the same old brown chair, and flipped through the same old magazines, and realized that although I have grown in the three years that I have not been to the dentist, the dentist’s office remained entirely the same. The very same mirror that was shaped like a smile, and the identical outdated television set and the wooden walls and green and gray carpet, all were there. This was my little refuge from the outside, and even though the thought of going through an excruciatingly painful dental procedure was in the midst, I felt safe, knowing that nothing would be different.

Sometimes, alone in my dorm room, I feel a pang against my chest, an arrow of sadness that strikes me at the most unsuspecting moment solely because of the fact that I cannot leave this present and melt entirely into the past. And I mean the good past, not the past that I regret everyday as I wake up and every night as I lay to rest. No, I mean the good past, to the past that will forever remain the same; my childhood, my innocence, my blissful ignorance, my old blankets and socks and teddy bears. I am getting old.

You are getting old.

The Earth is getting old.

What can we all do but wait and see what happens? Or to just act accordingly with our age? There are those rebellious souls that try to outshine their age by jumping from airplanes or riding fast motorcycles, and I am sure those are all exciting experiences and that the adrenaline shoots a high of youth into one’s soul, but to what extent can we go on lying to ourselves? I am still fairly young, but my soul feels as though it has walked this earth ten times too many. I have seen things, and done things, that only the old can tell tales of, and yet it is all nothing in comparison to the beautiful end all believers are destined to meet.

The best thing we can do is take the example of all those truly brave souls, those helpers with heart. I have a friend who is so young and so full of love that all she ever thinks about and talks about is how to help people and to be the change you wish to see in the world. It is a beautiful experience every time we converse, but I must admit, that in seeing her spirit on fire for the good of humankind, I am envious and saddened at the fact that I am not at all like that. She is an honest angel cast down from heaven to light up the lives of any and all people that accept her as a friend. Sure, I try every now and then to spare some change to the man on the train, to give a little warm meal to the woman on the corner, to smile as much as I can to the strange yet innocent hello from the stranger. I try… But to what extent can my attempts grant me access into the beautiful end that all believers are destined to meet? I am able but am I capable? To what extent can I outshine her?

“Don’t compare yourself to others,” is the echo of my mom’s words in my head as I type this essay at the moment. And it is a veritable statement. There is no comfort knowing that I cannot be her, but I can be like her, and better yet, I can be me; I can keep sparing change, I can keep sharing meals, I can keep praying for hope and peace, I can keep wishing and dreaming that things will change, that things can change if we all just try. If I do my part, will you do yours? Time is running out, but things don’t have to keep being the same. We are all capable.

Words of A Minor

December 27, 2009

Have you ever read something so utterly amazing that it leaves you with a sense of inadequacy? I feel as though I do, more than I should, especially since I should be writing amazing essays; I should be coming up with these grand questions concerning human life and express them so eloquently and so magically that whomever were to read them would end up in a drawl of the mouth and in a speechless breath.

I read something today that made me feel unworthy of this blank page, at which I dabble my fingers furiously against the keyboard in order to make any sense out of the once infinite emptiness susceptible to infinite possibilities. After reading a young lady’s words and thoughts, as they were filled with fervent passion and intense intimate concerns, I was inspired to do just the same. I thought to myself, How can I call myself a writer, when her words, as seven years my minor, exist?

These moments of doubt spear my heart, spear my hopes and dreams—all dramatics aside—and I feel as though I have been challenged, not by her writer but by my writer. I have been challenged to think thoughts that I have never thought possible; I have been challenged to displace any notion from the immensities of my brain onto the availability of a page—yet, to do so would require me to reconsider my notions.

I have said that I have so many things to say, and that all a writer could ever ask for is for someone to read them, and to care about them, and to ponder over them as they have been placed out into the world. Yes, I have said that. But what happens when I read the works of another? I should feel inspired. I should be saying to myself, Jeez, look at that; Now that is true artistry of words. I want to share in that ease of language. However, as I sit here in my chair, I am bombarded with negative instances and find myself doubting my abilities, How can I ever write? How can I face this page knowing that there is better art to be made than my own?

I have always been self-conscious. I have never truly had a good sense of self-esteem, let alone a high self-esteem. I was an obese child, and adolescence never was kind to fatties. I remember in sixth grade that I had the biggest crush on this once cute boy—although now he is an insignificant fish-faced man (haha!)—and on this very hot summer day, I was so inclined as to place my long hair into a ponytail, and as I did, he passed by me and gave me the dirtiest look, laughed at me, and said matter-of-factly that I looked so ugly. Now, I know I am not “ugly” as I do take care of myself, but at the age of eleven, words like that can dismantle any young girls’ ambitions, and for the rest of that summer, I always had my hair down, trying to cover my ugliness.

Sometimes, my eleven-year-old self comes back to life and finds a home in my aging soul. Sometimes, I feel “fat”—in the sense where I am useless, worthless; that nothing I am, nothing I say, nothing I do, can ever contribute to this beautiful universe. But that is only Sometimes. One day, however, I know that with my own children, I never want them to undergo any hints of inadequacy. I want them to strive forward, to embellish their dreams and aspirations, to climb up and over any obstacle they are presented with, and to know that they are never alone—for the love of God, parents, and family, is always helping them along the way.

I want them to find the power of their words; to know that what they have to say is most definitely worth saying. I want them to crave an empty page, or an empty science project board, or an empty diorama box, because in that emptiness the echoes of their thoughts can be heard and the manifestation of true art—as it applies to individual sense of worth—can come alive. I want them to realize what has taken me years of struggling and hurt and pain: you are great just the way you are

As I sit here, letting these notions slip from my mind through my fingertips, making a harsh tapping sound with every press against the keyboard, I realize that my harsh tapping sounds are my melody of thoughts. My words may be choppy, my words may flow like beautiful streams, my words may light up a thousand smiles, my words may furrow ten thousand brows. I write furiously, I write with passion. I write quickly and without ease and without stop until the very end of my last period on the page. And that is okay. I may have questions that will never be answered and I may have answers that may never want to be heard. I am doing this for me, I am striving to forget who I was, and to find who it is that I am and who I want to be. I can face this now full page, and call myself a writer.

*Image provided by: http://images.veer.com/IMG/PIMG/PPP/PPP0008961_P.JPG

Forgiveness: A virtue of Self

December 9, 2009

What gives power to our words? Is it the conviction within our beings and the utter dimensionality that we add ourselves, or is it the certain diction we portray?—for in portraying a certain persona by the use of certain words, that does not necessarily mean it is an actual representation of who we are. Then again, what are they but mere words? What are we but a mere portrayal?

I am pondering over this subject as I try to take on one of the most difficult aspirations ever attributed to words, that being “forgiveness.” In Christian theology, the ideal of forgiveness is represented by Jesus Christ as he was nailed to the cross and as he acknowledged the necessity of his death because he died for the sins and sinners of the world in order to unleash the ultimate forgiveness, something that will forever overshadow men and the words of men, as no man or word of man can ever compare to that ultimate sacrifice. Yet, we try. For the most part… although there is that vast group of people who do not believe in such a thing as “forgiveness.”

I, unfortunately or fortunately (however you decided to take it), do. I believe with all my heart that forgiveness is something that is hidden within our beings, likened to the darkness of our souls, always waiting for and excited for its final outing into the light of our words to shine its beacon of hope and redemption on the forgiven. Of course, things like forgiveness, and refraining from succumbing to the societal aggrandizements of things like smoking or sex, are always easier said than done. Yet, we try. For the most part… although some from that vast group of people prefer to stick to the safety and security of social acceptance.

However, when I think about where I stand as an individual, I do realize that society can be a weight with so much pressure and tension on your back and shoulders and knees, that sometimes you can easily fall under it all, confused and conformed; although I know this, I continue to try everyday to truly advocate and enact what I believe in (which is something you learn as a child and so I do not know why some people forget it): Always be yourself.

I am me. And what that means is that I cry and am emotionally sensitive; I laugh at extremely stupid and “corny” jokes; I eat more than I should and force myself to get to the gym because I know that I eat more than I should; I study hard and work hard, and yet I do not get a lot of time to play hard; I pray every day and make time for my Glorious God so as to recognize all the wonders in my life, from the air I breathe to the steps I take; I am jealous; I am selfish; I am weak at times and strong at times; I am unsure of my label (whether Catholic or Protestant), but I am certain that I am a Christian; I am open-minded yet extremely opinionated and not always quick to accept; I am quick to judge; I am a singer at heart yet lack the amazing voice; I am a writer and strive to be a better one everyday; I am a big sister; I am a daughter and a step-daughter; I am loyal to my friends, perhaps too loyal; I am gullible; I am passionate; I try to forgive. I am me.
Of course there is so much more to me, as I am sure there is so much to every individual on the entire earth, but the focus here is that I know that I am a mix of contradictions, an array of emotions and every single thing about me may be shared by another, but the way that I portray all these things are unique to my person. So, what makes you, you?

Do not consider for a moment that I have strayed away from “forgiveness,” although it may seem that way. However, know this: forgiveness is of the person, originates from the person, and affects the person, as it is heard, embraced, and uplifted by the receiving person. Mutual recognition of forgiveness is key, for when that is attained, all doors are unlocked and one can step through the barriers of life and into the light of the day, realizing that all is okay once again.

Almost five years have passed since I have talked to my best friend from high school. She is (as she is still this way in my memory) a shy, thin, depressed Dominican with a troubled life; She is scared of herself and dreams of being another; She is someone that I can relate to and she is someone that I miss, especially recently, for those five years have passed without a single flicker of her in my memory. And now, for some strange reason unknown to my being, I am impelled to ask for forgiveness although I am not sure from what. I am itched with this idea of resuming our relationship which did not necessarily stop, but what I believe was just paused. I remember our inside jokes, how long our conversations were, and what surprises me the most is that I remember her voice and her laughter. These images pain my heart, knowing that because of truly stupid reasons did our friendship pause—or stop, I am not really sure anymore.

I want to see how she has been, to hear about how she has changed and about her new experiences in life. I want to share everything about me as well, because I know that she would care, after a while at least. I wonder if we would be the same as we were before. Would time have caused a schism in her memory? If so, could I possibly reconnect our friendship, our friendship that was so strong? We said we would last “Forever and two days after the end of time” and that we were sisters for life and that “our mother” must have been a whore because she gave birth to two filthy mutts, and we were okay with that.

I want to speak. I want to see. I want to know. But, I cannot. Perhaps, in addition to everything I already am, I am a coward, too.

*Image provided by: http://www.christinepeloquin.com/Graphics/images/figures%20images/forgiveness.jpg

Friend to My "Self"

December 7, 2009


Another week has ensued, but it just so happens to be my final week of “real” rigorous work in my first semester at my first year of college at New York University. I can say that it has been difficult at times, but I think I have become acclimated and I am content with where I currently stand, grades and all. I haven’t made the best of friends, but I have met some pretty interesting people, who happen to be very nice and not at all what I perceived them to be. There is this French girl who is a Buddhist and has sex constantly with her boyfriend, and at times I am envious in their open relationship but I have my constant reminder of waiting until marriage and so all is well. There is my mentor, who is a fellow Christian although not a strong one, and she is well on her way in life, and has had a boyfriend for ten years straight, without ever breaking up (which I find to be amazing and so beautiful) and you can be sure that they will marry very soon, although I can only hope to be invited to what will surely be a beautiful wedding. Then, there is my friend from high school, someone who I believed would not be the great friend she has become, only because of her demanding nature, yet we have never found our relationship at a cross-roads that we could not come to figure out together, something I believe any good, true relationship should embody; communication is key and compromise is second to that. Plus, it helps that we both enjoy psychology and are both easy to talk to and easy to get good advice from; Jessenia is one-of-a-kind, and although she is not my best friend, she is the best one out of my friends, and she is someone I cherish whole-heartedly.

Friendship is something that takes time; that you can read about in books, that you can witness portrayed in movies, and that you can see mimicked and mocked in pre-adolescence, yet it is all a matter of time. I used to have those “best friends” and we used to think that we were the best there could possibly ever be, that every guy wanted to be with us and that every girl wanted to be a part of our “crew,” however, as an old soul trapped in a young body, I soon realized the error of my ways, ofcourse through painful humiliation and exhile (which no teen should ever have to undergo, especially, if brought about by the stupidity and ignorance of stupid and ignorant teens). I realized that the fame and glory that I attained from being with them was transcending, was but a moment in time, and that it was not original, it was not “me”. I quickly became ensnared in the ideals of teenagehood, for “adolescence” doesn’t quite capture what I mean; I mean that the immaturity represented within certain teenage souls is one that can shatter any other soul that is not innately strong in nature. I lost what I thought were good friends. I lost many tears and many hours without sleep. I lost my sense of self as I was caught up in the “other” of those early moments of high school life. Yet, with time, I realized that in losing these things, I ended up finding the most important things of all: I found good friends, ones that wanted me and accepted me for who I was and still am. I found many smiles and joys that came with natural laughter, nothing ever had to be forced or mocked. I found my “self” and I am never letting myself get lost again.

Today, I was speaking on the phone with Jessenia, sharing in the trials and tribulations of life, college, relationships, and it dawned on me that she is really going to be a psychologist one day. She is so good at what she does, recommends the best “cures,” and helps you really analyze yourself so that you can find out what it is that is bothering you. While we held our conversation, I got hungry and decided to make myself a bowl of cereal, Captain Crunch and Skim Milk (yes, I am trying to semi-watch my weight), and yet as I opened the cereal box for the first time, the immediate reaction from the box was “Sorry, You are not a Winner. Please try again.” I pondered if this could ever have affected anyone negatively in their lives, for what is the place of good old Captain Crunch to tell me whether I am or I am not “a winner”? As Jessenia told me today while we were speaking on the phone, “You can’t expect to always get the prize in the box,” and by that I am sure she meant that the box cannot tell you your limitations; Nothing can, only you, the interpreter of the box.

*Image provided by: href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_zPBm3to-oCnKV9jWsCce-AtizUpu2es4cY83hcLj3dl6e3_BOR2Oc4MWlr0-4-E342PZMEHOyDTUPUK1_K66k9vh0U6aLbpYY7Vio9ViOTVcxHDazqnbQo4PWKWmJmGzHHRbBNleoL5/s1600-r/friend.jpg

Sublimity in a Sunday

December 6, 2009

Today is Sunday. In my opinion, Sundays happen to be the best day of the week because I get to spend it with the people I love the most: God, my family and my soon-to-be-husband. I could not ask for more. And I realize that I am a lucky person, fortunate if you will, in the sense of my life and that regardless if I have considered certain events to be terrible or depressing, I have nothing to complain about really, because I know that I am just beginning this hopefully long cycle of life, long in the sense of duration for I hope to make it a good life. I hope I can look back at these days that I am living and know that even though I may have made a stupid decision or even though I sinned or even though I decided to slack off, I didn’t do that forever and I made amends with my Creator and kept trying; that is what keeps me going because I know that in asking for forgiveness, I will be alright and things can only get better if I keep trying.

Today is Sunday. That means church and I can honestly say that I look forward to going so that I can sing and worship and hear the word of the Lord while knowing that my loved ones are right next to me listening and rejoicing at the word of the Lord, our most Glorious God. I get to pray, and share that experience closely with a bunch of strangers at church, although we are considered a community, a family in God. To be honest, I am still waiting to have that feeling truly surge through my being, that feeling of community within the community, that feeling to be found outside of the comfort of my loved ones. I am waiting to find the community of the Lord because for now I feel as if I am the only one; where are my brothers and sisters?

Today is Sunday. That means that I can drive because I am back in my home in Queens, away from my dorm in the city, and can feel the pavement of common life under the wheels of my mom’s jeep, instead of feeling the cold concrete of the city under my Converses. I can drive, even if it is just for the five minutes that it takes from my house on 73rd street to the church on 61st street, because it is worth the wait of a whole week to be able to feel in control once again behind the wheel. It is a beautiful feeling once you get over the fear of having to be in complete control which could possibly mean injuring yourself and others on the road; once you get over that, it’s a simple thing and easy to manage.

Today is the first Sunday of December, and that means receiving holy communion, and rejoicing in and remembering the greatest sacrifice made by our Savior, that he came, is here and will come again to redeem us all and forgive us for all the crap we have done, still do, and will do. How beautiful it feels knowing that the greatest love is there for you to just take if you so find it in your heart to choose so. After church, I drove back from 61st street to 73rd street and parked perfectly right in front of our house where I have spent many a long and lonely night thinking about life, questioning where I am in it, where I want to be in it, and what I want to do with it. I parked perfectly right in front of our house and as soon as I stepped out of my mom’s jeep, I saw a dead bird on the pavement right in front of the right wheel. Its head had been squished and the coagulated blood sat on the pavement glistening in the Sunday sun while the rest of its body was perfectly plump and seemingly pregnant with life. My mom pointed it out to me and began to examine it closer. My sister made a sinister joke about it. I gasped and turned away; I couldn’t stand to look at it.

*Image provided by: href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_LhZT3j48NcUTaB-lhPQEwaooheOzHMTER1dx0_3gY3Pk8rneNj7mqt239iErlGSR1kbGpA_gB7V2_mHajTIJvOoBmZuGIFUKTus7prGmhRVHFQsZlHKpbabZMGOge5iBfx6QCPnJ5s4p/s1600-h/cross.jpg

Couples in the City

December 5, 2009

I believe it was yesterday that Mario and I were finally going out to celebrate our two-year anniversary of being in a committed relationship to one another, and I stress the committed part because we are trying as best as we can to place our Glorious God first and abide by His rules. It is not an easy task but it is one that we both know is worth the while and worth the wait.

Mario had planned for us an adventure in Bryant Park to ice skate and watch the annual tree lighting and afterwards to sit in the grass and sip his homemade hot chocolate and gaze at any stars we might encounter on his sesame street blanket (because his mom is so insistent on keeping everything in his room from his infancy) and I was looking forward to it but when we arrived at the scene and when we were waiting on line, I suddenly began to feel a wobble in my knees and a shiver down my spine, and this is not to say that the situation itself wasn’t great; it is simply to say that sometimes I am tired and don’t always want to take part in the activities that he plans. We did wait on line for a while but we decided that perhaps that wasn’t the best time to go ice skating, also greatly taking into consideration the fact that there were about three hundred people all trying to gather on the little ice area that was designated for skating. We ended up sitting on the side of the rink, front row seats, and saw the performances by some synchronized ice-skating group and also by a young woman who is to be at the upcoming 2010 winter Olympics in Vancouver, although to be honest with you, it all seems better and more extravagant on television.

Eventually. 10. It became time for the lighting ceremony. 9. And as the lights were about to go on, 8, keeping in mind that this, 7, definitely was not the Rockefeller tree, 6, I saw how excited my love was, 5, at his plans, 4, and at how he thought I felt the same, 3. I was happy. So happy. 2. And just like that, the lights went on. 1.

Next, since the hot chocolate didn’t come to pass, I suggested going to Olive Garden and we did and we waited an hour and half for pasta. Just pasta. I will never understand what is the popular notion behind this so called Olive Garden, which should really be called just “Here’s some Pasta that costs 60$ for no particular reason” and after our meal we walked around Times Square.

We came across these red steps, you know the ones? I wasn’t all too excited about it because as I usually tend not to go with the flow of the popular crazes at the moment, like the Twilight phase or The Office contagion, I wasn’t so eager to climb up those steps that were filled with eager people. However, I did and we went to the top and could see the ball that was to drop at the start of the New Year and we could see all these fantastic lights and hear all these filling sounds and feel this chilling air that went away with the warmth of just one kiss. Below, I noticed a couple that was actually more frigid than the air around us, for it seemed that the young man of about 20 was crying his heart out to this young woman of about the same age, yet it seemed as though she was completely embarrassed by his show of emotions. Perhaps he cheated on her, I thought. “She must have cheated on him,” said Mario as soon as he saw me looking at them. I shrugged this masochistic response and refrained myself from approaching the couple and inquiring about their state, and let my gaze flow across the streams of people that were waving through the concrete streets.

Suddenly, you hear this intense and immense and time-halting gasp from the steps and as my eyes removed themselves from the people on the street and resumed themselves to the steps, all you could see was this man down on one knee proposing to this woman, with her heart on her sleeve and her tears down her face. It was the most beautiful thing I had witnessed in such a long time. Cheers and whistles and oohs and aahs emanated from all of us spectators on the steps and I was on the verge of tears myself because I can never hold anything in, and as I looked to the newly engaged couple as they were kissing and smiling and holding hands walking down the steps, I asked Mario “Would you propose to me if that just happened? And he stole your idea?” He smiled and looked at me and said that he would not. That was a good answer… I guess, and I turned my gaze back to the streams of flowing people on the concrete street and as I gazed the sea of people, I could never find the couple that cheated on each other.

*Image provided by: http://www.liminalgroup.org/love-web3.jpg

First Impressions

December 3, 2009

I realize that I have a lot to say and that I want someone, anyone out there in the world, to listen; to listen and to really think that I do have something to say and that I should have taken the time to write this down. I don’t know if I’ll ever make a difference in the world or if my words will ever reach anyone in any way, and I say reach as in literally, extending out a hand through these words and allowing them to grab on and find any sort of solace in the seemingly solitude state of society. But the truth is, you are not alone. I care. And I’m hoping You care, too. Every day I go about my daily routines and sometimes I think that it would be best if I were just alone, or if I was never forced to interact with strangers that I don’t necessarily care about, but to be honest, after any sort of interaction, I end up with a smile on my face. I have these amazing days just knowing that I spoke to people, and I mean really spoke to them; I got to share these intimate concerns or bare my soul in a way that most people are afraid of doing. And the best part of my day is when I bare my soul in Prayer. I can say anything I want, knowing that the only entity that can judge me is my Glorious God. In prayers, I can cry in comfort and am consoled just knowing that someone out there is indeed caring, and is definitely listening. Sometimes, that’s all we need. All we need is someone to listen.

So, I want to remember these certain things about the day I moved into college. I was so excited to finally meet my roommate, the beautiful Mexican drama major at Tisch who was Catholic and liked musicals and I thought we were going to be best friends. I was so excited to finally see the suite, which I thought was to be huge and I would have a walk-in closet and I would be able to fit all my little things in this big room and I would be able to have a fabulous view of the city, a panorama if you will, where I would sit daily and write these glorious poems, or stories, or songs, and be completely inspired by all the eccentric experiences that were sure to come from living on my own. So, I’ve had these eccentric experiences, but not exactly how I planned them to be. I never became best friends with the Mexican, because to be honest, I am jealous of her and how pretty she is and how all the hot guys in the city come up to her randomly and take her out on these super expensive dates because it turns out that they are young sugar-daddy’s, and of how thin she is and can look good in anything, and of how my boyfriend, who is struggling with being a good Christian because he is a lustful soul, stares at her and has these sexual thoughts about her, and so that will never work out; I cannot ever be best friends with her, but I do like her. It’s a complicated relationship, only she doesn’t know it.

The suite is actually quite small and I had to get those amazing closet hangers that can fit 5 things on one hanger and this is how I manage to fit all my clothes into the 3 feet width of the closet, and the view from our window is of a Chinese restaurant called “Yummy house” (I’ve never been there because like most Chinese restaurants the name is probably just a lure to get you to go in but you end up with some sort of disease from eating the chicken that is really a cat they trapped in the alley) and a movie theater and if you lean as close to the glass of the window and take a look at the left you can see a semi-nice-looking building that has blue lights at night, but all this doesn’t really inspire me and so I haven’t had much time to write my heart out, as I used to do back home in my tiny Queens apartment while living with my parents.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, living in the city sometimes makes me feel like I’m the hot child they were talking about in that song, but I did expect more. I guess I expected the wrong things, or at least I definitely expected the things that would be the hardest to find in a city that is leaking of sin (or just of things that are too wild for my simple life, if you want to take it another way). I wanted to find people that would stimulate my faith, strengthen my walk with God, and I wanted to find that in every person I met. I’ve never been so committed to my faith before this time, but now, I have this duty in me that strives to reach out to people, but it’s hard to get them to listen sometimes, most of the time. I definitely did not want to have a suitemate who constantly brings over her boyfriend and they have sex on the couch thinking that the rest of us don’t know what’s going on and he cums on the blanket that was covering the dirty old couch, but now it’s dirtier than before. I did expect to have my boyfriend come over a lot and we are not like them so it’s perfectly fine, although I’m sure that isn’t helping my boyfriends’ lustful struggle and it doesn’t help my jealousy issues, and it also doesn’t help our struggle to be abstinent, but we’ve learned to refrain from being in my actual room, so that the physical wall between us serves as the best chastity belt, although I wouldn’t mind wearing one myself and making him wear one too; What ever happened to those?

I live in the best area though, because everything I ever want or need is literally only 1 to 6 blocks away, and if I wanted to be adventurous and venture out into the unknown jungle that is the city, I could just take the subway and reach any destination I so desire. There’s a FedEx drop off station 10 feet away and there’s like three supermarkets one block away and there’s a million places to eat, my favorite one is the 1$ pizza place on St. Marks. But I do miss the nature, because everything is just stores stores stores and I do wish there was a nice park nearer than Central Park, which is just an oasis of nature out of place in the big city, if you really think about it.

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